What now? replied Blythe, her voice as steady as a teacup on a saucer.
How come you say what now? What am I supposed to do?
First, get out of the car, have a look, make sure its still breathing.
I yawned a big one. The driveway was empty, the evening air smelled of something metalliclike fear after a rainy night in London. I eased the door open, and without even stepping out I leaned forward to peer under the bonnet. And there it was: a little grey lump, trembling, eyes wide open.
Its alive, Blythe. Its alive What now?
What do you mean, what now? Take it to the vet. Youre heading that way anyway. And hurry, quick!
I lifted the cat gentlyshe didnt protest, just lay there, breathing shallowly. I slipped her onto the back seat, into a shoebox that had been sitting on the floor, and off we went.
The surgery centre was about half an hour away. Usually. Not on that particular day. That day stretched out like a Sunday that just wouldnt end, and the thirtyminute drive felt like an eternity.
In the boot, a dog was already curled up. A mixedbreed, clearly a victim of a train. My holidaymaking neighbours had begged me to take it to the clinicput it out of its misery, please, theyd said. A stray, not anyones, but we felt sorry for it. I drove in, almost on autopilot.
And now this cat.
I sped down the road like a man on a mission, my head filled with one thought:
What a day what a life
At the veterinary practice, to my surprise, there was no queue. I burst through the doors with the box as if I were delivering a newborn the vet snatched it up and ushered it to the exam room.
Whats wrong with it? Hows it doing? I asked, hovering at the doorway.
Well do an Xray straight away the assistant said, nodding. Doesnt look serious, but well doublecheck.
Fifteen minutes. An eternity. The clock seemed to have taken a holiday, standing still. I paced, stared at the ceiling, the windows, the posters of British Shorthairs and Maine Coons
Inside me something was churning. Not just worryshame, guilt even. I hadnt even noticed the cat earlier. I shouldnt have driven so fast. So many little things could have gone differently. Shea tiny, helpless thinghad stepped onto the road just a second too late, and I was thinking about where the clinics side entrance was. And that was it. One splitsecond, a lifechanging click, and I was there, throat tight, whispering to myself: Just let her live. Just let me fix this
Finally the vet emerged.
Shell need surgery
Then it hit me the dog was still in the boot!
I turned back. Silence. No whimper. No movement. I pressed the release button and the boot lid creaked open.
Two terrified eyes stared back from the gloom. The dog was alive.
Hey I whispered. Sorry well sort this out right now.
Back to the clinic I went, catching up with the veta sternlooking woman with a dry stare.
Theres a dog too, in the boot. Train hit it, its hind legs
Weve already been called to put it under anaesthesia they said theres no hope.
I stalled, couldnt finish the sentence. Her face stayed as still as a portrait. She lifted her coat, slipped a jacket over her shoulders, and followed me.
We opened the boot together. She glanced at the dog, then at me. Her eyes sliced through me like an Xray beam.
Youve gone mad, have you? Who told you the dog must be put to sleep? Yes, its legs wont heal, but it can live. Weve rescued alike before. Bring it in.
I nodded, wordlessly. The vet said, It will live. That was enough.
That night I barreled home. Blythe turned away from the stove, eyes wide.
Whats wrong with you, Tom?
I slipped into the bedroom, pulled out an old diary where Id hidden a few pounds. A dream. A motorbike. None of it mattered now.
Tom?! Whats happening?
Theyll live! I shouted. Both of them!
Who? Youve lost it completely!
Ill explain later!
We kept them. The cat we named Molly. The dog we called Rex. We survived the whole lot together: IV drips, sleepless nights, physiotherapy.
Blythe said simply:
If theyre here, well sort it out.
And sort it out we did. She fed Molly with love, bandaged Rexs legs. We wept when Molly took her first wobbly steps. We laughed when Rex, in a little wheelchair, zipped across the garden like a veteran racer.
Five years later. Theyre not just pets. Theyre family.
When I got home today, the smell of fresh scones greeted me. Blythe wrapped an arm around my shoulders, hugging me tight, then started to tremble.
Whats happening? I asked, turning to her.
Were going to be welloff she whispered, hand on her belly.
At first I didnt get it. Then I understood.
Im forty, shes thirtyseven. Weve tried for ages, almost gave up. Almost. Then a peculiar lady once told us:
Youll have three children. Two gifts from nature. One a blessing from above. Patience, kindness, a hard road, but a bright one.
Molly, now a plump bundle, slept beside a plush rabbit on the windowsill. Rex, his joints finally stiff, shuffled over, nudged my leg and sighed a big, relieved breath.
I didnt believe it then. Now I do.
Because one day we said yes to life. And life answered us with a big, wholehearted yes.
