money.'
  'It's hardly expensive.'
  'But what's the point of doing it? We don't have a place to build a damned cattery and we don't have money to invest in such a hair-brained scheme.'
  'Oh and I suppose your whisky shop was such a brilliant idea?'
  'That was just a passing fancy of Pep's and mine. We certainly didn't waste any money⦠'
  'Ollie reappears in the entrada . 'I think one of my sea monkeys is ill.'
  'He holds the small plastic sea tank aloft and points at a black speck the size of a pinhead.
  ''You see? He's just floating.'
  ''Maybe he's having a kip?' I proffer.
  ''Of course he's not. He seems anxious.'
  How in heaven's name my son can determine the anxiety of a suspended black dot is beyond my imagination. The sea monkey fad, currently all the rage in the UK, was brought to us in the mountains by his godmother, Jane, from London, who supplied Ollie with a tank, instant life crystals and a packet of live sea monkey eggs. These creatures, a hybrid of the brine shrimp which never grows beyond the size of a vertically challenged ant, have now multiplied in the tank and keep Ollie busy for hours. He dumps the diminutive tank on the kitchen table in front of us in an attempt to gain our attention and, waking up the kittens, carries both in his arms up to his room.
  'Maybe he can run your cattery?' Alan says dryly.
  'I'm banking on it.'
  He gets up and stretches. 'Look, I'd better get going. I can drop Ollie off at Nancy's on the way.'
  The locally celebrated elderly American artist, Nancy Golding, has for the last year taken Ollie under her wing. She's the grandmother he never had and together they read, draw and swap stories and jokes.
  I'm pouring fresh water into the tank of sea monkeys when Alan heads for the front door sporting casual golf attire. He wheels a set of clubs behind him, in the side pocket of which he has tried to secrete a title by Patrick Leigh Fermor.
  'You're not going to have time to read,' I quip.
  Ollie has packed his own rucksack of pencils, paper, books and games. He carries this bag everywhere with him, rather like his godfather, Ed, with the MEK. I'll worry when he starts popping in medicinal curatives. I wave them off and potter downstairs to the cool botiga , our cellar, which now serves as a guest room and my dugout when free of visitors. I like writing down there because the French doors open directly onto the orchard and the peace is almost tangible.
  While I tap away at the keyboard I am suddenly aware of a sharp, tinkling sound coming from the entrada . For a moment I hold my breath, thinking that one of our phantom sheep has returned, but the noise continues with the same methodical tink, tink . It hasn't the whiff of a sheep about it. Very quietly I open the door and tiptoe barefooted up the cellar stairs. In the entrada Orlando, one of our new kittens, is standing by the open front door making a strange rasping noise. I wonder if he's choking, but he suddenly releases his jaw and a shiny marble bounces onto the stone floor. As soon as it's free, he chases it like a demon around the entrada, finally propelling it into the garden. He follows it into the sun but returns a second later, defeated. The marble has disappeared. Enterprisingly he creeps up the stairs to Ollie's bedroom, oblivious to me tracking his movements, and helps himself with a paw and jaw to another marble from the large jar on the dresser. The marble thief has been caught in the act! For some time I watch him happily repeating the exercise until I count that four marbles have been pilfered and lost. I decide enough is enough and remove the jar and hide it in Ollie's wardrobe. Orlando looks forlorn and, with a plaintive mewl, pads off to the front garden where I predict he'll sit drooling at the side of the fish pond until mealtime.
The light is fading as I reach Nancy
  'It's hardly expensive.'
  'But what's the point of doing it? We don't have a place to build a damned cattery and we don't have money to invest in such a hair-brained scheme.'
  'Oh and I suppose your whisky shop was such a brilliant idea?'
  'That was just a passing fancy of Pep's and mine. We certainly didn't waste any money⦠'
  'Ollie reappears in the entrada . 'I think one of my sea monkeys is ill.'
  'He holds the small plastic sea tank aloft and points at a black speck the size of a pinhead.
  ''You see? He's just floating.'
  ''Maybe he's having a kip?' I proffer.
  ''Of course he's not. He seems anxious.'
  How in heaven's name my son can determine the anxiety of a suspended black dot is beyond my imagination. The sea monkey fad, currently all the rage in the UK, was brought to us in the mountains by his godmother, Jane, from London, who supplied Ollie with a tank, instant life crystals and a packet of live sea monkey eggs. These creatures, a hybrid of the brine shrimp which never grows beyond the size of a vertically challenged ant, have now multiplied in the tank and keep Ollie busy for hours. He dumps the diminutive tank on the kitchen table in front of us in an attempt to gain our attention and, waking up the kittens, carries both in his arms up to his room.
  'Maybe he can run your cattery?' Alan says dryly.
  'I'm banking on it.'
  He gets up and stretches. 'Look, I'd better get going. I can drop Ollie off at Nancy's on the way.'
  The locally celebrated elderly American artist, Nancy Golding, has for the last year taken Ollie under her wing. She's the grandmother he never had and together they read, draw and swap stories and jokes.
  I'm pouring fresh water into the tank of sea monkeys when Alan heads for the front door sporting casual golf attire. He wheels a set of clubs behind him, in the side pocket of which he has tried to secrete a title by Patrick Leigh Fermor.
  'You're not going to have time to read,' I quip.
  Ollie has packed his own rucksack of pencils, paper, books and games. He carries this bag everywhere with him, rather like his godfather, Ed, with the MEK. I'll worry when he starts popping in medicinal curatives. I wave them off and potter downstairs to the cool botiga , our cellar, which now serves as a guest room and my dugout when free of visitors. I like writing down there because the French doors open directly onto the orchard and the peace is almost tangible.
  While I tap away at the keyboard I am suddenly aware of a sharp, tinkling sound coming from the entrada . For a moment I hold my breath, thinking that one of our phantom sheep has returned, but the noise continues with the same methodical tink, tink . It hasn't the whiff of a sheep about it. Very quietly I open the door and tiptoe barefooted up the cellar stairs. In the entrada Orlando, one of our new kittens, is standing by the open front door making a strange rasping noise. I wonder if he's choking, but he suddenly releases his jaw and a shiny marble bounces onto the stone floor. As soon as it's free, he chases it like a demon around the entrada, finally propelling it into the garden. He follows it into the sun but returns a second later, defeated. The marble has disappeared. Enterprisingly he creeps up the stairs to Ollie's bedroom, oblivious to me tracking his movements, and helps himself with a paw and jaw to another marble from the large jar on the dresser. The marble thief has been caught in the act! For some time I watch him happily repeating the exercise until I count that four marbles have been pilfered and lost. I decide enough is enough and remove the jar and hide it in Ollie's wardrobe. Orlando looks forlorn and, with a plaintive mewl, pads off to the front garden where I predict he'll sit drooling at the side of the fish pond until mealtime.
The light is fading as I reach Nancy
Similar Books
The Time Travel Chronicles
Robert J. Sawyer, Stefan Bolz, Ann Christy, Samuel Peralta, Rysa Walker, Lucas Bale, Anthony Vicino, Ernie Lindsey, Carol Davis, Tracy Banghart, Michael Holden, Daniel Arthur Smith, Ernie Luis, Erik Wecks
