Page 44 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“It’s not actually my house.”

“What your brothers don’t know won’t harm them. And a cat flap isn’t a big red flag for making house prices fall.”

The grey, white and black tabby strolled over to Stuart on white paws and circled his legs. Then it rubbed itself against his shins. It purred, as if adding its own persuasion to Florence’s.

“She likes you.”

Without thinking, Stuart bent and stroked the top of the cat’s head. The animal stretched its head further towards him.

“She loves being tickled under her chin. Shirley used to do that.” Florence’s voice trembled over her daughter’s name.

Stuart transferred his hand from the top of Tibby’s head to the white fur beneath her chin. The cat responded by arching her neck backwards and increasing the vibrancy of her purring. This act of pleasing the cat pleased Stuart.

“There’ll be a YouTube video about how to fit a cat flap,” Florence offered, “and I could be your carpenter’s mate.”

“OK.” He straightened up and stretched his back. “You buy what we need and I’ll have a go.”

Florence left immediately in the faded orange Panda and Stuart went to see what tools might be lurking in the garage from when his dad had been active around the house.

Fitting the flap wasn’t straightforward. According to the internet, the first task was to measure the height of the cat’s stomach from the ground. Tibby was sound asleep on the sofa. Stuart prodded her awake. At first she ignored him, but at the second prod she raised a paw and revealed her claws. Stuart wouldn’t be beaten by a cat. He picked up the ruler and used it to gently poke her again, hoping to encourage her into a standing position. Both front paws caught hold of the ruler and Tibby’s eyes flashed malevolently. Then she stood up and proceeded to show him what she thought by sharpening her claws on the sofa cushions.

“No!” The cat had morphed from a cute thing in need of love and comfort into a vicious, self-centred creature.

Tibby threw him a look of disdain and jumped down to the floor. Stuart grabbed her by the collar and positioned the ruler vertically beneath her. She mewed loudly and refused to stand still but he got some kind of measurement. Five inches, he scribbled on a bit of paper.

Next step was to mark this height in the centre of the door and position the template supplied with the cat flap according to the mark. Then he needed to drill a hole in each corner of the template to mark the outline of the required opening.

He found an electric drill behind some old tins of paint. He guessed it was simply a case of plugging in and hoping it would work. There was a socket in the garage he could test it with. He plugged it in. Nothing. He flicked the switch on the socket to turn the power on. Nothing. He fiddled with the drill, being careful at all times to keep the sharp end pointed away from him. Nothing.

He skipped to the next step of the instructions, wondering if he could somehow manage without the four drilled holes. The next stage called for a jigsaw. He didn’t know what a jigsaw was in terms of DIY. But he memorised the picture on the laptop screen and went delving around in the old cardboard boxes on the garage shelves. There were a couple of ordinary saws but nothing that resembled a jigsaw.

“I can’t do it.”

Florence was in the middle of the kitchen floor with a mop. The smell of cat poo had been replaced by the strong scent of artificial lemons.

“You’re a man.”

“What’s that got to do with it? We aren’t born with a set of tools in our hands.”

Florence sniggered. Stuart realised what he’d said. The innuendo hung embarrassingly between them. Then Florence’s attempt to neutralise her face went too far the other way and her countenance changed into that of a solemn vicar. Stuart grinned.

“Jim will do it!” Her face glowed with the customary Florence enthusiasm. “It’s for the grandkids and he dotes on them. He was brilliant with them while we were down there.”

Jim with Florence in London. He looked at her and wondered.

She is still a married lady. She’s allowed to go places with her husband.

Stuart turned to the kitchen sink. He needed to get Sandra out of his head before he could look at Florence again. “My concern is him trying to win her back, when the best thing for both of them would be to stay as far apart as possible.” He mentally sparred with his sister, being acutely aware that he must not speak aloud. “She doesn’t need any more emotional aggro right now.”

Florence is streetwise. She can look after herself. Concentrate on your life. Are you sure that you don’t have personal reasons for not wanting Jim to win Florence back?

Stuart took a deep breath and gave himself a slap on both cheeks. Then he turned back to Florence with what he hoped didn’t look like a fixed smile.

“How did you and Jim get on? You know, considering you’re actually separated.”

“He was only there for five days, he couldn’t get any more time off work.” She paused. Stuart felt as though she was examining his face to see what affect her words were having. “Actually, I was glad he was there. We talked a lot about our memories of Shirley growing up and the good times we had together. We both had a little cry. Well, actually I cried a lot more than him but that’s me — my feelings won’t stay hidden.”

“Do you think you two might get back together?” He adopted a light tone and an ‘I don’t care what you do’ expression. Stuart would miss her rent money and skill with a duster and her singing and her positivity and . . . He quashed the feelings before they could take on a proper shape.

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