“We tried to take your things to Lost Property,” the sergeant remarked, “but Well, your cat is quite the fighter. Wouldnt let anyone near. Best come and collect your belongingsand your catyourself. We’ve got enough on our plate as it is”
Every train station has waiting rooms. Some are wide and airy, some cramped and stifling. There are plush armchairs in a few, uncomfortable benches in others. All different, but they share one constant: unavoidable waiting.
Nearly everyone travels by train at some point, and sooner or later finds themselves arriving much too early, dreading to be late, only to sit there wishing theyd risked arriving last minute instead. Suitcases and bags huddle around ankles, the minutes trickle by, and regret creeps in for being overly cautious.
So it was on that daypeople sat quietly, each studiously avoiding the other’s gaze. A few flicked through newspapers, some buried their noses in paperbacks, but most hid in their mobile screens. Some nibbled on quickly packed sandwiches. And to those eating, he made his way
The lounge was on the ground floor, with a separate entrance from the street. No doubt the scents of food drifting from bags and rucksacks had lured him in.
He was a large, somewhat bedraggled grey cat, with a collar and a phone number dangling beneath his whiskered chin.
People shooed him away. Mothers feeding children were particularly severe:
“Go on! Shoo! Filthy, full of fleas. Youll make my child sick, you will!”
The cat would sigh, heavy-hearted, and retreat. He didnt beg as such. He simply sat nearby, and stared, and stared, and stared
He was desperately hungry. But he didnt know how to ask.
Just a few days earlier, hed been brought here. His owner had died unexpectedly, and the relatives had swiftly sold up. One of them had found a solutiondropped the cat at the station and mumbled:
“Someonell feed you here, you wont starve,” and walked off.
But how to beg? How to explain hunger? The cat didnt know.
So he just sat next to people, quietly watching, breathing in the dizzying aromas.
But the travellers, already irritable from the sluggish wait, wanted nothing to do with a stray cat. They only longed to leave the waiting room, erase it from memory like a bad dream
I arrived at the station early. It was a short work tripa night on the train, meetings at the London office, then straight back. About forty minutes to go before departure. Out of boredom, I watched the people around me and noticed the cat just as a young mother shooed him off, threatening to swat at him.
The cat, used to this, slunk away to a corner. He was resigned to the shouts and waving hands.
Spotting the phone number on his collar, I assumed hed got lost, run off from home, with owners probably frantic. I rummaged in my satchel and produced the batch of pork pies my wife had packed. Popping open the container, I took in the glorious smell and smacked my lips.
“Lovely stuff,” I murmured, glancing at the cat. “Pss-pss, come here, mate. Ill give you something.”
Suspicious, the cat shuffled hesitantly closer, expecting another boot.
“Dont worry, come on,” I coaxed gently. “I wont hurt you.”
He approached at last, wary but hopeful. I placed a pie on a scrap of napkin. The cat mewed softly and began to eat, neat as a pin, not dropping a single crumb.
“Clearly a housecat, arent you?” I remarked.
I dialled the number on his collar, but it was dead.
I muttered a curse beneath my breath. Only twenty minutes left before the train. Things had just got more complicated than expected.
“What on earth should I do? What now” I kept repeating, spinning around helplessly.
Feeling completely out of my depth, I rang my wife. Quickly, I explained the situation and asked, “What should I do? Hes clearly someones pet. Number isnt working. Wandering the station begging, pushed about by everyone.”
“Trust you to get embroiled in something!” she said. “Why this cat?”
“You dont get it,” I replied. “Everyones driving him off, and he doesnt even know how to beg for food.”
“I see,” she sighed. “Are you in the waiting room?”
“Exactly!” I answered, perking up.
“Text me the number off his collar.”
Just before heading for the platform, I led the cat to the wall and left him the entire pie container.
“Stay here,” I told him, giving his head a stroke. “My wife will come find you, I promise.”
The cat looked at methe only soul in days who had noticed him, fed him, stroked him, and spoke kindly. He nudged my hand with his head and let out a soft mew.
“Good lad,” I murmured. “Wait right here. Shell help you, I promise”
The following day was a blur of meetings. Only by evening did I find time to phone home.
“Did you find his owners? Did you feed him?” I asked.
“I spent all evening searching for him” she replied, “but I did get confirmation from the collar number: his owner died and the family dumped him at the station. Just left him there.”
There was a pause. I said nothing.
“Im going back in the morning to look again,” she added.
“Im not worried,” I said, though it wasnt true. “I know youll help him.”
“I can hear how ‘not worried’ you are,” she snapped. “You and your heartdont go making yourself ill! Ill find your wretched cat. Ill ring our daughter and her husband. Well all go.”
She hung up, leaving me restless. “There are strays everywhere,” I told myself, “you cant fret about every cat out there” But the worry gnawed at me. For some reason, that grey cats fate genuinely mattered.
I slept badly. Dreamt I was stroking the cat and explaining something, the cat nodding back
In the morning, my wife told me theyd scoured the station, questioned the cleanersthe cat had vanished.
A strange guilt washed over me. I couldnt shake it.
That evening, back in my own city, I dropped my bags by a friendly looking traveller and went searching. I dreaded not finding the cat, or finding him too late.
I searched the entire station for over an hour, then combed the nearby bins and shrubs.
Close to midnight, my wife joined me, cursing everything under the moon.
By 2am, exhausted, we plonked down on a bench outside for a smoke.
“My feet are killing me,” she said wearily.
“Yeah. So what now?”
“Well sit a minute, then try again. Where did you leave the bags?”
I slapped my forehead. “At the station, near some chap. Hes surely long gone!”
“Lets fetch them back first. If theyre still there, well lock them in the car and keep searching after.”
Crossing back through the waiting room, a police officer stopped us near the luggage.
“Yours?” he asked.
“Ours,” we said together.
“And whyd you leave them?”
“Looking for a cat,” we chorused again.
“What cat?” the officer blinked, nodding towards the bags. “This one, maybe?”
Curled atop my suitcase lay the big grey cat.
“We tried to take your things to Lost Property,” the sergeant said. “But your cats quite somethingfought off anyone who came near, like a dog. Best collect your things and take the cat. Were busy.”
He hadnt wandered off, not really. Just kept guard. Relieved, I edged up to him. When he recognised methe one whod fed him, stroked him, told him to waithe greeted me with joyous mews and pressed his whole body towards me.
I perched on the bench, stroked his back, and finally exhaled. My wife sat beside me.
“Trust you for drama,” she grinned, kissing me on the cheek. “Well, get the bags. Lets go home.”
I heaved up the suitcase and bag, and she scooped up the big, scraggly cat. He purred thunderously, pawed at her, and tried licking her cheek in gratitude.
She laughed, fending off his enthusiastic whiskers.
The first thing she did back home was a warm bath for him, followed by a rubdown with a luxury towel, and then she poured him a bowl of fragrant chicken broth.
That night, the cat crept into the bedroom and curled next to her. He nudged at her gently, almost as if to check she wouldnt vanish.
She rested her hand on his back and whispered, “Sleep now, love. Youre home”
The cat purred and fell asleep.
So did I, dreaming of searching the station with her again.
And maybe the cat dreamt, toothat all along, hed been searching for exactly this.
Meanwhile, back at the station, a little ginger kitten darted restlessly about. She peered into peoples faces, mewed piteously. Passersby turned away, eager to get on with their day.
There was no time to stop for a stray. After all, there are so many cats in the worldno one can save them all! They hurried on, telling themselves just that.
Such is life.
