the old Cat. Then collected his dignity with a savage look in my direction and went and stretched out on the warm bonnet of the E-type. The snow had temporarily stopped and I stood on the pavement enjoying the crisp, cold air and brushing the cat hairs off my dark worsted trousers when the young guy who had recently opened a hole-in-the-wall takeaway Chinese just down the high street came sauntering round the corner. One very smart geezer that, first-class degree in English from a redbrick up north. But he tended to hide his light. He didn’t want to appear too clever and upset the punters. They liked to feel superior to the guy who dished out the special fried rice for their suppers. So he tended to compensate. The cleverer he was being, the more inscrutable he got and the thicker his accent became.
He didn’t fool me. I knew his mother. She ran a rare book depository off Bond Street, lived in Hampstead and drove a Mercedes 220 SL. You don’t get too many of them to a tin of lychees, let me tell you. Still the youngster wanted to make his own way, and why not?
‘Morning Tel,’ I greeted him. His name was Terence Chan. There’s nothing wrong with that.
‘Good morning,’ he replied.
Cat breathed a miaow. The Chinese went over and stroked his head.
‘Nice cat,’ he said.
‘Once upon a time he’d have had your hand off for that,’ I remarked.
‘Not no more, eh?’ the Chinaman grinned.
‘I think he’s sickening for something.’
‘Sure is,’ the Chinaman went on, the grin on his face spreading from ear to ear.
‘You know about cats?’
‘Sure do.’ The grin stretched even further. I felt like I was being would up like a clockwork kipper and waited for further explanation but none was forthcoming.
‘Go on then,’ I said.
‘You know what makes up a cat’s day?’ asked Chan.
‘Give me a clue.’
‘They spend eighteen hours sleeping, three hours washing, one hour eating. What does that leave?’
‘Two hours,’ I answered.
‘Right, what do they do for those two hours?’
‘Act superior most of the time,’ I said. Cat gave me a dirty look before he submitted once again to Chan’s attention with loud purrs of joy.
‘Right,’ said Chan, ‘but they also get fuckeefuckee.’
‘What?’
‘They get laid,’ he said. ‘Just like us.’
The truth was beginning to dawn. ‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’ I asked.
‘That’s right.’ He was laughing fit to bust by then. ‘Your cat gonna be a mummy.’ He exploded in peals of laughter. ‘He no a he, he a she. You going to be a daddy, you dummy.’
Thanks a lot, I thought. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. I got lots, lots of kittens.’ He suddenly looked crafty. ‘You no want kittens, I take. Go good in Chow Mein. Number one delicacy.’ He was beginning to sound like a cockney Charley Chan.
‘Are you kidding?’
‘No kidding Mister Nick. You gonna have fine kitty cats real soon.’ He went off still chuckling and giggling. I felt right agitated. I was sure he was having me on about taking the kittens, but I thought I might give the Chow Mein a miss for a while.
7
A nd then Jo came along. Sounds simple doesn’t it? But it was as important an event as ever happened to me. Jo. Josephine Cass, or Little Jo as Algy christened her later, walked out of a dream and into my arms as the old song says. Or at least off the eleven-ten from Victoria and into my E-Type.
I’d been hanging out at home for a few days, doing nothing except watching television and keeping warm, but eventually I surfaced and went down to check my mail at the office. Big fat zero.
The owner of the hairdressers up the road was feeding Cat. I’d given her a bell and asked the favour. She knew about animals and called me back to confirm that Cat was indeed in the family way.
That morning the big moggie was playing possum. I guessed that she, as I’d have to learn to call her, knew I wanted to subject her to the indignity of a visit to the
He didn’t fool me. I knew his mother. She ran a rare book depository off Bond Street, lived in Hampstead and drove a Mercedes 220 SL. You don’t get too many of them to a tin of lychees, let me tell you. Still the youngster wanted to make his own way, and why not?
‘Morning Tel,’ I greeted him. His name was Terence Chan. There’s nothing wrong with that.
‘Good morning,’ he replied.
Cat breathed a miaow. The Chinese went over and stroked his head.
‘Nice cat,’ he said.
‘Once upon a time he’d have had your hand off for that,’ I remarked.
‘Not no more, eh?’ the Chinaman grinned.
‘I think he’s sickening for something.’
‘Sure is,’ the Chinaman went on, the grin on his face spreading from ear to ear.
‘You know about cats?’
‘Sure do.’ The grin stretched even further. I felt like I was being would up like a clockwork kipper and waited for further explanation but none was forthcoming.
‘Go on then,’ I said.
‘You know what makes up a cat’s day?’ asked Chan.
‘Give me a clue.’
‘They spend eighteen hours sleeping, three hours washing, one hour eating. What does that leave?’
‘Two hours,’ I answered.
‘Right, what do they do for those two hours?’
‘Act superior most of the time,’ I said. Cat gave me a dirty look before he submitted once again to Chan’s attention with loud purrs of joy.
‘Right,’ said Chan, ‘but they also get fuckeefuckee.’
‘What?’
‘They get laid,’ he said. ‘Just like us.’
The truth was beginning to dawn. ‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’ I asked.
‘That’s right.’ He was laughing fit to bust by then. ‘Your cat gonna be a mummy.’ He exploded in peals of laughter. ‘He no a he, he a she. You going to be a daddy, you dummy.’
Thanks a lot, I thought. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. I got lots, lots of kittens.’ He suddenly looked crafty. ‘You no want kittens, I take. Go good in Chow Mein. Number one delicacy.’ He was beginning to sound like a cockney Charley Chan.
‘Are you kidding?’
‘No kidding Mister Nick. You gonna have fine kitty cats real soon.’ He went off still chuckling and giggling. I felt right agitated. I was sure he was having me on about taking the kittens, but I thought I might give the Chow Mein a miss for a while.
7
A nd then Jo came along. Sounds simple doesn’t it? But it was as important an event as ever happened to me. Jo. Josephine Cass, or Little Jo as Algy christened her later, walked out of a dream and into my arms as the old song says. Or at least off the eleven-ten from Victoria and into my E-Type.
I’d been hanging out at home for a few days, doing nothing except watching television and keeping warm, but eventually I surfaced and went down to check my mail at the office. Big fat zero.
The owner of the hairdressers up the road was feeding Cat. I’d given her a bell and asked the favour. She knew about animals and called me back to confirm that Cat was indeed in the family way.
That morning the big moggie was playing possum. I guessed that she, as I’d have to learn to call her, knew I wanted to subject her to the indignity of a visit to the
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