We tried to take your things to Lost Property, said the officer, his voice sounding as if it echoed through a corridor of clouds. But your cat is a real scrapper. Wouldnt let anyone near them. Collect your belongings and the cat, please. Weve got plenty to do, as it is
Every railway station in England has its waiting rooms. Some are vast and filled with streaming daylight; others are miserly, with narrow benches squeezed close together. Here a velvet armchair, there a wooden pew too shiny with age. They all differ, but theres a single thread running through theman unavoidable, taut waiting.
Everyone who travels by train finds themselves sitting, early, in that strange limbo, always terrified of missing the chimes, and cursing themselves for being too prompt. Bags and suitcases mass around ankles, time dissolves into a sticky syrup, and ones thoughts spin around the folly of care.
So it was on that peculiar daymen and women hunched in clusters, studiously ignoring one another. Some riffled through newspapers, others sank into novels. Most took shelter in the amber glow of their mobiles. A few unwrapped sandwiches so dry their crumbling was almost invisible. But to these, he would always go
The waiting room, smelling faintly of old paint and wet coats, perched at street level, its door gaping onto the foggy pavement. Perhaps it was the ghost of a ham sandwich, or the buttery tang of cheese, leaking from bags and esky boxes, that drew him in.
He was a large, battered grey tom. Around his neckmore wire than leathera faded collar with a phone number starkly scrawled.
People shooed him away. Especially mothers, huddled with their chirpy children:
Go on! Off with you! Filthy, crawling with fleas. Dont you dare put my girl at risk.
The cat heaved a very English sigh and retreated a little, sitting with the melancholy dignity of an ageing barrister left waiting for his brief. He begged nothing. He would just sit near, quietly, and gaze gaze with yearning, unblinking eyes.
Starvation rang in his belly, but asking for food was beyond him.
Only days before, hed been driven here. His person had diedright out of the blueand the inheritors, dry of heart, sold the flat. One relative decided on a solution: dropped the cat at Euston, muttered,
Hell find grub here, better than starving on our watch, and vanished.
How do you beg, though? How do you say, Feed me, I am desperate? The cat did not know. He simply watched silently, letting scents twist inside his head til he was faint.
But for the people, rattling with the suspense of their journeys, there was neither time nor sympathy for someone elses lost beast. They just wanted to be gone, to slip out of this fever-dream waiting hall and let it all evaporate.
One man, his name was Edward, arrived absurdly early. He was off to Birmingham, barely a night awaytrain at midnight, business at dawn, back by dusk. Bored, he watched folks about him, and noticed the cat when a woman snapped at it, hand raised.
The old cat, used to such theatrics, slunk away and set himself down again. The man spotted the collar and thought: Lost pet, most likely. Owner will be frantic. From his rucksack, he unwrapped a plastic boxhis wife, Alice, had packed him roast beef sandwiches for the trip. He cracked them open, sighing with pleasure:
Ah, proper nosh, this he muttered, catching the cats gaze. Puss-puss. Over here, old fellow. Fancy a bit?
The cat eyed him, warily dancing his weight onto each paw. The memory of flying boots was still fresh.
Come on, dont worry, Edward murmured. No onell touch you.
Cautious, the cat approached. Edward placed the sandwich on a napkin beside him. The cat chirped a feeble mew, then devoured the meal so tidily youd think hed dined on royal china all his life.
Definitely someones pet Edward mused aloud.
He noted the phone number and dialled, but the line was dead.
He muttered a four-letter oath. Only twenty minutes till his train, and fates puzzle had landed in his lap.
What on earth? he whispered, looking around in dismay.
The weight of the world pressed him down. He called Alice, telling her the tale in sharp, jumbled doses.
What should I do? Hes clearly a housecat. Owners line is dead. Hes wandering the station, everyone shooing him off.
With a sigh deep as the Thames, Alice replied, Only you, Ed, constantly knee-deep in stray-cat tragedies. Why this one?
You see, Ed replied, he cant even ask for food. They all turn him away, and hes helpless.
Alright, she said, where exactly? Waiting room?
Yes! His voice brightened.
Speak the number, Ill try.
Before boarding, Edward led the tom to a quiet patch of wall and set down the entire sandwich box.
Stay put, he instructed, rubbing behind the ears. My wifell come for you.
The cat gazed at Ed as if he were the sole warm touch in daysfed him, stroked his battered fur, and uttered gentle things. The cat pressed into his hand, mumbling a hoarse meow.
There you go, stay put, Ed said. Shell help you. Youll see.
Next day, Edward was buried in meetings. By nightfall, he phoned Alice.
So? Found the owner? Did you feed him?
I looked all evening, Alice said, tired and crackling at the edges. Checked the collar myself. Owners dead. The heirs just dumped him at the station
Ed was silent.
Ill look again in the morning, Alice added.
I know youll help, Ed replied.
Oh, I can tell how unworried you are, she teased. Your hearts no good for hand-wringing! Ill ring our Charlotte and her husbandwell go together.
He rang off, trying to push the uncanny guilt away. Just a cat, he told himself. You cant rescue them all But the worry gnawed on.
Edward tossed all night, dreaming he caressed the cats head, whispered unknown words. The cat watched, nodded, somehow understanding.
Wide-eyed at dawn, Alice rang again. Theyd combed every corridor and asked all the cleanersthe cat was nowhere.
Edward was swamped with a hollow guilt; he could neither reason with it nor shake it off.
He hurried home. Felt compelled to set things right.
That evening, back in London, he went straight to the station. Instead of home, he left his luggage with a passenger and began his hunt.
He dreaded one thing: finding the cat too late, or never.
For ninety minutes he combed platforms and shadows, then checked the bins and brambles outside.
Nearing midnight, Alice joined, breathless and cross with everythingfrom fate to train fares to her own tired feet.
At two in the morning, exhausted, they collapsed onto a bench at the entrance, and, English to their bones, lit up a cigarette each.
My feet are throbbing, Alice groaned.
What now? Edward asked.
Rest a spell. Then another sweep. By the way, wheres our luggage?
He clapped his forehead. At the stationin care of a chap. But hes long gone!
Best fetch it first. If its not pinched, well stash it in the car and keep searching.
They shuffled through the building. By the luggage, a police officer waved them down.
These yours? he asked.
Yep, they chimed, breathless.
Whyd you leave them?
Chasing a cat, they chorused.
The officer frowned. What cat? He pointed with a torch towards the bags. You mean this bruiser?
Sprawled among the suitcases was the giant grey tom.
We meant to bring all items to Lost Property, said the officer. But your cats a wild one. Fought us off, wouldnt let anyone near the bags. Take themand your beast. Were swamped as it is.
Edward crept toward the cat. When he saw the man whod fed him, soothed him, and told him to wait, the cat wailed with happiness, arching his spine in one long stretch.
Edward sat on the bench, ran his hand down the cats back, and exhaled in relief. Alice eased beside him.
Only you, she sighed and kissed his left cheek, could drag us into so much strangeness. Grab the bags, will you?
He took hold of his battered case and holdall; Alice, for her part, scooped up the ragged, underfed tomcat. He chirped his delight, nudging her face and purring so loud it couldve woken the dead, trying his level best to lick her cheek.
Alice laughed, wriggling free from his devotion.
That night, at home, she washed him in deliciously hot water, towelled him with something fluffy, slipped off his sorry collar, and set out a bowl of fragrant roast chicken broth.
Much later, the cat crept to their bedroom and pressed close, pawing her carefullyalmost as if to check she was real, fearing another vanishing.
She placed her palm along his spine and whispered,
Sleep, my darling, sleep. Youre home now.
The cat rumbled a happy purr and drifted off.
Edward slept, too, dreaming that he and Alice were wandering those station corridors, looking for that singular tom once more.
And the tomcat, for his part, dreamt that all along, hed been searching for them.
Meanwhile, in the halls of Euston station, a tiny ginger kitten weaved among the feet, peering hopefully into cold faces, mewing with all the might in her miniature frame. Passersby frowned and hurried on.
They were far too busy to pause. After all, there are too many strays in the world; its impossible to rescue them all, they reasoned, quickening their step.
And in this dream, the station drifted on, quietly endless.
