Chapter 01. Till Morning

The boy carries me under his coat.

Inside him something knocks, quick and hollow. The cold clings to my ears, but his fingers are warm. I squeak hoarsely — small, almost without strength. He does not know what to do with me. Nor do I. For now that is enough.

A breath in. A breath out. Together.

We stop. Before us, a house. Large. Warm. Behind a glass door, light is moving.

The boy sets me down in a box beneath the porch. Carefully, as though I might fall to pieces. The cardboard smells of rain and of old wood. At its edge the warmth of his fingers lingers.

A box is a poor home, but a home all the same: it has walls, it has a floor, and overhead a sky that is not mine.

‘Sit here till morning, little one,’ he whispers.

His hand passes over my head. The purring starts up in my throat before I have worked out whether I am glad of it or not. You answer warmth with warmth.

He goes inside. The door closes. The world divides again: there, the light; here, the wet boards, the cardboard, and me.

A breath in. A breath out. Alone.

Behind the glass, someone’s life is going on. The big ones move about in there. They smell of soap, of cloth, of food, and of that order which I do not yet understand but can already sense. They open the door — and the air changes. They close it — and at once the night draws nearer.

So they are strong. Gods, perhaps. For now I cannot tell. I know only this: the big ones have warm hands and heavy steps.

In the evening something growls. An iron beast rolls into the yard. A woman climbs out of it. Bags rustle — the street rustles inside them. I squeak. My voice catches at the air and very nearly falls.

The woman bends down. She sees me by the wheel. A small light kindles in her eyes.

A man comes out of the house. His voice is firm, with no warmth to spare, but no anger either.

‘Under the porch. Turned up on his own. We’re not taking in every stray. We’ve got a cat. That’s enough for her,’ he says plainly. ‘Don’t feed it. It’ll move on. Otherwise it gets used to us.’

I do not understand all the words. I understand the one thing that counts: I am not to go inside.

A breath in. A breath out.

Behind the glass a grey cat appears. She looks at me as though I have already done something I ought not to have. Her eyes are green, and cold. Then she hisses.

The threshold hisses along with her.

A breath in. A breath out. No.

The woman looks at me and sighs.

‘He’s not coming in. It’s freezing out here. Poor little thing,’ she says. ‘I’ll sort him out something warm.’

She fetches a proper little house. She lays down something warm. She spreads out cloth. She pours out a little food. All the while her hands are saying: here, this is all right. Lie here. Wait here for the morning.

I sniff. Cloth. Metal. A warmth that is not mine. The food is close by, but I do not eat. My nose keeps coming back to the door. There is the light. There are the voices. There are those same hands. My paws stay where they are.

The man frowns. The woman straightens the cloth. Behind the glass the grey cat does not soften.

The porch, then.

A breath in. A breath out. Till morning.

The night drags on and on. The lamp in the yard blinks with a sickly yellow light. Rain drums on the roof. The cold creeps up to my paws, then to my belly, then tries to climb in under my fur. I curl myself tighter.

Leaves rustle. Somewhere water drips. Behind its door the house breathes evenly, as though it sleeps and yet knows about me all the same.

I squeak a couple of times, for form’s sake. The night does not answer. No matter. Not every answer comes as a voice.

A breath in. A breath out.

I could leave. I daresay I could. Beneath the porch there are dark places, and beyond them the yard, and beyond that the wet earth. Out there are strange smells again. Cold. An empty belly.

I draw one paw out from under me. Then tuck it back again.

I stay.

A breath in. A breath out. I stay.

Morning comes on quietly. Not with light at first — with greyness. I am where I was. The box has soaked through at one edge, the cloth has bunched up under my side, my whiskers smell of rain.

The door opens. The woman steps out and stops.

I look up at her from below. I do not beg. I only show her: here I am. I have gone nowhere.

She smiles, but worry stands beside her like a second person.

A breath in. A breath out. I am still here.

The day stretches out. Inside the house they are shifting heavy iron; it clanks. Boards creak. A smell of wood comes through first. Then food. Then something faintly bitter and warm.

I lie in my little house and listen. I barely touch the food. It is not the bowl I am waiting for. I am waiting for the door to open again, and for the world to say more plainly: and who might you be?

Towards evening the footsteps come back. The voices are low, businesslike.

‘The cat won’t have him,’ the woman whispers. ‘She just hisses at him.’ ‘Let’s take him to the vet,’ she says. ‘Check he’s healthy. We can’t leave him out here.’

A breath in. A breath out.

I hear light running feet. The boy. With him it grows a little warmer at once — even before the hand.

The man nods.

‘Fine. Upstairs, in the bathroom. He can sit there. We’ll see,’ he says. ‘Pick him up.’

A hand reaches for me. It smells of wood, of the street, and of that same warmth I remember from the evening. I am lifted out of the box. I squeak, quietly. A signature: I am here.

A breath in. A breath out.

The house greets me with smells from every side at once. Food. Wood. Dust along the floor. Water somewhere near. Cloth that is not mine. I have no time to make sense of it all.

The grey cat watches from a distance — stern, displeased, made entirely of the single word ’no’.

I am carried past. I try to be small and polite. Her gaze is sharp. I come no closer.

A breath in. A breath out. Don’t startle her.

I am set down in a small room on the first floor. It smells of something strange, and of water. In the corner — a tray of sand, a bowl, a scrap of old blanket.

The hand goes over my back one last time. Then the door closes — softly, not a sound. The strip of light along the floor grows thinner and goes out.

I listen to the footsteps beyond the door. They do not go away altogether — they only grow muffled. The hand will be back in a moment, I think. The door is such a thin thing, after all. I wait. The door does not open. So that is how it must be. So this is what staying is.

A breath in. A breath out.

I lie down on the blanket, on the spot where a warmth that is not mine still holds from the hand. My big ones do not yet know what to call me. Nor do I yet know their rules. No matter. I have a night behind me now, a dry corner at my side, and the patience of a small animal.

A breath in. A breath out. Home.