Achill Island is a place of magic, of sea cliffs and wheeling birds. There are tiny beaches where amethysts wash ashore, and a deserted village on the hillside. Achill lies off the coast of County Mayo, and on this western edge of Ireland the evenings are long and light; and every seven years – or so they say – the magical island of Hy Brasil can be seen on the horizon. We didn’t see Hy Brasil but we found a small, family-owned hotel where we ate like kings and where we fell asleep at night under old-fashioned quilts in a room with sloping eaves and with the sound of the Atlantic in our ears. We spent four days there in early May, and when we left the island, and drove back over the causeway to the mainland, a little chip of my heart was left behind forever.
I came back to Belfast to find the garden in full spring bloom and Tiger Lily, who had been staying upstairs with Sticky Wicket, noticeably fatter. Back at work, nothing much had changed, apart from the addition of some boxes of chipped porcelain, a small painting of a particularly gloomy Madonna and an extra layer of dust.
Archie was waiting for me. He kissed me on both cheeks and then stood back to study me. ‘My goodness, Johanna – how well you are looking!’
‘Thank you, Archie. I’m sorry I can’t say the same for you.’ It was true: he looked awful. There were dark rings under his eyes and his normally rosy skin had a distinctly pasty look. ‘Have you been ill?’
‘It’s Morris,’ said Archie, in tragic tones. ‘I took him to the vet yesterday and they’ve kept him in for tests: I’m so worried about him that I couldn’t sleep a wink.’
‘Oh, Archie, I’m sorry! Do they have any idea what might be wrong?’
‘Diabetes was mentioned, or it could be hyperthyroidism. I knew there was something wrong: he’s been so lethargic lately.’
In all the time I’d worked for Archie, I had never seen Morris bestir himself at all, except as dinnertime approached: Lethargy could have been his middle name. However, I kept the thought to myself and patted my employer consolingly on his drooping shoulder. ‘Well, we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed, and I’m sure whatever it is, they’ll do the best they can for him.’
But Archie, as I told Albert over lunch the following day, was not to be cheered. ‘He’s sunk in gloom: he’s not eating – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing given that he could afford to lose a few pounds – but he’s getting under my feet in the shop because he can’t concentrate on anything, not even bridge or his latest book.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be too worried about his writing,’ said Albert. ‘It might be a service to literature if he stopped altogether. But obviously he needs distracting. Why don’t I come back to the shop with you now and invite him over to give his opinion of my disputed Dufy?’
‘You’ve got a painting by Dufy?’ I asked.
‘It’s very small,’ said Albert modestly, ‘and almost certainly a fake.’
I felt a strange mixture of emotions: gratitude, primarily, for Albert’s eternal readiness to do someone a kindness if he could, and something less pleasant, which must have shown on my face because he took my hand and leant forward anxiously.
‘Is that not a good idea, my darling? I just thought it might be something that would interest him …’
‘Of course it would,’ I replied, ‘and it’s a kind thought.’ I took a deep breath. ‘The trouble is, Albert, that I didn’t know you had a Dufy because I’ve only ever been to your house once, and all I saw then was the kitchen. And I don’t want Archie having a guided tour when I haven’t even had one myself.’
Albert sat back with a look of dismay on his face. Then he nodded. ‘You are quite right, Johanna. Phone Archie and ask him if he can do without you for another hour or two and we’ll go over to Chestnut Avenue now.’
Twenty minutes later I was standing in Albert’s bedroom looking at the Dufy. It was small, but it was charming: a little impressionistic seascape of a cobalt blue bay with palms and toytown houses, and a sailing boat out on the water.
‘I don’t think it matters who painted it,’ I said. ‘It’s delightful. And if you knew for certain it was worth a fortune, you’d have to worry about it. As it is you can just hang it on the wall and enjoy it. I wonder where it was painted?’
‘It could be Nice,’ said Albert. ‘My father bought it from a dealer in London when he was a young man. He had an eye for things like that – those pots were his as well.’
Above the fireplace stood two blue and white Chinese jars, alongside a brass candlestick and assorted photographs of Norah and Rosie. The fireplace itself was full of books, as were the shelves along the walls. By now I had seen Albert’s living room, which was also lined with overflowing bookshelves, his study (ditto) and his two spare bedrooms: there were bookcases everywhere, and where there were no shelves, there were heaps of books and journals stacked against the walls. Anthropology, history, art and philosophy fought for space with literature, politics, film studies and any other subject you might care to name. If ever Good Intentions ran out of stock, I thought, I would know exactly where to come. There was even a pile of books poking out from under his bed.
The bed itself was old-fashioned, brass, and inviting, but I forced myself to concentrate on the painting. ‘I suppose we ought to be getting back,’ I said, ‘but I’m sure Archie would love to see this. Oh Albert, I wish we were there now, walking along the promenade, arm in arm, in sunny Nice – or wherever it is!’
‘We will, my darling, and we’ll go to Paris too, I promise you, just as soon as all this family business has been sorted out.’
I’d forgotten all about his family, although it occurred to me now that they were almost certainly out at work, which was why the house next door was so silent and Albert had felt it was safe to bring me round.
‘I want to walk with you along the Seine, and through the arcades, and take you to all my favourite galleries,’ Albert continued. ‘You have such an eye for art, Johanna, and such an extraordinary feeling for history.’
I must confess that before meeting Albert I had been unaware of any particular sensitivity towards history, my knowledge of the subject having been confined to the carefully censored version taught at the time in South African schools, and therefore full of holes, but who was I to contradict an expert?
‘There is nothing I’d like more,’ I said. ‘What about August? For my birthday?’
‘August isn’t a very good month for Paris.’ Albert shook his head. ‘But September would be perfect – would that do, my darling?’
‘Paris in September,’ I whispered. ‘Oh yes, Albert, that would do very well indeed.’
We got back to the shop to find the closed sign up and a note from Archie to say he had gone to collect Morris from the vet’s. I spent an hour polishing a collection of glass bottles and arranging some rather ugly ceramics that Archie had assured me were art deco and well worth the sum he was asking for them. Not a soul came in, apart from Mad Mabel who was convinced that the shop was built directly over a ley line, and had come to check the vibrations. I made a mental note to introduce her to Frederika if I ever got the chance, but otherwise I ignored her. And then, just as I was about to lock up, a taxi drew up outside and Archie emerged with Morris.
‘Well?’ I demanded anxiously as I held the front door open for them. ‘How is he?’
A low yowl informed me that the patient was still alive, but the news was not entirely reassuring. ‘It’s his heart,’ said Archie. ‘Apparently it’s quite common in older cats, but with the right care and medication, and a bit of luck, he should have a few good years yet.’
‘Well, let us hope so,’ I said to Albert that weekend. ‘I dread to think what Archie will be like if poor old Morris doesn’t pull through. And that reminds me, I must remember to take Tiger Lily to the vet next week. She’s eating so much, I’m afraid she might have worms. And she’ll need to be spayed before she’s much older.’
Tiger Lily, who had draped herself adoringly over Albert’s knees, suddenly rolled over, offering him her snow-white tummy to be stroked.
‘I think it might be a bit late for that,’ Albert said, probing gently. ‘This cat isn’t fat, she’s pregnant.’
‘She can’t be!’ I sat bolt upright in surprise. ‘She’s barely out of kittenhood!’
‘Ah well,’ said Albert, ‘some girls are quicker off the mark than others. I’m pretty sure I’m right though – here, feel for yourself.’ And taking my hand he laid it on Tiger Lily’s undeniably swollen belly.
‘You shameless hussy!’ I told her, as she stretched and purred voluptuously. ‘What are we going to do now?’
Albert lifted her gently on to my lap and headed for the kitchen. ‘We’re going to have our coffee,’ he said, ‘and while I make it, you can think about how you are going to break the news to Sticky Wicket.’
Tiger Lily’s kittens were born at the end of May, with remarkably little fuss, in the cupboard in which their mother elected to give birth – ignoring, in the manner of cats, the comfortable basket I had prepared for the event. There were three of them. By the time they had made the transition from blind, rather rat-like newborns to fluffy grey and white copies of their mother, both Albert and Sticky Wicket had lost their hearts entirely. And Archie, shown their pictures, pronounced them quite enchanting.
The same could not be said of Morris. Despite Archie’s tender care, his coat had gradually lost its shine, his appetite had dwindled, and he was spending more and more of his time asleep in a basket under the desk. One morning, when I came back with a cup of tea from the minuscule kitchen at the rear of the shop, I noticed that he seemed unnaturally still – and when I prodded him very gently, there was no response. Further prodding only confirmed my fears: Morris had departed.
I felt an unexpected wave of sorrow; I stroked his poor old head softly, and drew his blanket gently over him. Then I felt a rush of panic: Archie was out, but he would be back soon and it would be up to me to break the news. In urgent need of moral support, I rang Albert, who was extremely sympathetic, and unusually practical.
‘Put the closed sign up,’ he said, ‘as a mark of respect and to make sure there’s no one around when Archie gets back. Then make yourself another cup of tea, and when he does get back, ask him what we can do to help. He may not have anywhere to bury him.’
So I did all that, and when Archie returned, I broke the news as gently as I could. Then I drew back Morris’s blanket and as Archie began to weep, I put my arms around him and wept too. I helped him carry Morris back upstairs and left him to mourn while I went down to the Good Intentions Bookshop, where, as luck would have it, Agnes, the great animal-lover, was on duty.
Archie, who had a horror of graves, had already told me that he could not bear to bury Morris: instead, he wanted him cremated – and Agnes, as I had known she would, could tell me exactly how and where it could be done.
A week or two later, Albert and I drove Archie, clutching a discreet package, up through the north of the city. Our destination was Belfast Castle, a building with a fine outlook over the lough and a formal garden which has greatly appealed to me ever since Albert first took me there, because of its association with cats. There are cats hidden in various places within its walls: mosaic cats, stone ones and others which I shall not describe because I do not want to spoil the surprise for future searchers, but there is one very obvious large stone cat that sits in a bed on the far side of the garden, looking down at its feet with an expression of benign interest. So when Archie finally began to think about where to scatter Morris’s ashes, it was the memory of this cat that flashed into my mind and prompted my suggestion.
It was a clear, mild, early summer morning when we descended the stairs into the garden. A couple of tourists were photographing each other beside the fountain, but we strolled as nonchalantly as we could towards our chosen spot, and the moment everyone else disappeared from view and the coast was clear, we sprang into action. Archie stepped forward and very gently and carefully emptied the little bag of ashes into the patch of shrubbery watched over by the stone cat. He murmured something that I didn’t catch; then I whispered ‘Goodbye. Morris!’ and Albert said ‘Happy hunting, old fella.’ After which we turned to look at each other, and for the first time since Morris’s death, Archie smiled.
I have not the slightest idea if what we did was legal – I suspect it was not – but at the time it felt the perfect thing to do. Indeed, Archie’s smile turned into a chuckle; then with one accord, like successful criminals, we high-fived before beating a hasty retreat.