The Cat's Pajamas

by Soraya May

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ll shortly be coming into land, so please ensure your seats are upright, and your tray tables safely stowed for landing. We trust you had a pleasant flight, and we hope to see you again soon.”

  Kay was still staring fixedly at my tray table and I looked back at her quizzically. What was she thinking? Pushing the chocolate bar aside, I moved the napkin, and saw a message on it in neat handwriting.

  I don’t get guys asking for my number as often as you’d think. Jessica.

  There was a phone number underneath it.

  Oh shit, she heard the whole thing.

  Watching me, Kay laughed in silent glee.

  Bang! I grimaced at the sound of metal landing gear on runway tarmac. Maybe the life-raft would have been a better bet after all. I’d arrived in town a day earlier than I’d expected to; there was a late-afternoon flight which had been offered at a heavy discount, and the less of my grant money I spent on flights, the more I had to spend on research and publication costs.

  Shouldering my cabin bag, I made my way down the narrow metal gangway, dodging the baggage truck as it sped past me toward the terminal. As I walked across the tarmac, my hand found the napkin in my pocket with the flight attendant’s number. Gripping it tightly against the buffeting of the wind, I stared at it for a moment,

  What’s the point? I’m too busy for a relationship, even a casual one. It’s a shame, but it wouldn’t be fair.

  Putting it back in my pocket, I walked on toward my work.

  The problem is, major discoveries don’t just drop out of the sky when you need them.

  4

  Ryan

  Even the word ‘terminal’ was a generous assessment; in fact, it was a large shed with a hole cut in the side for the conveyor belt. As I watched, the baggage truck ground to a halt, and the attendant started hurling the bags onto the conveyor belt, where they disappeared through the hole.

  Man, this is the high life. Ryan Sanders, jet-setting archaeological expert. Pity he has to lug his own bags out of a shed, then.

  Inside, the decor was austere and minimalist, if ‘austere and minimalist’ were to mean ‘a metal shed’. Hefting my case from the conveyor belt, I looked longingly at the vending machine; I’d forgotten the chocolate bar from the plane, meaning that I hadn’t eaten all day, and my stomach was growling. A quick survey of the coins in my pocket suggested I had enough money for precisely one packet of chewing gum, and the machine didn’t take credit cards.

  Great. What a nutritious lunch for the modern adventurer.

  Chewing gum in hand, I walked out to a paved area outside the terminal, the long tree-lined road stretching in both directions, across to small rolling hills. In the late afternoon, the sun was settling comfortably toward the horizon, although this far south, it wouldn’t start getting dark for a few hours yet. Looking around for a taxi rank, I didn’t see a thing.

  Huh. How about an Uber?

  “YOUR NEAREST CAR IS 87 MILES FROM YOUR LOCATION”

  So, maybe not. Around me, people were getting picked up, embracing their relatives and friends, climbing into cars, and driving away. The joyful chatter of people being reunited washed around me, and for a brief moment I envied them, not just because they had transport.

  They’re all coming home to their family, or going on holiday.

  “Mate!” I heard a cheerful greeting to my right, and looked up.

  There was a taxi, although you’d hardly know it; no livery and a small vinyl sticker on the side saying ‘TAXI’ and the light on the roof were the only things that gave it away.

  “Mate, are you wanting a ride?” The driver, bald and in late middle-age, leaned out the window, waving a pudgy arm at me. “I’m heading home in a bit, but I can take you somewhere before I knock off.”

  I grabbed my bag and headed toward him with relief. “Yeah, thanks.” I fished in my pocket next to the gum for an address. “Here’s the place. Sorry, I don’t know how far it is, though.”

  The driver squinted at the paper. “Hang on, need my glasses for this.” Fishing in the glove compartment of the car, he produced a battered pair of spectacles held together with brightly-colored insulating tape, and crammed them on his face in the general location of his eyes. Reading the paper, his expression lit up. “Oh, you’re going up the coast to Cable Bay? It’s a fair way, but you’re in luck; that’s where I live. Jump in.”

  Inside the car, it was clean and neat, with faded seats and a dangling air-freshener that had stopped freshening anything at least five years ago. The driver turned to face me as I was buckling myself in and extended a hand.

  “Name’s Jack. Jack Collis.”

  “Ryan Sanders. Thanks for picking me up, Jack. I was worried there for a minute there weren’t any taxis at all.”

  Jack laughed, a warm and hearty sound. “Well, actually there’s only one going up the coast, and that’s this one.” He thumped his chest. “Cable Bay Taxis. That’s me and my wife. Although Cheryl mostly answers the phone when she’s not busy with her vegetables.”

  “Damn, I was lucky to meet you.” I was warming to the man. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  The taxi pulled out of the airport, turning to the coast road. Gazing out of the window, I watched flat farmland and stands of pine trees gradually giving way to sandy hills.

  Jack noticed me looking. “First time down here, mate?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I’m here for work, though, not a vacation. It’s lovely country, though.”

  I’d learned fast that the best way to get off to a good start with locals when traveling was to compliment the country, and to lay it on thick. Over the years, I’d developed an arsenal of mild, uncontroversial compliments about hills, mountains, rivers, trees, statues and factories. “So, not a lot of taxi business, I guess?”

  Jack chuckled again as he guided the car into a gentle bend. “Not a huge amount, but then we don’t need a lot, now I’m nearly retired. I mostly just do it to keep busy. And I’m not really worried about Uber taking my business; most people in town have my phone number.”

  “Sounds like a pretty good way to live. I didn’t realize how small the place was.” I checked my watch. “How long till we get to town, you think?”

  “Maybe twenty minutes. What kind of work are you here for?”

  “Surveying for the university, actually.” I was used to explaining my work to people, and I’d developed a consistent, steady patter giving out just enough information to satisfy people’s curiosity, without encouraging them to speculate or gossip. “I’m looking at some of the historical sites in town.”

  “Oh, really?” Jack appeared to be genuinely interested, his face creasing in concentration. “It’s a pretty old settlement, so, yeah, that makes sense. Anywhere in particular?”

  “Well, I’m not really sure if it’s going to play out at the moment.” I was careful not to name specific sites or people; I’d learned the hard way how fast news travels in small towns in the past, when I’d had to do excavation work in front of a crowd of curious onlookers, all interrupting me every five minutes to ask questions. “But I’ll be around a few places. I’ll probably be spending a lot of my time in the library, looking at newspaper records.”

  “Right. You got kids, mate? All this travel must be hard on the family, right?” The car passed out of the hills into a craggy series of bluffs, exposed rock jutting from the ground like the bones of the earth itself.

  I shook my head. “No, no kids. No wife, either. Do you and your wife have a family?” I’d learned to turn those questions around; people loved talking about their families, and if I made the right noises, I usually didn’t need to say anything further.

  “My daughters are grown-up and away at college now, so it’s just my wife and I. They come back for the holidays, although they complain when I put them to work answering the phone to give my wife a rest.” Jack shook his head. “Kids, eh?”

  I nodded; this was a very standard topi
c. “Yeah, I bet.”

  As the journey wound on, our conversation tailed off and we sat in companionable silence. As the landscape sped by outside the passenger’s window, I was lost in my thoughts. Maybe there will be something here worth coming all this way for.

  Finally, the outskirts of Cable Bay came into sight; first outbuildings, sheds and gravel yards for trucks to stop in, then a few isolated houses. Houses became more frequent, and the road widened. A car passed us in the opposite direction, then two more.

  “Mate, where was the address again?” Jack glanced over, his glasses pushed up on his forehead.

  I handed over the piece of paper. “Here.”

  “Oh, Daisy’s place, the guest house. Sure thing. It’s just two roads down from here.”

  The car rolled to a stop outside a tall, narrow two-story wooden house, overhung by trees close by. Although the street was new, this house had evidently been there for many years, and the stone wall outside needed tending. The garden at the front was neatly tended, though, and the steps freshly painted.

  Pulling up to the house, Jack stabbed at the taxi meter with one broad finger. “Here you go, mate. We’re supposed to levy another five bucks for the airport pickup, but,” he glanced over at me, “since you’ve come all this way, and you’re here to do a service for the community, I’ll knock that off.”

  It was a gracious gesture, and I smiled. “Thanks, man; that’s very kind of you, but you got me out of a tricky situation, so I kind of owe you one.”

  Jack shook his head. “Think nothing of it, mate. We take care of each other round here. Get me a beer at the bar, how’s that?”

  “Oh, right, Wunderbar?” I knew the bar’s name from the email I’d received from the owner. “Clever name.”

  “Yeah, it’s a good place. I’ll see you there sometime.” Jack reached under the steering wheel and popped the boot open. “Need a hand with your bags?”

  “No, they’re not that big - I’m not staying long, so I try to travel light. Okay, a beer at Wunderbar it is. Thanks again, Jack.”

  The taxi pulled away, and I stared up at the house, bag slung over one shoulder and case in hand. I was early by several hours, but I had nowhere else to go. Mounting the steps, I stared at the front door, a large construction of dark timber and polished brass. A stained-glass scene of the coastline filled the top of the door, and peering through it I could see a dark hallway.

  Right, it can’t be that bad. Taking hold of the knocker, I rapped firmly.

  Nothing happened. Huh.

  I rapped again, and heard a shuffling noise from inside.

  “Hold on!” An elderly woman’s voice came from the corridor, and through the glass I could see someone making their way toward the door. A series of clicks sounded from the door, and a bolt was shot back. The door opened wide, and a small, elderly lady peered at me. In one hand, she held a square of material with a colorful design, a crochet hook protruding from one end. “Can I help you?” Although stooped with age, she didn’t use a stick, and her eyes were clear and piercing.

  Fighting down an urge to bow or doff an imaginary cap, I cleared my throat. “Ma’am, is this the, uh, guest house? I’m Ryan Sanders. I’ve got a reservation for this evening.”

  The lady’s expression lightened, and she stuck out a gnarled hand. “Of course! Mr. Sanders! Or is it Dr. Sanders?”

  “Please, just Ryan. The doctor thing makes people think I’m a medical doctor.” I took her hand and shook it, gingerly; her grip was surprisingly strong, and she smiled back at me.

  “Daisy McNeish, proprietor. Welcome; please come in.”

  Stepping inside, I looked down the length of the hallway. Dark green wallpaper and burgundy carpet didn’t do much to alleviate the general gloom of the place, but it was neatly kept, and there were fresh flowers on the low table by the door. “I’m sorry I’m early, Mrs. McNeish, I got an early flight, and—”

  “Oh, that’s quite okay, although I’m afraid the room isn’t quite ready yet. Please, let me take your bags. And it’s Miss, but please call me Daisy.” Her eyes twinkled, and she made a grab for my overnight bag.

  “Oh, no, that’s quite okay, ma’am. I wouldn’t want you to have to carry—” I said, protesting, but Daisy was determined, and after a few seconds I began to realize that she wasn’t taking no for an answer as far as baggage-handling was concerned. Right. Discretion, valor, etc. It’s not that heavy, I suppose.

  I released the bag, and Daisy clutched it to her chest with a slight air of triumph.

  “Now, follow me, young man. You’ll be in the Paihamu Suite upstairs,” she gestured with a nod to the large staircase, “but I’ll need to make it up. Come into the morning room, and wait.”

  I followed her as she nudged a door open with her hip, still clutching my bag, and disappeared inside. In the ‘morning room’, it was more like evening; thick green drapes surrounded the picture windows, the sort you’d sew a dress out of if you were an impoverished Southern heiress in an old Hollywood film. Through the gloom, I could make out a series of chairs, big plush ones with carved wooden legs and high backs.

  “Goodness me, it’s dark in here,” Daisy plunked my bag down in the center of the room, and drew back the curtains, letting in a shaft of light.

  Well, it’s certainly an impressive place, I thought. The light illuminated large oil paintings hung on the walls, some of pastoral scenes, those racehorses with weirdly bulging eyes, and enormous pigs with words like ‘PRIZE SOW 1849 GALA’ engraved on little plaques underneath.

  Daisy bustled past me, all energy and industry. “Now, Mr. Sanders, it will take me a little while to make up your suite, but you’re welcome to relax here in the morning room until it’s done. Can I offer you a cup of coffee or a sandwich?”

  I looked around. In the half-light, long-dead herbivores eyed me judgmentally.

  “Actually, Mrs—sorry, Miss McNeish, if it’s okay with you, I might take a walk and stretch my legs. Perhaps see a little of the town.”

  Daisy was undaunted. “Of course, of course. Those airplane flights must be a trial for a big tall fellow like yourself. Here,” she pressed a paper packet into my hand, “here’s your key, and you may come and go as you please—we’re quite informal here in Cable Bay, you know. Breakfast is at seven-thirty, although,” she twinkled at me, “I’m not going to be strict about it. Very well then, come back in a couple of hours, and your room will be all waiting for you. Have fun!”

  I smiled and nodded a few more times; the furnishings made me feel like I ought to bow, but I resisted. My last sight as I headed for the door was of Daisy hurrying up the stairs with surprising speed for a lady of her vintage, muttering to herself.

  Once outside, I took a deep breath. The light was still on the day, and my phone—thank goodness the reception here is still good—said it was only a mile down the road to the coast itself, and to the bar.

  I might as well go and check it out, even if they’re not expecting me until tomorrow. Maybe I should make friends with some of the locals.

  The idea of doing excavation work in a broken-down rural pub frequented by surly agrarian types didn’t fill me with excitement, but sometimes you had to be prepared to make sacrifices for science.

  5

  Ryan

  This ain’t no grotty pub.

  I stood in the door of Wunderbar, and immediately realized how wrong I was.

  The wide expanse of the bar stretched across the room from where I stood at the door, tables and chairs in front of me. Around the walls stood deep booths with semi-circular seating and plush cushions, and at one end was a raised stage for performances.

  The decor is…eclectic, I thought to myself. At one end of the room, a standing lamp with a lampshade made out of the faces of old dolls; at the other, a floor candelabra with large wax candles blazing light.

  In between, the supporting pillars of dark wood had an assortment of decorations pinned to them; old banknotes from different countries, photographs of patr
ons, tickets from performances long gone. From the ceiling hung a huge chandelier with electric lights in it. The whole place looked like a movie set for a 1950s Hollywood action serial. Just right for, uh, Indiana Jones.

  Stepping inside, I looked at the bar.

  And that ain’t no grizzled farmer. Oh, boy. Their furnishings might take some getting used to, but their bar staff are top quality.

  At the bar, working the taps expertly, stood a girl of medium height, blond hair in a ponytail. A fitted woolen sweater with a high neck showed off her full breasts and square, muscled shoulders. As I stood and watched, she pulled two pints at the same time with one hand, while uncorking a bottle of wine with the other. Pushing the pints toward a couple of guys standing at the bar, she smiled at them, laughing at a comment from one of them. Her movements were careful and precise; each one an economy of action. The cork popped out of the wine bottle; the instant it did, her other hands were holding two empty wine-glasses and the bottle moved in a straight line from bar to glasses without stopping.

  Both glasses were poured, not spilling a drop, and the stopper went back in the bottle at the exact moment the two glasses clinked down onto the bar top in front of a couple of short ladies with blue-rinsed hair and a mess of knitting in front of them.

  It’s like watching a pianist play Rachmaninov, I thought to myself. Except I’ve never seen a pianist fill out a sweater quite that well.

  Without warning, the girl looked up at the door and met my eyes. I hadn’t realized how long I’d been standing there, but her eyes on me made me suddenly self-aware, and I started forward toward the bar. She kept her gaze on me as I approached, and broke into a smile as I took a seat.

  Damn. I very nearly missed the seat as she smiled. Her blue eyes lit up, dark eyebrows and strong black lashes framing them.

  Focus, man.

  Subtly, I took a big breath while trying to look casual.

  “Hi there. New in town?” Her voice was deep for a girl, resonant and self-assured. It was the kind of voice I could imagine selling bonds, or advertising pain relief medication on television ads.