Кейт Мур - Felix The Railway Cat

‘Hiya, Gareth,’ cried the woman in charge of it, cheerily. She was called Angela Dunn, a friendly lady with short blonde hair and shaded glasses, known for being both practical and kind-hearted.

Gareth subtly scanned the shelves behind her in the office. They were filled with a rather sad-looking collection of abandoned umbrellas and left-behind bags, forgotten coats and jumpers, and much more besides. The loneliest of all the items, though, were the lost-property toys.

They sat morosely on the shelves, their beaded eyes dull and blank, their once-much-loved woollen bodies misshapen and worn, never to be hugged again by their owners, many of whom were now grown up. There were bunnies and teddies and soft brown bears; dolls and ducks and dinosaurs. Angela kept them as long as she was able to, hoping to facilitate a reunion with a child and its favourite dropped toy, but more often than not the months and then years would pass by and, eventually, as the office grew too full, Angela would gather up the long-lost items with a sad sigh and they’d be redistributed to charity – where, she hoped, they would find another loving home.

‘I was wondering,’ said Gareth, looking hopefully at Angela, ‘is there a cuddly toy we could give to the cat?’

Angela smiled affectionately at him. The lost-property lady was definitely a pro-cat enthusiast and she had already fallen for their little ball of fluff. ‘Let me see now,’ she mused aloud, ‘I’m sure there’s something we can do.’

From the rows of toys who had been abandoned longest, she and Gareth picked out a pale-brown cuddly bear. The kitten was so tiny that the bear was about the same size as him on that very first day, but they knew that as he grew older the pair would be well-matched. The bear was made of a fleecy material, a light, malleable creature who could sit upright and be safely chewed – and loved. Gareth thanked Angela for her help, then went to introduce the bear to his new best friend.

The kitten gazed quizzically at it for a second and gave it a good sniff all over and a little taste with his rough pink tongue. Then he curled up right next to it and fell asleep, his head tucked into the bear’s neck, looking as happy as Larry, and just as content as if he was snuggled next to Luther or Spadge or Max or Percy, the siblings with whom he had spent his first eight weeks.

‘There you go,’ said Gareth, tenderly. ‘That’s better, isn’t it?’

It was some hours later, as acting station manager Andy Croughan was clocking on for the night shift, that the manager paused outside the door to the announcer’s office, little knowing what he would find inside. Andy had been off on holiday for a few days, so he was utterly confused by the sign the team had pinned on the door:

PLEASE BE CAREFUL WHEN YOU OPEN

THIS DOOR

What’s going on here? Andy thought in confusion. Why do I have to be careful?

And then, as he eased open the door, he saw exactly why. This being night-time, the nocturnal kitten appeared to have woken up – and was ready to party. As Andy eased the door open and looked ahead of him into the room, a tiny dark flash shot past him, chasing a ball of paper that Gareth had thrown. The kitten was darting around like a mad thing, tumbling over his legs and paws and even his own head, just as he had once done at the Briscoes’. He shot across the room, then hid under the table with a squeaky little miaow, observing the newcomer from his place of safety.

Oh my God! thought Andy. The cat! We’ve got the cat!

He peered more closely at the ball of fluff, but all he could see were massive ears and massive eyes amid the downy ebony fur; ears which were way too big for the kitten, but the perfect size for the cat he would become. Andy shook his head in disbelief – and then heard a giggling noise coming from the announcer’s chair.

Gareth was sitting there sheepishly, just giggling to himself: an irrepressible burble of joy that burst forth. It was hard to control that kind of happiness. Andy found himself smiling back at his colleague and long-term partner in crime.

‘We did it!’ Gareth cried, leaping from his chair and offering his palm for Andy to high-five. ‘All those crazy ideas – and we actually pulled one off!’

Andy – somewhat self-consciously, as he wasn’t keen on high-fives – smacked the proffered palm and gave himself up to the grin. Gareth was right: they had done it.

There was only one, tiny niggle dampening the announcer’s happiness. The cat had arrived; they had approval from head office: everything should have been grand. But Gareth couldn’t help but recall how many times Paul, the former station manager, had said ‘no’ to him when he’d begged and chivvied for a cat. And although Andy, acting up, had green-lit the idea, Huddersfield was still Paul ’s station. He was only absent on secondment; he hadn’t resigned. And that secondment, as Gareth was horribly aware, was coming to an end in about one week’s time. Then Andy would be demoted, and Paul would once more be in charge.

The station cat had landed, it was true. He was here, and Gareth was stroking him and cuddling him and laughing at his funny little antics. But there was a nervousness to those giggles, despite his joy, because a growing terror at the back of Gareth’s mind now started gnawing at him.

He pictured Paul coming back onto the concourse. Heading to the office, opening the door, and seeing the cat curled up on the keyboard.

What if his manager took one look at the kitten and said brusquely, ‘It’s got to go’?

6. What’s in a Name?

‘Morning, gorgeous!’ cried Angie Hunte with even more verve than usual. She had a real spring in her step as she walked into the announcer’s office on day two of the station cat’s tenure. Somehow, getting up at a quarter to five that morning hadn’t been an issue in the slightest – she’d bounded out of bed, knowing that when she got to work, she’d get to see her cat. The early mornings, somehow, just weren’t going to bother her anymore: it was now an undiluted pleasure to come to work.

Billy rolled his eyes as he prepared to hand over to Angie for her shift. ‘Good morning, Mrs H,’ he said dryly.

She batted at him playfully, knowing he was pulling her leg. ‘I wasn’t talking to you, Mr Grumpy. I was talking to my kitten.’

Said kitten was watching this exchange with eager eyes, all from the viewpoint of his new favourite haunt: the top tier of the team leaders’ in-tray. Stuffed with paperwork, and with its metal edges curved up like a hammock, he’d found it an immensely comfy spot, perfect for catching a few zzzs and for watching the world go by.

The kitten’s world, for the foreseeable future, was solely the domain of the announcer’s office. Kittens cannot start their inoculations until they’re nine weeks old, and these usually take the form of a double jab, one at nine weeks and one at twelve weeks, so until that point, to be on the safe side, it is best to keep them indoors. Given the location of this particular kitten’s home, too, it was a nicer and safer way to ease him into his life on the railway. Though occasionally the muted thrum of a train’s engine or the squeal of its brakes could be heard from a distance through the window, on the whole the office was a much more peaceful and domestic place than the concourse – though, of course, the attraction of the cat itself made the office, at times, busier than Clapham Junction.

‘Has he been any trouble?’ Angie asked Billy, as the old-timer prepared to head off home.

Billy turned at the door with his hands in his pockets and scowled. ‘Trouble?’ he echoed tetchily. ‘Trouble? Too right he’s been trouble. Look at where he’s sitting! On my paperwork! All night long!’