Hamish put the cat on the floor. He put one of the fish on a plate and set it down beside her.
The cat ate ravenously while Lugs calmly watched. “I don’t understand you,” said Hamish to his dog. “Another animal eating, a cat at that, and you don’t bother! I just can’t make it out.”
Hamish put Lugs on the leash and went along to Patel’s and bought cat litter and a litter tray. When he returned, there was no sign of the cat. He wondered whether she had slipped out after him.
But when he went into his bedroom, the cat was lying asleep, stretched out with her head on the pillow.
Hamish phoned Angela. “Thanks for the fish. I was wondering…”
“No, Hamish. I love my cats, and that beast would eat them.”
“It’s awfy quiet. Just like a house cat.”
“It’s still recovering. No, Hamish. It’s all yours.”
♦
The snow had melted and a soft wind was blowing up the sea loch from the Atlantic when Hamish went to the vet and watched as the plaster was taken off.
“She’ll limp a bit,” said Hugh, “but she should soon get the full strength back in that leg. I’m surprised to see you and Lugs in one piece.”
“I’m surprised, too, Hugh. She’s right quiet.”
“Take my advice and get rid of the thing as soon as possible.” The cat stared at Hamish.
“She iss not a thing,” protested Hamish. “She iss one fine animal.”
“Don’t be daft and get any ideas of keeping her. She belongs in the wild.”
♦
Hamish carried the cat back to the police station despite Hugh’s protests that he ought to be carrying such a dangerous animal in a cat box. He let the cat out in the kitchen and said to Lugs, “It’s the grand day. We’ll just go for a stroll.”
He opened the kitchen door. Lugs went out and the cat slid after him.
“No, you don’t,” said Hamish. “Get back in.” He bent down to lift the cat but she moved away from him. He looked at her curiously, then he began to walk away with Lugs at his heels. The cat followed behind Lugs, and the odd procession made its way along the waterfront.
Mrs. Wellington hailed him. “You shouldn’t be letting that animal on the loose.”
Hamish stopped. Lugs sat down and waited and the cat sat beside him.
“Doesn’t look dangerous to me,” said Hamish. “Leave the beast alone.”
But he knew the day was approaching when he would need to turn the cat loose.
♦
In late spring Hamish put the cat in the Land Rover in the back and lifted Lugs onto the passenger seat and drove up high on the moors. The air was full of the smell of growing things, and there was a tang of salt in the air.
He stopped the Land Rover and lifted Lugs down, then got the cat out of the back and set her down in the heather.
“Go now,” said Hamish. “You’re free!”
The cat sat and stared at him.
With a little sigh Hamish lifted Lugs back in and got into the Land Rover himself and drove off, glancing in the rear-view mirror until the cat was no longer in sight.
“It’s you and me again,” he said to Lugs inside the police station, trying not to admit to himself that he missed the cat already. He had thought Lugs would have put up some sort of protest because the dog and cat had become inseparable.
He went off on his rounds for the rest of the day, resisting the temptation to go back where he had left the cat to see if she was all right.
When he returned, he cooked dinner for himself and Lugs and went into the office to do some paperwork.
Lugs gave one sharp peremptory bark. Hamish went into the kitchen. The dog was staring at the kitchen door and wagging his tail.
Hamish opened the door. The cat trudged wearily in. She went straight to the bedroom and leapt up on the bed and fell asleep.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Hamish Macbeth.
♦
By autumn that year Allistair Taggart’s short novel, Home of the Eagles, was published. The first half of the book was in Gaelic and the second half was the English translation. It was nominated for the Booker Prize. It sold very well in the south, where people displayed it on their coffee tables and didn’t read it. Angela was still working on her novel.
Freda and Matthew were married by Mr. Wellington. Elspeth arrived for the ceremony. Hamish felt a desperate need to talk to her, accompanied by a desperate need to keep out of her way.
He had just made up his mind late on into the reception to take her aside and talk to her when he found out she had left for Glasgow. He knew he had holidays owing. He could always go down to Glasgow and see her.
But as winter began to clamp its icy fingers round the Highlands again, as the purple heather faded to dull brown, Hamish was still in Lochdubh with his odd cat, now called Sonsie, christened by Archie Maclean, who said the cat’s broad face brought to mind Burns’s ‘To a Haggis’: “Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face.”
One clear cold evening he went out onto the waterfront. Life had become blissfully quiet. He felt there was really nothing to stop him going to Glasgow except his pets. Many would be happy to look after Lugs, but none wanted the cat.
Then he saw Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, his ex-fiancee, walking towards him. At first he thought he was imagining things, but she came up to him and they both leaned on the sea wall and looked out on the black waters of the loch.
“You’ve been having a lot of adventures since I was last here,” said Priscilla.
“It’s lovely and quiet now.” The moon shone down on the diamond engagement ring on Priscilla’s finger. There was no wedding ring.
“Not married yet?” said Hamish.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
They both leaned together on the sea wall in silence. There seemed to be so much to say on the one hand, and on the other, no need to say anything at all.