Theyd been mates for what felt like centuries, and now, after all that time, one of them was standing there begging for a favour.
George, I get it, but think about it youre not getting any younger. Where would I even put you? You used to be a manager, and Im thinking of hiring you as a porter? chuckled Peter Parker, eyeing the silverhaired man.
George Whitmore gave a reluctant nod. Hang in there, George Ill ring you if something decent turns up. Dont be a sourpuss, old chap! Well get through this, Peter called out as he walked away.
It wasnt the first rejection in the past fortnight. George had grown accustomed to the polite refusals, even learned to keep his cool, though at first the blows had hit hard. As the saying goes, a friend is known in hardship. George had spent his whole career in senior roles, amassed a long list of acquaintances, but when the chips were down, no one seemed to turn up.
Typical of a new boss, he brought his own crew and politely, but insistently, asked George to tender his resignation for personal reasons. Retirement was only a few months away, but that didnt bother anyone. Suddenly, George found himself without a prestigious job and without a steady paycheck.
He wasnt about to sit and mope, though. In Birmingham he knew plenty of people hed helped land jobs, finish studies and solve various predicaments. Kirby wont turn me down, I helped him out back in the day, he told his wife Emily as he headed off to yet another interview.
He came back looking glum and quiet. Even the mate Im meeting isnt much help, he sighed.
Emily read the worry in his eyes and said, Alright, George, have a seat and grab a bite. Whatever happens, itll work out for the best, as she set the table.
George nodded and, for the rest of the evening, scrolled through his phones contacts, checking the numbers of his best friends.
Help arrived just as George was about to throw in the towel. An old driver, now running a modest meatprocessing plant, took him on as a supply manager. Its a busy role, but I think youll manage, he said politely to his former boss.
George was grateful for any work and started the next day.
The plant sat on the outskirts of town, behind a metal fence where two burly workers unloaded a lorry full of meat. A small gang of local cats lounged nearby, watching the ritual with halfinterested eyes.
George smiled at the striped fellows, their whiskered faces following each new delivery of scraps. Later he learned the whole site was patrolled by a feisty feline brigade that wasnt keen on strangers. Each time he tried to pet a whiskered whiskercat, it would dart away or hiss.
The lot of you are a hard bunch, the man joked, watching as the kitchen maid, Zina, tossed leftovers to her furry charges.
Indeed, theyre not the friendliest lot. Look, even the kittens are rather aloof, Zina added, nodding toward a pair of stripetailed youngsters tussling with their elders.
George settled into the job and eventually learned every cats name. They, in turn, grew to trust the silverhaired gent, especially because he often slipped them bits of food. Though he didnt keep pets at home, he loved animals and always tried to look after them.
Whenever George stepped outside for a smoke, the cats would encircle him, watching his eyes for any treat they might get.
Six months slipped by unnoticed. Autumn arrived with its damp winds and grey drizzle, and the yard cats hid more often, yet never missed a meal.
One day a tiny, skinny black kitten with a patch on its back appeared, keeping to the edges of the gang. The regulars didnt embrace it, but they didnt attack it either. The little fellow won the old mans heart instantly.
George was taking his usual postlunch puff when the cats were basking on a wooden plank. From a shadowy corner a small, furry ball on thin legs scampered straight at him.
Meow, it rasped, then sneezed.
What on earth is that? George asked the cats, who stared on indifferently. The newcomer wasnt like them they were all brownstriped with yellowgreen eyes, while this was a sleek black ball.
The kitten rubbed against Georges leg and purred. Well, look at you, you little softie, George laughed.
The lot of them think its a stray, the kitchen maid chimed in, they keep it apart, dont let it near their food. Funny they havent turned it into a snack yet.
George, wary of the gang, fetched a slice of sausage for the kitten and placed a small portion a short distance away for the others. The other cats lunged at their bits, while the kitten lingered, nuzzling Georges hands before finally munching.
Its a dandy little thing, George cooed, gazing into the kittens eyes. The cat closed its eyes in bliss and purred louder.
From then on George called the kitten Pasty. Hed feed it first, then dash off to work.
Who are you feeding for? Emily asked, eyebrows raised.
Its just a tiny, funnylooking kitten, love, he replied, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
Maybe you could take it home? Emily suggested, knowing full well George had always been against having pets inside.
Not a chance! Why would we need a cat? she retorted.
Yeah, whatever George shrugged.
One frosty morning, as George trudged to the plant, a familiar voice called out, Oi! George, hows it going!
It was his old mate Peter, hurrying towards him. Found any work yet? he asked, extending a hand.
George gave a cool glance, nodded silently, and slipped his hand back into his coat pocket, already knowing the price of their friendship.
Fine, youre a bit of a wild one, Peter muttered, hopping into his car to escape the chill.
Pasty, perched on a small board at the warehouse entrance, looked like a tuft of black needles against the cold.
Dont they let you in? You lot are rough, George grumbled toward a warm shed where the cat gang huddled.
Yellow eyes flickered from the shadows, trying to gauge whether a human might feed them.
The radio announced a heavy snowstorm coming overnight. Theyre saying the monthly norms coming down, George. Howll you get to work tomorrow? a driver joked.
At the end of the shift, the driver offered George a lift home. The sky was grey, and the first flakes were already dusting the pavement.
Hey, Dave, could you drop me at the plant instead? George asked suddenly.
Dave shrugged and turned the wheel. Back to work, eh, George? he laughed, pulling George up at the fence.
George didnt hear a word after that.
He sprinted into the yard, where snow now lay a thin white blanket over everything. He called out, Pasty, Pasty, where are you? but the kitten didnt answer. The yard cats watched him with cautious eyes as he circled the perimeter, shouting.
Soon a flock of crows perched on the fence, and the snow kept falling, thickening.
Pasty! Where have you vanished to? George cried, looking around anxiously.
The cats, sensing the snow, retreated to their little shelter, pressing their fur together for warmth, realizing no food would come today.
George turned and left the yard.
By morning, as the forecasters promised, the town was buried under a blanket of snow. Residents trudged through deep drifts, commenting, Well, thats a proper snowstorm, hasnt been like this in ages.
George, late as usual, shuffled into work. The groundskeeper had cleared a path, and the cats peeked out, hopeful.
He laid out a small feast for them. Here you go, Pasty sends his regards, he said, smiling at the wary brigade.
A childlike joy bubbled up inside him, like the first time hed gone down a hill on a sled with his mum and dad. Perhaps the snow had something to do with it.
Yesterday, that mischievous kitten had finally emerged from its hiding spot at the very last moment, catching Georges eye. He hadnt believed his own eyes at first, but then ran over, scooping the tiny creature into his arms.
Good lad, Pasty! You finally showed up, you little scamp! he exclaimed, as the kitten sniffed the air and clung to him with its tiny claws, terrified of losing him.
Emily, never one to be surprised, asked with a sly grin, Decided to keep it after all?
Yeah, George admitted, letting the little wonder out onto the floor. The kitten nosed around, exploring its new domain.
George watched the little furball, his eyes shining. Emily wrapped her arms around her gruff husband, knowing well the kindness that lived beneath his tough exterior.
The kitten perched on the windowsill, gazing out at the endless white drifts, where the man who had chosen him as a friend walked back and forth.
Their bond, though between a burly bloke and a tiny cat, was different from any human friendship. Yet George and Pasty both understood there was no room for betrayal, deceit or flattery in it and that made it worth waiting for and believing in.
