‘How’s that?’

‘What you do, you make matter, or else you might as well settle in for the day at the Windsor.’

This seemed reasonable. If worst came to worst there was always a stool beside Ernie and a trip outside every hour to make sure Fi-Fi was still on her chain.

‘There they are!’ Ernie said. He stood, picked up a couple of fish nets and presented them to me. ‘Good luck. Make sure you get them all.’

‘You gonna help?’ I asked.

‘I’ll watch.’

Val and Peter stood on their porch. I approached with the nets and said, ‘All ready.’

Val saw Ernie, crossed her arms and stepped back into the shadows. He was content to stand in full sun, on his cracked concrete, watching.

I said, ‘I reckon this is the best way. They look after them real good.’

‘Go on then.’

I dropped the nets, returned home and found the keys to the 120Y. Came out, and drove into the Donnellans’ yard. Parked parallel to the house, got out and sounded the horn. ‘Curtis!’

He came down the street, followed by John, who again, stood watching. He said, ‘No way you can get all them.’

Peter fetched the Whiskas, and bowls, opened three cans, emptied them and tapped the sides with a spoon. The cats knew what it meant. They came out. Slowly at first, sniffing, looking at us and making sure.

‘Go on,’ John said.

‘Wait,’ I whispered.

They took their time, watching us, fighting for the best share.

Ernie almost laughed. ‘Problem is, they’re smarter than you.’

‘Go!’ I said.

I had my net over a tabby, and most of her kittens. Two got away but John chased them across the lawn and gathered them by the scruff. ‘We should just drown them.’

‘No,’ Val said, turning away from the spectacle.

Curtis had messed up. He’d got an old girl, but all of her kittens had scampered. Peter jumped to it—from the porch, across the yard, scooping them into a laundry basket.

Then to the 120Y. Ernie came over and held the back door open. I emptied mine, and they ran about on the seats and the parcel shelf, but Ernie shut them in. Curtis handballed his tabby, and Peter emptied them, one by one, into the Datsun.

Ten minutes of this and we had an empty yard. We all stood looking, but the final few had gone. The others were dancing around in the car, bouncing off the roof, jumping, fighting, and probably pissing. I said, ‘Now’s the bit where I drive them to the pound.’

Everyone waited: Ernie, grinning; John, shaking his head; Curtis, blank. Val turned and went in.

‘They’ll look after them,’ I called.

Peter, shrugging; even David, from his window.

Then Pop came out, down the drive, saw the car and the cats and said, ‘Whose idea was that?’

I wasn’t sure what to say. Fi-Fi wandered out, and started barking at the car. Ron Glasson’s head appeared above his fence.