The Calico Cat Read online

  The Calico Cat

  Amanda James

  Bombshell Books

  Contents

  Also By Amanda James

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A Note from Bombshell Books:

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2018 Amanda James

  The right of Amanda James to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2018 by Bombshell Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bombshellbooks.com

  Also By Amanda James

  Another Mother

  Praise for Amanda James

  "This is a great read and I would highly recommend it to readers who like a book that turns from a contemporary read into an amazing dark psychological suspense filled read." Yvonne Bastian - Me And My Books

  "The book was enjoyable, surprising and comprised of layers of storyline that were weaved together to form an enjoyable read." Susan Corcoran - Booksaremycwtches

  "Another Mother is an intense family drama that will get into your head and under your skin." Michelle Ryles - The Book Magnet

  "A gripping, slightly chilling, very entertaining read." Nicki Murphy - Nicki's Book Blog

  "This story will hit you hard. It will mess with your head towards the end and have your heart racing to find out the outcome, very fast paced." Gemma Myers - Between The Pages Book Club

  "This books has some fascinating characters and I loved the writing style – it is a very good psychological thriller." Donna Maguire - Donnas Book Blog

  "Readers looking for a page turning, spring time binge read, should add Another Mother to their list of must reads." Christen Moore - Murder And Moore

  "I never knew where this suspense filled book would take me and I found it to be quite a thrilling read." Nicola Smith - Short Book And Scribes

  "Once the story develops into a suspense the action built up to the thrilling conclusion, which I for one didn’t see coming." Simon Leonard - Black Books Blog

  For my brother Martin who was the first to point out that my protagonist Lottie has more than a passing resemblance to me. I would love to be more like her, but I'm not quite brave enough.

  I am however, a tenacious, some might say pigheaded person, and I learned that in the early days from you Martin. You taught me many things, and sometimes it felt like it was just me and you against the world. Thank you for being my big brother. Love always, San.

  1

  A Good While Ago

  When I was eleven years old, I asked my mother if I could have a calico cat. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to ask as she was late for work, hobbling around the kitchen, one foot in a wellington boot, the other in a court shoe. She looked at me as if I’d asked her to explain the origin of the universe, pre-Big Bang and without the inclusion of God. A furrow creased her forehead and clouds of irritation chased across her eyes. I thought she was going to say no to the cat request, but instead she said, ‘Have you seen my other shoe?’ and kicked the wellington off. It landed in a corner and spat mud up the cream wall.

  Under her breath I heard her mutter the worst word – the word that on no account should be uttered by me, then she stepped out into the hall huffing and sighing. I squashed cornflakes into a paste under my spoon and said, ‘So can we get one?’ I was disgruntled by her hypocrisy. Children were supposed to learn by example. That’s what my parents always said.

  I was learning that my parents said a lot of things that they didn’t really mean.

  My mother’s voice came from a cupboard under the stairs, ‘Get what?’

  I leaned forward and spoke to her backside as she knelt, excavating various items of footwear into the hallway like some ferocious shoe mole. ‘A CALICO CAT.’

  I didn’t mean my voice to sound as shouty as it did. I think it was because she was half in the cupboard and I knew I had to raise my voice to be heard, but growing annoyance at her disinterest gave it extra volume.

  The excavation stopped. She appeared in the doorway. Her dark hair, normally in a tornado-proof neat bob, was splayed out at one side, her face red from the exertion, and I guessed by the look in her eyes, anger too. ‘A calico cat,’ she said in an ironed-out flat kind of way. ‘A calico cat is the very last thing on my mind this morning.’

  I asked her what the very first thing on her mind was.

  The ironed-out flatness found animation.

  ‘For God’s sake, Lottie, look!’ She glared at me and pointed a finger at her feet. They seemed mismatched; not a pair. The neat court shoe on her right foot looked wrong, juxtaposed as it was against the stockinged and muddy left foot.

  I was reminded of a doll I’d had years ago that had two different legs. It had been stuck down the back of a radiator for ages and one of its plastic legs had warped into some crab-like appendage, so I’d pulled the leg off a similar doll I didn’t like as much and fixed it onto the radiator casualty with a screw and Sellotape.

  My mother lifted the muddy foot and pointed again, just in case I hadn’t been paying attention the first time. ‘I have mud all over my tights, I am late for work, and I’ll be even later when I’ve been upstairs to put a clean pair on, I still can’t find my shoe. And why do I have muddy tights?’ She stopped, took a breath, her grey eyes made of sparklers.

  I realised after a second or two that this wasn’t a rhetorical question. ‘Because you went out over the fields and got muddy?’

  ‘Yes. And why did I do that?’

  I shrugged and took a mouthful of cornflakes. I knew the answer, but I really couldn’t be bothered playing her ‘stating the obvious’ game.

  ‘Because I had to take Alfie for his walk. Alfie, I’ll remind you, is our dog, the dog that everyone wanted apart from me, but no one can be bothered to walk, apart from me. And now you sit there asking for a calico cat!’ She threw her hands up in exasperation and went back to the cupboard.

  I thought perhaps she was getting a bit what Dad called overwrought. I decided I wouldn’t say that to her though, because when Dad did, she became even more so. I finished my cornflakes and, as I took the dish to the sink, I noticed the toe of the court shoe sticking up from behind Alfie’s basket.

  ‘Mother, is this what you’re looking for?’ I stood in the hallway with the shoe balanced on the raised palm of one hand, the other behind my back. I consciously mirrored a remembered image from a Cinderella picture book, in which the prince’s servant balanced a shoe on a gold cushion. I didn’t have a cushion though, gold or otherwise, so a hand would have to do.

  ‘Why do you insist on calling me Mother? You know I prefer Mum.’ The ranty tone had gone and the ironed-out
flat was back. She shifted her weight to her haunches and looked up at me. Her smile reflected a combination of inner relief and borderline mania. ‘Yes, that’s the shoe! Oh, you’re a life saver, Lottie!’

  ‘Why do you insist on calling me Lottie? You know I prefer Charlotte.’ I wished I could have said something else, given the fact that I was back in favour, but that’s the thing with eleven-year-olds, they speak before they think. Or maybe it’s just me. I do tend to say what I think, even now I am twenty-eight. It’s one of my strengths. However, I did let the edges of my mouth twitch into a brief smile to temper the words.

  Mother sighed and looked at her wrist. ‘Damn it, I forgot to put on my watch. What time is it, Lot – Charlotte? Have a glance at the kitchen clock while I dash upstairs.’

  ‘Twenty past eight,’ I shouted after her, ‘and do you think we could talk more about the calico cat later?’

  A disembodied voice drifted back a few moments later. ‘What exactly is a calico cat?’

  ‘They’re black, white, ginger and… that’s it, I think. I saw one in a film yesterday when you were at the shops with Auntie Hillary. It lived on a ranch in Montana.’

  ‘You mean a tortoiseshell and white cat. Perhaps the Americans call them calico, but that’s what we know them as,’ Mother said as she hurried back downstairs.

  I thought about the shell of a tortoise and decided it looked nothing like the coat of a calico cat. ‘Well, I don’t know them as that. I much prefer calico, not that it describes the colour – well, at least I don’t think it does. I’ll have to look it up. I just like the word – and the cat of course. I think calico suits—’

  ‘Anything to be different, that’s you.’ Mother shrugged into her coat and picked up her briefcase and car keys. ‘Right, Penny’s mum will be here in a few minutes to take you to school. Make sure you brush your teeth and lock the door.’

  Her lips brushed my cheek and I rubbed my finger at the sticky smudge of pink gloss. I wished she wouldn’t kiss me after applying the stuff. ‘So, can we get a calico cat, perhaps in a few months or so?’ I knew what the answer would be as soon as she’d mentioned Alfie, but I was nothing if not persistent. My gran had always said that if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’ She checked her reflection in the hall mirror, combed the wayward bob into order, blew me a kiss and left.

  I looked in the mirror to make sure that the blown kiss hadn’t magically left another sticky smudge. It hadn’t. I loosed my hair from the ridiculously neat plait that Mother had created for me earlier and gave it a good ruffle through with my fingers.

  Anything to be different, she’d said, as if it was a bad thing. I thought it was the complete opposite.

  Right at that second, I experienced a turning point in my young life, a cat-a-lyst if you will. Of course, at eleven years old, I couldn’t put it into those words. I just felt determined. Being different was good, I liked it and I wouldn’t change myself for anyone. Not ever.

  I took my tie off, shoved it in my blazer pocket and opened the top button of my shirt, looked in the mirror again – I liked the defiance afire in my green eyes. They were a similar shade to those of the calico cat. Calico cats were different. They weren’t just ginger, or black, or Siamese, but a mishmash of different colours. One day, I promised myself, I’d get one.

  2

  Two Weeks Ago

  Just in case you are interested in hearing more about my life, here’s what happened recently. Two weeks ago, after six years teaching history in my local secondary school, I walked out of the classroom and just kept on walking. It was one of those moments, like the one I had seventeen years ago when I’d taken my tie off and decided I’d had a turning point.

  A turning point?

  I’m never sure how we know what one of those really is. Perhaps we have lots during our life but don’t recognise all of them. It could be that we just like the idea of labelling particular moments which seemed to make a big difference to our lives. Probably life just goes on in the same way at the time really, because, of course, we only slap those labels on after the event – in retrospect. I know I said that when I was eleven I ‘experienced’ a turning point, but maybe I didn’t realise it until later, when I looked back.

  Two weeks ago was definitely a turning point though, because I physically turned and left the classroom, the building and teaching in general. I hadn’t thought about it beforehand, hadn’t known I was going to do it. Planning didn’t come into it at all.

  Halfway through teaching a lesson which asked the question: ‘Was Custer solely to blame for the Battle of the Little Bighorn?’ I told the class of fifteen-year-olds to look at a Power Point depicting a huge and colourful battle scene on the whiteboard at the front of the classroom. I started asking them questions about it and then my eye was taken by a petal of pink blossom stuck to the outside of the classroom window. That petal was shortly followed by more and yet more, as if from the heavens an unseen hand was scattering confetti.

  I realise now, of course, that the spindly branches of cherry blossom trees lining the playground were having a hard time against a fierce and wet north wind, but at the time it seemed like a sign.

  A turning point.

  I longed to be out there in the wind, feeling the freshness of its kiss, the damp blossom sticking to my cheeks. I wanted to run to the wild ocean, immerse myself in nature, listen to the roar of the waves, fill my lungs and roar back.

  One of the students spoke. I can’t remember what was said or even who said it, but the voice drew me back to the classroom and twenty-five faces bobbed in front of me. Teaching wasn’t enough. It was like looking at an open can of peas.

  Not that the kid’s faces were particularly round or green, of course, though Jamie Hurley’s was sometimes, due to his gastric problems, but my job represented the mundane, the ordinary, the ‘I care so little about what I am eating I’ll just open a can of over-processed and chemically enhanced green vegetables’ everyday type of life. The type of life I had decided I wouldn’t live under any circumstances, the type of life that crushed your soul and swallowed your dreams, the type of life that killed you little by little and you wouldn’t realise it until it was too late.

  It wasn’t the fault of the children; they were just as trapped as I was. They were mostly lovely and far from pea-like the majority of the time, apart from Jamie, as I’ve said, and I did love my subject, but the box ticking, target meeting, mechanical Ofsted-following sham that teaching had become was not for me. And in that blossom-filled, can-opening moment, I knew I had to get out, do something different, be someone different.

  After I’d stopped walking, I went back to my flat and had a drink. I am lucky enough to live by the ocean in Newquay, and my apartment looks right over the Atlantic. Well, the person (me) inside the apartment looks, of course, not the apartment itself. I bought it with some money my gran left to me when she died eighteen months ago. I still have quite a lot of money in the bank following the sale of her big old house, also left to me.

  Mother wasn’t best pleased of course – she’d only been left a few ornaments and bits of jewellery. I went around to see her a little while after the will had been read, and she said she thought Grandma had been quite mean, as she was her only child, after all. I said that wasn’t the most important thing here and explained that Gran and I were kindred spirits and saw the world through different eyes – ‘artistic and in-touch-with-nature’ eyes.

  This didn’t help my mother’s mood. She turned her face into a Halloween mask, her words sharp and pointy, and sent them stabbing through the air at me. She said that artistic and in-touch-with-nature eyes didn’t pay the bills, unless you were really talented or really lucky, and furthermore I should be grateful that I had a sensible honest to goodness teaching job. I begged to differ and pointed out that Gran had obviously been talented and lucky, because where did she think the proceeds of her bountiful will had come from, if not Gran’s painting career?


  Mother had pulled her neck back and pursed her lips so tightly that the lines around her mouth showed up like tiny furrows on a frosty field. Then she stabbed again. She would have me know that part of that money was from the proceeds of Granddad’s hard graft at the bank for forty-odd years, hard graft, mark me, that he’d done to support his wife’s ridiculous and fanciful notion that she was an artist.

  I had said that it wasn’t ridiculous or fanciful, it was the truth, and, furthermore, she was just angry because she’d been left out of the will. Mother’s Halloween mask had melted back into her normal face and she began to cry. I decided I couldn’t cope with the reproach swimming in her eyes and left. That had been a week before my second turning point, so after I had finished my drink and looked from my picture window at the ocean trying to drown a few surfers, I decided I’d give her a call and tell her what had just happened.

  I lay on my bed, tried to close my ears to the things she didn’t say, and instead listened to her false cheery words bouncing down the line, like a ball on a karaoke screen.