With that grim report, we all turn our attention to our pint glasses.
❖
When I step out of the bar, the cool night air hitting my cheeks, I look at H and remember why the word ‘stout’ sounded so familiar.
It was in the postscript on Lillian’s welcome letter, where she said I’d regret letting him have stout. She wasn’t wrong about that. I think about bundling him into a taxi, but the greenish tinge to his scales makes me think some fresh air might be better.
Throwing out a hand, I block H’s attempt to take flight. He’s unsteady enough on his feet as it is, and I need to keep him close by.
Turning back, smoke leaking out of his nostrils, H makes his dissatisfaction known. “I dunno why ya gotta make me walk, Nat. I’m fine, ya see.”
He’d be more believable if he didn’t trip over his own tail. I walk in lockstep behind him, like a mother guiding an unsteady toddler. We barely make it through the crowd of students lining the pavement outside a popular nightclub. I call out sorry to the few who end up with singed ankles, wondering how the magic makes them accept that as normal behaviour from a cat.
Gradually, we make our way over the Magdalen Bridge and back into the centre of Oxford. H mutters along the way, his drunken accent impossible to understand. Every once in a while, he throws out a hand, mumbling incoherently at a statue or building.
I breathe a small sigh of relief when we make it to Broad Street. I recognise it from our trip to the bar; it is near the end of the bus line between St Margaret and the city centre. The road is closed to thru traffic, a large bollard preventing anyone from attempting to use it as a shortcut. The streetlights shine onto the stripe of bright yellow reflectors that circle the top of the post. H seems dazzled by them, careening off the pavement to wrap his arms around the bollard.
“Come on, H, we’re nearly at the bus stop. It’s only a few minutes ride from here.” I spot a bus pulling up at our stop and grab H’s arm to ensure he gets on board.
The driver doesn’t raise an eyebrow when a cat follows me on board. He does, however, make me buy an adult and a child ticket. Shoving my wallet back into my bag, I move towards an empty row of seating in the back. The bus departs with a lurch, sending H tumbling down the aisleway until he comes to an abrupt stop against one of the metal poles.
Before I can help, I hear his wings flapping. My eyes widen in horror as I find him spinning around the shiny chrome pole in mid-air.
“Lookie ‘ere, mate,” his drunken voice calls out to me.
My efforts to reach H are once again hampered, this time by the bus grinding to a halt at a red light. His talons slip off the pole, tumbling head over heels through the air.
“Wheeeeeeeeeeee!” he caterwauls, jets of flame spurting from his nostrils. A display of bus route pamphlets disappears into ash and then reappear like magic.
Fortunately, one of his feet catches on the rubber straps, arresting his movement. Now he’s dangling from the ceiling by an ankle.
I glance around, checking what the other passengers are making of the scene. An old man catches my eye. He raises a finger in H’s direction, asking in a creaky voice, “Get a hold of your cat, you old cow.”
My cheeks blaze in embarrassment as I try to stop H from using the rubber handholds as monkey bars. “He escaped out the garden gate, and now he’s scared. Nothing to worry about though, I’ve got it all under control.”
Except I don’t have it under control, not at all. H’s wings are slapping against my shoulders as I pry his talons loose. Our battle continues until I slip off my coat and wrap it around his body.
I gather my wriggling parcel into my arms, pushing my hair out of my face. The old man is glaring at me, distinctly unimpressed by my gallant efforts. He reaches up a gnarled finger, jamming down on the red call button. The bus slides to a stop at the next stop. His glare deepens as his gnarled finger turns in my direction, first pointing at my chest and then at the door.
Right. I’ve got the message. Drunken wyvern in arm, I step down off the bus as though it had always been my intention. We’ve made it exactly one stop along the line.
When H stops squirming around, I slow to a more sedate pace when I spot a free park bench ahead on the pavement. Shivering with cold and yet somehow also burning with anger, I loosen the coat flaps, rolling H out of my arms and onto the seat.
Whatever response H has prepared withers under my blistering gaze. He dusts himself off before tumbling to the ground.
“I’m fine. Lessss go,” he mumbles. Let’s go indeed.
We pass the cute side street that’s home to G&D’s ice cream parlour, the strings of overhead lights twinkling just as I imagined they would on the afternoon H and I enjoyed ice cream cones.
“Almost home, H. Just a little further… keep going. No, straight. Keep going straight, not turn. We don’t live here. H!!!”
It’s no use, H drunkenly stumbles off the pavement into a large front garden, shouting loud enough to wake the block. “Sid! Bruv, are ya thar? ‘Elp a mate out!”
“Shhhhh, H. Leave poor Sid alone in his squirrel home, it’s the middle of the night.” I corral him again, nudging him to turn towards the pavement and our route home.
“I dun feel sa good, Nat.”
“What?” The word is barely out of my mouth before I click in on the meaning of his gibberish. I leap back, dodging a spray of flames. Rushing to stamp them out, I get too
