Bron-30

“That all you have, Bron?”

Grace pointed to the plastic holdall and six overstuffed carrier bags on the landing of Flat 3 on Great Cumberland Place.

“Yes, Grace, that’s all I possess in the world. Apart from a camp bed and an old packing case in the cowshed at Tan-y-Bryn.”

“Sorry Bron. Didn’t mean it like that.”

Chris came bustling out of the front kitchen in his floppy blue carpet slippers and dressing gown, pulling the door half-closed. “Well, Bron. It’s been really great having you. And maybe, when Linda’s better you could move back in … you could both move back in, if you wanted.” This delivered in a half-whisper; Linda was asleep  in the back bedroom.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“I’m really sorry about this. Sorry it all happened so suddenly.”

“You weren’t to know. It’s for the best.”

“Er Bron … Linda. There’s just one other thing. I know this is a massive, massive favour, especially under the circumstances but … but…”

“Yes Chris?”

“Any chance you could look after Petouche for a few days at your place?”

“Petouche? Well, yes, but Grace’s place is tiny, just a studio. Do you really think she’ll be happy there? And why?”

“It would only be for a couple of days, until I can find something a bit more suitable. Maybe my mother up in Birmingham – but she’s away at the minute. It’s just that, since she had her funny turn, Linda thinks … she thinks that Petouche … Petouche is possessed.”

“POSSESSED?”

“Last night, she was following her round the flat, all evening, shrieking and groaning. And then she tried to stick knitting needles into her … Had to grab them off her. Look, still got the marks.” Chris pulled back the sleeve of his dressing gown to reveal a long, jagged scar, still blood-red.”

“Omigod!” cried Grace. “Of course! Of course we’ll take her. Poor little Petouche! Has she got a carrying basket?”

Five minutes later, Bron’s small stock of luggage was augmented by a pale pink cat carrier. The wild banshee wails and frantic scrabbling sounds as the carrier bulged and thrusted as a small demonic creature tried to force its way out suggested that, maybe, Linda had a point.

A muffled half-cry, half moan from the back bedroom.

“Shit! The sedative must be wearing off! Best be going - I’ll be in touch soon about the next filming session. And … other things. There may be a bit of news. Tell you later.” Chris thrust a twenty-pound note into Bron’s top pocket.

Down in the street, Grace stretched her arm out for a taxi, but Bron pulled her back. “Don’t you dare! We can take this little lot on the tube. Save the twenty for a rainy day.”

“So, when do you go back to work?” said Grace as they settled into their seats on the District Line at Notting Hill Gate.

“If, not when. They’ve got to do an assessment first, then they’ll decide if they want me back.”

“Bit harsh, innit?”

“Well, I did nearly cause a shunting accident at Slough…”

“You were upset. Because of poor Fred …”

“No excuse, though is it? Shouldn’t have booked myself on, if I wasn’t in a fit state. Union rep says he’ll argue my case. He’s a good guy, says it’s fifty-fifty…”

Just then, the pink holdall leapt off the bench seat, apparently of its own volition, a couple of feet into the air. Bron dived across and caught it, just before it hit the floor.

The late-evening commuters stared up, startled, from their evening papers.

“Cat! Cat in a bag …”

“Not too ‘appy ‘bout it, is she?”

“What’s she do for an encore?”

To be continued in Chapter 31