Encounters Read online

  I looked round desperately for a weapon of some kind to defend myself with. I didn’t have a poker of course; the best I could do was a high heeled shoe. I crept out of bed and reached for my dressing gown, then, with the heel of the shoe held out menacingly before me in a shaking hand, I crept to my door and listened again. The whole flat was silent. Beyond my door lay the tiny hall off which led the kitchen door, next to mine, and opposite them the bathroom and the other room. Sally my flat mate had been sent to Brussels by her firm for six weeks, so I was alone. The telephone was in the kitchen. I quietly turned the handle of the door and opened it a crack. I looked out. The kitchen door was ajar.

  Suddenly there was the most tremendous crash, followed by a terrified mewing and a scrabble of paws. I laughed out loud with relief.

  Pushing open the door I clicked on the light. The kitchen, like my room, was at the front of the house. It had a small dormer window leading onto a broad parapet which ran along the house tops the entire length of the street. I had left the window wide open because of the heat. My visitor must have crept along from another flat and, seeing the open window, come in. My beautiful flowering geranium lay in the midst of its shattered pot on the floor beneath the window. There was no sign of the cat. It must have heard me and fled the way it had come, knocking over the plant as it leaped for the window. I got a dustpan and brush and swept up the mess, then checking everything else was in order I stopped to get myself a cold drink from the fridge.

  ‘Mee-ow.’

  I jumped. The frightened squeal came from very near me. Then I saw it. Hiding in the dark crack between the fridge and the cupboard was a tiny kitten, with enormous frightened eyes.

  ‘Hello, puss,’ I said quietly. ‘Was it really you making all that noise?’ I held out my hand and twitched my fingers at it enticingly. The eyes immediately stopped looking frightened and looked instead very intelligent indeed. It put its head on one side and scampered out to me.

  I picked it up. It was a stripy kitten, with a ridiculous stump of a tail and enormous green eyes; clearly not old enough to be walking lonely parapets under the sky by itself at two in the morning.

  I gave it some milk and took it back to my room. After exploring thoroughly for a while it scrambled up onto my low divan bed, curled up and went to sleep. It appeared that for the time being at least I had acquired a cat.

  I slept beside it, not waking till the sun crept in at the attic-window and fell full on my face. I grabbed the clock. It was after eight and I was going to be very late for work. The kitten had gone. I called it vainly as I made breakfast and dressed, but it must have climbed from my bed to the bookshelf and jumped to my windowsill. I prayed it had not slipped on the parapet and that it could find its way back to its real home.

  In the busy office during the day I didn’t give the little cat another thought but at night, at home in the flat alone, I wondered where it had come from. It would have been fun to have a kitten for company in lonely London. Sally’s friends were kind and often asked me out with them, but since she had been away the phone had stayed depressingly silent. I had only been working in London for a couple of months after all. I could not expect to know many people yet and I was bound to meet people soon, but that didn’t stop me wondering and wishing as beautiful moonlit night succeeded moonlit night.

  That night she, I decided she must be a she, came to see me again, about eleven this time, her tiny enquiring face all eyes, peering in through the open casement as I lay on my bed reading.

  ‘Hello, Tiger, have you come to keep me company again tonight?’ Pleased, I laid down my book to watch her. She jumped to the bookcase and stalked along it, her stumpy tail erect, mewing at me. She came and licked my hand with a tongue like sandpaper and then, politely, showed me where the door was. She licked her lips.

  For four nights running Tiger came and had her evening milk drink with me and afterwards curled up with me to sleep. Each morning when I awoke she had disappeared.

  The fifth night it poured with rain; heavy thundery rain which cascaded and bounced on the parapet and splashed into the room. Reluctantly I shut the window. Surely she would not come on a night like this. Entirely self-centred and demanding and affectionate only when it pleased her, my five square inches of visitor had a big enough personality to make up in many ways for my lack of human company in the evenings and I found I was missing her very much.

  I left my windows open the next night and the next, but she didn’t come and sadly I told myself she probably wouldn’t come again.

  Then one Saturday as I was cleaning the flat, my hair tied in a scarlet cotton handkerchief, she suddenly appeared at the kitchen window. Even in the short time she had not been to see me, she had grown.

  I gave her some milk and let her play boxing games with my duster for a while, watching as she danced in the sunbeams on the rug. Suddenly she stopped jumping about, cocked her little head to one side and listened. Then in a minute she had leaped to the bookcase and out onto the parapet and was gone.

  I went to the window and leaned out, edging forward beyond the angle of the dormer onto my elbows. To the left and right the long sunlit parapet stretched away the length of the street. I watched her trotting purposefully along, much too near the edge for my liking, till she came to another open window where she disappeared. I looked down nervously at the road, three storeys below and then began to wriggle back. As I edged back I glanced again at the window where Tiger had vanished. There was a young man leaning out, as I was, watching me. I smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

  I pottered around with the duster for a while longer, but without Tiger to play with housework had lost all its appeal. So I collected my basket and my purse and ran down to go to the shops.

  A few doors down from me a young man was tinkering about with an old car, his head under the bonnet. He stood up as I passed and I had a glimpse of brilliant blue eyes in a tanned face before I went on. I had the feeling he was watching me, but I didn’t turn back. It was the young man at Tiger’s window.

  That night she came to me earlier than usual. I played with her and cuddled her for a long time before at last we fell asleep. Somehow I could not get the image of those blue eyes – her master’s blue eyes – out of my mind.

  I saw him again next morning climbing into his car as I set off for the post office. I almost hoped he would stop and offer me a lift, but he didn’t. He glanced in his mirror though, to see me again after he had driven slowly by. The street seemed a hundred times more lonely when I got back later. The battered car was still missing and glancing up at our windows in the eaves of the high roof tops I saw that although mine were open, his were shut. Tiger would not be coming to visit me today.

  His car did not return until after ten that evening, and although my windows stayed open all night Tiger never appeared. I stayed awake a long time hoping to hear her imperious voice from the windowsill, but it never came.

  As I sat in the office next day leaning disconsolately on my desk I saw with sad resignation that the skies were clouding over. The heat wave, the weather forecast had said, was over. By lunch the first cold drops of rain were beginning to fall and I thought sadly of the long lonely evenings till Sally came back, my windows shut against wind and rain, my little visitor probably snug in her own basket beside someone else’s bed. His bed.

  It was coming down in big heavy drops when eventually I reached home that evening after volunteering to stay at work to do some overtime. I threw open the window and leaned my elbows on the sill. The streets were smelling of wet soot and sweet earth from the garden square round the corner. It was lovely to feel the cool freshness on my face.

  Tiger arrived while I was still eating my supper, her fur wet and spiky. Around her neck was a little leather collar and attached to it by a little piece of string was some paper. I couldn’t believe my eyes. My hands shook as I tried to untie it to take the paper. It was a note: ‘How about dinner on Wednesday?’ it said. That was all.

  I st
ared at the writing, unbelieving. Was it meant for me? Putting the puzzled little cat firmly down on the carpet I went to the window and wriggled out a little way. His window was closed. He had put her out into the rain knowing she would have to come to me if she didn’t want to get wet. To me, or someone else? I didn’t know how many windows Tiger visited on her nightly rambles, how many lonely ladies she played with to earn a saucer of milk. There were many windows opening out onto her private cat walk.

  I puzzled what to do; I wanted so very much to say yes. For a long time I sat in front of my writing pad, pen in hand while Tiger slept on my bed. At last all I could think of to say was: ‘But I don’t even know your name …’ I tied it to her collar and crept at last into bed beside her.

  In the morning she was still there and there was a huge puddle on the carpet from the rain which had poured in all night. I was furious. Picking her up I put her outside by force and shut the window behind her in spite of her pitiful mewing. I was angry as much with myself for leaving the window open as with her for not going out in the rain. Probably she wouldn’t come back at all now after such an outrage, but my carpet was ruined and in the cold light of day I hadn’t much faith in a silly scribbled message which was probably a joke. For a moment I regretted not removing my note and tearing it up. Then I shrugged. It would probably have dissolved by the time the poor little cat got home. I glanced out of the window. The rain was still sheeting down and the clouds were black and threatening.

  I was like a bear with a sore head at work that day, as I sat gazing out at the rain. I so much wanted the note to be real, and for me. And I knew that it just couldn’t be. Things like that don’t happen in real life.

  By about four o’clock the sky had cleared a little and as I walked home from the bus the sun broke through the clouds and glistened dazzlingly on the wet pavements. My heart lifted a little as I set the key in the lock. I had bought myself a new paperback and a pizza on my home to cheer myself up a bit. I was sure Tiger wouldn’t come again after the way I had treated her that morning and I did not let myself even think about the message on her collar. I knew I wanted too much for her to come again with another.

  She arrived about half past eleven, standing as if uncertain of her welcome at the window. I could see at once, with thumping heart, that she had a new message tied to her collar. I was terrified she would turn and run before I could scoop her off the windowsill and carry her to the kitchen. While she drank her milk I read the letter:

  9 Westport Terrace (top bell)

  To whom it may concern …

  May I, Mowgli, being of sound cat-mind, introduce Jonathon Lazenby, bachelor of this parish. He is a respectable gentleman and most desirous of escorting a certain young lady, she being in the habit of tying her hair in a provocative red scarf, to the Bistro Italiano at 7.30 tomorrow evening. Should she be willing to accept perhaps she would intimate the same to Mowgli who will pass on her message.

  by Feline Express, Tuesday

  I read the letter again and again, half laughing, unable to believe it to be true. Then at last I wrote my reply.

  15 Westport Terrace (top bell)

  Miss Anna Winton being the lady with the red scarf, thanks Mowgli very much for her impeccable introduction and has much pleasure in accepting Mr Jonathon Lazenby’s kind invitation. She looks forward to meeting him tomorrow night.

  by Feline Express

  ‘I’ll buy you a tin of salmon tomorrow, Mowgli,’ I whispered in her ear as I tied the note to her collar. But I didn’t have to. I found Jonathon had already done it and as he said, one tin at a time was quite enough for such a small messenger.

  The Consolation Prize

  ‘Would you like some more wine?’

  Under the low ceiling with its criss-cross of darkened beams a curl of smoke levelled and drifted up from the log fire, from the cigarettes of the loudly talking guests, and from his pipe.

  Annette stood watching, eyes half shut, her contact lenses not liking the atmosphere, as she clutched the empty wine glass in her hand. She was thinking about the church.

  The baby had cried – a high wail, echoing up under the roof of the nave, the sound curling like the smoke around the rose window. A lonely sound which had made her drag her eyes back down to the font, which someone had decorated with threads of white daisies, as she blinked back sudden stupid tears.

  Celia’s child. Duncan’s child. The child which might have been hers …

  ‘Some more wine?’

  She was beautiful; exquisite. Tiny hands waving indignantly over the pale lace. Natasha Anne. Her hair as golden as her father’s; her eyes already the same blue. Or were all babies’ eyes that colour?

  ‘Wine?’

  The pleasant face was smiling at her; the green eyes quirky and humorous as they watched her. ‘If I could deliver it to your planet, I would.’

  ‘Planet?’ She turned her full attention to him at last, bewildered.

  ‘You are on another planet?’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Embarrassed, Annette looked back at Celia, still standing near the door, the child in the crook of her arm. Then she laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I was thinking about the baby.’

  ‘Very appropriate at a christening.’ He smiled again. ‘I’m Rick Jefferson; your colleague in the godparent stakes.’ He captured her empty wine glass and filled it from the bottle in his hand, expertly fielding the slopping liquid as someone jostled him from behind.

  Suddenly she felt more cheerful; she smiled. ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I’m being very rude, I’m Annette.’

  He grinned again. ‘Can I fetch you something to eat? Say yes. Then I can put down this bottle and pick up a glass of my own when I go to the table.’

  He wasn’t very tall; not much taller than she. But his shoulders were broad and his frame solid. She found herself giggling at his pantomime of self starvation. ‘I’d love something to eat. Thank you.’

  ‘And you won’t fly back to Mars or Venus or wherever?’

  ‘Promise.’

  She watched him thread his way across the room towards the long table. He paused near Celia and she saw him smile and touch the baby’s hand – then he moved on. He collected a glass and two plates of food, and she saw him turning back in her direction.

  ‘All alone?’

  Suddenly Duncan was standing in front of her. She felt her throat contract a little as she looked up at his face. Could she have so soon forgotten how tall he was?

  ‘Rick is fetching me something to eat. She’s a lovely baby, Duncan.’

  He was looking down at her intently. ‘Annette. You really didn’t mind us asking you to be godmother? It was Celia’s idea –’

  ‘Of course not.’ She forced herself to smile. ‘I’m honoured.’ And she turned to Rick, reaching with relief for the plate he offered her. For a moment the three of them stood there in silence. Then Duncan smiled and shrugged and walked away …

  Later, as she and Rick let themselves out of the French window, there was a breath of summer in the garden and a soft evening shimmer in the air.

  Annette shivered, her coat around her shoulders as they slipped out of the hot noisy room.

  Rick grinned at her. ‘Are you sure you want to go out?’

  Nodding she sipped her wine and stepped onto the grass. ‘I get claustrophobia at parties.’

  ‘Me too.’ He followed her, leaving his glass balanced carefully on the head of a lichen-covered statue at the edge of the steps. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Duncan. There was a “you and Duncan” wasn’t there?’

  She nodded, suddenly not minding his knowing. ‘Oh yes. There was a me and Duncan.’

  The scent of flowers was almost overwhelming. It had been summer then too. The first time she had come to this house …

  Her office door was permanently open, so people walked through it. That was the idea, Annette’s boss said with a laugh and Duncan was the third person to walk through it that
morning. By mistake.

  He was tall, lean and untidy, wearing a cotton sweatshirt and jeans and quite obviously not in the right place.

  He leaned on her desk, towering over her, his hair tousled. He was grinning broadly.

  ‘I’m on the wrong floor, right?’

  She found herself smiling back, drawn irresistibly by the smile.

  ‘Right. Wrong floor. You’ll be wanting …’ She hesitated, looking him up and down, her head on one side. ‘The architect upstairs?’

  He grinned. ‘Try again.’

  ‘The accountant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it must be the Inland Revenue.’

  ‘As a humble supplicant and blood donor? No.’

  ‘But that only leaves the dress designer.’ She collapsed in sudden irreverent giggles.

  ‘At last, you guessed my secret.’ His solemn expression was belied by the laughing eyes. ‘Don’t I look like a potential customer for a dress designer?’

  She shook her head, intrigued and disbelieving. But he did not explain. Not then. He did that over lunch.

  ‘Black sheep?’ She put down her knife and fork, her voice sliding up into a squeak.

  ‘Five hundred of them.’

  ‘And Kevin Spiggs uses your wool?’

  ‘That’s right. His dusky dream range!’

  She was very late back to the office.

  ‘Can you believe it, Meg? He breeds black sheep. And Kevin upstairs is going to take all his wool for a season to make sweaters and dresses and sell them for hundreds of pounds each!’

  Meg raised her eyes to the concealed lighting of the low ceiling above the desk. ‘Only you, Annette, could meet a sheep breeder here in St James’s! And I suppose you are going to see him again?’

  She was.

  Two weeks later he took her to the farm. It was a long drive and she was tired but the countryside enchanted her. Soft rolling hills, stands of oak and birch, green and silver in the sunlight and then the sheep – not black so much as chocolate and mocha in the soft meadows.