by James Barrie
Milton reached into his pocket but remembered he had no money.
The young man looked up at him. He tilted his head at the little basket next to him that was half full of coins. His eyes were full of hope.
Milton raised his palms. He would have liked to help this young man who had such great talent. Such potential! No doubt he would go on to succeed in life. A life in which he had so terribly failed.
The young man, understanding that Milton wasn’t going to give him any money, turned away and carried on with his monumental work.
Milton turned away, an ache in his heart.
He turned right into New Street, then up Davygate towards Parliament Street.
By the side of the disabled toilet in St Sampson’s Square, he noticed another sculpture of a dog created out of sand. That’s some coincidence, he thought, approaching the young man.
The sculpture was again of a Labrador, identical to the one he had seen on Coney Street.
Then it dawned on him. The sculptures were not the hand of the young men. They probably were plastic shells with a coating of sand stuck on. It was a con and he had been fooled.
He looked at the little basket of coins by the man’s side. ‘You’re a fraud,’ he said.
The young man, who had been pretending to make some final touches to the dog’s face, turned. ‘Excuse me?’
‘This,’ Milton said, tapping the dog with the toe of his shoe, ‘is a fraud.’
‘I not understand you.’
‘You did not make this,’ Milton said. He tapped the sand dog again with his foot, so that it moved two inches. ‘You are a fraud!’
‘Please, no!’
‘It’s a con!’ Milton said.
He looked at the people around him. They were staring at him.
‘Don’t you understand? He hasn’t made this. He’s conning you. He’s a fraud!’
A middle-aged man tutted, dropped a pound coin in the basket of coins and walked away.
Probably a Liberal, Milton thought. He shook his head. ‘Don’t you understand? It’s all a con. The sand dogs aren’t real!’
He raised his foot and brought it down on the sand dog. The plastic shell crumpled beneath his foot. ‘See! I told you…’
‘You are an ass hole man,’ the young man said, a tremor in his voice. He got to his feet and faced Milton.
Milton pushed his Guy Fawkes mask to the top of his head. ‘And you are a liar and a cheat.’
Milton assessed his opponent. Although skinny, he was taller, younger and fitter than he was. Maybe he shouldn’t have picked a fight with this guy.
Then he heard a voice to his right. ‘It’s him,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘The escaped convict…’
‘You sure?’ a man’s voice said.
‘Yes, I’m sure. I remember his face off the telly. And he’s wearing the clothes they said on the radio. A red and black checked shirt. I remember.’
Milton turned to face them.
‘It is him! Milton Macavity!’ the woman shrieked. ‘Police!’
Milton felt a hundred eyes upon him.
He turned and began to run through the crowd. But he soon tired. He bent over, trying to get his breath back. Life on the inside had left him badly out of shape. His jeans felt cold and wet on his legs, the result of his second soaking at the Kings Arms. He needed to get warm.
◆◆◆
Back at home, Jonathan stood at the back door, a box of cat biscuits in his hand. He shook the box, so that the biscuits rattled inside.
‘Theo! Theo!’ he called.
But Theodore didn’t come.
He walked across the kitchen and peered inside the cat basket for the twentieth time. ‘The Cat Cave,’ he liked to call it. One of Emily’s old woollen jumpers was laid in the bottom, coated with Theodore’s grey fur. He wondered if Theodore would ever find his way back to it.
He went again to the backdoor and opened it. He stepped outside and surveyed the yard.
He noticed the clothes line. Emily should have hung the clothes on the clothes horse in front of the radiator. They were as wet as when she had hung them out, several hours ago.
Then he noted that there were gaps on the clothes line… Gaps where his shirt and jeans had been.
Jonathan remembered Theodore miaowing at the transparent cat flap while he watched the news. That was when there was the newsflash that Milton Macavity had escaped from custody while at York Hospital.
He then noticed the green smock that lay discarded in a heap.
‘Theo,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What have you got yourself mixed up in this time?’
He knew he would have to return to town to find him.
He texted Emily, ‘I’m coming back into town. I think Theo is in real trouble.’
His denim jacket was soaked through. He took it off and hung it over the kitchen radiator to dry. On his way out, he grabbed his brown corduroy jacket from the coat rack and then headed back into town.
Oliver Bartholomew Relapses
Emily had managed to find a table in the Spurriergate Centre, where she could feed Joseph. In his highchair, he played with his plastic spoon, flicking pureed parsnip at passers-by while Emily tapped away on her phone.
She requested to join a Facebook group called ‘Pets – Lost & Found – York-UK’. Seconds later she was accepted. She selected a recent photograph of Theodore and then wrote, ‘This is Theodore.’ Her eyes blurred and she had to stop herself from crying. ‘He’s been missing since this morning,’ she wrote. ‘Haxby Road area. I’m so worried as it’s Bonfire Night and he’s out here somewhere…’
Joseph gurgled. She looked over and watched as a bubble of pureed parsnip appeared at the side of his mouth, only to pop a second later.
‘If anyone sees him, let me know,’ she typed and then posted it.
Seconds later her post had been shared several times by good-natured strangers.
Then a message arrived from Jonathan. She responded, saying, ‘I’m at the Spurriergate Centre.’
‘Stay there,’ Jonathan texted back. ‘I’ll be with u in 20 mins.’
Emily returned to Facebook. She found another group. This one was called ‘York C.R.U.D. – Cat Rescuers UniteD’. She requested to join this group too though it didn’t sound as good.
Then she got a comment back from her first post.
‘I saw a cat like this by Monk Bar. A homeless guy had him tied to a bit of string. He said it was called Smoky.’
Then someone else commented. ‘I saw them too. He was begging for cat food. That’s what the sign said.’
‘I saw them in the Tesco on Goodramgate. The homeless guy was buying cider.’
‘I know that guy. He drinks in the little churchyard off Goodramgate… Behind the Happy Valley Chinese restaurant. He’s a proper pisshead.’
The homeless guy on the bench, Emily thought. He must have taken Theodore and used him for begging. She swore under her breath; then she called her dad.
◆◆◆
Patrick put his mobile on the kitchen side and took a bottle of Chablis from the wine rack. He poured himself a large glass. He then went into the den, where Oliver was sitting on the sofa, wearing Patrick’s second-best dressing gown, a mug of tea on the coffee table in front of him.
Oliver’s face lit up when he saw Patrick holding the glass of wine. ‘Can I have a glass?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Patrick said and took a large gulp of wine.
‘But that’s not fair,’ Oliver said.
‘Life’s not fair, Oliver,’ Patrick said gravely. And then, ‘Did you take my daughter’s cat?’
‘Cat?’ Oliver scratched at his head. His overgrown hair was still wet from the bath Patrick had run for him. ‘I didn’t steal any cat.’
‘People saw you with him, Oliver. You were out begging with my daughter’s cat.’
‘That cat? It was your daughter’s? I had no idea… I just borrowed him for a couple of hours.’
‘Yes, it was my daughter’s ca
t… And she is now frantic with worry. Now tell me: when and where did you last see the cat.’
‘In the churchyard where you found me. It got away from me and ran off.’
‘And that was the last time you saw him?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Now how about that glass of wine? I’ve told you all I know.’
‘You are not allowed any wine,’ Patrick said sternly. ‘I have made you a mug of Taylor’s finest Yorkshire Tea. From now on, you will drink only tea. You are teetotal while you are in this house. If you relapse, you will be out. Back on the streets. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes,’ Oliver said. ‘I understand.’
Patrick put his half-empty glass of wine down on the coffee table. ‘I have given you a great opportunity… don’t forget. This could be the beginning of the rest of your life. If you want it to be…’
Oliver nodded, staring at the cream pile of the carpet.
‘Now, I am going to call my daughter and let her know what you have told me.’
Patrick turned and left the den.
Back in the kitchen, he called Emily’s mobile. ‘It was Theodore,’ he said. ‘Oliver borrowed him for a couple of hours, for financial gain. Theo managed to escape from him.’
‘Does he know where he is now?’ Emily asked.
‘Last time Oliver saw him was back in the churchyard.’
‘Jonathan’s on his way back into town,’ Emily said. ‘We are going to keep searching for him… He’s still in the city centre, I know it. I’m not going home till I find him.’
‘Tell her she needs to get herself and Joseph back home,’ Trish said. ‘Theo will find his own way home. There’s trouble brewing in York tonight.’
‘Your mum says…’ Patrick began.
‘I heard,’ Emily said.
She heard the chinking of pots in the sink; then her mother in the background saying, ‘All this fuss over a cat.’
She could picture the scene. Her mother standing in front of the kitchen sink, her apron spotless as she did the washing up. Her father standing by the Welsh dresser, mobile phone in hand. Bess, the border collie, lying in her basket. It was the perfect world she had grown up in. She raised her hand to her head. She felt something wet. It was parsnip, beginning to harden in her hair. She looked at Joseph. He was splatting his food with his hands on the plastic tray in front of him and grinning like a little demon. Her world was so less than perfect.
Her dad was saying, ‘He’ll turn up. I know he will,’ in an attempt to reassure her.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I have to go now.’
She hung up and started to cry.
◆◆◆
Back in the Patrick’s den, Oliver stared at the glass of wine that Patrick had left on the coffee table. He picked it up and took a tiny sip. Then another sip. Then a gulp. Then it was empty.
Scenes from a Swiss-Yorkshire Restaurant
Frederick (Dickie) Belmont, a Swiss confectioner in search of his fortune, arrived at King’s Cross railway station in London and accidently got onto a Yorkshire-bound train. He never looked back.
It wasn’t long before Dickie opened his first Bettys Café in Harrogate in 1919. Why it was called Bettys, nobody knows for sure. One story has it that during a meeting by the directors to discuss the choice of names, a child accidently wandered in. When asked her name, she said Betty. “That’ll do,’ Dickie said. ‘Bettys it is!’
By 1927 afternoon tea was being served and ten years later Dickie opened the famous Bettys Café Tea Rooms on St Helen’s Square in York. The interiors of Bettys were inspired by the rooms of the Queen Mary ocean liner; Dickie and his wife Claire had been on its maiden voyage the previous year. If you like wood panelling, it’s the place to go.
These days tourists queue round the corner in all weathers to have the Bettys experience. Miles strode past the queue and into the shop. He didn’t believe in queuing.
He glanced at the counters. They were selling off Halloween stock: gingerbread bats, ghost-shaped lebkuchen and chocolate pumpkins. He spotted a basket of Fat Rascals. He used to like them when he was a kid.
He took his rucksack off and held it by the handle at the top. He looked back at the queue that snaked out of the door. He strode over and pushed his way in near to the front.
‘Excuse me!’ an old man said. ‘There is a queue.’
Miles glared at him. ‘I know. I’m in it, aren’t I?’
A woman tugged at the man’s coat sleeve. ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ she hissed.
The man held his tongue, not wanting to make a scene.
Theodore navigated the many pairs of feet. He made it into the shop part of Bettys without being seen. He saw Miles being led to a table inside the tea rooms. He followed.
He kept close to the wall. He too bypassed the queue. He was with Miles on that one: the day you see cats waiting in an orderly fashion for their food is surely a day that will never come.
He could see dozens of tables, all covered with bright white table cloths that reached almost to the floor. If he could make it inside, he could hide below the tables and make his way from table to table until he located Miles by his footwear; he remembered Miles was wearing shiny black brogues. Then he could find out what was in the rucksack.
He chose his moment. Any moment was as good as any other, wasn’t it? He dashed into the tea rooms. He made it below the nearest table and was met by a pair of shiny red shoes. There was no commotion. He had done it. Now he just had to locate Miles and his rucksack.
He peered out at the nearby tables. He would have to make his way to the next table.
Again he chose his moment and dashed below another table. This one had several pairs of shoes but no shiny black brogues.
A waitress went over to the duty manager. ‘I think there’s a cat under table 47,’ she said.
‘A cat? In the tea rooms?’
‘Yes, I saw it. It dashed from table 14 to table 47. I don’t think any of the customers saw it.’
‘But how did it get in?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We need to get it out,’ the duty manager said. ‘Before someone notices it. Leave it to me.’
The duty manager approached table 47. ‘Is everything satisfactory?’ she said, stooping and tilting her head to try and see under the table.
Theodore positioned himself in the centre of the table.
‘Could we see the desserts’ trolley,’ a voice said.
‘Yes, of course,’ another voice said. ‘I’ll have it sent over straight away.’
Miles was sitting by the rain-specked window. He hadn’t been in Bettys for over twenty years. Then he had been with his brother Milton and his father Maxwell. It was the lunch that had decided their fates.
Memories slowly surfaced.
He had ordered the chicken schnitzel. He always ordered the chicken schnitzel when he had dinner with his father Maxwell and his younger brother Milton on the first Sunday of each month. That was how often he saw his father. Once a month. Twelve times a year.
That day, they all had ordered the chicken schnitzel. When the waiter had brought out the three plates, one cradled into his elbow, he had dropped Milton’s. The chicken schnitzel ended up on the floor, cheesy side down. Milton looked down at it, a lump in his throat. The waiter promised to return shortly with a new one.
‘Well, there’s no point in letting ours go cold,’ Maxwell said and proceeded to tuck in.
Miles did likewise and they had both almost finished their meals before a replacement chicken schnitzel could be brought for Milton.
Miles realised that Milton, ever the sensitive one, looked like he was about to cry. He smiled to himself and then popped a very thin chip into his mouth.
‘There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ Maxwell began, his voice serious. ‘Something I’ve been meaning to tell you for quite some time, as a matter of fact.’
Miles knew that their father had an important job in the City but wasn’t exactly sur
e what he did. He knew he commuted from the London suburbs but wasn’t exactly sure what suburb. He knew that his father lived with someone down in London but wasn’t exactly sure with whom. There was a lot he didn’t know about his father; he had never taken the time to ask.
‘Well, I think the time has come that you know some home truths,’ Maxwell said. ‘I feel that this has dragged on for far too long.’
‘Well, what is it?’ Miles asked.
‘I am going to divorce your dipsomaniac mother and then marry my partner Cheryl. I am fed up of living a lie. Up to this point in my life that is what my life has been… A lie. And that has got to change.’
Just then the waiter reappeared with Milton’s replacement chicken schnitzel. He slid it in front of him and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
Miles wondered if he was apologising for the dropped schnitzel or for the state of their parents’ relationship. The waiter turned and walked back to the kitchen doors.
‘You will be starting at university in London,’ Maxwell said, looking at his elder son. ‘So perhaps we could meet up for lunch from time to time. You could meet Cheryl.’
‘I don’t know who Cheryl is,’ Miles said. ‘First I’ve heard of her.’
Maxwell turned to his younger son. ‘I’m afraid you will have to go to York College and take your A levels there. I am not prepared to pay the fees for St Peter’s for another two years. Like I said: I feel that this has dragged on for far too long already. Running two households takes its toll. And I am not prepared to do it any longer.’
Milton stared at his plate of food, the chicken schnitzel untouched.
‘Don’t look so glum,’ Maxwell said. ‘When I was your age, I was already working. I didn’t have the benefit of a private education. You need to make your own way in this world.’
Milton didn’t say anything.
Miles broke the silence. ‘I didn’t know you had a woman down there,’ he said.
Maxwell looked at his elder son. He nodded. ‘Yes, I do. We have cohabited for over ten years. Your mother knows.’