Herbie Brennan - Faerie Lord

‘Try to keep your voice down, Henry,’ his mother told him. She waited a moment, as if he needed time to control himself, then went on in her most reasonable tone. ‘We thought it would be a great deal easier on you if we simply went ahead. I know how much you love that old cat and that way you wouldn’t have to worry about the effect of anaesthetic or the operation going wrong. I actually thought you’d gone out.’

This was the way it had always been. His mother kept insisting every nasty little thing she ever did was for his own good. And it was worse since Anais moved in. Anais herself was all right – Henry quite liked her and she’d even sided with him about bringing Hodge home – but when it came to the things Henry’s mother really cared about, like that stupid little scratch on Aisling’s hand, she always seemed to get Anais on her side. Like now. Anais had gone to bring the car to take Hodge to the vet. Not because he sprayed in the house or would ever spray in the house, but because he bit Aisling in self-defence and Henry’s mother wanted to teach him a lesson.

It was the sort of thing Henry had had to put up with since he was a little boy. And with Dad long gone he was in an all-female household and it was steadily getting worse. But he wasn’t a little boy any more and he wasn’t going to put up with it.

Henry walked over to the carrier. ‘Not this time, Mum,’ he said and flicked the catch.

Hodge burst out of his cage like a rocket.

‘You did what?’ Charlie exclaimed, grinning delightedly.

‘I let him out,’ Henry said. ‘There was a kitchen window open and we haven’t seen him since. I think he knew what they were going to do to him.’

They were sitting side by side on a park bench. The sole of Charlie’s left trainer was starting to come away and she was fiddling with it ineffectively. Henry thought she looked very nice in a cuddly sort of way now she’d started to put on a bit of weight. She left the shoe alone suddenly and asked, ‘Why didn’t you want him fixed?’

‘I’m not having Hodge fixed,’ Henry said. ‘Apart from anything else, he’s not really my cat.’

‘No,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s Mr Fogarty’s cat. You still haven’t heard from him?’

‘Mr Fogarty? No. No, I haven’t.’

Charlie said casually, ‘It’s been eighteen months.’

Actually it had been more than two years, but Henry had to be careful. The story was that Mr Fogarty had gone to see his daughter in New Zealand, leaving Henry to look after his house and his cat… a story that was getting thinner every month. Charlie hadn’t brought it up before, but Henry’s mother went on endlessly about the arrangement. It was only the regular cheques that stopped her pushing it too far. They were simply signed ‘A. Fogarty’ and she assumed the A stood for ‘Alan.’

‘You know what old people are like.’ Henry shrugged vaguely.

Charlie stared out across the ornamental lake, watching two swans glide gracefully towards the shore. ‘I was just wondering what you were going to do next year, when you go to uni.’

‘Who says I’m going to uni?’ Henry asked. ‘I mightn’t make the grades.’

‘Oh, you’ll make the grades all right,’ Charlie said. ‘And then you’ll be off. Where are you going to apply Oxford? Cambridge?’

‘No chance,’ Henry said. ‘I’m not that bright.’

This time Charlie shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. Wherever you pick it’ll mean moving away – there’s nothing locally. And if you move away, you won’t be looking after Mr Fogarty’s house or saving Hodge from a fate worse than death or seeing me or anything.’

Henry picked up the real worry at once. ‘Oh, I’ll be seeing you all right. I can come home at weekends.’

‘Not every weekend.’

‘No, maybe not. But, you know… some.’

‘Some?’

‘Yes,’ Henry said. ‘Some.’

‘Did you know swans mate for life?’ Charlie asked suddenly.

‘I think I read it somewhere.’

‘If one dies, the other one won’t mate again,’ she said as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Not ever.’ She turned her head to look at him and licked her lips lightly. ‘Henry, I think we should stop.’

‘Stop what?’ Henry asked stupidly.

‘Going out together,’ Charlie said.

For once Henry had the house to himself when he got home. He found some yoghurt in the fridge, took it up to his room and sat down to write a letter.

Dear Mrs Barenbohm, he wrote, then paused.

It was getting complicated already. Angela Fogarty, Mr Fogarty’s daughter, had married an American industrialist called Clarence Barenbohm, then emigrated to New Zealand with a great deal of his money after the divorce. She insisted on using the Barenbohm name for everything except financial transactions, which she conducted under her maiden name.

Henry’s pen lurched into action again and wrote, I write to tell you that I do my A Levels this year and next year I hope to go to university. I don’t know where it will be (the university)

He paused again. He wasn’t even sure he would be going to university. Despite what he’d said to Charlie, he thought he’d probably get the grades all right, but when he tried to discuss his future with his mother, she got evasive, which was a bad sign. Part of him suspected there might be money worries, but she wouldn’t come clean and tell him. Anais claimed she didn’t know.

He shrugged. It didn’t matter. Even if he never went to uni, he wasn’t hanging around here when he left school. but there are no suitable educational establishments locally, he went on. This means that soon I will be unable to look after your father’s house and cat (Hodge), as I have done in the past, for very much longer.

I appreciate the money you sent – He crossed out sent and inserted have been sending, then stared at the page wondering if he should write it all out again. After a moment he decided it wasn’t a school essay and went on, but I very much regret I will be unable to keep on with our arrangement as it has been to date. I am writing to tell you this now while there is still time for you to make other arrangements or otherwise sell the house (Angela thought her father was dead and the house hers under the terms of his will; only Henry knew differently) or whatever it is you would want to do. Please write back to me marking the envelope ‘Personal’ and let me know what you decide to do and if I can help you further in any way apart from continuing our present arrangement beyond the New Year.

He signed the letter Henry Atherton, then immediately wrote a PS:

PS Some children broke a downstairs window, but I had it repaired with money from the Contingency Fund. He knew he should leave it at that, but somehow could not stop his hand writing: PPS I might be able to continue to look after Hodge (the cat) even after I stop looking after the house or even after I go to university. I wouldn’t want him put down or anything.

He sat staring at the words for a long time. Best not to mention the current little problem with Hodge or the fact that Henry had no idea where he was at the moment. Hodge was bound to come back – he was too old and fat and lazy to make his own way in the world any more. The trick would be to make sure Henry’s mother never got her hands on him.

… even after I go to university. How on earth would he look after a tomcat while he was attending university? But he’d think of something. He owed that much to Mr Fogarty. And to Hodge. His hands were trembling slightly as he folded the letter.

Since there was still nobody downstairs, he stole a stamp and an airmail sticker from his mother’s desk, then pulled his coat back on again; the sooner he posted this off the better. When he opened the front door, Hodge was waiting for him on the doorstep.