‘They’re burying a Japanese up to his neck in the sand.’
‘Who are?’
‘Some other Japanese.’
‘Why are the audience laughing?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
The kitten sat between us and hung on my every word – Clive James was slightly above his head, but I work at a mental level which kittens find appealing and he seemed to appreciate my interpretation.
He had thawed out now and the warmth of his thermal-vested shank, pressed firmly up against my thigh, was comforting. I stroked him and he purred.
I had a puppy for my sixth birthday. A week later I came down early one morning and stroked him as he lay in his basket. His body was firm and solid, unresponsive and very dead. I hadn’t wanted a pet since then – they die on you. Much better to throw a stick for a stranger’s dog in the park, make a fuss of it and then walk away.
‘They’re letting lots of tiny crabs loose now.’
‘What are they doing?’
‘They’re crawling all over their heads.’
The kitten shuddered and caught my eye.
‘What’s on the other channel?’
It was football and he seemed to like football. He jumped down and sat right in front of the television, his head sweeping through thirty degrees like the gun turret on a Sherman tank.
Lee Chapman belted the ball over the Coventry crossbar and the blessed John Motson looked deep into the recesses of the striker’s mind and knew exactly what he was thinking.
‘The veteran will be kicking himself for missing that one,’ he claimed.
Veteran? What did he mean veteran? I played in the same team as Lee Chapman’s dad in the Air Force.
The kitten turned his head and looked up at me.
‘It bobbled as he hit it.’
On the television Trevor Brooking stepped in to defend the tall centre forward.
‘I think you’ll find, as we look at the replay, John, that it bobbled just as he hit it.’
The kitten nodded in agreement.
‘Told you.’
Then he went off behind the television to see if he could find the ball.
‘Where’s Nermal gone?’ asked Aileen, feeling the empty gap between us.
‘He’s gone to have a look for the ball – here he comes now.’
The kitten sauntered back round the video cabinet wearing his vest with all the panache of a Lagerfeld model.
‘Can’t find it.’
He sat down again to watch the match.
‘Oh – they’ve got another one.’
‘What about Thermal?’ suggested Aileen.
‘What about it?’
‘For a name.’
‘I like it.’
She leaned forward and spoke to the kitten.
‘What about you Thermy? Do you like it?’
His tiny ears pricked in response but then Cyrille Regis was brought crashing down in the penalty area and the referee pointed dramatically to the spot.
‘Yes – whatever. I’m busy at the moment.’
And in that brief moment we had formally adopted a small white kitten. Unethically – and probably illegally – but it was none the less binding for all that.
Not only did he now have a new name, but in the mere thirty seconds or so since his Christening it had shrunk with the warmth of affection.
I would pop round next door and have a word with Patrick in the morning – I had a lot of explaining to do.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thermal spent the night in Aileen’s study. There are better ways of waking up in the morning than having a kitten jumping up and down on your face and so I decided to start off as I meant to go on.
He wasn’t going to get spoilt for a start. I just made up a simple bed for him on the recliner chair – a travelling rug for a base, surrounded by three cushions so that he couldn’t fall off and then I plumped it up and made it all nice and soft. He was going to have to learn to rough it.
Aileen had placed a saucer of water for him on her desk which was a very thoughtful touch and we each gave him a last pat on the head before we said good night.
‘Do you think I should take his vest off?’
Aileen thought about it as I turned the chair away from the window so that the light wouldn’t wake him too early in the morning.
‘You realize he might not be house-trained?’
I hadn’t thought about that.
‘I’d better take his vest off then.’
‘No, leave it on. Then at least, if he does anything, it will be all sort of – contained.’
I didn’t want to think about that at all. Since I had brought him in on the shovel the kitten had put away half a pint of milk, a little chicken, a lot of garlic sausage and a tin of sardines.
So I did what I always do in situations like that – I put it out of my mind and went off to bed.
He was up and waiting for me the next morning – his head plunged deep into the saucer as he finished off the last of the water.
I walked around and had a look at the other end. Everything seemed to be in order. One of the paperclips had come adrift giving him the loose and baggy look of a Turkish pasha, but that apart he was extremely well turned out and he had about him the clean-cut air of someone who has already jogged, showered and cleaned his teeth.
The sun was shining and we breakfasted on the desk by the window. Down in the courtyard three cats took advantage of the morning warmth.
One sprawled on the dustbin, another sprawled on top of the one sprawled on the dustbin and a third looked thoroughly miserable with himself because there was nowhere left for him to sprawl.
I drew back the curtain and held Thermal up so that he could see.
‘There, that’s what cats do.’
He wasn’t the slightest bit interested. He was mildly surprised that they weren’t wearing thermal vests, but that was all.
‘Come on then – let’s get this off.’
I tugged at the knotted sleeves round the back of his neck and he went berserk.
‘What are you doing?’
‘You don’t need it any more.’
He didn’t agree with me and hid behind the letter-rack.
‘Come on.’
‘Go away.’
It wasn’t the best of hiding places. His ears peeked over the top of Aileen’s VAT return and his tail strayed perilously close to the pencil sharpener. I grabbed him and he made a jump for it.
We were both partially successful. I had him by the scruff of the vest and he dangled in mid-air like the basket from a hot air balloon.
‘Get off.’
‘All right.’
‘I’m warning you.’
‘All right – keep your fur on.’
I lowered him gently and his legs were travelling at thirty miles an hour long before his feet touched the carpet and then he was off across the study and out into the hall.
I found him sitting under the telephone table, sulking with his back to me. The knotted sleeves had loosened now and they hung limply from his head, giving him the appearance of a rather forlorn and somewhat disenchanted rabbit.
‘You’re being very silly.’
‘Push off.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
We broke off diplomatic relations at that point. I went into the kitchen for a second cup of coffee and another slice of toast. He sat under the telephone table and stared at the skirting-board.
I have always felt that skirting-board staring is an over-rated pastime and it wasn’t long before he became bored with it and strolled into the kitchen to see what all the clattering and scraping was about.
He gave the fridge a wide berth as he came round the door – it was cold in there and the bacon went for you.
He was coming apart at the seams. His vest had now wrinkled down round his ankles like Nora Batty’s stockings and even Compo would have thought twice before venturing forth in such an outfit.
> I was on my knees, scraping butter off the carpet, and he came over to help me. We worked together in silence, me with a knife, him with his tongue. The two of us together had it cleaned up in no time.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
‘I get carried away.’
‘I should have asked first.’
It’s always good to clear the air but that first quarrel takes the steam out of you and there was a distance between us that hadn’t been there before.
The sultana helped to take his mind off things. He found it in front of the rubbish bin. It was hiding just under the pedal and it frightened him at first. It was big for a sultana and he had never seen one before.
He stalked it for a while – he’d practised stalking on the smaller leaves in the courtyard, but he would be the first one to admit that he had a lot to learn. The bigger leaves had taught him that.
The sultana was just as cautious – in all probability it would never have seen a kitten wearing a thermal vest before, but after a tentative poke and a quick run and a hide together behind the vegetable rack they got on famously and were soon charging all over the house.
It’s easy to laugh at a kitten who falls in love with a sultana, but it was the very first thing he had ever owned and we all remember our first bike, don’t we?
I sorted out my mail on Aileen’s desk and carried it into my office. She keeps a tidy desk, just the essentials plus cigarettes, lighter and an ashtray.
I need, clutter – files, books, dozens of pens, lucky horseshoe, a pair of pliers, birthday cards, a small white kitten in a thermal vest and a sultana.
They sat under the heat of the anglepoise lamp and watched me work – it was the first time the sultana had been in here and Thermal showed him around.
‘That’s his phone.’
‘Fascinating.’
‘And that’s his photocopier.’
‘It’s a different world, isn’t it?’
*
The three of us worked together for a while. I answered my mail, Thermal sat in the wastepaper basket, shredding envelopes with a quiet efficiency, and the sultana stood shoulder to shoulder with a small brass paperclip, taking it all in and learning.
It was a scene that would be repeated all over the country, in office after office, at nine o’clock that morning. The older hand, the office boy and the junior, each contributing, in his own way, to the wealth of a great nation.
And then, in office after office, the boss would come in – disrupting the well-oiled operation with outrageous demands.
‘Tea,’ croaked Aileen as she passed through the hall, en route to her much larger office.
In the raw hours of the morning her speech-patterns resemble that of the early American Indian – short staccato words that leave no doubt in the mind as they stab into the subconscious.
Two teas and a black coffee later she would slowly evolve into the soft and gentle creature that we all knew and loved so well – first thing in the morning she was a cross between Joanna Lumley and Geronimo.
I made her a cup of tea and with Thermal riding shotgun, took it into her study – we left the sultana to look after the phone.
She had an envelope under the close circuit television and was peering at the screen with the aid of a magnifying glass.
‘Where’s that?’
I plucked it out from underneath the television and examined the postmark.
‘Eastbourne.’
‘Don’t know anybody in Eastbourne.’
‘Open it and find out.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A window.’
She tossed it aside. ‘Don’t like windows – where’s that one?’
‘Kendall.’
‘That must be Mollie.’ She ripped open the envelope, thrust the letter under the television, and then with the magnifying glass she began to read slowly like a child, moving her lips silently as she worked her way down the screen.
What is it with postmarks? Without the close circuit television she can hardly see the envelope and yet still she feels the need to decipher a semi-smeared blob before venturing into the interior.
‘Damn.’ She gave up halfway and rubbed her eyes. ‘I can’t make it out.’
‘I’ll read it to you.’
‘Let me have another try first – where’s the saucer?’
‘Saucer?’
‘It was on my desk.’
‘This one?’ I pushed it towards her.
‘That’s it.’
Very carefully she traced the saucer with her finger and then stopped short.
‘You’ve spilt it.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘It had water in it.’
‘Last night – yes.’
‘You’ve spilt it.’
‘No I haven’t. Thermal drank it.’
The kitten was warming his bottom on the fax machine. His vest was having a nervous breakdown and he looked like a small rag and bone man.
‘He what?’
‘You left it out for him and he drank it.’
‘I was soaking my contact lens – I couldn’t find my case so I left it in the saucer overnight.’
I glanced across at Thermal. He was just leaving his post and as he walked across the machine his paws dialled 071 for Inner London. Aileen heard the tones and turned to face him.
‘Thermal?’
‘He must have swallowed it.’
‘He can’t have.’
I took the saucer over to the window but there was no sign of the contact lens.
‘When he drinks his milk it flies all over the place.’
We searched the desk inch by inch and then went down on all fours and combed the carpet. The kitten peered over the edge of the desk to see what we were up to. Aileen had an idea.
‘You remember last time I lost it – you found it stuck on my cheek.’
We both reared up to examine the kitten at close quarters. First a general once-over and then we zoomed in really close for a more detailed inspection. The kitten backed off.
‘What?’
‘It’s all right – don’t worry.’
‘I shall tell my dad.’
‘We won’t hurt you.’
‘Better not.’
I frisked his whiskers and raked the fur on the top of his head and cheeks with my finger nails – that’s all I could get at, the remainder of his sturdy little body was encased in the now fashionably-loose thermal cotton.
‘It could have slipped inside his vest,’ Aileen suggested, and for once in my life I took a major policy decision without resorting to arbitration, breast beating or a long lie down. With one almighty yank I had a thermal vest in one hand and a rather surprised kitten in the other.
As we shook out the vest he sat on the desk wearing nothing but a huff and never once did he take his eyes off me.
‘I never thought you would sink to such depths.’
‘I’m sorry – but it had to be done.’
‘You wait.’
We searched all over the place but the contact lens was nowhere to be found.
‘At least it’s insured,’ Aileen comforted herself.
‘I suppose technically it’s not even lost. We know where it is. We could even get it back again.’
‘I don’t think I shall fancy it then.’
I made some toast for Aileen and another pot of tea for both of us and poured the merest dribble in a saucer for Thermal – just to watch him in action. He grimaced.
‘Not enough sugar.’
I obliged and he tried again.
‘Spot more milk?’
By trial and error I got it just about right and he drank the lot. We watched closely to see how far the splashes went but it didn’t really help us any and so we closed the file on the case of the missing contact lens.
The little kitten jumped up on to the bookcase above the desk and then began to tightrope-walk as the books became thicker and more substantial and the ledge bec
ame narrower.
‘Be careful – you’ll fall.’
‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Aileen, ‘He’s got eyes in his backside.’
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
CHAPTER SIX
There was a notice scrawled on the pet shop window. ‘Closing Down – Everything must go.’ Everything had almost gone and the shop echoed emptily like a newly decorated room before the curtains are hung and the carpet laid.
Tatty paper sacks spilled dog biscuits down on to the bare boards and in a cage by the window sat the scruffiest looking budgie I’d ever laid eyes on. He was a sort of yellowy-beige colour and he hadn’t seen a comb in years.
He was the kind of budgie who ought to have had a fag hanging out of the corner of his beak and one wing stuffed deep down inside his pocket as he leaned against his mirror, making rude gestures at the passing pigeons. Sellotaped to his cage was the sign, ‘Shop-soiled – Half price.’
I wanted to take him home with me, but Aileen said he probably drank meths or took drugs or something and would be a lot more trouble than he was worth.
There was a tortoise in a glass tank with ‘Ten per cent off’ stuck on its shell, and since its head seemed to be missing I assumed that was the 10 per cent they were talking about. However, the owner assured me that it did actually have a head – it was hibernating.
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it was only a joke.’
The puppies were segregated into two distinct lots. A couple of posh ones lolled in a pen by the fishtank and looked suitably bored with life, whilst on the other side of the shop a small herd of runts dashed around and collided with each other under a large sign which read, ‘Reduced.’
I wanted to take four puppies as well as the shop-soiled budgie but Aileen talked me out of it once more.
‘We came in for a cat litter-tray.’
They didn’t have one and so we popped round the corner to see the opposition who were driving them out of business.
They had a dozen different litter-trays ranging from a rather basic mini-skip right up to the deluxe model suitable for hauling heavy freight on the Manchester Ship Canal.
‘That’s the one.’
‘It’s enormous.’
‘He might want to have his friends round every now and then.’
‘He won’t be cleaning it out – you will.’
The Cat Who Came In From The Cold Page 4
