The Improbable Cat

by Allan Ahlberg

  ‘And it’s Spy now, and he’s got the ball… and he’s got the ball… and he’s still got the ball.’

  ‘Here’s Billy – go on, Billy, tackle him!’

  ‘Foul!’

  ‘Hey, ref, send him off!’

  ‘He’s eating the ball…’

  Out on the ‘touchline’ an ill-tempered goose was hissing loudly. Donkeys wandered dreamily on to the pitch. The score remained nil–nil.

  Eventually, worn out, we trailed back to the house. The dogs drank noisily from a trough in the yard. George and I sat in the kitchen with Alma.

  I liked Alma. She was easygoing and eccentric. (George and I got parsnip wine sometimes with our home-made, wholemeal, low-fat, organic vegetarian pizza.) She took good care of her menagerie, which was constantly changing. It must have been hard work, yet she always had time for people. She was – what’s the word? – yes, she was ‘hospitable’.

  ‘Alma, can cats hypnotize you?’

  ‘No,’ said George.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alma. She had a puppy on her lap and was feeding it warm milk with an eye-dropper. ‘Especially Siamese.’ She lowered the puppy into a basket and picked up another. ‘Is this that cat of yours?’

  ‘Yes… sort of.’

  ‘How big is it now?’

  ‘This big – bigger than Flossie.’

  ‘You only said as big as Flossie before,’ said George. He had a puppy too.

  Alma laughed. ‘Ah yes, but it’s probably grown since then.’

  ‘It has!’ I felt myself smiling and scowling at the same time. ‘It’s not funny.’

  Alma handed me her puppy and reached for another.

  I told her about Billy and his removal to the garage.

  ‘Poor Billy – what did he do?’

  ‘Chased that bloody cat.’

  ‘Bad Billy.’

  Billy, hearing his name, glanced up at us from under the table, then returned his attention to the bone he was grappling with. (Billy liked Alma too.) I gazed down at the puppy cupped in my hands, its tiny gesturing paws, eyes still tightly shut and innocent bulging belly, smooth as a grape.

  In the afternoon I went home and took George with me. I was determined he should see things for himself. George Riley was my best friend, but he could be irritating at times. He had an opinion on everything, especially subjects he knew nothing about. Because of his height, he -was often assumed by grown-ups to be older than he was. They credited him with good sense and maturity. That was especially irritating.

  When we got to the house, Mum was in the kitchen cooking a load of fish. There were shopping bags, empty cartons, plastic bottles all over the floor. Luke was in his high chair, howling. No sign of Josie.

  ‘Afternoon, Airs Burrell,’ said George, maturely.

  Mum mumbled something in reply.

  I gave Lukey a kiss on his hot little head and retrieved his panda from the floor.

  George and I stepped into the hall. The smell of fish followed us, mingling soon with the disinfected odour of litter trays from the washroom. There was a pile of shoes near the front door, a scatter of envelopes and free newspapers on the mat, a couple of ice-cream wrappers, an apple core. There were umbrellas and tennis rackets, even a small spade. I saw my home then through George’s eyes. It was a tip. There again, given what he was accustomed to, it probably looked pretty tidy. And the smell would not have bothered him either.

  I opened the sitting-room door. The curtains were closed, the TV on, but the room was empty. We climbed the stairs… and there it was, on the landing again.

  ‘There it is!’

  He was expecting a ‘cat’

  ‘Where?’

  George’s eyes were still adjusting to the gloom.

  ‘See it?’

  ‘I can’ t.’

  ‘There… Sh!… stretched out.’

  Still George couldn’t see it. (Of course, he was expecting a ‘cat’.)

  And then he could.

  ‘Christ!’

  5

  We Like This Better

  HOW CURIOUS, COMICAL EVEN. I mean, here was I worried sick about this creature, its monstrous size, malignant presence, yet when George said, ‘Christ,’ and fell back in astonishment, I was actually pleased. That had shown him.

  We sat out in the garden.

  ‘That’s not a cat.’

  ‘I told yon.’

  ‘Not a normal cat.’

  ‘I know! Here, wait a minute.’

  I returned to the house. Josie was carrying a huge plate of steaming fish out of the kitchen.

  ‘Hi, Josie.’

  No reply.

  Mum was getting Luke into his buggy. The phone was ringing. I grabbed a photograph from the table and went out again.

  ‘Here, look at this!’

  It was a polaroid taken the day of Josie’s party. There was Josie on the patio, crouching, laughing, and there was the kitten – in a flowerpot.

  ‘See – and it’s got to this size in less than ten days.’

  ‘Weird,’ said George.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unscientific’

  Nothing, in George’s expert opinion, could grow that fast. Nothing normal.

  ‘Then there’s the other thing. I can’t explain it, but it seems to have this… influence.’

  ‘Like hypnosis, y’mean.’

  ‘Yes, you saw Mum – she’s like a zombie sometimes. Dad –you know what he’s like – Dad went to work yesterday without a shave. And the day before he didn’t go at all. As for Josie, well…’

  ‘So there’s only Luke who’s normal,’ said George.

  ‘Yes, and me.’

  ‘You’re not normal.’ George gave me a shove.

  I considered this for a moment, and jumped on him.

  George left soon after for his trombone lesson. I went and sat with Billy in the garage. The up and over door was open. A stiff breeze ruffled Billy’s fur. He was stretched out on his bit of blanket, still gnawing on that bone that Alma had given him. He had carried it all the way home. It was filthy now, covered in grass and dirt, but for Billy, I’ll bet, it was absolute caviar. He growled if I went anywhere near it. So I sat watching Billy with his bone, and thinking. Only Luke was unaffected, and me. Why was that? I could hear the phone ringing in the house, unanswered. I pictured Josie’s laughing face in the photograph, that whole gang of little girls going mad in the garden. Now look at her. Only Lukey, only me. I stretched my legs out. Billy growled. Oh, yes – and Billy.

  Some kind of game show

  Later I went looking for Josie and found her in the sitting-room. The TV was on, some kind of game show. A man and a woman were rushing arourid in a D.I.Y. store with a trolley. Josie was on the floor, thumb in her mouth, leaning back against the sofa on which the cat was sitting. It was dark and stuffy in the room. There were bits of fish on the carpet.

  I perched myself on the arm of a chair.

  ‘Josie?’

  She looked up.

  ‘Fancy a game?’

  (I had in mind the PlayStation, but it could have been anything.)

  Thumb out – ‘No… thanks’ – and in again.

  I reached for the remote control and flipped the channels: snooker – old movie – cartoon.

  ‘Hey – look! I used to watch this.’

  Josie roused herself, snatched the remote from my hand and put the game show back on.

  ‘We like this better,’ she said.

  We like this better. I realize now I should have told more people, and sooner. But, as it happened, this was the holiday fortnight in our town. Most of the big employers, the shoe factory, the bicycle works, were shut down. Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Mark and his family, the Fletchers next door – half the town, really, were away on holiday. Anyway, in those early stages what could I have said, and who would have believed me? I was scared of a kitten.

  The cat was staring at me, swishing its tail. It wanted me out of there, I could feel it. Well, tough. This was my house, my TV
, my sister (I slid down into the chair), and I was staying where I was. The time for keeping clear of this animal was over. Now, if anything, I had to get closer to it, study it. By this means and with George’s help, I might discover then how best, one way or another, to get rid of it.

  6

  Cat Servants

  WE CRUSHED UP THE tablets in George’s bedroom. Paracetamol, tranquillizers, y’know, anything that warned of ‘drowsiness if taken in excess’, all plundered from our bathroom cabinets or Alma’s vet’s cupboard. George spooned the powder into a plastic bag. ‘That ought to do it.’

  The plan was to mix this lot up in the cat’s food, wait until it fell asleep, heave it into a sack or bin liner, load it on to one of our bikes and carry it away. Where to exactly, we had not decided, but over the river most likely, up beyond Addison’s Farm. Anyway, wherever it was, we meant to lose this cat completely. Yes, ‘lose’ it, and across the river, not into it. No, not weighted down with rocks and such, tied up in the sack. Not drowned. We never thought of that.

  Meanwhile, I was now watching the cat whenever I got the chance, studying it, stalking it (and not sneezing). Its favourite places were the sitting-room and underneath Mum and Dad’s bed, the only one it could still get under. It came into the kitchen too, mostly to watch its food being prepared. It ate in the sitting-room. It never went out.

  The cat’s feeding habits were crazy. (What was it costing us?) It ate huge meals five or six times a day – and night. Mum was up all hours cooking. There were lamb chops now, spaghetti bolognese, puddings! One time I came into the kitchen and there was Dad pouring a whole pot of tea into a bowl for it, adding milk and sugar, while the cat sat back and waited.

  Truth is, all three of them were attending to this creature – feeding it, petting it, keeping it company – twenty-four hours a day. They were its servant. Mum ‘talked’ to it more than she did to me. Josie seemed often to know what it was thinking. None of them, apparently, saw anything strange in what was happening. All my protests were ignored. Eventually I gave up making them.

  And the house was becoming darker. At first I thought it was just the curtains, more of which were permanently closed. Later I began to suspect the cat. A room was gloomier when the cat was in it, and the longer it stayed the gloomier the room became. The air itself felt thicker and more stifling then. A kind of gauze hung over things.

  As if all this were not enough, from following the cat around, observing it, I now felt pretty sure of something else: its shape was changing.

  On Thursday, the day after we had crushed the tablets, I rang George and whispered down the phone.

  ‘I’ve done it.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Me – Davy. I’ve mixed it all in. It’s ate the lot!’

  There was a pause. George was turning his radio down.

  ‘Brilliant – where is it now?’

  ‘The sitting-room.’

  ‘Is it, er…’

  ‘No, but it soon will be. Come on round.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Fast as you can.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Oh, and George?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I cupped my hand over the phone. Josie was descending the stairs.

  ‘Bring the sack.’

  That morning (by eight o’clock!) Mum had produced this huge mixing bowl of stew for the cat. It had everything in it: minced beef, potatoes, carrots, onions, baked beans, left-over spaghetti, fish heads and masses of garlic. While her back was turned, I stirred my little contribution in, just for the flavour.

  By the time George arrived, tapping on the french windows, Mum had driven off with Luke and Josie; shopping again, for the almost daily car-bootful. (What did Waitrose make of it?) George had with him his bicycle pump, some string and one of Alma’s horse-feed sacks.

  I led the way into the hall. We peeped through the crack in the sitting-room door. The TV was on – it was never off these days – and the cat was there, staring at it.

  ‘It doesn’t Look sleepy.’ George was fiddling with his string.

  ‘Give it time.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The trouble was, there was no time, or not much. We had to finish this before Mum came back.

  ‘Let’s go in there,’ said George.

  The cat was on the sofa as usual, watching a gardening programme. We stood there for a time, sneaking sideways glances at it, while it paid us no heed at all. The air was thick with the smell of stew. Unwashed bowls and plates littered the floor, a sock of Josie’s, a tennis racket, cigarette ends.

  I felt a sudden sense of desperation. This wasn’t working at all. That cat could swallow a ton of pills, I bet, and not be affected. Meanwhile, the pink-cheeked, cheerful gardener went on about his aubergines, and the room grew darker.

  The doorbell rang, though we hardly heard it. The room was closing in around us, its shapes dissolving, the television sound all muffled, indistinct. Only the glowing screen, the silhouetted cat, looked real. The doorbell rang again, and now there was loud knocking at the door and voices.

  I went into the hall. On the doorstep stood old Mrs Rutter, her daughter and the twins.

  ‘Is y’mother in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she say anything about the leaflets?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Leave a box or anything?’

  I shook my head.

  Mrs Rutter tutted and turned angrily to her daughter. ‘I dunno – what can y’do?’

  Mrs Rutter’s daughter sighed. The twins stirred fretfully in their buggy.

  ‘Tell y’mother Mrs Rutter called,’ said Mrs Rutter.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Tell her we need those leaflets.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Also, whenever she can’t get to a meeting, tell her, could she please –’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘Shurrup, it needs saying. Could she please let-other-people-know.’

  ‘I’ll tell her that.’

  I began to close the door.

  Calls herself the bloomin’ secretary.’

  ‘Mother!’

  I hurried back into the sitting-room. It was darker than ever; even the TV was shrouded over. The indistinct grey shape of the cat still occupied the sofa, but now there was George beside it. The air was stifling. Sweat broke out all over me. I felt a buzzing in my ears, a tight band across my chest. George was reaching for the cat. A pale hand in the gloom, stretching, hovering.

  I had to speak, but couldn’t. The solid air stuck in my throat. The TV picture quivered like a mirage. I moved, trod on and smashed a dirty plate, and spoke at last.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’

  7

  Panthers and All That

  IT WAS THE STROKING. Somehow, all in a rush and grabbing George and pulling him away, I worked it out. I never stroked it, Luke never stroked it, Billy couldn’t stroke it. But the others… I could see again that rain-streaked window, the cat on the table, Mum, Dad and Josie gathered round, their faces blank, their hands outstretched. Yes, the others stroked it all the time. They were addicted.

  George and I stood in the kitchen, bright sunlight bouncing from the worktops, bird-song through the open window. It was hot and I was shivering.

  ‘What were you doing? You were going to stroke it, weren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’ George looked dazed. ‘It was getting so dark in there.’

  Never stroke it, George, never. That’s how –’

  There was the sound of a car in the drive, doors slamming. Seconds later in came Mum with Luke and Josie.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Burrell,’ said George.

  ‘Hallo, er…’ Mum gazed distractedly around the kitchen. ‘Er…’

  ‘George,’ said George.

  We helped to unload the car, bags and bags of stuff, enough for a siege. Billy was barking and leaping around in the garage. Josie had disappeared.

  I wanted to talk to Mum, but it was hopeless. No soone
r were the bags unpacked, than there she was, cooking again. Besides, she looked so sad, so bewildered, I hadn’t the heart to argue with her. George and I played with Luke for a while, entertained him in his bouncer, ate a couple of doughnuts and left.

  And then – how comical again – out in the normal street with its normal noise and smells, the little normal kids in their pushchairs, normal Billy tugging on his normal lead, it all felt so… confusing. For a minute I hardly knew what to believe. Then, ‘It’s changing its shape, I hope y’know,’ George said, and we were back into it.

  On the way to Alma’s we talked about the shape of the cat. There was something about its head and shoulders, the way it sat on the sofa, not cat-like, almost human. We talked about the stroking, how one defenceless kitten might take control of people through its fur, just by getting them to stroke it. There again, who’d need persuading? Stroke a cat? I mean, it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  What we did not talk about, as far as I remember, was what this cat, this creature, actually was. What it was up to, where it had come from and so on. Later, when it was all over and the papers were full of theories (panthers and all that), we did. But at the time, no. Looking back, I think somehow it just crept up on us, so to speak, shifting its ground so gradually, step by step, that, mad as it seems, we took it for granted.

  At Alma’s they were playing dog tennis in the paddock. Alma and Joyce, each with a racket, were batting tennis balls back and forth, which the dogs, like crazy ball-boys, were intercepting. It was the usual gang: Archie, Flossie, Spy, plus on this occasion an elderly bulldog named Jasper, who was Joyce’s, and one newcomer, a lolloping St Bernard.

  ‘Who’s this?’ said George.

  ‘That’s Winston,’ said Alma. ‘Here on a visit.’

  Meanwhile, Billy was off his lead and into the game. The other dogs were effective in their various ways, but Billy was the star, and he knew it. Archie could chase, Spy was crafty, even lumbering Jasper had his moments – but Billy! He was so quick – so springy – so fearless. He’d leap and catch the ball in mid-air, and fall, and bounce (just like a ball himself), and not let go.