Then one day, a strange thing happened. It was Tony’s day off and he was sitting on the doorstep of his caravan. I passed, carrying a bag of fish destined for Gordon, the gannet. I gave Tony a small smile, all I could manage being so shy.
“Hey, Vicky,” he said, “is that fish you’ve got there? For Gordon?”
I nodded.
“What’s he got today? Mackerel?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, and tried to open the bag to peer in.
“Gordon likes mackerel,” said Tony, making conversation. “Well, as much as he likes any fish…”
Somehow, I was all fingers and thumbs and before I knew it, the plastic bag had slipped from my grasp and the fish spilled out and tumbled to the ground.
“Oh!”
Tony sprang forward and helped me capture the slithery, scaly things and push them back into the bag.
We both stood up at the same moment.
“There you go, that’s the last one,” he said, looking straight into my eyes.
For the first time, I gazed straight back, unblinking.
“Has anybody ever told you that you have the most beautiful, unusual green-coloured eyes?” he said, as though he’d just made a new discovery.
No, nobody has ever told me that, but I’m not going to admit it.
“Thank you.”
“Hey, I was wondering… What are you doing after work tonight?”
I pretended to consider, but my heart was racing so fast I was sure he could hear it.
“Um, nothing. I, um, I believe I’m free tonight.”
And that’s how it all began. Romance blossomed over a carrier bag full of mackerel. It wasn’t exactly how I imagined it would happen; there were no sunsets, or butterflies, or birdsong, just some smelly dead fish and a slimy carrier bag.
Tony and I quickly became inseparable. I began to part my hair in the middle and even wore headbands and dangly earrings. I embraced vegetarianism and wore faded flared jeans and smocks. I would have taken up smoking weed in clay pipes but it made me cough. On my days off and during my lunch breaks, I lounged on the orange and purple geometric cushions in Tony’s caravan, listening to Bob Dylan and Joan Baez.
Working at the animal sanctuary was always fun, but now I just couldn’t wait to get to work every day. The first pleasure of the day was opening my locker. Tony often scribbled little notes, folded them in half and slotted them through the crack in my locker door. Sometimes the note just had a silly joke, like:
How do you know you’re in bed with an elephant?
Because of the ‘E’ embroidered on his pyjamas.
Hehehe!
Love,
T xxx
But other notes made my knees go weak, and I would stuff those into my bra, next to my heart, to re-read a thousand times that day.
Vicky, I couldn’t get to sleep last night thinking about your green eyes.
Can’t wait to see you today,
All my love,
T xxx
Luckily, it was the school holidays, so I was there most of the time. Tony and I held hands or embraced in secret, and for a while, the sky became bluer, and the grass greener. I was seventeen and in love, with the world at my feet.
Tony’s family lived in Birmingham, and I loved to listen to the ‘Brummy’ twang in his voice. I teased him when he used words and phrases unfamiliar to us southerners.
“Our kid is doing really well at school,” he said.
“Our kid? You have a child?”
“No! Our kid is me younger brother.”
Then he’d tease me back when I used Dorset slang words like ‘grockles’ meaning tourists.
Tony was several years older than I was, and although he had qualifications, he didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. I was studying for my ‘A’ levels and planned to go to Teacher Training College. I imagined Tony would stay in Dorset, waiting for me to finish. Then I would come back and we would live happily ever after.
Then one day, Tony dropped a bombshell that rocked my teenage world.
“I’ve applied for university and been accepted.”
In those days, ‘Gap Years’ hadn’t been given the name yet. Usually, when one left school, one immediately went to university, college, or on to a chosen career. It was very unusual for anybody to spend a year or more ‘experiencing’ the world before they entered university or the serious world of work. Tony had decided he needed some time out of education, which was why he was working at the animal sanctuary, although I didn’t know that then. I guess I thought that the animal sanctuary would be his career.
“University?”
“Yes. In Birmingham where my family come from. I’ve handed in my notice here. I’m leaving tomorrow and going on holiday with my family first.”
“What?”
Shock robbed me of words.
“This is my last week. I’m sorry. I knew you’d be upset so I’ve been keeping it from you.”
“Birmingham? Birmingham? But what about us?”
Silence.
That silence told me all I needed to know. There was no ‘us’. I didn’t figure in Tony’s future.
“How long have you known?”
“A long time. I just couldn’t face telling you.”
His hands were gripping my arms but I threw him off.
“You’ve known all this time? How could you!”
I turned on my heel and left him standing there, smoothing his bristly moustache down with his forefinger. I burst into Sandy’s pen, flung my arms round the old retriever’s neck, and buried my face in his golden fur.
The next day I phoned in sick. There was no way I could face Tony, no way I could say goodbye to him. I felt as though somebody had stamped on my heart.
I scraped my hair back and stared at myself in the mirror. I will never trust a man again, I told myself. I will never eat again. I may shave my head. I’ll just languish here in my bedroom, nursing my broken heart. He’ll be sorry when he hears I’ve died of a broken heart. And if they force-feed me like they do Gordon the Gannet, and I survive, I’ll never go into the outside world again. I’ll stay here like Miss Haversham, gathering dust.
“Ach, how are you feeling?” asked my mother, popping her head round the door. “Mrs James at Cullens says there’s a nasty bug going round, you’ve probably caught that.”
“I think I’m going to die,” I announced with a quaver in my voice.
“Ach, I don’t think it’s that bad, just a tickly cough and a bit of a sore throat. I’ll make you some semolina to soothe your throat.”
“No food,” I said feebly. “I can’t face any food.”
How can semolina mend a broken heart?
“Okay,” she said and left me alone.
I heard her go down the stairs and close the back door. I knew she was on her way to check her compost heap.
“Nobody understands,” I whispered, burying my face in my pillows.
All those daydreams where he and I would walk off together into the sunset to save the world…
All that paper I had wasted at school doodling his name and practising writing my signature, Mrs Victoria Fletcher….
All for nothing. He didn’t care about me.
If I survive, I’m going to become a nun.
By the next day, I was starving, and rather bored with being in my own bedroom for so long. Okay, I’ll eat, I relented, but my vegetarian days are over.
“Glad you are feeling better,” said my mother. “I didn’t think you’d be eating anything much yet, so I haven’t prepared any vegetables for you. We’ve got sausage pie.”
“That’s okay.”
“But you are vegetarian?”
“Not any more.”
The sausage pie tasted great and I had a double helping on principle, just to spite Tony. But I didn’t feel any better for my traitorous behaviour.
I stopped listening to Bob Dylan and played Simon and Garfunkel records instead. Tears of self-pity coursed down my che
eks as I played Bridge over Troubled Water again and again.
When I went back to work, two big things happened.
First, I found a note that had been pushed into my locker through the crack in the door. My heart lurched and I held my breath as I unfolded it. He’d changed his mind! He wanted me back!
Dear Vicky,
I’m sorry it had to end this way.
It’s my fault, I should have told you I was planning to go to uni.
I hope we can stay friends.
I’m going to be popping into the sanctuary to say goodbye properly before I leave for the new term.
I hope to see you then.
Tony
Huh? No kisses? No ‘I miss you’ or even ‘All my love’? Friends? What was the point of that? I had already designed the wedding dress. I was going to borrow my mother’s pearls and wear a blue garter. I planned on spending the rest of my life with Tony and he had snatched my dreams away. He didn’t deserve my friendship, and I certainly wasn’t going to look out for his visit.
But I was lying to myself. During public visiting times, when the gates opened, I would search the visitors, always hoping Tony the Hippy would be amongst the sea of faces.
The second big thing that happened was that the schedule had been changed. According to the new schedule pinned to the noticeboard, no longer would I be working in the Special Care unit. Instead, I would be working in the cattery.
22 Cats
Crêpes Suzette
Being told that I’d been moved out of the Special Care unit would normally have plunged me into a deep depression as I would have been separated from my beloved Tony. But as he had abandoned me without a backward glance to explore distant exotic shores, (well, Birmingham) I was pleased not to have to work where there were constant reminders of him. No longer would I have to walk past Tony’s old caravan, which was now occupied by Big Denise.
Yes, working in the cattery would suit me fine.
I love cats. I love their individuality and their general snootiness. I’ve had cats as pets since, but I’ve always felt that they owned me, not vice versa. I hadn’t realised how many different shapes, colours, sizes and personalities of domestic cat existed in the world until I worked in the cattery at the animal sanctuary.
The cattery was made up of a long line of pens. Each outdoor part had structures to climb, or hide in, and a basket for its occupant to snooze in the sun. A little doorway led to an indoor compartment with more snug beds and different levels to climb. It was pussycat paradise, but not freedom.
Kittens were usually re-homed very quickly. The more mature feline residents had to wait until they were noticed, although the sanctuary did its best to make their lives pleasant.
Each cat had a story, and many were found as strays, like Hamworthy.
“Why is he called Hamworthy?” I asked Big Denise who was showing me the ropes.
“He was found trying to stow away in the First Class compartment of a train on the London Waterloo line. The stationmaster discovered him at Hamworthy junction.”
Hamworthy rubbed his ginger cheek on my leg and purred. I scratched him behind the ear and his eyes glazed in pleasure.
“And Seafore? I guess he was found on the beach or something?”
“Nope. It should be ‘C for’ really. C for cat. We’d run out of name ideas when he came in.”
“Oh. And Carpenter?”
“Ah, poor old Carpy isn’t very bright. He has never really been properly house-trained. I expect somebody dumped him because of that. We call him Carpenter because he’s always doing little jobs around the place.”
“Jobs?”
“Yes, smelly ones.”
“Oh.”
Work in the cattery was very simple. I had to go from pen to pen, cleaning them out and replacing the cat litter. I made sure the drinking water was fresh and clean, and filled the food bowls morning and evening. Any spare time I had, I could spend stroking and playing with the inmates.
Some of the cats were so shy that they’d vanish into their indoor sleeping quarters as soon as I appeared. Others didn’t flee, but watched me with one wary eye cracked open. If I attempted to stroke them, they were gone.
Some of the cat pens were empty with the doors propped open. The cats living in these pens were there on a Dinner, Bed and Breakfast basis. They were very tame and allowed to roam freely around the sanctuary during the day, returning to be fed and shut in at night.
A few cats in the closed pens were friendly, almost tripping me up as they wound themselves around my ankles as I tried to carry out my chores. The cat I remember most clearly, and with huge guilt, was a little tabby cat called Blossom.
Blossom lived in a closed pen with three much shyer kitties. As soon as I arrived, she twisted figures of eight around my ankles, clamouring for attention. I rubbed under her chin, which she loved, and behind her ears. If I had time, I would sit with her awhile and she’d climb into my lap, purring like an industrial lawnmower.
“Why don’t we allow Blossom out of her pen during the day?” I asked Big Denise, who had recently been promoted to Assistant Manager. “She’s so friendly and affectionate. I’m sure she’d love the extra interaction with the staff and visitors. She might even find someone to adopt her.”
“I’m not sure,” said Denise. “There must be a reason for her being kept in a closed pen.”
Over the next few days I brought up the subject whenever I could.
“I think it’s unfair,” I declared. “Poor Blossom.”
“If you are sure she’s so tame,” said Denise, a little doubtfully, “perhaps we could let her out on trial and see what happens.”
“Fantastic! Now?”
“Yes, why not?”
Together we walked to Blossom’s pen. As usual, her three shy roommates streaked away into their indoor quarters, while Blossom came forward to greet her admirers.
“You’re a lovely little cat, aren’t you?” crooned Denise, stroking Blossom until she purred like a pneumatic drill. “Would you like a taste of freedom?”
“You see how tame she is?” I said.
“Yup. She knows you, why don’t you pick her up and take her outside, see how she likes it?”
I picked Blossom up and cuddled her. She purred even louder. I walked out through the door, closing it behind me with my foot to prevent her roommates from escaping.
The purring stopped abruptly. I felt Blossom stiffen. Then she exploded out of my arms and hit the ground running. Denise and I watched in horror as she streaked across the field and disappeared into a hedge.
“Oh no,” we said, staring in disbelief, first at each other, then at the distant hedge.
“Blossom! Blossom! Here, kitty, kitty!”
But no amount of searching, calling, or coaxing flushed Blossom out of her hiding place.
We mentioned the incident in the staffroom.
“Blossom?” asked one of the old-timers, mid-sandwich. “Little tabby cat, very friendly?”
We nodded.
“Oh, she’s agoraphobic. Doubt you’ll ever see her again.”
Denise and I were horrified, but although we never gave up searching, nobody ever saw Blossom again.
Racked with guilt, I vowed that in future I would never again interfere. Never would I assume that I knew better. However, I’m afraid, looking back on my life, I acknowledge that I’ve often meddled in affairs that were none of my business. I should have learned my lesson from what befell little Blossom.
In spite of the loss of little Blossom, I had found my niche working in the cattery. I loved them all, but of course I had my favourites.
I loved Marmite, the sneaky, handsome, coal-black cat who liked to jump out at me from behind corners, then wind himself around my ankles in apology. I loved Frosty, the deaf white cat with no ears, a skin cancer victim who still lived life to the full in spite of her misfortune. She loved to doze in sun puddles and rolled luxuriously onto her back to have her tummy rubbed whenever I approac
hed. But most of all, I loved Nig-Nog.
Poor Nig-Nog would never win a prize at a cat show because he was not a handsome cat. He was a huge boy, probably from a mixed heritage because his colouring ranged from splotches of white on his face, to hectic ginger stripes up two legs and brown patches over his back. It was as though his designer couldn’t decide what colour he should be, and experimented with all of them. Even Nig-Nog’s eyes were eccentric as he had one green and one yellow. But what Nig-Nog lacked in beauty, he made up for in personality, and he was one of the most endearing, comical cats I have ever met.
Nig-Nog didn’t live in the cattery. He was his own boss, and chose to roam the sanctuary by day and sleep in the stables with the goats at night. I don’t know how he knew the difference between weekdays and weekends, but every Saturday and Sunday morning he’d be waiting for the staff minibus to arrive. As soon as the driver applied the handbrake, Nig-Nog shot forward and circled the bus, looking for me. He would stand on his hind legs with his front paws on the side of the vehicle, his head tilted back as he stared through the windows searching for me.
When I jumped off the bus and called him, he would gallop forward to greet me, his head butting me in welcome. My fellow staff members rolled their eyes in amusement. Nig-Nog didn’t like to be picked up, so I leaned down to stroke his head and talk to him. And that was another of Nig-Nog’s endearing traits: he talked.
“Hello, Nig-Nog, how are you this morning?” I asked.
“Meowwww-purrp.”
“Oh good. I hope you’ve been keeping those goats in order.”
“Meoooow-meowwww.”
“Right, and have you been sorting out the mice?”
“Purrrp-mew-meooow…”
And so on. Nig-Nog and I chatted all day, and wherever I was, he was only a scamper behind.
As I worked my way along the cattery pens, Nig-Nog would wait for me, not at the gates of the pens, but on the chicken-wire roof. His weight caused the roof to sag and it can’t have been comfortable for him, but that was his chosen position, the place where he could keep a green or yellow eye on me.
Nig-Nog didn’t know he was a cat. I’m not sure what he thought he was, but if I threw a little stick, he would dash to chase it and fetch it back. So perhaps he thought he was a dog.
One Young Fool in Dorset Page 16
