After Cleo (18 page)

‘Poor Jonah!' I cried. But as Philip brushed the blood off his knees and handed me the kitten, it seemed Jonah was unhurt and not at all shaken. He purred ecstatically and stretched a sportsmanlike paw towards Philip.

Inside Cat

The only thing more worrying than holding cats
and daughters close is setting them free

Our daughter and our cat still craved freedom. Lydia clearly longed to return to her monastery. Jonah wanted to run away down the street. Both were oblivious to danger. I wasn't ready to give either of them what they wanted – or not just yet.

I'd hoped Jonah might demonstrate some of the streetwise savvy Cleo had been born with. Cleo had lived near busy roads her entire life and had possessed a second sense about keeping away from traffic. Jonah's idea of a safe haven was hiding under the wheels of parked cars.

During his trial weeks as an outdoor cat, Jonah proved a nuisance to others and a danger to himself. He could scramble up anything, from trees to lampposts, but coming down he always got into trouble.

One day, a neighbour tapped on the door to report our cat was stuck up on his roof. He kindly offered the girls a ladder so they could reclaim him.

Another time a different neighbour brought him home trembling in her arms after he'd tried to take on her two black tom cats. I'd seen those two monsters patrolling the street. The size of small panthers, they were cat mafia. She told us the pair of them had cornered Jonah before she'd rescued him. He was, she said, lucky to have escaped with both eyes intact.

Jonah's attempts at bird stalking were tragic. The moment he saw a pigeon he'd freeze and crouch close to the ground. Homing in on his victim he shadowed every little waddle and peck until he almost merged with his prey.

His camouflage colouring gave Jonah potential to terrorise the bird world – until he curled his lips back and emitted a loud ‘Heh! Heh!' giving the pigeon time to rearrange its feathers and deliver some reprimanding ‘tut-tuts' before flapping up on to the fence.

As for the usual cat business of gliding effortlessly along fence tops, it was beyond Jonah. Birds laughed at him whenever he tried it. With the front and back feet of one side of his body limping along the top of the palings, and the other two feet trailing behind on the crossbeam below, he hobbled along looking like a two-legged mutant.

Jonah's nerves were made of crystal. He jumped and cowered at the slightest noise. The slam of a rubbish bin lid sent him scuttling for cover.

The sound of dogs barking, on the other hand, was a battle cry. No matter how big or brutal-looking the dog was, Jonah would charge toward it, tail flying, confident he'd crush the thing with a flash of his eyes.

He had no idea how to fight, adhering to courtly ideals of warfare. Much yowling and posturing was involved but he always kept his claws sheathed. To him, battles were largely psychological, staring the enemy down until they realised how unworthy they were and skulked away.

We were constantly on Jonah safaris, running down the street past the WANTED signs for missing cats, calling his name or rummaging uninvited through neighbours' gardens. Occasionally, he'd allow us catch him without much fuss but most of the time he'd refuse to return to the loving arms of his family until we'd all had a good sprint around the street for half an hour or so.

Despite his escapist ways, he was hopelessly dependent. He always stood in the window waiting for us to come home, and was first at the door to greet Philip and the girls. When we put him in a cattery for a weekend while we checked out Rob and Chantelle's wedding venue, he was miserable. One of the cattery workers, Vivienne, had taken a shine to Jonah. She said she'd played with him for an hour each day, and he made her laugh. She was soft-spoken and gentle. I liked her straight away. A flicker of concern crossed her face when she mentioned Jonah had been very needy and thrown up twice. She said catteries mightn't suit him. If we went away again, she'd be more than happy to cat sit him at our place.

I returned to the pet shop and asked Nathan for advice about our would-be runaway. He sold me a red cat harness with a bell and lead attached. Cats love them, he said. Imagining how smart the red would look against Jonah's colouring, I bought the optional brass disc and had it etched with his name and phone number.

Jonah detested his harness to begin with. He considered doggy-style walks beneath his dignity. It took him months to understand the harness was offering him a form of freedom.

Soon after the name tag was attached, he managed to wriggle Houdini-like out of the red straps, forcing Philip to play Rugby again. One morning when I left Jonah in his harness in the back garden for a few minutes, he managed to entangle himself almost to the point of crucifixion on the olive tree stakes.

The ongoing struggles with our cat were nerve jangling. A peaceful diversion was required. I went to the wool shop and purchased some maroon yarn. When Lydia saw me clicking needles in front of
Deal or No Deal
she was delighted, acting as if my knitting her a maroon scarf symbolised acceptance of her religious ambitions. I was trying. Even though I had an open door approach to spirituality, I couldn't help worrying about how much she'd be giving up if she shut herself away as a nun in Sri Lanka. There was enough wool left over to make the world's ugliest beanie, which I duly did.

Tying both my daughter and cat up in red threads, I hoped to stop them both ruining their lives. Nonetheless, I was happy to support Lydia in her efforts to help Jonah become an outdoor cat.

Until Geoffrey turned up.

Our friend Geoffrey's an expert on almost everything. If you want to know how to make wine out of shoe leather, or ice cream from rain water, he's your man.

When he heard we had a new kitten, he was quick to drop over.

‘Jonah,' he said, casting an appraising eye over our kitten. ‘Isn't that an unlucky name?'

‘What do you mean?' Lydia asked.

‘You know, the old superstition,' Geoffrey answered. ‘Jonah was the sailors' demon.'

I assured him we weren't taking Jonah on a sea voyage in the near future.

‘He'll have to be an indoor cat,' said Geoffrey. ‘The average lifespan of an inner-city cat is eighteen months. If you let him outside he'll get run over, poisoned, mauled by dogs or stolen.'

Our cream and chocolate kitten was too mesmerised by a housefly circling his head to notice the cloud of gloom hovering over Geoffrey.

‘It's even worse for males,' Geoffrey added, sinking his teeth into a slice of banana cake. ‘They're territorial. They get into fights. If they don't get killed the vets' bills are horrendous. And they can catch AIDS off other cats.'

‘Cats get AIDS?' Philip asked. ‘You're joking!'

‘I certainly am not. They have their own form of it, different from human AIDS. It's endemic among city cats.'

Lydia's mouth dropped. It was difficult to argue with Geoff's prognosis.

Jonah's head spun faster and faster as he kept pace with the fly. He was going cross-eyed. Listing slightly, he was liable to topple over with dizziness. But a fly was a dragon with wings as far as Jonah was concerned. Self-appointed World's Number One Domestic Dragon Slayer, he was immune to minor irritations like giddiness.

‘Shame you didn't get a female,' Geoffrey sighed, licking the crumbs off his fingers. ‘They're easier to manage.'

‘That's a bit sexist,' said Lydia.

‘True though,' said Geoffrey, sounding unattractively smug.

Jonah launched into the air and snapped the fly between his teeth at least a metre above the ground. The manoeuvre was swift and entirely elegant. Who wouldn't want to share their home with such a magnificent creature? I could only think Geoffrey was envious.

‘I'm just giving you the facts,' he added, draining his second cup of coffee.

‘You live close to town and your cat's ancient, isn't it?' I asked.

‘Yes, but she's female and she hates going outside. When I open the door she refuses to go out. And she's the size of a tiger, pretty much.'

Jonah's fur glistened in the sunlight as he tried to prod the fly back to life. It lay on its back wiggling its legs half-heartedly in the air, reminding me of a yoga pose I'm not particularly fond of.

‘So we'll have to keep Jonah inside all the time if he's to have any chance of reaching the age of two?' I asked.

‘It's illegal to let him out at night anyway,' Geoffrey replied, glancing at the time on his phone. ‘Cats destroy wildlife. And kill possums.'

Here we go again, I thought. If there's ever going to be a war between Australia and New Zealand it'll be over possums. Native to Australia, possums were introduced into New Zealand in the 1830s with hopes of setting up a fur trade. With no natural predators in New Zealand, and hardly any socialites wanting to envelope themselves in possum fur, the animals ran rampant. They continue to decimate New Zealand's native bush.

In short, while Australians swerve to avoid possums on the road, New Zealanders tighten their grip on the wheel and accelerate straight at them. Killing a possum in Australia is breaking the law. Doing the same thing in New Zealand is an excuse to open another can of beer. Not that Philip or I have had anything to do with the demise of a marsupial. Getting into a shouting match with Geoffrey over possums was pointless.

Jonah had no interest in destroying anything other than his house dragon anyway. Pulling his lips back in case it might bite or sting, he crunched it loudly – glancing around the room to ensure he had an audience.

‘It's cruel to keep cats inside all the time,' Lydia said, standing to clear the cups off the table. Even though my last drain tube and its ugly bottle had been removed, I still wasn't too steady on my feet. Lydia insisted I sit down while she cleared up. I couldn't believe I'd produced such a domesticated daughter.

‘Crueller than letting them get run over?' Geoffrey shot back.

I was almost relieved when Geoffrey slid into his parka and trudged down the path.

Lydia and I exchanged glances.

‘He was right,' I sighed. ‘Jonah will live longer if he's an indoor cat.'

‘But that's imprisonment!' she retorted. ‘Imagine what it'd be like for him never feeling grass under his paws.'

It was beginning to sound like another of our Sri Lanka debates.

‘We'll take him out on his lead,' I said.

‘He hates it!' Lydia retorted.

The girls and I went back to the pet shop and bought a cat tunnel for running through, a scratching post, table tennis balls that could be patted through a maze of plastic channels (‘for mental development'), little balls with bells in them, big balls with batteries making them roll around mysteriously inside paper bags, toy mice steeped in catnip and a full range of fishing rods. The house was a cat playground.

Though I felt burdened with guilt and failure at Jonah being an indoor cat, he loved barrelling through his tunnel and pouncing on unsuspecting passersby. It had a hole in the middle for an extra element of surprise. Katharine found the tunnel doubled as a submarine. When she dragged it down the hall with Jonah on board, he popped his head out of a hole to enjoy the passing scenery.

‘I guess that's it,' Lydia sighed one day, twirling her new maroon scarf around her neck. ‘There's nothing more for me to do here.'

We both knew the hidden meaning of what she was saying. Not only was she unhappy with Jonah's household arrest, it was six weeks since I'd had the surgery and she'd been the most wonderful nurse and daughter.

I could manage without her now.

A week later, packed and ready to set off again for Sri Lanka, she floated downstairs in a cloud of white. The colour of purity and – a far less comforting thought for the anguished parent – martyrdom. Her fisherman's pants and shawl gave her a
Vogue
-meets-ashram look. I had to respect her courage; however misguided it might be.

Sensing she was leaving, Jonah ran figures of eight around her ankles, meowing constantly. She picked him up and kissed his nose while Philip carried her backpack to the car. It wasn't an arduous task. She wasn't taking much more than her maroon scarf, a scented candle for the monk and gifts for the nuns and orphans. I slid sideways like a crab into the front seat. Getting in and out of cars was still problematic.

Lydia sat in the back while we drove her to the airport. For the umpteenth time, she assured us that the monk and nuns would be meeting her at Colombo airport and driving her straight to the monastery. There would be military checkpoints, she said, but monks and nuns were treated with respect in Sri Lanka. They were protected in their tiny community in the hills. She would be safe.

‘Don't worry,' she added. ‘I'll be back for Rob's wedding.'

Rob and Chantelle's wedding was now three months away. It seemed a long time to sit on a rock meditating.

The car was silent, not from anger or resentment. For better or for worse, I'd come to accept my influence was minimal, though I was more than anxious about the dangers she seemed so blithely unaware of.

Lydia had shown no interest in the background of Sri Lanka's civil war or the plight of the Tamil separatists. The few books I'd been able to find on the subject had been set aside and left unread. The old video show ran through my head – Lydia getting kidnapped or caught in a terrorist attack. I struggled to press the pause button. There was no point fighting it or telling her the Sri Lankan military had just announced it had captured the important Tamil Tiger naval base of Vidattaltivu in the North.

The one good thing about breast cancer and the rows we'd had was Lydia had proved mother–daughter love was a two-way thing.

I'd said a lot of stupid things over the years, mostly about minutiae that weren't important. Mum had done the same to me, and it'd worn into my self-esteem. I still couldn't look in the mirror without hearing her words – ‘You should get a corset', ‘Whatever happened to your lovely curls?' Her last words to me were: ‘What would you know?' Admittedly, I'd asked for it.