Cassette #19
Hello Sweetie.
I bet you weren’t expecting this one. A photo of old Solo looking his worst. That must have been just a couple of days after I brought him home.
April wanted a cat so badly – do you remember when she tried to smuggle Sophie’s cat home in her backpack? And you really didn’t want one. But I knew I’d wear you down in the end.
I pretended to be some kind of impartial judge, pondering the fors and againsts of your cat dispute and deliberating my decision. But the truth was that I wanted a cat too, probably even more than April did.
It was either that or another baby, but the only time I ever hinted at the idea you looked at me with an expression of such utter incomprehension that I knew it was a no-go. So a cat it had to be.
I was working three mornings a week in the RSPCA shop by then, but I was still, if the truth be told, bored and not a little lonely.
I was no longer spending my days moping in bed – there was so much decorating to do in Thoday Street – but I felt a cat would provide a presence in the house. It would mean that the place wouldn’t be entirely empty when I got home from the school gates. I’ve never liked that feeling of closing the front door behind you and listening to the creaking of an empty house. It has always put the willies up me, I really don’t know why.
And so, eventually, after what seemed a reasonable period of listening to April’s whinging (which I encouraged, by the way – she would often forget all about the cat and have to be reminded) I declared that my period of deliberation was over, that I’d judged in April’s favour and got Iris from the shop to drive April and me out to the shelter after school.
Do you remember how excited I was about the job offer I saw while I was there? I was more excited about that job than I was about bringing poor Solo home.
I know you always thought that I should aim higher. You were always pushing me to do A levels so that I could do an OU degree, or go to evening classes and learn to paint, or even just learn to drive. But it was never what I wanted.
All I ever wanted was to carry on being happy, and just as I knew I wanted you the second I met you, I knew I wanted that job the second I saw the card on their noticeboard. It was a perfect fit that would contribute to the family budget, leave me time to spend with April and make me as happy as any job could. And I was right. I never once regretted it.
Oh, there were frosty, foggy winter mornings when I had to clean up cat-vom or cat-shit, or sometimes both, when I’d whinge and moan about my lot. But I never once struggled to go to work of a morning. And I never once, in twenty years, took a day off sick.
As for Solo, well, that was a bit like the job, really. You thought that I should have aimed higher and come home with something that looked like a Bengal Tiger.
Instead, Solo had some skin complaint, a sort of cat eczema that they suspected was probably nervous in origin. He’d been beaten and kept in a cellar before he came to the shelter, so he had reason, it seemed, to be nervous. The poor cat had hardly any fur and more scabs than the Orgreave picket line. He had been living in a concrete-floored cage, albeit with a basket, out there at the shelter for years.
But he loved April instantly. I know you never really believed this story, but it’s true: he kept standing on her feet, which was quite a challenge back then as they were only tiny.
He’d been with the shelter so long that they used to leave the door to his cage open and he quite literally followed us around perching with his four paws on April’s school shoes whenever we stopped to pet or even look at another cat.
As we walked around, the woman at the shelter – it was Sally, in fact – explained how the shelter worked and how the unadoptables like Solo usually had to be put down, but how everyone loved him so much that they simply hadn’t been able to bring themselves to do it.
I have to admit that it crossed my mind that being that person, being the kind hearted soul who adopted un-adoptable Solo would be a sure-fire way to jump to the top of Sally’s pile of potential CVs for the job, but that wasn’t all it was. There was something lovely about him that I could sense despite the scabs.
Solo’s fur grew back almost immediately; it was true, in the end, that all he needed was a little love. And he gave that love back to us by the bucketload.
He knew that we’d saved him and he knew what we’d saved him from, and he loved us for it, I’m convinced of it. Oh, I can hear you sighing at your soppy wife, but just listen to me and try to believe for once.
He followed April around the house like a dog, you’ll remember. He used to sit on the table and watch her do her homework. And during the days when I was home the place was no longer empty. When I was out at work at the shelter, he would sleep, I think, non-stop. He was always in the same spot when I got home as he had been when I left. And he’d always have a sniff at my shoes as if to remind himself of the unpleasant past he’d escaped thanks to us.
When I was off and at weekends, he was never far away. Whatever I was doing, whether it was cooking or decorating, or mending, I’d look up and always find him there keeping an eye on me and purring. Did you ever hear another cat purr as much as Solo did? I’ll answer that for you: no you didn’t.
It took a while for him to worm his way into your affections, but about six months after we got him and about three after his fur had grown back, I came home to find you asleep on the sofa. April was snoozing between your legs and Solo was asleep with his head on your shoulder like a baby, and you were smiling in your sleep. Solo looked up at me and I swear that he winked, and I knew then that he’d won you over. I actually got a bit choked up about it, seeing the three people, or the three beings, I suppose, that I loved most in the world, all sleeping together like that. I’m actually getting a bit misty-eyed right now, just telling the story. Isn’t that funny?
You’ll perhaps think it strange that I’ve included a photo of the cat as one of my precious photos, but I loved that cat. And that’s not a euphemism either. I loved him.
He was with us for just over ten years, that’s almost twenty percent of my life and over fifty percent of his. He really was one of the family.
And I know that everyone says this about their cats, but he was the loveliest, cleverest, purriest, most empathetic cat that ever existed.
Do you remember how he used to like sleeping in the laundry basket on top of that awful, shuddering washing machine we used to have?
When they invented those Power Plate things that people like to wobble on in order to lose weight, I remember thinking that fatty Solo had invented it first. And had proven, over many, many years of self-inflicted clinical trials, that it didn’t work at all.
• • •
The following Friday, on arriving home from work, Sean notices he has voicemail on his phone. Which is strange, because it’s been in his pocket all day, and he could swear that it hasn’t buzzed once.
“Back already?” Sean asks, as soon as Maggie answers.
“Hello!” Maggie says, then, “Yes! Got back yesterday.”
“That was quick, wasn’t it?”
“Ten days. Nine nights. Lovely, though. Sunshine every day.”
“Lucky you,” Sean says, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear so that he can hunt for a snack to eat. “The weather’s been rubbish here.”
“Look, I can’t talk for long,” Maggie says, “but did you do anything about the rowing business, yet?”
“No. I was busy helping April move last weekend. But I’ve promised myself I’ll phone around tomorrow and see what’s what. Why, have you changed your mind?”
“Perhaps,” Maggie says. “There’s a learning to row thing at Cantabrigian on Saturday mornings.”
Sean has found a previously opened packet of crisps, but when he pops one into his mouth, he realises that they are stale and has to spit it out into the bin.
“You OK?” Maggie asks.
“Sorry, stale crisps. They make me gag. I don’t know why. Anyway, I know how to row, Mags.”
“I know you do. But I only went about six times and that was twenty-odd years ago. Maybe I should do the learning one and you–”
“So you have changed your mind?” Sean asks, interrupting her. “I thought Dave had vetoed rowing.”
“Let’s just say I convinced him,” Maggie says. “But seriously, if you want to do a different one then go ahead. I think I’ll head down there and try this newbie thing tomorrow morning, myself. Strike while the iron’s hot.”
“No, that’s fine,” Sean says. “Let’s both pretend to be newbies. We just head down there, do we? No need to book or anything?”
“Apparently not. But it’s at eight, I’m afraid.”
“Par for the course,” Sean says. “Let’s do it.”
On Saturday morning, Sean peers doubtfully through the bedroom curtains. He’s comfortable in bed and is having second thoughts. But as it looks like the beginnings of a beautiful day, he steels himself and heads downstairs.
He walks, with pleasure, through the early morning streets, past not-yet-open shops and pub staff unloading delivery vans. He crosses the green to the Cam and then walks to Riverside and then over a bridge towards their meeting place. In the quiet of the morning, with the sunlight dappling the river, he feels like he’s in some foreign country, perhaps Italy, or Spain.
When he reaches the association boathouse he finds Maggie sitting on a wall looking glum. “Oh, hello,” she says. “Did you not get my message? I thought you might not have, which is why I hung around.”
“I left it at home,” Sean says, patting his pocket. “I’m trying to keep it away from large bodies of water these days.”
“I fucked up, I’m afraid,” Maggie says. “I must have misread the website or something. I thought we could just bowl up but he says we have to book in advance online and then wait to be invited or something.”
“Oh,” Sean says.
“He was pleasant about it. But, let’s say, unyielding.”
Sean snorts. He can imagine Maggie trying to persuade the guy and is surprised, knowing her, that she gave in while he was still being polite. “Coffee?” he says, tilting his head townwards.
“Sure,” Maggie says, jumping up and grabbing the bars of her pushbike.
As they cross back over Riverside Bridge, Sean points at the building site where foundations are now being laid. “That’s one of ours,” he says.
“Flats?” Maggie asks.
“Yeah. Small. Very bijou. But nice.”
“I should hope so,” Maggie says. “That’s prime real estate.”
“It’s a shame about the rowing. I was feeling quite in need of some exercise.” Sean pats his stomach. “All those ready meals are starting to take their toll.”
“Tell me about it,” Maggie says. “I thought the Italians were supposed to be the voluptuous ones, but I felt like a beached whale around that pool.”
“Was it good though? D’you have a nice time?”
“Yes, it was OK,” Maggie says, sounding determined to see the upside. “The weather was heavenly and Siena was beautiful. I hated Florence. We both hated Florence.”
“Really?”
“Oh, I know it’s pretty and cultural and everything. But we got ripped off everywhere we turned. We ate horrible overpriced food, got woken up at eight by a building site and managed to queue for a whole morning to get into a museum where we couldn’t even see the wall for Chinese tourists.”
“The Uffizi?”
“That’s the one. I’m sure we were just unlucky. But… Anyway, Siena, as I say, was gorgeous.”
Sean glances regretfully at a double scull whizzing along the river. “We could rent a rowing boat or a punt, I suppose,” he says. “If they’re open. What time do you have to be back?”
Maggie shrugs. “We could,” she says. “I haven’t been on a punt for years.”
They continue towards the town centre, past Midsummer Common, then diagonally across Jesus Green and by the time they get to Scudamore’s, the employee is just opening up shop.
“You first,” Maggie says, clambering on board once the formalities have been done. “I need to get my sea legs first.” And so, bare footed, trouser-legs rolled, Sean pushes off.
His ankles go into a kind of spasm making the boat shudder from side to side and inducing a fit of giggles on Maggie’s part.
“I think it’s always like this to start with,” he says, frowning with concentration. “It’ll get better. You’ll see.”
“Hey,” Maggie says, “If you’re still dry, you’re doing OK in my book.”
Soon enough, Sean has settled into the rhythm of it and the punt is gliding upriver. “See, I knew I’d remember,” he says.
“God, this is the life,” Maggie says, as the same boat they saw before whizzes past in the other direction. “Much better than being slave-driven in a rowing boat. This is exactly my kind of exercise.”
“Don’t get too smug,” Sean tells her. “You’re punting back.”
He pauses to remove his jacket which he throws to Maggie who puts it over her shoulders. “… a bit chilly,” she says. “But then it’s only just past nine.”
“Toasty warm up this end,” Sean comments, wiping sweat from his brow with his shirtsleeve.
“Such a winger,” Maggie jokes. She points towards a block of staggered apartments on the river bank ahead and says, “That’s one of yours, isn’t it?”
Sean follows her gaze and nods. “Probably the nicest thing I ever designed,” he says. “Do you remember the sliding out kitchen business?”
“I can’t say I do,” Maggie admits. “Was it good?”
“About the only time anyone’s ever let me do any interior design,” Sean says. “It was brilliant. We should have patented it.”
“You should think yourself lucky,” Maggie says. “I do miss the old days at Nicholson-Wallace, you know. At Wainbridge’s we never seem to do anything more exciting than bloody verandas these days.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. They’re not exactly picky, are they?”
“No,” Maggie says. “Not picky at all. Still, a job’s a job, eh?” She raises her hand and points. “That one’s got a For Sale sign – look! You should buy it and cook curries in your patented kitchen.”
Sean laughs.
“Why are you laughing? I’m serious.”
“Well, I’ve designed at least thirty buildings like that, but I still couldn’t afford a one bed flat in there.”
“I’ll bet you could,” Maggie says. “Your place must be worth a bomb by now. Those town centre places have rocketed.”
“I’ll bet you I couldn’t. You’re talking at least half a million for one of those.” Sean stops punting and bends over, visibly out of breath. “Not as fit as I was,” he says. “D’you want a go?”
“I thought I was doing the easy bit on the way home,” Maggie says. “It’s a boy’s job punting up-river. You know it is.”
“Oh, come on, Mags. I’m knackered.”
“Oh, fair enough,” Maggie says. “God, chivalry. It ain’t what it used to be.”