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Her voice held all the controlled patience women drew on when the male of the species said something outrageously stupid. ‘Quite sure, Forde. And I don’t think it has a home to go to. Whatever’s happened to it, it isn’t good. The thing’s absolutely scared stiff of humans, can’t you see? And it’s starving.’
Forde narrowed his eyes as he tried to see in what was rapidly becoming pitch blackness. ‘It looks plump enough to me,’ he said eventually. ‘In fact quite rotund.’
‘That’s its belly. The rest of it is skeletal, for goodness’ sake. We have to do something.’
‘Right.’ In a way he was grateful to the cat. He’d come here tonight because he’d heard the weather was going to get atrocious and it was the excuse he’d been looking for to see her for weeks. While she’d gone to see Miriam as promised he hadn’t wanted to do anything to rock the boat, and her demands had been very explicit—no contact. But, he had reasoned to himself on the drive from London, she could hardly object to him calling to see if she was well stocked up with provisions and ready for the blizzard that had been forecast for some days. He’d bought half of his local delicatessen just in case, as well as a few other luxuries he could blame on the festive season. He’d been hoping she would be mellow enough to ask him in for a drink, but he hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms like this—even if it was due to a homeless moggy. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said. ‘We have to help it.’
He glanced at her. She was literally wringing her hands. Feeling that chances like this didn’t come that often, he gestured towards the cottage. ‘Go and open the door and get ready to close it again once I get the thing in the house.’
‘But you won’t reach it,’ she almost wailed.
‘I’ll reach it.’ If there was a God, he’d reach it. Once she was in position in the doorway to the cottage, he reached into the narrow void between the fence and the logs. He heard the cat hiss and spit before he felt its claws but somehow he got it by the scruff of the neck and hauled it out so he could get a firm hold. He realised immediately Melanie was right, the poor thing was emaciated apart from its swollen stomach, which, if he was right, was full of kittens.
He had grown up with cats and a couple of dogs and now he held the animal against the thick wool of his coat talking soothingly to it and trying not to swear as it used its claws again. But it hadn’t bit him. Which, in the circumstances, was something. Especially as it was frightened to death.
Melanie was all fluster once they had got it into the house and shut the door but he still held onto the cat, which had become quieter. ‘Nell, warm a little milk in a saucer, and we’ll need some food.’ He sat down on one of the breakfast bar stools, holding the cat gently but firmly. ‘Have you got a cardboard box we could use as a bed for it?’
She shook her head as she slopped milk into a saucer and then began to chop some chicken up. ‘I can fetch a blanket if you like? I’ve several in the airing cupboard.’
‘Anything.’ The cat had calmed right down but was still shaking. He loosed one of his hands enough to begin stroking it and to his surprise it didn’t squirm or try to escape, but lay on his lap as though it was spent. Which it probably was, he thought pityingly. How long it had been fending for itself was anyone’s guess, but it hadn’t done very well by the look of it. He coul
d imagine it had been a pet that had got pregnant and—with Christmas coming up and all the expense—had become expendable to its delightful owners.
Melanie brought the saucer of milk over and held it in front of the cat as it lay on his lap. It took seconds to finish the lot. Her voice thick with tears, she said, ‘The poor thing, Forde. How could someone dump a pretty little cat like this?’
So she had come to the same conclusion as him. ‘Beyond me, but I’d like five minutes alone with them,’ he said grimly. ‘Try the chicken now. I don’t want to put it down yet in case it bolts and we frighten it trying to catch it again.’
The chicken went the same way as the milk. Opening his coat, he slipped the cat against the warmth of his cashmere jumper and half closed the edges of the coat around it, making a kind of cocoon. ‘It needs to warm up,’ he said to Melanie, ‘and holding it like this is emphasising we don’t mean it any harm. That’s more important than anything right now.’
‘Shall I get some more milk and chicken?’ she asked, putting out a tentative hand and gently stroking the little striped head. The cat tensed for a moment and then relaxed again. It was clearly exhausted.
‘No, we don’t want to give it too much too quickly and make it sick if it’s been without food for a while. Leave it for an hour or two and then we’ll try again.’
She nodded, her hand dropping away. Then she looked him straight in the eyes and said honestly, ‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. I didn’t know what to do.’
Anyone. Not him specifically. But again, better than nothing. He grinned. ‘I left my white steed in the car park but it’s good to know I can still warm a fair maiden’s heart. Talking of which, there’s various bits and pieces in the car I need to fetch in a while.’
‘Bits and pieces?’
‘I wanted to make sure you were stocked up with provisions in view of the snow that’s coming.’ Considering how well he’d done with the moggy he thought he could push his luck. ‘And I was hoping we could perhaps share a meal?’ he added with a casualness that didn’t quite come off. ‘Before I go back?’
Melanie’s big brown eyes surveyed him solemnly. ‘That would be lovely,’ she said simply.
The cat chose that moment to begin purring and Forde knew exactly how it felt. To hide the surge of elation he’d felt at her words, he smiled, saying, ‘Listen to that. This is a nice cat. In spite of what’s happened to it it’s still prepared to trust us.’
‘I’ll make us a coffee. It’s decaf now, I’m afraid.’
‘Decaf’s fine.’ Mud mixed with water would have been fine right at that moment.
He drank the coffee with the cat still nestled against him, now fast asleep. They talked of inconsequential things, both carefully feeling their way. Outside the wind grew stronger, howling like a banshee and rattling the windows.
After a while Melanie fetched a blanket from her little airing cupboard and they made a bed for the cat in her plastic laundry basket. They fed it more milk and chicken before Forde gently extracted it from his coat and laid it in the basket, whereupon it went straight to sleep again. Melanie had placed the basket next to the radiator in the kitchen and it was as warm as toast.
‘It’s still a very young cat,’ said Forde as they stood looking down at the little scrap, ‘but those are definitely kittens in there and if I’m not much mistaken she’s due pretty soon.’
‘How soon?’ Melanie showed her alarm. She liked animals but she had never had much to do with any while growing up. As for the mechanics of a cat giving birth …
