The Cat Who Came In From The Cold

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The Cat Who Came In From The Cold Page 8

by Deric Longden


  ‘Yes we have.’

  ‘I’ve never seen one.’

  ‘Good morning,’ welcomed Thermal as he strode into the kitchen, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

  She relaxed slightly at the sight of him. The size of the litter-tray must have led her to believe that we were harbouring an undernourished leopard.

  ‘He’d disappeared before you started,’ I told her, ‘he came back at the weekend.’

  ‘So you don’t have to worry any more,’ Thermal assured her.

  She folded her arms and sized him up. His coat still hung loosely like an ill-fitting anorak and he’d spread the oil and grease with his tongue now, so that he had about him the grey, anonymous, look of a Technical College lecturer.

  ‘I can’t stand cats,’ she said, ‘they shed everywhere. I can’t be doing with cats.’

  I tried to keep him out of her way but she seemed to go looking for him. He still needed his rest, but no sooner had he collapsed in front of a radiator than in would come Mrs Crampton and before he knew where he was he was halfway up an attachment and heading tail-first for the dustbag.

  She also told tales. Every ten minutes or so she would burst into my office with a cushion under her arm.

  ‘Just look at the cat hairs on this – it’s disgusting. You want to keep him off the furniture.’

  I brought him into the office to keep him away from her and he sat on my desk and watched me type.

  ‘I remember doing this before – it’s all coming back to me now.’

  I remembered as well – remembered him sitting there, explaining in fine detail the workings of a writer’s office to his friend the sultana.

  ‘I’ve got a surprise for you – what about this?’

  I picked up the matchbox from beside the ashtray and slowly pushed open the drawer. He stuck his nose inside and sniffed.

  ‘What?’

  I tipped it upside down and his friend the sultana fell out. The rest seemed to have worked wonders for the wizened little grape and he sat on my blotter looking plump and refreshed. If anything he had fared better than Thermal, who still looked thin and pale – but then he was supposed to be a white kitten.

  They were delighted to see one another again and charged all over the desk – Thermal the playful aggressor, the sultana pretending to be frightened. They must have got the idea from watching Aileen and me.

  I found it difficult to work against the whining of the hoover as it thumped its way around the hall. Mrs Crampton had a bad effect on the hoover and it went through a personality change while in her charge – it attacked skirting-boards and doors.

  Instant freedom had also slightly deranged the sultana – it was over-excited and even Thermal looked embarrassed at its behaviour.

  I gave up and went to finish off the Christmas tree. Thermal and his little friend came along to give me moral support, but thankfully Mrs Crampton had now ploughed her way through the hall and had gone off to burn the stubble in the drawing-room.

  Aileen had taken a cup of coffee into the bathroom to listen to Radio Leeds. Since she can’t see to switch from station to station she has half a dozen sets in half a dozen rooms already tuned to different wavelengths. The bedroom is equipped with the World Service and her study rejoices to the sounds of Radio Four. She spends much of her time running round the house like somebody not quite right, but this morning she had spent ten minutes on the toilet with Martin Kelner and she emerged eager to discuss the vital issues of the day.

  ‘There’s a woman on the radio complaining because she says there’s a lack of variety in the Christmas presents you can buy for your cat.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’

  ‘It’s a pity they haven’t something better to think about.’

  ‘They want locking up.’

  ‘I think so.’

  There is nothing more satisfying than the cut and thrust of an intellectual debate, and so it was with a satisfied smile on her face that she went back to her study, ready now to sample the headier heights of Radio Four, having practised on the nursery slopes with Martin Kelner.

  And she left me with a problem. After that little exchange – how was I going to give Thermal his tin of salmon on Christmas morning? It was already wrapped in festive paper, a rather nice design, I thought, with a little bunny in Wellingtons and a bobble hat and it was lying under the Christmas tree along with the two ping pong balls, the cat-nip mouse and a quarter of the onion and chive cheese to which he’d taken such a fancy.

  I would just have to get up that bit earlier, then the two of us could open our presents together before we took Aileen her morning cup of tea.

  *

  I stood back and admired my handiwork. There’s no doubt I have a way with me when it comes to decorating Christmas trees. I could make a living at it, if it wasn’t such a seasonal occupation.

  The one-legged fairy smiled down at me from the very top. It was her turn this year, the crippled angel had the job last Christmas and it was only fair that they should take it in turns.

  She’d slipped a bit – one-legged fairies do tend to slip a bit, they can’t get a proper purchase and need their horizontal hold adjusting from time to time.

  I climbed up the steps and reached out for her and she moved slightly – not a lot, just a nod of the head and a flick of the wand, but it was enough to make me pull my hand back.

  She moved again, this time performing the perfect pirouette, a movement for which one-legged fairies have a natural advantage, and then she half turned, bent over with her back to me and lifted her skirt. I was at the top of a pair of steps and a one-legged fairy was mooning at me.

  The fairy began to rise, slowly, until she was standing almost proud of the Christmas tree. A branch rustled just below her and I leaned forward and stared in and there was this kitten’s face staring out at me – he had all four legs wrapped around the trunk and he was hanging on for dear life.

  I don’t know which of us was the most surprised. He was, I suppose – he gave me a sickly grin which soon turned into a sickly grimace as the tree tottered and began to fall sideways.

  The steps went with it and we fell together, side by side, and to make it worse I had this stupid kitten looking at me all the way down.

  I hit the sideboard. I don’t know where Thermal landed – somewhere painful I hoped and then all hell was let loose as Mrs Crampton burst into the hall from one direction and Aileen from the other.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s been playing silly buggers,’ Mrs Crampton told her in a voice thick with satisfaction.

  Aileen knelt down and spoke tenderly to a square block of solid wood.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m at this end,’ I told her and she came over.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, sliding out sideways from under the tree. ‘Just be careful you don’t …’

  There was a crunch from somewhere near my left ear.

  ‘… tread on any of the decorations.’

  There were baubles everywhere. Broken baubles, cracked baubles, baubles that had been smashed into a hundred pieces and, scattered all about Aileen’s end of the hall, baubles that had been freshly ground into a fine powder.

  ‘You’ve broken this as well,’ said Mrs Crampton, trying not to look smug and failing miserably.

  ‘No,’ I told her, ‘that only had one leg to start with.’

  I found Thermal in the bathroom. He was hiding by the toilet, sitting next to the lavatory brush. It was a good hiding place – you could hardly tell them apart.

  ‘It’s all right, come on – no hard feelings.’

  ‘I’ll just stay here for a bit if you don’t mind.’

  ‘OK – when you’re ready.’

  We cleared up the hall between us. I was in charge of raising and refurbishing the tree, Aileen was in charge of the dustpan and brush and Mrs Crampton charged about with the hoov
er and grumbled continuously.

  ‘I told you they made a mess.’

  ‘It’s worth it though, isn’t it?’ said Aileen.‘When it’s all finished.’

  Mrs Crampton looked at her in astonishment. The thought had never occurred to her and she went off to the toilet to mull it over.

  ‘If you find a sultana,’ I said to Aileen, ‘it’s Thermal’s.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, peering into her dustpan, her nose hard up against the handle. ‘I’ll look out for it.’

  If the sultana was still within hearing range it must have made him feel a lot better.

  We had just decided to break off for a cup of tea when Mrs Crampton screamed. It was the sort of scream you scream when you’re sitting on the toilet and a cat you didn’t know was there pushes its paw underneath your bottom.

  ‘That’s it,’ she yelled, ‘I’ve had enough – I’m going and I’m not coming back.’

  Thermal strolled out of the bathroom behind her.

  ‘Get her to put it in writing.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Aileen, ‘It must have been a shock.’

  ‘You think more of that cat than you do of me,’ muttered Mrs Crampton.

  There was a stony silence.

  ‘If you’ll give me my money – I’ll be off.’

  She went and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Aileen sat down on the telephone table.

  ‘She’ll be back.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’m sitting on her sliced loaf.’

  I tried to square it off and it looked almost like a loaf again by the time she came back for it.

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ she shouted as she marched into the hall, ‘I left my …’

  She put her head round the kitchen door.

  ‘… what are you playing at?’

  It was a fair question. We had emptied the fluff from the hoover bag and spread it on newspapers until the kitchen floor looked like a badly insulated loft.

  Aileen was on her hands and knees at one end and I was sifting my way towards her from the other. Thermal was sitting in the middle of the pile, turning it over to let it breathe.

  ‘We’re looking for Thermal’s sultana,’ I told her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Aileen pushed her plate away and reached out tentatively for her glass of wine. I had cooked the turkey to perfection at 400 degrees for one hour and ten minutes – just like it said on the Marks & Spencer’s box. She leaned back, lit a cigarette and I waited for the compliments to gush forth.

  ‘Read yours first.’

  ‘Right.’

  I picked up the paper and found the stars. I am a Sagittarian and we are wonderful people. Lovable, kind, considerate, dashing – a bit dodgy when it comes to financial matters, but that only serves to make us even more lovable. It hurts us when our cooking goes uncomplimented, but we don’t make a fuss.

  ‘What’s mine say?’

  I read Aileen’s for her. Aileen is a Virgo but she cheats. She says she has Aquarius rising and if Virgo doesn’t suit she will try Aquarius instead. Virgo didn’t suit.

  ‘I’m more an Aquarius really.’

  I read Aquarius, leaving out the bit about keeping a close eye on loved ones who were going through a funny phase. It was a little better than Virgo but not much.

  ‘He’s not as good as Patric Walker is he?’

  ‘Not a patch on him.’

  We Sagittarians don’t like to make waves and so I didn’t point out that he had done very well by me, especially the bit about my creative genius.

  I pushed the ashtray towards her and moved the sugar bowl out of reach, it would save a lot of time spent sugar sifting later on. Every evening the after dinner-routine is the same. Wash the pots and dry the pots and put the pots away. Then, finally – examine the sugar for any little black bits.

  She leaned forward and very carefully flicked her cigarette ash into a small bowl of mixed nuts.

  ‘What was that noise?’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘Listen.’

  I listened and heard a loud crunching noise as it floated past me on its way from the kitchen.

  ‘That’s Thermal – he’s having his lunch.’

  ‘What’s he eating? Is it Go-Cat?’

  ‘No – I bought him Brekkies this time.’

  ‘Well they’re much louder than Go-Cat. I can’t usually hear him from here.’

  Neither could I, and so after moving the mixed nuts up to the far end of the table and screwing the top back on the jar of cranberry sauce, just to be on the safe side, I went off to investigate.

  Thermal was just finishing his third glass bauble. He spat out the metal bit by which you attach them to the Christmas tree and then burped.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  He looked up, burped once more, and then calmly knocked another bauble down from one of the lower branches.

  ‘A little HP Sauce wouldn’t go amiss.’

  I snatched the glass ball away from him and picked up the collection of metal pins from around his feet.

  ‘You’re not supposed to eat them.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  I waved the bauble under his nose and he licked his lips in anticipation.

  ‘These are expensive – they don’t grow on trees you know.’

  His little brow furrowed – he didn’t seem to understand that, and I wasn’t too sure about it myself, so I tried to put it another way. It would be best to reason with him – to get him on my side.

  ‘Do that again and I’ll break your neck.’

  Reasoning seemed to work. He took a long hard look at me and then drew himself up to his full height, which isn’t all that impressive when you are only six inches tall. Then he turned on his heels and marched into the bathroom.

  ‘It’s no good sulking,’ I shouted after him, but he took no notice and so I turned my attention to the tree.

  I moved all the baubles up a notch and brought the candles and the baby crackers down to those lower branches that were within kitten-mauling height. I didn’t mind him sucking the odd candle.

  It took a few minutes to recreate the perfect symmetry I had achieved on my first run. If I’d wanted the baby crackers on the bottom branch I would have put them there in the first place, but it looked all right, and then my attention was diverted by a strange rolling noise coming from the bathroom.

  It sounded something like a sledge running out of control down a long grassy bank, neither of which we had in the bathroom, and so I pushed open the door and there was Thermal sitting upright on the lavatory seat, pounding the toilet roll into submission with his front paws.

  The toilet roll was a blur. It was belting round and round at about thirty miles an hour and a hundred or more sheets of perforated paper were piling up in shreds on the floor.

  ‘Right – that’s it.’

  I marched towards him and he saw me coming. He stopped pounding and gave me one of his looks. I stopped marching. There was something different about this kitten.

  This wasn’t the ankle-rubbing sycophant we all knew and loved so well. The kitten sitting there on the toilet seat was no ordinary kitten. The Andrex Kid himself had come to town and he was prepared to take on all comers.

  It was a stand-off between me and a pound and a half of mean muscle. For Thermal it was a sit-off. He stared back at me.

  ‘A kitten has to do what a kitten has to do.’

  I moved towards him and he shifted slightly, his tail twitching.

  ‘Go ahead punk – make my day.’

  I sat down on the edge of the bath and waited for him to make his move. His eyes were blue as the sea and as hard as nails and they never left mine as his body unfolded itself and landed, light as a whisker, on the pedestal mat.

  There was a swagger in his hips as he slowly made his way towards the door, paws strutting, jaw jutting. Even his little backside was on the alert and seemed to be operating as a third ey
e.

  It watched me all the way to the airing cupboard and then his head turned and his lip curled as he sneered over his shoulder.

  ‘Wipe your bum on that then.’

  I chased him right across the hall, up two flights of stairs and twice round the landing before he shot off into the back bedroom and hid under the bed.

  ‘Come on out.’

  ‘No – you’ve spoilt it all now.’

  When I woke up the next morning he was fast asleep on Aileen’s chest and not mine – being out of favour had its good points and for once I was able to have breakfast in peace.

  I ran out of milk somewhere around the fourth cup of tea. As I pushed open the back door to bring in a newly laid bottle the most beautiful tortoiseshell cat in the world nodded a polite good morning and walked into the hall.

  It was a girl – there was no doubt about that. I am not very good at sexing rabbits – we once had a rabbit by the name of Ronald who gave birth to triplets under my very nose – and children under the age of five confuse me unless they are colour coded in pink or blue. But this cat walked like a catwalk model, wearing her fur coat as easily as most women would wear an old pair of jeans at this time in the morning.

  ‘Oh – this old thing.’

  If Thermal was the man from Millets, then here was the girl from Givenchy.

  I wished I had tidied the place up, or at least put a comb through my hair. She paused at the foot of the stairs and looked about her – one paw slightly raised in an elegant gesture.

  ‘I’m sorry the place is such a mess.’

  Her eyes swept over me and she forgave me. Such things weren’t important to her. She walked over to the far door and went in.

  ‘This must be the drawing-room.’

  ‘Yes.’

  We had spent a lot of money on this room and we were very proud of it.

  ‘I could do things with this.’

  She was small and delicate, but she seemed to be wearing high heels – there was a coltish look about her that gave her extra inches. She would be about a year old, but elegance and confidence made her whatever age she wanted to be.

  ‘And this?’

  ‘That’s my office.’

  She wrinkled her nose as she put her head round the door. I tidy it once a year when I’ve finished a book and I was only halfway through one. She gave me an indulgent smile and turned on her heels.

 

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