The Calico Cat

by Amanda James

  Gran didn’t leave anything to James, either. She had met him often and told me that he was a fine young man, well adjusted, full of humour, and luckily, he’d had wonderful and wealthy adoptive parents. Because he was more than financially secure, he was left out of the will, apart from a few sentimental bits.

  I do miss her, every day. Once or twice she tried to get me to meet James and talked a good talk. I couldn’t agree to it, though. I wish I could have, for her sake, if nothing else.

  The biggest rucksack ever made stands bulging by the door and everything is crossed off my list. Caleb will be just about leaving the school gates now for the long six weeks holiday and I remember that feeling well. One of my colleagues once said it’s the furthest away we’ll ever be from starting the new term in September, and he for one was so happy he could hardly breathe. He had been at the school for twenty years, though.

  Teachers get a bad press by and large, don’t you think? When people talk about the excessive length of teachers’ holidays, you’d think that they leave the classroom on the twenty-second of July, or thereabouts, and just laze about on a beach drinking cocktails until going back at the beginning of September. What about all the marking, planning, going into school during the holidays to do photocopying, ordering books and shit? Yes, other workers don’t get as many holidays, but they damned well should! Teachers shouldn’t get fewer, other workers should get more. We all need more holidays, I say! Phew, sorry about that rant, had to be done, though. If you think teachers have it easy, then try it. Enough said and end of.

  The late afternoon sun slants through the blind and paints a yellow slice across the back of the canvas on the easel. This makes me sad and the reason for it is irrational. I feel it would be wrong of me to jaunt off on a two-week break while leaving half a calico cat staring mournfully out to sea, all alone and disembodied. Okay, half-bodied. How on earth can a painting stare, anyway? It’s not alive, not a thinking, breathing entity, is it? I have a teddy that lives in my bedroom. I make sure that it has a blanket over its legs at night… I bet nobody else does this. I bet nobody else would feel sorry for half a calico cat painting either.

  Even as I tell myself that it doesn’t matter if my thoughts are a bit odd from time to time, and that of course I realise the cat won’t be lonely and the teddy won’t be cold, I hurry over to the easel and turn it round. Two hours later the cat has its right eye, the rest of its head and the outline of another cat in a tree nearby. There. It can’t complain now, can it?

  10

  Fancy a Walk?

  Well, I’m all ready. The biggest rucksack ever made is bulging even more after a sudden impulse to shove my teddy in, and I have made sure everything is in order. This involved cleaning the apartment thoroughly and changing the bed linen and towels. Mother always did this before we went on holiday as she said she couldn’t bear the thought of a dirty house and slept-in sheets to come back to. This morning, I resisted following in her footsteps as long as I could, told myself that a clean house didn’t matter, but strangely I found myself with a duster and polish in my hand… as if by magic.

  Objectively I realise that it’s a good idea. To come back to a home that needs no extra work, given that I will have tons of washing to do and I’ll probably be road weary, is far preferable to the opposite. But because it’s what Mother always does, there is resistance. Never mind, it’s done and dusted now. I won’t say pardon the pun, as what would be the point? People only say pardon the pun to draw attention, to make sure people ‘get it’. I find this kind of thing all very odd.

  The doorbell rings at just a smidgen (I adore that word) after eight thirty and my heart does a little hammer of excitement followed by a forward roll in my stomach. I do love holidays, you see. It’s all the anticipation and expectation after weeks of planning and dreaming, isn’t it? Then of course there’s a little nag of worry waiting somewhere in your system (I didn’t use ‘one’s’ here, it didn’t feel right) that says that it might not live up to all those expectations. The little nag of worry isn’t allowed to say anything more though, because I fling the door open and say to fresh-faced Caleb, ‘Hello, fancy a walk, my ’ansome?’

  Three hours later on the top of a hill we break for a snack; we have walked five miles and are well within our scheduled ten. We decided that the first few days shouldn’t be more than around ten miles until our feet got used to the hammer, though having said that, our longest day’s walk will be just under fourteen miles. The object of this holiday is to enjoy our surroundings, immerse ourselves in nature, not to break the land-speed record for walkers.

  At first, I didn’t like the way Caleb had plotted, measured and calculated our steps. It should be all about following our feet with unfettered, bouncy, and carefree abandon. But in the end, I conceded it was necessary if we were to book B&Bs for the first week. It would be no good walking seven miles one day, deciding that it was enough and then realising we were actually another four or more from a bed for the night, would it?

  Caleb rootles in the top of my rucksack for the flask of coffee I stashed in there and pulls out my teddy. He frowns and shakes the old brown-and-white floppy bear at me. ‘What’s this doing in the bag?’

  ‘Do you have to shake him like that?’

  ‘Sorry, I just didn’t expect to find a toy rabbit in there.’

  A rabbit? Is he blind? ‘It’s a teddy and I thought he might enjoy a break.’ There’s a glow of embarrassment on the way to my cheeks and it irritates me. Why should it be a problem?

  ‘What’s his name?’ Caleb holds him up and smooths out the fur on his ears.

  The irritation grows as I realise I never named him. That was remiss of me. Caleb stops smoothing and looks at me, a question in his eyes. ‘Algernon,’ I say, for some reason, and then a black-and-white bird hanging from the sky on invisible strings catches my eye. ‘Algernon Oystercatcher.’

  A bellowy half-snorty laugh explodes from Caleb, as if someone’s ignited a firework of humour in his chest. I do like it when he does that; it makes me feel giggly inside. He says, ‘Algernon Oystercatcher – you’ve just made that up!’

  I hand him a banana and try to keep a straight face. ‘Quite possibly, Caleb, but you’ll never know, will you?’

  On a bench with Algernon between us we eat bananas, apples and cheese for the next few minutes while in silent contemplation of the wondrous scenery all around us. Well, I do – I couldn’t tell you exactly what’s going on in Caleb’s head, but he looks like he’s enjoying the view. The sky is blue with not a proverbial, the grass is green and has that lovely springy-spongy texture underfoot, the ocean is vast – turquoise in the shallows and sapphire blue further out – and today it has put a calming and peaceful shhhh into its ancient song.

  I eat a sliver of apple and wonder which I like best – the ocean at its angriest, roaring at the top of its voice as it storms the beach, smashing great salt fists against harbour walls and leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Or when it’s like this – serene, quiet and thoughtful. It would be silly to try and choose one over the other, wouldn’t it? Both ends of the spectrum are wonderful and all the other ocean moods in between.

  Sometimes it’s not angry, just a bit grumpy and grey. Other times it pretends to be a bubble spa, caressing your feet with gentle foamy whirls to encourage you further, then when you’re not looking, it sucks up a few waves and spits them up your jeans as you try to make a run for it. An ocean in a playful mood is one of my favourites.

  Caleb wants to make a start on the sandwiches, but I say we should wait until later – it’s only eleven thirty after all. He accepts this without a murmur. A snapshot of my mother sending her pointy words stabbing at my dad flashes in my head, so I pull out the sandwiches. ‘Hey, have one if you’re hungry. What difference does it make?’ I say, hoping that my cheery tone isn’t too karaoke bouncy.

  He sends a grateful smile that makes me cringe, takes a sandwich and points out across the wide blue. ‘According to the map
,’ he says, waving the guide book at me with his other hand, ‘this bit of sticky-out headland we’re sitting on is roughly halfway between Crantock beach, which we’ve just walked across, and Holywell Bay…’

  I know this already but say nothing, to atone for the sandwich bullying – not that I bully sandwiches.

  ‘And did you know that Poldark is filmed at Holywell, amongst many other stunning settings in this fair county?’ Caleb takes a bite of sandwich and looks at me.

  ‘I did, yes. I adore that programme.’

  He looks away and makes a hmmn noise that vibrates through his sandwich.

  ‘What’s hmmn mean?’

  Caleb swills the mouthful down with coffee and says, ‘Are you sure it’s not the guy that plays Poldark you adore? Most women do.’

  ‘I’m not most women, am I?’ I say and pick up Algernon, so he can see the view better. I do think that Aiden Turner is remarkably handsome, but I don’t see why I should have to admit it, particularly if most women think the same.

  ‘It also says here that there are lots of unusual wildflowers on this bit and when we get to Holywell we might see dolphins!’ Caleb’s voice holds a tremor of excitement.

  For someone who has lived in Cornwall all his life he should realise that while dolphin sightings are not that common in these waters, they’re not that rare either, particularly at this time of day. Surfers and fisherfolk normally get the best views. The guide book is probably aimed at tourists too, though I don’t say any of this. I think that his enthusiasm is endearing and who knows? We might actually be lucky.

  ‘My sketch pad is at the ready for those wildflowers, and maybe even a dolphin if we get up early enough on this holiday. Sunrise, dolphins and ocean, who could want for more?’ I hug Algernon to my chest and inhale the scent of wildflowers, ozone and banana and exhale a heart swell of peace, calm and happiness.

  Happiness is funny, isn’t it? Elusive for some, taken for granted by others and unrecognised by many. We are encouraged to think that happiness comes wrapped around a new car, house, various expensive this, that or the others, or maybe it is hidden in the in arms of a lover – the Mr or Miss Right that we all must find.

  This soulmate has to be everything we dreamed they would be, or if they’re not, we pretend that they are and hide our disappointment. To go through life without our ‘other halves’ is to show the world that we have failed, that there’s something wrong with us. Then, once we have found our soulmate and amassed our expensive this, that and the others, we need to make sure our success is passed on to future generations. Children are the cherry on the cake, the completion of our world – our happiness.

  I worry that while many are in (often futile) pursuit of all the above, they might miss the delicate and wondrous beauty of a wildflower, a butterfly, the scent of the sea, a sun-warmed stone, the feel of wet sand under bare feet, the taste of fresh-baked bread. Does that make me sound pompous? Self-satisfied? I think it might, but I don’t mean it to.

  I certainly don’t claim to have all the answers, and I know I am very lucky not to have to worry about the practical day to day, but I wish people would take their gaze from the monolith of ‘happiness’ more often, slow its relentless build and, instead, truly appreciate the daisy growing through the crack in its brickwork.

  An hour and a half later and we can see the twin rocks in Holywell Bay sticking out of the ocean like the spines of an enormous sea monster. We are standing on a high dune to catch our breath and I say, ‘Oh look, is that Poldark galloping across the sand over there?’ I shield my eyes from the bright sunshine with one hand and pull my shirt away from my sweat-soaked skin with the other. I’m hot, sticky and thirsty and wish the breeze we’d had earlier hadn’t gone off somewhere else. The rucksack feels as if someone’s been adding house bricks to it when I wasn’t looking.

  ‘No, I think it’s just a mirage.’ Caleb hands me a warm bottle of water. The water tastes like plastic, but I gulp it down, nevertheless.

  ‘Damn, it’s hot,’ I say in a southern American accent. ‘Shall we go down to the beach and sit in the shade for a while, have lunch?’

  Caleb consults the map and nods. ‘Yes. I think that would be an excellent idea. In this heat, lugging these rucksacks, we need to take it easy, and it’s only another hour or so from here to Perranporth.’

  I slide down the dunes after him and imagine I’m a member of the Foreign Legion lost in the Sahara Desert. It’s nice to fantasise like that, isn’t it, particularly when you know that you’re not lost and only about fifteen minutes from the nearest pub.

  In the welcome shade of a huge rock that smells of seaweed, lunch done, and toes in the sand, we both decide we feel much better. Caleb even says he could probably walk another ten miles. I say nothing. His energy must have been short lasting, because he leans his head against the rucksack and closes his eyes while I sketch the spines of the sea monster.

  Twenty minutes later I give up because the pencil lines will not behave. The drawing looks static and unappealing. I turn to ask Caleb’s opinion, but his chest is moving in a gentle rise and fall, and his dark lashes flutter like the wings of a tiny bird. We have kissed a few times today; I didn’t mention it, because it’s not unusual and something we do quite a lot nowadays, but I want to kiss him awake, just to see the surprise in his eyes when I do. He does have very pretty eyes and—

  ‘A lovely day for it, eh?’ a man’s voice says.

  I turn back to the sea, and in my view stand a man and woman. I can’t see their faces as the sun is behind them, but I can tell they are male and female from their outlines. I presume the man means my sketching.

  ‘Yes, though I’m not pleased with it. It’s a bit… flat, really, so I might leave it and come back to it another time,’ I say, though can’t think why I feel the need to answer in so much detail.

  The woman kneels down in the sand next to me and I can now see that she’s probably in her thirties and has red corkscrew hair and freckles. She has an open, smiley face, twinkly green eyes, and looks like the kind of person one would pick as an imaginary friend when one was a child, but an imaginary friend that has now grown into an adult. I never had an imaginary friend. I had an imaginary donkey, but that’s another story.

  She looks closely at the drawing and says, ‘I disagree.’ Her voice is light and melodic, and her smile makes me feel as if I have just found the courage to attempt something that I thought I couldn’t. She points at the sea monster. ‘You have captured the light on the rocks so well – imagine what it would look like as a painting.’

  The man kneels and looks, too. He’s about the same age as her, has blond crazy surf-dude hair and amber darty-about eyes. ‘Wow! That’s awesome! I agree with Neave about the light. And that wave there looks totally real,’ he says in a voice that sounds as if he’d borrowed it from a lion. I don’t mean he roared, that would be very scary; no, it’s very deep and has a bit of a growl around the edges. He looks like a lion too, come to think of it. ‘Will you paint it?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ I say, and wonder if the whole situation is a bit intrusive. I mean, here Caleb and I are, relaxing – he’s actually asleep – and then these two bound out of nowhere and start asking questions about my work.

  ‘Hello,’ Caleb says in a half-sleepy, half-surprised tone.

  The lion leaps over to him and shakes his hand. ‘Hi, hope we didn’t wake you. I’m Leo.’

  I hide a smile. Of course, how could it be anything else?

  ‘My wife Neave and I were just admiring this fine artist’s work here.’

  I like the way Leo didn’t assume I was a wife or girlfriend like many would have. Refreshing. Caleb introduces himself and then me… as his girlfriend. It’s natural that he would, I guess. I am a girl (well, a woman, but nobody says womanfriend, do they? Why, I don’t know) and his friend, but even so, why did he feel the need to label me, our relationship, in that way? Was it because Leo had introduced a wife and so Caleb had to present me in a similar wa
y? Was it a macho thing? Or am I just over-thinking stuff, as usual? I expect you think I am, and you are probably right.

  Granted leave to join us by Caleb, Neave and Leo are making themselves comfy and pulling energy drinks, nuts and fruit cake from their rucksacks. They work efficiently and in synchronisation, each knowing where an item is, and passing them back and forth as required without the need for words.

  I remark on this, and Neave says through a tinkle of laughter, ‘Ah, yes. That’s because this is becoming as normal to us as breathing. We have been on the road for months, so we should know what we’re doing. We have to be super organised to function properly.’

  ‘Months?’ I say. ‘Must be a very long holiday.’ I don’t say that I would hate being ‘super organised’ and isn’t a holiday supposed to be fun?

  ‘Bless you, it’s not a holiday!’ Neave says and flaps a hand at me. I don’t like people blessing me or flapping hands either. I’m about to say something grumpy when she continues, ‘No. We’re walking around the entire British Isles to raise some dosh for a good cause.’

  Oh great. Now what do I say? It so annoys me that people have to do this.

  ‘Well done, that is brilliant!’ Caleb says, and asks them which charity.

  ‘Yeah, thanks. I took a year’s sabbatical from my job at uni to raise money for a premature baby unit in Bristol,’ Leo says and slips his arm around Neave. ‘We lost our prem twins two years ago now and want to give something back to the staff that work tirelessly in difficult conditions, didn’t we, love?’

  Neave smiles up at him. ‘Yes, we did.’ Then she casts her sparkly green gaze at my face. ‘We’ve raised thirty grand for new equipment already and hope to reach at least eighty by the end of the walk.’

  There is an unspoken expectation that I join in with Caleb in congratulating them, but I return to my sketching. Because of the heart-breaking reason for their walk, I don’t speak my mind as I am wont to do; I think it’s best to just keep quiet. Caleb leans in over my shoulder and says, ‘That’s a huge achievement, isn’t it, Lottie?’