Le Chat Noir

The cat sat on the fourth step, her eyes darting left and right, whiskers twitching, as she surveyed the room.

The fourth step was the best place to be - she had learned this through experience. Any higher and she lost her view of the room; if she sat on the third step she would be noticed by Antoinette and shooed away with a feather duster or tea towel; on the second step, she would be clearly visible, and kicked and cursed at by Pierre; and on the first step she would be virtually in the dining room, drawing far too much attention from everyone - passing guests, small children (surely the worst), and cook who would chase her right out of the front door, hissing at her - a terrible sound that hurt her sensitive ears.

No, the fourth step was the best. From there she could see every table, listen in on the chit-chat, dart away out of sight if need be, and even more importantly, gauge the right moment to make her move.

This was not a game to her, she had a litter of six kittens in the barn who were always hungry, and if she didn't keep them well-fed they would squeak and mewl and give themselves away. No, well-fed and sleepy was how she wanted them, at least until they could fend for themselves.

She didn't consider herself a beggar either. She earned her keep, keeping the scullery free of mice and chasing the rats from the yard. Not that anybody noticed. They mostly ignored her or shooed her away as though 'she' were the pest. They certainly didn't feed her.

So, the fourth step it was, night after night, waiting for her opportunities.

A large noisy group were shown in and seated at the large round table.

The moneyed sort.

Ladies displaying sparkling jewels around their wrinkled throats and with large shining stones perched on arthritic fingers.

Men with too-bright eyes set into spongy, pink faces, each wearing a sheen of sweat despite the coolness of the evening.

All of them loud - the banter and guffaws of the men, the shrill voices rising as the women talked over each other. They talked about nothing, like a pack of dogs barking at each other.

The wine flowed and the food arrived: an aromatic fish soup followed by fish, then meat, then a rich meringue dessert, and finally the cheese board.

The men shovelled it in, mouthful after greedy mouthful; surely they hardly tasted any of it.

The women nibbled. Picked. Mostly pushing the food around their plate. It wouldn't do to get fat, would it? Anyway, eating took away their precious talking time, boasting, exaggerating, embellishing their tawdry lives, so worried about what the others would say about them later.

The cat was sure that nobody would care, but what did she know? She just kept watching.

Suddenly she sat up, ears pricked and eyes alert.

Antoinette was seating a new couple at the table opposite the stairs. Pierre had cleared the dishes from the round table and was in deep discussion with one of the men about the port menu.

Cook had just gone out of the door, no doubt for a nip of gin or a sneaky cigarillo as was her routine at this time of the evening.

Stealthily, the cat descended the stairs, keeping to the shadows, and sneaking under the returns table in the kitchen.

As she had anticipated, the remains of the ladies fish course were still waiting to be cleared away. With a clean leap, she ascended and observed the plates, and then, with great gulps, finished off as much as she could manage in one sitting before slinking out, undetected, to return to the fourth step.

A good result, and she should really check on her litter, but there was still the chance of dessert.

Opposite the steps, the young couple had been seated and were giggling over the menu. They were foreigners, probably on holiday, and clearly didn't understand French. She watched as they called over Pierre, amused at their performance as they tried to communicate, the couple with exaggerated hand movements and Pierre with minimal French aloofness - none of it helping one bit. This should be fun.

They were brought an expensive bottle of wine - much more costly than was necessary - and their first course.

The woman pulled her face as she tasted the fish soup, unimpressed, whilst the man managed to eat most of his bowlful.

The next course was fish. Delivered head on with an unappetising blob of jellied caviar atop.

The cat licked her lips.

The man stared at the fish, fork in hand, unsure how to attack it. The woman looked dismayed, and prodded the fleshy meat with her fish knife. "Can you remove the head darling? I can't possibly eat it whilst it's looking at me."

Her husband complied, removing the head clumsily along with the head of his own fish, and placing them on a side plate that was immediately removed by a disapproving Pierre.

They both poked at the jelly and the wife began to giggle, her husband joining in with some infectious, unspoken joke, whilst the cat looked on, pleased to see that the caviar remained untouched and trying to work out how to claim it for herself. After service maybe.

The couple worked their way through the meal, their humour rising with each glass of wine, until finally, the cheeseboard was placed between them: small triangles of Camembert, Pont L 'Evêque, Roquefort, and the crowning glory, Vieux Boulogne with its pungent, beer-washed rind.

They both immediately recoiled at the stench before collapsing in fits of giggles.

"Oh my God, it's worse than your old trainers!" the woman exclaimed.

"It's worse than the changing room after a rugby match!" he agreed, "I can't eat the rest with that on the plate."

Carefully, the man removed the offending cheese, wrapped it in a serviette and dropped it down into a plant-pot next to the table, not wanting to attract the unwanted attention of Pierre again.

Suddenly alert, the cat fixed its eyes on the plant-pot, scanning the room before jumping down and disappearing beneath the tablecloth.

Five minutes later, licking her lips, she was back on the fourth step feeling very pleased with herself; a most unexpected treat and a great opportunity.

Unaware of the cat's devious manoeuvres, the couple were served coffee, and were gradually regaining their sensibility after the hilarity of the stinky cheeseboard.

The large rowdy group had left, and the dining room was once more peaceful, with just a couple of other tables occupied.

The cat knew that she should leave - she had certainly had more than her fill tonight and her kittens would be well-fed - but she had one trick left in her armoury.

The couple opposite were getting ready to leave, fussing with jackets and car keys, when the cat began to gag and heave.

They turned in their seats to identify the unholy noise, just in time to witness the cat returning the Vieux Boulogne to the floor of the dining room, coughing and retching noisily until she was convinced she had expelled it all from her stomach.

The couple looked on in horror, before glancing at each other and bursting out laughing again.

At that moment, Antoinette emerged from the kitchen carrying several dessert dishes for one of the remaining tables, and right behind her, Pierre followed with their coffees.

Mayhem ensued as the foreign couple shouted out, warning of the slippery, stinky mess on the floor. Of course, nobody understood them and Antoinette's slender stiletto heel landed and skidded forward, the dishes clattering to the ground, meringue and cream splattering the area around her. Pierre inevitably tripped over Antoinette, adding scalding coffee to the mix, and cook came running out of the kitchen to see what all the fuss and noise was about.

Meanwhile, a small black cat descended the stairs, keeping to the shadows, and sneaking under the returns table in the kitchen.

As anticipated, the remains of the fish were awaiting the scullery maid, and she happily cleared up the two small blobs of caviar left on the plates, before returning to feed her kittens and settling down for a good night's sleep.

It was so nice when a plan was well executed, and it had been a very good night's work.