‘He was the best cat. He was my favourite. He knew things. If I was upset or scared or the heart was across me he’d stay by my side all night. He wouldn’t leave my side until I felt better. White, he was mostly, with a black patch on his head and he wore his wars in his fur. The best mouser. Paws on him the size of plates. He was very old at this point, this night I’m after telling you about, and I was very young, and I was sitting by the fire with him for the warmth against the storm outside and he was sleeping, the very perfect picture of peace, contentment in that way cats have. Came a knock at the door, my Daddy answered it, it was the feller from the cottage down the lane. Wet through he was. Looked not right in himself. A funny thing just happened, he said; he came across a black cat in the lane, just sitting there in the storm. As he passed, he could’ve sworn he heard the cat talk, and it said: you can tell the king to come home now, it’s safe for him to do so. And he said this and my white cat jumped off my lap and straight up the chimney he went, flames and all, and that was the last anyone ever saw of him’.

First heard at my granny’s knee, circa 1973