Cleo

“I can’t face another English winter. People live like moles here, in the dark and underground most of the time. I’ve been offered an engineering job in Melbourne. It sounds great. I’ll be home for Christmas.”

Not long after Rob’s return a surprise visitor turned up on the doorstep. He was a tall dark-haired young man, with looks that were a blend of Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp. I scanned the movie-star jawline, the well-defined brow. But it wasn’t until I looked into his eyes that I recognized him.

Baby-faced Jason from Rob’s boyhood zigzag days had morphed into a fine adult. To receive a visit from Ginny’s son was an unexpected compliment. He planted kisses on each of my cheeks, leaving me momentarily dazed. This man Jason was a far cry from the brown-haired boy with almond eyes and an impish smile. Last time I’d seen him he hadn’t been much taller than my waist. I was touched his memories had been warm enough for him to turn up in person so many years later.

“Don’t tell me Cleo’s still alive!” he said.

“Only just,” I replied. I called Rob and arranged to meet him at a cafe near his work with our surprise guest. Rob took less than a second to recognize his old friend. I basked in the glory of dining with two young men with rock-star looks. So this was how it felt to go out with two adult sons. If Sam had lived I wondered how many times we would’ve got together like this. Would it have felt so warm and tinged with almost unbearable sadness? Maybe there’d be no sorrow at all, just a vague pattern of irritations and assumptions families can grind themselves into.

“Do you know what my strongest memory is?” Jason asked, perusing the wine list.

“Digging that hole!” the boys said in unison.

I must’ve looked blank.

“Remember that wild bit of land below your front gate? Rob and I decided to dig a hole there. We dug for years, and it never seemed to get any deeper.”

A vision of two small boys hacking into clay under the tree ferns suddenly sharpened.

“That’s right,” I said. “You had spades and a pickax. You probably shouldn’t have been allowed that pickax. I’d be sued these days.”

“That’s the whole point,” Jason said. “It felt manly and dangerous. Do you remember the day we found a rusty old wire mattress? We spread it over the hole and turned it into a trampoline for a while. Then we got bored with that. We took it away and went back to digging.”

Even now sometimes, Rob said he wondered why the hole never seemed to get any deeper. If his adult self could return to the scene he’d finish the job in an afternoon.

“Maybe you were digging it too wide?” I said. “How deep did you want it anyway?”

“Decent-sized hole deep,” Jason replied.

I felt vaguely guilty the boys’ memories weren’t of me teaching them Mandarin or Gregorian chants. If Jason had inherited half of Ginny’s brains—she’d just finished a doctorate in midwifery—he’d have been more than capable. On the other hand, maybe letting them dig had a hand in making them into the philosophers they’d grown into.

It was hard to believe that somewhere underneath their easy manners and red-wine-drinking maturity were the same little boys who’d lived on the zigzag. Watching them I was reminded of the miraculous renewal of the Australian bush after a fire. Against the blackened outline of taller trees, banksias and wattles create fresh new undergrowth. Similarly, the boys had sprung into strong, handsome young men. During the devastation of those zigzag days I’d underestimated the resilience of nature.

Renewal

To the paradoxical cat, an ending is sometimes a beginning.

It’s easy to fall in love with a kitten. Everything about its furry softness says hold me, cuddle me. In its middle years a cat can be admired for its gleaming coat and sleek athleticism. But an old cat is an acquired taste. She dribbles on cushions and uses vomiting as a form of peaceful protest. People who live with old cats make allowances. Even those who have never suffered a moment of house pride are compelled to cover furniture with old towels and blankets.

Cleo’s fur thinned and carried the odor of an Egyptian tomb. She had to think several times before forcing her arthritic joints to jump onto a sofa. When strangers visited I occasionally imagined distaste flashing across their faces as she teetered to greet them. Our geriatric feline was no longer a great beauty, yet our love for her grew deeper with the knowledge time was running out.

The right side of her face swelled up so spectacularly she couldn’t open one eye. I wrapped her in her blanket and carried her back to Tough Vet. We’d changed our minds about him since our last visit.

“Hmmm,” he said grimly. “A tooth abscess. I could operate and remove her teeth, but she’s so weak I doubt she’d survive the surgery.”

He recommended the obvious, gently this time, while running a hand over her back.

“I know what it’s like when an animal’s been part of a family for a long time,” he said.