Redemption

    There is very little to love in Henry Jones life. His caravan, parked in the small acre of land he owns, gives him some comfort, and the treed fence offers him the privacy he so craves. His has been a difficult life, beset by misfortune, exaggerated by his inability to deal effectively with the complexities of modern life. He grows vegetables on his land, and has an orange tree which is yet to bear fruit.

     On a monthly basis, he visits the nearest town, 25 kilometres away, and stocks up on basic foods, pays bills and collects the prescriptions that allow him to hover between life and oblivion.

    Today is the day for his visit. He has eked out the last of his supplies, and his fortnightly pension has arrived. But first, he must face the mirror. He knows from experience that looking too dishevelled means he stays at the back of an endless queue. But the mirror is merciless. His reflection is a map of his suffering, written indelibly in the lines of his face. The tight cheeks and the deep furrows round his mouth will be revealed as he clips away the heavy growth of beard. But nothing hides the pain in his eyes, nor the lines of despair etched around them.

    He waits until late morning, dreading the inevitable confrontation. But hunger drives him on. Hands shaking, he removes the towel that hides his cruel reflection. It is impossible to tame his beard with his eyes shut, but he has perfected the ability to see only the hand holding the scissors, focussing almost completely on the sharp tips of the instrument and the grey hairs as they fall onto his lap.

    The painful task completed, he walks to the gate and opens the rusty hinge to allow his car through. He checks the driveway to be sure it is not more rutted than usual after the storm the previous night. Satisfied, he turns to go back to his car. But something catches his eye. It isn’t unusual for people using the country road to town to drop litter, missing his single rubbish bin. Something grey is on the ground near it. He sighs, they could have at least binned it. He walks towards it. It moves. It is an animal. A kitten, perhaps. He looks more closely. A grey kitten, half lying in a puddle from the previous night’s rain. He should put it out of its misery. He has no time for cats. Too many memories, too much pain.

    He had a cat once, long ago, when he was 7 years old. A beautiful loving cat, black with golden eyes. He called her Hunny. She followed him everywhere, sat on his knee, purred her love. Was his companion in many small adventures. But then his father remarried.

His step mother hated cats.

    ‘Filthy things. Carry disease, and your wretched animal makes my allergies worse’ she would scream at him.

    ‘Get rid of it!’

    And, one day Hunny disappeared.

    ‘Probably gone wild.’ said his stepmother, smirking.

    But three weeks later, Hunny limped back. thin, tired and dishevelled. He was so happy. But he guessed that his stepmother was to blame for Hunny’s disappearance. Who else would have taken his cat? He tried to protect her. But four weeks later, Hunny vanished again, and never returned. He locked away his broken heart, and swore he would never love anything again, never feel that awful pain again.

    He picks up a stone. He will kill the kitten. Looking at it reminds him of that pain. The pain he has never obliterated fully.

    The kitten stirs, opens amber eyes and looks at him. He hesitates. He sees the expression in his own eyes reflected in the kittens, the same sadness, the pain, the fear.

    He drops the stone and picks up the wet kitten. Takes it back to his caravan. Dries it gently, and gives it the last drop of milk from the fridge. He cannot see injuries on its body, but it is very limp and weak. He decides to take it to town with him, call in at the local vet.          Perhaps they can find a home for it.

    He places it in a cardboard box, wrapped in the towel previously hiding his mirror. It seems best to go to the vet’s first, so the kitten won’t be left alone in the car while he covers his other tasks.

    He pulls up in front of the Vets’ Surgery and takes the box out of the back seat. The kitten has its eyes closed, and with a pang of anxiety, he wonders if it is too late to help it.

    The receptionist regards the unmoving kitten.

    ‘Josie, one of our vets is free at the moment, I’ll get her to come and look at the kitten.’

    Josie appears, and examines the kitten. Applies a stethoscope to its chest.

Smiles.

    ‘Not dead!’ She says, ‘hungry, cold and in need of a more general check-up. Can you leave her with me? I can run some further tests.’

    ‘Not my cat!’ he explains quickly. Not wanting her to think he is responsible for the cat’s state of health. ‘Found her on the roadside near my place this morning.’

    Josie nods. ‘If you have shopping and other things to do, call back in a couple of hours when I can give you a better idea of her health. And thank you for bringing her in. I’m sure we can find a home for her.’ She looks at him hopefully.

    His other tasks and shopping completed; Henry returns to the Vet’s Clinic three hours later. He has been trying not to think about the kitten, not to worry, not to care.

    ‘Josie will be with you in a few minutes,' says the receptionist, smiling.

Shortly, Josie emerges, with the kitten in a fresh box.

    ‘You probably saved this little creature’s life’ she says. ‘It may have been outside for a few days, and without proper nutrition and care, kittens have a poor survival rate. Not much else wrong with her, that appropriate kitten food, and a warm place to live won’t fix. We‘ve given her antibiotics, fed her and treated her fleas with a bath, so she is ready to find a good home.’

She looks at him, hopefully. ‘We usually give new owners a box of kitten food, and a few toys...’

    ‘I don’t know how to look after a kitten!’

    ‘Kittens are very clever. I can tell this is not a wild cat; her ancestors have been organising people for millennia. She will let you know what is required. I think you know that. Would you like to stroke her?’

    He reaches tentatively into the box. Touches the soft clean fur of the kitten. It butts his hand. Purrs. He tries not to cry, but fails. He is wracked with sobs.

Josie touches his arm.

‘Sometimes, ‘she says, ‘being loved helps us learn to love ourselves. I think this little kitten is ready to teach you.’

Words – 1,179                                                                                                    June Godkin 28/8/23