They saw the sign almost as soon as they had passed the Coffee Xpress concession, where the tempting aroma of freshly ground coffee beans was already scenting the station air. The sign jutted from the sandstone walls with prominent importance. ‘Customer Information and Assistance’ it read. Below it an open door invited customers into a small lobby with a thin grey carpet and a single serving hatch. As you approached from the main station entrance, it was impossible to see round the corner to the hatch. You almost had to be facing the door square on before you could see if she was there.
And, this morning, she was. Chest puffed up and proud, she sat with a regal air atop the desk, waiting to assist in whatever way she could. Her snow-capped front paws were pressed neatly together, as though she felt that when on duty she should be professionally turned out: no slouching or spread-eagled limbs here. Her white bib shone brightly in the dawn light, making for a vivid contrast to the ebony fur that gleamed elsewhere on her ever-so-fluffy little black body. Americans describe such colourings as ‘tuxedo’ and it did indeed seem that she had slipped on her most expensive designer black tie to come to work. Nothing but the best for her customers.
Her long white whiskers twitched as she took in the morning scents. A pair of exquisite emerald eyes blinked lazily as customer after customer came to say hello. Their own eyes sparkled as they met her, but not enough to outshine the glitzy twinkle of her glittery purple collar, nor the gilded glow of the circular gold tag that hung round her neck. They gently stroked her silky-soft fur and excitedly cooed greetings and impassioned well wishes into her white-tufted ears. They exclaimed and oohed and ahhed and sighed deeply with contented satisfaction, thrilled that their treasure hunt, this time, had ended with a pawprint that marked the spot. Such customers came away feeling lucky and lighter, and that this was going to be a very good day indeed.
And how could it not be? For they were some of the chosen few. They had just been granted an audience with none other than Felix, the Huddersfield station cat.
Frankly, did life get any better than that?
After a while that morning, Felix decided it was time to move on. She was a busy cat, in demand across the station, and she could not spend all day in one spot. Each day, she set her own rota, and she clearly felt she had fulfilled her responsibilities on the customer-information point for the time being. Soon, the announcer with whom she shared the serving hatch would report for his shift; she could tag-team with her colleague to ensure the point was well looked after. So, with a single sporty leap, she jumped down and padded out on to the platform.
As she emerged, her appearance was unmistakeably noted. Surreptitiously, from a short distance away, a middle-aged lady in a forest-green anorak and sensible brown brogues – who had been painstakingly tapping out a text message, one letter at a time – somewhat awkwardly angled her phone anew and snapped a sneaky picture of the station cat. Felix didn’t even flinch. Since July 2015 she had had her own Facebook page, and over the past year it had grown to attract a massive 80,000 followers online. Her popularity had been particularly boosted in January 2016, when she’d been promoted to senior pest controller by her employer, TransPennine Express, and thousands upon thousands of fans worldwide had wished her congratulations. Social-media stardom had brought a fair few of those fans to the station, and so this famous Facebook cat had long become used to the clicking sounds and camera flashes that her presence seemed to inspire.
Undaunted, Felix lowered her head to the ground and sniffed at the platform. No crumbs here. Shame. She raised her head to squint at the pigeons who lived in the corrugated-iron roof above the station. They had probably hoovered up any leftovers; it was just the kind of thing those pesky pigeons did. Somewhat disgruntled, she gave herself a good shake and several loose strands of her fluffy fur escaped her pelt; they danced in the air like confetti around a blushing bride, making her velvety nose give a sudden sharp sneeze. Then she padded on, stretching out her tippy-toes to show off the little black patches that adorned them, as though she was a ballerina on stage at the Royal Opera House and knew all eyes were on her twinkling toes.
Felix reached the edge of the platform. Though she had long been able to cross the tracks safely (and had her own Personal Track Safety card to assert her authority to do so), on this occasion she stopped sensibly at the yellow line that marked the platform’s border and sat down. Her enormous eyes drank in the sights of the slowly waking station. She glanced north, towards platform two and the looming black mouths of the railway tunnels. The Head of Steam pub was located in that direction, but at this hour it was quiet and no kegs of beer were being rolled around with a musical clinking sound, as sometimes happened. She looked in the opposite direction, to where a forty-five-arch viaduct stretched far away into the distance, so that even Felix’s powerful cat vision couldn’t see to the other side. Things were a little busier this way as the rush-hour commuters started to arrive, flooding through the gateline like an oceanic wave, ready to catch their regular services. It all seemed too busy for Felix that morning, so she faced away from the arriving passengers and instead blinked thoughtfully across the tracks to platform four, as though considering her options.
One of them was to visit the railway garden, which flourished opposite her on platform four, right in the middle of the station. The garden was the handiwork and legacy of a much-loved and -missed former colleague, Billy Bolt, who had died back in 2015. Felix and he had been firm friends and she often liked to hide among the garden’s long grasses or to roll in its catmint leaves – but not today, she decided. Getting smoothly to her feet, she turned her back on the garden and retreated to perhaps her favourite spot of alclass="underline" the silver bike racks just beside the customer-information point. It was a location she had loved ever since she was a kitten.
Felix had lived at Huddersfield station since she was eight weeks old. She had grown up here, slowly learning to become used to the roar of the train engines and the ebb and flow of the people passing through. She was not a stray or an adopted moggy: she had been headhunted for the role as a baby and parachuted in as a pest controller from the very start, her job officially green-lit by HQ. However, while she did have an official name badge to describe her role – ‘Felix, Senior Pest Controller’ it read, with the smart, purple-and-blue TPE logo in the corner – in truth, she was just as much a pet. Having given five years of service to date, she was a beloved member of the team. In fact, she was everyone’s favourite.
Her name always needed a little explanation. When Felix had first started work at Huddersfield, her new colleagues had believed her to be a boy. Soon after her arrival, all those folk who worked on the railway network, along with the TPE team, had been invited to submit name suggestions for the new male kitten, with the chosen one being drawn at random. Felix was the chosen name – and only after she had been christened was her female gender discovered. But, by then, the name had stuck. Luckily, it rather suited her.
That summer’s morning, Felix wound her way between the bike racks’ metallic bars and sat with a sigh among them, her black back pressed to the yellow-brick wall. At that hour the racks were largely empty, just the odd D-lock reserving a spot, like a towel thrown on a sunbed at a holiday resort. Soon, however, Felix knew they would fill up as the commuters who cycled to the station left their bikes behind as they boarded their trains. That was how she liked it best, for being hidden among the bicycles gave her the perfect vantage point to observe the comings and goings of the station – of her home.