The Cat Who Came In From The Cold

by Deric Longden

  That took care of another hour, and then Aileen and I half carried each other upstairs. Nick had settled down in the recliner chair in the study and I knew what he was like – I would stay awake in case he fell asleep.

  I dropped off within seconds and the next thing I knew there was a tall figure standing by the side of the bed. It was still dark and my head was floating, but I recognized the voice the moment he spoke.

  ‘I’ve brought a friend of yours to see you.’

  I reached out and switched on the bedside light and then Nick leaned forward and placed a scruffy kitten on my chest. Its earnest little face looked as though it had been daubed with warrior paint and it seemed to be wearing a small combat jacket, camouflaged with streaks of oil and grease.

  ‘Thermal?’

  The kitten took a pace forward and fell over. I put a hand either side of him to help him to his feet and they nearly met through the thin body.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  From somewhere deep inside his motor started running with a purr that was much stronger than he was. It faltered now and then as though it hadn’t been tuned properly, but his enthusiasm kept it going.

  Supported by my hands he took another step forward and touched his forehead softly against mine. Then his legs collapsed and he fell in a heap under my chin.

  Aileen struggled to come up from under, but sleep wasn’t letting go of her easily. She tried to look intelligent.

  ‘Is this the er – have you er?’ she asked, failing miserably.

  ‘It’s Thermal, love – he’s come back.’

  She needed a little more time and so I turned to Nick who, from his great height, was looking down on the scene like some benign uncle.

  ‘Where did you find him?’

  ‘I put my cases in the car, switched on the engine and then the lights and there he was – lying in the middle of the road exhausted. He was on his way home, but I don’t think he’d have made it. He was too weak to stand up.’

  The kitten had fallen asleep but he woke as Aileen reached out for him and, then having found him, covered him with her hand.

  ‘Is it Thermal?’

  ‘Yes – Nick found him.’

  ‘He’s so thin – he’s half starved.’

  The kitten pushed his head up hard against her hand. It was that nice lady who trod on him a lot.

  ‘Come on, my love – let’s get you something to eat.’

  That wasn’t a bad idea – he’d been missing for exactly a month.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Aileen led the way downstairs and beat Nick to the kitchen by a short head. I followed at a more sedate pace, cradling Thermal in my arms – I could feel a shoulder-bone hard against my palm, sticking out through his fur like a coathanger. In the kitchen Aileen rattled the milk bottles as she opened the fridge door.

  ‘Up there, Nick, on the top shelf of the cupboard – there’s a tin of Whiskas. I can’t reach it.’

  Why did I think I could fool her? She couldn’t see – but she could see through me.

  We could almost see through Thermal. Under the fluorescent light his matted coat hung like a rag on the jutting bones and his tail, which had always been something of an apology, now draped itself across my elbow like a piece of string.

  Nick searched for the tin of cat food as Aileen poured a dribble of milk into a saucer and then held it under Thermal’s nose. He sniffed and dabbed his tongue as though it were all too much trouble for him.

  ‘Come on, love – give it a try.’

  I lowered my arm so that his head hung over the saucer. He began to lap, very slowly at first, but then he quickened the pace a little as the liquid lubricated his throat.

  ‘I remember this stuff – milk isn’t it?’

  He readjusted his body so that his head wasn’t on sideways any more and began to tackle the job in a more professional manner. The three of us smiled sickly smiles at each other – like the last scene in a Lassie film. He burped loudly and we smiled again.

  ‘I must be off,’ Nick said, not moving, ‘I shall miss my plane.’

  ‘Yes – you go,’ I told him absently. ‘You mustn’t be late.’

  ‘Mustn’t miss it,’ said Aileen, wiping the splashes of milk from her hand with an oven glove.

  We were mesmerized at the sight of the little tongue darting in and out.

  ‘I’ll give it a couple more minutes – see if he eats anything.’

  He picked up the tin-opener and Thermal’s ears flapped as it bit into the lid – it was one of his favourite sounds. Aileen arranged a slight morsel, nouvelle-cuisine style, on the side of the saucer and placed it under his nose.

  The kitten who began to nibble at the outer edges was a very tired kitten indeed, but then, as he worked his way into the middle and the Whiskas hit the spot, his fur became more alert and his ears swivelled independently – it was his trademark and a very good sign.

  ‘That was very pleasant – any more?’

  Aileen refilled the saucer, a little more generously this time and the kitten wriggled in my arms.

  ‘If you don’t mind – I need to get down and use my feet for this one.’

  I put him down on the floor and he tucked in. Ten minutes later he had finished the whole tin and, in celebration, he tried one of his luxurious stretches, but he wasn’t up to it yet and he wobbled slightly and fell over.

  ‘You know – I think we might rear him,’ said Aileen as she scooped him up and gave him a big cuddle. ‘If he doesn’t explode during the night.’

  *

  We made a hollow for him in the duvet and he slept between us. We didn’t sleep – not for a while anyway. Daylight was already creeping in through the window, but we slipped the Teasmaid on to manual and had a final cup of tea and a cigarette while we indulged in a long awaited spot of kitten watching.

  ‘I missed him.’

  ‘So did I,’ muttered Aileen, both her hands cupped around the hot tea like a child’s.

  ‘Silly, isn’t it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well look at him.’

  He looked like something out of Dickens – a ragamuffin. Fagin would have thought twice about taking this one on – he would have let the side down. His coat didn’t fit him any more and it was filthy. He must have been locked in a garage somewhere – he hadn’t merely brushed against the grease, it had massaged itself into his fur.

  The state of his paws suggested that he had spent the last month changing the sparking plugs on an ancient Ford Escort and around his mouth there was an oily tidemark that suggested he had acquired a taste for the stuff.

  ‘He looks like a very small motor-mechanic.’

  ‘More like A1 Jolson,’ Aileen suggested.

  She leaned forward and covered him with her hand, triggering off a purr that came up deep and resonant out of the hollow.

  We should have put a cloth down – the duvet would never be the same.

  ‘He reminds me of one of my dad’s pipecleaners – they were disgusting.’ I switched off the bedside light and we settled down.

  ‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  *

  I rang the vet first thing the next morning. He sounded as rough as I did.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Fast asleep on the bed.’

  ‘That’s the best thing for him – he’ll know what to do. They’re tough little devils, you know. When he’s had a rest bring him in, I’ll give him the once over.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Just one word of warning.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t give him too much to eat straight off – little and often, that’s the way. It’s common sense really.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I put the phone down and nipped upstairs to see whether he was really fast asleep or whether I’d killed him.

  He had left the bed and come looking for us, but the stairs must have seemed like the north face
of the Eiger to him and so he had pitched his tent on the top step and curled himself up into a ball.

  He was fast asleep but he managed to open one eye as I carried him downstairs.

  ‘Hello – Deric, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes – how are you feeling now?’

  He didn’t say – he was fast asleep again, so I parked him on the rug in front of the fire and he slept away the afternoon while I worked on the book.

  We worked well. By the time Aileen arrived home at tea-time I had four pages under my belt and Thermal had shuffled his way through at least a dozen of the more generally accepted sleeping positions, and added to his repertoire another three that had never before been attempted outside the circus.

  ‘We’re home.’

  Aileen stood in the hall festooned with the parcels and carrier bags of all nations. Christmas was coming and there was a festive air about her as she moved slowly across the hall like a human flypaper.

  I poked boxes out from under her arms and unhooked bags from her fingers and gradually she began to appear to me in sections.

  ‘You’re not to look in that one.’

  It was a Do-It-All carrier bag and I tried not to look disappointed. My hobby was avoiding doing any of it.

  ‘Where’s Anna?’

  ‘She’s coming – with the rest.’

  Anna had arrived one day as a financial adviser. Since then she had also become shopping adviser, fashion consultant and friend. She was young and beautiful and bossy as hell.

  She came up the stairs completely obscured by a large igloo that had been cut in half and lined with fur.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘It’s for Thermal – it’s a cat-bed.’

  Aileen and I sat on the floor, drinking tea and watching Thermal twitch on the hearth rug.

  At least he seemed to have regained enough energy to relive the nightmares of the past month. Some of the more powerful shockwaves drove his little body across on to the carpet and every now and then they were accompanied by a plaintive cry that had us wincing.

  One such wave brought him shakily to his feet and then he tried to clear his head and work out whatever it was that had just happened. He didn’t move for a moment, he stood still – his head bowed, like a small starved donkey waiting to be taken to a sanctuary.

  Two short paces took him to the fireplace and then, very systematically, he began to lick the stonework.

  We watched in fascinated horror as his tongue covered stone after stone, his head angling so that he could take the horizontal mortar in one long sweep.

  He was still in his garage, or wherever he had been imprisoned – this was how he had survived, licking the moisture from the walls and harvesting protein as he went.

  At the far end he reached a speaker built into the fireplace and this surprised him – he hadn’t seen this before.

  ‘What is it?’ Aileen asked. ‘What’s he doing?’

  Her voice startled him and he flattened his body to the ground. Then turning his head he saw us and sat up like a stone lion, his eyes burning bright.

  Then they went out again. He must be seeing things. He sank down until his chin rested on the floor and he watched us as though not believing we were really there.

  ‘It’s all right – you’re home now.’

  I went over and picked him up and for a few moments he just lay there, not moving. Then I felt his claws reach through my sweater and touch my skin.

  ‘You’re safe now.’

  I stroked him very gently and he hutched up a little until his head was tucked up under my chin. Best place he could have been.

  He chose Marmite for his starter and then followed it with two helpings of turkey as his main course – to hell with the vet, what did he know?

  Sensibly he declined the chocolate pudding – a little too rich for him right now he thought – and rounded off the meal with a drop of milk and warm water to settle his stomach.

  He didn’t offer to wash up and so I had my hands in soapy water when I remembered his litter-tray. He might need that. I dried my hands and hauled it up from the cellar.

  Slotted back in place it looked even bigger than ever now and made the kitchen seem much smaller – it was what they call a feature.

  The fur igloo stood in the hall looking awkward and embarrassed as though it wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to do. It was backed with a pale blue material, but the fur fabric itself was that startling sort of blue much favoured by fairground teddy bears in Blackpool. It didn’t match a single piece of furniture in the house – thank God.

  I carried it into Aileen’s study and sat it down in front of her.

  ‘Do you want to see if he’ll take to it?’

  ‘Oh yes – look here, Thermal.’

  He looked and for a moment he thought they’d come for him. I pushed it over towards his hearth rug and he backed off and longed for the safety of his garage.

  But after a while, when it still hadn’t attacked him and he had begun to realize just how ridiculous it was, he stepped off his rug and had a good sniff at it.

  ‘What colour is it?’ Aileen wanted to know. ‘Is it blue?’

  ‘Yes – I’ve never seen anything quite so blue in my life.’

  ‘The carpet’s green, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Still – they put blue and green together these days, don’t they?’

  ‘Some people do, yes.’ I agreed and made a mental note to strangle Anna the next time I saw her.

  In the meantime Thermal had become more adventurous and was trying to climb inside it. I was very proud of him and gave him a helping hand with a little push under his bottom.

  He turned around a couple of times and then sat there undecided, cocooned in fake fur. It was a straight choice between taste and comfort and I knew my Thermal – he was a discriminating little kitten who instinctively knew when things were right. It had rubbed off from me.

  He turned around once more and then with a sigh settled down to sleep, his scruffy little body melting into the blue nylon tufts.

  ‘I’m ashamed of you.’

  He peered over the parapet and gave me one of his looks.

  ‘It’s a damn sight more comfortable than that bloody thing you bought me.’

  He didn’t use to swear – he had coarsened somewhat while he was away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mrs Crampton came to do for us on Wednesday morning and by Wednesday afternoon I was swearing that one of these days I was going to do for Mrs Crampton. She came to hoover here and there, dust here and there, and spread despondency here, there and everywhere.

  This was only her third week and already I had known her a lifetime.

  ‘We’ve got to get rid of her.’

  ‘We can’t – not while she’s still depressed.’

  Mrs Crampton had been depressed ever since the 21st of December 1982 when, at half past eleven that evening, her husband Harold had told her that the mince pies she had bought from Marks & Spencer were a damn sight better than the ones she made herself.

  It’s the sort of remark that just might get up your nose if you have always fancied yourself as a dab hand with pastry, but it’s not really enough to form the basis of a five-year depression.

  It was the following March before she spoke to him again and the truce that followed was an uneasy truce, shadowed as it was by the thought that things could never be the same again.

  Now, in the run-up to the fifth Christmas, the memory still burned bright, and over the past two weeks I had learned more about Harold, mince pies and Mrs Crampton than I ever wished to know.

  Aileen had decided it would be a nice idea to have the Christmas tree in the hall this year.

  ‘We’ll have all the presents underneath.’

  Thermal thought it was a great idea. I had been giving him regular runs around the courtyard to make sure he knew his way about and he loved the trees out there. He had sharpened his claws on them and climbed up them
and fallen out of them and he was quite overwhelmed.

  As he watched us put the tree together he rubbed round my ankles and expressed his appreciation.

  ‘This is awfully good of you – I don’t deserve it really. I shan’t need to go out at all now.’

  I soon put him right. I picked him up and delivered a short sharp lecture on the subject.

  ‘Now you’re not to go anywhere near it.’

  ‘It’s pointless telling him that,’ said Aileen, ‘you know what he’s like.’

  ‘He understands more than you think.’

  Thermal nodded in agreement. He was reaching that age when he could be trusted to act in a responsible manner – he wasn’t a kitten any more.

  She picked him up and gave him a cuddle.

  ‘He’s only a kitten.’

  He snuggled his head under her chin and stuck his nose inside her sweater. Being a kitten wasn’t that bad really – maybe he’d give it a few more years.

  We were sorting out the decorations when a rather damp Mrs Crampton arrived.

  Aileen was in her study uncomplicating a string of Chinese lanterns and I was hard at work, strapping a splint to the wing of a crippled angel. Thermal had just dragged the one-legged fairy under the hostess trolley and was about to have his way with her.

  Mrs Crampton took off her wet coat and slung it over the telephone table.

  ‘They shed needles all over the place,’ she grumbled as she stuck a sliced loaf under her coat, ‘and I know who’ll have to hoover it up.’

  ‘It’s plastic,’ I told her, ‘it’s artificial.’

  ‘They’re just as bad,’ she said, marching off to the kitchen, ‘they get everywhere they do.’

  Thermal poked his head out from under the trolley at the sound of a strange voice.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Mrs Crampton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Crampton – you haven’t met her yet.’

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ shouted Mrs Crampton from the kitchen, ‘you’ll have to come in here if you want to … my God, what’s that?’

  She was staring in horror at the litter-tray.

  ‘It’s for the cat.’

  ‘You haven’t got a cat.’