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He serenaded her with a small guitar. A toy one, in fact, with three strings made of nylon and a sticker of a cowboy on the body, so playing Country and Western seemed appropriate, and Oliver really only knew Take This Job and Shove It by Johnny Paycheck, which was hardly romantic, but she listened and told him afterwards that his heart was in the right place.
Love is never tidy. It is not an exercise in circularity, or in meaning. Oliver called her his love, and Pamela nodded agreement, yes, she was his love, but they were talking about two different things that could not clasp hands and call themselves compatible. He had been born with an avian ironclad moral certainty and she liked to stalk birds and play with their broken, fluttering wings as they tried to ward her off from the kill.
Oliver said – I love you so much it hurts.
She said – How quaint!
And even with his big, wide, owlish eyes, he couldn’t spot her insincerity.
They took a holiday on water, a cruise around the Caribbean on board the SS Emerald Lagoon, and the guitar remained propped in the corner of the cabin, between a vase of flowers and a basket of fruit. Pamela would sigh on the balcony every night, and say – it feels like we’ve been here forever.
Oliver stroked her long brown hair and said – yes, it does, isn’t it wonderful?
Time, like love, is a relative concept.
Pamela was beautiful, sleek and intransigent. Everything was either her idea or not worth thinking in the first place. But she had told herself that she loved Oliver, whatever that meant, and so she did not sink in her claws, even when he wriggled blindly on top of her like the most tempting sort of prey. She lay, docile, and twitched her ears in time to his guitar playing, until the cruise ship arrived at the land where the bong tree grows.
They disembarked, wing in paw. The bong tree was famous back then; it attracted many visitors. Oliver and Pamela took a horse and carriage to it and found it an unimpressive sight, in the distance, behind electric wire and tourists. Yes, it was as pink, purple and polka dotted as the guidebooks claimed, and yes, even from that distance one could smell the aroma of raspberry lollipops wafting from its bark, but Oliver wanted to be someplace quiet where loving couples went, not amongst waddling cash-happy visitors with cameras, and Pamela wasn’t into trees to begin with.
So they sneaked away, walking through the undergrowth for what felt like a year and a day, and the more they trampled through the dry brush of knotted yellow grass, the more they lost themselves in time and place. The flat ground stretched on: uniquely bare, yet teeming with the drones and squeaks of insects. It was unlike any place they had ever visited before. The wildness of it called to their natures, quickened their senses, sharpened their eyes, extended their claws.
Then, in the distance, a purple sail, swaying in the stiff wind. Oliver pointed to it, and Pamela nodded; they angled their steps towards it, and uncovered, not a boat, but a tent, alone in a clearing, a richly meandering tent of mauve. And, before it, a small cart of trinkets upon which sat a handwritten sign. Crazy Prices. Come and see. So they did. Piled high, there were bangles and chess sets, backgammon boards and slippers with curved toes. Small plastic bags of dried herbs and suspicious pills sat in rusty tins, unlabelled. A cigar box contained a selection of costume rings, in a heap, like gaudy dragon-treasure.
A man in a dark blue uniform stood by the flap of the tent, his eyes upon them. “Not for sale,” he said.
Oliver plucked a ring from the cigar box. “This is lovely.” It was small and plastic, with a green glass jewel cut in the Princess style, a proud square. Pamela played along, and allowed him to slip it on to her little finger; it barely made it over the knuckle.
“No,” said the man, as Pamela wiggled her fingers and gazed at him with pussycat eyes.
“But we want to get married,” she said.
“Yes,” said Oliver. “We need this ring desperately. We have to get married right now or we’ll die from love.” He winked at Pamela, but the truth was that an instant injection of determination had punctured his veins. He wanted the ring on that digit to count.
The man sighed. “This is contraband,” he said, which was a big word to know in a foreign language. “I’ve impounded it. I’m waiting for the van to come from the station and pick it up.”
Of course – the uniform belonged to an official man, a police man. An unbending sort of a man. Sensing his determination, Pamela applied her feline charm.
“We totally understand. But we’re in love. That’s an irrational two-headed beast. We’ve sailed away together and if you don’t sell us the ring you will force us to steal it, and give ourselves over to a glamorous life of crime. Do you really want that on your conscience?”
“Erm, no,” said the policeman, who did have a phenomenal grasp of the English language but maybe didn’t quite understand the ironic, flirtatious nature of Pamela’s speech. “Okay. Keep it.”
“No, no,” said Oliver, “We want to pay for it.” And he forked out a five pound note, which the policeman pocketed with practised ease.
“Up the hill,” said the policeman. “Traditional island wedding ceremonies. There’s a wooden hut with a white ribbon across the roof. Ask for Toygar.”
Pamela and Oliver nodded, and stared at the ring on her claw. When neither of them moved, the policeman helpfully pointed. There was indeed a hill, in the distance; just the one. More of a gentle rise and fall, like the coming and going of hope. It definitely had to be climbed. So the lovers set off, and traversed the rest of the scrub until they reached the optimism of the rise, and found the hut in question, and Toygar sitting inside it.
“Hello hello hello,” he said. He was a wrinkled nut-brown man in a black suit with a ruffled red Ascot around his scrawny neck. “Getting married island-style? Just eight of your English pounds.” Maybe he sensed hesitation in the air, for he added, “Not legally binding in any country.”
Pamela made her best disappointed face and Oliver said, “Oh, really? Ah well. But since we’re here now…?”
“Yes,” said Pamela. “Since we’re here.”
So they got married Bong-style, which involved standing on one foot, turning around, and growling at each other. The ceremony went surprisingly smoothly.
“That felt so right,” said Oliver, after, as they danced on the beach, in the light of the silvery moon.
Pamela didn’t answer. She’d only picked at the celebratory meal they’d ordered at the only restaurant on the island. Time was ticking down to the return to their cruise liner; at the end of the jetty, the speed boat was waiting to transfer them back to the small cabin, with only a guitar and Take This Job and Shove It for respite. She flexed her claws as a voice in her said – he’s not expecting it. It’s the right moment. Pounce. The ring dropped from her claw, and fell on to the soft sand.
“Pamela?” he said. “Pussy, dearest?”
Is this the moment? The moment when instinct defeats love, when the only thing left to show for this relationship is a squawk of outrage and a flurry of feathers? Don’t be so sure. This is not Schrodinger; you can’t put this cat in a box.
Pamela disengaged herself from Oliver’s wings, knelt down, and retrieved the ring.
“It fell off,” she said.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” said Oliver. “And even if it did, we could overcome it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m an owl,” he said simply. “I can see through the darkest of moments. I can see you. I know what you are, my love. And I’m not afraid.”
“Perhaps you should be,” she whispered, but he only laughed, and led her down the jetty. Disarming, that was the only way to describe him, she thought. If he could see beyond the chase, then maybe she could too. After all, love is not just an exercise in circularity, or in meaning. That’s just what owls and pussycats attempt to make of love.
About Aliya Whiteley
Aliya Whiteley lives in West Sussex and writes novels and short stories. Her first collection of short stories, Witchcraft in the Harem, was published by Dog Horn Publishing in April 2013. She also writes about classic films for Den of Geek.
