Click. The lights went out. Clunk, rattle, creak, bang. The old oak door shut. The chatter faded. Car doors slammed. Gravel crunched beneath the weight of moving tyres.
Maurice sat bolt upright. He was alone at last. He cautiously crept out from his hidey-hole, sniffing the air for clues. The scent of the frankincense was strong tonight but not potent enough to mask the scent of dinner. There it was. The unmistakable smell of strawberry cheesecake.
He scuttled across the floor of the pews and turned left up the aisle as his whiskers twitched in anticipation. He loved Sundays. It was the day for their holy huddles, followed by bring and share tea. It always left him spoilt for choice but he was particularly fond of Mrs Brown’s home-made cheese scones, smothered in real butter.
His pink feet scampered up to the locked kitchen, only slowing down to squeeze under the bottom of the door. He had to wiggle and jiggle to squish through the gap. Maybe I should go on a diet? he thought to himself but dismissed the ridiculous idea the minute it came into his head.
His food sensor only took seconds to locate his favourite dessert. It was languishing in a deconstructed heap on top of the open bin. It had ‘Eat Me Maurice,’ written all over it! Maurice obliged.
Half an hour later, having also obliged with half a scone and a ham sandwich, he sat on a discarded paper plate washing off the evidence from his face. He felt replete and satisfied with his lot in life. He counted his blessings. He had a dry roof over his head. He never went hungry. He was safe from cats, which was a relief after his close encounter with a mean ginger tom, when he resided at Mr and Mrs Young’s house. His new home was perfect and now he had a whole new week of culinary delights to look forward to.
Monday morning - mother and toddler group. He prefers to call it biscuit and bun brunch. The custard creams remind him of when he was little. His mum would sneak one in from the parlour. They had to share the crunchy, soft, sweet, treat between seven of them.
Tuesday - seniors’ lunch – he helps to clear up all the scraps. He is very community spirited and particularly likes being on cake duty, although he has to keep a close eye on Mr Jones because he eats as if there is no tomorrow.
Wednesday afternoon – slimming world. When he first realised it was a group to lose weight his little heart sank. This was not good for housekeeping. But how wrong could he have been. Each week everyone is encouraged to bring a temptation with them and throw it into the abyss! The deep void holds no fear for Maurice as he searches its contents. Chocolate bars, bags of crisps, salty peanuts and soft marshmallows all waiting to be devoured. He is always happy to be of service.
Thursday - supper night for the Women’s Institute. These women can cook! And they’re in unvoiced, but understood, competition with one another so the food just gets better and better. Isabel made a victorious Victoria sandwich cake a fortnight ago. And last week Mary’s Beef Wellington was a celebration in itself.
Friday - youth group is always a highlight for Maurice. It means pizza patrol. The margherita stuffed crust is heavenly and he always saves a piece for breakfast the next day. It’s becoming tradition.
Saturday - men’s breakfast. It’s full of rich pickings. Their eyes are always bigger than their bellies. Half eaten pork and apple sausages, mouth watering fried bread, woodland mushrooms and crispy bacon are his for the choosing. In fact, there is so much left over that he has taken to inviting his cousins from the village to come and join him… The following Sunday Maurice sat in his den willing the last of the congregation to leave. The aroma of apple pie and caramel sauce was tantalising his taste buds. Gladys Albright was a chatterbox and talking the ear off the vicar in the vestibule. ‘I took one of our food parcels down to her house this week,’ she explained. ‘The poor woman, she’s got nothing. Not a bean. She’s penniless. She’s as poor as a church mouse.’
Maurice chuckled to himself, as he sat silently, waiting for the lights to go out and the door to bang shut.