Cleo

Day after day they dragged Steve’s pickax and shovels out from under our house. The equipment looked huge and dangerous in their hands. Today’s parent would probably be sued for letting them loose with such man-sized weaponry. But the hole-digging enterprise really mattered to the boys.

A fireball sun was sinking over the hills. A shawl of frost nestled in the valleys. The city hummed companionably below us. When I asked Ginny if we should call the boys back to get them inside and fed she shrugged. Digging was obviously an important rite in the passage to manhood.

Even though I was tempted to swathe Rob in Bubble Wrap and protect him from every potential dent, I knew it would be a mistake. I had to ease up and allow him the freedom a boy needs to develop into a confident young male. The hole-digging mission went on week after week, much to Rata’s delight (the only expert digger among them). Perched on a branch, Cleo kept lookout for inadvertent birdlife while the boys swaggered like cowboys and exchanged grown-up cursewords below.

Nobody, including the boys, knew exactly why they were digging the hole. Its purpose changed all the time. They were tunneling through to the other side of the earth for a while, until they started feeling sweaty and wondered if they were getting too close to the core. Changing strategy a few days later, they decided to search for the chest of gold that Captain Cook had almost certainly buried there on his last voyage. A few days later they discovered an old wire mattress base under the house. They carried it outside and stretched it across the hole and made a lethal-looking trampoline.

I wondered if handling the moist weight of the soil was therapy for Rob. The sight of him spattered with dirt and flushed with satisfaction after a digging session reminded me of my grandmother. Mother of nine children, she’d spent most of her life on the same patch of farmland, and must have faced countless anxieties and disappointments. Whenever worry scratched at her innards she headed down her back steps, past the henhouse to her garden. The cure for every sorrow, she said, could be found on her knees on a patch of earth with a trowel in one hand. The ritualistic comfort of turning the earth was her psychotherapy. Deep engagement with her garden’s volcanic loam kept her earthed and connected to the planet’s ancient rhythms.

Though she’d long since moved on, I was beginning to understand her better now, especially since I’d spent more time outside while the boys were digging.

In a frivolous act of optimism I planted tulip bulbs for spring. To cover a seed with soil is to demonstrate faith in the future. Tearing out weeds, watering and nurturing the sleeping seed are acts of trust in Nature. When a green shoot appears the gardener experiences a similar rush to someone who has just created a work of art or given birth. Gardening is the closest some people get to feeling like a god. To watch a seedling sprout and unfurl into a flower or vegetable is to take part in a miracle. The gardener also learns acceptance of decay and death, to almost welcome a season of withdrawal as part of the cycle.

Cleo, on the other hand, had another way of dealing with life’s hiccups. She headed for high places. As we wandered down the path to inspect the boys’ earthworks, Ginny suddenly stopped and pointed a crimson fingernail at our roof. Perched on top of a chimney pot was a familiar silhouette.

“What’s Cleo doing up there?” she asked.

“Probably sulking about the operation,” I said. “She must be feeling pretty fit to get up there. Cleo!”

But our cat sat still as a statue against the orange sky, her back to us, her tail in a graceful loop over the chimney.

“Are you sure she’s okay?” said Ginny doubtfully.

“It’s her way of dealing with things.”

“Do you think she’s stuck?” asked Ginny.

“Maybe she’s enjoying the view.”

Cleo must’ve had fun climbing up there, but getting down looked impossible, even for an agile cat.

“Why do these things always happen when Steve’s away at sea?” I complained. Trudging around the side of the house to find a ladder, I suddenly thought of a new motto: “Keep one eye on the stars and the other on the ground to watch out for dog shit.”

Ginny, whose generosity knew no bounds, offered to climb up and get Cleo. But even a circus performer would think twice before scaling a ladder in fishnet stockings, platform shoes and earrings the size of post office clocks.

Thanking her, I leaned the ladder against the house and looked skywards.

Two tiny black ears stood out against the sunset. The ladder seemed suddenly frail and rickety—and far taller than I’d remembered.

As I climbed, a wave of nausea washed up from my knees to the top of my neck, threatening to burst out from the back of my throat. Vertigo had never had such a physical effect on me before.