‘Isn’t he a gem?’ she said, taking him, kissing him on the head. The cat didn’t fight her. He knew he was on to a good thing.

We went in—cat, mandarins and me—and she filled a saucer of milk, and cut fritz from a roll and watched him eat.

‘Providence,’ she whispered.

‘How’s that?’ I asked.

‘He takes away and He gives.’

‘What you gonna do with him?’

She gave me a look. ‘He’s a bit thin, but we can feed him up.’

I thought of Ernie and Pop and the street and the council, and everyone, really. I could smell cat shit on my shirt. Stale fat. David came in, pulled up to the table and said, ‘Where’s she come from?’

‘He,’ Val corrected. ‘He was under the house.’

David studied him. ‘All on again, eh?’ And smiled.

‘No,’ Val said. ‘This one’s special. He was sent. So we gotta protect him.’

‘How?’ I asked.

‘Keep him in the house, don’t let Ernie see, whatever happens.’ She picked him up, settled him in the crook of her arm and started stroking him. Soon, he was half-asleep.

Dave said, ‘Doug still teaching you to drive, Clem?’

‘He’s trying.’

And Val said, ‘Imagine. You gettin’ yer licence. I’s only just changing yer nappy.’

‘Few years ago,’ I said.

‘Not when yer our age, eh, David?’ She held the cat’s head so it couldn’t help but look at her. ‘I reckon I’ll call yer Providence.’

‘That’s got a nice ring,’ I said.

Then to continue the naming, she said, ‘I used to bath you and Jen. If yer mum was late home, and sometimes Doug was down the pub with Ernie. Tip water on yer head … and you had them little bum dimples, didn’t he, David?’

But he just nodded.

‘Bit of a shame.’ She picked out a mandarin, examined it, and seemed pleased. ‘What you gonna do next year?’

‘Uni, perhaps.’

‘Be good if you did law, eh, Davo?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You interested in that?’

‘Perhaps. Maybe arts. Writing. I like books.’

‘That’d be alright too.’ She nodded, and David followed suit. ‘Dickens is the go, eh?’

‘David Copperfield?’ I asked.

‘That’s a good one.’ She checked that Providence was real. Examined his teeth, and eyes, then mine. ‘Peter reckons you’re writin’ your own book?’

‘It’s just a first go.’

‘Reckons it’s about all of us.’

‘Sort of.’

I couldn’t help but think of the passage I’d just finished. Annie Douglas, pushing her disabled son down the street, stopping in front of Chris Knowlson’s house.

Nice music, Mr Knowlson.

Kamahl. He’s my favourite. What about you, Mrs Douglas?

Nat Cole. Nice and smooth.

That’s how they’d start off, anyway. Then there’d be issues over barking dogs, and Chris would call the council, and they’d send someone around, and it’d get worse.

‘Mrs Masharin reckons you should write about what you know.’

‘Well, that’s easy, you know us. There’s nothin’ you could say that’d upset us.’