Cleo

Lack of sleep and jangled nerves had made our differences more apparent. Steve sprouted a beard, a look that was becoming fashionable, and retreated behind it. Returning from a week at sea, he was tired and irritable.

He became annoyed with what he perceived as my extravagance over the boys’ clothes and upkeep. I bought a secondhand sewing machine that emitted electric shocks and I taught myself to cut their hair. I grew louder, larger and more untidy.

The times we weren’t sure how much longer we could stay together were interspersed with phases of holding on and hoping things might improve for the sake of the boys. Even though we were drifting apart like icebergs on opposing ocean currents, there was absolutely no doubt we both loved them.

“Now, boys,” I said, pulling up outside Lena’s house and heaving the handbrake high as it would go. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’re just going to look.”

They scrambled out of the car and were halfway down the path to Lena’s house before I’d closed the driver’s door. Watching their blond hair catch the sunlight, I sighed and wondered if there’d ever be a time I wouldn’t be struggling to catch up with them.

Lena had opened the door by the time I got there, and the boys were already inside. I apologized for their bad manners. Lena smiled and welcomed me into the enviable tranquillity of her home, which overlooked the playing field where I often took the boys to run off excess energy.

“We’ve just come to look at the…” I said as she escorted me into her living room. “Oh, kittens! Aren’t they adorable?”

In a corner, under some bookshelves, a sleek bronze cat lay on her side. She gazed at me through amber eyes that belonged not to a cat but a member of the aristocracy. Nestled into her abdomen were four appendages. Two were coated with a thin layer of bronze hair. Two were darker. Perhaps once their fur had grown they’d turn out to be black. I’d seen recently born kittens before, but never ones as tiny as these. One of the darker kittens was painfully small.

The boys were on their knees in awe of this nativity scene. They seemed to know to keep a respectful distance.

“They’ve only just opened their eyes,” Lena said, scooping one of the bronze kittens from the comfort of its twenty-four-hour diner. The creature barely fitted inside her hand. “They’ll be ready to go to new homes in a couple of months.”

The kitten squirmed and emitted a noise that sounded more like a yip than a meow. Its mother glanced up anxiously. Lena returned the infant to the fur-lined warmth of its family to be assiduously licked. The mother used her tongue like a giant mop, swiping parallel lines across her baby’s body, then over its head for good measure.

“Can we get one, please, PLEASE?” Sam begged, looking up at me with that expression parents struggle to resist.

“Please?” his brother echoed. “We won’t throw mud on Mrs. Sommerville’s roof anymore.”

“You’ve been throwing mud on Mrs. Sommerville’s roof?!”

“Idiot!” Sam said, rolling his eyes and jabbing Rob with his elbow.

But the kittens…and there was something about the mother. She was so self-assured and elegant. I’d never seen a cat like her. She was smaller than an average cat, but her ears were unusually large. They rose like a pair of matching pyramids from her triangular face. Darker stripes on her forehead whispered of a jungle heritage. Short hair, too. My mother always said short-haired cats were clean.

“She’s a wonderful mother, pure Abyssinian,” Lena explained. “I tried to keep an eye on her, but she escaped into the bamboos for a couple of nights a while back. We don’t know who the father is. A wild tom, I guess.”

Abyssinian. I hadn’t heard of that breed. Not that my knowledge of pedigreed cats was encyclopedic. I’d once known a Siamese called Lap Chow, the pampered familiar of my ancient piano teacher, Mrs. McDonald. Our three-way relationship was doomed from the start. The only thing that hurt more than Mrs. McDonald’s ruler whacking my fingers as they fumbled over the keys was Lap Chow’s hypodermic-needle claws sinking into my ankles. Between the two of them they did a good job creating a lifelong prejudice against music lessons and pedigreed cats.

“Some people say Abyssinians are descended from the cats the ancient Egyptians worshipped,” Lena continued.

It certainly wasn’t difficult to imagine this feline priestess presiding over a temple. The combination of alley cat and royalty had allure. If the kittens manifested the best attributes of both parents (classy yet hardy), they could turn out to be something special. If, on the other hand, less desirable elements of royalty and rough trade (fussy and feral) came to the fore in the offspring, we could be in for a roller-coaster ride.

“There’s only one kitten left,” Lena added. “The smaller black one.”