A raggedy cat with bald, flea-bitten ears appeared. It sniffed around one of the trees and then came to sit right in front of me.
To start with, I thought it was after something – food, or caresses, or something. But it seemed just to want to sit beside me. Then again, perhaps it was nothing to do with me at all. Maybe it just wanted the same shade, view and gentle breeze that I was enjoying.
I stared at the back of the cat’s head for a while and then looked out again at the scenery. A big bird – a buzzard or an eagle, I couldn’t tell which – was circling. ‘You want to watch yourself,’ I told the cat. ‘Or that bird will have you for breakfast.’
The cat turned then, and looked at me, and I swear it nodded before it turned back to look out at the bird.
I thought about the dog I’d had as a child. He’d been middle-aged when I was born, so by the time I’d got to Ben’s age, he’d been ancient. An old, smelly bulldog called Butch. I’d loved that dog to bits – in fact, it would be no exaggeration to say that Butch had been my best friend. I’d always intended to get Ben a dog, but the years had slipped by and it hadn’t happened and then suddenly we had a cat. And Ben seemed to love him just fine, so . . .
I remembered sitting with Butch in our back yard, and at other times on Whitby beach. Sometimes I’d put my arm around him and talk to him, and I was convinced that he understood everything I said. Sometimes, if I’d been told off, I used to bury my face in his fur and cry salty childish tears. But most of the time he was just there, beside me, a witness to whatever was happening, a witness who made the moment real, like this cat.
The strangest feeling rose up in me, a sort of flashback to being a child, to the long summer holidays, to the beach, to riding a bike aimlessly around, to poking at ants with a stick and just . . . Just what? Just being, perhaps?
I felt suddenly overcome by sadness, by a sort of grief for the loss of my childhood. It had slipped away unnoticed, and I’d failed to mark its passing; I’d failed to grieve for the loss. But now the moment was upon me.
When exactly had it gone? Had it been when Butch died, or when school ended? Was it when I started working for a living, or when Mum died? When had I lost the ability to just sit and be? When had I started counting the hours but letting the years slip by unnoticed? And how the hell had I got to forty without noticing?
My eyes were watery, blurring the landscape. ‘Come here, will you?’ I said to the cat, and though it turned and glanced at me again, though it blinked slowly at me, in what looked to me like an expression of compassion, it didn’t move. It was too busy sitting there, looking out. It was too busy being present in the moment.
Altogether, I sat there almost two hours, until the cat walked off, and the feeling, like the cloud, drifted away. The moment became like any other and I started to feel hot and uncomfortable and bored, so I stood and started to walk back to the house.
But as I walked, another sensation rose within me, a strange sense of rage at the way my precious hours on this planet were being wasted. Something needed to change, I thought. And perhaps, even though I couldn’t even begin to think what that meant, everything needed to change.
By the time they all returned, it was nine and the sun was setting.
The kids were babbling excitedly – something about a pig and a fish – but as they were all shouting at once, I couldn’t really make head nor tail of it.
Ant was carrying four big pizza boxes and, for some reason, he handed them to me, as if he’d just arrived at my place for dinner.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if I was meant to be cooking. Did you manage to get phone reception?’
‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, it works everywhere except here.’
Over pizza, which was a bit limp, but which having actual cheese on it tasted like a treat to my part-time vegan palate, they told me about their day out.
They’d explored Orce first, and it was there that they’d seen the piglet.
‘It was just running around,’ Lucy explained. ‘It was really friendly.’
‘Like a dog,’ Ben said.
‘It licked my hand,’ Sarah said.
‘I was worried it might bite her,’ Heather told me. ‘It did seem to have quite big teeth.’
‘An old local guy told me it was safe,’ Amy explained. ‘He’s a friendly pig, apparently. Tame.’
‘And why is there a pig running around?’
‘It’s a tradition, I think,’ Amy said. ‘The whole town feeds it scraps. They let it run free.’
‘How cute,’ I said.
‘And then at the end of August they have a party, and you know . . .’
I frowned at Amy.
‘A spit roast,’ she said, winking.
‘Oh God, they eat the poor fucker?’ Ant asked.
‘Ant!’ Heather said. ‘Language!’
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘I was actually trying to avoid saying that in front of you know who,’ Amy said, nodding at Sarah.
‘Can we go?’ Ben asked. ‘Can we go to the pig party?’ He’d clearly missed the point somewhere along the way.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s after we’ve left,’ Amy said.
‘How sad!’ I said, with irony.
‘I want a pig,’ Ben said. ‘Can I have a pig when we get home? It’s way more
