The Calico Cat

by Amanda James

  I walk to the window and look out into the narrow street. People in bright clothes are going about their business, laughing, meeting friends, having fun. The holiday season is in full flow, vibrant as a coat of many colours or the iridescence of a butterfly’s wing. It is dark and cold in my head. Caleb is now out of my life for good. There will be no reprieve.

  I remember now why I put people at arm’s length, don’t keep many friends. It’s because I can’t cope with them betraying me, letting my guard down so they can burrow into my soft places, rip into my flesh, pull my heart out still beating and trample all over it. Mother did that once and Caleb came very close.

  He banged on my door this morning twice, but I ignored him. The third time I asked reception to please ask him to stop. Then he tried to phone and sent loads of texts, but I didn’t answer and have blocked his number. I saw him leave about an hour ago and, when I asked, the owner of the B&B told me he’d asked for information about bus services.

  I sit on the bed and hug the rucksack against my chest and consider returning home because the holiday has lost its appeal. I ask Algernon what he thinks, and he is non-committal, but then a seagull alights on the roof opposite and yells at me over and over. I see it as a sign that I need to carry on for my own peace of mind. I need to show myself that just because there has been a slight hiccup in my plan doesn’t mean I should slink home and hide under a duvet in a darkened room. I have views to see with my in-touch-with-nature eyes, sketches to make and turning points to note. I think this moment right here as I sit on the bed might be a third turning point, because it feels like it is.

  An unexpected turn of events has confirmed my suspicion that I can rely on nobody in this life apart from myself. This thought galvanises my resolve, hoists my rucksack onto my back and moves me out of the door. Already I’m happier, stronger and in control.

  And as you know, that’s just how I like things.

  14

  Louisa Truscott

  Nothing much happened yesterday. I went to St Ives and wandered rather than pootled around the town. Just so you know, pootling has more of a purpose than wandering. Pootling means that you are hoping to find something unusual or desirable in the shops that you might want to buy, or a wonderful view that you didn’t know about, or a place to eat that exceeds all your expectations. Wandering is more aimless. Having achieved my aim of arriving in the place, the rest of the time was spent aimlessly.

  Swimming seemed more trouble than it was worth, given that the weather, like my plans, had taken an unexpected turn towards grumpy and unsettled. This doesn’t make me grumpy, but I am a little unsettled, I suppose. And perhaps I’m being a bit over-dramatic in describing the weather. There were a few rainclouds hovering a little way off to the left of St Ives, but they never actually plucked up the courage to open up over the town, just contented themselves with worrying people on the beach.

  It’s much the same today, but the breeze has freshened itself up a bit, which I’m glad of, as I have over thirteen miles to walk to Pendeen. The map tells me that Zennor Head is around six miles away and I decide that will be my first stop. The guidebook mentions that the path is particularly arduous, but that doesn’t worry me; I’m sure the views will be to die… spectacular.

  Arduous, I find, is not the best description of the roller-coaster path I’ve been on for the last hour or so. My calf muscles are yelling at me to have a rest and I’m convinced I have a sixteen-stone man hitching a ride in my rucksack. But the views, oh the views…

  As I walk along the seven-hundred-and-fifty-metre promontory head, its sheer cliffs flanked on either side by the Atlantic Ocean, the salt breeze in my hair and lungs, the wild coastal flowers and rugged beauty of the landscape all around me, I temporarily forget my discomfort and my unsettledness. A couple of seagulls hang in the air, just tipping their wings now and then to keep them on the thermal ride, and once again I wish I could fly. This reminds me of the day I told Caleb this and, stupidly, the rest, too. I must learn to keep information about myself that I don’t want others to know inside, where it belongs. I know I told you that I pride myself on speaking my mind, but sometimes it’s just a very bad idea, isn’t it?

  Pendour Cove, sometimes known as Mermaid’s Cove is the next stop and my feet pick up a pace, even though they are begging for a rest. They know they’ll get one while I have a snack, or possibly lunch, but that’s not the whole reason I’m hurrying. Eagerness to see the cove where, legend has it, a young man fell in love with a mermaid, drives me, and in my mind, I already have my sketch pad unpacked and a pencil in my hand.

  Turns out that the cove is so stunningly beautiful that I’m not sure I should even bother unpacking my sketch pad because there is no way that my talent, or anyone else’s come to that, can capture it. The ocean is turquoise, the sand is white and a little horseshoe of land wraps itself around both in a show of affection, or is it protection? Hard to decide. For now, I’ll sit and have a bite to eat and do the capturing with my eyes.

  An hour later I have made a start on a sketch and, I must admit, it isn’t half as bad as I imagined. I’m not sure what to do about the sky as it’s still grumpy and my artistic hand isn’t too good at those, so I look up at it and from the corner of my eye I see a tall, willowy woman with steel-grey streamers for hair coming closer along the path.

  She looks self-assured and as if she belongs here. Perhaps she’s a permanent fixture on the path, just in case walkers decide to take a photo to show friends what a confident walker in touch with her surroundings should look like. Maybe I should take a photo? Then I imagine how I would feel if a random person did the same to me. I wouldn’t like it.

  I look back to the sky. Perhaps I’ll take a photo of that instead and leave trying to draw it for now, because it won’t keep still.

  ‘Hello. May I have a look at your drawing?’

  The woman with steel-grey streamers for hair is standing close by. She smells of oranges, muddy boots and wax jackets. Her voice is gentle, and I think she has made it so to show respect for my privacy. When Leo came upon me sketching the other day, he was boundy, excitable and had no concept of intrusion; this woman is more aware.

  ‘Of course,’ I say and hold the pad up to her. She sits down next to me and looks.

  ‘Oh, I do like this,’ she says and looks at my face as if she’s trying to read something in it. Her turquoise eyes reflect the water and the lines on her sunburned skin tell me she is a way past sixty. She has a smiley mouth. Even when it’s not smiling I can tell that it’s used to doing it. Often.

  ‘Thank you. I was going to draw the sky but it’s a bit changeable. The truth is, I’m not too good at skies, yet. I need more practice.’

  ‘Skies can be tricky. We like to hold them in our eye, but they are too wide and beautiful – bits of it have a habit of escaping.’ The woman smiles. The smile grows so wide and warm that it makes dimples in her cheeks and sunlight glint in her eyes.

  ‘You’re a painter, too?’

  ‘Only as a hobby over the years, and I once sculpted. I still dabble occasionally, but my little business takes up most of my time.’

  ‘Oh, what kind of business?’ I say, wondering if I should be minding my own.

  ‘Let’s introduce ourselves first, shall we?’ She sticks out a hand with a tattoo of an olive tree on it. Its branches grow up her index, middle and third fingers. ‘My name’s Louisa Truscott.’

  I take the olive tree and say, ‘Pleased to meet you, Louisa.’ And I am pleased, very. She has this air about her, it’s hard to describe, but I know that she is someone I will get on with. This happens very rarely to me; in fact, I can’t give you an example of when it last did. ‘I’m Lottie Morgan.’

  ‘Likewise, Lottie. You asked about my business – I have a small vineyard up near Padstow. I produce a variety of wines and some free-range eggs. Well, I don’t produce them of course, my grapes and hens do.’ Her laugh is a bit like Peter’s, but not quite a chortle. I suppose it’s a chu
ckle – stays more in the throat than out loud. ‘We sell the eggs, wine, local cheeses and a few bits of art and pottery in the gift shop, too.’

  ‘That’s sounds interesting. Do you have help?’ I glance at her ring finger and wish that I hadn’t. Why did I need to see if she was married? It’s the kind of thing my mother would do. She’s wearing a thick band that looks like it’s made of wood.

  ‘Oh yes. Even though it’s not a large concern, I couldn’t manage it on my own, especially not at my age. I have my two grown nephews, my sister and brother-in-law that help run the gift shop, and a local man to lend a hand at harvest time. It can be hard work, but I do love it.’

  ‘You’re having a break then, at the moment?’

  Louisa nods. ‘Just for a few days. I’ve always wanted to see this cove.’ She sweeps her hand across the scene and then tips her face to the sun and closes her eyes. ‘I’ve never been able to resist stories of mysteries and legend.’

  ‘Me too. Didn’t a man fall in love with a mermaid here?’

  Louisa opens her eyes and looks at me. ‘Indeed. Apparently, the mermaid used to go to the little church not far from here in Zennor because she was enchanted by the voice of a young man named Matthew, I think he was called. He had such a beautiful voice that she hid her tail under a long dress and struggled up to the church to listen to him singing. When she saw him, she fell in love with him and he with her. He asked her to stay but she revealed that she could not, as she needed to return to the sea. They couldn’t bear to be parted so he went out to sea with her, never to be seen again. And it is said his song can still sometimes be heard at sunset, on still summer’s evenings.’

  I don’t like the sound of the ending. It’s too unbearably sad. I say, ‘Do you think he drowned?’

  Louisa laughs. ‘I think there’s a chance that it’s just a lovely story passed down the ages – it didn’t really happen. You do know there are no such things as mermaids?’ She winks at me.

  I wink back and say, ‘There might be, we can’t know absolutely. And Matthew might have become a merman and not drowned at all. Yes, that’s what happened – I’ve decided.’

  ‘I have decided, too. I like your version and shall believe it.’ Louisa smiles at me and opens her rucksack. ‘Would you like an orange? Or I have liquorice.’

  ‘Ooh, yes please, I’ve not had liquorice for years.’

  I put a piece in my mouth and I’m back in my gran’s conservatory watching her quick needles knit something fabulous out of scraps of wool. She always had a bag of liquorice to hand – it helped her concentrate, she said.

  Sadness tries to form a lump in my throat, but I swallow it down with a bit of liquorice. Memories of Gwendoline should be happy – something to celebrate. I mentally tell her how much I still love her and allow myself to relax into the quiet. We chew our liquorice and look at the view, then after a few moments I say, ‘The olive tree on your hand. Does it have any particular significance?’

  ‘Yes.’ Louisa’s smiley mouth becomes small and tight and she twists the liquorice bag as if she’s trying to tear it in half.

  ‘I hope that hasn’t upset you. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, that’s okay. I should expect questions, it’s in a prominent place after all, and people do ask. I suppose I haven’t come to terms with my loss yet. I think I have, and then there it is, banging at my door, accusing me of forgetting all about it and demanding to be let in.’

  Louisa looks at me and there are clouds in her eyes. I wish I hadn’t asked, and that I could say something to push the clouds out over the ocean. But then, as she said, the tattoo is there for all to see; perhaps she needs people to ask about it, so she’s reminded of her loss. I expect she’ll tell me what her loss is, though I’m not sure I want to know. We’ve had such a nice time so far.

  ‘That must be hard for you. Let’s change the subject shall we, I—’

  ‘No, I’m fine really. I’d like to tell you.’ Louisa puts the bag down and places her hands on her knees. She looks at the tattoo and says, ‘We lost the old olive tree to the storms of 2011. It was just a sapling when Jagger planted it forty years ago, we never thought it would last for long, but it did. Over the years it grew thicker, fatter, twistier, crouching over the land like an old druid protecting our vineyard from ruin. Least that’s what Jagger used to say.’

  Louisa looks at the sky, takes a deep breath and let it out slowly. I can feel her emotion charge the air as if it’s another person squeezing in next to us. ‘We lost Jagger the day after the tree. Once he saw it broken, uprooted, I think it broke him too. He gave up trying to hold on any longer – he was tired, so very tired.’

  A silence wraps around my vocal cords and I cough to make it let go. ‘Jagger was your husband?’ I say, hoping I’m right. I never know what to say at times like this, or if I should say anything at all.

  ‘Yes, he was. Everyone called him Jagger because he looked a bit like Mick, though more handsome in my opinion, but his real name was John. Cancer stole him. We were together for fifty years, married for forty-five and he was my right hand.’ Louisa looks at the back of her hand and splays the branches of the tree.

  The reason for the tattoo is now so obvious in its poignancy that I can hardly breathe. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say and hear a wobble in my voice, but I don’t care.

  ‘Thank you. It does get easier with each passing year, but sometimes grief just grabs you by the heart, you know?’

  I did know. ‘Yes, I lost my gran, Gwendoline, about eighteen months ago now. That was cancer, too. I know it isn’t like losing a life partner but—’ I stop and realise don’t know if it is or not. ‘Well, I assume it isn’t, but as I’ve never lost one, not to death anyway…’ I stop again, shocked at what my words imply, and wonder if Caleb was, or could have been a life partner. The jury is out as usual and anyway, I’m talking about Louisa’s loss, not mine.

  ‘You sound as if you have lost a lover – tell me about it.’

  Bloody hell – and people say I’m direct. ‘Do you mind if we don’t? It only happened the day before yesterday and I’m not sure what to make of it all, yet.’

  ‘Of course, not – totally understand,’ Louisa says, absently turning the wooden ring around her finger.

  My directness feels like it’s building a wall between us and I don’t want it to. I say the first thing that comes into my head to knock it down a few bricks. ‘That ring looks like it’s made of wood.’ Yes, a bit lame but at least it’s something.

  ‘It is.’ She holds it up, so I can see the beautiful wood markings more clearly. ‘I had it made from the olive tree. I’ve still got the old wedding ring, which I wear on a chain around my neck, but I just felt I needed something more organic, from the earth. The tree meant so much to Jagger, it seemed appropriate to ensure a little bit of it would be with me forever.’

  This is far too sad, so I say, ‘I see, that’s nice. So how far are you walking along the path?’ My words are far too karaoke bouncy and the emotional atmosphere around us recoils from them. The change of subject is too awkward and obvious, but subtlety is not one of my strong points.

  Louisa seems glad though and her big smile comes back. ‘I was kind of planning to go as far as Lamorna, away past Land’s End, but I think I’ll be too tired. I’ll head home the day after tomorrow when I reach Sennen. I’m staying in Pendeen tonight.’

  ‘I’m heading to Lamorna, too. That will mark the end of the first week. Lamorna was our… my aim and then we… I, was going to decide whether to go home or go on. Like you, I’m staying at Pendeen overnight.’ My mouth curses my brain for slipping Caleb’s ghost into my sentences without permission.

  Louisa must have noticed my slip-ups, but graciously ignores them. ‘And do you think you will go on?’

  ‘Possibly, I haven’t given it much thought.’ As I say that, I make the decision to go home after Lamorna. It feels right.

  Louisa nods and stands to a stretch. ‘Well, it’s been great chat
ting, but I’d better get going. It’s another two hours or so to Pendeen and I have to find a B&B.’

  I look up at her olive tree fingers twisting her steel-grey streamers into a tortoiseshell clip and something pushes me to say, ‘We could walk together if you like. Of course, if you’d rather not, I would totally understand.’ This is very unlike me and I busy myself putting the sketch pad in the rucksack to avoid looking at her face.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you. I was going to say the same but wasn’t brave enough.’

  A light feeling lifts the corners of my mouth and I look at her sunlit eyes. ‘That’s great. Shall we see if we can see Matthew and the mermaid before we leave?’

  ‘Of course, that’s why I came, after all,’ she says, striding off to the edge of the land and peering over it.

  I join her and scan the turquoise-blue for signs of life. There is none apart from a few seagulls bobbing on the waves and the bark of an invisible dog somewhere along the path. ‘Oh well, perhaps they’re being shy today. I’ll come back one evening at sunset and surprise them.’

  A chuckle in her voice, Louisa says, ‘Good idea. If you see them, let me know.’

  I follow her long strides along the path towards Pendeen and wonder if I have met in her what is known as a kindred spirit. I think I believe the spirit of a person is like their essence, or a nucleus, and everything they are derives from it. As I said to you a while ago, social conditions play a huge part in shaping an individual, but perhaps the spirit is where it all starts? Don’t ask me to explain it, though, because I’ve only just thought of it and I would need more time to give you a more comprehensive answer.

  Anyway, perhaps she and I have similar spirits and mine recognises hers. Whatever the truth, I am enjoying being with Louisa, and walking together feels much better than walking alone.