fraction.
A man wearing just a waistcoat and jeans sat above her on one of the fire escapes, twanging on a guitar, and some wind chimes tinkled from a fig tree: all very West Country, in fact—Ana felt almost at home. She settled herself at a wide wooden table in the shade and laid out Bee’s things again.
Her address book, notebook, camera, the Rough Guide to Goa. She thought of the anomalies, the inconsistencies, the cottage, the weekends away, the missing cat, and then she picked up the piece of paper Mr. Arnott Brown had given her with the address of John the Cat’s foster mother on it: Miss L. Tate.
She looked at her watch: 1:20 P.M. She had three hours before her train went, and it suddenly occurred to her that it wouldn’t actually matter if she missed the four-thirty—she could get the five-thirty, the six-thirty, whatever. She should go and see this Miss L. Tate, this friend of Bee’s. She’d like to meet a friend of Bee’s. She might be able to shed some light on things. And she really wanted to see Bee’s cat, this creature whom she’d apparently loved so much.
She pulled her A-Z out of her handbag and looked up She pulled her
out of her handbag and looked up
Bevington Road, W10, the current residence of John the Cat.
She found a pay phone inside the chapel and dialed the number on the piece of paper. And then she remembered that it was the middle of the day, that Miss L. Tate was most probably at work, so she jumped a little when the phone was answered and a loud, raspy voice answered with an abrupt
“yup.”
“Um, hello. Is this Miss L. Tate?”
“Who’s this?” said a suspicious-sounding voice.
“My name’s Ana. Ana Wills. I’m, er, I’m Bee’s sister.”
“Oh my God,” the voice screamed, “Bee’s sister! You really exist. I always thought Bee were making you up.” She had a very broad Leeds accent.
“Oh. Right. Yes. Well—I’m in London at the moment because I’ve been sorting out her stuff and I’m feeling a bit, er, confused . . . and I needed to talk to somebody—to somebody who knew her. And Bee’s lawyer gave me your number because you’re looking after her cat. And I wondered if I could meet with you. Maybe. Or I could pop over? I won’t stay long. Unless you’re busy, of course . . .”
“No. No, I’m not busy. I’m bored off my tits, actually. Why don’t you come round?”
Miss Tate lived just off Portobello Road. Ana didn’t know much about London, but she knew that Portobello was cool, and this was confirmed resoundingly as she turned a corner and found herself slap-bang in the middle of some of the most frighteningly trendy-looking people she’d ever seen in her life. Ana tried to bolster herself up but couldn’t fight the ridiculous paranoid fear that one of these horribly self-assured people, one of these I-know-exactly-who-I-am-where-I-am-and-what-I’m-doing-here type people was going to come up to her and make fun of her. But nobody even glanced at her—which was a strange sensation for Ana, because everywhere she went in Devon, she was stared at remorselessly. There were three boys in particular, from the development just outside Torrington, who tormented her every time she set foot out of the house. The ones with the ears and the red hair and the jewelry. Every time they saw her they would skid to a halt on their skateboards, scoop them up from under them, and then just stop and stare at her as she walked past. And as she passed them, the tallest one, the one with the reddest hair, would hiss something like
“Freak!” or “Scarecrow!” or “Skinny bitch!” Nothing very creative, but effective nonetheless. Ana decided she liked the anonymity of London’s streets, where you could be tall or short, black or white, have pink hair or pierced cheeks and still nobody gave you so much as a second glance.
She followed Portobello to its northernmost point, past a few sad-looking stands selling what looked to her like stuff that even the
A man wearing just a waistcoat and jeans sat above her on one of the fire escapes, twanging on a guitar, and some wind chimes tinkled from a fig tree: all very West Country, in fact—Ana felt almost at home. She settled herself at a wide wooden table in the shade and laid out Bee’s things again.
Her address book, notebook, camera, the Rough Guide to Goa. She thought of the anomalies, the inconsistencies, the cottage, the weekends away, the missing cat, and then she picked up the piece of paper Mr. Arnott Brown had given her with the address of John the Cat’s foster mother on it: Miss L. Tate.
She looked at her watch: 1:20 P.M. She had three hours before her train went, and it suddenly occurred to her that it wouldn’t actually matter if she missed the four-thirty—she could get the five-thirty, the six-thirty, whatever. She should go and see this Miss L. Tate, this friend of Bee’s. She’d like to meet a friend of Bee’s. She might be able to shed some light on things. And she really wanted to see Bee’s cat, this creature whom she’d apparently loved so much.
She pulled her A-Z out of her handbag and looked up She pulled her
out of her handbag and looked up
Bevington Road, W10, the current residence of John the Cat.
She found a pay phone inside the chapel and dialed the number on the piece of paper. And then she remembered that it was the middle of the day, that Miss L. Tate was most probably at work, so she jumped a little when the phone was answered and a loud, raspy voice answered with an abrupt
“yup.”
“Um, hello. Is this Miss L. Tate?”
“Who’s this?” said a suspicious-sounding voice.
“My name’s Ana. Ana Wills. I’m, er, I’m Bee’s sister.”
“Oh my God,” the voice screamed, “Bee’s sister! You really exist. I always thought Bee were making you up.” She had a very broad Leeds accent.
“Oh. Right. Yes. Well—I’m in London at the moment because I’ve been sorting out her stuff and I’m feeling a bit, er, confused . . . and I needed to talk to somebody—to somebody who knew her. And Bee’s lawyer gave me your number because you’re looking after her cat. And I wondered if I could meet with you. Maybe. Or I could pop over? I won’t stay long. Unless you’re busy, of course . . .”
“No. No, I’m not busy. I’m bored off my tits, actually. Why don’t you come round?”
Miss Tate lived just off Portobello Road. Ana didn’t know much about London, but she knew that Portobello was cool, and this was confirmed resoundingly as she turned a corner and found herself slap-bang in the middle of some of the most frighteningly trendy-looking people she’d ever seen in her life. Ana tried to bolster herself up but couldn’t fight the ridiculous paranoid fear that one of these horribly self-assured people, one of these I-know-exactly-who-I-am-where-I-am-and-what-I’m-doing-here type people was going to come up to her and make fun of her. But nobody even glanced at her—which was a strange sensation for Ana, because everywhere she went in Devon, she was stared at remorselessly. There were three boys in particular, from the development just outside Torrington, who tormented her every time she set foot out of the house. The ones with the ears and the red hair and the jewelry. Every time they saw her they would skid to a halt on their skateboards, scoop them up from under them, and then just stop and stare at her as she walked past. And as she passed them, the tallest one, the one with the reddest hair, would hiss something like
“Freak!” or “Scarecrow!” or “Skinny bitch!” Nothing very creative, but effective nonetheless. Ana decided she liked the anonymity of London’s streets, where you could be tall or short, black or white, have pink hair or pierced cheeks and still nobody gave you so much as a second glance.
She followed Portobello to its northernmost point, past a few sad-looking stands selling what looked to her like stuff that even the
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