LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR

When a mysterious new neighbour shows a dislike for felines, it’s not long before Jen’s cat Figaro gets caught in the middle. A short story by Val Melhop.

A delightful short story.

He’s done it again,” Anna said.

Jen pressed down the plunger of the cafetière for her first coffee of the day. “Who’s done what?”

“That strange man next door has written another letter to the newspaper. It’s about cats again. Listen to this:

“So, Mr Watson has a problem with felines digging in his garden. I notice he keeps the hose out ready to give them a blast, but, as he says, the damage could be done at night when he’s not there protecting his patch. As a fellow anti-cat campaigner, I have a solution — a curfew on cats!

“Cat owners would need to call their Fluffy or Tom-Tom in by 8.00pm sharp. All cat-flaps and exits to be locked until 6.00am the following day. Any cats left wandering would then be listed on a newly created Stray Cat Registry — problem solved. Lewis Herriot.

“Mum, I haven’t seen you laugh like that in ages,” finished Anna.

“Well, our neighbour might be a grumpy old hermit, but at least he’s got a sense of humour.”

“He wears a cast on his foot too. I wonder what his problem is?” Anna said. “Oh, hello puss.

You’re awake.” Anna rubbed the cat’s ears on her way out.

“You look guilty, Figaro,” Jen said. “Have you been sleeping on Anna’s bed again?” Figaro stretched out a back leg and yawned. “Guilty as charged, eh?”

While Figaro was busy devouring his breakfast, Jen sat down to read their new neighbour’s letter for herself. As a novelist herself, she chuckled at the amusing writing, appreciating his tongue-in-cheek humour.

When the ‘For Sale’ notice had gone up on the house next door, a secret thought had flitted across Jen’s mind.

“Hmm, what if a gorgeous, eligible man had moved in, hey Figaro?” Figaro continued washing himself in the irrational manner of cats: left ear, a bit of tail, then some work on to his front paw.

“Are you listening, Puss?” Jen sighed. It was probably just as well that it hadn’t happened. She could do without the ridiculous emotional turmoil of a full-on romance. She’d been a widow for three years. That was when she’d acquired Figaro as a kitten. She wouldn’t mind the occasional intelligent male company, but definitely none of the moonstruck side effects or the frissons. Jen preferred to stay in control. Ah well, you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your neighbours. More’s the pity.

Lewis Herriot, it seemed, detested

cats.

A week later, Jen was reading the newspaper when the name Lewis Herriot leapt out at her again. He’d won the National Travel Writing prize for an article about Naples.

“Not only was Naples the nearest city to Mount Vesuvius,” he had written, “it was a city of stray cats.” Lewis Herriot, it seemed, detested cats.

Jen was in her office writing, when she heard a taxi pull up outside Lewis Herriot’s house. Wearing a hat that shadowed his face, he hobbled into the back seat of the cab encumbered by his cast and a walking stick. Later that day, Jen saw a taxi return and Mr Herriot paying the driver. He walked back to the house, limping slightly, but now barely needing the walking stick, and the cast had gone.

“Where’s Figaro?” Anna said when she came home from school. “I didn’t see him this morning and he’s not in his usual place on the terrace.”

“He hasn’t been sitting on my laptop either, but it’s been raining all day so maybe he’s in the shed.”

“I’ll check, ”Anna said. They searched in all his usual places but there was no sign of him. He didn’t come running for his dinner, though Anna called and walked around the house rattling Figaro’s cat food packet. She burst into tears.

Heartbroken herself, as her beloved pet had never gone missing before, Jen made a poster with a photo of Figaro at the top, begging anyone

who had seen him to please contact them. They distributed the lost cat notices through letterboxes, and Anna pinned them on telegraph posts.

“He might have been hit by a car, ”Anna wailed. “And … oh Mum… I can’t help thinking, if Mr Herriot hates cats so much… you don’t think he could have turned the hose on Figaro like that man he wrote about in the paper — and Figaro got so frightened he ran away?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Jen said, her own tears welling up again.

At dinner time the next day, Jen and Anna sat down to eat but neither of them felt like food. There was a knock at the door.

“I’ll go,” Jen said. A tall, good looking man stood there with Figaro nestled comfortably along his arm. Figaro gave a little squeak just to let her know he recognised her but made no attempt to leap into Jen’s arms.

“Oh sweetheart, where have you been all this time?” Jen cried, burying her face in Figaro’s fur even though he was still cosily tucked against the man’s chest.

“Ah, I’m just returning your cat. I didn’t expect such an amorous greeting,” he said.

Jen’s colour rose. “I was speaking to the cat,” she said mortified.

“Ooh,” he said. “I thought I had a fan.”

Jen saw his teasing grin. “Now you’ve embarrassed me. Where did you find Figaro?”

“I’m Lewis, from next door. I should have made myself known earlier but I’d had an accident; ripped my Achilles tendon. I haven’t been mobile for some weeks — or feeling very sociable, I’m afraid.” “You’re Lewis Herriot?”

Anna came to the door when she heard Jen’s raised voice. “Oh, Figaro you’re back! We’ve been frantic about you.”

“Welcome to the area,” Jen said to their new neighbour, astonished that he wasn’t elderly, or grumpy, or particularly anti-social. In fact, he was far from any of those things.

“I found him in my garage. I fed him and he seemed to enjoy the ambience at my place so he settled in. I thought he must be a stray and I became rather fond of him. When I saw your signs, I decided to do the decent thing and return Figaro to his rightful owners. Great name, Figaro. Are you a fan of Mozart?

“He’s named after the Paris newspaper, ‘Le Figaro’.”

“Ah, a literary reference!” “I’m a writer.”

“Likewise. I’ve just taken a position as a journalist with the newspaper here.” He smiled at her with delight at the common bond. Jen’s stomach flipped over.

“Would you like to come in? We’re just about to have coffee. This is my daughter Anna and I’m Jen Lawrence.”

Lewis sat down on the sofa and put Figaro on the floor, but the cat immediately jumped up on to his lap.

“That’s amazing. Figaro is very selective about who he makes friends with.”

“He probably recognises a cat lover,” Lewis replied.

“A cat lover?” Jen gasped with surprise.

“I’m going to do my homework, Mum,” Anna said, scooping Figaro up. “See you later, Lewis.”

“Nice to meet you, Anna.” As Anna carried him out of the room, Figaro turned his head with a glint in his eye.The cat had a ‘Mission Accomplished’ look on his face.

Jen handed Lewis a cup of coffee with a not quite steady hand, indicating the milk, sugar, and cheese straws on the coffee table.

“Are you a cat lover?” she asked. “After reading your pieces in the newspapers, I thought you must have a cat phobia.”

“No, not at all.The editor asked me to do some fillers for the letters page. ‘Give us some humour,’ he said. ‘It needs a bit of livening up’.”

“You certainly did that,” Jen said. “I don’t often laugh out loud at other people’s writing. But you seemed so hostile to cats.”

“Don’t believe everything you read.” Lewis’s brown eyes twinkled at Jen, triggering that heart-stopping, magnetic attraction that happens oh-so rarely.

“What is it that you write?” Lewis asked.

“Historical novels.The latest is set in Italy, in Tuscany.”

“That’s interesting,” he said.“My family comes from Tuscany, a hill town called Montepulciano.” Yes, he looked Italian now she came to think about it. She noted the flawless olive skin and dark hair, and those eyelashes. It would only be polite to invite him to dinner — just to thank him for returning Figaro, of

course.

The cat had

a ‘Mission Accomplished’ look on his face.