Cat Flap by Andrew Osmond

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Saturday night

  “In October 1993, Jane Fuller was walking her dogs on Bodmin Moor late one evening, when she was struck by a sudden blow from behind, knocking her unconscious. Regaining consciousness, she was horrified to see a large, black, cat-like animal crouching nearby, growling.”

  The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a vision of beauty: an Indian goddess; broad, beaming smile, white, shining teeth, and big brown eyes, glistening black hair encircling the round face. He blinked, but she was still there. Now he knew that he had gone to heaven. Unless... Art blinked again, checking, when he reopened his eyes, that this imagined vision of loveliness had only one pair of arms. It would have been just his luck if his Indian goddess turned out to be Kali. No, he was okay, just the one pair of arms. He could relax again, everything was going to be all right. He closed his eyes and fell back into a deep sleep.

  When Art woke up again, Rupa was sitting by his bedside. He did not immediately register that this was a slightly peculiar occurrence. “What are you doing here?” he said, sleepily, before taking in his surroundings and asking, his brow wrinkled with puzzlement, “Where am I?”

  Rupa lay a hand on his chest, gently forcing him to lie back down in the bed, “It’s all right,” she said, reassuringly, “You knocked yourself out. You’re in the hospital. It’s nothing to worry about though.”

  Art smiled weakly, still feeling utterly confused but, at the same time, content to go along with whatever fresh surprises the day was about to bring. He was only able to relax for a second though before he remembered something, which required immediate attention, “Where’s Luke?”

  “Don’t worry.” Rupa’s voice was gentle and calming, “He’s absolutely fine. He is at my house. My sister is looking after him. She loves babies. They will be having a great time.”

  “Thank you.”

  Rupa smiled, “It’s nothing. Now that you are awake, I’ll let one of the nurses know. I think that they wanted to examine you as soon as you regained consciousness.” Seeing the momentary flicker of anxiety in Art’s eyes, she added, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back later. You don’t remember anything, do you?” she asked, intrigued.

  “Remember? No, not really. I remember...”

  “Don’t worry,” Rupa said, “As soon as the nurses have given you a once-over, and you’ve woken up a bit, I’ll come back and fill in any gaps in your memory. Okay?”

  Art smiled again and closed his eyes.

  •••

  “I don’t know what you were doing, running away from Sandy in the first place?”

  A team of doctors and nurses had prodded and poked him, had questioned him and showed him a series of visual tests on printed cards and, apparently satisfied by his responses, despite pronouncing that he was still suffering from mild concussion and would have to stay in overnight, had departed, allowing Rupinder to return to Art’s bedside. Art was answering her question for the second time, “I told you, I thought he was a puma.”

  “But he doesn’t look anything like a puma. How could you mistake a golden retriever for a big cat?”

  “It was misty.”

  Rupa looked amused, but also disbelieving, “Didn’t you see me calling out behind. You were running so fast, I could scarcely keep up.”

  “I guess my mind was on other things,” said Art. He was feeling tired and not a little embarrassed too. He rubbed a hand across the back of his head, where a large bump throbbed away, this despite the painkillers he had swallowed, “Oh, I’ve been such an idiot. What must you think?”

  “I’m just relieved to see that you’re okay. I felt terrible seeing Sandy bowl you over like that, like it was all my fault.”

  Art smiled, shaking his head from side to side with disbelief at his own stupidity, recalling some of his actions as he fled from, what he believed to be at the time, the Cassiobury Cougar. Rupa smiled too, then, unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out laughing, half with relief, half with genuine amusement. Art joined her too, until they were both crying tears of pleasure.

  “What must you have thought when you saw me pushing Luke through that cat flap?” Art said, gasping breathlessly after the exertion of so much laughter.

  “I hadn’t quite reached the corner of the gate by then,” Rupa explained, “so I missed out on seeing that. I just arrived as Sandy leapt up towards you. It’s a sign of affection, you know. She must have recognized you. I’ve been trying to teach her not to jump up and put her paws on people’s shoulders, but she is over-exuberant and just won’t heed me. You took a real tumble, you know.”

  “Tell me about it,” Art said, ruefully, “I thought I was being attacked by the great beast. I must have been caught off balance and I don’t remember anything more.”

  “You hit your head on the door as you fell. I heard the crack from where I was standing. I thought you were dead at first, you were lying there so still.”

  “And you rang the ambulance?” Art asked.

  “Lucky I had my mobile on me,” said Rupa, “I couldn’t get any answer from the people at the house.”

  “So how did you get Luke out?”

  “I thought at first that I was going to have to wait for the emergency services to arrive and then break down the door. He was getting a bit agitated, crying and not knowing what was going on. I mean, who could blame him?”

  “So what happened?” Art asked.

  “In the end I manage to lure him back out the same way that he went in.”

  “Through the cat flap?”

  “That’s right. I held it open to its full extent and then managed to entice him towards it with a breadstick. Just as well you carried some supplies with you.”

  “Thank you. Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “It’s nothing,” said Rupa, “I’m just pleased it has all turned out okay in the end. It’s what any friend would have done.” Her eyes met with Art’s and they held the look for a second, neither turning away.

  “Thank you for being a friend,” Art said, finally. “Perhaps...”

  Rupa interrupted him, “When you get out, maybe we could go for another walk together?” She looked sheepish, lowering her eyes, unable to meet his gaze, unsure of herself for the first time.

  “I’d like that,” Art answered, “I’d like that a lot.  Or...”  Now it was Art’s turn to venture into unknown territory, stalling, scarcely bold enough to take the first step into an uncharted area of their relationship.

  “Yes?” Rupa prompted.

  “If I could find a babysitter for Luke, perhaps the two of us could go out alone.  You know, together,” he added, unnecessarily.

  “For dinner?”

  “Or to see a movie.  Whatever you prefer to do.”

  “That would be lovely.  It’s a date.”

  Embarrassed at having momentarily lowered his guard, such that his feelings had been briefly allowed to reveal themselves, Art, like the proverbial tortoise anxious to shuffle back into the safety of its shell, instantly reverted to formal speech in an attempt to re-establish a protective distance between his companion and himself.  “Are you sure that you don’t mind looking after Luke tonight?  I’ll reimburse you any expenses, of course, you know, food, or nappies.. do you have any spare nappies?  I can always give you the key to my house, and you can...”

  Rupa laughed at Art’s verbose meanderings, “Calm down, won’t you.  What you need is rest and relaxation, panicking like this won’t do you any good. Luke is fine.  My sister went to the shops this afternoon; we’re all stocked up for everything we might need.  Relax.  Everything is under control.”

  Art breathed a deep sigh of relief.  “Everything under control”: it had been a long time since someone had said that to him; had relieved him, albeit only temporarily, of all responsibilities in his life.  It was perhaps what he needed: a day to recharge the batteries; to get it all back into proportion again.  He had n
ot admitted it to himself, but he had not felt entirely in control of his own life ever since Luke had been born, and particularly not since Amanda had departed for New York, but he had been too proud, or too stupid, to admit that he was in need of some outside help.  In the past, his mantra had been that he could cope.  The Madisons were great Stoics; they would suffer in silence, because silence was preferable to vulgar shows of exhibitionism.  There was a code of honour to uphold: you took responsibility for yourself, beholden to no one for your existence and having no one beholden to you.  Luke had upset that balance: not that the little child was in any way beholden to Art, but dependent he undoubtedly was.  And now it was Art that was dependent in his turn.  He had always imagined that it would be a dreadful sensation, being physically incapable: he pictured himself growing old, becoming increasingly decrepit, he imagined there might well come a time when he was unable to care for himself and would be reliant on the favours of others for his day-to-day comfort and existence.  Now here he was, immobilised, incapacitated in a similar way to the scenario he most feared, and yet it appeared to have a lot going for it. Life can be very strange sometimes: you try to act cool in order to win the attentions of the girl, and yet the girl only falls for you after you do something so embarrassing, the very thought of it is enough to make you cringe all over again; you devote days planning and pursuing the search for a creature, whose very existence you can not be confident about, and yet at the moment of epiphany, when success or failure are only separated from one another by the thinnest of veils, you are ultimately glad that you are proved to be mistaken; and, when you are confined to your bed, unable to even decide what you choose to eat for your own supper, the surrendering of responsibility is so liberating that you can not help but feel happy. Everything in Art’s life was under control, if not his own, then someone else’s.  It was a moment of near religious realization for him.  He liked the phrase, repeating it over and over in his head, as he closed his eyes, and snuggled back deeply into his pillow: “...under control, if not his own, then someone else’s”.  He would enter it as a screensaver on his computer when he went back home, it would be a bit more uplifting than the slogan that currently berated him whenever he fell into periods of inactivity at his keyboard: ‘I have wasted time, and now doth Time waste me’.

  Art did not hear Rupinder leave, nor did he feel the kiss she lightly planted on his forehead as she wished him sleep well.