September Starlings (10 page)

I chew this over for a moment. ‘A curable problem that used to be incurable. I’m a miracle.’

‘Ooh.’ She likes this, is fascinated. ‘They can shift most of the sods these days, can’t they? There was a woman down by us with that much wrong with her – well – I think she’d had absolution so many times, they were giving her discount on the holy water, ’cos she used it by the barrel. Ninety-seven, she is now. Me mam used to say, “Look at Mrs Foley. Seventy-odd if she’s a day and so many spare parts she rattles. When she does go,” me mother said, “the rag man’ll take her, ’cos she’s at least 50 per cent scrap metal.” It’s like the bionic man – we have the technology. Great, isn’t it?’

‘Wonderful.’ Why am I talking to this stranger? ‘It’s just that afterwards, when it’s all over and you’re pretty sure about being cured, everything seems different.’

‘It must do. I suppose you start reorganizing your life, don’t you? As if you’ve just come fresh into the world again, like a rebirth. Are you going to make a lot of changes?’

‘I don’t know. I … er … had a breakdown. The fact
that I was cured – or seemingly cured – hit me like a ton of bricks. Sometimes, good news can be as disturbing as bad. And you feel a bit guilty too, getting better while other people still suffer.’

She nods. The wisdom in her eyes belies the youthful appearance. ‘So you’ve got to get it right this time. Sort of pay back God for saving you.’

‘Yes.’ Where did she get all that knowledge? I always believed that such insight arrived with age. ‘It’s not so much the paying back of God that matters to me, it’s the relieving of others’ suffering.’

‘Same thing.’

‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’

She cocks her head, gives me the once-over. ‘Hey, you’re not bad looking for a woman who’s getting on a bit. Why don’t you get your hair tinted, wear some decent clothes?’

We both look at our own shabby garments, then cast a quick eye over each other’s, crack off laughing simultaneously and very loudly. ‘Where did you find the Levis?’ she asks between giggles. ‘Church jumble sale? The arse is nearly out of them. And that jumper should have been on the tip years ago.’

I pull defensively at my fisherman’s knit, grey, grimy, obviously made for a ten-foot giant and all his family. ‘This is an heirloom, I’ll have you know.’

‘Oh?’

‘It was my husband’s. I washed it on the wrong cycle and it grew and it grew. No matter, it heats my hind quarters.’

‘And what heats his?’

At the nursing home, he has an electric blanket and one of those new hot-water bottles. After a quick blast in a microwave, the bottle stays cosy right through till morning. ‘He’s not here,’ I say quietly.

‘Oh.’ The hands, a paler purple by this time, fiddle with a chain of worry beads. ‘Has he buggered off and left you?’

‘No, he’s ill.’

There’s a crucifix on the beads, so this must be a rosary. Her attention is straying again. ‘Do you live here all by yourself? How many rooms are there? Is there an attic?’ Her gaze fondles all my kitchen cupboards. ‘Good idea, having the kitchen at the front. You can see the water and the beach all the time. What’s wrong with him?’

I sigh. This one’s mind is plainly capable of homing in on just about anything. She is over-endowed with what I call Scouse radar, a knack of cutting through protocol, discarding the fat, pouncing on the juicy innards. ‘Alzheimer’s.’

‘Kids?’

‘Three. Mine, not his. They’re not children any more and they’re not here.’ I still don’t understand why I feel so easy with this girl, why I am talking to her so openly.

The blond head nods, drops slightly. ‘This was Mam’s rosary. He won’t get any better, you know.’

‘No.’

‘A woman down by me sister’s house got it. She was frying frozen veg at midnight and she started putting the cat in the sideboard next to the phone. Poor cat howled every time the phone went off in its lug’ole. Two o’clock one morning, she knocked the priest up and asked him for two hundredweight of nutty slack. It sounds funny, but it’s not. They put her away at the finish and she was really happy, brewing tea all hours for the staff, she was.’

I bite my lip, try to stop the words, but they escape. ‘He’s not happy.’

‘I’m sorry. Sometimes, they are and …’

‘And sometimes they suffer.’

She looks at me, sends me a message of total empathy, yet I cannot grasp the fact that I am communicating with someone of such tender years. She jumps up, awards me an impish grin, dives for the door. ‘I’ll get my bits and pieces out of your porch and leave you in peace.’ The slender figure stops, swivels, would look as graceful as Anna Pavlova except for the boots. ‘Sorry about your old
man. Get down the pub with a mate, have a jar and a laugh. Life’s too short, you know.’

Before allowing myself time to think, I call after her, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Diana.’ The three syllables float through my house like sharp, high-toned chimes.

I shout back, ‘I’m Laura.’

‘See you.’ The slam of my front door has a hollow quality, sounds like a death-knell. I wonder for a moment how those prisoners cope, Americans who live for years in single cells next-door-but-one to the electric chair. Now, that must be real depression. The quack says I’m not depressed any more, that I’m ready to jump back into life. But he hasn’t got a husband on death row. I am so morbid, feel better when I occupy myself with dirty dishes and pawmarks on the draining board.

The maker of these marks stalks by, tail erect, ears pricked for the joyful sound of fork against tin. This cat is not normal. Most cats curl up when they stop walking, but Handel simply keels over sideways. His life is so exhausting, all that eating and sleeping and washing of whiskers.

After a Cup-a-Soup and two crackers, I venture upstairs and face my monster. It’s a computer called Giles, very upmarket and attached to a laser printer whose habits are not all good. The printer often develops hiccups, flashes ‘paper jam’ on its LCD, goes into a sulk for hours on end. I kick the system to life, stare at the latest few pages of
A Heart Divided
. ‘He held her close, so close that her spine turned to molten gold.’ What a load of tripe. ‘As he drowned in her eyes, he knew that he wanted no help, no lifebelt. He would go willingly to his doom, happily to his kismet.’ The whole thing is a sea of adverbs, a morass of adjectives. Wait till the Pulitzer committee claps its eyes on this lot! Wait till my editor sees it …

I make another file, call it
Laura
. It won’t sell, but I’ll write my story one of these days. When I look at the time, two hours have passed and I’ve produced twenty pages of this
Laura
thing. It seems I’ve had quite an interesting life.
Perhaps I’ll finish the tale one day, see if anyone else finds it riveting.

The bell rings. Is she back? Has she left her clipboard, her rosary beads? A second ring sounds impatient, angry. It won’t be Mother. Mother wants me to think that she can’t get about, that I’ve abandoned her to a life of solitude and desolation. And Ruth’s out for the day.

I open the door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

Robert pushes past me, turns, grabs my shoulders, kisses my hair because I’ve turned away to close the door. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

Robert is tall, decorative, angry. I pull away and rearrange my sloppy sweater. ‘Nowhere,’ I say loftily.

‘It’s becoming a habit, isn’t it? Going off without saying a word, having your little holidays. I mean, have a break by all means, but tell me. I’ve been worried to death.’

‘Would you like something to drink?’

His eyes are angry. When he is angry, he becomes unnecessarily beautiful. ‘No, I don’t want a drink. I’ve had a hell of a day and I’ve come to ask a favour. Oh and to tell you that you are an impossible woman and I love you.’

‘It’s over, Robert. There are things I have to do—’

‘Where the hell has it gone?’ He stands by the hall table and begins to empty his pockets. There are small bottles and boxes, some tangled elastic bands, a chewed pencil and a comb that is almost toothless. ‘Ah yes,’ he breathes. ‘I remember now.’

He is like a child. When I was young, little boys carried string and conkers in their pockets with marbles, ballbearings, small creatures in matchboxes. Tommo was a bigger boy and he carried a knife. I don’t want to think about Tommo, but I’ll have to if I’m going to write it all out of my system. That’s it! I’m standing here watching this man emptying his pockets, and at last I know what I’m doing. The past has to be swept away before I can begin a future. So simple, so complicated, so bloody enormous.

An inside pocket gives up the bounty at last. It is tiny, impossibly so, jet black and squealing fit to burst. ‘It’s a
cat,’ he says hopefully. ‘I’ve christened her Snowflake. Snow because she’s definitely black, Flake because she’s crazy.’

For a moment, I am nonplussed. Then I rally, anxious to defend myself against all intruders. ‘I’ve already got a cat. You should know, because you brought him here in the first place after you put Ellie down.’ Ellie was magnificent, every inch the lady in spite of being ginger. ‘Can that thing lap?’

For answer, he places a dropper on the table beside the rest of his hoard. ‘She’s only four and a half weeks old. I had to put the mother down and this is the sole survivor of the litter. She needs you, Laura. I’ve brought some formula because cows’ milk would make her ill. Please, Laura.’

The kitten is attached to his hand like a koala on a tree, all four feet wrapped around his wrist. She is biting him and her eyes are wide, as wide and surprised as only a kitten’s eyes can be. ‘Take her away,’ I beg.

‘It’s only for a few days and—’

‘In a few days, I’ll be in love with her. If you move her in, I’ll not let her go.’

He laughs. ‘If I move in, will you fall in love with me and keep me for ever?’

‘No. Can’t one of your gaggle of adoring old ladies take her in?’

‘She’d be too much for an old lady.’

‘I’m tired. I’ve been ill. I wasn’t on holiday, I’ve been … talking a rest.’ I wave a hand at the cat. ‘It would mean litter trays all over again. And Handel won’t like Snow-flake.’

‘Handel won’t notice Snowflake.’ He knows Handel almost as well as I do, has been the family vet for years. ‘And this is a lovely cat. Special too, because her mother never saw the inside of a house. She was on a farm over towards Lydiate, got fed by the farmer’s wife, wouldn’t settle inside.’

‘Great.’ I step away, afraid to touch that wonderful
kitten-fluff. I’m a cat lover, take the whole business far too seriously. I understand the Egyptians’ fascination with cats, can see why they made gods of them. They are so delightfully arrogant and I’m not having another one. ‘You are asking me to take in a feral kitten? It won’t behave. It’ll be ripping the house to pieces once it gets its bearings.’

‘Laura, you have a way with animals.’

‘So do you. Take it home. I’ll still take birds into the garage if anyone fetches them. Ben may not be here, but I’ve learned a lot and the RSPB knows we do good work here and that cat might kill a bird in a box and—’

‘You always talk fast when you’re unsure of yourself, Laura. Will you throw this little cat out into the cold? Will you?’

‘Will you?’ I ask. ‘You’re the one in charge. Take it home, the kids will love it.’

The eyebrows are almost knitted together now. ‘Laura, I’ve four cats, two and a half dogs and a parrot that swears all the time and plucks its feathers out. My so-called housekeeper can manage that lot while I’m away, but a new kitten might put her off. I’m taking the kids down south for a fortnight.’

He’s a lovely man. The half-dog has useless back legs, so Robert made a wheeled contraption for him. Bonzo enjoys this strange mode of travel, has worn out his wheels several times, needs to be serviced at regular intervals, gets oiled and adjusted every week. ‘You’re a fool, Robert. OK, pass her over.’

The huge grin lights up his face. I love two men and I cannot have either of them. I can’t have Ben because he hardly exists any more, and I can’t have Robert because Ben’s still alive in the technical sense. Snowflake is warm, soft, skinny beneath the fur. ‘Will she make it? Is she going to be healthy?’

‘I think so. The diet is written down here. Intelligent creatures, cats. You’ll find that she’ll start lapping early, probably within a week. She’s decided to live. All you
have to do is feed her a few drops every hour or so.’

My jaw sags. ‘In the middle of the night?’

‘She’ll let you know, crawl up to your face when she’s hungry.’

‘I see. So I take her upstairs, do I?’

‘You’re her mother now. Do your best.’

I am an appalling mother – my sons and my daughter could testify to that. If this lovely creature is going to depend on me for positive support … ‘You’ll kill me if she’s dead when you come back.’

‘Probably.’ He looks me up and down, latches on to a key word that he half-remembers from a minute ago. ‘Ill? What kind of ill?’

‘Operation. I’m OK now.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘No.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Flakey is eating my sleeve. See, I’ve already christened her properly, I’m on a loser before I start. ‘It was my business, not yours. And I didn’t want you languishing by my bedside during visiting hours. It would have been the talk of North Liverpool, the vet having an affair with poor old Ben Starling’s wife.’

He tut-tuts, barges into the kitchen, makes a din while setting the kettle to boil. I follow with Flakey, who has fallen asleep in the crook of my arm. ‘Don’t sulk, Robert.’

‘Don’t sulk? How bloody long were you in hospital? I came round nearly every day, caught Ruth feeding the cat a few times. What happened to Chewbacca?’

‘Kennels. He’s a gregarious chap, likes a change of scenery.’

‘But you were gone for ages.’

I’m not going to tell him about the breakdown. That frail young Diana could take it, but this big macho vet would worry and fret for days. ‘Convalescence, then a month by the sea. How are the children?’

He bangs two mugs on to the table. ‘Tom’s learning the viola. He’s sent Charlie almost completely bald. It’s one
thing having a parrot who’s a compulsive plucker, but it’s awful watching insanity move in on the poor creature. The noise is dreadful.’