They had been friends, it seemed, for centuries. And now, at last, one stood before the other, asking for aid.
George, I understand, but think yourself over. Youre not a youngster any more. Where could I possibly fit you? You were once a manager; shall I now hire you as a labourer? Peter Parker chuckled, eyeing the silverhaired man.
George Mitchell nodded gravely.
Hang tight, George Ill ring you if any decent work turns up. Dont be down, old chap! Well get through this! Peter called out as he departed.
It was not the first refusal in the past fortnight. George had grown a little accustomed to the rebuffs and learned to keep his temper in check, though at first he was badly upset. As the saying goes, a friend is proven in hardship. George Mitchell had spent his whole life in senior posts. He counted many acquaintances, yet when trouble came, none stood by his side.
As often happens, a new manager arrived with his own retinue, and George was politely, yet firmly, asked to tender his resignation. Retirement lay a short distance ahead, but nobody seemed to mind. Thus he found himself suddenly without a respectable position or a steady wage.
Undeterred, he recalled the many townsfolk he had once helpedfinding jobs, securing apprenticeships, solving all sorts of problems.
Kirby wont turn me down! I helped him plenty in his day, George told his wife Ethel as he set off for yet another interview.
He returned from the interview sourmouthed and silent.
That fellows a true friend, he sighed.
Ethel read his eyes like an open book.
Come, George, have a bite. Whatever happens, its for the best, she said, laying a plate on the table.
George nodded, then spent the evening leafing through his notebook of trusted contacts.
Help arrived unbidden when George, on the brink of surrender, was taken in by a former driver who had risen to run a modest meatprocessing plant.
I could use a supply manager. The works busy, but youll manage, the man said politely to his erstwhile boss.
Grateful for any work, George began the next day.
The plant lay on the outskirts of town, its iron fence guarded by two burly workers unloading a truck full of pork. Not far away a small gang of neighbourhood cats watched the ritual with keen interest. George smiled at the striped felines, their whiskered faces moving in unison as they followed each fresh morsel.
Later it turned out the whole factory was home to a whole band of cats who shunned strangers. They were a bit wildhearted and not prone to affection. Every time George passed, he tried to pat a striped rogue, only to be met with a hiss or a swift retreat.
Youve got a tough lot here, he laughed, watching Cook Zinnia whisk away the remnants of lunch for her feline charges.
Theyre not the friendliest lot, she agreed, nodding toward a pair of kittensized tabbies tussling with the older cats.
Soon George settled into his new role and learned the names of every cat. They, in turn, grew to trust the silverhaired gentleman, for he often slipped them treats. Though he kept no pets at home, he loved animals and always tried to look after them. Whenever he stepped out for a smoke, the cats would quietly encircle him, eyes fixed on his hands, hoping for a scrap.
Six months slipped by unnoticed. Autumn replaced the summer heat, bringing damp winds and grey rain. The cats hid more often, yet never missed a meal.
One day a solitary kitten appeared on the plant grounds, set apart from the rest. The main gang seemed to ignore the newcomer, though they did not attack. Small, gaunt, black, with a bald patch on its back, the kitten won the stern mans heart at once.
George, as usual, was smoking outside after his shift, while the cats lounged on sunwarmed planks. From a shadowed corner a tiny black ball on thin legs darted toward him.
Mew, it rasped, sneezing.
Whats this little marvel? George asked the cats.
They regarded him indifferently; the kitten was clearly not of their stripe. Their coats were browntabby, eyes yellowgreen. The kitten rubbed against Georges leg and purred.
Well, look at that, hes a softie, George smiled.
Looks like someone dropped a stray. Our own lot keep their distance, but hes harmless, the cook remarked, stepping closer.
George, wary of the gang, fetched a slice of sausage for the kitten and placed a modest portion a short distance away for the others. The cats lunged greedily at their share, while the kitten lingered, nuzzling Georges hands before finally eating.
What a cuddly thing, George sang softly, gazing into the kittens contented eyes.
From then on the kitten, christened Pudding, became Georges daily charge.
Who are you feeding? Ethel asked, surprised.
Just a tiny, funny little kitten, George replied, a hint of embarrassment in his voice.
Maybe you could bring him home? Ethel suggested, though she knew George never liked indoor pets.
No, we dont need a cat in the house, she heard him answer.
If you say so, she shrugged.
The weather grew miserably cold, the sky a permanent gloom. Suddenly a familiar voice called out, Ah, George! Good to see you!
It was an old friend, Peter Parker, hurrying toward him.
Found any work yet? Peter asked kindly, extending a hand.
George met his gaze coolly, gave a silent nod, and slipped his hand back into his coat pocket, continuing on his way. He had long understood the price of their friendship.
Youre a hard man, Peter muttered, hopping into his car to escape the chill.
The kitten, perched on a low board by the warehouse entrance, looked like a tiny black burr in the frost.
They wont let you in, will they? You lot are a mess, George warned the shivering horde of cats huddled in a warm shed. Their yellow eyes flickered, gauging whether a human might feed them.
That evening the radio warned of a snowstorm heading for the town.
They say the snowfall will be heavy tomorrow, George. How will you get to work? the driver complained.
When the shift ended, the driver offered George a lift home. Dark clouds gathered, and the first flakes began to drift onto the road.
Derek, could you drop me at the plant instead? George suddenly asked.
Derek merely shrugged and turned the wheel.
Missing the old job, are we? he laughed, pulling George up at the fence.
George walked on, his words lost in the wind.
He burst into the yard, snow already a thin white blanket over the ground. He ran to the boards where Pudding usually perched and called, Pudding, Pudding, Pudding!
The kitten did not appear. The resident cats watched the frantic man from the edge, their feathers ruffling as the snow fell deeper. Soon a pair of crows alighted on the fence, curious about the commotion.
Pudding! Where have you gone? George cried, eyes darting about.
The cats, sensing the storm, retreated into their shed, huddling together for warmth, their hopes of a snack fading with the cold.
George turned away, stepping back into the street.
By morning, as the weather forecasts had warned, a blanket of snow covered the whole town.
Well, thats a proper snowstorm, townsfolk muttered, trudging through drifts.
George, like his colleagues, arrived late to work. The groundskeeper had cleared the paths, and the cats peeked from their shelter, eyes bright for any treat.
He laid out a morsel for them.
Here you go, Pudding sends his greetings, he said gently, watching the wary band keep their distance.
A childlike joy swelled within him, reminiscent of his own youth, sliding down hills with his parents. Perhaps the snow had stirred that feeling.
The next day, as he was leaving the yard, the tiny kitten finally emerged from its hiding place at the very last moment, just as George turned to look. He caught the little creature, pressed it close, and whispered,
Well done, Pudding! At last youre found, my friend!
The kitten yawned, sneezed, and clung to him with tiny claws, as if afraid to be left behind.
Ethel, seeing George at the doorway with the new household member, asked with a teasing tone,
Decided to keep him after all?
I did. Imagine him out there in this blizzard all alone, George began, letting the little bundle down onto the floor.
The kitten sniffed cautiously, whiskers twitching as it explored its new domain.
George watched the youngster, his eyes shining. Ethel embraced her stoic husband, fully aware of the kindness that lay behind his gruff exterior.
The kitten perched on the windowsill, watching the white world beyond. In the distance, the man he had chosen as his friend strode back toward him through the snow.
This bond between a burly man and a tiny cat was certainly different from any human friendship, yet George and Pudding both knew there was no room for betrayal, deceit, or flattery. And that, they believed, was worth waiting for and believing in.
