The Daydreamer

by Ian Mcewan

  The kitchen was a kind of halfway house between his bed and the big world outside. Here the air was thick with toast smoke, kettle steam and bacon smells. Breakfast was meant to be a family meal, but it rarely happened that all four of them sat down at once. Both Peter’s parents went out to work, and there was always someone running round the table in a panic, looking for a lost paper, or an appointment book or a shoe, and you had to grab whatever was cooking on the stove and find a place for yourself.

  It was warm in here, almost as warm as bed, but it was not as peaceful. The air was filled with accusations disguised as questions.

  Who’s fed the cat?

  What time are you coming home?

  Did you finish that homework?

  Who’s had my briefcase?

  As the minutes passed, the confusion and urgency increased. It was a family rule that the kitchen had to be tidied before anyone left the house. Sometimes you had to snatch your piece of bacon from the frying pan before it was tipped into the cat’s bowl and the pan plunged hissing into the washing-up water. The four members of the family ran backwards and forwards with dirty plates and cereal packets, bumping into each other, and there was always someone muttering, I’m going to be late. I’m going to be late. Third time this week!

  But there was in fact a fifth member of the household who was never in a rush, and who ignored the commotion. He lay stretched out on a shelf on top of the radiator, eyes half closed, his only sign of life an occasional yawn. It was an enormous yawn, an insulting yawn. The mouth opened wide to show a clean pink tongue, and when at last it closed again, a com- fortable shudder rippled from whiskers to tail: William the cat was settling down to his day.

  When Peter snatched up his satchel, and took one last look around before running out of the house, it was always William he saw. His head was cushioned on one paw, while the other dangled carelessly over the edge of the shelf, dabbling in the rising warmth. Now the ridiculous humans were leaving, a cat could get in a few hours of serious snoozing. The image of the dozing cat tormented Peter as he stepped out of the house into the icy blast of the north wind.

  If you believe it is strange to think of a cat as a real member of a family, then you should know that William’s age was greater than Peter and Kate’s together. As a young cat he knew their mother when she was still at school. He had gone with her to university, and five years later had been present at her wedding reception. When Viola Fortune was expecting her first baby, and rested in bed some afternoons, William Cat used to drape him- self over the big round hump in her middle that was Peter. At the births of both Peter and Kate, he had disappeared from the house for days on end. No one knew where or why he went. He had quietly observed all the sorrows and joys of family life. He had watched the babies become toddlers who tried to carry him about by the ears, and he had seen the toddlers turn into school children. He had known the parents when they were a wild young couple living in one room. Now they were less wild in their three- bedroomed house. And William Cat was less wild too. He no longer brought mice or birds into the house to lay them at the feet of ungrateful humans. Soon after his fourteenth birthday he gave up fighting and no longer proudly defended his territory. Peter thought it outrageous that a bully of a young tom from next door was taking over the garden, knowing that old William could not do a thing about it. Sometimes the tom came through the cat flap into the kitchen and ate William’s food while the old cat watched helplessly. And only a few years before, no sensible cat would have dared set a paw upon the lawn.

  William must have been sad about the loss of his powers. He gave up the company of other cats and sat alone in the house with his memories and reflections. But despite his seventeen years, he kept himself sleek and trim. He was mostly black, with dazzling white socks and shirt front, and a splash of white in the tip of his tail. Sometimes he would seek you out where you were sitting, and after a moment’s thought, jump on to your lap and stand there, feet splayed, gazing deeply without blinking into your eyes. Then he might cock his head, still holding your gaze, and miaow, just once, and you would know he was telling you something important and wise, some- thing you would never understand.

  There was nothing Peter liked better on a winter’s after- noon when he came home from school than to kick off his shoes and lie down beside William Cat in front of the living- room fire. He liked to get right down to William’s level, and to put his face up close to the cat’s and see how extraordinary it really was, how beautifully non-human, with spikes of black hair sprouting in a globe from a tiny face beneath the fur, and the white whiskers with their slight downwards curve, and the eyebrow hairs shooting up like radio antennae, and the pale green eyes with their upright slits, like doors ajar into a world Peter could never enter. As soon as he came close to the cat, the deep rumbling purr would begin, so low and strong that the floor vibrated. Peter knew he was welcome.

  It was just one such afternoon, a Tuesday as it happened, four o’clock and already the light fading, curtains drawn and lights on, when Peter eased himself on to the carpet where William lay before a bright fire whose flames were curling round a fat elm log. Down the chimney came the moan of the freezing wind as it whipped across the rooftops. Peter had sprinted from the bus stop with Kate to keep warm. Now he was safely indoors with his old friend who was pretending to be younger than his years by rolling on to his back and letting his front paws flop help-lessly. He wanted his chest tickled. As Peter began to move his fingers lightly through the fur, the rumbling noise grew louder, so loud that every bone in the old cat’s body rattled. And then, William stretched out a paw to Peter’s fingers and tried to draw them up higher. Peter let the cat guide his hand.

  ‘Do you want me to tickle your chin?’ he murmured. But no. The cat wanted to be touched right at the base of his throat. Peter felt something hard there. It moved from side to side when he touched it. Something had got trapped in the fur. Peter propped himself on an elbow in order to investigate. He parted the fur. At first he thought he was looking at a piece of jewellery, a little silver tag. But there was no chain, and as he poked and peered he saw that it was not metal at all, but polished bone, oval and flattened in the centre, and most curiously of all, that it was attached to William Cat’s skin. The piece of bone fitted well between his forefinger and thumb. He tightened his grip and gave a tug. William Cat’s purr grew even louder. Peter pulled again, downwards, and this time he felt something give.

  Looking down through the fur, and parting it with the tips of his fingers, he saw that he had opened up a small slit in the cat’s skin. It was as if he were holding the handle of a zip. Again he pulled, and now there was a dark opening two inches long. William Cat’s purr was coming from in there. Perhaps, Peter thought, I’ll see his heart beating. A paw was gently pushing against his fingers again. William Cat wanted him to go on.

  And this is what he did. He unzipped the whole cat from throat to tail. Peter wanted to part the skin to peep inside. But he did not wish to appear nosey. He was just about to call out to Kate when there was a movement, a stirring inside the cat, and from the opening in the fur there came a faint pink glow which grew brighter. And suddenly, out of William Cat climbed a, well, a thing, a creature. But Peter was not certain that it was really there to touch, for it seemed to be made entirely of light. And while it did not have whiskers or a tail, or a purr, or even fur, or four legs, everything about it seemed to say ‘cat’. It was the very essence of the word, the heart of the idea. It was a quiet, slinky, curvy fold of pink and purple light, and it was climbing out of the cat.

  ‘You must be William’s spirit,’ Peter said aloud. ‘Or are you a ghost?’

  The light made no sound, but it understood. It seemed to say, without actually speaking the words, that it was both these things, and much more besides.

  When it was clear of the cat, which continued to lie on its back on the carpet in front of the fire, the cat spirit drifted into the air, and floated up to Peter’s shoulder where it settled. Pe
ter was not frightened. He felt the glow of the spirit on his cheek. And then the light drifted behind his head, out of sight. He felt it touch his neck and a warm shudder ran down his back. The cat spirit took hold of something knobbly at the top of his spine and drew it down, right down his back, and as his own body opened up, he felt the cool air of the room tickle the warmth of his insides.

  It was the oddest thing, to climb out of your body, just step out of it and leave it lying on the carpet like a shirt you had just taken off. Peter saw his own glow, which was purple and the purest white. The two spirits hovered in the air facing each other. And then Peter suddenly knew what he wanted to do, what he had to do. He floated towards William Cat and hovered. The body stood open, like a door, and it looked so inviting, so welcoming. He dropped down and stepped inside. How fine it was, to dress yourself as a cat. It was not squelchy, as he thought all insides must be. It was dry and warm. He lay on his back and slipped his arms into William’s front legs. Then he wiggled his legs into William’s back legs. His head fitted perfectly inside the cat’s head. He glanced across at his own body just in time to see William Cat’s spirit disappear inside.

  Using his paws, Peter was able to zip himself up easily. He stood, and took a few steps. What a delight, to walk on four soft white paws. He could see his whiskers springing out from the sides of his face, and he felt his tail curling behind him. His tread was light, and his fur was like the most comfortable of old woollen jumpers. As his pleasure in being a cat grew, his heart swelled, and a tingling sensation deep in his throat became so strong that he could actually hear himself. Peter was purring. He was Peter Cat, and over there, was William Boy.

  The boy stood up and stretched. Then, without a word to the cat at his feet, he skipped out of the room.

  ‘Mum,’ Peter heard his old body call out from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m hungry. What’s for supper?’

  That night Peter was too restless, too excited, too much of a cat to sleep. Towards ten o’clock he slipped through the cat flap. The freezing night air could not penetrate his thick fur coat. He padded soundlessly towards the garden wall. It towered above him, but one effortless, graceful leap and he was up, surveying his territory. How wonderful to see into dark corners, to feel every vibration of the night air on his whiskers, and to make himself invisible when, at midnight, a fox came up the garden path to root among the dustbins. All around he was aware of other cats, some local, some from far away, going about their night-time business, travelling their routes. After the fox, a young tabby had tried to enter the garden. Peter warned him off with a hiss and a flick of his tail. He had purred inwardly as the young fellow squealed in astonishment and took flight.

  Not long after that, while patrolling the high wall that rose above the greenhouse, he came face to face with another cat, a more dangerous intruder. It was completely black, which was why Peter had not seen it sooner. It was the tom from next door, a vigorous fellow almost twice his size, with a thick neck and long powerful legs. Without even thinking, Peter arched his back and upended his fur to make himself look big.

  ‘Hey puss,’ he hissed, ‘this is my wall and you’re on it.’

  The black cat looked surprised. It smiled. ‘So it was your wall once, Grandad. What’ya going to do about it now?’

  ‘Beat it, before I throw you off.’ Peter was amazed at how strongly he felt. This was his wall, his garden, and it was his job to keep unfriendly cats out.

  The black cat smiled again, coldly. ‘Listen Grandad. It hasn’t been your wall for a long time. I’m coming through. Out of my way or I’ll rip your fur off.’

  Peter stood his ground. ‘Take another step, you walking flea circus, and I’ll tie your whiskers round your neck.’

  The black cat gave out a long laughing wail of contempt. But it did not take another step. All around, local cats were appearing out of the darkness to watch. Peter heard their voices.

  ‘A fight?’

  ‘A fight!’

  ‘The old boy must be crazy!’

  ‘He’s seventeen if he’s a day.’

  The black cat arched its powerful spine and howled again, a terrible rising note.

  Peter tried to keep his voice calm, but his words came out in a hiss. ‘You don’t take ssshort cutsss through here without asssking me firssst.’

  The black cat blinked. The muscles in its fat neck rippled as it shrieked its laugh that was also a war cry.

  On the opposite wall, a moan of excitement ran through the crowd which was still growing.

  ‘Old Bill has flipped.’

  ‘He’s chosen the wrong cat to pick a fight with.’

  ‘Listen, you toothless old sheep,’ the black cat said through a hiss far more penetrating than Peter’s. ‘I’m number one round here. Isn’t that right?’

  The black cat half turned to the crowd which murmured its agreement. Peter thought the watching cats did not sound very enthusiastic.

  ‘My advice to you,’ the black cat went on, ‘is to step aside. Or I’ll spread your guts all over the lawn.’

  Peter knew he had gone too far now to back down. He extended his claws to take a firm grip of the wall. ‘You bloated rat! This is my wall d’you hear. And you are nothing but the soft turd of a sick dog!’

  The black cat gasped. There were titters in the crowd. Peter was always such a polite boy. How splendid it was now to spit out these insults.

  ‘You’ll be birds’ breakfast,’ the black cat warned, and took a step forwards. Peter snatched a deep breath. For old William’s sake he had to win. Even as he was thinking this, the black cat’s paw lashed out at his face. Peter had an old cat’s body, but he had a young boy’s mind. He ducked and felt the paw and its vicious outstretched claws go singing through the air above his ears. He had time to see how the black cat was supported momentarily on only three legs. Immediately he sprang forwards, and with his two front paws pushed the tom hard in the chest. It was not the kind of thing a cat does in a fight and the number one cat was taken by sur-prise. With a yelp of astonishment, he slipped and tottered backwards, tipped off the wall and fell head first through the roof of the greenhouse below. The icy night air was shattered by the crash and musical tinkle of broken glass and the earth-ier clatter of breaking flowerpots. Then there was silence. The hushed crowd of cats peered down from their wall. They heard a movement, then a groan. Then, just visible in the gloom was the shape of the black cat hobbling across the lawn. They heard it muttering.

  ‘It’s not fair. Claws and teeth, yes. But pushing like that. It just isn’t fair.’

  ‘Next time,’ Peter called down, ‘you ask permission.’

  The black cat did not reply, but something about its retreating, limping shape made it clear it had understood.

  The next morning, Peter lay on the shelf above the radiator with his head cushioned on one paw, while the other dangled loosely in the rising warmth. All about him was hurry and chaos. Kate could not find her satchel. The porridge was burned. Mr Fortune was in a bad mood because the coffee had run out and he needed three strong cups to start his day. The kitchen was a mess and the mess was covered in porridge smoke. And it was late late late!

  Peter curled his tail around his back paws and tried not to purr too loudly. On the far side of the room was his old body with William Cat inside, and that body had to go to school. William Boy was looking confused. He had his coat on and he was ready to leave, but he was wearing only one shoe. The other was nowhere to be found. ‘Mum,’ he kept bleating. ‘Where’s my shoe?’ But Mrs Fortune was in the hallway arguing with someone on the phone.

  Peter Cat half closed his eyes. After his victory he was des- perately tired. Soon the family would be gone. The house would fall silent. When the radiator had cooled, he would wander upstairs and find the most comfortable of the beds. For old time’s sake he would choose his own.

  The day passed just as he had hoped. Dozing, lapping a saucer of milk, dozing again, munching through some tinned cat food that really wa
s not as bad as it smelled – rather like shepherd’s pie without the mashed potato. Then more dozing. Before he knew it, the sky outside was darkening and the children were home from school. William Boy looked worn out from a day of classroom and playground struggle. Boy-cat and cat-boy lay down together in front of the living-room fire. It was most odd, Peter Cat thought, to be stroked by a hand that only the day before had belonged to him. He wondered if William Boy was happy with his new life of school and buses, and having a sister and a mum and dad. But the boy’s face told Peter Cat nothing. It was so hairless, whiskerless and pink, with eyes so round that it was impossible to know what they were saying.

  Later that evening, Peter wandered up to Kate’s room. As usual she was talking to her dolls, giving them a lesson in geography. From the fixed expression on their faces it was clear that they were not much interested in the longest rivers in the world. Peter jumped on to her lap and she began to tickle him absent-mindedly as she talked. If only she could have known that the creature on her lap was her brother. Peter lay down and purred. Kate was beginning to list all the capital cities she could think of. It was so exquisitely boring, just what he needed to get him off to sleep again. His eyes were already closed when the door crashed open and William Boy strode in.

  ‘Hey Peter,’ Kate said. ‘You didn’t knock.’

  But her brother-cat paid no attention. He crossed the room, picked up her cat-brother roughly and hurried away with him. Peter disliked being carried. It was undignified for a cat of his age. He tried to struggle, but William Boy only tightened his grip as he rushed down the stairs. ‘Ssh,’ he said. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  William carried the cat into the living room and set him down.