Encounters. Barbara Erskine
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milk. There were many windows opening out onto her private cat walk.
I puzzled what to do; I wanted so very much to say yes. For a long time I sat in front of my writing pad, pen in hand while Tiger slept on my bed. At last all I could think of to say was: ‘But I don’t even know your name …’ I tied it to her collar and crept at last into bed beside her.
In the morning she was still there and there was a huge puddle on the carpet from the rain which had poured in all night. I was furious. Picking her up I put her outside by force and shut the window behind her in spite of her pitiful mewing. I was angry as much with myself for leaving the window open as with her for not going out in the rain. Probably she wouldn’t come back at all now after such an outrage, but my carpet was ruined and in the cold light of day I hadn’t much faith in a silly scribbled message which was probably a joke. For a moment I regretted not removing my note and tearing it up. Then I shrugged. It would probably have dissolved by the time the poor little cat got home. I glanced out of the window. The rain was still sheeting down and the clouds were black and threatening.
I was like a bear with a sore head at work that day, as I sat gazing out at the rain. I so much wanted the note to be real, and for me. And I knew that it just couldn’t be. Things like that don’t happen in real life.
By about four o’clock the sky had cleared a little and as I walked home from the bus the sun broke through the clouds and glistened dazzlingly on the wet pavements. My heart lifted a little as I set the key in the lock. I had bought myself a new paperback and a pizza on my home to cheer myself up a bit. I was sure Tiger wouldn’t come again after the way I had treated her that morning and I did not let myself even think about the message on her collar. I knew I wanted too much for her to come again with another.
She arrived about half past eleven, standing as if uncertain of her welcome at the window. I could see at once, with thumping heart, that she had a new message tied to her collar. I was terrified she would turn and run before I could scoop her off the windowsill and carry her to the kitchen. While she drank her milk I read the letter:
9 Westport Terrace (top bell)
To whom it may concern …
May I, Mowgli, being of sound cat-mind, introduce Jonathon Lazenby, bachelor of this parish. He is a respectable gentleman and most desirous of escorting a certain young lady, she being in the habit of tying her hair in a provocative red scarf, to the Bistro Italiano at 7.30 tomorrow evening. Should she be willing to accept perhaps she would intimate the same to Mowgli who will pass on her message.
by Feline Express, Tuesday
I read the letter again and again, half laughing, unable to believe it to be true. Then at last I wrote my reply.
15 Westport Terrace (top bell)
Miss Anna Winton being the lady with the red scarf, thanks Mowgli very much for her impeccable introduction and has much pleasure in accepting Mr Jonathon Lazenby’s kind invitation. She looks forward to meeting him tomorrow night.
by Feline Express
‘I’ll buy you a tin of salmon tomorrow, Mowgli,’ I whispered in her ear as I tied the note to her collar. But I didn’t have to. I found Jonathon had already done it and as he said, one tin at a time was quite enough for such a small messenger.
‘Would you like some more wine?’
Under the low ceiling with its criss-cross of darkened beams a curl of smoke levelled and drifted up from the log fire, from the cigarettes of the loudly talking guests, and from his pipe.
Annette stood watching, eyes half shut, her contact lenses not liking the atmosphere, as she clutched the empty wine glass in her hand. She was thinking about the church.
The baby had cried – a high wail, echoing up under the roof of the nave, the sound curling like the smoke around the rose window. A lonely sound which had made her drag her eyes back down to the font, which someone had decorated with threads of white daisies, as she blinked back sudden stupid tears.
Celia’s child. Duncan’s child. The child which might have been hers …
‘Some more wine?’
She was beautiful; exquisite. Tiny hands waving indignantly over the pale lace. Natasha Anne. Her hair as golden as her father’s; her eyes already the same blue. Or were all babies’ eyes that colour?
‘Wine?’
The pleasant face was smiling at her; the green eyes quirky and humorous as they watched her. ‘If I could deliver it to your planet, I would.’
‘Planet?’ She turned her full attention to him at last, bewildered.
‘You are on another planet?’
‘Oh, I see!’ Embarrassed, Annette looked back at Celia, still standing near the door, the child in the crook of her arm. Then she laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I was thinking about the baby.’
‘Very appropriate at a christening.’ He smiled again. ‘I’m Rick Jefferson; your colleague in the godparent stakes.’ He captured her empty wine glass and filled it from the bottle in his hand, expertly fielding the slopping liquid as someone jostled him from behind.
Suddenly she felt more cheerful; she smiled. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I’m being very rude, I’m Annette.’
He grinned again. ‘Can I fetch you something to eat? Say yes. Then I can put down this bottle and pick up a glass of my own when I go to the table.’
He wasn’t very tall; not much taller than she. But his shoulders were broad and his frame solid. She found herself giggling at his pantomime of self starvation. ‘I’d love something to eat. Thank you.’
‘And you won’t fly back to Mars or Venus or wherever?’
‘Promise.’
She watched him thread his way across the room towards the long table. He paused near Celia and she saw him smile and touch the baby’s hand – then he moved on. He collected a glass and two plates of food, and she saw him turning back in her direction.
‘All alone?’
Suddenly Duncan was standing in front of her. She felt her throat contract a little as she looked up at his face. Could she have so soon forgotten how tall he was?
‘Rick is fetching me something to eat. She’s a lovely baby, Duncan.’
He was looking down at her intently. ‘Annette. You really didn’t mind us asking you to be godmother? It was Celia’s idea –’
‘Of course not.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘I’m honoured.’ And she turned to Rick, reaching with relief for the plate he offered her. For a moment the three of them stood there in silence. Then Duncan smiled and shrugged and walked away …
Later, as she and Rick let themselves out of the French window, there was a breath of summer in the garden and a soft evening shimmer in the air.
Annette shivered, her coat around her shoulders as they slipped out of the hot noisy room.
Rick grinned at her. ‘Are you sure you want to go out?’
Nodding she sipped her wine and stepped onto the grass. ‘I get claustrophobia at parties.’
‘Me too.’ He followed her, leaving his glass balanced carefully on the head of a lichen-covered statue at the edge of the steps. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
‘What?’
‘You and Duncan. There was a “you and Duncan” wasn’t there?’
She