The Waiting Room

by Michael White

  “Of course they can be born evil!” he roared, and a wind must have caught the chimney then as the flames in the fireplace suddenly roared higher, bathing his form in a sickly red glow.

  When it came, his voice seemed deeper too. “It simply requires nurturing.” He turned from the flames, his face impassive once again. As he did so the double doors flew open of their own accord again, revealing nothing but darkness and the deep red glow of a presumed lantern or gas light not in view perhaps somewhere nearby. “Come, Mister Berkeley!” he gestured to the poor man who sat to my right, now almost slumped on the table as if he was a thing broken; unmade.

  “I did not see it until it was too late!” he wept as he rose and made his way through the doors and into the darkness of the club beyond. Apollyon had clapped him soundly on the back as he had walked past him, and as the Earl took his seat again the doors slammed shut again and Berkeley was gone.

  Now there were five empty seats around the table as our number diminished, and all that was left were four gentlemen at various points about the table, myself, Gabriel Moon and the Earl himself of course. Moon still sat unmoving, staring into space, ignoring everything that was happening around him. I took the time to ponder where Berkeley had gone wrong, for judging by his own words he certainly thought that he had done so. He had ignored his children of course, and employed a nanny but then so did I, and my own children were well provided for in all ways I pondered. Yet were they? Were they devoid of my attention or thoughts?

  Yet as I thought this I felt the twinge of a slight misgiving; as if I were lying to myself. I had such feelings frequently of course, but I usually managed to ignore or suppress them. This time however I decided to let them persevere. Did I ignore my children, ignore my wife? I felt that I possibly did.

  “Who is number six?” enquired Apollyon, his eyes never leaving me as he stared with what was obvious curiosity. As before nobody else at the table seemed to find anything remiss.

  “It is I.” said Dickinson Evans from my immediate left, standing and casting the crumpled up ticket onto the table as he did so. “My story is called, “The Reluctant Paw”.” He smiled, clearing his throat as if to start.

  “Excellent.” Smiled Apollyon, leaning back in his chair once more, the fire still roaring behind him. How he did not get over-heated heaven only knows! “A curious title. Please begin for the hour grows late.”

  I looked back to Berkeley and as I did so I saw that Moon was staring at me again. I felt a shiver up my spine as my manservant stared at me in obvious disgust.

  “So your children are well provided for in all ways then?” Moon spat at me. Nobody at the table appeared to hear him, though Apollyon did seem to be cocking an ear in his direction but equally he had now an expression of confusion on his face too. It reminded me of a look that a man would give if he knew some mischief was afoot but he was not sure quite what.

  “That is none of your business!” I shouted. “Why on Earth you think it should be –“

  “When did you last tell your children you loved them?” snarled Moon as he interrupted me. “Come to that, when did you last tell your wife you loved her. You who justify to yourself the wife who has faithfully borne you two children who at least “doesn’t look like a pig!”

  His face increased in hatred as he stared down at me, spluttering before his onslaught. “You disgust me!” he shouted. You simply have no idea of what love is or when you last told any of your family that you love them. Or indeed anyone!”

  “I…” I spluttered, my mind now in outrage. To my amazement none at the table seemed to be aware of the argument I was having with Gabriel Moon at all. They were as oblivious to our conversation as they apparently were to his presence.

  “You have no idea!” he spat and turned away from me once more staring into space as I spluttered to think of a retort, though actually I was attempting to think of the answer. To my eternal shame I could not remember when the word, “love” had last passed my lips in any shape or form.

  “It all began with cricket.” Said Evans besides me and Apollyon placed his boots back on the table again.

  The Reluctant Paw

  For the life of me I fail completely to understand why the population of this country consider cricket to be a sport. The very thought of leather on willow fills me with a dread that very few other matters can. It is quite simple. Any sport that stops for lunch is either being staged for far too long a time period or it is not a sport at all, and although I am in full agreement with the former, I do throw my full weight behind the latter. Endless processions of crisp white flannels and bats standing around throwing balls about and then it is off for tea in the pavilion. Preposterous!

  Apart from just how mind numbing the damned thing is I also have another reason for my dislike of the sport, which goes back to my childhood in boarding school many years ago. Cricket was obligatory of course and I hated it from the outset. Rugby was the other game of choice of the school and I had no issues with that. I was quite a well-built boy for my age and I was always popular when the teams were being selected.

  Once the nights began to draw out and become lighter however, and when I could see the groundkeeper marking out the cricket fields and mowing the grass then my heart would sink. The problem was not just I found the entire game futile at best and a total waste of my time at worst but also that I was entirely useless at playing the game in the first place if indeed you could call it a game at all.

  The ball would come hurtling towards me and if I had a bat in my hand I would miss it completely, and if I were trying to catch the ball the result would be just the same. I detested cricket with a passion and it seemed to hate me equally. To this day I cannot bear the sight of cricket whites or any of the paraphernalia that goes with that travesty of a so called sport.

  Of course when it was time for physical exercise classes we would be split up into six groups of six or so pupils. Our group would then be allocated our own set of stumps. The master in charge of the class would wander amongst the fields observing the various groups playing cricket to ensure a fair game was undertaken and that we were all behaving ourselves. It was also a well-known fact that the master was keeping a very close eye on his pupils in order to complete a short list to take place in the inter school cricket tournament as a member of the school cricket team.

  It seemed in the summer that I finally gave up on cricket that the group of chaps I played with was almost always the same. Frobisher the spinning bowler school champion was there and Grahams who could sprint from wicket to crease like an over excited greyhound. McCarthy was always the best batsman and Lyons was the best bowler. Wellens never dropped a ball for all the time I knew him no matter how fast it was heading towards him, and then there was myself; the mongrel of the group; Dickinson Evans, cricket failure. The truth of the matter was that I could neither throw, or catch, or bat, or to be perfectly truthful give a stuff about the whole ruddy affair at all.

  A fact that was not lost upon my cricketeering comrades once the master wandered off and the game commenced. Off flew the bail across the green at the first ball from the clean white linen clad Wellens and I retired to field.

  “Jolly bad luck, Evans!” shouted McCarthy from the edge of the green.

  “Yes. Rotten luck.” agreed Lyons and so the game continued. It soon became apparent to my comrades however that luck had absolutely nothing to do with it. The first ball I attempted to catch at the edge of the green ending up smashing onto my foot resulting in a somewhat painful abrasion, and when I tried to bowl the damned ball would end up anywhere at all except for where I wanted it to be. I tried, believe you and me, I most certainly tried. But it was of no use. The game of cricket was meant to be a stranger to me and of that fact I was more than happy to oblige.

  My cricketing chums however began to look upon my presence with what I considered to be some form of misguided sympathy. That is how it began anyway. I could not help but notice the raised eyebrows and clandestine group
confabulations that seemed to be heading to the final decision that at the game of cricket I was a ruddy useless bugger.

  To their eternal shame however my cricketing fellows in arms then for some entirely unfathomable reason began to take pity on me. It is a thing that has haunted me all my life and in my mind I define it as, “The cricket look”, which means that a person is looking down on me and knowing I am at best useless with regard to some subject and that they taking pity on me. Which will not fix the problem at all, for I would always be useless at it no matter what they do. If that seems rather convoluted, then let me put it another way. It is the look a pupil gives a teacher when the teacher is trying his very best to teach something to the pupil who he also realises that they will never understand or be able to understand what is being shown them. Not ever. That is the “Cricket look”, and it drives me wild if anyone in my life has ever given me it.

  In truth this has happened on very few occasions for in my life I have been relatively successful and now retired I live a life of solitude and peace on my country estate. There is just myself and my cat of course ever since my wife died nearly two years ago. Although it can at times be solitary I by and large live a life of my own choosing. I neither have nor need any staff for I am mostly self-sufficient. This comes of course I suspect from not only my exemplary military service but also the times I have over the years spent hunting in the Africa’s and the like. It makes a man I would say, and this man has not seen “the cricket look” for probably sixty years or more.

  So the cricket. The blighters took pity on me you see. Started bowling really slowly so I could at least tap the ball to one side. Then there would be an almost slowed down chase of the ball during which they would continually fumble for the damned thing and fail miserably whilst I made a number of somewhat inflated runs. I hated this more than the fact that I was useless at cricket for they were taking pity on me and that I cannot abide. There can be no doubt that their intentions were good and honourable of course, but that is hardly the point. They were taking pity on me and gave me their best “cricket look”. I hated them from that moment onwards with a passion.

  Of course the moment the master wandered over with his list of names for the school cricket team and to examine the form of the chaps I was playing with then the “pretend cricket” was over and done with and on the very next bowl I would be swiftly despatched to wander about the outer field trying to pretend that I was not actually there at all.

  Even thinking about it now more than sixty years later it makes me grind my teeth.

  So I try not to dwell upon the past, for those who do so are I find frequently surprised by the present and defiantly unaware of the future.

  When my wife died I was of course devastated for we had been married for forty five years and every single day I miss her terribly. Yet I fill my days. Often I find myself reminiscing about the past. Not just of the times spent with my wife but also my days in Africa and though the trophies of my hunting activities now hang on my walls I must admit I cannot remember catching almost any of them at all. There is an antelope head in the lower hall that for the life of me is a complete mystery to me, for example. So there may be some who would decry my hunting exploits and declare me to be a man who is not kind to animals but I have my own standards. I have never hunted an animal that was in any way hindered from escaping, and if it was cornered I always despatched it swiftly.

  So though not a real animal lover I am not a cruel man. I am however not over enthused with domestic animals. Hunting dogs have a place of course, but I cannot imagine standing throwing a ball for one; nor cats, for to me they seemed sly and solitary. Not that my dear sister agrees of course. Upon her rare visits (which became more frequent after my wife died of course for she was concerned about my wellbeing; a notion that was entirely misplaced I must say), she had apparently seen me moping about the house lost in my thoughts and concentration, and decided that I needed some companionship.

  So it came to pass some eleven months ago that I opened the door to my sister who was carrying what appeared to be a small box covered in a blanket. We retired to the parlour and I went to make some tea before we settled.

  “Wait please Henry.” she said in her imperious tone that was reserved I suspect entirely for myself. Taking me by the arm and leading me to my armchair I sat as she placed whatever she was carrying on the other side of the rug facing myself. She settled down into the chair opposite and removed the blanket revealing a small leather covered box with straps at one end. From within came some high squeaking noises. “I have brought you a companion.” she said as she undid the straps. I looked at what I now knew was obviously a cage as the final strap was undone and she opened the door on it, steadying it on the floor.

  The mewing sound grew slightly in volume but only ever-so as out of the cage emerged a small kitten, tabby coloured and probably no more than a few weeks old. It was all ears and head with a tiny tail and eyes like saucers.

  “I have no use for a ruddy cat!” I exclaimed at my sister who just smiled at me as if she knew best. It wasn’t quite the “cricket look” but it wasn’t far off it.

  “Nonsense.” she sniffed. “You need a companion. Rattling around this big old empty house on your own is hardly healthy now, is it Henry? You are nearly seventy years old!”

  “And quite capable of looking after myself without a damned cat about the place.” I sighed as the small kitten made its way nervously towards me, no doubt unnerved by my raised voice. I looked at the small creature and it looked at me and meowed quietly, examining me as if in search of food or the like. Perhaps it was hungry? I reached down and scooped it up with one hand and put it on my chest to have a good look at the thing before I put it back in its ruddy cage and made my sister take it back with her and return it from wherever she had found it in the first place.

  As I looked at it it returned my gaze seemingly fearlessly and then sniffed my shirt and finally licked my face. I made to stroke it with my hand and it let me, purring feebly. I stroked its ear and rubbed it under the chin at which point it bit my thumb playfully, tiny little teeth harmlessly nibbling on my digit. After a few minutes of thumb gnawing it settled down on my chest and rapidly fell fast asleep.

  I considered rising and returning the kitten to its cage but it was obviously much too late for I was ruddy smitten.

  “I shall call her Aloysius.” I smiled and so did my sister. “It is a she, isn’t it?” I asked smiling and my sister nodded. “Good.” I said. “Much rather share this big old place with a lady than a chap.”

  From that moment on Aloysius and I were perfectly inseparable.

  This fact amazed me. I had never owned a domestic animal in my life even when I was a child, though I had during my hunting days killed a fair few non domestic ones to be fair. Yet I fretted over this little kitten as if my life depended on it. I prepared fish from the village fishmonger in a mush so that she could eat it; meat from the finest butcher in town also. I made sure she always had fresh drinking water and made little toys out of balls of wool that she would play with and swat for hours. She slept a lot too, mostly on my knee and this gave me a feeling of contentment that never failed to surprise me.

  I was guardian and custodian of this tiny little soul and I looked after her as if she were a child that I had never had, which sounds as ridiculous to me now as indeed it did then, but she had me wrapped very carefully about her little finger and that was the end of it.

  As the days passed Aloysius grew familiar with her surroundings and I purchased a small basket for her from the village which she would sometimes sleep in during the day if I was busy or out and about. I could not let her out of the house as of yet of course as she was far too small and would be ignorant of any dangers that may or may not have lain in wait for her. Also I was absolutely terrified that she would not come back or that I would not be able to find her again. The very thought of her wandering around in the dark filled me with such a dread that I thought I would no longer
be able to feel in my advancing years. It sounds ridiculous but she is my companion now and I would do anything for her. Anything at all.

  Once she settled in Aloysius continued to wrap me around her little finger, metaphorically speaking. Food at the right times of course and of the best quality. I swear that she ate better than I did most days. She certainly had more choice! After food she would watch me carefully as if demanding play time and out would come the collection of woollen balls and threads tied to a stick which she would chase mercilessly for quite some time. Eventually she would tire of course and then she would jump up onto my lap and sleep for hours. During this time, I would be terrified to move a muscle and I had to fight off various cramps and stiff legs once the cat decided to move off me for whatever reason. Yet I would have it no other way.

  Months passed and I was pleased to see how Aloysius grew. Eventually her body seemed to increase to the same proportion as her head and her tail grew longer. Whilst still lean her claws and teeth grew too and I had to wean her off the habit of biting and scratching at me with a firm “No!” every time that she did it. It took a little bit of discipline (more on my behalf I must say than on the behalf of the cat) but eventually we got to where she would usually keep her claws and her teeth to herself. There were occasional incidents of course but between us we managed to keep them to a minimum.

  Eventually it came to the day when it was time to let Aloysius outside. I had no fine line to denote when I was going to grant her freedom of course but on the day I chose to do this I decided that it was best to proceed as it had snowed overnight and there was a thin scattering of snow all over the ground. It was just a dusting, less than a sixteenth of an inch I would say and so would cause her no issues. I did have it in the back of my mind however the thought that as it was relatively cold outside and the ground was covered in snow that she was far less likely to feel the urge to wander off. It also helped that the patio was surrounded by a high fence that would contain the cat just in case, of course.