Raymond had only brought the bare minimum for her to spend the night, so, while she was snoozing on top of the duvet, I snuck out of the flat and took the bus to the retail park, where I knew that there was a big pet supplies store. I bought her a bigger, comfier bed, a proper litter tray with a covered roof for privacy, four different kinds of wet and dry food, and a sack of organic cat litter. I picked up a bottle of oil that was supposed to be good for her coat—a teaspoon was to be mixed in with her food every day. I didn’t care if her coat grew back or not, because she was fine just as she was, but I felt that she might be more comfortable without the bare patches of skin. She didn’t strike me as the type to enjoy playing with toys, but just in case, I bought a glittery ball and a huge fluffy mouse, the size of an old man’s slipper, which was stuffed with catnip. When I took the trolley to the till, I realized that I was going to have to call a taxi to get it all home. I felt quite proud of myself.
The driver wouldn’t help me carry it upstairs, so it took me a few trips, and I was sweating by the time I got everything indoors. The expedition had taken over two hours, from start to finish. Glen was still asleep on the duvet.
I spent the day pottering around the flat. Glen was good company: quiet, self-contained, mostly asleep. That evening, as I sat with a cup of tea and listened to a play on the radio, she jumped onto my lap and began kneading my thighs with her paws, claws partially unsheathed. It was slightly uncomfortable, but I could tell that she meant it kindly. After doing that for a minute or so, she settled herself carefully onto my lap and went to sleep. I needed to go to the bathroom about twenty minutes later, a necessity exacerbated by the fact that she was far from slender and was lounging with her full body weight directly atop my bladder. I tried to gently shift her to one side; she resisted. I tried again. On the third attempt, she got to her feet slowly, arched her back and then shuddered out a long, judgmental sigh, before dropping down onto the floor and waddling off toward her new bed. Once ensconced there, she glared at me as I left the room, maintaining the expression when I returned, and continued to glower at me throughout the evening. I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with far, far worse things than an irritated feline.
Raymond paid a visit again a few days later to see how Glen was settling in. I’d invited him and his mother, as he’d mentioned that she was keen and I imagined, as a cat obsessive, she’d enjoy meeting Glen. In any case, there were still plenty of biscuits left over from his previous visit, so it was not as though it was any trouble.
They arrived in a black cab, which Mrs. Gibbons was very pleased about.
“The driver was lovely, Eleanor, wasn’t he, Raymond?” she said. Raymond nodded, and I thought I detected a hint, just a tiny one, of weariness, as though it wasn’t the first time she’d gone over the topic during their short journey from the south to the west of the city. “Oh, he couldn’t have been nicer, helped me in—and out!—of the taxi, held the door open while I got my walking frame . . .”
“That’s right, Mum,” he said, tucking her walking frame into the corner of the living room while she settled herself on the sofa. Glen, ever the iconoclast, had immediately gone to bed—my bed—as soon as they arrived, and there was nothing to see of her but a lightly snoring lump under the duvet. Mrs. Gibbons was disappointed, but I left her to peruse some photos on my phone while I went to make tea. Raymond joined me in the kitchen, leaning against the work top while he watched me pour. He placed a carrier bag next to me.
“It’s nothing much,” he said. I peered inside. There was a white cardboard box, from a bakery, tied with ribbon. There was also a tiny tin of “gourmet” cat food. “How lovely!” I said, delighted.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, didn’t want to come empty-handed . . .” Raymond said, blushing. “I thought, well . . . you seem like the kind of person who likes nice things,” he said, looking up at me. “You deserve to have nice things,” he said firmly.
This was strange. I must confess I was somewhat lost for words for a moment or two. Did I deserve nice things?
“It’s funny, you know, Raymond,” I said. “Growing up with Mummy was very disorientating. Sometimes she gave us nice things, other times . . . not. I mean, one week we’d be dipping quail eggs in celery salt and shucking oysters, the next we’d be starving. I mean, you know, literally, deprived of food and water,” I said. His eyes widened.
“Everything was always extreme, so extreme, with her,” I said, nodding to myself. “I used to long for normal. You know, three meals a day, ordinary stuff—tomato soup, mashed potatoes, cornflakes . . .”
I untied the ribbons and looked inside the box. The sponge cake inside was an artful confection, chocolate ganache scattered with bright raspberry jewels. It was an ordinary luxury, which Raymond had chosen, especially for me.
“Thank you,” I said, feeling tears threaten to well up. There was really nothing else I needed to say.
“Thanks for inviting us, Eleanor,” he said. “Mum loves to get out, but she doesn’t often get the chance.”
“You’re welcome anytime, both of you are,” I said, and I meant it.
I set the cake on a tray with the tea things but, before I could pick it up, Raymond did the honors. I followed behind. He had had his hair cut, I noticed.
“How are you feeling, Eleanor?” Mrs. Gibbons asked, once we were all settled. “Raymond mentioned that you’d been a bit under the weather recently?”
She wore an expression of mild, polite concern, nothing more, and I realized, flushed with gratitude, that he hadn’t provided her with any details.
“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” I said. “Raymond’s been keeping an eye on me. I’m very lucky.” He looked surprised. His mother did not.
“He’s got a heart of gold, my boy,” she said, nodding. Raymond’s face looked like Glen’s did the time she noticed that I’d seen her trying and failing to jump from the sofa to the windowsill. I laughed.
“We’re embarrassing you!” I said.
“No, you’re embarrassing you,” he said, “rabbiting away about nothing like a proper pair of old biddies. Anyone want some more tea?” He reached forward for the teapot, and I saw he was smiling.
The Gibbons were easy, pleasant company. We were all slightly surprised at how quickly time had passed when the prebooked taxi honked its horn in irritation an hour later, I think, and their departure was, by necessity, somewhat rushed.
“Your turn to come to me next time, Eleanor,” she said, as they struggled out of the door with the walking frame, Raymond shrugging on his jacket at the same time. I nodded. She kissed me quickly on the cheek, the scarred one, and I didn’t even flinch.
“Come again with Raymond one Sunday, have your tea, stay for a while,” she whispered. I nodded again.
Raymond lumbered past me, then, before I could do anything about it, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek like his mother had done. “See you at work,” he said, and he was off, manhandling both her and her wheels down the stairs in a very precarious fashion. I put my hand to my face. They were quite a kissy family, the Gibbons—some families were like that.
I washed up the cups and plates, at which point Glen finally decided to make an appearance. “That wasn’t very sociable, Glen,” I said. She stared up at me and let out a short sound, not really a meow, more of a chirp, strangely. The import—namely, that she didn’t give a fig—was abundantly clear. I spooned the special cat food that Raymond had brought into her bowl. This was met with considerable enthusiasm, although, regretfully, her table manners were sadly reminiscent of her benefactor’s.
Raymond had left his tabloid newspaper behind on the chair in the living room—unfortunately, he often carried one rolled up in his back pocket. I leafed through it, just in case it had a halfway decent crossword, and stopped at page nine, my eyes drawn to the headline.
Glasgow Evening Times
Entertainment News
PILGRIM PIONEERS DISCOVER AMERICA: Glasgow band tipped to be “bigger than Biffy”
Scottish band Pilgrim Pioneers are celebrating this week after reaching number five in the American Billboard Top 100.
The Glasgow-based four-piece look set to crack the lucrative US market after years of gigging locally in pubs and clubs.
Their single “Don’t Miss You,” written after the acrimonious departure of their previous front man, was picked up last month by an industry insider via YouTube. Since then, it’s been broadcast nightly across the USA as the sound track to a big budget advert for a telecoms company.