Chapter Twenty-Seven: Tuesday
“Reports of an escaped lion in the Winchmore Hill area of north London in the spring of 1994 proved unfounded when, after an extensive search and analysis of a photograph of the supposed big cat, it was revealed that the picture was actually that of a large, friendly ginger tom cat, named Bilbo.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Art and John chinked their pint glasses together.
“So what are you going to do with the money?” John asked, after having taken a sip from the froth at the top of his beer.
“Trust you to ask about the cash first.”
“What else is there to care about?” said John, shrugging his shoulders, acting provocatively naive.
“I haven’t really thought about it.” It was true: Art had not given the matter any serious consideration, this despite his benefactor’s earlier query as to how his bequest was to be spent. “After all, it’s not as though it’s exactly a life-changing amount. Now if it were a few millions, then I’d know what to do with it. I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you, for a start. I’d have bought myself some decent mates by now,” Art joked, “But ten grand? I’m not sure.”
“Want any suggestions?”
“No, not from you, I don’t. I can guess what you’d say. Anyway, I was going to ask you if... you know.” Art felt embarrassed to bring up the subject of his friend’s own financial problems, even though he was now in a modest position to try to help him.
“What?”
“I just wondered if you wanted to borrow anything yourself? If I can help you out at all you only have to...”
John laughed, “You’re joking. The day I need to borrow money from you, I’ll know I’m in really desperate straits. Don’t forget, you’re talking to the original Mr. Money. Seriously, I’m okay. All I need to do is to halve Jessica’s shoe budget for a couple of months and I’ll be straight again. Don’t worry.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
The pub was beginning to fill up. A noisy crowd of what appeared to be foreign language students suddenly poured into the cramped confines of The Swan, and settled around one table close to Art and John, pulling up additional chairs to accommodate their number, chattering away collectively in recently acquired English.
“Good job we got in here early,” said Art, “We’ve beaten the lunchtime drinkers.”
“So what are you if not a lunchtime drinker?” asked John.
“Another good question,” said Art. “Do you still count as a lunchtime drinker when you only work a couple of days each week?”
John scratched his chin, pretending to give the matter deep thought, “Philosophical question. After all, what do you mean when you say ‘work’. If, as I presume from your current state of inquiry, you are referring to your paid employment, if you are talking about the term used to describe a state of purposeful activity that most usually results in an end product, a laboured effort towards a worthwhile goal...” John looked up to see that Art was nodding in agreement, “well then, it couldn’t truthfully be said that you have actually been engaged in ‘work’ for some considerable number of years now, so I don’t really see how a reduction in your ‘working’...” John made the symbol of inverted commas with his fingers, illustrating his loose use of the particular word, “hours, particularly affects your status as a lunchtime drinker.”
Art tilted his glass towards John, “Fair point, well made.” It was good to know that some things remained forever constant: regardless of whether he was out-of-work or had achieved something ultimately successful, he could rely on John to bring him back to earth.
“So there was no big cat then?” asked John, after taking another mouthful from his glass.
“Doesn’t look like it,” confirmed Art, “Although the Alsatian is still something of a puzzle. The police don’t seem to know what did for it. I guess we’ll never know for sure.”
“But you’ve given up looking?”
“Yes. You were right before, when you said it’s not really cryptozoology. Out-of-place animals are not what the discipline is all about. I’d like to get involved with something a bit more worthwhile.”
“Any prospect?”
“I don’t know. You never know what might turn up.”
One of the students at the neighbouring table had just arrived with a large round of drinks, carrying them carefully back from the bar on a wooden tray. There was the chink of glasses and animated voices as drinks were allocated to their rightful owners, and then a happy “Cheers” from the whole group in a variety of accents and pronunciations, as the smiling party celebrated their own personal triumphs. John turned back from looking at the students to ask Art, “And so how do things stand with your mystery woman? Sounds as though the two of you are getting pretty close if she helped you out at the hospital the way you described.”
Art looked more serious as he replied, “I think I’ve blown things there.”
“How so?”
“You know I told you that I heard from Amanda the other night.”
John made a sign of the cross with fingers from each hand, holding the digits out in front of him as though warding off a vampire or an evil spirit.
“She’s not that bad,” defended Art.
John suddenly looked shocked as realization struck him, “You don’t mean to tell me that you are thinking of getting back together with her?” He carried on, seeing the look of confirmation in Art’s face, “You must be mad. After all she’s done. You should...”
Art interrupted him. It had been a difficult enough decision for him to give Amanda a second chance, he did not want to have it undermined now by hearing his friend’s negative assessment. “I know, I know. It might not work out. But I think we owe it to each other to give it a try. More than that, we owe it to Luke. He needs a mother.”
“Some mother she’s proved to be,” said John angrily. “So, is she coming back from America.”
“No, not yet.” Art held up his hands defensively, seeing John’s astounded expression, “I know. I’m probably being stupid. But I think it’s for the best. She can earn far more money out there than either of us can hope to do here. We’ll just have to see how it goes.”
“But what about... what was her name? Rupa?”
“That’s right. I called her last night and told her that I was getting back together with Amanda.”
“I bet she was pleased,” said John, sarcastically.
“She wasn’t too happy, I must admit,” said Art. “I said that I hoped that we could still be friends. I really like her, you know. If circumstances were different...” his voice trailed off.
“I know,” said John, “So what did she say?”
“She said that she couldn’t be used like a cat flap.”
“A what?”
“It’s sort of a private joke. What she meant was that she wasn’t prepared for me to keeping coming and going in her life. I think that’s it. It’s over.”
John drained his glass. “Well, you know what I think,” he said, eventually.
“That I’m being an idiot?”
“Too right. You sacrifice yourself all the time. You’ve got to learn to do a few fun things for you, rather than just try to make other people happy. I think Rupa would have been good for you.”
“Yes, so do I, but...”
John was aware that he had been talking too seriously about a topic usually discussed between males only in joking terms. To disguise his discomfort, he butted in, “Besides, what am I going to do now for salacious news. You going back to your wife is hardly wild excitement. Can’t you even consider just having this other one as a bit on the side?”
Art gave his friend a look of mock resignation, as if to say “Don’t even think it”.
“Come on,” John coaxed, “Do it for me.” At the same instant though his gaze was diverted by one of the young, female language students
rising to her feet and attempting to get to the bar by squeezing through the narrow space between an occupied chair and John and Art’s table. “Allow me,” said John, pulling the table towards him to increase the gap for her to pass through. The young student smiled broadly at John and in a heavily accented voice thanked him. Art watched his friend as his eyes closely followed her progress across the room. He knew that the subject of Amanda and Rupa was now closed; by the time John’s attention returned to him, he would have forgotten all about it. Art was not so sure that he would be able to move on quite so swiftly himself.
Cat Flap Page 27