Felix The Railway Cat

Jean grabbed an old hairbrush and Felix stood still, ready to be groomed. Her trips to the parlour had never been quite like this. First Jean stroked her, and a lot of the soot came off in her hands. Then she pulled the brush through Felix’s fluffy fur, and brushed and brushed and brushed her till she was clean. Felix stood there, letting Jean minister to her, until there was a solid black circle of soot all around where she stood. Only once she was totally clean did Jean let her go. She then wiped up the living room and the kitchen and all of Felix’s sooty pawprints, then let the cat back into the lounge.

Felix tiptoed in and went straight over to the fireplace as though drawn to it by a magnet. She cast a look over her shoulder at Jean, who was watching her like a hawk.

‘Don’t even think about it, Felix,’ she said dryly.

Felix drew closer to the hearth and looked up. She sniffed at the edges of the duvet, then ducked her head and walked away. Nevertheless, she kept on looking back at it, as did Jean. Is the duvet secure? Jean fretted. Might Felix be able to dislodge it?

Amid her worrying, Jean looked down at herself. Her pink dressing gown was pink no more. Her hands were pure filth. I’m going to have to have a shower, she thought. She was scared of going upstairs in case Felix imitated Harry Houdini again while she was gone, but she had no option. So Jean showered, and put her blackened clothes into the washing machine. Then, as the washer tumbled and hummed melodically, she and Felix finally settled in for the night.

When Jean sat down on the sofa in the living room, Felix immediately jumped up into her lap for a cuddle. All was forgiven. Santa Claws was just the station cat once more.

After that, Jean and Felix had a lovely Christmas. Following her little escapade, Felix was no trouble at all; she didn’t even cry at night. On Christmas Day, Jean gave her a treat of a little bit of Sainsbury’s finest unsmoked salmon, which she sentimentally served up in a white china bowl that had once belonged to her children when they were babies: it had the letters of the alphabet painted on it in blue. Felix absolutely loved that salmon; she devoured the small amount Jean let her have and purred noisily for more.

Boxing Day was mostly spent with Felix gazing out at the garden through the tall French doors, miaowing every now and again as she stared morosely at the great outdoors. Jean felt a bit sorry for her in the end, so glum was her constant vigil. Felix seemed jealous of the neighbour’s tabby cats who tumbled in the garden, and of the robin and the wood pigeons who flew about the trees.

Even when it grew dark, Felix maintained her watch by the window. Jean had some solar-powered fairy lights wound round her trees, and after the sun had set they came to life automatically and twinkled in the darkness. Perhaps they reminded Felix of the fairy lights wrapped around the stately columns of her home. Perhaps she was missing it.

She was certainly pleased to be back when Jean opened up the carrier the following day and Felix scampered out. She sniffed all around the team leaders’ office and wandered over to Billy’s garden. She carefully traced the route they walked together for the security checks and careered around the car park. She paced up and down the platforms, on patrol. But the man she was looking for wasn’t there.

Billy was still not back at work.

27. The Hardest Goodbye

‘Are you coming down t’meeting today if you’re feeling all right?’ Angie Hunte asked her long-time colleague on the phone.

‘Maybe not today, Mrs H,’ Billy replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘But I’ll be back soon. Don’t you be messing about with any of my stuff, now! I know what you’re like.’

Angie hung up, smiling despite herself at Mr Grumpy’s words. She and Billy had worked together for so long now that they had the kind of friendship where they could rib each other and call each other out; Billy was forever telling her she’d messed up his recycling system by throwing something in the wrong bin, and she was forever telling him that he was in her office to hand over to her and not to inspect her rubbish!

Angie and Billy stayed in touch while he was off, and Angie kept him up to date with all the developments at the station, so that he’d be up to speed when he got back. The most significant of these was that Paul, the station manager, was moving on to pastures new; Andy Croughan would be fulfilling the role again until they found a permanent replacement.

So it was Andy that Billy telephoned when he had some news of his own to share. That sore throat of his wasn’t getting any better – and it wasn’t a cough or a cold or a minor infection.

It was cancer.