When writing about my first (that wasn’t my parents’) cat, Jay, I forgot — goodness knows how: as my jaw still bounces off my slippers thinking about it! — his most astonishing exploit.
Home at the time of his adoption was just around a mile’s walk from Darwen station, which had regular and frequent direct trains to Manchester: a place I used to visit a great deal, mainly for the culture — especially the Hallé orchestra at the Free Trade Hall — although shopping at the Arndale Centre (in the days before the devastating 1996 IRA bomb) and for pre-loved clothes (the city has a wonderful student-based and therefore youth-friendly economic sector); exploring the architectural Wow! that is the Central Library; playing backgammon in hidden pubs off Deansgate of an evening; snaffling cask ales and late-night vegetarian takeaways — particularly after experiencing The Smiths launch Meat is Murder… — were all great motivations for being there: and it is for these (and many other wonderful contributing enticements) that Manchester became the first city (of — and still to this day — a very select handful) that I fell in love with (and eventually worked in).
I must have travelled there quite early that day: as I still remember the sun shining brightly when I returned. I know I wouldn’t have agonized about leaving Jay on his own at home too much, as he had proved himself to be independent and strong, as well as exceedingly happy in his new (and obviously extensive) environment: so much so that, after a few months, he could be left to his own devices for up to a week — with our saintly neighbours portioning out the necessary food and water each day — without worry (especially as he wouldn’t bring catches in for us when we weren’t at home… — clever cat).
⁋
Jay was waiting in the ticket hall at the entrance to the station when I disembarked at Darwen: the only living thing in sight. As soon as he saw me, he ran up to me; and, somehow — despite my shock — I managed to scoop him up in my arms and not drop him (just as in the hackneyed TV trope)! All sorts of questions flashed through my frozen brain: but, thankfully, I don’t remember stating too many of them out loud, apart from “How on Earth did you get here?!” — or words to that effect.
Once he’d settled on my shoulder, and I’d regained what laughingly pass for my senses, the station-master (who I knew by sight) told me through the office window that Jay hadn’t been there long. As if he knew what train I’d be on.
As if he actually knew what train I would be on? What’s a train to a cat? A station? A map? A schedule? (Alhough it may seem strange, some cats are superb at punctuality… — ask anyone with an automatic biscuit machine delivering their pet’s favourite munchies by clockwork each day! They are just not so brilliant at interpreting those fold-up pocket timetables that British Rail used to dole out. Or so they tell us.)
I think I kept the conversation short because I was trying to work out how I’d get Jay home, and envisaged having to carry him all the way there. (He had other plans, however. Of course he did.) And so my gait, as I set off, was extremely hesitant.
You were waiting.
You were waiting…?
You were waiting… — for me…?
You were waiting for me!
As if.
As if you knew…!
⁋
I, though, can never know how he got to the station, nor what motivated him: especially as the area between there and home was (and still is) mostly packed with Darwen’s characteristic rows of solid but airy terraced houses, along with a few scattered industrial buildings and small green patches where such structures once stood — whereas his preference for exploration always seemed to be the relative peace of the fields surrounding us. The railway line — which might have been the easiest path to follow for such a brave small animal — does enter those fields eventually on the way back to Blackburn; and probably would have presented the overall quietest, if not the quickest, course. However, it runs nowhere near home: and would therefore have been a substantial — although maybe worthwhile — detour.
I also have to presume that he returned the same way that he came: as he disappeared shortly after we set off… — which, at the time, caused me substantial distress: before I quickly recalled the trust he had already (and almost instantly) earned. (My latest companion cat, Pixel, has a predilection for travelling via hyperspace — something I will write about in the not-too-distant future. It may therefore be that Jay did not go very far at all.)
Finally — and this seems the most likely (sensible stumbling towards a) solution — I wonder if he had mapped out all these streets when he lived with my friend: whose home was on the west side of the tracks (we were roughly the same distance to the east). As I wrote in my earlier piece, he “frequently went missing for days” because of the unfriendly feline atmosphere there: and he would certainly have had the opportunity. Plus, it is not unknown for cats to range considerable distances, and for many reasons: urbanization — the most likely, here — being just one; and my later cat, Pete, obviously loved wandering around — although only as long as he was accompanied (as far as we know).
⁋
Of course Jay reached home first! He was sat on the doorstep, having a wash, when I got there. Cool as a fluffy cucumber in the warming sun.
I told the cat it was called loving
This warming stroking snuggling thing
He nuzzled my hand and padded my lap
And fell curling asleep
No comments:
Post a Comment