Free The Birds of the Air by Alice Thomas Ellis Page A

the rush tomorrow.’
    ‘What is it?’ enquired Mrs Marsh, deeply suspicious. Evelyn was scatter-brained, and anything could be hidden under her cloak. She should have been warned when Evelyn had said that she had ‘just the present’ for Mary. It was bound to be something totally unsuitable.
    Evelyn knelt, fumbling under her cloak, and placed her gift on the floor. It staggered about, no more pleased to be given than Mrs Marsh was to receive it. It shrank and spat and sniffled without hope at the bleach-washed floor.
    ‘Kitty, kitty,’ said Evelyn, crouching lower to address it. ‘I found it on the downs three days ago,’ she explained, ‘all on its lonesome, crying under a bush, and I kept it in the shed so you wouldn’t see it.’
    ‘It’s wild,’ said Mrs Marsh.
    ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Evelyn. ‘It
was
when I found it, but it’s got used to me now. It sits on my lap.’
    ‘House-trained?’ asked Mrs Marsh.
    ‘Nearly,’ said Evelyn offhandedly, stroking the hostile kitten as it tried to hide under the kitchen cabinet.
    Mrs Marsh was very cross. She had a chaotic vision of half-eaten birds, cat mess, hairs and future generations of kittens all over the house and garden.
    ‘Its mother is probably looking everywhere for it,’ she said spitefully. ‘Parent animals leave their young concealed while they go foraging for food.’
    Evelyn grew stubborn. ‘It was lost,’ she said. ‘It was all thin, and its nose was bleeding.’
    ‘Well, I’d better find it a box,’ said Mrs Marsh resignedly. ‘Come on, puss.’ It was a tiny brindled thing, much too young to be seeking its fortune alone.
    ‘You have to put its milk on your finger,’ said Evelyn, not looking at her friend, ‘and let it lick it, and then put your finger in its saucer until it starts lapping. And you have to squash a little bit of sardine in milk, and it eats that for its dinner off your finger.’
    Mrs Marsh was outraged. Did Evelyn really suppose that she had time to sit around hand-feeding cats?
    ‘It’s Mary’s cat,’ said Evelyn. ‘She’ll do it.’
    Mrs Marsh doubted it, but had discerned Evelyn’s purpose. The kitten was to give Mary an interest, a reason for living. This was a common theme in women’s magazines and the afternoon films on television – except that it was usually a child, physically or mentally afflicted, who was restored to the world by the love of a dumb animal.
    ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ she asked. ‘We’ll have to have it seen to.’
    ‘I think it’s a girl,’ said Evelyn, brightening. ‘It’s very affectionate.’ The kitten backed away from her, its mouth open in silent loathing.
    ‘I’ve got a ribbon to put round its neck, and a card,’ said Evelyn, ‘so I’ll come round in the morning and put them on.’ She was a little disappointed at Mrs Marsh’s lack of enthusiasm and wondered uneasily whether she would appreciate the painting of the lunatic asylum seen through the branches of a laburnum tree that was to be her own present.
    ‘Have a sherry,’ said Mrs Marsh at last, taking pity on her friend’s downcast mien.
    ‘It’ll be good for Mary,’ said Evelyn. ‘It’ll give her something else to think about.’ It was her contention that the bereaved grew ill from grief. ‘Take widows,’ she said. ‘They all either get cancer or take to drink.’
    ‘I didn’t,’ Mrs Marsh pointed out.
    Evelyn looked rather knowing – perhaps thinking it was early days yet. ‘You’re very unusual,’ she said patronisingly.
    But Mrs Marsh reluctantly inclined more to Mary’s theory, the arsy-versy of ‘nothing succeeds like success’, that if a person is born with a hare-lip he will undoubtedly go on to develop short sight and flat feet.
    She sighed, and turned on the wireless to listen to the news. It was preceded by a talk from an Anglican bishop.
    ‘What does Christmas mean to
you
, Bishop?’ enquired the wireless.
    The bishop began, ‘Oh, a time when families get together,