7. Teddy

T he cats had made more babies. Just my luck, I thought, staring at the line of tiny eyes up in the eaves. Of course they'd chosen the hay store with the highest hiding places and made me get out the big ladder. Bloody critters.

I'd suspected it, but then this particular cat mum was always a bit on the chunky side, and however much I tried to keep on top of these feline things, I couldn't.

Some of them were ours. Others were feral barn cats who just tended to come and go. I sighed, doing another round of stomping mud off my boots. I'd have to climb up there with a bucket, grab them all and get them down so I could do another run to the vet's in town and get them checked over, chipped, then neutered as soon as they were old enough.

Bloody cats. I spent enough as it was on probably unnecessary cat food. Those cats were supposed to live off the ample rodents in the wild, not fancy tuna and salmon pouches, but I was a softie, just like my dad had been.

We'd always kept cats. They were handy for rodent control, and anyway, they'd lived on this land longer than we had, Dad had always said. So now, I was a cat dad. Again.

Another of Dad's stupid jokes, and no, I wouldn't name the cats. Not really. Dad had called them all Kitty. I chuckled under my breath. Little me had insisted on other names—Patch. Crumb. Streak. I'd loved Streak. He'd disappeared a few weeks later, and I'd been heartbroken.

Never name the bloody cats. Hence Kitty it was.

"Here kitty, kitty," I beckoned, climbing up the unsteady ladder. I should have called for Flora. I was probably going to fall and break my neck, but I knew this particularly shifty kitty well, and if I didn't do this now, she would move her babies and I would have to waste another day trying to find her and them. Bloody kittens.

"Teddy!"

"Flo!" I shouted. "Barn. Up the bleedin' ladder."

"You absolute wanker." She huffed. I didn't have to ask her to help. She knew and instinctively put her foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to steady it.

"Not catching you when you fall," she muttered down there.

"Not falling," I reassured her.

"How many?"

"Five, I think? Ha!" I reached into a bale of hay, underneath where I'd spotted the cat earlier, a faint meowing coming from somewhere as I felt the softness of fur under my hand. A small one, but yeah. I was definitely a cat dad again. I put the tiny critter into the bucket over my arm, and another one. There was another one over the other side, a flash of fur dancing somewhere at the edge of my vision.

"Six," I corrected myself as I put what was hopefully the last one into the bucket, getting an angry hiss from the cat mum. "Hey, Kitty. Come inside. Have some food and chill, yeah?"

She meowed. Like I could speak Cat. I could, actually. They were pretty easy to read, unlike humans—something I tried to explain to Flora, coming down off the ladder.

"Bloody cats." She huffed but still picked up the smallest critter from the bucket and gave it a cuddle against her cheek. "Cute though."

"Want one?"

"No, thanks. We like to control our numbers at home, unlike your unhinged zoo here. You running a cat rescue or something?"

I sighed, staring up at Cat Mum, who was meowing desperately up on the rafter. "Come on, stupid cat. I'm just taking them inside. Come have your dinner and calm your tits."

"Tits." Flora stared at me in disgust. "We're farmers, Ted, not heathens."

"I do wonder sometimes." I set off with my bucket, already watching my hard-earned income disappear in another round of vet bills. That tiny one was the obvious runt of the litter, and I should probably do what my dad would have done and put it out of his misery, but…well…I was me. Flora had already figured that one out and was carrying it under her shirt and puffing hot breaths down her front to warm its' little body.

"He's cold but alive," she reported. "You still have in-date kitten milk in the pantry?"

She knew I did, and if not, we'd manage. I had supplies, and Flora kept all kinds in her own larders for lambing season, so once again, it was the two of us to the rescue.

"Cat dad." She laughed. Then she stopped and smiled at me. "It's nice to see you smile again. You've been a right grump this summer. Not anything to do with that delightful school reunion, was it? I didn't even get laid. I should be the one grumping."

"You could have." I grinned. She was right. Things hadn't been quite the same, though I wouldn't have said I'd been down. I was still figuring out what to do with my life and wondering how other people survived being left alone now I was even more alone than I'd been before.

I struggled with that the most. The violent loneliness. The quiet creaks of the house at night. The non-movement of anything. Even the cats seemed to stay in the same places. I'd drink out of my cup and still find it there in the morning. Pick up a piece of mouldy cheese, put it straight back in the fridge. Same again the next day. Nothing ever changed, and it was starting to do my head in.

"You know, he didn't look very happy either. You know, in the morning— "

"Stop," I begged. She'd told me before how she'd met him walking up the hill the day after, dishevelled and hungover, coming from my place, not from town. I'd refused to share any details. Not that I needed to. She no doubt knew.

"It's a shame he doesn't live here."

"No, he lives in America. Bloody halfway around the world. No need to constantly remind me, and anyway, Ned Anderson can go fuck himself."

She tutted, mouthed another heathen in my face as she kicked her boots off at the door and walked straight in. Clearing papers from the kitchen table, she placed the little kitten down on the surface, running her fingers over its tiny body before she held it up and then twirled it around.

She knew what she was doing. If I was the cat dad, she was the lamb mum, butter girl—all the little names I used to call her.

"I can hear you muttering from here," she barked from the table. "I need coffee, and make me a sandwich, will you?"

"Sure thing, butter girl." I laughed.

She grunted. "You're always ripping open all those wounds from school."

"Wasn't me who told everyone that you were named after margarine."

"Shut up."

She laughed. We always did this. Gentle teasing. Smiles. Comfort. I spread butter onto a piece of bread and poured her a coffee, placing both in front of her. She took a huge bite and joined me on the floor. I slowly tipped the bucket until the kittens crawled out, meowing at us from every angle.

With a sigh, I syringed up some kitten milk and handed it to my trusty assistant, who was way better at this kind of thing than I was.

"You still have that kitten pen thing we used last time?"

"Yeah." I took a sip of coffee, sighed again as a small thing clawed at my trouser leg.

I left Flo to it and slipped back into my wellies to go get the cat pen from the old barn shed .

I knew where it was, of course I did, but it was difficult to walk in through those doors and tap the light switch that was, as always, almost completely hidden behind spider's web.

It was all still here. Our old sofa, the sideboard, an armchair that looked slightly torn up—the one my dad had always sat in to watch his news programmes in the evening. He'd never sit in it again, and neither would I, looking at the state of it. Now home to rodents and flies, I should really drag it out and burn it, load it in the trailer and take it to the new council tip in town.

I just didn't know if I wanted to. If I was ready to let go. But life had to move on at some point.

I found the kitten pen exactly where I'd left it last time, leaning against the armrest of the old, battered sofa now losing its filling to decay. A few white feathers took flight as I kicked my foot against the panels, dust rising.

It was ridiculous the way I lived my life, keeping things like this. I should have got rid of all this when the carers picked up Dad's hospital bed. I should have moved into Dad's old bedroom, given it all a good vacuum and clean, moved things around, made the house my own.

Instead, I lived in a shell filled with memories I didn't want to remember.

When I returned inside, Flo was sitting at the table with the runt, gently rubbing its tummy.

"He took it all, this little one. Should have some energy once he's slept off his feed. It's a…" She turned the kitten upside down again. "It's a girl, actually. They're so tiny, this lot. Hopefully, Mum will make her way back in here because those other ones need feeding too."

"She will," I assured her, putting the cage together and laying out padding underneath with blankets the cats used.

Cat Dad, my arse. It was just the basics—a little softness and warmth. Before long, these little ones would be sleeping on the windowsills or splayed out on the kitchen table. Like all the other kitties did.

"You should name this one," Flo said, snuggling the tiny critter into the crook of her neck .

"Never name them, you know that," I said, washing my hands and taking a seat. The coffee had gone cold, but I didn't care. I still drank it, savouring the strong flavours as they trickled down my throat.

"I always name the runts," Flo said. "The bottle feeders. I don't know, it makes me think I give them a little bit of extra karma, sprinkling them with a little bit of luck."

"Flora Elizabeth," I full-named her in a stern voice even though I was smiling.

"Oh, shush." She loudly slurped her coffee in protest. "You're one to talk, Edward."

She hardly ever called me that, but I liked when she did. Like we had that understanding. A bond. Everyone needed someone.

"You opened another letter then." She indicated the sheet of paper on the table. My father's handwriting.

I read them in the evenings. Over and over again.

"Yeah."

"In a way, I like that he did this for you. In another way…"

"I have two more. He wanted to keep writing them, but he couldn't hold a pen in the end."

"I know," she said softly, reaching out and stroking my hand. The meowing was making me fret. Everything seemed to be doing that right now. I was supposed to be out surveying my ditches today, ready for getting some workmen in to clear out all the debris from summer. Growth and weeds. Unwanted hassle. "Doesn't matter now, does it? It's just letters."

"It's something to hold on to. Knowing he cared."

"Of course he cared," I huffed.

"He's making you hold on to him. You don't need that, he told you so, all the time. He made you clear out everything upstairs and get rid of it. Swedish Death Cleaning. I read up on it after he told me about it. Leave nothing behind for your family to deal with. Clean slate. Move on."

I wanted to tell her to shut up. Too much to deal with.

"Family," she said.

"I don't need…" I didn't know what I needed. Just not this.

"Have you heard from him?" she asked, moving on from my dead father to Ned, presumably, as if this was a normal conversation to have.

"Nope. Why would I?" I deflected. I didn't want to talk about him. Not now. Not ever.

"I don't like that he hurt you." She was staring straight at me.

"He didn't…" I started, and she shook her head.

"You were bruised, and you flinched every time you sat down. It wasn't right, whatever he did to you."

"It's not…" I started because. No. Nope. She'd asked before. I still wouldn't answer.

I stared at my coffee. At my hands.

"You've always known," I said quietly. "What I'm like."

"Always," she said. "I've known since you cried over that boy band splitting up. You were more upset than I was."

"Bah." I grinned. "I had the hots for that Lance Bass. I still have a poster somewhere."

"Didn't we all?" She sighed airily. "You were my first. My first love, my first kiss. That gives me some rights here. I need to know all your stupid mistakes so I can look after you. If I don't know what's wrong, I can't help you."

"There's nothing wrong," I lied.

"Of course not." She snorted. "You know, my dad always called you a gentle boy. Told me that you were soft. That I needed to protect you. I never understood what he was on about until, well, until I finally did, and after that, I had a right go at him for being such a bigot. You're anything but soft. You're Teddy, and fuck anyone who talks like that. We're farmers, and I sat down and told him exactly that.

"This little runt of a cat didn't ask to be born like this. Small and weak and struggling to survive. She didn't make any kind of lifestyle choice with regards to the colour of her fur. Her mother didn't neglect to feed her because of anything she did. It's nature. Nurture. Survival of the fittest. And you grew up to become this brilliant human, who got through his teens in one piece. So did I. I didn't choose to become a bloody twenty-eight-year-old frumpy woman who smells of sheep and spends her evenings playing shoot-me-up games with strangers online and eating my weight in chocolate. It's just who I am. I was born like this. Anyway, Dad knows better now. I've made sure of that."

My cheeks were burning, but I still acted like I didn't know what she was talking about.

"I've always known, Ted, and even that time we kissed, I loved that we did, because it wasn't anything like that. It was just you and me. A weird thing we did, and that's what I'm trying to tell you. You're still a mess, and you always will be, but you're strong, kind and honest. Doesn't mean you're bloody unbreakable. You still cut, and you still bleed, and I like being the one who puts a plaster on you. Looks after you. Picks you up and shakes you down and kicks your butt."

I shook my head, trying to follow her ranting.

"Don't kick my butt." I smiled. "I still don't know how to live, though. Even with you picking me up, shaking my arse or whatever."

"Well, the way you're living is a bit fucked up, to be honest."

Breaths. Sips of coffee. I picked up another kitten. Let it claw its way around my lap. Up my arm. The sharp pin pricks kept me focused.

"It wasn't…what you think back then," I started because I didn't like the way she was thinking. "It was just sex, and he's…he—"

"A dick," she said. "And then he left you. Please tell me you at least went and got tested afterwards. Who knows where he'd been before he had his way with you."

"Flo," I said sternly.

"Ted," she retaliated. "We'll have to go into town anyway when you go see the vet. We'll book you in. Get yourself tested, then I'll shut up. At least he left, so he won't hurt you again."

"Sometimes…sex is like that." I didn't want to share, but this conversation had started, and now I had to finish it, make her understand. "Flo, he didn't hurt me. No more than I hurt him, and sometimes a little hurt is good. I wanted him to. I asked for him to, because I wanted to have something left of him, after he'd gone."

"Sex shouldn't hurt." She pinned her gaze on me. "And that's fucked up."

"Yet love?" Oh, what did I know? "Things are always fucked up. Love fucking hurts, Flo."

"Don't talk to me about heartbreak." Her lips pressed together in a scowl. "It's not always easy to remember that I'll never have what I really want. Not your fault. Just me. Can't help how I feel."

"I know." It was nothing we could ever fix.

"I think we should end this conversation right here, but you're going to go get tested and I'm going to…I don't know. Go somewhere you're not. For a bit."

"Okay," I said softly.

"Yeah."

I sat there in the mess of my kitchen, listening to her stomp the mud off her boots, the door closing behind her. I carefully breathed out.

She was right. Love hurt when it shouldn't, and my heart squirmed, but I wish I'd told her how my insides had stung for days, and that every little hurt had made me feel good. He'd stayed with me for days on end, and then I'd woken up and the pain had gone, only to be replaced by a different kind of pain, knowing I'd never feel him again.

I'd sobbed my heart out standing in the bathroom, wishing he'd come back. I wanted to shake him, shout in his face, tell him how he'd ruined my life—ruined me forever.

I'd let other people fuck me in the past, but sensibly, with lube and protection and careful movements. Of course, it fulfilled the need, but it wasn't him. He touched a nerve. He had that first time and this time too. He…was just… Fuck.

Pen all set up, I locked all the little critters inside, apart from the runt. I stuck her in my shirt pocket, kept her warm against my chest as I got up on my tractor and moved it, attached the trailer, opened the shed.

Got all the goddamn old furniture loaded on there and slammed the tailgate shut .

A whole life.

Fucking nothing. It was just furniture. Old and dusty and broken.

He'd fucked me against that very sofa.

I wanted to scream. Yet I didn't. I got myself and my kitten in the driver's seat, turned the radio on, and I drove all the way to the dump where a very kind council worker helped me find the correct container to dispose of what had once been my home.

Home. A place that was now even emptier than before.