The Cat Who Came In From The Cold

by Deric Longden

  It was the only bit of me that did go to sleep and I was still awake when Tigger jumped on my head.

  ‘Sorry.’

  She liked to check everything before she came up – to make sure the lights were out and the doors were locked – and then spend a quiet few moments alone on the litter-tray without prying eyes or coarse remarks from Thermal.

  ‘What is it – arthritis?’

  ‘No – I’ve got Thermal between my legs.’

  ‘So that’s where he is – I’ll pop down and say good night.’

  She tunnelled under the duvet to join him, and Aileen stirred and turned towards me, just as Thermal stretched his paws and claws at the pleasure of having company.

  Aileen’s silky whisper brushed my ear.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes,’ I told her in a soaring falsetto that brought back memories of the church choir and my first surplice.

  ‘I’m not tired – are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why don’t we …’

  ‘Not just now, love – I think I’ve got one of my headaches coming on.’

  Arthur came up to see me the next morning. He didn’t have an appointment but I suppose he thought he knew me well enough. He’d never been in my office before and so he just popped his head round the door.

  ‘I see he’s come back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there won’t be no vacancy then.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the cellar?’

  ‘Nothing – what’s wrong with wanting to go up in the world?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So you’ll let me know?’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Right – you know where to find me.’

  He had to come right into the office to give himself enough room, so that he could turn round again to go out, and then he waddled off with his limp and his dignity intact.

  If you ever see a cat wearing a flat-cap, with a pint of bitter in one hand and a whippet on a lead – the odds are it will be Arthur.

  We had just finished Sunday lunch when the doorbell rang. Aileen and I were drinking coffee, our little fingers pointed towards the ceiling. Tigger was immersed, or rather asleep, in The Sunday Times and Thermal was explaining to a rather bemused sultana how he had been kidnapped and held prisoner by a team of evil builders.

  The sultana was ageing fast and I was worried about him – his blood sugar seemed to be a bit on the low side.

  The doorbell sounded once more. Who could it be? It wasn’t Arthur – he couldn’t reach.

  There was only one way to find out, and since Aileen seemed to have gone deaf I pulled myself to my feet and went out into the hall.

  It was a little girl. She was about six years old and she held a small white kitten in her arms. He was wearing a ginger wig that had been designed for a much taller kitten altogether – I think he had stolen it.

  And yet the tip of each ear was a matching ginger, as was the tip of the tail that oozed like toothpaste from between the girl’s fingers – perhaps I had misjudged him.

  There were tears in the little girl’s eyes and the dam was about to burst.

  ‘Will you have my kitten – he’s going to be killed.’

  You don’t get many opening lines like that, and I found myself responding with the most inadequate of replies.

  ‘Is it?’

  The kitten nodded and turned his head away – it was all too much for him.

  ‘My daddy’s allergic to cats and he’s going to have him put down.’

  The kitten took a deep breath, swallowed hard and bit its bottom lip.

  From down below Patrick’s unmistakable voice floated over the hedge.

  ‘And they’ve got a Dobermann Pinscher – it’ll have its head off, so it will.’

  Aileen appeared at my shoulder. ‘What’s happening?’

  The girl held the strange little kitten out towards her and Aileen bent forwards until she was almost rubbing noses with it. The kitten blinked.

  ‘Uncle Patrick said you would give him a home. He said you were very kind to kittens.’

  ‘Let me hold him.’

  She took him in her arms and cuddled him, then pressed his little body to her face.

  ‘He’s just like silk – feel him.’ I felt him – he was just like silk. ‘Come on in,’ she said to the girl and they went in.

  ‘Thank you – thank you very much,’ I shouted down to Patrick, ‘that’s all we needed.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Deric, I know you’ll do the right thing.’

  I wasn’t sure what the right thing was. We were becoming knee deep in cats and I had more or less promised the first vacancy to Arthur.

  Aileen had taken the pair of them into her study and was telling the girl that she could come and see the kitten whenever she came over to Patrick’s.

  ‘He’ll still know me, won’t he?’

  ‘Of course he will.’

  As soon as she had said a tearful goodbye, Thermal and Tigger wandered in to see what all the fuss was about. Thermal wasn’t all that impressed.

  ‘Not much to him, is there?’

  Tigger thought he was beautiful. That’s how her kitten would have looked – had it lived.

  ‘What shall we call him?’ Aileen asked.

  ‘How about Patrick’s Revenge?’ I suggested, but Thermal didn’t seem to agree. He strolled over to have a closer look.

  ‘Thermal’s a good strong name – put him down and let’s see what he’s made of.’

  Aileen put him down and he went off like a rocket – straight for Thermal’s throat. The element of surprise more than made up for the difference in weight, size and experience, and within seconds Thermal found himself trapped under the television set with an ounce and a half of fur, teeth and claws pounding away at his undercarriage.

  He belted it and the kitten rolled over and came again. Thermal jumped up on the desk and the growling ball of fluff bit the carpet in frustration. Tigger moved in as peacemaker – the woman’s touch.

  The kitten went for her and ran straight through the stiff left jab that had sat Denton on his bottom.

  ‘I wonder what sort it is?’ Aileen wanted to know.

  ‘I think it’s a civet,’ I told her as Tigger shot out of the study with the kitten fastened to her back as though it had been born to ride side-saddle.

  They ran straight into Arthur who was coming in to explain how he’d missed his lunch and could he have it now please.

  The kitten fell off as the cats collided, but he didn’t even stop to adjust his wig – he went straight for Arthur’s twisted tail and that was where he made his big mistake.

  Arthur might be a cripple, but he was a big strong cripple and he had kittens like this one for breakfast. He simply sat on it.

  As this kamikaze kitten skidded in for the kill, he just shifted himself slightly, patted it with his paw and sat on it – it went right underneath him and only its head came out the other side, eyeballs bulging as though it had been run over by a tram.

  ‘We can’t keep this one,’ I said to Aileen.

  ‘Oh yes we can – I’m going to train it.’

  ‘You’re going to need a stool and a whip.’

  ‘Whatever – just give me a week.’

  She sucked it out from under Arthur’s bum and carried it off to her study. It stared back at us blankly from over her shoulder and wondered why all the lights had gone out.

  The rest of us had a meeting and Thermal appointed himself as official union spokesman.

  ‘It’s not stopping, is it?’

  I tried to explain that it was only here on a Youth Opportunities Scheme and it wasn’t going to put either of them out of a job.

  Tigger would still be literary assistant to Aileen, and Thermal could have his job as chief food-tester and general charger-about for as long as he wanted.

  There was a murmur of discontent and the chief spokesman grunted.

  ‘You shouldn’t
take in strange kittens.’

  ‘I took you in.’

  ‘That was different – I was cute.’

  ‘He’ll be all right when he’s settled down.’

  ‘It’s a she actually – I had a look when we were wrestling.’

  Patrick had certainly got his own back on me – he must have known what a little hooligan it was. But Aileen wanted the kitten and she thought she could civilize it.

  But if she couldn’t – I knew who could.

  I knelt down and stroked the broad black back. It arched under my fingers like that of a small camel.

  ‘Excuse me, Arthur – could I have a word with you?’ I slipped my arm around his shoulder. ‘About that vacancy … When can you move in?’

  TAILPIECE

  The kitten stayed, Arthur moved in and Tigger set about organizing a playschool. Thermal went off in a huff. It was only a short huff – he was back by tea-time. The cats always had fish on a Friday and he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It was a legacy from the old days when my seven-year-old daughter Sally had picked up Ronald, her three-week-old kitten, and asked me, ‘How do you know he’s not a Catholic?’

  The vet told me that we were now the proud owners of a Turkish Van cat.

  ‘They can be little sods when they’re kittens.’

  ‘Do they grow out of it?’

  ‘Some do – others grow up into much bigger sods.’

  He grew out of it with a big push from Arthur and a little nudge from Aileen. Every time he went berserk either Arthur sat on him or Aileen smacked his nose and then one night he sat down and had a deep think. The prospect of spending his entire life with a curvature of the spine and a sore nose featured high on the agenda and he came to the conclusion that there might be more to life than this.

  *

  Thermal revelled in his role as head of the household. Arthur was going very deaf and, in exchange for lessons in the fine arts of hunting, fishing and the hurling of abuse, Thermal acted as his rear-gunner whenever they went outside and made sure he was never taken by surprise.

  Tigger simply loved him as she loved everyone and everything, and the brand-new kitten swamped him with an adolescent crush that had the entire household squirming in embarrassment. To her Thermal was a cross between Clarke Gable and Garfield and he could do no wrong.

  And it’s easy to see why. He’s walking across my desk right this very minute and he’s growing into a fine young cat. He has put his childish ways behind him now and that lithe, athletic body has acquired a degree of sophistication and an ease of manner that springs only from self-knowledge and a natural dignity.

  But if you’ll excuse me, I must be off now – he’s got his head stuck in the filing cabinet.