The Calico Cat

by Amanda James

  I watch Louisa walk back across the road, with a huge smile on her lovely face, her steel-grey streamers for hair, her easy stride carrying her tall elegance, and can’t bear the thought of her being lost from me. I turn my face back to the ocean and let the breeze do a grand job of whipping the moisture from my eyes before they can even think about forming anything more substantial.

  This holiday has been full of surprises, not least the realisation that maybe I’m not just best on my own all of the time. Yes, there’s been the upset over Caleb, but Louisa has shown me that I can trust others; it’s not just me against the world. Having said that, after today it will be for a while. How could it not?

  ‘The deed is done!’ Louisa says with a chuckle and slips off her cardigan to reveal a green T-shirt with a huge rainbow front and centre. How very Louisa.

  ‘Deed?’

  ‘Cream tea and an extra pot of cream just because we can.’

  I think I’m going to tell her about Caleb now. It feels right but it feels a bit disjointed just shoving him into a conversation about extra cream. So, I say, ‘It won’t hurt us. We’ve walked nine miles today.’ We both look out to sea in companionable silence and then suddenly Caleb’s out in the open. ‘I wonder where my walking partner is now? Probably at home, sulking.’

  ‘This is the lover you split from on this holiday?’

  ‘Yes.’ I tell her how we met – him coming to my flat and about me leaving school just like that because it felt like the right thing to do. I told her that we were just friends for ages because I was worried that if it was allowed to be something else it would change everything.’

  ‘It looks like you were right, then?’

  ‘Yes and no. We argued, and I made him leave because he betrayed me. Betrayed my trust and went behind my back to a family member about something that happened to me when I was thirteen. He thought he was helping, but he was actually making things much worse because he had no right to think he knew best – knew better than me about how to run my own life.’

  The tea arrives as I’m wondering where to go next and we talk about the size of the scones and laugh with the waitress about the fact that we’d have to be rolled away at the end of it. The waitress leaves and it feels as if we’re in a book or a play and I wait for my next line. I can’t remember it and there’s no cue, so I look at Louisa for help.

  ‘Do you want to tell me what happened when you were thirteen?’

  That’s not what I was hoping for but at least I expected it. ‘Not at the moment. I’m not good with just splurging everything at once.’

  ‘That’s fine. Okay, let’s see what we have here…’ Louisa takes a big bite of jam-and-cream-laden scone and closes her eyes to savour it. A big blob of cream is wiggling about on the end of her nose and I laugh. ‘I have cream on the end of my nose, don’t I?’ she asks, and laughs too.

  I wonder if she did it on purpose to lighten the conversation and make me smile again. I take a bite of mine and watch her face. I can practically hear her weighing up the information I gave her inside her head, sorting through a collection of words, measuring the right response. ‘How honest do you want me to be?’ She dabs at her nose and takes a drink of tea. ‘In fact, do you want my opinion at all? You could have told me all that just to get it off your chest.’

  ‘No, I would like your opinion. Your honest opinion.’

  ‘Okay then. Reading between the lines of what you’ve told me and reaching for the things you haven’t, I’d say that Caleb is a good egg. He cares about you.’ She lifts another half of scone and then puts it back down again. ‘I’d also say that whatever happened to you was huge, has shaped your personality and how you see the world and receive people into yours. You tell me you set out to be different and have maintained it, which is good, we need more people unafraid to be individual. You also say you won’t be bossed about, controlled, but I think you may have been too hasty where Caleb is concerned.’

  Louisa tucks into the other half of her scone and looks at me thoughtfully. I add more cream to the tower I have been building on my scone and do the same. She’s obviously not finished her opinion because she holds up a finger just as I’m going to say something.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how many other men have you been involved with?’

  I tell her about the one-night stands and my disinterest in making anything long lasting out of relationships. ‘Why, is that relevant?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Now, I’m no psychologist, but I have met lots of people in my time, listened to their stories, put myself in their shoes, and I’m going to guess that whatever happened when you were thirteen involved betrayal by a family member, possibly a parent.’

  I nearly choke on my scone.

  ‘I’m also going to guess that because of this you have learned to rely on nobody but yourself and so when you let your guard down and Caleb in, you rejected him because of your fear, not just because of what he did really.’

  ‘Fear? What am I frightened of?’ My heart is beating too fast and the cream curdles in my throat. Her accuracy is like a pointy barb in my ribs.

  ‘You were frightened that you’d exposed yourself, told him your secrets, become vulnerable. You don’t like feeling like that because that’s what you were like when you were thirteen – when all that hurt came crashing down on top of you. You’ve built your armour well over the years, and then Caleb’s betrayal started to chip away at it, managed to peel it back, leave you naked.’

  I take a gulp of tea to wash away that vile vomity taste of cream and see that my hand is shaking. Is Louisa’s assessment correct? It feels like it’s pretty close and she doesn’t even know the big fat secret. It’s at once scary and comforting that a person can be so wise about somebody else’s hopes and fears. ‘I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘Then wait until you are.’ She gives a brief smile and then puts her head on one side and watches me over the rim of her teacup like a bird watches for a worm in the lawn. I look at the silver dash of a boat moving fast over the water and say nothing. I don’t have the words. Then she says, ‘Can I ask if you love Caleb?’

  If it had been anyone else apart from Louisa I would have told them to mind their own bloody business, but to her I say, ‘I don’t know. I have deep feelings for him and miss him now he’s gone. But I couldn’t say if it’s love, because I don’t know what that is. I know what I feel isn’t the crap my mother reads in those chick-lit novels. Romantic love is just a social construct if you ask me.’

  Louisa puts her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her hands. ‘Yes, those books can give us high and sometimes false expectations, but I think you might love him. It’s hard to tell because you’re not being honest with yourself, I feel.’ She holds up a finger again when I go to protest. ‘But that is perfectly understandable, and you sensibly know how much story you can cope with sharing at a time. So I think we should talk about something else now.’

  On the one hand I agree, on the other I worry that I have nothing else to talk about – and because we have almost come to the end of our time together. It’s nearly four o’clock and she’s told me that her nephew is coming to pick her up at around five.

  The little silver dash of a boat is just a speck in the distance now and before I can stop myself I hear myself say, ‘I’ll miss you so much, Louisa. When you were telling me how you lost your daughter yesterday, I thought how unbearably sad it was and I did think how wonderful it would be if you were my mother. I know you can’t be, but… I wish you were…’ I run out of words and feel a hot fire under the skin of my cheeks.

  Then the long slender fingers of the olive tree close over mine on the table and I look up into her face. Her turquoise eyes are shimmering with emotion. ‘That’s a wonderful thing to wish for. And why shouldn’t it happen? I can’t think of a better young woman to have as my daughter.’

  I can only nod because my chest is too full of words and emotion to let anything past my lips. I eventually say, ‘Thank you
.’

  She pats my hand and releases it. ‘Look, say no, if you like, but how about you extend your holiday for a few days more? I’ve a few spare rooms at my place and I’m sure you’ll love to have a wander around the vineyard. You might even be inspired to do a painting or two and it’s only about twenty-five minutes or so away from where you live.’

  Would I like to go? I can’t think of anything I would like more. ‘What a brilliant idea. I’d love to come!’

  She hugs me and for the first time since Gwendoline died I feel like I have an older woman to learn from, relate to and care about. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to grow so fond of a stranger in such a short time, but it is, and I have. Isn’t it funny that sometimes when you think you’re coming to the end of something it turns out that it’s another beginning? I’m very pleased by this, because as you know, the end of a holiday is not my favourite thing.

  18

  New Beginnings

  James remembers that day fifteen years ago when aged twenty-three he stepped up to this very same front door. Behind it were people who looked like him, news of his extended family, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents – in short, his missing history. Lost pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that he thought he’d never wanted to find until looking at the incomplete picture had begun to irritate the hell out of him. He remembers an elfin-faced girl with eyes like his in the kitchen doorway, hesitant, unsure. He also remembers the sharp words she received from his mum and he wished he’d said something – done something.

  Never mind. James is here to do something today. A little late, but life is not a neat package to be posted down the years. It’s sometimes messy, battered, and often not what you ordered. Beth tightens the grip on his right hand and he lifts the left and knocks on the door.

  ‘James, darling!’ His mum pulls him into a hug on the doorstep and ushers them both inside. ‘Beth, you look lovely,’ she says through a stretched smile and kisses the air at each side of his wife’s cheeks.

  ‘Thanks, Jenny. So do you. And have you done something new with your hair?’

  His mum looks in the mirror, a puzzled but pleased expression on her face. ‘No, just the same old.’

  ‘Really? Well, I think it takes years off you.’

  James glances at his wife and realises that she’s about as sincere as a fox babysitting a chicken coop. As they follow his mother into the sitting room he pulls a face at Beth and then gestures at his mum’s hair. She whispers, ‘Well, we do want her in a good mood today, don’t we?’

  ‘Dad, how’s it going?’ His dad gives a broad smile, puts his paper down and then they do the half-hug back-slapping thing that men do when they are pleased to see each other.

  ‘All the better for seeing you two.’ He steps forward and envelops Beth in a genuine hug. ‘Must be, what – three months or so?’

  ‘I expect it is, yes. Life is just always so busy, isn’t it?’ Beth says.

  ‘Yes, but we need to make time,’ his mum says, handing round canapés. There’s a definite edge to her voice. ‘Family is important. Work should take a back seat sometimes.’

  James feels his wife bridle and jumps in first. ‘Of course, but Beth and I do have very pressurised jobs, you know.’

  ‘And two more families to see,’ Beth says sweetly.

  ‘Two more?’

  ‘Yes, James’s adoptive parents and mine, of course.’

  His mum has drawn her mouth into a disapproving button so James jumps in again, ‘Anyway, enough talk about work and families, let’s sit down and have a catch-up.’

  She makes as if she’s going to sit next to James on the sofa, but Beth beats her to it. The button grows tighter and his mum’s hand holding the canapé tray starts to shake. ‘Drinks, Keith,’ she says.

  ‘What can I get you both? We have a nice chardonnay in the fridge or we’ve beer, lager.’ Keith rolls his eyes up to the left. ‘Oh, and a lovely Chianti that our friends brought back from Italy last week.’

  ‘Just an orange juice for me, Keith, thanks,’ Beth says.

  ‘Probably wise, save the booze for the roast, eh?’ Keith laughs in that polite way people do when they don’t know what to say next and everyone is looking at them.

  Beth looks at James and gives an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Yeah, thing is, Beth won’t be drinking today and for the next six months or so.’

  Keith puts his lips together and furrows his brow. Not the quickest on the uptake. James looks at his mum who shoves the canapé tray on the coffee table and slumps into an armchair as if her legs have given up. He tries a tentative smile.

  ‘You’re… you’re…’ His mum looks over at Beth, her hand hovering over her mouth as if she wants to stop the words.

  ‘Pregnant, yes,’ Beth says with a big grin.

  ‘Pregnant!’ his dad says and laughs again. This time it’s big and hearty and full of joy.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ his mum says and James notices that her smile is fixed, doesn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘Well, that’s the best news we’ve heard in bloody ages isn’t it, Jen?’ His dad slaps his thigh and laughs again.

  There is a bit of lull and then his mum recovers from whatever is keeping her happy face from showing itself and she flaps her hand at her eyes. ‘Oh my, I’m filling up here. I can’t believe it – we’re to be grandparents at last!’

  James can’t see any sign of her filling up, but at least she looks the part of the happy gran now. ‘So, you’re pleased, then?’

  ‘Pleased? We’re over the bloody moon.’ His dad’s eyes must have stolen the moisture from his mum’s when she wasn’t looking.

  ‘I thought we might never see a grandchild, you being on the way to forty and all,’ his mum says.

  ‘Charmin’, I’m only thirty-eight. Besides, the average age for a professional couple to have their first child is thirty-two and Beth’s only thirty.’

  ‘I expect Lottie might give you some, too,’ Beth says, and takes the orange juice from James’s dad. ‘She’s only twenty-eight, isn’t she?’

  James thinks that if his wife wants his mum in a good mood, she’s a funny way of showing it today.

  His mum’s button mouth is back. ‘Lottie? You mean Charlotte? I doubt that very much. She seems hell-bent on shunning any suitable man we try to find for her and the ones she finds for herself only last five minutes.’ She throws her hands up dismissively. ‘Charlotte’s an odd one, always has been, and I guess always will be. No point in hoping for a normal life for her now.’ She looks at her husband. ‘We have tried, haven’t we, love?’

  Dad shrugs and says he’ll get James a beer.

  ‘Her latest art shop venture looks to end in disaster, too.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’ James asks.

  ‘Well, she won’t take advice. There was a perfectly lovely place just down the road from us I told her about, but she refused point blank. Says a friend of hers from school is going to help her with one she’s seen at Mawgan Porth.’ Mum takes the glass of wine Dad hands her. ‘I mean, have you seen the size of that place? Yes, it’s busy in summer, but out of season, who’ll go in the shop, let alone buy anything?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not the money she’s doing it for,’ Beth says and gives a little smirk.

  His mum snorts. ‘No, that’s what she says. Says she has enough of her gran’s money to see her right for some time.’ She smooths her skirt over her knees. ‘My mother did her no favours leaving her everything in the will.’

  ‘Really? How so?’ Beth asks.

  ‘Because she thinks she can do whatever she bloody well likes, that’s why. Did you know she’s chucked her job in at school, just like that?’

  ‘I did, yes. James told me.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ James notes that his mum’s eyes are hardening into sparky diamonds and the skirt smoothing is becoming more forceful, repetitive. He looks at Beth to try and send her some kind of message with his eyes that hopefully says, ‘leave off for a bit.’
Beth looks at it and turns her mouth into a button shape similar to the one his mother had earlier. Oh God.

  ‘I don’t see what the problem is. If Lottie wants to pack her job in and do something else with her life, then good on her, I say. We only get one of them and we should try to do what makes us happy. That’s what’s important, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dear me, you sound just like her. And she wouldn’t thank you for calling her Lottie, I can tell you.’ His mum stands up and takes a big gulp of wine.

  James tries to catch Beth’s eye, but she deliberately ignores him. ‘I think she prefers it nowadays, actually.’

  His mum nearly chokes. ‘Why? What on earth makes you say that?’

  James flashes his eyes at Beth and says, ‘It’s just something a friend of hers told me. Look, shall we eat and then we can talk more about it then? I’m starved.’ He does a big cheesy grin and hopes his mum listens.

  ‘Hmm, okay. I’ll just pop the Yorkshire puddings in.’ She glares at Beth and stalks to the kitchen.

  James is glad that the conversation has turned to babies – much safer ground for now. Hopefully they can broach the Lottie question when everyone has full bellies and a few drinks inside them. ‘So will you find out the gender at twenty weeks?’ his mum asks, offering the plate of extra Yorkshire puddings round the table.

  ‘No. I think we’d like a surprise,’ Beth says.

  ‘Quite right too,’ Dad says through a mouthful of roast beef.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It could be useful to know regarding clothes and decorating the nursery, etcetera,’ Mum says and pours herself more wine.

  ‘Only if you believe in gender specific clothes and such like. We hate gender stereotypes and will actively fight against the barrage of pink and blue, won’t we, James?’