Meg of the DUMP

She had landed herself in quite a pickle - but how on earth was Margaret going to get out of it?

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What a silly woman you are!’ Margaret thought as she lay marinating in the damp, soggy mush of grass cuttings and leaves mixed with various prunings that she and her husband, Philip, had methodically removed from their garden last year.

It was very unlikely she would have found Matilda here anyway, she considered. But, having exhausted all the usual avenues in the last five days, she was resorting to desperate measures. Neighbours had been dutifully pestered, notices posted and calls to the local police, fire brigade and refuse- collection services had revealed nothing of her missing cat. Every box, drawer and dusty cupboard in the house had been turned over. Three times. And, as anxiety increased to madness, Margaret had even investigated the oven, microwave and washing machine for signs of recent inhabitation.

It was the gloom of futility that had driven Margaret back into the garden to scour bushes and the trusty old shed where Matilda had been discovered in the past. But not this time.

Cats go to ground to die, thought Margaret. Perhaps Matilda had eaten something poisonous and taken herself off to a secluded hideout. Which left the compost heap as the only place in the garden not yet searched.

However, in climbing to the summit to test her theory, Margaret had stumbled, twisted awkwardly and fallen, so that she now lay, prostrate, in the valley between their fence and the south face of a rotting mountain of vegetation.

A heap on a heap.

Margaret shifted her weight uneasily to confirm that she could not get up. She must have done her back in, she thought. It was unlikely to be broken. The fall was not that heavy. Besides, if it was broken, she would be nearly dead – and she was not ready for that yet. The irony and indignity of dying on a compost heap was simply unthinkable.