Fourteen Cats...

by Keith Hansen 2016

Marge may have been the perfect cat lover, I don't really know, hard to fathom. She lived in
an old Queenslander style house on the edge of town, Bunderberg, near the old sugar cane
mills. The place stood on stilts, a pole house so to speak. Safe from the floods on the low lying
sugarcane fields, and gave ventilation in the heat of the long arduous summers. Often she would
be seen, by the mill workers, down by the overflow waste pipe, that ran from the rum distillery,
mingling with the old tramps who drank the waste water from the rum distillery. Her story was,
'I've come to collect Molasses, for the cats, does their fur coats wonders. Keeps them trim an'
lovely.'
How she managed to feed that many cats is anyones guess. Fed them roo mince, maybe she
shot a wallalaby or two. Once I got told 'the iceman brings her offcuts from the butchery, in his
old wooden horse drawn cart, comes twice a week to fill your ice chest, he's a cat lover too!'
Can't remember who told me that, a good story, could have been my uncle Arno, Unk, who
lived in an old crabbin' shack down in Littabela, the last shop before you turn off for 1770, a
good fishing spot, so named as James Cook the navigator, had sighted land, there abouts, as he
sailed down the east coast. Hence the name, 1770.
Talking with Marge one day in the old house, spindleback chairs perched on the huon pine
floorboards, she nursing three cats at once, all vying for her attention.
'Cats are like that, ruled by jealousy, seeking attention, very demanding,' she explained as one
tabby lept from her lap.
'Sounds like they are possessed by the seven deadly sins,' I added, sipping tea much to
sugarery, served the way she liked it.
'Your Uncle knows where the wreck lies buried in the sands of the mangrove swamp, out
Littabella way, end of the raod before the sandhills and the ocean' she muttered in a secretive
voice, sinister in tone as she stroked the cats, the orange tabby taking fright and leaping from
her lap.
'Has he ever taken anyone to the wreck of the old ship,' I asked
'Never, ever.....his big secret. He's shown me a sword, engaved handle, and an old
blunderbulss flintlock....must a' been of on olden time.' she whispered as if the walls had ears.
'Thats where he found the original cats. Arno said they lived in the old wreck. Made it their
home.!'
It's well within the realms of the possible, 'I said with an edge of facination creeping into my
mind. 'Spanish and Portugese were ofter blown off there coure as they travelled across from
South America, overladen with gold and silver, stolen from the natives, the Incas. The Spanish
sea captains caugh the prevailing tradewinds across the Pacific Ocean, bound for Java.
Margrits long thin ears pricked up at that, money, wealth were two of her fascinations. She
loved nickle and dime books, took her away, from the tropical dead heat of Bunderburg. One of
her favourite authors was Errol Flynn who became a famous Hollywood actor.
'Arno told us how the pigs and the cats escaped from the Spanish ship, when they had it up
the creek taking on fresh water, or repairing the hull for leaks.' she explained, lamenting Arno's
words.
'Well within the realms of the possible,' I agreed, 'Many of the Spanish fleets were blown off
course and it they were not torn to pieces, on the Coral Reefs, they landed on the coastline of
Queensland. 'Mind you this is all hundreds of years ago. The sands of time have eroded any
trace by now.'

'And this tride of cats could be the decendents of the castaways,' she smiled to me and then
turned to the wall where a photographic portrait of her grandfather hung in an old oak frame.
'He often said the coastline was littered with old wooden shipwrecks, origins unexplained.
'I must ask him about all about the rusty iron swords, I have seen them on the wall of his
shack, above the river.'
'Why does he live so high off the river, it'd break me back, climbin' up the hill all the time, up
that rickerty staircase. Aro must be as fit as a mountalin goat to do it three times a day.' She
added with a tone of wonder.
'Say's it a place where the Crocadiles can't reach him, they can't climb a rocky hill, years ago
his brother came home drunk to his houseboat and a big croc was in the kitchen. Took a hold of
his leg and dragged him off into the river. Goodbye big brother,' I replied sipping from a
porcelain teacup ringed with handpainted roses.
'I hear he got murdered, a spanner job,' she quipped, an evil look in her eye.
'Nawr.....they found the claw marks from the crocs talons on the linolium floor in the kitchen.
An a few croc teeth in the woodwork, to boot.....end of tale,' I insisted holding a black and white
cat. 'Cats love a god stretch...did you know uncle Arno can hypmotise a cat..seen him do it,' I
said
'Your uncle...a man of many talents...should have been in a circus,' Marge laughed edging
another cat away from a slice of fruitcake she had served on matching plates.
'I must ask him about the vanishing wreck. He's mentioned it a few times, in the past,' I said
looking out the window, across the lowlying canefields to where the cane mill stood, the
afternoon breeze lifting remenant stalks and leaves of the harvested crop of sugarcane, blowing
them onto the red dusty road.
Eventually, Margrit got old and made a deal with a new lass, who had arrived in town from up
North, where the holiday resort season had ended. Margrit told her, or made a verbal
arrangement, that if she looked after the house, no mean feat in itself, and pampered the cats,
and herself, being Margrit, till death do us part...the cats, after the lights went out for Margrit..,
that Margrit would make arrangements with her solicitor friend, for the house and contents,
plus a small stripend, be left to her in lui of taking care of the house dwellers, namely the cats.
One time when down in Brisbane, over a meal, I brought up the 'tale' of the Spanish wreck in
the mangrove swamps near Littabella.
He gave me a wink and a nod. 'Be like looking for a lost key in a swamp, chances of finding the
wreck, remote. Fires have stripped the place bare!'
'I know someone who's got a metal detector, lives up near Childers. That Jarnbakker fellow,
the town fancy man,'
'Sounds...as though we could have a go. We'll put it on the list of projects.....and dreams to
chase,' he quipped.
I asked Uncle Arno...'Whatever happened to Margrit Pollard, and the house full of cats. Do you
know, by any chance?'
He looked at me suspiciously over a lifted fork of chinese food we were eating down in a cafe
near the wharves.
He replied 'All I heard was the will Margrit drew up, got balswed' up, house got left to a
nephew in Tasmania, he sold it, quick and smart. A carpenters worst nightmare, a termites
dream!' Arno lifted his beer! 'She neaver took care of it.'
'And the cats, what became of them?' I asked, as if he could have know.

'Actually nobody knows...the ballif went around to examine the contents of of Margrit's old
dwelling...the cats were gone. Must of packed their bags and gone to live there nine lives out,
somewhere else.'
'As they do...they do! 'I laughed, images of finding wreck, becoming clear.