The Improbable Cat Page 3

  Later, we tried talking to Alma again about the cat. It wasn’t easy. Somehow, when you put a thing like this into words, it can sound absurd, y’know, especially with someone like Alma.

  ‘It never goes out, Mum,’ said George. ‘Never purrs – never washes itself.’

  Alma laughed. ‘Neither do you, half the time.’

  George pressed on. ‘And it really is huge – gets bigger every time you see it.’

  Alma was slicing a loaf and making sandwiches.

  She turned to me. ‘Hm – what does y’mum and dad say?’

  ‘Dad says it’s the breed.’

  ‘Hm… pass me that lettuce.’

  On the floor in the corner, the puppies were scrabbling around in their box.

  ‘Tell her about the stroking,’ said George.

  ‘Right.’ I took a deep breath. ‘See, it’s…’

  Alma handed me a plate.

  ‘It’s, well…’

  She put aside her knife and gave me her full attention.

  ‘It’s…’

  ‘You stroke it,’ said George, ‘and it gets this power over you.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Alma.

  At this point in came Joyce, holding a pigeon.

  ‘Tell Joyce,’ said Alma.

  Joyce sat with the pigeon on her lap, smoothing its feathers with her finger. Alma poured her a cup of tea.

  ‘Tell Joyce what?’ said Joyce.

  Talking to Alma was tricky; talking to Alma and Joyce, plus a pigeon, half a dozen puppies and a braying donkey at the window, was near enough impossible. By the time I left, the jokes were flying again and we were no further forward.

  That evening I sat in my room and stared out of the window. Billy – I had sneaked him in – was sleeping on the bed beside me. Golden light lay flat across the patchwork of gardens, a fading vapour-trail stretched out above the houses, shadows lengthened.

  Earlier I had told Mum about Mrs Rutter and offered to take the lorry leaflets round to her house. But of course there were no leaflets; she had failed to get them printed. At teatime Suzannah and her mum stopped by, inviting Josie to go on a trip and sleep over. Josie merely scowled (this was probably her best friend), while Mum stood in the doorway saying little and not inviting them in.

  That evening I sat in my room

  When Dad came home, I took a chance and tried to get some camp money out of him. I needed it, I explained, to buy a torch plus a few other things. I showed him the list the school had provided. Dad looked really wild. His hair was all over the place and I thought he was going to yell at me. Instead he gave me twenty pounds!

  I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I was, I suppose, a natural pessimist (still am!); a boy who feared the worst and worried about it, but in this case my worries were doubled. After all, what exactly was the worst? The situation was forever shifting. The cat got bigger, the problem got bigger; its shape changed, the problem changed. I could not hold it steady in my mind. At times it felt like I was going mad. This business with a huge hypnotic cat was unbelievable. I know what I said earlier, about taking the cat for granted and all that, but this was the truth too. Truths and contradictions, yes, in those days my head was full of them. (Still is!)

  From the sitting-room there came a sudden burst of TV laughter. Luke was asleep in the room next to mine. (I had looked in on him.) But the others, they were down there, weren’t they? Feeding it, stroking it, serving it. And there d be no light on, just the TV and a candle sometimes. And the curtains closed. And a thickening, sickening darkness. Unbelievable.

  Beside me on the bed, Billy stirred. A soft growl fluttered in his throat and his paws twitched. I rubbed the coarse fur along his back and stroked his ears. Good old Billy… he’d believe it.

  8

  Shopping

  I NEVER SHOULD HAVE gone on the camp. I never meant to, at least that’s what I told myself. Whereas the truth is (truths and contradictions again), I wanted to go more than anything. To escape – yes, that’s it. To escape the mess and the smell, the peculiar gathering gloom in the house, the pitiful look in my mother’s eyes, the responsibility. After all, it was only five days, and it was paid for. Gran and Grandpa would be home when I returned, and Uncle Mark and Auntie Alison. I could tell them and they could sort it out.

  George had other ideas. (It was easier for him, he wasn’t living with it.) He thought we should switch to plan B. Apart from wearing gloves, however, it turned out he had no idea what plan B was. The cat was now too big to handle. We could have picked it up between us and carried it probably, but not far, and not at all unless it wanted us to. I mean, just viewed simply as a cat, it was a dangerous creature.

  I should say something here about the camp. Once a year, usually at the end of August, one of the teachers, Mr Thomas, and his wife took a party of children to Devon. His dad had a farm there and we camped in one of his fields. George and I had been before.

  In the next couple of days my conscience worked overtime. Getting my things together – rucksack, sleeping bag, etcetera – ticking stuff off on my list, was a guilty pleasure. Meanwhile, I was avoiding the cat again, afraid of what I would see. And helping Mum (more guilt), loading the dishwasher, tidying my room. Dad was off work quite often now, getting up late, drifting around in the garden with his hands in his pockets. I helped him too; pulled some weeds out, washed the car.

  On Friday I went shopping with Mum and Luke. Mum, I have since realized, no longer trusted herself to drive; she smoked almost continuously and her hands shook. We walked and pushed Luke’s buggy to the corner shop.

  Side by side with my mother on the street, I felt embarrassed. She looked so odd, y’know, pale and haunted, and thin. (All that cooking and she was hardly eating, none of them were.) Her hair was untidy; her lipstick smeared. I felt people staring at us. As we entered the shop, we met a suntanned Mrs Fletcher coming out. I could see the startled look on her face, but before much was said, Mum had bundled us inside.

  Pardoes’ was a curious shop, a small door and window at the front and a great long windowless aisle at the back. The Pardoes had owned and run it for years. It sold pretty well everything.

  Mum moved rapidly and anxiously along the shelves, muttering to herself as she went. Whenever I fell behind (there were a couple of things I needed), she urged me on. We had to hurry up, she said, yes, hurry up. Not keep him waiting. I did not think she meant my dad.

  And what was she buying? A load of liver, a shoulder of lamb, frankfurters and other sausages, smoked haddock, pickles, gherkins, mustard, olives, a huge amount of pasta, a dozen tins of anchovies, three large tubs of tuna paté…

  The trolley was almost full; Luke perched upon a mountain of food. (How would we carry it?) Mum added a bottle of wine and then another. Finally, as I watched in horror, she took a small flat bottle of vodka down from a shelf and slipped it into Luke’s nappy bag. The smile she gave me, when I caught her eye, was crafty and ashamed.

  9

  Thomas’s Farm

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING AT half-past six I sat on the coach with George and Kenny Biggs. As we pulled away, a crowd of sleepy-eyed parents cheered and waved. Alma and Joyce (with Jasper) were there, and my dad, standing apart, his hand in an anxious gesture to his mouth, not waving.

  So the coach took us away. Away from the school and the street and the town. Away from our parents, brothers, sisters, pets. Away from our comfy beds and familiar breakfasts, computer games and favourite TV programmes. Away from everything.

  Thomas’s Farm was a brilliant place, halfway up a hill. It had cornfields and an orchard. There was a stable block where local riders kept their ponies and horses. There were pigs and chickens and calves, trees to climb, ropes to swing on and a cockerel to wake you up in the morning.

  I liked the calves best, and my favourite job was feeding them. Most people think cows feed calves, but they don’t, though I’m not sure why. What happens is, you take this bucket of milk, dip your finger into it and the calf just co
mes along and sucks it. Gradually you bring your finger closer to the surface of the milk until the calf is drinking straight from the bucket. As simple as that.

  Well, we arrived and pitched our tents and got the Calor gas cookers going and spread our groundsheets and listened to a speech from old Mr Thomas – what not to do – and went for a walk (to tire us out, which never worked) and ate and drank… and didn’t sleep.

  That night our torches flashed forever in the darkness. When morning came, I reckon we woke the cockerel up.

  If this was some other story (which I wish to God it was), I could write lots of stuff about that camp, pages and pages. The delicious food for a start: burnt-black sausages and beans, the freshest eggs, straight from the hen. And the trips we went on – the encounters we had with kids from the village – the bonfire and singing on the last night – foxes and owls, romances, melodramas, ghosts.

  As it is, well, I had fun, I can’t deny it. I was distracted. I forgot, though not for long and never entirely. The scene in Pardoes’ shop kept coming back to me; the cat lurked always at the edges of my mind.

  On the afternoon of the third day, the five of us from our tent, me, George, Kenny and the Crossley twins, were helping to stack some bales of straw in the top field. It was hot and scratchy work with little scope for fooling around until Mr Thomas left us for a while.

  Soon we had created a staircase with the bales and after that a den. There was much racing around and wrestling. Eventually, pink-faced and smothered in straw dust, we lay out on the cropped field and caught our breath. It was then, staring up into the dazzling sky, the spiky ground beneath me like a bed of nails, that I got the idea, the cat idea. It was so obvious, so simple. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? It was the natural solution. I told George.

  ‘What y’whisperin’ about?’ said Alex.

  ‘Nothing,’ said George.

  ‘We could do it,’ I said.

  ‘Do what?’ said Kenny.

  ‘It’s a secret,’ said George.

  ‘What is?’ said Darren.

  ‘It would work,’ I said.

  ‘What would?’ said Alex.

  ‘… Yes,’ said George.

  That night I lay in my sleeping bag feeling much better than I had, less guilty, less ashamed. There was something to do now, details to be worked out, plan B. As I drifted into sleep, the others already asleep, odd thoughts and memories flickered in my mind. George had got himself a girl-friend, Imogen Hobbs, though both of them denied it. I pictured my mother, her shaky efforts to pack my bag, make my sandwiches, slipping me extra pocket money as I left the house. I had not told George about the vodka. The girls had seen a ghost down by the stables, something about a face in a tree. My mother was no thief. George and Imogen…

  Rain fell softly on the shadowy canvas.

  … It would work.

  10

  Coming Home

  ON THURSDAY AT HALF-PAST eight we arrived back at the school. Heavy cloud obscured the evening light. Rain had recently fallen and some of the parents still had their umbrellas up.

  There was no one to meet me (the coach was a bit early), so I got a lift with Alma and George. As we drove along, Alma interrogated us in her cheerful way. She gazed lovingly into George’s face and wondered aloud if he had used his soap or even unwrapped it. When we reached the house, our car was just visible in the drive and the front door of the house was ajar. I heaved my things out of the boot and waved to Alma as she drove off.

  What I saw first was the gate-post, snapped off and splintered on the drive. The car had a massive dent in its bonnet; the front bumper was hanging loose. What I heard first was Billy.

  I dropped my rucksack and ran. Billy was leaping about on his long lead, overjoyed to see me – he nearly took off. His food bowl was empty – licked clean – his water bowl nearly empty. A sack of jumble that he appeared to have attacked was scattered in rags around the garage. There was a revolting smell of dog shit.

  In a mad rage, hating my family at that moment, I ran to the kitchen. The blinds were down, the lights wouldn’t work, there was rubbish and mess everywhere.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Mum?’

  No answer.

  I opened a tin of ‘Pal’ for Billy, rushed out with it and rushed back again.

  ‘Dad?’

  No answer.

  I stepped into the hall.

  ‘Mum?’

  Upstairs I could hear music playing, voices. It was so dark, even in the hall, even with the door open. I got the torch out of my rucksack and climbed the stairs.

  There was a radio playing in my parents’ room.

  ‘Mum… Dad…’

  I switched it off and shone my flickering torch around. The room was hardly recognizable. The bed had been up-ended against the wall and the mattress was on the floor. Cups and plates and chicken bones littered the floor. A blanket had been nailed across the window. It wasn’t a bedroom any more, y’know? It was a den.

  I looked in Josie’s room, and Luke’s. Nothing. With a thumping heart, I descended the stairs and stood again in the hall. Billy was still barking in the garage. A car alarm was sounding down the street. No sound at all came from the sitting-room. I opened the door.

  I could hear music playing

  A wall of hot, foul, smoky air hit me in the face. I was immediately bathed in sweat.

  ‘Mum… Josie…’

  The darkness in the room was almost solid. I felt like I was wading through it, slowly, slowly. Three or four candles glimmered faintly on the mantelpiece and dresser. The TV was on but without the sound.

  It took me an age to cross the room. The easy chair had been moved. It was in front of the TV now with its back to the door. A small table stood beside it. There was a wine glass, I could see, a plate of food, a smouldering cigar.

  The cat, or rather what the cat had become, was sitting upright in the chair. It turned its fearsome head and gazed at me with no concern at all. The sound that came from me then – a groan? a scream? – was terrifying in itself. The torch fell from my fingers. I saw it raise the wine glass to its lips… and ran.

  I was out in the street, panic still rising in my throat, my thoughts in turmoil, frantic. Soft, steady rain was falling from a grey sky. A car went past, its headlights gleaming. I ran to the Fletchers’ house – rang the bell – banged on the door – banged on the window. No one came. I stood in their porch, out of the rain, shivering. A lorry-trundled loudly down the street. Another car. A motor bike.

  I struggled then to organize my thoughts. What had I seen? (I’d run before there was time to see.) The size of it? The shape of it? A gleam of eyes and teeth. What else? The strangeness of its posture, the empty, alien look it gave me. The wine glass.

  My heart was pounding less. I pushed the wet hair from my eyes and wondered what to do. Where were they? Shopping again, all four of them, at this hour? Pardoes’ hardly ever shut; perhaps that was it. I could go there – now – meet them. But then what? Whatever I said, they’d take no notice, just carry on as before, like robots. I could go to Grandma’s, catch a bus to Uncle Mark’s. But I had no money. The money was in my rucksack… in the house. I could go to George’s.

  Something came brushing against my leg in the gloom – ‘Ah!’ It was only the Fletchers’ cat, though, bedraggled and miaowing, hoping the door would open. I resisted the urge to boot it off the porch.

  I went to George’s.

  11

  Not Much Longer Now

  HALF AN HOUR LATER I was back in the house, sweating like mad again and yelling at Dad. I had found him in the kitchen, a frown on his face, a beard on his face, surrounded by Pardoes’ bags. The worktop lights were on, throwing deep shadows down the room. Flies buzzed noisily over the plates of half-eaten, half-rotten food that covered the table. There was a persistent stench of sour milk.

  ‘Where were you?’ I launched straight in, all else for those few seconds forgotten.

  ‘Er…’ Dad gestured vaguely
at the piles of shopping. He had a bottle of sherry in his hand which he was pouring into a cup.

  ‘You never met me – I had to get a lift with Alma!’

  ‘Oh…’ He took a swig. Sorry about that.’

  ‘And what about Billy?’

  ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘He’s not all right. Y’never fed him – you feed that bloody thing!’

  ‘Don’t swear,’ said Dad, dully, automatically.

  ‘Bloody thing. Y’never took him for walks. He’s out there now – shit everywhere!’

  ‘Don’t say “shit”.’

  ‘Shit!’ I shouted, as the anger (and fear and frustration) flooded through me. ‘It is shit, Dad. It’s shitty! The whole thing, the whole business, the –’

  Unexpectedly then, while wanting to say so much, I found myself unable to speak and burst into tears. Dad came over and put his hand, shyly almost, on my shoulder.

  ‘Oh, Davy… don’t.’ He patted me softly and drank his sherry. ‘Don’t get upset. (Upset!) It’ll be all right.’ His voice was low, his speech a little slurred. ‘It won’t be for much longer now,’ I think I heard him say. And then the craziest remark: ‘Don’t spoil things.’

  Don’t spoil things. What did he mean? Spoil things! My rage boiled over again. (A useful rage, I later realized. It stoked my courage up, which I was going to need.) I yelled at Dad about the shopping. He was fiddling with the bags, lifting stuff out.

  ‘No dog food, I’ll bet!’

  I challenged him about that creature.

  ‘What is it in there – it’s not a cat now, is it?’