The Calico Cat Page 4

  ‘Anyway, I decided that this teacher needed taking down a peg or two.’ I smiled. ‘That was one of my gran’s sayings. So, I started to question him now and then just to test that he knew the answers to things. He did mostly, but you could tell he was very uncomfortable about being put on the spot. I could see him trying not to notice my hand up and pick one of the other, quieter kids, but I wouldn’t have it.’

  ‘I’m bloody glad you weren’t in my class,’ Caleb says with a grin.

  ‘That would be impossible, wouldn’t it, unless I had a time machine and could have travelled into the future? Us being of a similar age and all.’ I watch him shake his head and wonder if he’s older or younger than me.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, of course I do, just being facetious. So how old are you exactly?’

  ‘I am exactly thirty and two months… not sure how many days, minutes or seconds.’

  ‘Oh, so I’m two years your junior.’

  ‘But how many minutes and seconds? You like to be exact,’ Caleb says and drains his glass.

  ‘Facetiousness must be catching.’

  ‘Is that a word?’

  ‘No idea. It should be though.’ I take a few quick mouthfuls of chicken before the whole thing goes cold and say, ‘One day it all came to a head when Mr Baldwin got the class to analyse some war poems by Wilfred Owen. Now, Owen was, and still is my all-time favourite and I’d already read quite a few. I can’t remember which poem Baldwin was warbling on about, but he was chatting a load of old pants. I told him as much and offered my considered interpretation.’ I pause and remember the tension of an expectant silence in the classroom.

  ‘He didn’t know what to say. He sat on the edge of the desk and opened and closed his mouth a few times like a landed fish struggling for air. Eventually he said I was being outrageously rude and that if I continued he’d put me in detention. I told him that it wasn’t my fault if he was intellectually challenged and some of the class sucked in air, and a few expelled it in huge guffaws.’

  Caleb leans forward, excitement in his eyes. ‘Blimey! What did old Baldwin do then?’

  ‘He told me to go next door to Mrs Hadley’s class and tell her why I’d been sent out. I replied that I’d tell her he was an inadequate wanker who had delusions of grandeur.’

  ‘Really?’ Caleb says, and a bark of laughter escapes him.

  ‘Really,’ I say, and the bravado of that moment is relived just as if it had been yesterday. My heart rate quickens, and giddiness settles in my chest. ‘So, I leave the class and do just that. Next thing I’m sent home at the end of the day with a letter telling my parents that I have been suspended. They go bananas, of course, especially Mother, and from then on, my school rebellion goes from strength to strength. I had already rebelled at home, but that’s another story.’

  ‘My goodness, what a maverick!’

  I smile and glance at my plate. Dinner is beginning to look less appetising by the minute and I realise it must be eaten. ‘Shall we have another drink?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll go.’

  The food has my sole attention for the next ten minutes while he talks about his parents and, forgive me if I sound rude, ordinary and uneventful past. Maybe I’m being too harsh – see what you think. His mum works in a hairdresser’s and his dad in a bakery, they’ve done the same job for over thirty years. He has an older brother and a younger sister who are both in the police now. When they were growing up they went to Spain, to the same resort, or the Isle of Wight camping… every year. Caleb never rebelled or did anything to upset his parents and he loves them both dearly. He has never fallen out with his siblings either and they meet up regularly for a drink or a meal.

  I can almost hear you thinking that I’m just jealous of this ‘ordinary and uneventful past’ because mine wasn’t, though you can’t make a totally informed judgement because you don’t know the full story yet. I suppose you might also think I’m right, but so what? Most people’s lives are ordinary and uneventful, and, in the end, Caleb seems to be a nice, well-adjusted young man with parents who love him. And isn’t that the most important thing after all?

  To be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure, because I’m not really ‘up’ on love. I think I love my dad, but it could just be fondness and a sense that he’s always around and will be there if I need him. I feel comforted by his presence in the world. I think you can guess my feelings on Mother… though they are complicated, but my feelings for Gwendoline were the closest thing to love I’ve known – or at least what I imagine love to be.

  I know without doubt I have never experienced romantic love, whatever that is. Men I slept with during my university years and after have all left me cold. The term ‘boyfriend’ sounds so childish to me, and my attitude to that, and relationships in general, has meant that these men have been the ones to end it. ‘It’ for them was a series of dates, sex (some called it making love) and a view to a future long-term something or other. ‘It’ for me was a release of sexual energy – a physical human need, like eating, drinking and sleeping.

  One man I was with recently got a bit shirty, said I acted more like a man than a woman because I wasn’t emotional enough. I told him to fuck off out of my apartment before I pushed him off the balcony, and was that showing enough emotion for him?

  Caleb finishes his meal, leans back in his seat and rests his muddy left boot across his right knee. I can see a painting… muted light with a few diners daubed here and there against a predominantly green and dun surrounding, a smudge of blue outside and Caleb as the subject. Yes, just perfect. Man with Muddy Boots by Lottie Morgan. It might surprise you to know that I prefer Lottie but got so used to correcting people for shortening my name without permission that I’m now stuck with Charlotte.

  Caleb looks at me over the top of his pint. ‘So that’s my life and sorry, I completely interrupted yours, please carry on,’ he says and takes a big swallow of beer.

  The moment has passed for today, I tell him. It’s just that I don’t feel like getting into all the heavy counselling and stuff and can we leave it for another time? If he wants to hear it, of course. Caleb says of course he would like to hear it, and then the conversation turns to painting, Gwendoline and so forth.

  It is true about the counselling, but I kept something back, too. You see there is something in my past that took my, some might say, ‘natural’ little seeds of wanting to be different on the calico cat day, and genetically modified them into a bloody great oak tree. A bloody great oak tree with furious roots that tore at the earth, and branches that shook gnarled fists at the sky.

  When I was thirteen, a big fat secret that my parents had kept hidden for twenty-three years stepped out into the light. A secret that was so devastatingly important that it shaped my future behaviour and affected the rest of my life. Of course, I haven’t breathed a word of this so far, but I’ll tell you about it very soon.

  We run out of conversation and decide that we’ll call it a day, just as the door opens and a gust of chill salt air blows in pulling behind it a group of six men in their thirties, dressed to the nines, carrying a seventh between them like a human battering ram. They rush forward and pretend to bash the unfortunate man’s head against a table in front of us, until he yells, ‘Oi, you fuckers, that’s enough, now!’

  The others roar with laughter and shove him into a chair. ‘Stop whingeing and enjoy yourself! It’s not every day you have a stag do, is it? Now whose round is it?’ booms a large bullet-headed man in a purple shirt.

  The groom-to-be jabs a finger in Bullet Head’s purple belly. ‘Yours, you tight wad! And be polite at the bar, we don’t want to be chucked out of another pub tonight!’

  Bullet Head hawks phlegm into his mouth and threatens to spit it at groom-to-be, but then he just laughs and swallows it. Nice. He leaves for the bar. Caleb and I stand to put our coats on while the men make themselves comfortable round the table, expelling into the calm atmosphere of the room a testosterone
cloud of raucous laughter, table thumping and expletives.

  Just as we’re about to walk past, one of the men bellows, ‘Yeah, well these bloody refugees should just stay where they are and stop moaning about their life instead of coming over here and demanding fucking housing, jobs and that. What about our own people? This little fucking island ain’t got enough to go round for us lot, never mind those sponging twats!’

  Caleb sees my expression, blows heavily down his nose and takes my arm to guide me past, but I shake him off and look down at the man that has just spoken. A fire of fury lights in my belly and it’s a wonder he can’t see sparks flying from my eyes. The man folds his arms across his ample belly and looks at me with wary eyes swimming in alcohol fumes, red rimmed. Eyes that soak up the hatred screaming from newspaper headlines and spewed from TV screens every day, while the brain behind the eyes has neither the analytic skills nor the intellect to challenge it… or perhaps even the desire to.

  ‘Got a problem with me, darlin’?

  Caleb takes my arm again and I shrug him off again. Does he think I’m unable to think for myself? If I’d wanted to walk past, keep my head down, ignore this contemptuous lump now looking me up and down as if he’d like to eat me, I would have. ‘I’m not your darlin’ and yes, I do have a problem with you. Well, with what you said, to be specific,’ I say, and fold my arms across my breasts.

  ‘So, you eavesdrop on a private conversation and I’m the problem?’ He points a podgy finger at his chest.

  ‘You were yelling so much I think that the whole of Newquay could hear you.’ There’s more raucous laughter and table thumping from his friends.

  ‘I’m not ashamed of speaking my mind. These bloody immigrants should stay in their own fucking country. We’ll end up tipping into the sea out there if we keep letting ’em in!’ He flings his hand at the view of the darkening sky and navy Atlantic.

  ‘How did you choose which country to be born into? Did you look at a map, or what?’ I say, my voice cold, flat.

  ‘Eh?’ He runs a hand across his close-cropped dark hair and knits his bushy brows together. Then he walks right into my trap, must be more stupid than I think. ‘Nobody can choose where they’re born.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right! It’s a matter of pure luck. And I know I’m grateful every day that I was lucky enough to be born here, when I see pictures of those poor people running from murder, rape, poverty, slavery, so desperate that they risk their lives and their children’s lives to try and get just a little bit of what some of us take for granted. I’m sure you’ve heard people say we have only one life and should make the most of it? Well that’s all they’re trying to do.’

  There’s no laughter or table thumping, just a tense silence. The man shakes his head and belches. ‘Yes, but it’s not our bloody fault, is it? Their governments have buggered their own countries up, made ’em poor. Then there’s all these different bloody religions all scrapping. Why should we have to pick up the pieces?’

  I do wonder if further response is going to help. It’s like talking to a tabloid, but then what did I expect when I started on this? Caleb’s face is a mask of concern, but I know I must continue. Raw emotion trumps rational thought, and anyway, if even one of these men agrees with something I say then it’s worth it.

  A deep breath. ‘If you knew your history you would find that past governments and the ruling classes of this “little fucking island”, as you call it, dominated, exploited and ruined many of these areas that people are fleeing from, or at least had influence there. So why the hell shouldn’t they ask for something in return, you moron!’

  A nervous titter escapes from one of the men. Bullet Head returns with a chattering tray of drinks and everything seems to slow down, a freeze frame buzzing with electrically charged air. Then the one I am addressing slams his fist on the table. ‘If you were a man I’d fucking deck you, bitch!’

  I thrust my neck forward and unfold my arms. ‘If you were a man I’d be worried!’’

  The man springs to his feet, Caleb steps in front of me and then two men step between them and hold on to their friend’s arms. ‘Leave it, Jay, we’ve all had a drink and we’re out to have a good time, not get in a bloody scrap,’ one of them says.

  Jay glares at me and Caleb and says, ‘Yeah, until this mad bint starts shouting her mouth off. Take your bird home and teach her some manners.’

  I say, ‘Oh right, a sexist shithead, too? That figures!’

  Jay strains against the hold of his friends – a raging bull in a pen. And Caleb grabs my arm more forcefully this time and drags me outside.

  We walk in silence for a few seconds and then he stops under a street lamp, glances behind him and lets go of my arm. ‘Jesus, Charlotte, you really know how to end an evening with a bang!’ he says, his voice shaky, his eyes alive with a mixture of anger and I think perhaps… a shot of admiration?

  ‘Well, I can’t just let scum like that shout filth in my earshot and do nothing,’ I say, and realise there’s an unspoken narrative threaded through my words which says, ‘Unlike you, Caleb’.

  ‘Oh, believe me, if he was on his own I would have said something, but there were seven of them, Charlotte. I would have been torn apart.’ He folds his arms and sets his jaw as if he expects an argument. Part of me wants to carry the remnants of my anger into the cold March evening air between us, warm it with fire. The other part of me realises this will be foolish and that Caleb is absolutely right. It was different for me because of my gender. Humour might be a good idea right now.

  ‘You said if he was on his own you’d have said something. Well, that’s hardly likely – he’d have to be talking to himself, wouldn’t he?’ I smile and push him with my shoulder playfully as I walk past.

  ‘You think you’re a smart arse, don’t you, Charlotte?’ he says, and though I don’t look back, I know he’s grinning because it’s there in his voice.

  ‘Yes, actually,’ I send back.

  ‘I agree. You were brilliant in there, so proud of you.’

  I stop and turn to look at him and lots of words fight to get out but none of them can. They are jumbled and incoherent and my heart is beating fast. In the end I say, ‘Can you call me Lottie? I prefer it.’

  6

  The Tent Shopping Day

  It’s two months later and my canvas has lost its virginity. Several canvases have been deflowered, actually, giving themselves wantonly to seascapes, ruined castles, windswept moorland complete with a few sheep and half a calico cat. I don’t mean that half a calico cat is on the windswept moorland with the sheep; no, she is on a separate canvas, my current work in progress. I kind of like the paintings but I’m not really happy with them… they aren’t fantastic, if I’m honest.

  Caleb and I see each other about twice a week and we kiss and hold hands. I know, I sound like a twelve-year-old, but it is all quite sweet and rather lovely. He wanted to take it further after about three weeks, and so did I, but something made me say no. It felt wrong somehow, and I don’t know why. I think I’m worried that everything will change if we sleep together and this special friendship we have will become something else, something unknown, and I’m not ready for that. Luckily Caleb understands and says he will be happy to carry on just as we are. I know it’s difficult for him, though, and it’s becoming more so for me. I also know that he won’t want to wait forever, and neither will I.

  The revision sessions with Year Eleven have been going really well. Sometimes just a handful turn up on the beach in town, sometimes it’s an armful. I am so pleased that they have learned so much over the two years, it makes me feel like I’ve been useful, a building block in their education tower. I see learning as vertical. It can be horizontal too, I guess, because of the breadth of learning, but overall, the more you learn, the taller you become. I hope the students remember me fondly in years to come. I would hate to be a Mr Baldwin anecdote, saved for reunions and grandchildren.

  The calico cat’s one green eye watches me from the
easel next to the window and it feels like she’s imploring me to give her a second one. An eye, not a window. That would look odd, even for a surrealist painting. Though thinking about it, it might work. The eyes are the window to the soul, don’t they say?

  I think about the concept of cats having souls as I make a third cup of coffee. There have been debates about that, whether animals have souls, though why, I don’t know. How on earth could you prove or disprove it? What is a soul anyway? Does it live in your head, heart, brain, belly – where? Is it your conscience, guide, the essence of you? If yes, what does that mean? Does it have a colour, shape, substance?

  Are you still following my thread? Do you think as much as me, or in the same way as me? Sometimes I wonder if my thought patterns are odder than most. I think the man in the pub that I argued with must have very different thought patterns to me. But is that because of his upbringing, his life experiences? If he had a similar background and upbringing to me would he think like me? Is it all nurture with a sprinkle of nature? What makes us unique, if indeed we are we unique? What makes us, us?

  My dad once told me that I think too much and ask too many questions. I think as a general rule people don’t think or question enough. This leaves their brain more susceptible to the relentless dumbing-down process of the media and the desire of an individual to escape from the pressures of everyday life by drinking alcohol and watching mind-numbing ‘reality’ shows, soaps or perhaps endless sport. Antonio Gramsci had a great theory about that – he called it hegemony and other modern social theorists have developed it. Look it up, it’s fascinating.

  The coffee is rich and hot and makes my head buzz. Painting might not be a good idea at the moment, because the frame of mind I’m in (can minds be framed? Mine would make an interesting painting) could see me paint a window instead of the calico cat’s right eye. It might be fun today, but I know I’d hate it tomorrow.