by Helen Brown
I returned to the pet shop and asked Nathan for advice about our would-be runaway. He sold me a red cat harness with a bell and lead attached. Cats love them, he said. Imagining how smart the red would look against Jonah’s colouring, I bought the optional brass disc and had it etched with his name and phone number.
Jonah detested his harness to begin with. He considered doggy-style walks beneath his dignity. It took him months to understand the harness was offering him a form of freedom.
Soon after the name tag was attached, he managed to wriggle Houdini-like out of the red straps, forcing Philip to play Rugby again. One morning when I left Jonah in his harness in the back garden for a few minutes, he managed to entangle himself almost to the point of crucifixion on the olive tree stakes.
The ongoing struggles with our cat were nerve jangling. A peaceful diversion was required. I went to the wool shop and purchased some maroon yarn. When Lydia saw me clicking needles in front of Deal or No Deal she was delighted, acting as if my knitting her a maroon scarf symbolised acceptance of her religious ambitions. I was trying. Even though I had an open door approach to spirituality, I couldn’t help worrying about how much she’d be giving up if she shut herself away as a nun in Sri Lanka. There was enough wool left over to make the world’s ugliest beanie, which I duly did.
Tying both my daughter and cat up in red threads, I hoped to stop them both ruining their lives. Nonetheless, I was happy to support Lydia in her efforts to help Jonah become an outdoor cat.
Until Geoffrey turned up.
Our friend Geoffrey’s an expert on almost everything. If you want to know how to make wine out of shoe leather, or ice cream from rain water, he’s your man.
When he heard we had a new kitten, he was quick to drop over.
‘Jonah,’ he said, casting an appraising eye over our kitten. ‘Isn’t that an unlucky name?’
‘What do you mean?’ Lydia asked.
‘You know, the old superstition,’ Geoffrey answered. ‘Jonah was the sailors’ demon.’
I assured him we weren’t taking Jonah on a sea voyage in the near future.
‘He’ll have to be an indoor cat,’ said Geoffrey. ‘The average lifespan of an inner-city cat is eighteen months. If you let him outside he’ll get run over, poisoned, mauled by dogs or stolen.’
Our cream and chocolate kitten was too mesmerised by a housefly circling his head to notice the cloud of gloom hovering over Geoffrey.
‘It’s even worse for males,’ Geoffrey added, sinking his teeth into a slice of banana cake. ‘They’re territorial. They get into fights. If they don’t get killed the vets’ bills are horrendous. And they can catch AIDS off other cats.’
‘Cats get AIDS?’ Philip asked. ‘You’re joking!’
‘I certainly am not. They have their own form of it, different from human AIDS. It’s endemic among city cats.’
Lydia’s mouth dropped. It was difficult to argue with Geoff’s prognosis.
Jonah’s head spun faster and faster as he kept pace with the fly. He was going cross-eyed. Listing slightly, he was liable to topple over with dizziness. But a fly was a dragon with wings as far as Jonah was concerned. Self-appointed World’s Number One Domestic Dragon Slayer, he was immune to minor irritations like giddiness.
‘Shame you didn’t get a female,’ Geoffrey sighed, licking the crumbs off his fingers. ‘They’re easier to manage.’
‘That’s a bit sexist,’ said Lydia.
‘True though,’ said Geoffrey, sounding unattractively smug.
Jonah launched into the air and snapped the fly between his teeth at least a metre above the ground. The manoeuvre was swift and entirely elegant. Who wouldn’t want to share their home with such a magnificent creature? I could only think Geoffrey was envious.
‘I’m just giving you the facts,’ he added, draining his second cup of coffee.
‘You live close to town and your cat’s ancient, isn’t it?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but she’s female and she hates going outside. When I open the door she refuses to go out. And she’s the size of a tiger, pretty much.’
Jonah’s fur glistened in the sunlight as he tried to prod the fly back to life. It lay on its back wiggling its legs half-heartedly in the air, reminding me of a yoga pose I’m not particularly fond of.
‘So we’ll have to keep Jonah inside all the time if he’s to have any chance of reaching the age of two?’ I asked.
‘It’s illegal to let him out at night anyway,’ Geoffrey replied, glancing at the time on his phone. ‘Cats destroy wildlife. And kill possums.’
Here we go again, I thought. If there’s ever going to be a war between Australia and New Zealand it’ll be over possums. Native to Australia, possums were introduced into New Zealand in the 1830s with hopes of setting up a fur trade. With no natural predators in New Zealand, and hardly any socialites wanting to envelope themselves in possum fur, the animals ran rampant. They continue to decimate New Zealand’s native bush.
In short, while Australians swerve to avoid possums on the road, New Zealanders tighten their grip on the wheel and accelerate straight at them. Killing a possum in Australia is breaking the law. Doing the same thing in New Zealand is an excuse to open another can of beer. Not that Philip or I have had anything to do with the demise of a marsupial. Getting into a shouting match with Geoffrey over possums was pointless.
Jonah had no interest in destroying anything other than his house dragon anyway. Pulling his lips back in case it might bite or sting, he crunched it loudly – glancing around the room to ensure he had an audience.
‘It’s cruel to keep cats inside all the time,’ Lydia said, standing to clear the cups off the table. Even though my last drain tube and its ugly bottle had been removed, I still wasn’t too steady on my feet. Lydia insisted I sit down while she cleared up. I couldn’t believe I’d produced such a domesticated daughter.
‘Crueller than letting them get run over?’ Geoffrey shot back.
I was almost relieved when Geoffrey slid into his parka and trudged down the path.
Lydia and I exchanged glances.
‘He was right,’ I sighed. ‘Jonah will live longer if he’s an indoor cat.’
‘But that’s imprisonment!’ she retorted. ‘Imagine what it’d be like for him never feeling grass under his paws.’
It was beginning to sound like another of our Sri Lanka debates.
‘We’ll take him out on his lead,’ I said.
‘He hates it!’ Lydia retorted.
The girls and I went back to the pet shop and bought a cat tunnel for running through, a scratching post, table tennis balls that could be patted through a maze of plastic channels (‘for mental development’), little balls with bells in them, big balls with batteries making them roll around mysteriously inside paper bags, toy mice steeped in catnip and a full range of fishing rods. The house was a cat playground.
Though I felt burdened with guilt and failure at Jonah being an indoor cat, he loved barrelling through his tunnel and pouncing on unsuspecting passersby. It had a hole in the middle for an extra element of surprise. Katharine found the tunnel doubled as a submarine. When she dragged it down the hall with Jonah on board, he popped his head out of a hole to enjoy the passing scenery.
‘I guess that’s it,’ Lydia sighed one day, twirling her new maroon scarf around her neck. ‘There’s nothing more for me to do here.’
We both knew the hidden meaning of what she was saying. Not only was she unhappy with Jonah’s household arrest, it was six weeks since I’d had the surgery and she’d been the most wonderful nurse and daughter.
I could manage without her now.
A week later, packed and ready to set off again for Sri Lanka, she floated downstairs in a cloud of white. The colour of purity and – a far less comforting thought for the anguished parent – martyrdom. Her fisherman’s pants and shawl gave her a Vogue-meets-ashram look. I had to respect her courage; however misguided it might be.
Sensing she was
leaving, Jonah ran figures of eight around her ankles, meowing constantly. She picked him up and kissed his nose while Philip carried her backpack to the car. It wasn’t an arduous task. She wasn’t taking much more than her maroon scarf, a scented candle for the monk and gifts for the nuns and orphans. I slid sideways like a crab into the front seat. Getting in and out of cars was still problematic.
Lydia sat in the back while we drove her to the airport. For the umpteenth time, she assured us that the monk and nuns would be meeting her at Colombo airport and driving her straight to the monastery. There would be military checkpoints, she said, but monks and nuns were treated with respect in Sri Lanka. They were protected in their tiny community in the hills. She would be safe.
‘Don’t worry,’ she added. ‘I’ll be back for Rob’s wedding.’
Rob and Chantelle’s wedding was now three months away. It seemed a long time to sit on a rock meditating.
The car was silent, not from anger or resentment. For better or for worse, I’d come to accept my influence was minimal, though I was more than anxious about the dangers she seemed so blithely unaware of.
Lydia had shown no interest in the background of Sri Lanka’s civil war or the plight of the Tamil separatists. The few books I’d been able to find on the subject had been set aside and left unread. The old video show ran through my head – Lydia getting kidnapped or caught in a terrorist attack. I struggled to press the pause button. There was no point fighting it or telling her the Sri Lankan military had just announced it had captured the important Tamil Tiger naval base of Vidattaltivu in the North.
The one good thing about breast cancer and the rows we’d had was Lydia had proved mother–daughter love was a two-way thing.
I’d said a lot of stupid things over the years, mostly about minutiae that weren’t important. Mum had done the same to me, and it’d worn into my self-esteem. I still couldn’t look in the mirror without hearing her words – ‘You should get a corset’, ‘Whatever happened to your lovely curls?’ Her last words to me were: ‘What would you know?’ Admittedly, I’d asked for it.
Watching Mum ride terrible waves of agony in her last hours, I’d tried to summon up appropriate words: ‘You’re doing well,’ I said stupidly. Even though she’d lost her false teeth and control over almost all her bodily functions, there was still enough of Mum left to shoot a bull’s eye. She was right. I knew nothing of what she was going through.
Driving to the airport, I hoped Lydia understood how deeply my love for her was woven into every inappropriate thing I’d ever said to her. It was just a case of Mother’s Tourette’s Syndrome:
‘That shirt’s too short. You’ll catch cold.’ (I wish you good health always.)
‘You’re too thin.’ (No need to compare yourself with magazine scarecrows.You’re beautiful as you are.)
‘Your eyebrows could do with waxing.’ (Enjoy your sensuality. Make the most of your beauty and youth while it lasts.)
‘There’s a hole in your tights.’ (I’m on your side.)
‘Have fun!’ (Fill your room with flowers. Drink champagne. Open your heart to others. Dream huge. You can do anything you choose with your life.)
‘Take care.’ (Love yourself for the wonderful woman you are. Don’t stand in a man’s shadow. Protect yourself. You are precious beyond words.)
At the check-in counter, Philip reached for a name tag on top of the desk, took a pen from his pocket and filled in Lydia’s details. He attached the label protectively to her backpack.
I kissed her cheeks, pink and warm, and thanked her for looking after me so wonderfully after my surgery.
Smiling, she promised to phone and text and write more often.
As we watched her float away like a snowflake toward the departure gate, the mother in me thought, White’s a dreadful colour for stains. I hope she doesn’t spill tomato sauce over herself.
She turned and waved, then vanished through the doors.
Jealousy
Inside every angel cat lurks a demon
The apple tree outside my study window slept through winter. Stripped of leaves, it was a skeleton of gnarled wood, a patchwork of scars where branches had been lopped off. The tree and I were both familiar with the bite of the surgeon’s scalpel.
A gardening friend reckoned the tree was close to a hundred years old, probably the same as the house. She pointed out potentially fatal growths and fungi on its limbs and offered to bring her saw around to hack them off. Winter, she said, was the best time for pruning. I sympathised with the tree. It’d been through enough. I thanked her and suggested we wait another year before putting it through more surgery.
Just as I was giving up on the tree and wondering who to call to cut it down, it sucked deep into the earth and sprouted a leaf. Fresh and vulnerable, the leaf clung to its ancient branch. As it unfurled against the pastel sky, I marvelled at the rhythms of nature.
Life manifests in waves – a gathering of energy, followed by letting go. It happens in childbirth as contractions surge and subside. The same goes for the sea with its ceaseless rising and falling of the tide. Human breath follows an identical pattern, filling and emptying. Even the universe expands and contracts.
As superficial creatures, we value the obvious. The surge has more appeal than the withdrawal. We favour summer over cold months, daytime over night. More growth happens in winter than anyone imagines, though. Creativity lurks in darkness.
Not long after the first brave leaf, hundreds of others burst impudently out of the wood. Against all predictions, the apple tree was willing itself back to life.
Likewise, I was creaking my way back into the world. Though my lungs still puffed like bagpipes, a walk to the end of the street no longer felt like a marathon, and I didn’t need to lie down for a rest after the Herculean effort of putting my trousers on any more.
I was incredibly grateful to Lydia, who kept her promise and made regular calls from her jungle monastery. In these conversations we both avoided the contentious topic of taking robes.
While Lydia embraced freedom in Sri Lanka, Jonah was under house arrest. We had security screens fitted on some windows so they could be opened without him escaping. The French doors stayed permanently shut. Philip, Katharine and I slowly adjusted to being jailers imprisoned with their inmate.
Jonah took on some of Lydia’s nursing responsibilities, following me about the house, making impatient clucking noises, urging me to lie down and rest.
When I finally obeyed his instructions he’d leap onto the bed and snuggle into my abdomen as if to say, ‘See? This is what we should be doing! Let’s have a nap now.’
Feeling his purr vibrate through my body, I knew I’d finally found the friend I’d been missing. Listener, healer, the companion who never judged. All I’d ever needed was a feline. Maybe our old neighbour had been right, and Cleo had sent an angel cat.
Jonah improved the look of the house by simply gliding through it. There wasn’t a carpet or cushion his colouring didn’t enhance. He’d grown into such a magnificent-looking cat he seemed too glamorous to belong to us. His fur had darkened from cappuccino to shades of café latte over winter. Whiskers stood out like pale nylon thread against an espresso-coloured face. His eyes, which were blue as Sri Lankan sapphires, gazed out from the depths of their darkened mask. Improbably large ears hovered like bat wings over his narrow face. A long nose gave him the profile of an Egyptian Pharaoh.
He had only one flaw – two upper teeth protruding fang-like over his lower lip.
Jonah was so lanky I wouldn’t have been surprised if his ancestors had been squeezed out of a pipe. Tiptoeing about on his long legs, he seemed several centimetres taller than a cat should be.
Our feline spent hours preening his tail, a twitchy serpent with a separate identity. He carried it like a pennant so it doubled as a location device for us. We followed its tip as he glided behind a chair.When he crouched on all fours to doze in the sun, he snaked it around his front feet and back in between
his legs.
Even though he was a devoted companion, he was constantly on the lookout for escape routes – a window left open, or a crack in a door. Every afternoon Katharine and I clicked him into his harness so he could prowl the backyard for bugs. He strained against the harness, always pushing to go further than it allowed.
Philip assured us that Jonah would get used to being an inside cat. Of the 200 million pet cats in the world, heaps lived happily in apartments, he pointed out.
Jonah’s squeak morphed to a deep throated yowl that said, ‘This isn’t good enough! Do what I want!! Now!!! Neeeowww!!!!’
Our young cat seemed to feel, see and hear everything a hundred times more acutely than the rest of us. Even when curled up on a lap with his eyes closed, he was only one quarter asleep. Muscles twitched under his silky fur. A creak in the eaves or the distant sigh of a tram gliding down High Street was enough to jolt him awake.
With Lydia away, the house was quiet during the day. Jonah scratched at my study door one morning, so I lifted him on to my shoulder and carried him in. He purred a liquid song as I eased into the chair and switched on the computer.
‘This is where we should be now,’ he seemed to say. ‘Let’s take a look at that old Cleo manuscript.’
Reading over what I’d written before my cancer surgery, I was crestfallen. Even though my prognosis was good, there was a possibility this could be the last book I’d have the chance to write. The manuscript was too self-pitying and depressing. I wanted to celebrate the wonder of being alive more than ever. With Jonah nestled on my knee, I drew a breath and reached for the delete button. Thousands of words, half a book, evaporated into cyberspace.
That done, I stared into the cavern of the computer screen. And started again.
I was beginning to wonder if Jonah was a born writer’s cat. Every morning, he tapped on the study door until I opened it and sat at the desk. Heavy on my lap, he’d purr himself to sleep and lie there motionless for hours. Whenever I stood up to stretch my legs, he’d shake himself awake and deliver me a good snitching off.
