The ginger cat was sprinting up and down the platform, staring straight into anyones eyes before letting out a little disappointed meow and slipping away. A tall, silverhaired gentleman had been trying for days to coax the little wanderer closer, offering bits of food whenever the train pulled in from his business trips.
The cat would dash along the rails, pause by strangers and lock eyes with them as if looking for the one person it was waiting for. If it sensed a mistake, it would let out a soft, hurt meow and retreat. The gentleman had first spotted the scruffy traveller when he was returning home on the 09:15 from Manchester to London. In the cats gaze there was a lingering sadness, a sense that it wasnt here for a game.
The cat let the man come within a couple of steps, stared right at his face as if asking something, then pulled back, still wary. Hunger, though, won over caution. After five days of the ginger having barely any strength left, the man finally held out his hand with a dollop of clotted cream and a morsel of cheese. The starving cat trembled, ate straight from his fingers, and finally seemed to relax.
A few days later the cat had regained some vigor, and the man tried to take it home. But the little creature bolted back onto the platform, as if scared to go the wrong way. It roamed the tracks again, meowing at passersby, eyes scanning faces like windows, hoping to spot its owner.
Determined, the gentleman went to a station employee he knew. Over a couple of pints, some salty fish and potato pasties, they watched the CCTV footage. They caught the exact moment the cats owner boarded a train. The ginger had leapt off the carriage just before departure and stayed on the platform. They printed a photo of the man, posted it online, but got no replies. So the gentleman decided to take matters into his own hands.
He took a weeks unpaid leave, bought a ticket, and set off on the same route, bringing the ginger along in a carrier. At first the cat wailed and tried to escape, but the fellow travellers, hearing the story, kept feeding it biscuits, milk and bits of sausage. Soon the cat settled, realising no one meant it harm, and that the station its owner would return to was now far behind.
Eventually the cat hopped out of the carrier, curled up next to the silverhaired man, and stared at him like a steady anchor. At every stop they plastered flyers looking for the owner, but the hunt proved tougher than anyone expected. A week passed, then another, and the money ran out, yet the man kept traveling. He couldnt turn back abandoning a creature that had trusted him felt wrong.
One evening he logged onto a social network and nearly dropped his tea: hundreds of thousands of people were following the gingers journey. Strangers were sending cash, food, blankets, and messages of support, offering to adopt the cat.
Now, on platforms across the country, people recognised the man, handed him bags of cat food, warm coats, or simply stood by silently, whispering Hang in there. It was odd for him hed always been a lonewolf, earning his own way, and now he was the centre of a tiny, collective affection for a stray ginger.
Companions in the carriage patted the cat, encouraged the man. By then the ginger had become a seasoned traveller: it would rest on the mans right leg, claws tucked into his trousers to keep from sliding as the train rocked, and drift off to sleep. The man would grimace a little, nudging the claws aside, but mostly just held the cat close.
At night theyd step into the last carriage, stand in the open vestibule, and watch the sunset together the clatter of wheels, the wind, the endless line of rails becoming their shared world.
Alright, love? the man whispered. The cat answered with a short, contented mrr.
Then the phone buzzed. One of the blogs readers, a woman named Ethel, had traced the owner. She messaged that at a big station in Birmingham a man matching the photo would be waiting.
The gentlemans heart raced, but instead of joy he felt a hollow ache. The fellow passengers celebrated, laughing, eating, drinking as if the cat were theirs. The silverhaired man sat quietly, stroking the gingers head, listening to its purr, murmuring something to himself. A strange sadness settled over him after all this searching, maybe the cats true home was right here with him.
The train pulled into the bustling Birmingham New Street. The man, cradling the cat, scanned the crowd of journalists and photographers. Just another event, he thought.
Barnaby! someone shouted nearby. The cat jerked, then turned away from a short, plump woman. It leapt onto the mans chest, claws digging into his neck. The woman smiled, rubbed the cats back and said, He never loved me, dear. Dont worry, she added, gesturing at the cameras, this isnt about us, its about you.
The man blinked, then looked puzzled.
My husbands been sent off to spin stories elsewhere, she explained. We realised we cant just take him back. Even if he belonged to us once, thats over now.
She handed him a thick envelope.
Inside are return tickets, some cash all collected by the women at work. Please dont argue. If I come back without a video, theyll eat me alive.
She slipped the envelope into the pocket of his old coat, gave him a large bag of pastries and treats, and said, Come on, Ill walk you to your train. Departures soon.
They weaved through the bustling concourse, the crowd swirling around them. The woman filmed everything on her phone for her office.
When they finally reached the carriage, she gave the ginger one last pat, kissed the man on the cheek, and left.
The train lurched forward. A moment later, her husband appeared, wiping makeup from his face.
All done, he said. Theyll keep waiting for me forever.
Forgive us, Lord, she whispered, for the lie we told. Otherwise hed have ridden the rails forever, growing old with that cat. Weve ended his suffering.
A noble lie, he nodded. Let them go home. Its the right thing.
I tried to find his owner, she said, but if I couldnt, then no one will.
He pulled her into an embrace.
You did the right thing. They boarded the train together, disappearing into the crowd like water slipping through a bustling river.
Back in the carriage, the wheels clacked rhythmically. Everyone knew who was travelling with them now: the tall silverhaired gentleman and his ginger cat, now officially called Marmalade.
Marmalade, the man announced. The cat blinked, as if to say, Whatever you call me, its the company that matters.
He rested the cats warm head on his leg, let the claws dig into his jeans, and fell asleep, comforted by the thought that hed never be left behind.
The carriage hummed, passengers cheered, and the story fell neatly into place: the cat found a person, and the person found someone who would never abandon him. And dont hold the ladys little whitelie against her sometimes a tiny falsehood is the only way to set things right.
Thats how it went, mate.
