Week 11 The Birds only Sing When Nobody’s There

The Birds Only Sing When Nobody’s There

Will saw the cat reading on the pavement. Will was about to push open his own front gate, was about to walk down his own driveway, knock on his own front door, ask to see his boy, ask for another tie, the grey tie, the grey tie hanging on the hook of his wife’s bedroom (but could be anywhere, now). But that cat, a tabby cat he’d not seen before, thin body, battered ears, looked up from its book and stared him in the eye. Cats get up early. Mornings are important to them. That is when cats hunt.

This was a street where footballs were burst and dead in gutters, where the rain fell at an angle, where a cat sat on a book. The curtains in Will’s house were closed. He had no keys and would have to knock. It would feel strange, knocking on his own front door, so he stayed this side of the gate for a while. There was nobody else, so Will spoke to the cat. He stood over it, did a sucking bird noise with his lips. The cat was wet from the night’s drizzle, its matted tail twitching each time it touched the kerb. It let Will stand over it. It didn’t dart off under a nearby car, nor did it rub itself hungrily against Will’s legs. The cat just sat there, rested over a book, a coffee table-sized book that lay face-up on the pavement. Its paw lingered on the page.

Will smiled at the cat sitting on the street acting as if it could read. He leaned on his gate and smiled at anything that meant he didn’t have to walk up his own driveway. The spectacle of a studious cat was one of those odd things that didn’t seem out of place, not when they happened so early in the morning. Will bent down very gradually so that his face was level with the cat’s. Slow and careful, now, he thought. Strays bolt at the slightest thing.

‘Hello, little puss puss,’ he cooed. ‘What have you there?’

The cat blinked, yawned. It sat over the book as if that’s what cats did.

‘You’re up early,’ said Will. ‘Just you and me about this time of day.’

Will’s head was inches away, but the cat didn’t budge. Will was so close he could see a scar above its eye, lumps in its chin from ticks. The cat sat majestically, tilting its head to look past Will at the grey sky. Will followed its gaze. Sparrows flew overhead, circling above them, searching for any signs of life.

‘Sparrows,’ said Will. ‘I bet you know what they’re like. Lots of little sparrows round here.’

The cat seemed to smile. It looked back at Will, as if waiting for him to speak again.

‘Bold little stray, aren’t we? And what a lovely book you’ve got! That’s a fine thing for a cat to have. A cat with a book!’

‘I found it in a skip,’ said the cat.

Will blinked, felt for the gate behind him. He kept his eyes on the cat, which stared back at him. He felt something rattle in his brain; panicked communication between his head and his ears. The silence that ensued felt like a dream, and grew heavy until he couldn’t bear it.

Will replied. He entered into conversation with the cat. The word took an age to form: ‘Where?’

‘I…Found…It…In…A…Skip,’ said the cat. It spoke slowly, but impatiently, as if to a child.

Will glanced around him, at the street, at the dark houses, at anything he could. The bins were out. Some had been knocked over. There had been a strong wind, or drunk boys. It was that time in the morning that he was beginning to know so well, a time of fuzziness and tiredness and new routines. Outside his house stood a gunmetal skip. Next door was being demolished. He lived next to an empty shell.

‘You don’t find books in skips,’ murmured Will. ‘No books in skips, that’s not the place. You find planks of wood and paving slabs in skips, not books.’

The cat showed its teeth. ‘What are you? A world expert on fucking skips?’

‘No…I…’

‘You done a survey on every skip in Manchester?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t tell me what I can and can’t find in skips. You think I padded up to the fucking library, scanned in my borrowing card with my non-opposable thumbs?’

‘No,’ said Will.

‘Well, then. I found it in a skip.’ The cat licked its knotted fur, as if that were that.

Will got back to his feet. He scratched his arm confusedly, checking around himself to see that no curtains were twitching, but none were. There was no other movement on the street, nothing but an overbearing stillness. His muscles were like syrup. His mind tried to churn sense and urgency and realism and new tie, new tie into his legs, but his brain created nothing but white noise. Only his eyes felt sharp, and he could do nothing but peer at the book under the cat’s body.

‘You want to know what book I’ve got?’ asked the cat.

‘No,’ said Will.

‘Yes you do,’ it smiled. ‘You said it yourself. A cat with a book. A fine thing. You want to find out what a cat is doing with a book. If you didn’t, you’d have already gone through that gate.’

Will could feel his chest tighten. He could feel himself willing the cat to stop sitting on the book, to get up, to move away, to do anything it took for Will to see the book.

‘Now, tell me once again,’ urged the cat, and its eyes pierced his. ‘Do you, or do you not, want to see the book?’

Will felt himself nod.

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ said the cat.

Will’s stomach did somersaults.

‘Please.’

The cat sat on the book. ‘No. Sod off through that gate to your wife. Go grovel at your doorstep. Go on. Scram. Get off through that gate.’

Will looked at his front gate, then at the cat, and finally at the book. He felt like a little boy, and that builders’ skip a monster outside his house.

‘I want to know,’ he mumbled. ‘I really want to know.’

The cat seemed satisfied, as if that were the correct response.

It lifted its body gradually, agonisingly, but not enough for Will to take the book away. It was enough, however. The cat let him see it. Will’s eyes rushed to consume the page. He took it all in like a hungry child, and felt relieved when he realised what it was. It was a big book of cartoons. Will could move again. He laughed. It was just a big book of cartoons. The cat couldn’t read. The cat looked, all of a sudden, like a dumb king, stretching proudly over a simple comic strip, one single picture on each page. It placed its mangy paw under one image: A cartoon set in a living room, with a goofy looking human in an armchair by the fire, a tabby cat at his feet. Underneath it was a single line caption, but it was upside down, and so Will couldn’t see it properly.

‘It’s just a book of cartoons,’ said Will, and he felt lighter as he said it. ‘Stupid animal. You’ve just got a book of those cartoons you find on birthday cards.’

‘It’s The Far Side III, by Gary Larson,’ the cat corrected.

‘You should read Garfield,’ grinned Will.

‘You think this is a fucking joke?’ The cat smacked the kerb with its tail. ‘Go on, get away. Get back to your house.’

‘You don’t know anything. You’re just a cat. You’re a stray and you’re not really talking.’ Will laughed at the cat, glad to have got the upper hand, until his mind caught up with him. He closed his eyes and hit himself on the side of the head. ‘Don’t get into this,’ he told himself. ‘Keep a grip. Lack of sleep. Uncomfortable sofas. Strange new times. These are strange new times.’

The cat studied him for a moment as a doctor would. ‘You’re insane,’ it announced. ‘You’re 38 and you’re talking to a cat.’

‘I’m not,’ said Will, to himself and to the cat.

‘You never talked with an animal?’

‘I don’t talk to animals. I’m not talking to you now.’

‘Ridiculous. You don’t remember being a child? We all talk. All animals talk. Look at that dog.’

Will hadn’t noticed the dog, but now there it was, some yards away. It was a horrible creature: dull eyes; balding in clumps. It slunk its head as it trotted along the street towards them, in constant pain from open sores that infested its back. The dog expected to be beaten. Around its neck was a piece of string: some tramp’s pathetic collar.

‘You know that dog?’ the cat asked Will.

‘No,’ said Will. No one knew anyone anymore.

‘Disgusting fucking thing,’ sniffed the cat. ‘Its owner’s miles from here. All shit and sores. I bet it pisses when you go near it. Little drips of piss.’

‘Yes,’ said Will.

The dog had seen the cat out of the corner of its eye. Frightened, but doomed to continue in search of its master, it limped across the street and around parked cars to the opposite pavement.

‘It talks,’ whispered the cat.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Will. ‘It doesn’t talk, and you don’t talk.’

‘It talks,’ repeated the cat. You see that lump on its throat? Look at the lump on its throat.’

Will saw the lump on the dog’s throat, a bulging white lump the size of a ping pong ball, barely covered by fur.

‘Adam’s apple!’ whispered the cat.

Will held his breath.

‘Talk to it,’ urged the cat. ‘Go on. Prove you’re not insane.’

Will looked about him, saw that nobody was around. The dog sniffed at puddles. Its lump seemed to twitch.

Will called out. ‘Hello, dog.’

The dog lapped at the standing water. It was petrified by the cat, even on that far side, but too thirsty to get away just yet.

‘Where are you going, dog? Where do you go?’

The dog’s ears pricked into points. Aware of Will’s voice, it tried to wag its tail, but the tail appeared too scabbed up to move.

‘Tell me… tell me…’ stuttered Will. He wanted to know answers and secrets. He wanted to know what had happened, what had gone wrong, whether dogs could solve the problems that humans couldn’t, but the dog never replied. It continued on its painful way, leaving a trail of little drips.

‘You moron,’ yelled the cat. ‘That lump isn’t a miracle. It’s not some sort of anthropomorphic sodding microphone. It’s a tumour. The dog’s got fucking cancer. Can’t you see? No one can talk. The rat in the skip can’t talk. The fucked up old dog can’t talk. The sparrows can’t talk. It’s only me that can talk and this is my last chance.’

‘Stop this!’ shouted Will, unaware of how loud he had become. ‘You’re just a stray. You’re a bitter little stray with a book. You haven’t even got a collar. That dog had an owner, what have you got? Someone chucked you out because you’re a vicious little stray.’

The cat’s eyes became slits.

‘I know what you did to her,’ it said.

Will shook his head. ‘No, oh no, no. You’re a cat with no owner. You don’t know a thing.’

‘I know,’ repeated the cat deliberately, ‘exactly what you did to her.’ Its tone tore a hole in Will’s throat. He heard the contempt in its voice. He knew that it had heard, that it had seen. The cat knew everything.

He reached out for his gate. If he wanted, he could turn around, walk down that driveway any time. He needed a tie. It was his right to ask for one.

The cat’s fur stood up on end. It growled softly, but with menace. Its words were punches.

‘This is my last chance, Will. And don’t you see? This is your last chance, too.’

Will had no keys to clench in his pocket. He clenched his fist instead.

‘She knows that I’m sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I told her I’m sorry.’

‘Too late for sorrys,’ sneered the cat. ‘Too late for that. You think she’ll pick herself up and let you in? You think she hasn’t changed the burglar alarm? And what about when she’s standing there in the hall with the door knocking, and she opens it just a bit? You think you’re going to slip your hand around and take it off the latch? What’s the name of that kid of yours? Tell me the name of your kid.’

‘She won’t change the alarm.’

‘The fucking alarm!’ The cat swatted the air with its paw. ‘I ask you the name of your own son and you’re on at the alarm! Say sorry to the sparrows, Will. You think anybody else wants to hear your sorrys? Say sorry to the damn sparrows because they’re the only ones that’ll listen. This is your last chance. This is my last chance. Fuck up again and you’ll only have the sparrows.’

The cat spat out the word over and over again, not to Will, but as if it were making sense of the whole thing itself. It coughed the phrase like a dirty fur ball:

‘Sparrows, sparrows, the fucking sparrows, sparrows, the fucking sparrows.’

‘Samuel,’ said Will.

The morning tried to heave itself through sad clouds, but Will and the cat wouldn’t have noticed. The two sat side by side on the wet kerb, and looked at this one cartoon: the stupid-looking man in an armchair, the fire, the bug-eyed boy, the humorous caption. The cat tapped the picture with its paw. Its claws were out, sharp and diseased.

‘You know,’ it asked, ‘what all this is for?’

‘I need a new life,’ said Will. ‘I need a second chance.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ said the cat.

‘I don’t get it,’ said Will, reading the caption again and again.

‘What don’t you get?’ murmured the cat, its eyes fixed on the fire.

‘I don’t find it funny. The cartoon isn’t funny.’

The cat’s voice was barely a whisper. Entranced, it didn’t want to disturb the living room scene.

‘You think any of this is a joke?’ it asked sadly, and grew softer and more melancholy with each question:

‘You think any part of life is funny? Any of it at all? You do what you did to her, and you expect people to laugh? You, Will, you of all people should know that there’s nothing to laugh about. There is no joke for us anymore. There’s nothing, nothing but a horrible hole in our world. Stop thinking about the joke and look at the picture. What do you see?’

Will stared at the bug-eyed boy. ‘I see warmth.’

‘We’re going to try a house,’ said the cat. ‘You and me. New house, new people. We’re getting that warmth back.’

The cat jumped up, snapping out of its dream. Its voice became frantic, resumed its usual harshness.

‘Get a plank from that skip.’

But Will still stared at the cartoon boy.

‘Get a fucking plank!’

Will got a plank. The grey skip in the street had all sorts: bits of wood; broken paving slabs; sand; smashed glass; nails; sodden cardboard. It didn’t look to him like the sort of skip that would have a book. The plank jutted out at one end. It was six, seven feet long, a foot wide. He laid it on the pavement for the cat to see. The cat looked satisfied at the plank.

‘There’s a black marker pen under the wheel of that car – no, not that one, yes, front left tyre.’

Will thought about his wife as he scrambled on his hands and knees for that pen. He imagined her searching under the stairs for the burglar alarm instructions, listening for cries from the littl’un’s room. Will wrote a caption that filled the plank. He covered it with big black letters. He didn’t copy Gary Larson’s caption, the one under the cartoon, but wrote what first came into his head. Will wrote the right thing.

He followed the cat up the street to the new house, carrying his plank like a cross. They’d left the book on the pavement. There was no need for it anymore.

‘It’s two streets away, a cul-de-sac, all right for round here. She hasn’t got a husband. He died. She’s doing well. It’s hard, so hard to raise a little boy by yourself.’

The plank dug into Will’s shoulder. His fingers drew pricks of blood from the jagged edges.

‘I wasn’t always like this,’ said Will. ‘I never thought I could do what I did.’

‘You think I’m interested in your character?’ said the cat.

The cul-de-sac was as sparse and grey as the other streets. The bins were out, empty and scattered. Terraced houses stood like hollow boxes in the gloom. The cat, padding in front, leaped up onto a cracked brick wall.

‘This is the one.’

The cat sat there for a moment, and the two took in the house.

The front lawn was a badly kept square of long grass: weeks of a husband not getting around to doing it, then not being around at all; weeks of a wife nagging at him, then having so many new worries. The curtains in the downstairs bay window hadn’t been shut.

‘That’s the front room,’ said the cat. ‘Put the caption below it. Let it face the world. Let everyone see what you’ll become.’

Will did as he was told. He understood the need for that caption.

‘She keeps that window ajar,’ said the cat. Her husband died of monoxide. You can get it open if you dig in with your fingernails.’

‘I don’t know if I should…’

‘Get that window open,’ snarled the cat, ‘like you jam your hand in your wife’s front door.’

Will hurried across the grass to the window, the morning’s dew seeping through his shoes. He peered in. He saw an empty armchair that sagged a little in the seat. He saw an electric fire that glowed. He saw a child fireguard that was much too big, perhaps just right for the gas fire before. He saw a mantelpiece without photographs. He saw light square patches on the walls. He saw a fire alarm on the ceiling. A sticker on it had been picked at. The room spelled W-A-R-M-T-H, and Will jabbed at the window with bloody fingers. The cat jumped up, squeezing through the gap. It leaped onto the carpet, prowled about the room like a miniature lion, sniffed the legs of the armchair, and stretched out contentedly in front of the fire. Will managed to open the window further. He climbed through the gap, smudging red everything he touched, and the fire welcomed him in. He sat in the armchair, took in the new surroundings, and ran his fingers against the thinned upholstery. Will fit into the sags of the chair perfectly.

‘This is nice,’ he said. ‘This is so nice.’

The cat didn’t reply. It lay on its side, rubbing its eyes with its paws. It almost looked like a domestic cat, as it warmed itself in front of that fire. Will felt himself become one with the armchair. He wouldn’t have been able to tell where the chair ended and he began.

A little boy toddled into the room. He wore a blue all-in-one that matched his eyes, with tiny yellow ducklings sewn to the chest. Thick golden hair tumbled over his ears. He held a bottle of milk with both hands, and sucked on the bottle as if that were the main thing little boys did. The little boy saw the cat, and hurried over to it with uneven steps. The cat watched him approach with its head cocked, then rolled onto its back to let its tummy be stroked. The cat would lie still and purr, even if the child pulled its tail. It wouldn’t lash out, even if the child’s stroking got too heavy. Its claws would stay in this time. The little boy, with his bottle in his mouth, gazed at the cat with his untorn eyes.

‘Good boy,’ said Will. ‘Good boy.’

Will eased off his shoes and let the warmth creep up over his toes. He smiled at his fireguard. He would buy a new fireguard, a smaller fireguard that would keep the little boy from getting burnt.

Not too near, he would say.

‘Not too near, Samuel,’ said Will. ‘Not too near.’

The little boy patted the cat’s head with his clumsy little hands. The cat’s ears flattened each time with discomfort, but it wasn’t going to ruin anything now, not now it had got in. And Will sat in his armchair by the fire with a little golden-haired boy by his feet, and a happy tabby cat quietly fell asleep.

A woman appeared at the doorway in her dressing gown. Her face was gas bills, short notes in cards, eight sleepless nights. She held rusks, dropped them on the carpet when she saw a man in her armchair. She stood rigid against the doorframe. Her fingers stretched outwards in panic.

‘George? George? George?’ she rasped.

Will thought about pet shops and collars as he sat snuggled in his chair. He closed his eyes, and the heat healed his body. He would frame watercolours of songbirds for the bare patches on the walls. He would hang a second tie on the door hook. The little boy tugged at the cat’s whiskers, and the cat didn’t flinch.

Will let the woman bundle up to him. He let her pull him to his feet by his hair. Before Samuel was born, he and Sandra danced in their dressing gowns to the breakfast news. Will let the woman drag him away from her son, her nails dug into his wrist. As she struggled with his weight, he held the flannel of her dressing gown and swayed to far-off music. Porridge would be cooking on the hob. They would wear slippers and eat it on the doorstep, the fresh air cooling their mouths. Samuel would draw lines with his finger on her nightie.

‘Get away from him,’ shrieked the woman. ‘Please, get away. Take what you like. There’s money. I have money.’

She clawed at Will’s shirt collar with desperate hands. Will smiled. He smelled the new morning in her hair.

‘How did you get in? There’s nothing here. We have nothing. Get out! Get out! Get out!’

Will let his arms be pushed to his sides. The heat of the fire had scorched his shirt, and this woman kept pressing his sleeves, burning his arms. Once, Will made the bathwater too hot, scolding hot, it was so hot for Samuel’s feet.

They were in the hallway now, and Will let his hair get pulled and his face get slapped.

‘Get away from my son! Out of my house! Stay away! Get away!’ sobbed the woman. She hopped up and down, her tears mixing with snot on her cheeks, but still she scratched at Will in the hall.

This house had the same wallpaper. It had the same stairs in the same place, built by the same builders in the same year, and it had the same faint smell of damp, and Will let his hand smack her in the mouth, and Will let his foot kick her nose in. He stumbled out onto the drive and felt the cold day again.

If Will had looked in through the bay window, he would have seen the cat and the little boy curled up by the fire in a contented bundle, their mother unseen, and unconscious against a hallway radiator with her face all bloody and swollen. The caption on the plank read:

‘LOOK WHAT THE CAT DRAGGED IN.’

And the whole world saw it. But it wasn’t a joke. There was nothing funny about it at all.

Will wandered down the street in his socks, out of the cul-de-sac, down other streets, strange streets, unknown roads. He passed tipped-over rubbish bins, gunmetal skips that had popped up here and there. Will kept his eyes upwards. He scanned the trees for the sparrows, for the second chance he was never going to get, and for all the warmth that didn’t exist.