It was about a fortnight after wed left the country lane when the Clarke family finally returned home by the last rowboat that skimmed the river. They came back without their cat a hulking, grey tom with a missing right ear. All summer long that earless rogue had been a constant nuisance at the cottage: pilfering scraps from my table, digging up the vegetable beds, generally making a mess of things. I had grown used to his antics.
So when the Clarks arrived, sighing at the empty leash, I felt a knot of dread and asked my wife, without any preamble, to find out where the beast had vanished to. It turned out, just as I feared, that they had simply left him on the garden path.
I spent the whole afternoon fretting, until finally I dialed the foremans number and begged for a day off the next morning. My wife gave a weary sigh and warned, Be careful. Ask them to ferry you across by boat.
The weather had turned sour from dawn. Leadgrey clouds dropped a persistent drizzle, and the wind drove wilted leaves, halffrozen, across the road. I lingered at the boathouse, hoping someone would still be willing to venture to the other bank for forgotten belongings.
At last a burly man in size45 leather boots appeared, tinkering with an engine and muttering. I explained that Id left vital papers at the cottage and slipped him a fiftypound note. He pocketed the cash, grumbled something about the hopelessness of cottage folk, and lowered the boat into the water.
The tide was strong; waves slapped the hull with cold foam, threatening to capsize the little vessel. After a halfhour of battling the rivers temper, we limped ashore near the cottages, the grim man offering a dour comment that a few more pounds wouldnt have hurt. I sprinted toward the garden as the sky grew darker and the drizzle hardened into icy hail.
Grey! Grey! Grey! I bellowed, hoping the cat was still alive. At last Grey emerged, shivering, pressed against my boots, whining plaintively. I scooped him up and raced back to the boat. The surly boatman stared in disbelief, mouth agape, when suddenly
Grey leapt from the boat, pressed his lone left ear against his head, and let out a tentative meow before turning and darting away.
Hold on, hold on, where are you off to! I shouted. Ignoring the curses and threats that seemed to rise from the water itself, I chased after him. He sprinted ahead, I followed, hands flailing, until he veered into a thicket. Pushing aside the branches, I saw Grey huddled beside a tiny black kitten, dripping and whimpering. Grey gave me a guilty look and mewed softly.
I dropped to the soggy ground, intent on cradling both, when the earth trembled. The gruff boatman stomped his massive boots, hurling a cascade of profanities, then halted behind me. In an oddly calm voice he said, Quickly now, before the snowstorm rolls in.
I hoisted Grey and the black kitten and we fled toward the boat. How we crossed the river I cannot recall; perhaps the Almighty simply willed it, for the world beyond was a white blur.
Just as we reached the far bank, the boatman’s engine roared and he shouted, You scoundrel! I was taken aback.
Why scoundrel? I asked, eyes darting to the frothing water.
He snarled, So you swindled me with papers and money, yet you came back to save a cat? You call yourself a man, but youre a wretched spirit! He fell silent, snorted, and we pulled up at the boathouse.
He fetched a box for the kitten and spread a warm towel inside. As I prepared to leave, thanking him, he said, Nothing ever comes to one alone while another goes emptyhanded. He turned to Grey and said, You, lad, come live with me. I go fishing often and youre a proper cat. I wont abandon you.
Grey eyed me, mewed apologetically, then padded over to the burly man, standing on his hind legs and pawing at the mans massive boots. The man lifted him up, and the great grey tom wrapped his paws around the kittens neck, cuddling him close.
The man turned away, his voice trembling for a long minute, muttering, Well, well, well When he gathered himself, he faced me with a surprisingly gentle tone and said, Ill invite you, lad, to join me next weekend for a day of fishing, and gave me a wink.
Back at home, my wife tended to the black kitten, and beneath the warm towel she discovered the forgotten fifty pounds.
Now we go fishing together, regularly, with the goodnatured, sturdy curmudgeon. And yes, I sometimes arrive a little tipsy and emptyhanded, but fishing, after all, is a proper English pastime, a matter of life itself.
