by Alan Baxter
“Ah!” Bosley exclaimed. “Pickering! Jeremy Pickering, replacement primary teacher for our little school. Damn shame about old Carson and his heart attack.”
“You know . . . ”
“Everyone knows everything about everyone here, Pickering. You’ll soon get used to that.”
“Right.”
“First placement? You don’t look old enough to be out of school yourself!”
Jeremy smiled. “I’ve done two years of casual stuff here and there since uni. This is my first full-time position.”
“Got a place to stay sorted out yet?” Bosley asked.
“I’ve booked a room at Mrs Oates’ guest house for a few days while I look for something more permanent to rent.”
“Oh ho!” Bosley said with a wink. “Brace yourself for rules.”
“Strict is she?”
Bosley’s face hardened strangely for a moment, then shifted back to bland pleasantness. “Come on, I’ll show you where it is. Not far from here.”
They emerged through a gate and the gusty wind was stronger than ever, carrying with it odours of rotten seaweed and something else altogether more fishy and unpleasant. Gulls screeched in the late afternoon gloom, swooping between lamp posts and rooftops. Beston-on-Sea was a small town, end of the train line. Crossing the road, Jeremy saw all the way along the pebbly beach to where sloping green quickly became sandstone cliffs. Nestled at their foot, on the last vestige of shore, was a caravan and camp site, still and dead. A squall of rain pattered in as they moved away from the coast and headed along the high street. The other end of town was visible already, buildings giving way to paddocks and hedgerows and then undulating up to a horizon lost in grey clouds.
“I commute,” Bosley said as they trudged along the pavement. “Always happy to get home. And speaking of home, here’s yours. See you in the pub some time, I’m sure.” Without waiting for a reply he stomped off and ducked left to disappear between a closed fish and chip shop and a tiny chemist. Almost as if he didn’t want to be seen by someone.
Jeremy looked at all the darkened eyes of shops and cafes. Not a soul roamed anywhere.
“Everything closes early Wednesdays.”
Startled, he turned to find a woman framed in the doorway beside him. A hand-painted sign above read Oates’ Guesthouse. He hadn’t even heard the door open.
“Pickering, is it?” she asked.
“Er, yes. Call me Jeremy.” He tried a grin, which she ignored.
“I’m Mrs Oates. This way, Mr Pickering.”
She disappeared into a darkened hallway. She was thin as a broom handle, sharp-featured, skin wrinkled deep, but she moved lightly. Jeremy hurried after, his case bouncing on the thick pile carpet. A couple of metres into the gloom, Oates turned and hopped up a flight of stairs, lithe as a mountain goat. Jeremy hefted his luggage and huffed behind her. As he came to eye level with the landing above a pair of yellow eyes flashed between the balusters. He let out a little “Oh!” of surprise.
“Don’t mind Skittles, he greets everyone,” Mrs Oates said. She bent almost double to give the jet black cat a pat on the head, then leaned even further over to kiss him. Her flexibility would have been impressive in a teenager. “There’s others. You’ll get used to them.”
“Are there?” Jeremy asked faintly. Cats. Why did there have to be cats? He looked back at Skittles as he followed Mrs Oates along the hallway and frowned. Was the thing gently shaking its head? Not only cats, but the damn things had nervous tics too.
“This is you.” Oates pushed open a heavy wooden door, glistening with at least twenty coats of gloss paint making soft curves of all the old carved details.
The room beyond was larger than Jeremy had expected, paisley carpet and heavy green curtains. A double bed with intricately worked header and footer against the far wall. To one side a three panelled bay window looked out over the high street. Leaning in, Jeremy saw back to the station and the ocean beyond.
“Wonderful view, isn’t it?”
He smiled. “It certainly is.”
Movement caught his eye. Another cat, this one a tortoiseshell with one brown and one blue eye, had been sitting on the autumn-toned bedspread with that stillness he hated. It watched him for a couple of beats, then stretched languidly and hopped down to slink from the room. “That’s Boss,” Oates informed him proudly. “He might decide to like you, might not.”
“Right.” Jeremy’s mother had three cats and his loathing of felines was thorough. Though he hated himself for it, when he thought himself unobserved he’d often kick them out of his way. Better kick them than his mother, which was often the temptation. And now, all these miles away, a house with fucking cats. Furry reminders of her and her constant complaints of how much more tenderness she got from the bloody animals than she ever got from him. Love and guilt, in equal measure, a maternal smothering blanket. He reminded himself he would only be here a little while. He took shallow breaths, wondering how much fur would be shed in his living space.
“It’s an old house,” Mrs Oates said, “so you’ve got a sink there, mugs, kettle and tea bags beside it for your convenience.” She pointed to a bookshelf filled with children’s books. “Feel free to enjoy those, but don’t take them outside the house, please.” Jeremy recognised Treasure Island, Kidnapped!, several Biggles and Boys’ Own Adventures, all of which might well be worth a fortune at the right bookstore. But he wasn’t a child any more. He could shift some aside for his textbooks if he needed the space. “Bathroom and toilet next door,” Mrs Oates went on. “You’ve got it to yourself for now, but if the other room on this floor gets taken you’ll be sharing. Not likely at this time of year, to be honest. Three more rooms downstairs, also currently vacant. You’re welcome to use the lounge for your relaxing and television, but only BBC. I refuse to allow any of that commercial rubbish in this house.”
“Okay.” He was perplexed at being told what to watch but once again reminded himself it was temporary. All very temporary.
“I’m on the top floor and that’s all mine,” Oates went on. “You’ve no need to go up there and I value my privacy.”
“Of course.”
“Dinner is at six on the dot every day. Let me know in the morning if you won’t be in for your evening meal. Breakfast is seven am, on the dot. Lunch is your own affair. Feel free to use the refrigerator in the kitchen downstairs marked Guests. You’ll see each shelf has a number. Yours is four.”
“All right.”
“Any questions?”
“Any more cats?”
“Oh yes. They’ll make themselves known when they want to. It’s their home, after all. Besides them and myself, you’ll probably have the run of the place until at least March, then I start to get busy.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be staying−”
“Good afternoon, then, Mr Pickering. I’ll see you at six o’clock sharp.”
Jeremy watched her go. Was she a little deaf or just gruff all the time? He heaved his case onto the bed to unpack. Opening the wardrobe, he jumped and stumbled back as yet another cat streaked out, black and white and wide-eyed. It paused in the doorway and turned, seemed to yearn forward like it wanted to attack him, then changed its mind and fled.
“Who are you?” Jeremy muttered, resisting the urge to swing a foot after it. Was three the limit or were there more? Belatedly, he went to close the bedroom door and saw Skittles right outside, staring at him. He sneered in a low voice, “Hey there, Skits.”
The cat’s mouth opened a fraction and a low hiss escaped. Jeremy’s eyebrows rose and he nodded. “Okay then. We have an understanding.”
He stared at the creature a moment longer, then purposefully shut the door. The yellow eyes never left his.
*
Mrs Oates served up a plate of pork chop, boiled potatoes, and broccoli so overcooked it was almost entirely bleached of colour. At least the meat was good. “You’re not eating?” he asked, uncomfortable as the old woman watched him.
“Right.”
“You enjoy your food, eh?”
Jeremy grinned around a mouthful. “Oh yes, always been - ”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full!” Mrs Oates snapped.
Jeremy stopped, stunned. This woman spoke with his mother’s voice. He resumed chewing and swallowed and chose not to say more. Once he’d choked down the last of the broccoli, the landlady nodded and placed a steaming bowl of apple and rhubarb crumble with custard. It was heavenly, the most delicious thing he’d had in years.
Mrs Oates smiled beatifically. “You like a good dessert.” It wasn’t a question.
Jeremy nodded, but refrained from saying that his mum liked to bribe his favour with good puddings too. He recalled yet again that his mother had found this guest house. He’d just taken it for granted when she had, let her do everything as usual. Now he had the discomforting thought of her and Mrs Oates discussing him, his habits, his failings and foibles. Hates beans, spends far too long in the bathroom, stays up too late watching rubbish on the television. Was he out of the frying pan and into the fire? He shook off the paranoia and ate until his spoon scraped the blue of the Willow pattern on the bottom of the bowl.
“Good boy,” Mrs Oates said, taking it to the sink.
“Is there a Mr Oates?” Jeremy asked. Perhaps she might warm to him if he showed some genuine interest. Showed her he was nothing like his mother’s complaints about him.
“No, dear, never has been. I’ve found men to always be unreliable creatures.”
He wasn’t sure how to respond, but knew it wasn’t a good idea to ask why she called herself Mrs. “I’m sorry,” he managed.
“What for? Off you go then. No television or noise after ten.”
Jeremy nodded. Another rule that wasn’t worth a confrontation. Bosley had been right about this place. A few days at most, he reminded himself, and he’d have found a flat all his own, no cats, no mother substitutes, all the bad TV he could bear. A few days, that was all. In the lounge he flicked on the set, but the BBC held no interest. He retreated to his room to look over lesson plans for the term ahead.
At the top of the stairs he paused. He’d closed his door when he’d gone down for dinner. He was certain. But now it was open and the tortoiseshell, Boss, lay on the bed again. He gave the creature a slightly heavier than necessary shove off the covers and the bastard managed to swipe at his hand as it leapt. There was a thin pink line along his index finger where the unholy animal had got him. He checked the wardrobe to make sure the black and white cat hadn’t returned. As he closed the bedroom door, there was Skittles sitting in the hallway, staring.
*
The next morning’s full English fry-up was ruined by a five cat audience. They perched about the kitchen, on the fridge, the counter, the windowsill. Skittles was there, and Boss. The black and white from the wardrobe was apparently named George, and there were two ginger toms called Ollie and Gimlet. They all watched him with a strange intensity. He couldn’t help feeling that they wished him gone. He’d be only too happy to oblige.
“So this is all of them?” Jeremy asked, hoping he didn’t sound either nervous or hopeful. The wound on his finger was swollen and stung. Did cats have poisoned claws? Was that real or something he was imagining?
“For now,” Mrs Oates said. “You know cats. Like men, they come and go.”
“Do they?”
She trained a hard eye on him for a moment, then returned her attention to the dishes.
*
His new job began on Monday. He’d allowed a few days to get the feel of his new home, but realised he could easily explore the entire town and surrounds in just a few hours. At least the streets were a little busier with the shops open. He couldn’t believe there were still places that closed up on Wednesday afternoons. It was archaically charming, but also annoying. He spent Thursday wandering around, nodding hello to people, enjoying the fresh sea air despite the persistent cold and drizzle. He did the circuit twice just in case he missed anything.
After a lunch of egg sandwich and a cup of tea in a small seafront café, he strolled up the hill on the eastern side of Beston-on-Sea to the school. The building was small, grey stone and slate roof, quaint and welcoming, though the doors were locked. He smiled. He thought he’d rather enjoy teaching there, making a difference to young lives. His life would have purpose. He had a meeting lined up with the headmaster on Saturday evening. Dinner and drinks at the man’s house, Let’s not start off too formal, eh? Jeremy decided he was looking forward to that. He must remember to let Mrs Oates know. He spotted a chemist and made a beeline for it. The stinging of his finger had deepened to an ache and the scratch had changed from pale pink to angry red. Surely it was nothing, but he’d get some disinfectant just in case.
Around five thirty in the afternoon the thought of a pint of good ale took root in his mind and he headed for the Rock and Thistle. In the dim warmth of the pub he spotted Bosley, his guide from the train station, halfway through a pint of his own.
“Hello again, Pickering! How do you like Beston?”
Jeremy laughed. “It’s lovely, but it’s very small.”
“Used to somewhere bigger?”
“Much. I grew up in Reading. It’s a metropolis compared to this place.” He gestured to Bosley’s nearly empty glass. “Another?”
When both of them had fresh drinks, Jeremy settled into a padded seat close by the fire.
“So, what do you do around here?”
Bosley barked a laugh. “Around here? Nothing. I take the train to town every day and juggle other people’s money. Then back to the pub to forget about it.”
Jeremy wondered which town, but it hardly seemed relevant. “This is a nice place to live though, isn’t it?”
“Pickering, anywhere can seem nice until you’re trapped there. Even heaven would be horrible if you couldn’t leave, ever thought of that?”
Jeremy immediately pictured the semi-detached he’d grown up in, his mother’s tears, his father’s grim frown. Bosley certainly had a point. “Your family here?” he asked. There must be something the man enjoyed.
“Wife died six years ago. Breast cancer. Bloody miss her still, like it was yesterday.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”
“Got two kids though, and they visit quite often. Not often enough, of course. I’m hoping for grandchildren soon.”
Jeremy smiled. “That’s something to look forward to.”
Bosley checked his watch and his eyes widened. “It’s nearly six! You’d better hurry, doesn’t Mrs Oates do dinner on the dot?”
Jeremy waved a hand. “No matter. I think I’ll try the scampi and chips here. Another?”
“Not wise to upset Mrs Oates. Everyone is Beston knows that.”
“I’m a big boy. Come on, have another.”
Bosley frowned, then shrugged. “Why not? I suppose you know what you’re doing.”
*
When Jeremy let himself back into the guest house a little after ten, wobbly and sniggering from the ales, he found himself face to face with all five cats, lined up in the hallway like a furry firing squad. For long moments no one moved, even Jeremy’s drunken swaying momentarily ceased. Then the five creatures gently moved their heads from side to side in unison. Surely that was inebriated hallucination on Jeremy’s part. The animals rose as one and slunk away. He watched them go, then gasped as he spotted Mrs Oates sat in the gloom of the kitchen, like a statue at the table. She glared at him over a plate of cold spaghetti bolognese. Jeremy gaped, his head swam slightly, then sobriety crashed over him. “You gave me a fright!” he said.
“You’re to tell me in the morning if you’re not going to be in for dinner,” Mrs Oates said.
“Well, I didn’t know this morning. I only decided to stay out this afternoon.” Bloody hell, she made him feel like a child, scolding him like his mother would. The cats sat around her, glaring. Bastards.
“No
t good enough,” she said. “Look at this. I cannot abide waste.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Mrs Oates, really I am. Cover it and I’ll have it heated up tomorrow.” Conciliation, he told himself. Tomorrow he was meeting with the realtor. Just be patient.
The landlady rose and drew herself up to her full height. She pointed at the chair she’d just vacated. “You will sit down and eat it cold! Right now!”
Jeremy stared, incredulous. The ales and scampi swirled unpleasantly in his gut. “I’ll do no such thing! I’m not a child, Mrs Oates, and I’m certainly not your child!”
He strode from the room, stumbling on the stairs as he headed to his room. At his door, which was open yet again, he paused, sensing himself watched. If the old bat had followed him to continue the argument . . . He swung about.
Skittles sat on the landing, just at the top of the staircase, eyes bright and judgmental. The bastard seemed almost amused. Jeremy barely suppressed the urge to kick it back down the steps. He slammed the door behind him and collapsed on the bed, trembling, feeling twelve years old again, with all the rage and hatred that entailed. It took a few moments for him to realise that he could smell, ever so faintly, the whiff of cat pee.
*
The next morning there was a gentle tapping at the door. He blinked against the early light that pierced through gaps between the curtains, thankful his pounding head wasn’t quite as debilitating as he’d expected.
“Yes?” he said tentatively.
Mrs Oates came in carrying a tray, her face split in a grandmotherly smile that might not have looked so grotesque if they’d not had their set-to less than twelve hours ago. “I brought you some breakfast, as you weren’t down at seven.”
“Oh, right.”
“Perhaps I was a little brusque last night, and I don’t want you to feel unwelcome. We all make mistakes.” She set the tray across his legs as he struggled to sit up. Coffee, fresh orange juice, bacon and eggs and fried bread that smelled like greasy nirvana. Exactly what he needed. And it covered the stink of cat pee, though he doubted Mrs Oates would notice.
