A woman opened her door across the landing, and said, ‘She’s gone to the doctor.’ She had the key to the flat, Ben knew that. She and the old woman were friends, and she had often seen Ben going in or out. Now she opened the door for Ben, saying, ‘She’ll be back soon. There’s no saying how long she’ll have to wait. She’s poorly. I told her she had to get to the doctor.’
Inside, the usually tidy room was disordered. For one thing, the bed had just been pulled up hastily. On it the cat started from sleep, its fur high. Ben did not rummage in the fridge: he hated the cold taste of food just taken out of it, and, too, he did not want to use the old woman’s food. He squatted on the bed, ignoring the cat, and looked out. He was waiting for a pigeon to come to the balcony. They often did. The cat turned its head to watch too. A yard apart, not looking at each other, they were united in waiting for whatever might come. The door to the balcony was not locked. Ben set it ajar. It bisected the tiny balcony. Then neither Ben nor the cat moved. At last a pigeon came, but to the wrong part, safe behind the door, and then, soon after, another, to the part where… Ben had leaped out, and the bird was in his hand. He was tearing off feathers when he heard the cat’s sound, which it always made when a bird was out there, or on the railing, a rusty, hungry noise. Ben ripped some flesh off the bird and flung it down. The cat crept out and ate. The blood was dripping from their mouths. Then there were only feathers blowing about, and some blood stains. The cat went back in. So did Ben. It was not enough, those few mouthfuls of flesh, but it was something, his stomach was appeased. He saw the cat’s eyes closing: it was trusting him enough to sleep. Ben curled up on the bed beside the cat, and when Mrs Biggs came in, towards evening, the two creatures were sleeping side by side on her bed.
She took it all in, some feathers clinging to the blood clots on the balcony, the stale smell of blood, that there were only a few inches between Ben’s back and the cat’s. She wasn’t well. She felt bad. Her heart hurt. And she was tired: at the end of a long wait at the doctor’s, among grumbling people, she had been given some pills. But what had she been expecting? – she scolded herself – a cure? She set packages down on the table, untied a scarf from her head, drank water from the tap, and then stood for a while looking down at her old big bed – at the cat, at Ben. She lay down along its edge, and watched the shadows come on the ceiling, and then it was dark. Ben slept his noisy, unhappy sleep. The cat was as neat and quiet as – a cat. The old woman dozed off, feeling her heart beat painfully in her side. She woke because Ben was awake, and pressing his back against her.
‘Ben,’ she said, into the dark. ‘I’m not well. I’m going to bed for a day or two to rest up.’ He made a sound that meant, I am listening. ‘Did you get the certificate?’ A silence from Ben, and something like a whimper. ‘Did you see your mother?’
‘I saw her. In the park.’
She already knew the answer but asked, ‘Did you speak to her?’ Ben moved against her side, and whimpered again. ‘I don’t know what to suggest next, Ben. I’d go with you to the place – you know, I told you about, where you get certificates, but I’m not well.’
‘I’ve got some money. I’ve got twenty pounds.’
‘That’s not going to get you far, Ben.’ He had known she would say that, and he agreed with her.
‘I’ll get some money.’
She did not ask how. She had been told the story of the building site, how he had been cheated. He would always be cheated, poor Ben, she knew that. And so did he.
When morning came she did not get off the bed, but lay there, breathing slowly and carefully. She said, ‘Ben, I want you to go to the bathroom, take off your clothes and wash yourself. You don’t smell good.’
Ben did as she said. He had not washed himself in this thorough way before, but he remembered what she did, and did the same. But now he had to put on the dirty clothes.
She said, ‘Find your old clothes. They’re in that cupboard. Take your new clothes to the launderette, and when you come back here you can put them on again.’
He knew about the launderette. ‘How do I get back in again, if you are in bed?’
‘The key’s on the table. And get some bread and something for you. And be careful, Ben.’
He knew that meant, Don’t steal, don’t let yourself be carried off into a rage, be on guard.
He did everything as she would have wanted. Then he went to a little shop and bought bread for her – the pale yeasty smell always made him feel a little nauseous – and some meat for himself, and, too, a tin of cat food. All this he did successfully, and let himself back in, and put on his clean clothes. It was mid-morning.
Mrs Biggs was sitting at the table, her hand at her side.
‘Make me a cup of tea, Ben.’
He did so.
‘And give the cat something.’
He opened the tin he had bought for the cat, and watched it crouch down to eat.
‘You’re a good boy, Ben,’ she said, and tears came into his eyes and she heard him give a sort of bark, which meant he wanted to say thank you to her, expressing his love and gratitude for those words, but he had never heard them, except from her. She almost put out her hand to stroke him as if he were a dog, but he was not a dog, not of that tribe.
She drank her tea, asked for some toast, and lay down again. She slept, the cat by her. There was Ben, in his clean clothes, full of energy and something like happiness because of that loving ‘You’re a good boy.’ He did not want to sleep, but lay on his futon and dozed, hoping she would wake, but she slept all night, and woke in the morning early. Again she asked for this and that, tea, an apple, food for the cat in its saucer. The neighbour came in, saw Ben there, carrying cups and plates into the kitchen, and was pleased for she had defended Ben to the other people on the landing, or who had seen him on the stairs. Now she could say that Ben was looking after Mrs Biggs.
There was a little conference by the bed. The old woman not wanting to get up was a new thing, which the neighbour understood very well, but who was going to look after her? Mrs Biggs asked her to get her pension, for she felt too poorly and – she was apologetic – empty the cat’s dirt box. Both women understood that Ben could not do this: the mere idea of it – impossible. Even though the cat’s fur was quiet, and she no longer sat with her eyes fixed on Ben. When the neighbour returned with Mrs Biggs’ pension she laid the money on the table, and said, looking at Ben: ‘That’s not enough for more than her and the cat.’
‘He’s been using his money to buy me things,’ said the old woman, but they all knew what the situation was.
‘That’s all right then,’ said the neighbour, and went off to spread the news that the yeti was looking after Mrs Biggs as if he were her son.
And so that time went, a happy time, the best in Ben’s whole life, looking after the old woman, even taking her clothes and her bedclothes to the launderette, cooking up dishes from frozen to feed her – but he usually finished them, for she ate so little. But it could not last, because all this time the money was going, going, and he soon had none left. If he wanted to stay there, with Mrs Biggs and the cat, then he would have to get