The Calico Cat Read online

  It is mid-morning on a Saturday, and outside my apartment window the May sunshine paints bold yellow sparkling strokes across the cerulean Atlantic, and on the bouncing figures of passers-by on the street. Have you noticed that people tend to put more of a bounce in their step when it’s a lovely day, as if their feet are invisibly connected to the heartbeat of nature and thump along in time? They might be late for an appointment, or going somewhere they’d rather not be going, but at least they feel alive and part of the world. However, when it’s hard to tell night from day on dark winter afternoons, the heartbeat of nature is laboured and distant, and passers-by huddle along, their gaze to the ground, disconnected, apart… anchorless.

  Mother has called round a few times and we have gone out for lunch. She’s able to do that because she works only part time at the estate agents nowadays. On these occasions she has behaved herself perfectly – that worries me. Experience tells me that she’s probably going to try to make me do something I don’t want to do, but I’ll feel obliged as she’s being so nice. If it’s something little I might consider it, otherwise she can whistle. That’s another one of Gwendoline’s and I never really know what it means. Of course, I know how to use it in context, but why should a person being made to whistle be a problem to them? There are worse things.

  Dad is still full time in car sales but hopes to go part time in a few years. He said the other day on the phone, ‘I’m fifty-five, and ten more years of trying to sell heaps of metal to poor saps who can’t afford them will be the death of me.’ I asked him why he didn’t just leave and do something else and he laughed. It was the kind of laugh that has something to say. Not a joyful, carefree laugh, but one that was weary and laced with irony. A laugh that said, we can’t all be like you, Charlotte; some of us are living in the real world.

  You might think that was an awful lot for one laugh to say, but I heard it. I told him that the real world isn’t a place I care to visit much, which puzzled him, as he hadn’t actually spoken those words out loud.

  Two things are happening today. One I am very much looking forward to, the other I could do without. Caleb is coming round at two-ish and we’re going to Truro because he wants to buy a tent, and I’ve decided then I’ll tell him about my big fat secret over coffee, and Mother is phoning in a moment to have a chat about ‘something important’. Guess which one I’m not looking forward to? Yes, you’re right, though the big fat secret bit of the happening that I’m looking forward to might not be plain sailing. We’ll see.

  ‘Hi, Mother, yes I’m fine. No, I haven’t tried the turnip chutney you brought over yet. No real reason, just haven’t got round to it. I’m sure it is good for me, yes…’

  Oh dear. She does talk a lot of twaddle. Sorry, this must be very boring for you, but there’s no point in listening to her side of the conversation really… unless you’d like to? Okay then. I’ll ask her something now or we’ll never get to the point.

  ‘So you said you had something important to talk to me about?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been thinking. Well, me and your dad have been thinking…’ You have been thinking and talking and he has been listening, you mean. ‘… that you should probably try to do something with those paintings. I thought they were really rather good when I came round last week.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune. You said I had no talent not so long ago.’

  ‘Ah, but I was angry and it all came out wrong.’ That’s as near as I’ll get to an apology. ‘Anyway, I was thinking that if painting is to be your new career as you say, then it has to be organised properly.’

  ‘Organised? I think I know how to mix paint, pick up a brush, etcetera.’

  ‘You know that’s not what I mean. No, I was thinking that perhaps you should use some of your gran’s money to open a studio with a shop attached. They have a few of those round and about here. There was one come vacant last week actually, just put it up in the agency yesterday.’

  Oh, I see what she’s up to, and what her recent perfect lunches have been about. She wants me to move back to Tintagel so she can try and control my every waking moment. No bloody way.

  ‘I had been thinking along those lines, too,’ I say. This is true actually, but I’ve done nothing about it yet because I have no head for business. ‘But I want to stay around here, thanks.’

  ‘There’s no suitable premises in your area, I’ve looked.’

  I hate the sound of her voice now. It’s changed, lost its wheedly lightness and is closed down, hard, taken on an ‘I know better than you’ tone. ‘There’s no rush is there? I have plenty of time to find the perfect place. I might even set up in a beach hut,’ I say and try to hide a giggle. I can picture her face, perfectly plucked brows pulling together over the bridge of her nose as her forehead furrows, while her mouth draws tighter than a duck’s arse.

  ‘Oh please, a beach hut?’

  ‘Yes, a beach hut.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know whether you’re pulling my leg or not – I can’t see your face – but I was thinking you’d do really well in this lovely little shop on the high street. You’ve lived here all your life and know the place inside out. It will be the height of tourist season soon and you’ll quickly build up custom, and you’ll get interest from our old friends and neighbours and—’

  ‘I haven’t lived in Tintagel for years, Mother. I have made a new life here and you might not have noticed, but it isn’t so easy to just set up business and—’

  ‘Yes, but me and Dad will help. It will be wonderful. Dad can decorate it and I can make some flyers for you—’

  ‘You need to stop reading those chick-lit books, Mother. The ones with titles like The Best Little Pink Art Studio in Fluffy Chocolate Town by the Sea – happy endings guaranteed, or your money back.’

  ‘I don’t read chick lit, I read women’s fiction.’

  ‘I’ve always found that an odd description. Does that mean that if a man opens a women’s fiction book, all the words will slide off the page in a swoon, or flutter a fan and scamper away in horror? Or perhaps the book will explode to ensure no manly eye can read what he’s not supposed to?’

  ‘Can we have a sensible conversation, please?’

  ‘We are. I mean, can you tell me why we don’t have a section in bookshops called men’s fiction? Or does the genre “women’s fiction” imply that we are only allowed to read those and no other, possibly because our pea brains can’t contend with ideas outside love, marriage, pink shoes and chocolate? It’s like Woman’s Hour on the radio. Are all the other radio hours dedicated to men?’ I am being half serious, but mainly exercising my right to drive Mother barmy.

  ‘So, would you like me to have a look round the premises I mentioned?’

  Is she mad? Hasn’t she been listening to one bloody word?

  I suck in air and hold it, then I let it out around a few quick breathy sentences. ‘No, Mother, I wouldn’t. I have no intention of moving back up to Tintagel, much as I adore the place,’ (just a shame you live there) ‘I have a life here.’

  ‘You say that now, but I think you’ll come round. Dad and I—’

  My nails grip the leather pad of the settee cushion so hard I fear they will puncture it. ‘Oh, shit – is that the time! Sorry, Mother, I must go, I’m meeting a friend. Bye, speak soon. Love to Dad!’

  The call at an end, I slump sideways on the settee and pull the cushion over my face in an effort to smother a scream. But why am I doing that? I’d feel much better if I just gave my anger and frustration release. My mouth opens, I fill my lungs and send a primeval roar bouncing off the four white walls, until I’m out of air and the tendons in my neck strain like girders and my face feels like a furnace. I imagine what I must look like and start to laugh. God, I feel better for that.

  The cheval mirror in my bedroom says that I might have overdone the eyeliner. Before you ask, it didn’t actually speak, no, that would be very weird, and I would probably have run screaming from the room. I lean in and run a damp finge
r under both eyes: yes, that’s better. My finger isn’t, though. It’s covered in black eyeliner and mascara and I was in the middle of buttoning up my floaty jade summer dress. Nothing to be done about that now.

  I walk to the bathroom and, true to its description, the floaty dress floats off my shoulders and settles around my hips, so by the time I reach the bathroom door I’m grabbing at the material with my left hand and flicking my right hip out to the side repeatedly to stop it sliding further. On telly the other night there was a crab on the ocean floor doing a mating dance, displaying movements which bore more than a passing resemblance to mine at this very moment. Perhaps my libido is trying to tell me something. I stick my finger under the running water and scrub at the black stain. It reminds me of how the consequences of the big fat secret put a stain on my teenage years. I heave a sigh and leave the bathroom.

  Caleb’s car is a bit show-offy, sporty, black and very fast. It has a soft top which is down at the moment, it being such a lovely day, and he’s sitting behind the wheel waving and grinning as I walk down the path from my apartment. He looks fresh and spring-like in his turquoise shirt and his dark curls are even curlier because of the drive here in the breeze. I don’t normally like show-offy cars, but his has a certain character, and often show-offy cars have show-offy owners, whereas Caleb isn’t. He’s a kind, thoughtful man with forget-me-not blue eyes, a quick wit and a crazy sense of humour. Not as crazy as mine, I’ll grant you, mine is odder, literalist, and all round different.

  ‘You look lovely, Lottie. The dress matches your eyes,’ he says. I lower myself into the car and the breeze lifts the hem of the floaty dress and exposes my knickers as I do.

  I tug it down and slam the door. ‘Thanks, not sure it’s the dress for such a breezy day, though.’

  ‘It’s not as breezy as this in Truro… shame, really,’ he says with a wink.

  I treat him to my best withering stare and notice that his gaze skips briefly over my black-and-white sneakers and the corner of his mouth forms a smirk. He thinks I haven’t seen it as he checks the mirror and pulls away from the kerb.

  ‘What’s up? Never seen a girl in a floaty dress and baseball boots before?’ I say in a mock hurt tone.

  Caleb glances at me and I keep my face straight. ‘Um… no, actually, but I was thinking they make a pretty cool combination.’

  ‘Good. Right answer,’ I say and laugh. ‘It’s all part of being an individual and not conforming to the idea of wearing things that are supposed to “go together”. I don’t do it for the sake of it though.’ Though sometimes I wonder if I do. ‘I do it because I like the way it looks. I do enjoy colouring outside the lines, as I call it.’

  ‘What a great description! I like that you do as you please. Some people would worry that they would get looked at. I know my sister wouldn’t dare wear that combination, well, not out in town, anyway.’

  There was something about the tone of his last six words that made me wonder if he did actually admire my choice, or whether he thought his sister was right. I look out of the window at the bright colours most people have on display – their weekend early-summer best – and I wish they would always dress like that. I also decide that Caleb probably did mean what he said. After all, I am an acquired taste, but he doesn’t seem to want to eat anything else at the moment.

  Truro is one of my most favourite cities in the whole of the UK. It has all the shops you’d get in a characterless modern city centre (I won’t give examples of these cities because it wouldn’t be very nice for the people living in them), but all the old-world charm and historical character of some of the little Cornish towns, too. The weight of ages is present in the cobbled streets and waterfront, but nowhere more so than in the lofty cathedral. I discovered once that there had been a place of worship on the site since the twelfth century, and the ancient church was incorporated into the main cathedral that was built in the 1800s.

  Now as you may remember, Caleb wanted to buy a tent. I have no idea when he intends to go camping, but he wants my opinion before he buys one. I did explain to him that I have as much knowledge about tents as I do cricket, but he practically begged, so here we are in the outdoorsy, mountain climby, campy type place, looking at a big blue square tent with a pretend plastic window.

  Caleb frowns, strokes the stubble on his chin and says, ‘Do you like this one, Lottie, or would you prefer that orange dome one over there?’ He points at it.

  The orange dome looks like a giant hand has shoved an enormous satsuma into the ground and drawn a zip on it. ‘Not especially. But then I can’t really get excited about tents. Where will you be camping?’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ He cocks his head to one side and looks at me like a thoughtful sparrow. Yes, sparrows can look thoughtful, I’ve watched them. ‘I was hoping you’d come with me in the summer holidays… I thought we could walk the South West Coast Path from Newquay towards Land’s End and see where we’d end up after about two weeks.’

  I say the first thing in my head – I’m a bit flabbergasted. ‘Eh? What, carrying that massive blue tent? We’d probably get as far as the Atlantic Hotel and collapse!’

  Thoughtful sparrow becomes grinning dog. ‘Tents are really light nowadays. Besides, we could stay in B&Bs part of the way if we got too knackered.’

  All the time he’s been talking I’ve been thinking that we would be in the tent together for two weeks, and though it was big, it wasn’t that big. I’d have to insist on separate sleeping bags of course. ‘And we’d camp rough, near the path?’

  ‘It’s called wild camping. Not strictly allowed unless you get the permission of the landowner, but if we camp at sunset and then set off early the next morning, nobody really minds.’

  ‘You’ve done this before, then?’

  ‘No. Read about it.’

  Only reading about it doesn’t inspire confidence and I walk around the tent imagining an irate farmer yelling ‘GERROFF MY LAND’ and setting the dogs on us. I also imagine what I’d feel like after even a few days of wild camping. My temper would probably be wild too, due to uncomfortable sleeping, the stink of unwashed bodies (mine and Caleb’s, not random folk’s), and the endless cooking of canned food and lack of fresh veg. We’d probably actually get scurvy and die. I lift the flap of the door, peer inside at the uninspiring interior and walk back to Caleb.

  ‘Well?’ he asks, an expression on his face borrowed from a hopeful schoolboy.

  Don’t get me wrong. I can absolutely see the attraction of the walk. I have seen programmes about it on telly, that Baldrick guy did some of the walk, not all of it, obviously, because as far as I recall, it is over six hundred miles. It’s an artist’s dream. Panoramic views as far as the eye can see of craggy coastal rocks under swathes of green headland, surrounded by a huge blue ocean, more types of seabird than you could shake a stick at (not that I’d want to do that – it would be most unkind), white cushions of sea campion, blue sheep’s-bit, pink and purple thrift, yellow vetch and many others wild flowers the names of which Gwendoline taught me but I’ve now forgotten.

  I ponder for a few more moments and then say, ‘So you want to go on a walking holiday because your surname is Walker? What would you do if it was Crapper?’ This earns me a withering look. This silliness has given me time to test the real words to my answer in my head. ‘Yes, okay, I think I’d like to come along, but I won’t stay in the tent. I’d rather opt for the B&Bs.’

  If Caleb was wearing a crest it would have fallen. I watch his face for a second or two and then the clouds pass over, and he struggles to find middle ground between a pout and a smile. ‘Okay, if that’s what you’d prefer. The main thing is that we get to walk some of the most spectacular coastline in the UK… and,’ a pink tinge splashes his cheekbones, ‘we’ll get to know each other a little better, too.’

  That would be nice, but I won’t say this. I don’t want to make him think the holiday is going to be something it won’t be. Whatever that something is, I can’t articulate,
anyway. It’s the unknown thing I mentioned before. What I do say is, ‘Okay, I’ll come. Now let’s go for a coffee and I’ll tell you my big fat secret.’

  7

  The Big Fat Secret

  It’s one of those mellow afternoons, you know, the ones that are made out of sunshine and the heat on your skin makes you behave a like a bumble bee? You take a lazy buzz along the winding streets, inhale the aroma of coffee and pastries as you pass open café doors, sniff fruit and flowers on the outdoor stalls, and then eventually settle on some bar stool and drink deep of the nectar on offer.

  Okay, yes, I said we’d go for coffee, but Caleb had other ideas. He said he knew the very place, and so here we are inside a rather lovely restored Georgian townhouse which is now a wine bar and restaurant called Bustopher Jones. Its logo is a monocled fat cat in a top hat and tails, holding a cigar in one paw and a walking cane in the other. Apparently, it is a cat from Cats the musical, which Caleb has seen but I haven’t.

  Caleb hands me a cocktail menu. ‘I thought this would be the ideal place, you liking cats and all.’

  ‘I don’t like all cats, just calico ones, really.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t find a place here in Truro called the Calico Cat,’ Caleb says in a pretend upset manner. ‘What’s so good about them, anyway?’

  ‘I didn’t say they were so good. I like them because they’re different, or I did when I was eleven. I don’t think I’d seen one before I saw that particular cat on the old film. I’ve since discovered that apparently not many people actively seek them out as pets because they’re a bit messy to look at. They’re neither one thing or the other. Not black, white, Siamese, ginger, Maine Coon or tabby. Most people like order – things in boxes, pigeonholes, compartments. They like their cats symmetrical, neat. I don’t.’

  Caleb leans his elbows on the bar and stares at the menu some more. He says, ‘Why have you never got yourself a calico cat?’