'Mum, Mu-um'.

The cry echoed through the house.

‘Mum, Tiddles is in the tree again’.

Charlie Scott sighed and glared at his sister.

‘You were supposed to be watching him this morning’, he snapped at her.

Angela stuck her chin out and leaned towards him with her hands on her hips.

‘Well I only turned my back for a moment, and anyway, last time this happened you were watching him’.

Charlie raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

‘I only went to get his ball of wool out of the flowerbed’, Angela continued, ‘and he was gone. I don’t know how he manages it so quickly’.

Both children turned to the stairs and shouted in unison.

‘MUUUUUUUUUUUUUUM’.

From upstairs the sound of the vacuum cleaner stopped.

‘What is it?’ their mother answered them.

‘Look out of my bedroom window’, shouted Charlie.

There was the sound of footsteps crossing the landing and going into Charlie’s room.

‘Oh, good grief’, they heard their mother mutter. ‘Get the ladder from the shed, we’ll have to try to get him down before your father gets home.

Mr Scott had gone for his newspaper taking Brewster their dog with him. They knew they would be safe for a while as Mr Scott always took Brewster onto the field by the river for a nice long walk on his days off.

The children ran round to the side of the house and carried the ladder back between them.

By this time their mother had appeared in the garden. She had fastened her hair back and was pulling on a pair of pink washing up gloves as she strode down the garden.

The tree in question was a massive oak. The children loved to climb among the huge branches. Their father had fastened hefty strips of wood to the trunk to form a ladder so they could reach the lowest branch safely. Charlie suspected that Tiddles had used that to get up the tree so quickly.

As they approached the tree they all saw the branches move and heard the leaves rustle as Tiddles worked his way higher into the tree.

‘Forget it kids’, said Mrs Scott, ‘I think this time we may have to call the Fire Brigade. Bother the animal, he’s too high to reach with that ladder anyway’.

Charlie looked at Angela.

Angela looked at Charlie.

Both looked at their mother.

‘Gosh do you really think so?’ said Charlie. He was secretly pleased at the idea of a huge fire engine coming to their house to rescue Tiddles.

‘Yes’, replied Mrs Scott, ‘Though I’d better wait until your father gets back before I call them. I don’t want him coming home and seeing a fire engine parked outside the house. Heaven knows what he would think’.

At that moment their neighbour, Mr Potherington, peeped over the fence.

‘Is everything okay,’ he asked?

Mrs Scott sighed. This was all she needed.

‘Well actually Norman, no, it isn't. Tiddles has decided to go for a record breaker this time and appears to be trying to reach the very top of the tree. Thank goodness the branches are strong.’

Norman Potherington pushed his flat cap back, and holding the peak between his thumb and forefinger he scratched his head with the other fingers.

‘I suppose trying to lure him down with his favourite food won’t work?’

Mrs Scott shook her head.

‘It worked the time before last, but we tried last time and he just ignored it. The same goes for his favourite toys too. Nothing doing I'm afraid. Still, I don’t suppose it would hurt to try them again.’

She turned to the children.

‘Nip to the kitchen one of you and grab some of his favourite treats would you/’

Charlie nodded and ran off to get the treats.

Mr Potherington had stopped scratching his head and popped his cap on properly.

‘I do have a longer ladder we might try’, he said.

‘I don’t think so Norman. It’s all very well getting up there, but once you make a grab for him he just wriggles about and you can’t get hold of him properly’.

Alerted by the sound of voices the neighbour who lived on the other side of the Scott’s house peered over the intervening fence.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing,’ she began.

‘I’ll just bet you couldn’t you nosey old biddy,’ yelled Mr Potherington, ‘I bet you’ve telephoned a half a dozen people already. Got then all on speed dial have you?’

Then turning to Mrs Scott he said, ‘I’ll go and get us some tea if my ladders not wanted. You look as though you could do with a hot drink.’

‘Really Annabel,’ said Mrs Blythe, watching Norman making his way to his back door, ‘I just wanted to help if I can you know.’

‘Take no notice of Norman, Rita,’ said Mrs Scott, ‘He only does it to wind you up.’

Rita Blythe shrugged her shoulders and glance at the oak behind Annabel Scott.

‘So he’s up the tree again then.’

Annabel put on a brave smile.

‘I’m afraid so. I really don’t know what gets into him. Most of the time he’s quite happy in the garden, the next moment he’s off. You’d think that getting stuck up there would put him off. The only way to stop him would be to get rid of the tree and that’s simply not an option. We’d all hate that to happen.’

Rita nodded.

‘It can’t go on like this though Annabel. Roger was up there three times last month.’

Annabel sighed and started to pull off her rubber gloves.

‘I think it’s definitely a job for the Fire Brigade this time though. I’m just waiting for Roger to get back from his walk with Brewster then I’ll phone them. Quite frankly I’m dreading it. He’s gone higher than usual this time. Thank heaven Lucy is away with my parents.’

Lucy was the youngest of the three Scott children and at three years old would have been under everyone’s feet.

Annabel dropped onto a handy garden bench and took a deep breath.

At that moment Brewster bounded into the garden and came and put his head on her lap. She reached over and ruffled the Golden Retrievers furry head.

‘You know Brewster, apart from that silly Moon business, we never have any trouble with you, do we?’

He gave her a huge doggy grin and began to scramble beside her on the bench. In mid scramble he stopped and looked up at the tree as a flurry of leaves fell down. He gave Annabel a puzzled look.

‘Yes’, she said, ‘He’s up there again Brewster.’

Brewster forgot all about climbing onto the bench. He dropped to his haunches and leaned against Annabel’s legs. Growling at the tree as he did so. Angela glanced at the tree and came and sat on the other side of the bench next to Brewster.

Roger came into the garden just as Norman returned with a tray containing far too many mugs of tea.

‘Just in case the Brigade want a cuppa’, he said.

‘The Brigade?’ said Roger with a worried look on his face. Then glancing at Annabel, Angela and the tree he said. ‘He hasn’t, he ca’t possibly have. Oh blast it. He has hasn’t he?’

Annabel nodded.

Norman called Annabel over, and passed her the tray.

‘Hang on to that lovey. I’ll go and phone the Fire Service.’

He gave a chuckle and wandered back to his house.

At that moment Charlie arrived with a bag containing some treats and another with toys in it to try to coax Tiddles down.

That was why, half an hour later, when the Fire brigade arrived they found Mr and Mrs Scott and their two children waving carrots at the tree and squeezing toys to make them squeak in an attempt to get Tiddles to take notice of them.

The senior officer came over to them and after removing his cap he introduced himself to the family. He glanced at the carrots.

‘It’s his favourite treat,’ explained Mr Scott.

‘Right sir’, said the Fire Chief, ‘and how long has the little fellow been up there?’

‘About an hour’, piped up Charlie, ‘we thought the carrots would tempt him down, but it’s no good.’

The Fire Chief thought it an odd treat for a cat, but decided to say nothing about it. He was owned by a cat and knew just how weird they could be.

‘Right lads,’ he turned to the three members of his crew who had followed him into the garden, ‘get the extending ladder and a safety harness. Oh and better fetch a pair of gloves too.’ He looked at the family. ‘Just in case he gets agitated and scratches,’ he said.

‘Oh, I don’t think Tiddles would scratch anyone’, said Angela.

‘All the same. It’s better to be safe than sorry,’ he explained.

Angela nodded but seemed unsure.

Mr Scott stepped forward.

‘I think you ought to know something about Tiddles’, he said.

The Fire Chief held up his hand. ‘S’quite alright sir. We are trained professionals and are well used to retrieving pets from trees. Now if you and the family would step back a ways we’ll get on with it.’

‘Yes, but’, Mr Scott began to say.

‘Oh leave him be’, said Mr Potherington, and he winked at Roger. ‘You heard the man. They’re trained professionals. They know what they’re doing.’

Having said this he went off and plopped himself in a chair with a cup of tea and prepared to watch the proceedings.

‘This should be good’, he muttered. Then glancing up at the clear blue sky, he muttered, ‘and they’ve got a nice day for it.’

The Chief, meanwhile, had gone over and was discussing the placement of the ladder with the six members of his team. Charlie was sure he heard him say that Tiddles was a nice name for a cat. He thought he ought to tell his father, but decided to keep quiet in case he was told to keep out of it.

‘I reckon’, said the Chief, ‘that if we get as close as we can to the main trunk of the tree, one of you should be able to get a good footing on the lower branches, from there we should be able to get a little higher and make a grab for the little chap.’

‘Yes, but,’ Mr Scott started to say again.

Once more the Chief held up his hand in an imperious manner.

‘Look sir. Do we try to tell you your job?’

‘Well no’, answered Roger, ‘but I really do think you ought to know what you’re dealing with.’

‘As I said, sir. We are professionals and can handle anything.’

‘Anything?’ asked Mr Scott.

‘Anything sir’, said the Chief.

Roger shook his head in disbelief and walked back to the garden bench where his family were waiting for the show to begin.

‘Why don’t they use our tree ladder and go from there’, asked Angela?

‘Because’, said her father, ‘They are professionals and they know what they’re doing.’

He dropped down onto the grass next to the bench and put his arm around Brewster. Brewster was sitting with his tongue lolling out and a soupy expression on his face. He couldn’t wait for what was going to happen next. He wondered what Saffy would make of the whole thing and decided that she’d probably think it was all being done for her benefit. Sable Saffiya of Samarkand was the family cat and considered herself a very superior creature. Her pedigree, she insisted, went as far back as the cats worshipped by the pharaohs of Egypt. She’ll be brought down a peg or two when she has those kittens thought Brewster. Then he remembered what his life was like with just Saffy and imagined a lot of little Saffys running around. He sighed, dropped down and put his head on his front paws. One thing at a time, he thought.

Meanwhile the firemen were propping the ladder against the trunk of the tree and making sure it was secure so it wouldn’t slip when they climbed up it.

‘Take a few carrots with you’, shouted Mr Potherington from the other side of the fence. The Fire chief glared at him.

At the sound of crockery rattling the family stood up and looked over the fence into Rita Blyth’s garden. They saw her pushing a tea trolley down her lawn towards a row of women who had taken up positions in various types of garden chairs. All facing the Scott’s garden and enjoying tea and cakes while they waited for the show to begin.

‘Looks like Norman was right about the speed dialling’, said Annabel. Roger sighed and ushered the family back to the bench just in time to see the first fireman starting to climb the ladder.

‘Hurry up and sit down Rita’, came a voice from the other side of the fence, ‘it’s starting.’

The fireman had stopped with one foot on the ladder. The Chief gave him a smile.

‘Probably best if you go up first,’ he said, ‘have a quick look to establish where the little fellow is and then we’ll see what we have to do.’

‘You’d think we’d be able to see something from here, wouldn’t you Chief?’ said one of the men.

‘Cunning little blighters these cats lads. Bet you any money he’s watching us even as we speak. Now up you go Rodders or are you waiting for an invitation?’

The fireman the Chief had called Rodders hurried up the ladders and the children and their parents watched him vanish into the dense leaf cover.

Mr Potherington had leaned forward in his chair and a couple of the ladies in the other garden were sitting stock still, their biscuits halfway to their mouths.

‘Any moment now’, whispered Mr Potherington.

Suddenly the branches started to shake and they heard Rodders shout ‘STRUTH’ as he reappeared faster than he had climbed up.

He lost his footing as he came down the ladder and one of his feet got caught between the rungs. Much to everyone’s amusement he managed to salute the Fire Chief as he hung upside down.

‘They’ve only got a blooming horse up there Chief,’ he shouted, ‘a blooming horse!’

‘He’s not a horse, he’s a pony’, Angela shouted back at them.

‘How in the name of all things did you manage to get a horse, sorry, pony up the tree?’ asked the Chief, turning to the family.

‘We don’t get him up there at all’, said Mr Scott, ‘he manages it all on his own and so far we’ve managed to get him down by ourselves.’

‘Oh for crying out loud,’ the Chief shouted to his men, ‘don’t just stand there. Help Rodders down.’ Then turning to Mr Scott he added. ‘You mean to tell me he’s done this before? I think we have a lot of talking to do, don’t you?’

‘I think I’d better go and put the kettle on,’ said Annabel, ‘the tea Norman made will be stone cold by now and I’ve a feeling it’s going to be a long day.’

The Fire Chief glared at Mr Scott.

Mr Scott glared right back at him.

‘I hope your man didn’t scare him,’ said Mr Scott.

The Fire Chiefs face started to go purple as he fought to control his anger.

‘What about that poor lad?’ he said, glancing over to where the other firemen were trying to help Rodders to get the right way up without much success. ‘He could have been seriously injured. Get him some hot sweet tea lads. For the shock.’

He dropped into one of the garden chairs and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. Mrs Blyth held a very ornate cake dish over the fence.

‘French Fancy?’ she asked.

The Chief was just about to take one when a gaggle of people burst into the garden.

At the forefront was a very large lady dressed in a no nonsense tweed suit and carrying a notebook and pencil.

‘Celine Withers, I work for the New Grumblin Reporter,’ she said, stopping in front of Mr Scott. ‘I believe you have some sort of exotic animal up your tree? This is my photographer, Nigel.’ She pointed to a scruffy looking individual wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt. He nodded in greeting. ‘He’ll be taking the pictures for me if that’s okay?’ Then without waiting for a reply she started herding the family together in front of the tree and started telling Nigel to photograph them.

Mr Scott shook his head.

‘Nothing exotic. Just the children’s pony.’

‘Oh’, said Celine, as though this was an everyday occurrence. ‘I suppose it will just have to do.’

She turned to a group of people who had arrived at the same time as her.

‘You lot may as well push off. This gentleman has consented to give me an exclusive story.’

From the group there came a chorus of ‘no ways’ and ‘in your dreams’ as they were determined to get in on what they thought was the best thing to happen for some time.

Roger recognised a couple of people from the local TV station. He also noticed that Charlie was heading back to the house. He thought this odd, but decided that he was probably just keeping out of the way so didn’t call him back.

‘How did you find out about this?’ asked Roger.

‘Anonymous call to the paper’, answered Celine.

As she said this Roger saw Mr Potherington heading for his house, hunched over so he wouldn’t be noticed.

‘NORMAN’, yelled Roger.

Norman kept going and slammed the house door behind him. Roger saw a curtain twitch slightly at one of the windows so he knew Norman was still watching the proceedings from a safe distance.

Celine dropped her hand firmly onto his shoulder and spun him around to face her.

‘How long have you had the pony, and why would it possibly want to climb a tree?’, she asked.

Before he could answer Roger saw a movement at one of the upstairs windows of his house and Sable Saffy of Samarkand appeared there. He pointed up to her.

‘That’s why he climbs the ruddy tree’, he said. ‘We’ve had him about a year and it seems longer thanks to that cat.’

Celine and the other reporters looked up to where Saffy had cocked one of her back legs up in the air and was patiently cleaning herself totally unperturbed by the commotion below her.

‘He followed her up one day after she’d taken one of his carrots. I tell you, that cat is a liability.’

Saffy’s ablutions were disturbed by the flash from the camera as the photographer took several pictures of her. She darted off the windowsill and went under the bed out of the way of prying reporters. She thought how typical it was of the press to get wind of her impending motherhood and to try to photograph her when she looked as big as a house.

The Fire Chief came back to Roger.

‘If he’s done this before, just how, may I ask, did you get him down without calling us?’

Roger shook his head.

I always managed to get a little way above him and sort of chivvy him back down. We get him into his paddock at the back of the garden and lock the gate. Someone is supposed to be watching him at all times when he is in the garden.’ As he said this he glanced over to Angela. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

‘I only took my eyes off him for a moment to get him his ball of wool. When I looked up he was gone. Anyway,’ she added, ‘I’m sure it was Charlie’s turn to watch him.’

As she said this they heard the door of the house slam shut and Charlie reappeared wearing his new baggy denims and T shirt. He’d used gel on his hair and had made it go spikey.

‘For crying out loud’, said his mother, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Look mum’, Charlie whispered, ‘If the press are here I want to look good for the photographs don’t I?’

‘The day just keeps getting better,’ said his mother slumping back on to the bench and wishing the earth would swallow her up. Roger was just about to speak nbut, after catching sight of the expression on his wife’s face, he thought better of it and sat down next to her instead.

From the front of the house they heard what sounded like a band approaching and next moment a dozen majorettes came cavorting into the garden, twirling batons and doing high kicks as they went. They were followed by the Mayor and Lady Mayoress, both wearing their robes of office and their gold chains around their next. The Mayor was wearing a tricorn hat with a feather in it while the Mayoress was looking very dapper with her silver hair swept back and dyed a pale lilac colour. Several of the local councillors tagged along behind them and the whole pageant came to a halt under the tree. The firemen left Rodders hanging where he was and they quickly moved to one side and stood quietly, straightening their uniforms as they did so.

Roger opened his mouth once or twice as though he was trying to speak but the words just would not come out.

Brewster started jumping up at the Mayor leaving rather muddy paw marks on the front of his scarlet robes. The Lady Mayoress suffered a similar fate as, when the Mayor shooed him away, Brewster turned his attention to her ladyship.

Charlie ran in and git a firm grip on Brewster’s collar, attached the lead his dad had passed to him and led him away into the house. Brewster kept trying to get back but Charlie managed to get hi, up to the house.

‘Yes, Brewster, I know he’s the local butcher, but he’s the Lord Mayor today so he won’t have any spare bones on him for you’, Charlie muttered under his breath.

Moments later Brewster appeared at the patio doors looking very disgruntled indeed at being shut out of the way.

Charlie, meanwhile, came back to join his parents as they watched the majorettes surround the tree and, keeping in perfect step, they marched on the spot while twirling their batons in time to the band music which drifted from the front of the house. The band had started playing a selection of Souza marches at this point.

The Mayor brushed at his robes trying to dislodge the mud, and only succeeded in making it rather worse. The Lady Mayoress was trying to get her, once beautifully permed hair, back into a semblance of order, without much success. Angela covered her mouth to stop from giggling. The Mayoress looked as though she was wearing a bird’s nest on her head thanks to Brewster.

The Mayor cleared his throat and held up a hand for silence. He leaned over and whispered something to a councillor who took to his heels and moments later the band music stopped. The majorettes stopped their marching and baton twirling and all was quiet.

‘Ladies and gentlemen’, the Mayor began, only to stop as, with a groan and a thud as he hit the ground, Rodders managed to extricate himself from the ladder.

The Mayor gave him a steely look and continued.

‘Ladies and gentlemen’, he paused and looked around as though waiting for another interruption. When nothing happened he continued, ‘I would like to thank Mr and Mrs Scott for inviting me here today.’

Annabel looked at Roger and he mouthed, ‘but I never invited him’, at her.

The Lady Mayoress gave a polite cough and Roger shut up.

‘As I was saying’, said the Mayor, and stopped in mid-sentence as one of the branches above him shook slightly and there was a flurry of leaves and a number of acorns pattered to the ground around him after bouncing off his hat. Some of them actually landed in his hat and rolled about as he moved his head. The Lady Mayoress got a shower of leaves in her hair and really did look as though she had been dragged through a hedge at this point.

From above them there came a loud CRACK and another flurry of leaves and acorns, this time they were followed by a number of twigs too.

‘Oh, no’, said Roger, ‘If he’s gone too far up, the branches won’t hold his weight.’

He waved his arms at the Mayor.

‘I respectfully suggest, your Mayorship that you and your good lady move away from the tree very quickly. You too girls’, he shouted to the majorettes, who, given that some of them had also received a shower of leaves around them, didn’t need telling twice and were already moving away from the tree with a lot of waving of arms and little shrieks of panic.

A second cracking sound followed the first, which in turn was followed by the sound of something heavy falling through the tree. Next moment they were treated to the sight of the tail end of a pony dangling under the leaf canopy with two back legs flailing about several feet above the ground. Tiddles had managed to get his front legs caught over one of the lower branches and was just hanging there.

His wildly swishing tail had knocked the Mayor’s hat off exposing his bald head. He bent to pick it up and as he did he heard another crackling sound from above. He turned to look and saw the back end of Tiddles falling towards him as he fell from the tree.

For reasons he couldn’t explain the Mayor turned and held out his arms to catch him as he fell. This was not the wisest decision he had ever made. Tiddles was only a small pony, but was certainly no lightweight. He landed in the Mayor’s arms and the Mayor buckled under the weight. Resulting in the Mayor lying flat on his back with a pony sitting on his chest.

The Lady Mayoress screamed, Rodders fainted and had to be carried away by his crewmates; at the same time the band began playing again. Roger thought he recognised it as ‘Autumn’ from ‘The Four Seasons’, though he couldn’t be certain. He remembered thinking that it was rather apt given what had fallen from the tree.

Norman had reappeared at the garden fence and was grinning from ear to ear as he shouted, ‘Oh, well held sir’. He was a keen cricketer.

Rita and her lady friends had all risen to their feet and were giving the Mayor a standing ovation, clapping and cheering.

Annabel had had just about enough of the nonsense for one day.

‘Roger, get Tiddles off the Mayor and get the Lady Mayoress a brandy. I think she needs it.’

The Lady Mayoress was sitting on the grass pointing at Tiddles with her mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, but not speaking.

Roger went over and grabbing hold of his bridle he dragged a protesting Tiddles off his comfy seat and with a smack to his rump he chased him down the garden and into his paddock. Having fastened the gate securely to make sure Tiddles couldn’t get back to his new friend he strode back up the garden and glared down at his children.

‘I think it’s safe to say that the ladder up the tree is definitely going this time kids’, said Roger, ‘and from now on Tiddles stays in the paddock. No more coming into the garden. If you want to play with him you go to the paddock too. Understood?’

‘But Dad’, Charlie began, but thought better of continuing the sentence when his father gave him a sharp stare.

’Understood’, said both Charlie and Angela.

A snicker from Tiddles was taken to be his way of agreeing too.

Sometime later, when the Mayor and Mayoress had been apologised to, brushed down, had a ‘medicinal’ brandy administered and shown back to their car; when the majorettes and the band had marched away, somewhat quieter than when they had arrived, and the Fire Brigade had returned to the fire station, mumbling as they went that if they got any calls about pets stuck up trees in future, they were going to check exactly what sort of animal it was before they went to the emergency. Roger, Annabel and the children were enjoying afternoon tea in the garden. Lucy and the grand parents had joined them and they had listened patiently while Lucy complained that she missed all the fun.

‘Well’, said Roger. ‘I think we can all relax for a little while now. As long as Tiddles, do you think we should change his name? No, I thought not, as long as Tiddles stays put we can have a nice quiet time in future. I’ll remove the wooden strips from the tree and let that be an end to it. Ahhh. Peace, perfect peace.’

He had just taken a sip of tea from his cup when, from the house, there came a shrill, screaming wail. A short pause and then another shrill wail began. Brewster started barking.

‘Sounds to me as though our little Sable Saffiya of Samarkand is about to have her first litter,’ said Annabel, ‘and she’s not going to let us forget it.’

Saying this, she and the family with Brewster bounding along beside them started for the house as fast as they could.

What happened next is a story for another time.