by James Barrie
She may have a valid point, thought Theodore. We cats do all right without money. I have yet to see a cat carrying a purse.
Theodore’s attention was drawn by a siren. He watched as an ambulance with flashing lights entered the Shambles. The ambulance slowed right down, as the Shambles is very narrow; the first floors overhang the footways on either side of the street. Pedestrians pushed themselves into doorways and through the alley into Shambles Market. The ambulance came to a stop halfway down the street, by the chapel dedicated to Margaret Clitheroe, who was a Catholic convert crushed to death below a door in 1586 for attending mass and hiding priests, later to be canonised in 1970.
Paramedics jumped out and rushed to the Japanese tourist’s side.
In all the commotion, Theodore saw a pair of pink and white trainers dash across the street to the other side of Pavement, where they disappeared inside a shoe shop.
The shoe shop was located on the ground floor of Herbert House, a large black and white Tudor house that had once been home to a family of Herberts.
Theodore glanced at the remains of the chicken burger; then jumped down from behind the wall and set off after Milton.
◆◆◆
‘I need a new pair of shoes,’ Milton said. ‘These ones stand out too much.’
‘Have you seen any you like?’ the shop assistant asked, smiling. Her name badge read Becky.
‘Well, I need some running shoes,’ Milton said. He was on the run after all. ‘Ones that don’t stand out.’
‘So not pink ones then?’ Becky said, looking down at his footwear.
‘Definitely not pink ones,’ Milton said.
‘Are you here for the protest?’ Becky asked.
Milton realised he was still wearing the Guy Fawkes mask. ‘I suppose I am,’ he said.
‘I was going to go down later,’ Becky said. ‘Once I’ve finished here.’
‘Right, Milton said. ‘Well, you be careful out there. It could get nasty.’
‘I can look after myself,’ Becky said and smiled. ‘If you sit down over there, I’ll bring you some shoes over to see if you like them.’
Milton sat down where Becky indicated. He took off his mask and put it on his lap. He removed the pink and white trainers and pushed them under his chair.
Becky returned with a trainer. ‘Do you like this style?’
‘Yes, they’ll do,’ Milton said. ‘Just give them to me.’
‘You need to try them on, don’t you?’ Becky said with a smile. ‘Do you know what size you are?’
‘Yes, a 10.’
‘Well, I’ll just go and get you a pair of size 10s to try on. I won’t be long.’
Becky disappeared into the back of the shop, leaving Milton sitting on his chair. He turned his face away from the window and the world outside.
Theodore stared through the shop window. He noticed the sweat dripping from Milton’s head. Police officers passed by but did not glance inside the shop.
Then he noticed a police van. It had stopped in front of the Golden Fleece further down Pavement. Two police officers got out and approached the shoe shop. Another police van pulled to a stop in front of Pizza Hut on the other side of Herbert House and two more police officers got out and approached.
Theodore looked through the window.
Milton was trying on the size 10 trainers.
‘They’re fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll take them.’
‘Do you want them in their box?’
‘No, I’ll wear them.’
‘What’s happened to the shoes you were wearing? The pink ones…’
‘Don’t worry about those.’
He stood up, pushed Becky aside and walked to the back of the shop.
‘Hey! Where are you going? You need to pay for those.’ Becky started after him.
Theodore looked to his left and then to his right. The police officers were still waiting to make their move.
There must be a back exit, thought Theodore. He padded in front of the shop and stopped in front of a passageway. It was sign-posted Lady Pecketts Yard. Theodore began to gallop down the passageway.
Ahead he heard a cry. He rounded a corner.
Milton had Becky up against a wall. She was crying.
Milton had a hand across her mouth. ‘Look, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said.
Becky whimpered.
‘You need to tell the police,’ Milton said. ‘Tell them there’s a plot. Something big is going to go down tonight. They need to send for reinforcements.’
Then he let her go and ran off down the alleyway. As he turned right onto Fossgate, Theodore noticed the blue stripes of Jonathan’s socks in the space between the bottom of his jeans and the top of his new black trainers. Milton must be quite a bit taller than Jonathan, Theodore deduced.
Then Becky screamed.
◆◆◆
At Holy Trinity Church, Emily found Theodore’s collar on the altar. She pushed the pram back to the entrance. She called her cat’s name. He did not come.
‘He’s not in here,’ she said.
‘He could be anywhere,’ Jonathan said.
Outside a firework went off with a loud bang.
‘I keep forgetting it’s Bonfire Night tonight,’ Emily said.
‘It’s really not a night for a cat to be out,’ Jonathan said.
‘We need to find him.’
They exited the church. They began to search the graveyard. There was a sign tied to a tree that said, ‘Phineas Bull’. Emily wondered who Phineas Bull was and why his name was on a sign tied to a tree. She heard a belch from behind her. She looked round and saw a man sitting on a bench, a bottle of cider between his legs.
She walked over to him. ‘Have you seen a cat?’
Oliver stared at her with bloodshot eyes and belched. ‘No. I haven’t seen any cat,’ he slurred.
She turned away from Oliver and called out for Theodore.
‘Come on,’ she said to Jonathan. ‘Let’s go this way.’
She pushed the pram towards Lund’s Court, formerly Mad Alice Lane.
‘I’d better wait here for your dad,’ Trish called after them, ‘or he won’t know where to find us.’
◆◆◆
Trish paced the church path. She wanted to get back home to watch Gentleman Jack, a BBC drama series about Anne Lister: a nineteenth century landowner, lesbian and diarist, whose union with her companion Ann Walker was sealed by taking the sacrament at Easter 1834 in the church in front of which she paced.
It was half an hour later when Patrick entered through the church gates, a redness to his cheeks and a sheen of perspiration to his brow.
‘You took your time,’ Trish snapped. She was sheltering from the rain in the entrance to the church by a large brass bell, which was engraved with the words: ‘Ring for Peace’.
‘I had to wait to pay, didn’t I?’
‘You had dessert, didn’t you?’
Patrick looked guiltily at his wife. ‘Well, I couldn’t resist the tiramisu.’
‘You can never resist the tiramisu!’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’ve been standing here for half an hour in the rain while you stuff your face with tiramisu.’
Patrick looked away, his cheeks reddening. ‘Why isn’t that Oliver Bartholomew over there?’
‘Stop trying to change the subject,’ Trish said but looked over at the forlorn figure on the bench. ‘Young Oliver? It can’t be.’
‘I believe it is,’ Patrick said.
He walked over to Oliver. ‘Oliver? It’s me… Pat.’
‘Pat?’
‘Yes. You remember? We were neighbours. I was friends with your dad…. Terrible what happened. A terrible business that…’
‘Yes, Oliver said. ‘Terrible…’ and his voice faltered.
Patrick looked Oliver up and down. ‘What on earth happened to you?’
‘I suppose life has not treated me kindly,’ Oliver said, defeat in his voice. ‘Since dad had that… accident.’<
br />
Patrick sat down on the bench beside Oliver. ‘I’m going to tell you a little story,’ he said.
And then he told Oliver a little story.
What Matters Most
‘Many years ago, I was down on my luck…
‘Penniless… Homeless… Destitute…
‘I had lost everything. One business after another had failed. I thought I would never recover. I was drinking. I was smoking. I was doing whatever drugs I could lay my hands on.
‘I was sleeping in the doorway of an empty shop on Micklegate. I didn’t even have a sleeping bag.
‘One day a little old lady appeared.
‘‘Here,’ she said. ‘I’ve made you some dinner. We can’t have you going hungry when I’ve got food in the larder…’’
‘She handed over a large parcel wrapped in tinfoil. She then handed me a plastic spoon.
‘I unwrapped the foil package. There was a whole Sunday roast dinner inside a giant Yorkshire pudding. No plate. Just a big Yorkshire pudding.
‘‘I couldn’t be giving away my crockery, now, could I?’ the old lady said. ‘So I put it all in the pud!”
‘She then said, ‘‘Would you like salt and pepper? My husband would never eat owt without’’.
‘And I said, yes, I would.
‘So she put her hand in one coat pocket and took out a salt cellar and from her other pocket a pepper pot.
‘After I used them, I handed them back and she popped them back in her pockets.
‘I smiled my gratitude and the little old lady scuttled away.
‘I looked down at the Yorkshire Pudding.
‘Inside there were slices of roast beef, mashed potatoes, roast potatoes, peas, cauliflower, all covered in rich onion gravy. There was even a smear of horse radish.
‘A whole Sunday roast dinner inside a giant Yorkshire pudding! Who would have thought it?
‘I smiled to myself. And then I laughed.’
‘Oh, get on with it,’ Trish said. ‘We’re going to be here all day at this rate…’
Oliver stared at Patrick. ‘Why did you laugh?’
‘I laughed because I saw my way out of the hole I had dug,’ Patrick said. ‘That Yorkshire pudding gave me the seed of an idea.
‘I managed to borrow some money. I went round all my old friends. I begged them. I said I would pay them back.
‘Within six months, I had set up The Olde Yorkshire Pudding Shop. I took on the lease for the shop on Micklegate, the same shop whose doorway I had slept in for weeks. Every morning, as I stepped over the threshold I would remember my nights attempting to sleep in that doorway. I swore that I would never return to that life. I would make a success of this pudding business.
‘By the end of that year, I had shops on every street that leads into this city. Micklegate, Fossgate, Goodramgate and Gillygate, and a flagship shop and restaurant on Coney Street.
‘As you know, there are now Olde Yorkshire Pudding Shoppes in almost every town in this country. And I own them all!’
‘You do?’ Oliver said. ‘I didn’t know. I thought they’d always been around.’
‘That’s because I spelled Olde with an E on the end and Shoppe double P, E.’
‘That was clever of you.’
Patrick waved a hand with a flourish. ‘And you know what the bestseller is?’
‘The Sunday Roast in a Giant Pud?’
‘That’s right,’ Patrick said. ‘The toad-in-the-hole is a close second though. But that’s because I use only the finest Yorkshire sausages. And then there’s the Full English Breakfast in a Pud. That’s the bestseller before eleven o’clock. People come from all over the world to sample my puds…’
‘Can you hurry this along?’ Trish said. ‘We do have a home to go to…’
‘Well, that does bring me to the point I am trying to make. You see, it was all down to that little old lady giving me that meal in a Yorkshire pudding… One act of kindness and my life was turned around. And I said to myself that if ever I was in a position to help somebody turn their life around, then I would.’
‘You would?’
‘Yes, I would. You are coming home with us, Oliver Bartholomew. To Acaster Mildew.’
‘He is?’ Trish said.
‘I am?’ Oliver said.
‘You are,’ Patrick said.
‘Well, he can stay in your den.’
‘Yes,’ Patrick said, ‘you can stay in my den.’
‘I can stay in your den?’
‘Just till you get back on your feet.’
‘Just till he gets back on his feet,’ Trish said.
‘I’d better get my things,’ Oliver said.
Patrick slapped Oliver on his thigh. ‘What matters most is how well you pick yourself up after you fall.’
Oliver nodded. His eyes had welled up with tears at this unexpected kindness.
Patrick got up from the bench.
‘I think a hot bath is first on the agenda,’ Trish said.
‘I just need to get something,’ Oliver said.
He got up and went inside the church.
‘What a lot of codswallop,’ Trish said. ‘You’ve never been down and out in your life.’
‘I said at the start that it was a story,’ Patrick said and smiled.
They watched as Oliver returned. He carried a plastic bag containing a bottle of cider.
Patrick shook his head.
‘What is it?’ Oliver said.
‘The deal is,’ Patrick said, ‘that you leave that bottle behind.’
‘But it’s almost full,’ Oliver said.
‘You leave it behind. You leave it behind with the rest of this sorry little chapter in your life.’
Oliver nodded.
‘When we get back, we’ll have a nice cup of tea,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ve got some Yorkshire Gold.’
‘Yorkshire Gold?’
‘They select teas from the top ten tea gardens in the world to make a rich, smooth and incredibly satisfying brew… A proper cup of tea, in other words.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Well, let’s get going,’ Patrick said. ‘A new chapter is about to begin!’
‘It is?’
‘If you want it to.’
Oliver nodded. ‘I want it to.’
He put the bottle of cider down on the bench. Then he followed Patrick and Trish out of the churchyard.
A new chapter was about to begin.
Never More Than Ten Feet from a Rat
Theodore raced down Fossgate. The pavements were crowded and he soon lost sight of Milton. But then he picked up his scent: aftershave, sweaty socks and new trainers, the insoles of which had been sprayed in formaldehyde.
He passed over a bridge and stopped. The scent had gone. He turned and looked back the way he had come.
There were several police officers coming his way. One on a bicycle whizzed by. Two more on horses galloped down the middle of the street, the horses’ hooves clacking against the cobbles.
Theodore began to retrace his steps until he picked up Milton’s scent once more. He was standing next to the balustrade of the bridge. He stood on his hind legs and put his head through the balustrade. He looked down on the dark swirling waters of the Foss. Fifty yards downstream he saw Milton, wearing the Guy Fawkes mask, swimming silently away.
Police officers rushed by. He tried to stop them by calling out to them but they ignored him.
He looked down at the black water. He jumped up between the stone columns of the balustrade. Then he dropped into the Foss.
If you have ever tried to bath a cat, you will know that they don’t like to get wet.
When Theodore surfaced, he coughed out a stream of grey water. He felt the cold currents pushing him along. He worked his legs. He was soon moving rapidly along the river, his ears folded back against his head.
Ahead of him he spied the Guy Fawkes mask that Milton wore. He was also being carried along by the flow.
On his right, he passed by York Cas
tle Museum and then under another bridge. Ahead there was a crashing of water. He closed his eyes as he was carried over a sluice into the Foss Basin.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw boats tethered to moorings. He heard some splashing behind him. He turned and saw Milton swimming away from him.
He began to swim after him.
◆◆◆
Patrick had parked his old Range Rover in St George’s Field car park, parts of which abut the River Foss. He clicked open the car doors and told Oliver to get in the back. Then he spied something in the river.
‘Well, look at that,’ he said. ‘There’s a giant rat swimming in the Foss.’
Trish squinted. ‘They say you’re never more than ten feet away from a rat,’ she said with a shudder.
‘Yes. They do that.’
‘Come on. Let’s get going. The sooner we get back to Acaster Mildew the better.’
Trish got in the car and Oliver got in the back.
Patrick stared after the large grey rat. It was as though there was something familiar about it. Something he couldn’t quite articulate.
‘Hurry up and get in,’ Trish shouted. ‘And open the windows.’
Patrick shook his head. It would come to him, he thought. And if it didn’t, it probably wasn’t important. He burped and tasted tiramisu.
He got in the car and they set off back to Acaster Mildew.
◆◆◆
Theodore was fast approaching Foss Dam. The dam’s purpose is to stop water from the River Ouse backing up into the Foss and flooding properties upriver. Today the dam was not lowered and Theodore was carried straight through. He saw Milton pass under a little blue bridge ahead of him. Carried along by the strong currents he had no choice but to follow.
Two figures in black hoodies wearing Guy Fawkes masks looked down at him from the bridge as he approached. One of them pointed a finger at him. The other was holding a can of spray paint. He had just sprayed his tag on the side of the bridge in dripping red paint. At least when I leave my mark, there is little visible evidence, he thought, though olfactory evidence was another matter.
Then he met the black waters of the Ouse. He was dragged below the surface. He took in water. He was spun around. This would be his end. Drowned in the dirty Ouse.