Dear Charley,
I’ll start by saying sorry. First for the way I treated you and also for generally being a prick. You might not believe it (probably won’t) but I’ve learned a lot lately. I’m different now from what I was. Please let me have the chance to prove it.
There’s £50 in this envelope. It won’t make up for everything but maybe it’s a start. I didn’t even know Astrid existed until about a month ago. If I had, I would have sent money before. You know I grew up without much myself and I don’t want the same for her, so please take it.
You have always been so good at things Charley. I bet you don’t even need my help. But Astrid is my daughter and I do want to start seeing her please. I am her father and I have rights.
I’ve got a job now so I’ll be able to send you money more often. Also I’m moving soon. I’ve been looking for places with two bedrooms so she can come and stay with me sometimes.
Please tell Mart when I can come and meet her.
Samhain.
The I have rights bit had been Kebby’s suggestion. He had said it a few times: that and, ‘Maybe you should get a lawyer.’ But Samhain didn’t see the need for that, not on his wages.
Getting a lawyer would have meant less money for Astrid, and a bill that he’d be paying off for the rest of his life, most likely. A lawyer would mean he’d be short on money for rent, and that he’d have to carry on living at The Boundary Hotel forever. He and Frankie could grow old there, living on separate floors, gradually filling the downstairs kitchen and bar with old guitars and fanzines, and boxes of broken electronics dragged out of skips, while Mama Cat and Frazzles grew bad-tempered and scratchy, upstairs: they could become a pair of burrowing men, together.
The smell, he thought, the smell.
Nothing was too much trouble for Frankie. He planed a few millimetres off the top of Samhain’s door so that it closed properly, re-hung it, and vacuumed the sawdust off the carpet, all while Samhain was out at work one day. Suddenly every loo on every floor always had toilet paper. Showers were wiped clear and sparkling, and the kitchen became almost catering standard clean, without Samhain having to do a thing.
Two weeks after the tour had finished, Frankie had made the place clean enough for paying guests. Opening the front door threw a light over a sweeping and polished staircase, a grand, yet dilapidated entry hall; a place with swept edges and clean skirting. Frankie had even cleaned the light fitting in the entryway: no more cobwebs.
‘When you move into your new place,’ Frankie said, ‘I can do all of this sort of thing. Any sort of light fitting you want – I’ll get it. I’ll make it all look nice – like this one.’ Frankie let his hand drop, clasping it one way, then another, tightening his hand and seeming unable to settle it, around the screwdriver handle resting between the loops on his belt. ‘For the little one, you know.’
‘Astrid.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Thanks, Frankie. I appreciate it.’ Samhain didn’t say that, after moving out of the Boundary Hotel, he was hoping to see as little of Frankie as possible.
One by one, the kittens went.
Marta went off to work one day with the tortie tucked inside her shirt, and came back at the end of the day without it. Frankie took the black one around to its new home in a shoebox strapped to the front of his bike, and David and Barbara came for one of the ginger ones.
‘My, my.’ David took a couple of broad strides into the hall. ‘You’ve got it looking absolutely dandy in here – haven’t they, Barb? Look at that.’ He pointed up at the light fitting, sparkling overhead. ‘That’s one heck of a fine polish you’ve got on those bar backs, as well. Do you mind if I...’ And in a minute, he was in the bar. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice, indeed.’
The two remaining kittens were in their urbex playground, Frazzles jabbing and sparring his way around the drawers; his sister, more docile, was asleep in one of the drawers. Her ears were like crisp packet corners.
‘Oh,’ Barbara said, ‘Martha said she was a lovely little cat. But I didn’t realise she would be this lovely.’
‘She hasn’t been spayed.’ Samhain lifted her out of the drawer. ‘But she should be old enough for that soon, and you should get it done.’
‘Oh.’ Barbara accepted the kitten, warm and sleepy, in her arms. ‘Let’s call her Martha. For your Martha.’
David coughed, dangling his change. ‘He says she’s not his Martha, love.’
Barbara’s face was buried into the cat’s back fluff, and she didn’t reply.
‘Now, let us see you right.’ David got his wallet out. ‘You must let us give you something for her.’
He shuffled three twenties loose, out of the back of his wallet. Barbara was trying to persuade Little Martha to go into a fabric cat carrier, and the cat did not want to go. Four limbs starfished hard against the soft entrance.
‘Absolutely not,’ Samhain said. ‘I won’t take your money.’
‘Take it.’
‘No. I didn’t do anything. It was Mama Cat who did all the work.’
‘Well.’
David looked around, apparently for somewhere to stash the notes. Glancing first at the dado rail, perhaps thinking there might be a gap down one side; but it was glued fast, Frankie must have seen to that.
‘Try grabbing it by the scruff of the neck,’ Samhain said.
‘Seems cruel,’ she said, but she did, pinching a scrap of loose skin where an older cat might wear a collar. The kitty stopped writhing and hung limp, its legs trailing like seaweed. ‘Aha,’ Barbara said. ‘So that’s how you do it.’ She popped the cat into the bag, and zipped the door closed. ‘Who’s a good kitty, then? Who’s a beautiful girl?’
‘I imagine you’ve spent money on cat food, and so forth.’ David was getting to his feet; he’d spotted an opportunity between two of the drawers, and wedged the money in there. ‘We wouldn’t want you to be out of pocket.’
‘I’m not a breeder,’ Samhain protested. He was trying to get to the money, to get it back, and force it into David’s hand, but Barbara stood in his way.
‘We haven’t had a pet since the dog died,’ she said. ‘But I just know the grandchildren are going to love little Martha. Aren’t they?’
‘Now look, we know you’ve got your job with Peter,’ David went on. ‘It’s not as if we think you’re a charity case. Just think of it as a token payment, that’s all. Just to keep you in pocket for kitty litter, and so forth. It’s a small price to pay, for something our girls are going to love so much. Isn’t that so, dear?’
Little Martha was making a piteous mewing sound, like a cat trapped up a tree. ‘Oh yes,’ Barbara said. ‘And you know, you can come and visit her any time you like.’
‘Are you sure? About the money, I mean.’
‘Don’t even mention it,’ David said. ‘Shall we, dear?’ He motioned his wife to the stairs.
‘Better had,’ Barbara said. ‘The natives are getting restless.’
Still, that made £110 now, for sending on to Charley.
Samhain started to wish that he had waited before sealing up the envelope.