Jim the graveyard cat

Through the large black wrought iron gates across the flagstones, a shortcut walked to the shops. At Christmas time once a year and for that day only the gates are closed, this preserves the path as private property. Most of the gravestones have been removed some re-rooted along the stone wall. A few headstones remain; lichen clad most of the inscriptions worn away by rain and wind. But one tomb is lichen free, well tended, the wording recut. This is the resting place of Thomas Helliker hanged March 22, 1803 in the 19th year of his age. A cloth worker, he was arrested in 1802 on suspicion of threatening a night-watchman with a pistol during an anti-machinery mill-burning riot. Although protesting his innocence, he refused to betray the real culprit, a fellow member of the shearmen's union, and was subsequently tried and hanged on his 19th birthday. He was later cleared of any wrongdoing and was adopted by the trades unionists as a martyr marking their struggle through turbulent times.

And this is where Jim the graveyard cat's black backside was now parked. His eyes closed face tilted up to catch the warmth of the sun. Without raising so much as an eyelash...
"Hello Ferd, "he bellowed in that low slow West Country accent.
"Morning Jim," and I jumped up to join my good chum on the warmed stone.
We sat side by side, sharing the sunshine.
Two good ladies from St James' were tugging weeds from the rose bed, Mavis and Mabel. Mavis had blue hair.

"How's Doll, Ferd?"
"She's ok, Doll being Doll."
"And Lil ?"
"Ok, although shes gone deaf."
"Stone me."
"Yep, deaf."
"Well I'm sorry to hear that."

Mavis said, "I'm not getting that dandelion root up, they go deep they do and I'm not digging, you never know what'll come up in here; a bony finger breaking through the soil!"
"Could give us a hand with digging!"
"Er."
"Look at those two will you? looks like their having a conversation!" Mabel chuckled.
"What the F~+* do they think were doing?" Jim muttered
"No point whispering Jim, they can't understand us."
"I know! but for *~#+ sake!" His language as broad as his dialect. "Fancy coming down to mine and sharing a vole?"
"Fried or boiled?"
"Last one there is a mangy F*&$+*+# fleabag." Jimmy yelled leaping off our resting place, and we raced off to Jim's gaff. Through a break in the stone of the church and down to the cellar which housed gardening bits and bobs; Jim's bed was a seed tray made from pinewood with an old potato canvas sack for a blanket and protective cover against splinters from the rough wood.
"Look at them now Mave. They look like they got it up em. They dont like it up em ey Mave?"
"Pehaps they got the finger, the bony finger..."