cat lay full length, her eyes closed to slits, as half a dozen wriggling, mewling kittens scrambled over her and fought to attach themselves to her nipples.
‘They’re only a week old.’ Helen poured the milk into an old saucer lying by the wall and slid it towards the mother, who immediately began to lap at it with a delicate pink tongue. She bent to pick up a kitten and it was dwarfed by her hands.
‘They’re lovely,’ Diana said.
‘Aren’t they? I pop out here to watch them playing whenever I can find a moment.’
She was mesmerised by them, like a child, and Diana was glad she had found something to lift her low mood. It occurred to her that feral cats might well have fleas but she didn’t want to spoil Helen’s fun. With her face lit up and her blue eyes sparkling, she had a fresh, natural beauty to rival that of any movie star – even Liz Taylor herself.
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