pointing. She bent down in front of the washing machine. Two of the yellowest, widest eyes blinked back from the dark.
‘Come here, sweetheart.’ Lucy put her hand tentatively between the two machines and made kissy noises.
‘Huh. It will take more than that. I’ve been here half an hour and all I’ve got is an allergic reaction for my trouble.’ To make his point, he blinked his puffy eyes. ‘I’ve had to abandon the contacts and I’ll be damned if I can find my spare pair of glasses.’
No one was more surprised than Lucy when the cat, head low and ears back, came towards her.
‘Well, I’ll be…’ He reversed like a cartoon elephant backing away from a mouse as the cat emerged from the gap. ‘We clearly have a Doctor Dolittle in the neighbourhood.’
Lucy coaxed out the small black streak, but it bypassed her and walked over to the homeowner, rubbing around his legs and purring softly, even as he stepped away. Looking down at the animal though, his expression changed from alarm to compassion. He stopped his retreat and let it have a moment of contentment getting to know his trouser leg. His hand twitched, as if he was considering bending down for a stroke, but then Lucy heard him sniff. Reminded of his allergy, his whole body stiffened. She walked over and scooped up the cat.
‘So, just you in this great big house?’ she asked, hoping for more than a one-word answer.
‘Yes.’
She persevered. ‘My house has been divided into three flats and I rent the ground floor. It gives me a bit of garden and the couple on the top floor are never there because they travel…’
He looked at his watch, bringing it Mr Magoo-style close to his face. A combination of no contact lenses and the allergic reaction, she assumed. ‘Right. Look, I don’t do small talk. Nothing personal. Only child thing. Probably why I choose to be on my own,’ he said pointedly.
‘What a shame. You have no one to chat with about your day. No one pleased to see you when you walk through the door…’
‘Yeah, well, sometimes company isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’ It wasn’t an aggressive response, more a contemplative one.
‘Nonsense. Even one of these darling creatures would make a great companion,’ she said, snuggling up to the cat. ‘Shame I’m not allowed pets at the flat. Even a goldfish can be a good sounding board when life gets stressful.’ She turned her attention to the bag of fur and bones she was holding, scrunching up her nose like a squirrel and wiggling her face in close. ‘I would have given you a home. Yes I would. I would have cuddled and snuggled you, and rubbed your fluffy, little tummy…’
A dismissive snort came from the man, but the deepest, rumbliest purr came from the cat as it rubbed its tiny head on Lucy’s chin.
‘Aww. It’s such a friendly, trusting little thing.’
‘I’m sure it’s the loveliest creature ever to grace this earth, but I’m really struggling here.’ He rubbed his fingers underneath his bloodshot eyes, trying to alleviate the itchiness without adding to the irritation. ‘So perhaps…?’ He waved towards the front door and walked out to the hall, obviously expecting Lucy and the cat to follow. It was clear they’d outstayed their welcome, not that either of them had been particularly welcome in the first place.
‘Of course. Sorry. I’m Lucy Baker, by the way,’ she said, turning back as she reached the front door with her refugee.
‘George Aberdour.’ He nodded briefly and then firmly closed the door on them both.
‘A thank you would have been nice. I mean, it wasn’t even my cat.’
Lucy was filling Brenda in on the details of her visit to George’s house as she handed over a small bag of shopping she’d picked up for her friend after work. Although Brenda would happily trot into the town centre, both the large supermarkets were on the outskirts, and you needed transport to get to them – which Brenda no longer had.
This close friendship, which began in earnest after bumping into each other near the Mills and Boons at the local library and giggling over the bare-chested men on the covers, quickly became important to them both. The yawning age difference meant nothing to two lost women in need of companionship. Lucy’s youthful energy and altruism complemented Brenda’s assertiveness and wisdom, each looking to the other for qualities they wished to possess.
‘But despite his manner, there’s karma at play,’ Lucy continued, ‘because no sooner had I walked up his path than the cat wriggled free and ran to the back of his house. If he so much as opens a window, the cat will be back inside like a dieting woman to an opened bar of Galaxy.’
‘Agreed,’ said Brenda, as she stepped into the hall, allowing Lucy space to enter. Lucy stopping for tea and cake after delivering the shopping was a given, established the previous year as Brenda’s way of saying thank you. ‘That little fellow is on a mission and George is the goal. I think our little stray has found a home there.’
‘I find that highly unlikely. Mr Aberdour is definitely not a cat lover.’ Lucy shook her head gently, thinking of his less than complimentary descriptions of the cat.
Brenda smiled. ‘Oh, the universe is cleverer than you give it credit for, my dear.’
‘Now I know you’re losing the plot,’ Lucy joked, but an uncomfortable silence followed.
They lingered in the long hallway, surrounded by the ticking and tocking of Brenda’s many clocks. Every time Lucy visited, she had the strange feeling they were collectively counting down to something, but she hadn’t quite worked out what. A small pile of brown paper packages sat on the Shaker table by the front door awaiting collection and a potent mix of rosemary and tea tree drifted out from the kitchen. Whether it was the fragrant scents, the rhythm of the clocks or merely being with a good friend, Lucy felt more at ease in this house than she did anywhere else in the world.
‘As it’s such a pleasant evening, I thought we could have the tea in the garden,’ said Brenda, rallying. ‘I wanted to talk to you about…’ She frowned. ‘It will come back to me in a minute. And perhaps today we could try the valerian and chamomile?’
‘That sounds lovely.’ Lucy was in no hurry to return to her flat, but wished she’d thought to grab her knitting. There was something rather fun about having Poldark across your knee, even if he was in 4 ply.
Ten minutes later, the pair stepped through the back door and delicate chimes tinkled as the door swung shut behind them. Lucy carried the tray of tea and placed it on the cast-iron bistro set on the patio. Like her garden, Brenda’s was small, but it was overflowing with flowers, herbs and unrestrained trees and somehow managed to look about four times the size of her own. A light breeze toyed with Lucy’s hair and she smiled as a group of starlings perched around the birdbath stopped their chatter in deference to the kindly old lady who kept their drinking water so efficiently topped up.
‘So how has your week been, my darling?’ Brenda asked, pouring the highly scented tea into garish Sixties bone-china cups.
‘It started well. It was my niece’s birthday on Monday and she was delighted with the foldaway kitchen I sent – one of the perks of working at a toy wholesaler. Emily helped her Skype me to say thanks and it was hilarious. She dressed up for the occasion, even donning a tiara, and sat on a beanbag, all serious and formal. It was like watching a mini version of the Queen’s
