by Helen Brown
Steve didn’t reply to the thank you note, but our relationship had never been straightforward.
Forbidden to vacuum, lift anything weighing more than a kilo, drive or pick things up off the floor, I struggled to adapt.
‘Don’t bend over like that!’ Lydia snapped as I stooped over to pick an envelope off the floor. Her tone was sharply maternal. The power dynamic had changed.
A patient is so called for good reason. In the early days after surgery, progress had been fast. In hospital I’d woken one morning suddenly able to creep to the loo. Once I was home, improvement slowed. Some days I even went backwards. A drive to Rob and Chantelle’s for pizza one night was surprisingly harrowing. I’d forgotten to wear the surgeon’s ‘corset’ that held the ghoulish grin of stitches in my abdomen together. It was a lovely evening but I was wrecked the following day. Then there was the night I spent bonding with Katharine watching Dr Who with a hot-water bottle on my stomach. I’d forgotten that a wide strip of flesh there had no feeling. In the morning it was bright red and accessorised with two large blisters.
Other times, I felt a lot better, like the day I asked Lydia to stop at the chemist and buy leg waxing strips. As if I needed to volunteer for more pain.
The delight of my sister Mary’s arrival was immeasurable. The dark brown curls of her girlhood were lighter these days, and tamed by regular visits to the hair salon. Having stayed in the town we grew up in, her outward style was conservative, but her perspective surprisingly broad. She’d raised three children with her husband Barry and continued to work as a substitute primary school teacher. Her pupils had grown up to be cops and car thieves, opera singers and opticians. There wasn’t much she hadn’t seen.
Some people deteriorate with each decade – and not just physically. Disappointment seeps into their bones and turns them bitter. Mary’s one of those rare beings who grow more beautiful every year without even trying. The tenderness in her hazel eyes had intensified with time. Since her bout with breast cancer, she’d accepted that while life’s not perfect, it’s still pretty wonderful. I watched her savour a shaft of light on water, or the blue of a hydrangea flower. She’d learnt how to live.
Unlike me and our brother Jim, Mary was always The Quiet One. You’d think a reserved person in a household of loudmouths would lack power, but it turned out the opposite. Whenever Mary ventured a well-considered opinion in her calm, steady voice, we always listened. Still do.
When she wrapped her arms around me I was the little sister again, protected in her embrace. Nothing could hurt me now. She smelt of home.
Mary’s easy-going presence in the house over the following days was medicine in itself. To the outside world we would’ve looked like two middle-aged matrons sifting through old photo albums together and drinking mugs of tea. Inside our heads we were the little girls we’d always been – Mary, wise and tactful; me, eager for her approval.
Every day I crept around the block, trying to walk a little further each time. Faced with steps to climb up or down I could almost hear my stitches screaming ‘Nooooooo!’ Hobbling back from a 500 metre marathon, we bumped into Patricia from down the street. When we’d first moved into Shirley, Patricia had introduced herself and said she wasn’t social and would prefer not being asked inside for cups of tea. Respecting her for that, I’d tried to stay out of her way. Fate had punished us both ever since, arranging for us to bump into each other constantly – at the supermarket; waiting for crossing lights to change. Trapped in another unplanned encounter, I asked how she was. Not too good, she said. She was having women’s problems.
I hoped she wouldn’t go on too long. My legs were getting wobbly. When she asked after my health, I hesitated. Telling her about the mastectomy could’ve been perceived as one-upman-ship, so I said, ‘Good.’
Patricia beamed at my sister and said, ‘She always looks well, doesn’t she?’ and trotted off down the street.
Sometimes Mary would say I was looking tired and excuse herself to catch a tram into town or go for walks. I sometimes worried she might need a higher standard of entertainment, but she assured me she was happy with her own company. On her last day with us she returned from an excursion with a twinkle in her eye.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think I should say,’ she said smiling enigmatically at Lydia and me.
I recognised that expression from years back. The old ‘I know what you’re getting for Christmas’ smile.
‘Come on! Tell us!’
Lydia stopped rattling the dishes in the sink and put her head to one side.
‘Is it a secret?’ Lydia asked.
‘No,’ Mary replied. ‘Well yes, it should be. Oh all right. The only reason I’m going to tell you is you’ve sworn you’re never getting another cat.’
‘Of course I’m not getting another cat.’
‘Okay, then,’ Mary said, settling to her subject. ‘I’ve just seen the cutest Siamese kitten in a pet shop across town!’
My sister is in possession of what’s commonly known as a long fuse. She doesn’t get hugely annoyed or enthralled by anything much. When she does it’s for good reason. Her eyes were positively blazing.
‘What were you doing in a pet shop?’
‘I was just walking past and I saw him. Well, I think it’s a him. He’s really special!’
Another thing about Mary is she has an eye for quality. Her taste is restrained, and exceptionally good. Any kitten she considered even half cute would be off the scale of adorability by anyone’s standards.
Nevertheless, I was on safe ground. I had no intention of getting another cat. Not only that, I’d never been enamoured of Siamese as a breed. While the ones I’d met were attractive to look at, they were far too full of themselves and yowly.
If I ever acquired another feline – which I wasn’t going to – it would be a mixed-breed moggy like Cleo, preferably from an animal shelter. On top of that, in the unlikely-verging-on-impossible circumstance I’d ever consider another cat, it certainly wouldn’t be one from a pet shop. Though I didn’t know much about it, I’d heard rumours about kitten and puppy farmers who breed animals indiscriminately in their backyards with the sole purpose of selling them to pet shops on a no-questions-asked basis.
No ‘cute’ Siamese kitten was going to wrap me around its little paw. Immunity was guaranteed. On the other hand, I’d just started feeling strong enough for a proper outing. A quick trip to a pet shop would be fun, and about all I could manage before crawling back into bed.
I climbed painfully into my clothes, packed the drainage bottle into my coat pocket, slapped a homemade beanie on my head and creaked down the path. Lydia loaded me carefully into the front passenger’s seat and drove the three of us across the river. A parking space was waiting right outside the pet |shop. Hunched over my stitches, I hobbled through the doors with sister and daughter on either side.
If there’s an opposite of a cancer ward, it must surely be a pet store. In this restless nursery of life the smell of damp news paper and sawdust mingled with birdseed and something vaguely meaty. Budgies squawked, canaries whistled, puppies whined. Neon stripes of tropical fish flashed from inside their tanks.
A large cage about two metres high in the centre of the shop soon drew us into its orbit. A handwritten notice on the cage door said ‘Burmese and Siamese Kittens. Please Do Not put Finger’s through the Wire. It Spreads Disease.’
I’m a fully paid-up apostrophe bore. So much so, Katharine reckoned I should have my own television show travelling the world striking out rogue apostrophes and restoring omitted ones on public signs. I was on the verge of protesting about the creative punctuation of ‘Finger’s’ before my attention was swiftly diverted.
About a dozen tiny kittens were curled up in bunches, some on the floor, others on a ledge halfway up the cage. They were all fast asleep – except for one. A pale kitten, considerably larger than the others, was scrambling up the inside of the cage wire with the aptitude of a worl
d-class mountaineer. One paw after another he scaled the wall, trusting his entire body weight to the strength of the claws on his front feet. Higher and higher he climbed, until he was almost at the summit. Deeply engrossed in his challenge, every muscle in his body was focused on conquering the cage – and gravity.
Even from several feet away I could see he was beautiful – sleek and long limbed. Milk white, his faced was tinged with shadowy brown with matching ears, tail and feet. Intrigued by his looks and daredevil personality, I took a step forward. The kitten suddenly froze and, spread-eagled against the wire, fixed me with a sapphire gaze. The intensity of his stare shot straight through to my heart. The clamour and noise of the pet shop faded to nothing. I was transfixed.
The kitten refused to unlock his gaze. I couldn’t look away. We were caught in a mutual stare. A strange interaction seemed to be happening. Admittedly, hallucinogens were still pumping through me after seven hours of anaesthetic ten days earlier. Yet as the kitten bored his electric blue eyes through me, I could feel him insisting, no demanding, we become part of each other’s lives.
I’d experienced love at first sight once before. When I’d first clapped eyes on Philip, I’d practically turned to pancake mixture. But he was – still is – an incredibly handsome man. That magic evening, standing at the top of the museum steps in an impeccably cut suit, he’d resembled an action hero on his day off. Who wouldn’t have fallen for him?
I’d always assumed love at first sight was a human-to-human thing, and not something that could occur between a middle-aged woman and a Siamese kitten. But in those few seconds I’d become enraptured. At some sub-cellular level that kitten and I belonged together.
‘See? I told you he’s cute,’ Mary said. ‘Shall we get you home now?’ she added, probably sensing the danger and trying to get me out of the place.
When I tried to turn away the kitten slid his paw between the wire, reached out to me, opened his mouth and emitted an adorable squeak. I’d always thought Siamese had loud, ugly voices. This little fellow had just proved me wrong. Despite the warning notice with its ridiculous apostrophe, I couldn’t resist. I took the kitten’s paw and rested it between my fingers and thumb.
The kitten gazed into my eyes and purred ecstatically. All resistance crumbled.
‘Look at that!’ said Lydia. ‘He wants to come home with us.’
‘Didn’t you read the sign?’ came a disapproving voice, slicing through our romantic tableau.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, tearing my eyes away from the kitten to address a spotty young man in tortoiseshell glasses. My first reaction was to dislike this pet shop policeman. Yet behind the tortoiseshell glasses his expression was protective. Thin and shabbily dressed, the youth was almost certainly underpaid. He was probably trying to look after the animals as best he could.
‘The kitten reached out to me and I . . .’
The kitten withdrew his paw and continued scaling the cage wall.
‘If you knew how many people come in this shop every day,’ the youth continued. ‘They all want to touch the animals and every one of them has germs on their hands. They pass on all sorts of diseases to the animals.’
I nodded reluctantly and put my hand in my pocket.
As the kitten reached the top of the cage wall I wondered what would happen next. Climbing down back feet first would’ve been the most sensible option, but the kitten had no interest in predictability. Like Tarzan, he swung himself sideways, gripping the wire ceiling with one set of claws after the other. In an instant he was hanging upside down from all fours and, after making sure his audience was still enthralled, let out a triumphant mew. He was more circus performer than feline.
‘Is this kitten available?’ I asked, hardly able to believe the words bouncing off my lips. The kitten’s upside-down gaze swivelled from me to the shop assistant, as if waiting for the answer.
‘Oh, that one,’ he said with the slightest ripple on his lips. ‘He’s had conjunctivitis so he was in isolation at the back of the shop for a few weeks. That’s why he’s so much older than the other kittens.’
‘Older? I’d thought he was just bigger,’ I gabbled. ‘But of course bigger means older . . .’
‘Shouldn’t we go home and think about it?’ Mary asked. ‘You’ll blame me if it turns out a disaster.’
Once a big sister, always a big sister. The kitten released its grip from the cage ceiling and dropped rapidly earthwards. Lydia, Mary and I drew a breath in unison as he sailed past us only to land safely on top of a ball of brown fluff curled up beside the feeding bowls.
‘He always does that,’ said the shop assistant. ‘Uses that other kitten for a landing pad. Sleeps on her, too. I don’t know how she puts up with it.’
Unhurt, the brown kitten seemed almost grateful to have provided a mattress for her hyperactive friend. The Siamese shook himself, and after a few quick licks to check his legs and spine were still in place, swaggered over to the wire again to continue his charm offensive.
Even in my infatuated condition, I could hear faint warning bells. This kitten had so much personality he was on the verge of egotistical. He had potential to be a handful, possibly even a little dysfunctional. That only made me love him more. Like every woman who’s been a sucker for a charmer, I didn’t care. They weren’t warning bells, they were wedding bells! Whatever erratic behaviour he didn’t grow out of, I’d cure. Hadn’t I raised three children successfully, more or less? A four-legged animal would be a pushover.
‘Would you like to hold him?’ the youth asked.
I nodded vigorously. It felt uncomfortable having my future happiness dependent on a spotty young man who was so offhand about my attachment to the kitten. He hadn’t even answered my question properly about whether the little thing was available or not. He seemed quite fond of the creature. Maybe he was planning to keep the kitten for himself.
When I asked the young man what his name was, he seemed embarrassed, perplexed even. Nathan, he said, turning pink and examining the shelves of dog food. I was beginning to get his measure. Nathan was a shy person who, disappointed or intimidated by the human race, felt more comfortable with animals.
Nathan opened the cage door and lunged for the Siamese, who sprang nimbly out of his grasp into a pile of shredded newspaper. The kitten remained motionless inside his hiding place, confident he couldn’t be seen. He was betrayed by a small dark tail protruding from the spaghetti of paper.
‘He thinks it’s a game,’ Nathan sighed, reaching into the papery nest and lifting the creature out by the scruff of his neck. I’d never believed people who said that was a humane way to handle kittens, but the little fellow didn’t seem to mind.
Nathan lowered his prisoner into my hands. Gazing up at me, the kitten purred like a lawnmower. He was so silky and warm. For the first time in what seemed ages, something inside my chest softened. Liquid honey streamed through my arteries. My breathing suddenly came from a softer, deeper place. Weeks of worry and pain melted away.
‘Is he for sale?’ I asked.
Nathan nodded, adding that a free vet’s check-up and reduced price for neutering would be included. I knew there were all sorts of questions people are supposed to ask before buying a pet. They flew out of my head. Nathan confirmed the kitten was purebred Siamese.
‘Does he have papers?’
Nathan shot me a defensive look.
‘None of our animals have papers,’ he said. ‘If we bothered with that sort of thing they’d be way too expensive.’
It made perfect sense. I had no intention of putting him in cat shows, or using him for breeding purposes.
Lydia asked if she could hold the kitten. Reluctantly, I passed him over. He rolled on his back and writhed playfully in her hands. Mary, Lydia and I chuckled together. After such an anxious time, the relief of laughter was immeasurable.
‘What will we call him?’ Lydia asked.
‘You mean what would we call him?’ I corrected in my old voice, the sane one
that knew getting another kitten would be preposterous.
I’d learnt from our experience with goldfish, years earlier, that bestowing an animal with a name creates a bond that sets you up for heartbreak. After Finny, Swimmer and Jaws had been lowered tearfully into what was becoming a mass grave in our back garden, I’d insisted any new goldfish we acquired would be nameless. They’d simply have numbers. As it turned out, One, Two and Three survived for biblical years by goldfish standards, creating hundreds of descendants in their backyard pool.
As I contemplated buying the kitten, I thought of Philip. When he’d moved in with us all those years ago, we’d been a readymade family complete with Cleo. It’s one thing to take on a cat as part of a bulk deal, and something quite different to have a kitten land uninvited in your life.
Gender was something the kitten had in its favour. After Rob left home, Philip often complained half-jokingly about being the only male in a household full of women. (‘Even the cat’s female,’ he used to grumble.) If we took this little clown home, Philip might form a man-to-kitten bromance.
I’d never been a fan of Rugby, but it was Philip’s obsession. As the kitten dived from Lydia’s arms on to the pet shop floor and sprinted furiously toward the wall of birdcages, I was reminded of the fluid athleticism of one of the most famous Rugby All Blacks of all time – Jonah Lomu.
‘Jonah,’ I said, over the budgies’ shrieks of alarm. ‘Let’s call him Jonah.’
Disenchantment
Beware of charm in cats and men
A pair of sapphire eyes glinted through slits of the pet carrier as Lydia bore Jonah gently up the front path. Mary followed behind with the food and litter bags, and a leopard-skin cat bed. I was in charge of the kitten’s entertainment centre – a bag containing balls, fake mice and a ‘fishing rod’ stick with an imitation bird and a bell attached to the end of an elastic line. It seemed incredible that one small creature required so much equipment.
