A week later, the last motorboat drifted back from the cottage on the River Avon, carrying the neighbours. They came without their catan enormous, grey tom with a missing right ear. All summer wed fought over that beast: hed swipe food from my plate, hed dig through the vegetable patch, and eventually I grew used to his mischief. So when the couple returned, palefaced and catless, a cold dread settled in my gut. I asked Emma to go straight to the gate and, without any pleasantries, demand to know where their felid had vanished.
The answer was exactly the nightmare I feared. The cat had been left behind at the cottage. I paced and fretted until dusk, then rang my boss and begged for a day off tomorrow. Emma let out a heavy sigh and warned, Mind yourself out there. Ask them to ferry you over.
From early morning the sky had turned a bruised slate. Leadgrey clouds dropped a drizzling, mournful rain, while a bitter wind shredded wilted leaves, pinning them to the pavement. I stalked the boatyard, hoping someone would finally set out for the opposite bank to retrieve the forgotten belongings.
No one came. At last a burly man appeared, his boots the size of a small horse, tinkering with a sputtering engine and muttering under his breath. I explained that Id forgotten some vital papers at the cottage and slipped him a fiftypound note. He slipped the cash into his pocket, talked to the heavens about country folk who forget everything, and finally lowered the launch into the water.
The waves rose like angry foam, snarling and threatening to capsize the little craft. After half an hour of battling the waters fury, we limped ashore near the cottages, the gruff boatman muttering that a few more pounds would have bought us a nicer ride. The sky darkened further, and the drizzle turned into sleet.
Grey! Grey! Grey! I shouted, my voice raw, praying the tom was still alive.
The cat emerged, shivering, pressed against my boots, a plaintive yowl escaping him. I snatched him up and bolted for the boat. As I leapt aboard, the grim sailor stared, mouth agape. Thenout of the blueGrey leapt from the hull, pressed his lone left ear against his head, and let out a timid, pleading meow before dashing away.
Stop! Stop! Where the devil are you going? I roared, lunging after him, ignoring the curses and the boatmans threats. He sprinted ahead, I followed, arms flailing, until he veered left and vanished into a thicket. I pushed aside the branches and found Grey curled around a tiny black kitten, both soaked and whimpering. Grey looked at me, guilt in his eyes, and mewed.
I dropped to the sodden ground, reaching for the two. Suddenly the earth shuddered. The grim boatman stomped his massive boots, spitting a torrent of curses, then halted behind me, silence falling like a curtain. In a surprisingly gentle voice he said, Hurry, lad. A blizzards coming; the snow will swallow everything.
I hoisted Grey and the black kitten, sprinting toward the boat. How we crossed the river I cant sayperhaps Providence simply liked a dramatic ending, for the world beyond was a white blur. The boatman, his engines roar drowned by the rising wind, called out, You brute!
I swallowed my surprise. Why brute? I asked, eyeing the swirling water warily.
He snarled, So you swindle me with documents and cash, then chase after a cat? You call yourself a man, yet Im just a soulless spectre, isnt that right?
I replied, I feared youd refuse, and there was no one else to save him. He fell silent, gave a low snort, and we docked at the boathouse.
He fetched a cardboard box, lined it with a warm towel, and placed the kitten inside. As I turned to leave, he said, Never think youre the only one who gets nothing. He crouched beside Grey and told him, Come live with me. I go fishing. Youre a proper cat, a good one. I wont abandon a youngster.
Grey glanced at me, mewed apologetically, shuffled toward the man, and, on hind legs, pressed his front paws against the huge boots. The man lifted him, and Grey, the great grey marauder, wrapped his tail around the mans neck, purring like a furnace.
The man turned away, his voice trembling for a full minute, Well, well, well. He gathered himself, faced me, and said in a firm yet oddly soft tone, Ill invite you, lad, to next weekends fishing trip, winking as he spoke.
Back home, Emma tended the black kitten, and beneath the plush towel she discovered the fifty pounds Id given the boatman, now tucked away like a secret treasure.
Now we go fishing together, every weekend, with the kindly, robust grumbler. And yes, I sometimes arrive a little tipsy and emptyhanded, but fishingoh, fishingis a proper English pastime, a slice of life, if you ask me.
