Cat's Eyes

by Alan Scholefield

  But not now. Not yet. She forced her mind away from Charlie, to Bill. Where was he at this moment? What would he be doing tomorrow? Working? Or playing? He would not be with Talini all the time, who else would he see? She wondered if he had ever had affairs when he had been in Los Angeles before. She remembered the kids she had known who were trying to make it in the movies and television. They would sleep with anyone to get a part, no matter how small. Even the waitresses and the secretaries were good-looking and on the make.

  Stop it!

  She poured herself a stiff whisky. At least, tonight, she had forgotten the cat for a while. But perhaps it had been there, lying in the bushes beside the road, watching as she had driven past. She shivered, finished her drink and went up to bed. But again she found difficulty in sleeping; her mind went always to the cat, the black cat ...

  First the tapping ... then the face ...

  But this time it was not a human face. She was unable to see it clearly but she knew it was not human. She began to move towards the window. Floating in slow motion, walking on air, a foot or two above the floor, ghost-like ...

  She saw a hairy face with greeny staring eyes and a head so dark it merged with the night. Then the sharp teeth ... the pink tongue ...

  Drawn as though on a string, unable to resist, she saw her hand go out and wipe away the condensation on the window pane. It was there. The cat’s face. With blood on its head ...

  The next morning, with memories of the sweating fear which had woken her, she decided to buy a dog. Neither she nor Bill had ever owned one, but now a dog would not only be company, but a guard.

  Her resolve was hardened when she went to the back door and saw that some animal had knocked the lid off one of the big rubbish tins during the night and there was litter scattered over the yard. Had she heard the noise through her heavy sleep? Had the crash of the lid been part of her dream? She could not remember, but the thought that she had slept through it frightened her. She was alone in the house with Sophie. What would happen if something was wrong with the baby and she did not hear her cry out?

  As soon as she had fetched Penny from Addiscombe, she drove to Alec’s cottage. He came out to greet her.

  “This is a nice surprise. Come and have some coffee.”

  “Later, if I may. Alec, I want a dog.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “Should have suggested it to you before.”

  “Where do I get one?”

  “There are some boarding kennels up past the Renshaws. Run by the Pets’ Defence League. You should find one there.”

  “What’s the Pets’ Defence League?”

  “They keep strays for a time and if no one claims them, they’re destroyed. Unless they get the offer of a good home. Want me to come with you?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Of course it’s a lottery,” he said in the car. “You can never tell what sort of character a dog might have. You could get a bad animal but, on the other hand, I’ve heard of marvellous successes people have had with strays.”

  Richmond Kennels comprised a series of concrete and wire cages in two parallel lines behind a square, red-tiled bungalow. The place had an air of neglect and seediness.

  A young man came out of the bungalow. He was dressed in an anorak and rubber boots and his hair was down to his shoulders.

  “We’re looking for a dog that will make a good pet as well as a watch-dog,” Alec said.

  “I dunno ...” He rubbed the side of his face with a hand that was ingrained with dirt. “There aren’t many.”

  Most of the dogs seemed to be small terriers or cross-breeds. There was a strong smell of damp coats, urine and disinfectant. The dogs jumped up against the wire, barking.

  “What about that one?” Rachel said, pointing to a black and white border collie.

  Alec shook his head. “That’s a working sheep-dog. They need things to do. You want something like a ... what about that one over there? The golden Labrador?”

  The dog stood in the middle of its run, growling.

  The young man let Alec into the cage and it backed away, still growling, to its straw bed in the concrete shelter.

  “Good boy,” Alec said softly. “Good boy. Come on.” He went forward, holding his hand out, not making any sudden movement. The dog bared its teeth and began to bark. “Good boy. Come on, now.”

  He waited patiently, gradually moving closer. His soft voice acted hypnotically and after a while the barking gave way to a growl and even that ceased and the dog allowed his hand to touch it. He stroked it and kept the tone of his voice even as he said, “What happened to him?”

  “They brought him in the van. He was found down by Harting, tied to a tree. Wire around his neck. Been like that for two days, they said.”

  Alec raised the muzzle to look at the teeth. His hands ran along the body and down the forepaws and under the stomach. “He seems all right. He probably only needs kindness.”

  “I’ll take him,” Rachel said.

  On the way home they bought a basket and Alec spent a happy, busy half-hour constructing a run from some chicken wire near the back door to hold the dog until he was used to his new territory.

  “What are you going to call him?” he asked as they sat later in the kitchen having a cup of coffee.

  “Franco,” she said. “After Talini, who’s going to make our fortune for us. Alec, Celia Tames seems nice. What do you think?”

  He shot her a glance and she saw a flush start red patches on his scarred face.

  “She is,” he said.

  “Where does she come from?”

  “Somewhere up north, I think.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “She only moved here a few weeks ago. I met her at the Renshaws. We’ve had dinner together once or twice. She’s an interesting and intelligent woman. Attractive, too, don’t you think?”

  “Very.”

  “Rachel, am I just a bloody fool?” he said suddenly. “It’s the first time since Mary died that any woman ... She doesn’t seem to notice this, either.” He touched his ruined face.

  “Of course she doesn’t! Nobody does, Alec. I wonder what made her settle in Lexton?”

  “She said she liked Sussex. I thought she might be lonely, but she said no, she was used to living by herself.”

  “Has she ever been married?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s Mrs. James. A widow, I believe.” He stood up. “I must go. Celia has asked me in for a drink before lunch. She’s looking forward to seeing you again. When she drove me home last night she was asking me about you and Bill.”

  “I hope you gave us a good report.”

  “Said you’re probably the best-matched — and nicest — couple I know.”

  When he had stumped off she went out to Franco’s run and tried to make friends with him. At first she had little success. He seemed uneasy in her presence. Then she took him inside to the little passage that led to the kitchen, and showed him his basket, which she had padded with an old blanket. He stepped into it, scrabbled around for a moment, then sat down. He still jerked his head away when she tried to pat him until finally she fetched a packet of dog biscuits and began feeding him. “I’ll buy your damn affection!” she said. “Here.” He sniffed the piece of biscuit, then took it. When she did not immediately offer another, he pushed his nose into her hand and peered anxiously up into her face. As she handed him the biscuit and patted his soft, golden fur she felt a dawning fondness for him. “We’ll get along,” she said, and was irrationally delighted when, for the first time, his tail twitched.

  Suddenly, he looked past her, through the open door towards the garden. He stood up and the hairs on his back rose as he began to bark. Rachel moved back, wondering what had upset him. He jumped from the box and rushed out, past his run, towards the rhododendron bushes near the drive. She followed and found him nosing in the bushes. As she bent towards him to grab his collar, she heard a rustle and a black shape streaked from the far side of the bu
shes, across the paddock, and disappeared into the undergrowth.

  “Franco! Get it!” she shouted. “Cat, Franco!”

  But he was no longer interested, because he had found something else under the bush: pieces of furry skin, some bones smeared with blood. As he worried at them, Rachel felt queasy. She remembered the scream she had heard in the night.

  *

  The cat was a female and had no name. No one had ever called it anything other than ‘the cat’ or ‘that cat’ or ‘that bloody cat’. It had lived an existence of almost total isolation except on two occasions when it had mated with toms belonging to nearby farms. The first time was when it was three years old. It had had a litter of four kittens. A fox had taken two, a third had wandered away from the den and been attacked and eaten by crows. It had brought the fourth to maturity but it had long since left the area to seek its own territory. The cat had mated again a year ago but the kittens had been born dead and it had taken each of the small limp bodies in its mouth and put them beneath an elder bush about two hundred yards from the den.

  When the dog drove it from the shelter of the bush it ran across the lawn and into the deep grass of the paddock. There were paths leading to the forest but like all feral cats it kept clear of them, forcing its own passage through the tangled undergrowth until it came to its den.

  This had once been a badger set and was hidden amongst a tangled mass of beech roots and wild willow, invisible to the naked eye. The cat went through the screen of willow, entered the den and curled up to sleep. But sleep did not come easily. It was hungry, for in twenty-four hours all it had eaten was part of a squirrel that had been killed by a car. But it was not only hunger which kept it awake. The bones in its left back paw were not knitting. One splinter had pierced the skin and an infection had set in around it. It began to lick the paw, trying to soothe the ache with its warm rough tongue. It spent much of the day dozing and much of it licking the paw and when the afternoon began to fade it came out of the den and lay in the screen of willow looking down towards the house. It had left the rhododendron bush not because of the dog’s presence — it was not afraid of dogs — but because of Rachel. It was afraid of human beings. But hunger was inexorable and as dusk crept across the fringe of the Great Forest and mist began to form in the hidden valleys of the Downs, it left the cover and moved down again to the edge of the paddock where it could watch the house, the source of food.

  4

  Rachel arrived home from taking Penny to Addiscombe a few minutes after six o’clock. After the warm day the earth was rapidly losing its heat and skeins of mist were forming around the house. She opened the back of the little car and reached in for Sophie’s carry-cot. As she pulled it out, she froze. She had a feeling that someone was near, that she was being watched. She glanced over her shoulder. She could see no one; there was no sound but the rustling of leaves as the breeze stirred the bushes. She told herself it was her imagination, but that didn’t help and she hurried inside, closing and locking the front door behind her.

  She had rested most of the afternoon while Penny had entertained the baby, and her knee was feeling better. She had done her exercises and they, too, seemed to have helped. But now it began to throb again with the cot’s weight. She took Sophie upstairs and bathed her. Afterwards the baby went down without complaint, somewhat to her regret. She would have liked her company.

  It was almost dark and she brought Franco in and gave him some biscuits in a little milk. “I’m going to light the fire. Why don’t you come and lie in front of it like a proper dog?” she said. But when he had finished the food he made for his basket in the passage. She locked the back door and put up the chain. She checked that the front door was still locked and bolted, and closed the drawing-room curtains, pulling the house around her. She started a fire in the cast-iron stove and soon the wood was blazing. Then she stood in the middle of the drawing-room and thought: this is the worst time, and it’s going to be the worst time every day. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t think about it. Do something. Anything. Knit, sew, read, watch television. Just do something.

  Normally, it was the best time of the day. Bill would come in after his bath and pour drinks and they would be comfortable together and watch television or listen to music or read, not feeling they had to talk, just being together. Will I have a whisky, she thought? Yes, I will. She sat in front of the TV with her glass, wishing she knew someone well enough to call and invite them to join her. Even the Renshaws — but she had just been there, and she could not bother Alec again.

  For the first time a feeling of self-pity threatened to sweep over her. Whoa, she thought, there are millions of people like you and millions worse off. Get to grips with yourself. But there was another voice inside her which said: You’re alone. No one here gives a damn about you.

  And then the door-bell rang.

  It was like a scream in the night and for a second her heart stopped. She rose, confused and unsure of what to do. It went again. From the depths of the house the dog began to bark. She went into the hall and switched on the outside light. The front door had bolts but no chain and she wished there was a fish-eye peep-hole which would show her who was outside. She wanted to shout, ‘Who is it?’ but felt she would sound foolish. She drew the bolt and opened the door. Celia James was standing on the steps, wearing a long, moss-green coat and a white scarf at her throat.

  “Hi!” Rachel said. “Come on in.”

  “I knew you were by yourself and I thought you might be feeling like some company,” Celia said.

  “You were right. I was wishing someone would drop by. Let me get you a drink.”

  Celia asked for Scotch and water, then said, “How are you getting on by yourself? I’ve lived alone for so long I’m used to it but I remember how awful it was when ... when my husband wasn’t there.”

  The vivid face was shadowed for a moment, then she looked up and smiled. “Tell me about yourself, Rachel — and your husband. I’m a devoted fan of William Chater. I think it’s the way he writes about his women that appeals to me. Most men can’t handle women characters, but he seems to know what makes us tick. And Alec tells me you’re a writer, too.”

  “I used to do short stories and television scripts.”

  “I envy you. I’ve always wanted to do something creative.”

  “I haven’t written a line since Sophie was born.”

  “But you could if you wanted to. It’s there, inside you, the ability, the knowledge that at any time you could take a piece of paper and create people and events. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Often, but I can’t put my thoughts down accurately or consecutively.”

  “It’s practice, like everything else.”

  “How did you start?”

  “I used to write when I was in college. My father was a newspaperman. Writing was the only thing I knew. I never considered doing anything else. Let me give you another drink.” Rachel sipped her third whisky and felt the tension begin to melt out of her muscles and a slight buzz in her head.

  “What did you do when you left college?”

  “I was lucky. Time magazine took me on as a researcher.”

  “And then?”

  “That lasted a couple of years. I was selling short stories at the same time. It was more my scene than news-gathering or checking facts, so when I was offered the chance to become assistant fiction editor on one of the women’s glossies I jumped at it. I stayed in New York for another four or five years writing and editing and doing the occasional TV script. Then Paramount offered me a job as a story editor and I went back to the West Coast.”

  She paused. “I’m talking too much. What brought you to Lexton, and how do you like it here?”

  “There’s no dramatic story. I was living up north and I felt I needed a change. I’ve always preferred the south, so I came back and started looking for a house. I saw a dozen or more in Hampshire and Sussex before I found this one. And
I love it. Do you know the cottage?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  “You must come and see it when the redecorating is finished. At the moment, it’s a mess, and work seems to have come to a halt. Don’t you love it here? The people are all so friendly, I find. You and your husband must have loads of friends already.”

  “No, we haven’t. We’ve been sort of closed in since I arrived from the States. First Sophie was born and it took me a while to recover, then — then there was the accident.”

  Celia shook her head sympathetically. “That must have been dreadful. I knew Charlie Leech.”

  “Really?” Rachel did not want to discuss Charlie.

  “He’d been recommended as a marvellous workman, so I hired him. He had been at the cottage, on and off, for about ten days, painting and decorating.”

  Rachel said nothing. So that was why he had not come to install the stove on the day arranged. She remembered how angry Bill had been when he had not turned up. If he had come then, Bill would have been home and it would never have happened ...

  The other woman seemed to sense her unease and changed the subject. “How did you meet your husband? Alec told me something about a romantic encounter on a mountain top.”

  “You could call it that, I guess.”

  Celia waited for her to continue, but she felt suddenly reluctant to discuss herself and Bill with a stranger, no matter how charming and sympathetic she was. Again, Celia perceived her reluctance.

  “I’m asking too many questions,” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry — it’s just that I’m interested, after having read his books.”

  “Don’t apologise. I love talking about him. He’s halfway through a new book now.”

  “How does he work, office hours or when the inspiration strikes?”

  There it was again, the implication that writers worked only when some mysterious force moved them. But somehow, with Celia’s genuine interest, it was not offensive.

  “He works more or less office hours in his room at the bottom of the garden. But he also spends hours sitting and thinking, out in the sun or in front of the fire. Sometimes he works out the entire plot of a book when it would look to an outsider as though he’s simply wasting time.”