I smile. ‘No. But it’s an animal with a long tail and fur, and people keep them as pets.’
‘A rat.’
This child says the weirdest things. ‘Okay. Another clue. I chase rats, and dogs chase me.’
‘Cat!’ she shouts.
‘Very clever.’ I wink. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go play a game just over there? Give your daddy some peace and quiet. We won’t go out of his sight.’
She retreats into silence, fixing me with a long, appraising stare under wet spiked eyelashes. The kid could be a poker player. Time stretches, and I’m wondering if I’ve lost the match when she blinks and gives a solemn nod. I put out my hand. She takes it without hesitation.
It’s stopped raining. We stand amongst the dripping gravestones. ‘What’s your name?’ I ask again.
‘Grace.’
‘That’s a pretty name. How old are you?’
‘Five and a half.’ She gets a length of pink wool from her pocket. It’s a tangled knot and she holds it towards me, and I understand that she wants me to unravel it. When I finish, she puts up her hands, stubby fingers splayed like starfish. ‘Can you play cat’s cradle?’ she asks.
I am terrible at the game. I fumble between the strands of pink, plucking the wrong strings, dropping the ones I’m supposed to keep taut. But my clumsiness makes her laugh. ‘No, silly!’ she shouts. ‘Not like that.’
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Did you hear about the actual cats who live inside the cradles?’
She gives me a glance both suspicious and curious.
I fumble around in my mind for words to weave a story. ‘Inside every woollen cradle is an invisible cat. Each one the same colour as the wool. And they long for you to see them, so every time you pull the strings, the cat dances up and down waving its paws like this …’ I make a paddling action. She laughs. ‘So, all these kitty-cats, Bob the blue one, Yasmin the yellow one … they’re waving like crazy. But there was this one particular cat … Pete. Guess what colour he was?’
‘Pete?’ She bites her lip, then yells, ‘Purple? Pink!’
‘Yup. Smart girl. Pete the pink cat.’ I glance towards the graveside, and see with relief that the crowd is dispersing. Grace’s father comes over and places a hand on his daughter’s dark, springy hair. ‘Thank you,’ he says in an English accent. ‘You’re the first person to gain her trust since …’ He pauses. ‘I even heard her laughing.’
‘We were having fun.’
‘Daddy.’ Grace pulls at his jacket. ‘Daddy, I want her to tell me the rest of the story.’
‘Not now. She has a job to do, darling.’ She tugs harder at his sleeve and he bends down, listening to her whispering in his ear. ‘No, Grace,’ he tells her. ‘She works here.’ He straightens. ‘This is a strange time for her – for both of us. And now, coming all the way over to Atlantic City, camping out in a hotel room, meeting relatives she hardly knows. We’re stuck here for some time, unfortunately … family duties, legal things. There are some complications. But really I need to get her home. Find some help. Try and get a new routine established.’
‘Home?’
‘London. Hampstead.’ He glances towards his wife’s grave. ‘She wanted to be buried here. They all are. The O’Reilly clan.’
I can see Ray gesticulating to me from the other side of the churchyard. I’m guessing that Sam will be here any minute. My heart quickens at the thought of him.
I squat down. ‘Goodbye, Grace.’
She drops her chin, angling away from me, rolling her body into the curve of her father, her thumb in her mouth. I feel something snap, the connection I shared with her breaking like a silk thread.
‘She’s tired.’ He must have seen the disappointment on my face. He holds out his hand. ‘Leo Dunn.’
‘Catrin Goforth.’ We shake. ‘Or Cat, as your daughter knows me.’
‘Cat,’ he repeats. His fingers are surprisingly firm. ‘We’re staying at the Atlantic, Cat. If you’re passing and you feel like calling in for a cup of tea. Room 242. I’m sure Grace would be happy to see you. She could do with a friend.’ He gives a small smile. ‘And maybe you could finish the story.’
I’m uncertain if this is that thing the English do when they say one thing and mean the opposite.
‘I can see she likes you,’ he adds, before he turns away.
I watch him swing his daughter up onto his hip. Her legs dangle below his knees. He staggers a little under her weight; she rests her head on his shoulder, tousled hair flopping over her face as her thumb goes back into her mouth.
TWELVE
Sam, April 1983
Sam presumes that the man in the black coat, spectacles misty with rain, is the one who’s just lost his wife. There’s a child, too. A chubby red-cheeked girl, leaning against her father’s legs. She’s motherless now. He doesn’t know how Cat copes with such loss on a daily basis. The poor guy must be going through hell. While he, Sam, is the luckiest man in the world.
The rain has slowed to a drizzle. The priest hurries away, black robes flapping behind him. A straggling band of mourners leave the graveside, making their way towards the gate. The man and his child are last to leave. He’s carrying her, her arms clasped tightly around his neck.
Relief fills Sam. He realises he was holding his breath, as if to avoid swallowing their grief. Churchyards make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his own mortality, or those Sundays at home. He strides forward, marching over the sodden grass, calling to Cat. She looks up, a huge smile transforming her face. They kiss, a long, deep kiss that makes him want to laugh out loud with the knowledge of being alive with her. ‘You’re as wet as me.’ She pats his sodden jacket, and then she’s holding his hand, tugging him towards the church. ‘Come on – I want to show you inside. And we can get out of the weather.’
He’s not into churches – St Mary’s put him off for life – but he’d sit in a cowshed, visit a sewer if it pleased her.
‘I’m leaving soon,’ he blurts out.
She stops and looks at him expectantly.
His throat is suddenly dry. ‘Shall we … can we … I mean, I don’t want this to end.’ He licks his lips. ‘I know we live either side of an ocean, and long-distance relationships are difficult, but …’
He sees a shudder go through her, and she leans against him, pressing her forehead hard into his shoulder. ‘I don’t want it to end either.’
Relieved, he touches her damp hair, takes her hand and raises it to his mouth. ‘I’ll need your phone number, then. I mean, if you’re going to be my girlfriend. You’ve never given it to me.’
‘Girlfriend?’ She laughs. ‘Somehow that sounds old-fashioned. Especially from you. But good. Really good.’
‘Phone number?’
‘Oh.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘Our phone got disconnected.’ She shrugs. ‘It happens. Safer to write.’
‘We’ll do it the old-fashioned way then. Maybe that’s better. I’ll write first,’ he says, ‘because it’ll take me a while to find somewhere permanent. I’ve got … stuff to sort out when I get back.’ He walks faster, excited by his plans. ‘But when I’m settled, then you could come and stay.’