Sparky Jet
That’s what my flatmate calls me, and I like it. I think it suits me.
His name is George, which I don’t think suits him at all. He should really have been called Tristan, Tarquin or Troy.
Anyway, George burst excitedly into our living room one day, clutching a letter. He swept me off the most comfortable armchair and planted himself down in my place.
I wouldn’t have minded too much, only it was in the middle of an episode of Jerry Springer, and I could just tell a good bit was coming up. I wasn’t best pleased.
‘I’ve got an interview, Spark,’ he said excitedly, his face a study in combined exhilaration and fear. ‘A real, live interview, in just a week’s time!’
About time, I thought, but didn’t say it. Not that it would have mattered if I had. George is all right, really, but at least two sandwiches short of a picnic. Amongst several other things, he doesn’t seem to understand a word I say.
Still, such was his excitement that it communicated itself to me, and I found myself offering him plenty of much-needed advice, such as to make sure he made constant eye contact with the interviewer, spoke clearly, stuck to the point, and pretended to be confident. I felt it was my duty.
George just stared at me with his big, sleepy brown eyes, stroked my head, and said, ‘If only cats could talk, boy.’
I sighed and gave it up as a bad job.
‘What am I going to wear?’ he cried, in a sudden panic.
Not being a sartorial expert, I held my peace.
‘They’ll expect me to wear a black suit, Spark. I’ll have to go out and buy one!’
‘Jer-ry!’ I thought, in sympathy with the television audience.
‘You know, Spark, I’m really nervous about this.’
I couldn’t see why. He spent so much time in front of his PC that surely by now he had to know everything there was to know about computers.
On the other hand……….
‘It might help if you got a haircut,’ I volunteered.
But did he listen to me? No, he duly sallied forth on the day appointed with his wavy dark hair as uncut and tousled as ever. He had purchased the afore-mentioned suit, but to my (admittedly untrained) eye, its cut was a little too trendy, and the accompanying shirt and tie a little too olive-green, to be truly reassuring.
‘Good luck,’ I said doubtfully, at the door.
He bent down and tickled me under the chin with a long brown finger.
‘See you later, boy.’
I confided my anxieties later to Skip from one of the flats downstairs. In fact, I must admit I confided a veritable catalogue of concerns.
Skip lived with a chiffon-swathed old dear called Iris, who smelt pleasantly of peppermints and pot-pourri. Iris was also a Jerry Springer fan, a pleasant if unexpected surprise. Even better, she frequently treated me to unheard-of delicacies such as poached salmon or lobster when I dropped in to visit Skip.
On other days, when George was out, Skip would pop through my catflap for a natter, as he had on this day.
‘I’m worried about George,’ I said to Skip.
‘Really?’ he said, staring back at me with wide, blue, vacant eyes.
Skip was another party somewhat lacking in the old picnic sandwich department, but you could hardly expect more of an over-pampered Siamese cat. He hardly made a reassuring confidant, but he was better than nothing.
The floodgates opened, and it all came pouring out. I had always felt I owed a duty of care where George was concerned. Until a year previously, I had lived with his grandmother, his only living relative, until, so I understood, she had had to go into a home. I had always presumed our little bungalow to be a home, but there you go.
My worries about George stemmed from the depressing fact that, left alone, he could barely organize a burger in McDonald’s. He was what is described as ‘the artistic, sensitive type,’ and had his head constantly up in the clouds, far above such mundane things as real life.
He was forever leaving his shop-bought quiches and pizzas to burn in the oven and subsequently having to open tins of baked beans for his supper. I had tried reminding him on several occasions, but he never paid any attention.
He would leave the housework to pile up for weeks, then in a sudden fevered frenzy born of horrified realization, he would dash around hoovering up everything in sight.
On one such occasion, he had inadvertently sucked yours truly’s tail up the nozzle. Twenty sharp talons sunk into his bare ankle (purely by reflex, of course) had so far served as an adequate deterrent to his repeating the mistake.
Where all other matters were concerned, he had a mind like a sieve. He had even forgotten his own recent thirty-first birthday, until his grandmother’s card had reminded him.
Recently, he had, of all things, taken up embroidery, and had created a cushion cover featuring what I had thought was a rather interesting, if jet black, interpretation of a giraffe. Then, to my horror, he had informed me that it was meant to be a portrait of me, executed Picasso-style (whatever that was).
With respect, I had informed him rather stiffly, it looked nothing like me. If I may say so, I am a rather handsome fellow, in a feline sort of way. The creature was hideously ugly, and cross-eyed to boot.
He didn’t understand me, which I suppose was just as well. I had no wish to hurt his feelings, after all. Despite his failings, I had a soft spot for the lad, and the cushion had clearly been intended as a compliment of sorts. Also, I would be eternally grateful to him for rescuing me from the humiliation of being called ‘Tiddles,’ the name that his grandma, an otherwise delightful old lady, had inflicted on me. Tiddles! I ask you. The indignity of it!
Another issue of concern was George’s inexplicable terror of bugs and small furry creatures. On finding a large spider in the bath one day, he had had what I can only describe as a fit of the vapours.
‘Pull yourself together, man!’ I had said sternly at the time, but of course he had paid me no heed. Instead, he had raced round to the flat next door, white as a sheet, to ask the amused housewife who lived there to come and remove the spider for him.
This incident, however, had been nothing compared to the hysterics displayed the day that I had brought in a small mouse for his inspection. In vain had I tried to reassure him that it had not come from inside our flat. It had taken me days to get over the embarrassment of it all.
Anyway, I concluded now, lately George had become even more dreamy and scatterbrained than before (which I had never considered possible), and I was beginning to wonder if I should recommend that he sought psychiatric help.
There was a long silence, and I began to wonder if all this information had driven Skip’s limited cerebral functions into terminal overload.
‘Well?’ I said impatiently, at length.
Then he looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘You know what your problem is, Spark? You’re too critical. And you need to do something about your stroppy attitude. Have you ever considered psychotherapy?’
When I recovered from the shock, I told him in no uncertain terms to get out of my flat and never come back. Stroppy attitude, indeed!
I did not speak to Skip for a whole week, by which time my anger had cooled considerably. Also, I was bursting to share with someone the exciting news that George had got the job after all. Eventually, unable to withstand it any longer, I crept downstairs one evening and slipped cautiously through Skip’s catflap.
He greeted me icily in the hall.
‘What do you want?’
‘A cup of sugar,’ I said. It was the first thing that had sprung to mind.
‘What do you want that for?’ he said suspiciously.
‘It’s for George.’
‘We’ve only got low calorie sweeteners.’
‘Oh.’
‘Anyway, I can’t stand here chattering all day. We’ve got a visitor.’
‘Really?’ I said, curiosity getting the better of me as I peered towards the open living room door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Iris’ granddaughter.’
There was a silence, then he said grudgingly, ‘You can come and meet her, if you like.’
‘Great!’ I said, grabbing the proffered olive branch with both paws as I dashed off towards their living room, leaving him in my wake.
‘And who is this?’ smiled the granddaughter, as I entered.
‘Sparky Jet, from upstairs,’ grandma said, stirring her tea.
‘Nice name. It certainly suits you. Have a piece of chicken, Sparky Jet.’
I liked the granddaughter on sight. She was tall, but not too tall, and had thick, wavy shoulder-length auburn hair and wide-set, slanting eyes of a striking turquoise blue.
She was not beautiful, but definitely had a certain something about her. Her voice was pleasantly low, deep and drawling, rather like that Mae West in all those old films. Her movements were graceful and measured, and she exuded what I could only call an aura of kindness and capability.
I went up to her and rubbed myself against her legs.
‘I think he likes you, Judith,’ grandma smiled.
‘I think he also wants a bit of my salmon sandwich. Don’t you, now, Sparky Jet?’
Here indeed was a kindred spirit. I thanked her for the titbit, and wonder of wonders, she replied, as she stroked me, ‘Any time, Sparky Jet.’
It emerged that Judith was a primary school teacher and had only just moved into town to start work at a local school.
‘We’ll have to start working on finding you a nice young man, darling,’ grandma said cosily, cutting another piece of cake.
‘First things first, gran. Before anything else I’ve got plans to set myself up with a cat of my own like these two lads here.’
My ears pricked up at this, and after a very pleasant half-hour, I made my excuses and left. I had some thinking to do.
I spent the next hour roaming the prettily-manicured lawns outside, breaking off from my furious musings to chase the occasional sparrow.
At length, I heard footsteps tapping on the forecourt. Judith had emerged from the building, and was making her way towards a little green hatchback in the car park. I dashed up to her and rubbed myself against her legs again. She stooped to pet me.
‘Aren’t you a lovely boy?’ she purred. ‘It’s a crying shame I have to leave you.’
My thoughts exactly.
She unlocked and opened the car door, and I knew it was now or never. A cat had to do what a cat had to do. I streaked inside the car like a bolt of lightning.
Judith gasped with shock, but recovered herself quickly.
‘Why, I do believe you want to go home with me, big boy,’ she drawled. Mae West could not have put it better herself.
She reached into the car for me. ‘Time up, Sparky Jet. I’ve got to go.’
So what’s stopping you? I thought, retreating into the furthest corner of the back seat.
In the end, she took me all the way back up to my flat, with only a brief stop-off at grandma’s to ask for directions. I might have known it wouldn’t work.
George answered the door, bare-chested, tousle-haired and clearly half-asleep.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Judith, Iris’ granddaughter - you know - from the flat downstairs? I think your cat might have been trying to follow me home.’
George didn’t disappoint. He blushed to the roots of his hair, clutched me in his arms in silence for several moments, then mumbled, ‘Oh,’ then, ‘Sorry,’ and then, ‘Thanks.’
‘That’s all right,’ she said, in cool, amused tones, and left.
‘She’s nice, isn’t she, boy?’ he said as he shut the door and set me gently down on the hall carpet.
Yes, very nice indeed, I thought as I dashed towards the living room to see what was on TV.
In my heart of hearts, I was a little relieved. When it came down to it, I don’t think I really could have abandoned George. The guilt would have been intolerable. Who else did the poor boy have on hand to give him meaningful, constructive advice (even if he never took it) and protect him from bugs and rodents?
I would only have ended up walking all the way home. Fortunately cats have a very good sense of direction, but it could have been a very long walk indeed.
Still, I asked Skip to let me know when next Judith called round, and was duly alerted in a fortnight’s time that she was on the premises.
She could hardly believe her eyes when I repeated the jumping into the car and shrinking into the corner stunt on her departure.
Again, she brought me back to the flat, and again George received me back in his embarrassed, tongue-tied manner.
I did this on three of Judith’s subsequent visits, with the same results. By this time, it was obvious that, despite her good nature, my cute trick was wearing a bit thin with her.
But this time, as he shut the door and set me down, George said rather thoughtfully, ‘She’s really very nice, boy. Do you think I should ask her out sometime?’
I am afraid I rather lost it at this point.
Of course he should ask her out, I exploded. Did he actually think I pulled this stunt every time Judith came here because I enjoyed it? My goodness, I had known he was slow on the uptake, but this really was something else! Did he have any idea how much it took out of me to jump into that car every five minutes, not to mention what it cost in loss of dignity? Was he a man or a mouse? He was letting the side down with this namby-pamby behaviour, and if he didn’t stop this pussy-footing around and ask Judith out the very next time she came here, I would jolly well do it myself!
‘I know, I know, boy,’ he replied soothingly. ‘You want your supper, don’t you?’
Still, the message must have sunk in subliminally or something, because the next time Judith bundled me into his arms on our doorstep, he said stammeringly, ‘Er - um - you’ve been very understanding about my cat, Judith. Would you like to go out for a drink sometime? That is, I mean - you don’t have to if you really don’t want to - ’
Nervous Breakdown City Limits, I thought. But I need not have worried. Judith looked directly into his eyes, smiled, and said in her cool, calm, collected manner, ‘I’d love to.’
I don’t know who was more excited, George or me.
Anyway, they went on their date, then another, then another, then several more. To cut a long story short, George and Judith found they complemented each other perfectly, fell madly in love, and were married in less than a year, to the delight of everyone including Skip and both grandmas.
Judith moved into the flat with us, and George and I had never known such bliss. As befitted a sensible, level-headed twenty-first-century schoolteacher, she had not the slightest fear of creepy-crawlies, hairy or otherwise. Not just that, but she could put up shelves without breaking her thumb, repair minor electric faults without electrocuting herself and everyone in sight, and - oh joy - cook!
Poached salmon was now a regular feature on the menu, as were proper meals. And the flat was spotless.
In fact, I found I no longer needed to worry about George (in more ways than one).
As he confided happily to me one evening as we snuggled up on the sofa, basking in the smell of freshly-baked ocean pie, ‘I can’t imagine how I ever managed without Judy, boy. She’s the very best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Me too, lad,’ I purred. ‘Me too. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.’
The End
