2019. Portobello, Edinburgh
After the thunderbolt, Cyril seemed to change. He cowered above the shower head, refusing to come out of the bathroom, his wispy trails curling tight into the cracks between the rough taupe marble tiles. His tinkles were less frequent. He no longer dropped down onto Janet’s head in the mornings to soothe her scalp or separate her wrinkles. Noise seemed to disturb him. He’d shoot out a long contrail if a plane roared overhead. He condensed and shrank when the bin lorries rumbled down the street. He spat mini hailstones if the flat buzzer rang.
Janet was at a loss. She searched the Internet for clues. Tips. There was nothing. No results for identifying the emotional problems of a pet cloud. No results for how to pep up a pet cloud that might be depressed. She wondered whether to call the Met Office. Or the coast guard. Or the vet. Or, god forbid, to swallow her pride and speak to the little moustached man in the Ice Tower.
She tried talking. Telling Cyril stories. Tit bits about the weather or the neighbours or the latest book display in the library. But Cyril remained inert. She tried a different distilled water in his spray. Tried keeping the blinds open. Tried keeping the blinds closed. She even had a bath, covering her bare pink breasts with handfuls of soft seaweed-scented foam while he sat tight three or four feet above her. Unmoved. Unyielding.
Finally, sitting on the bathroom chair one evening, she tried singing to him. She cleared her throat before she started. Pushed her glasses firmly up her nose. Smoothed down an errant grey eyebrow. She never sang in public. Not in church. Not even in the choir she’d once joined after her doctor had told her she really needed to socialise more. But she knew plenty of songs. She started with her favorite. Caledonia. She sang softly at first, the words almost inaudible. Then she built up, surprised at the confidence of her voice. How pleasant she sounded. How kind.
I don’t know if you can see the changes
That have come over me
In these last few days I’ve been afraid
That I might drift away
She lost the words at the fifth line. Shot away with other memories. She filled in the gaps by humming the tune, tapping the bath with her fingers, looking up at Cyril. The cloud expanded, softened somehow. And then, from somewhere close to his core, came the sound of hand bells. Pure, pitch-perfect. Angelic even. The sound of heaven. Janet’s voice rose and fell with those bells. Voice and bells in perfect time. In perfect harmony. They finished the song together:
But I’m steady thinking, my way is clear
And I know what I will do tomorrow
When the hands have shaken and the kisses flowed
Then I will disappear
Janet allowed a full minute of silence at the end of the song before she spoke.
‘Don’t you disappear,’ she whispered to Cyril. ‘Don’t you dare disappear.’
To be continued.
Lyrics excerpts from ‘Caledonia’ by Dougie MacLean.
SANDERLINGS 