A week later the Harrisons drifted back from their weekend on the lake in a rickety rowboat, emptyhanded and without their enormous grey tomcat, the oneeared rascal theyd named Grey. All summer wed sparred with him at the cottage: hed swipe biscuits from my tea tray, then tunnel through the vegetable patch as if it were a secret tunnel. Id grown used to his mischief, so when the couple arrived without Grey, I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest and asked my wife, Emily, to go straight to the neighbours door and demand to know where the cat had vanished.
It was exactly as awful as I feared theyd simply left Grey out on the garden plot. I paced and fretted until dusk, then dialed the manager of the marina and begged for a day off the next morning. Emily exhaled a heavy sigh and warned, Be careful out there. Ask them to ferry you over by boat.
From dawn the sky was a leaden quilt, thick clouds spilling a drizzly mist while the wind drove wilted, halffrozen leaves against the pavement. I wandered the marina hoping someone would muster the will to cross to the other side for forgotten belongings. No one appeared, until a burly chap in size45 boots, his boots clanking like distant thunder, emerged tinkering with an outboard motor and muttering under his breath. I told him Id left vital papers at the cottage and slipped him a crisp £40 note. He pocketed the bill, muttered something about the folks who forget their heads to the heavens, and lowered the boat into the water.
The waves rose dignified, hurling cold foam as if daring the little vessel to capsize. After a halfhour of battling the liquid element, we scraped ashore near the cottages, escorted by the grimeyed mans mutter that a few more pounds would have bought a smoother ride. The sky darkened, the drizzle turning into icy hail.
Grey! Grey! Grey! I shouted, throat raw, hoping the cat still lived.
Grey materialised, shivering, pressed against my boots, a plaintive mew trembling from his lone ear. I seized him and sprinted toward the boat, leaping aboard and cradling the cat beside me. The hulking man stared, mouth agape, thensuddenlyGrey leapt from the boat, pressed his single left ear timidly to his head, let out a soft, pleading meow and bolted back.
Stop! Stop! Where the devil are you going? I roared.
I bolted after him, ignoring cursed swears and the slick boards, chasing the cat through the night. He darted left, disappearing into a thicket. I pushed the branches aside and found Grey huddled beside a tiny black kitten, drenched and squeaking hopelessly. Grey glanced at me with guilt, another meow escaping his cracked mouth.
I sank to the sodden ground, reaching for both, when the earth shuddered. The grim mans massive boots pounded the mud, spitting curses like steam. He appeared behind me, then fell silent. In a surprisingly gentle tone he said, Hurry, the snowstorms coming and itll bury everything.
I hoisted Grey and the little black kitten, and we ran to the boat. How we crossed the river I cant recallperhaps the fates simply wanted us to. The world beyond was a white blur.
Just then the grim man, cutting off the engines roar, growled, Youre a right scoundrel, you are.
I blinked. Why a scoundrel? I asked, eyes darting to the churning water.
Its clear now, he grumbled. You tricked me with the papers and the money, yet you drove over to rescue a cat? You claim to be a man, but Im just a soulless spectre, is that it? He paused. I was afraid youd refuse, and there was no one else to save him. I explained, and he fell silent, snorted, and we docked at the marina.
He rummaged for a box, lined it with a warm towel, and when I thanked him and turned to leave, he said, Nothings ever only yours, nothings ever only theirs. He walked over to Grey, speaking as if to a longlost friend, Come live with me. I go fishing. Youre a proper cat, a good cat. The black kitten crept up, perched on the mans massive boots, and the big grey tom wrapped his paws around the kittens neck, pressing his head against the mans chest.
The man turned away, his voice trembling for a minute as he muttered, Well, well, well. Then, regaining composure, he faced me with a firm yet oddly soft voice, Ill invite you, lad, for a fishing trip next weekend. He winked.
Back at home, Emily tended the black kitten. She found a crisp £40 tucked beneath the fluffy towel. Now we go fishing together, all three of us, with the gruff but kindly old man. And what if I sometimes arrive a little tipsy and emptyhanded? Fishing, after all, is a simple, everyday sort of thing, Id say.
