The Gondola Cat (Excerpt)

1870. Or thereabouts. Four in the afternoon. Or thereabouts. On a hot summer's day. (Is it imagination or were summers longer then ?)A man with a mane of graying hair, an excellent moustache for keeping out draughts (but a less than impressive beard), and a straw boater, marching briskly along the dusty banks of a narrow canal, encumbered with various suitcases and boxes.
A cat, a huge tabby, wandering and twining aimlessly along, nearly collides with said man (William Thomas, late of R.A. , naturally impoverished), who has now arrived at his destination: a fading green door halfway along the embankment.
He pulls at the bell and listens patiently for the shambling footsteps of Lucia, the lady who 'does' for his hospitable friends. They are away at present, but have kindly left their house at Mr Thomas's disposal for the summer, as they have done before. Lucia, breathing heavily (her knees bother her in this heat), eventually opens the door, and cordial exchanges are performed. Yes, everyone is very well, we have been fortunate with the weather, how was the crossing ? Very good, very good; the usual rooms are ready, hot water will be brought up directly. . .Well,well, what a magnificent beast - eh, Mrs Lucia ? Nearly knocked me over - Does he, indeed ? Must make an excellent mouser . . . How are the knees ? - No,no, I can manage perfectly well, and you must consider yourself on holiday; you will remember my needs are simple . . . dinner at 8.00 ? Capital , capital. A dopo.

A fair number of stairs to the top, which creak with comforting familiarity, a narrow corridor with several doors leading off from it, turn the handle on one of them, throw the suitcases down and fling open the shutters. Red rooftops, blue sky, white stone, yellow walls, green water, and black boats. The afternoon sun dapples lovingly on the water, plays tricks on the underbellies of bridges and flirts engagingly with the metalwork on the long, lazy-looking black boats. There's that huge tabby again, curled up now in one of the boats. Well, well. Such is this city of stone and water. Mr William Thomas, late of the Royal Academy, turns first to a battered brown valise and proceeds to sort out his most precious belongings: paintbrushes, colours and pencils. Summer is not a time for idleness for such as he. The money he has sent to his sister will not last long, and his agent in London will soon be enquiring after his next work. 'I have a client - possibly two - who saw that piece you did last year - could be interested in your next work . .. you'll have it ready in no time, I am sure. . .' Devil take him. Never say a week when a day will do was surely his motto. Still, it had been, as he recalled, one of those pieces he had painted quite easily. He has the original sketches with him to remind him so perhaps he could finish it quickly after all : and to try to follow in the footsteps of one of his heroes : tight-fisted, secretive, successful, brilliant Mr Turner, also R.A. Also fond of this City. Also, from what Mr Thomas recalls, amiably tolerant of cats. It really is a magnificent beast, even curled up down there; positively huge. No doubt Lucia is partly responsible for its massive girth . . .

An absent-minded fly settles on the cat's nose. He swipes at it languidly, but really, it is simply too much effort. The fly will get bored and float away of its own accord. The sun is just a little lower in the sky. The cat settles down to another light nap.

Mr Thomas has finished unpacking. Palette. Brushes. Oil paints. Cleaning spirit. Charcoal. All set out quickly and neatly on the table. Water has duly been brought up; he has washed, and inspected his rooms - a bedroom, a larger room with a balcony and a long table which makes do as studio, and a third room- quite unnecessary, he tells himself, - the 'parlour'- in the unlikely event that he should receive visitors. All in order, as ever.
It remains only to take in the fresh air from the very top of the house - up a somewhat decrepit stairway in the 'parlour' to the rooftop, where a wooden platform has lain basking in the sun for the last two hundred years or so. It is the altana, possibly the artist's favourite part of this most comfortable of lodgings, ideal as an extended studio for painting on fine days. In cooler weather he will paint there. This is where, in days gone by, ladies of leisure sat bleaching their hair, he muses, an incorrigible romantic. He might even make it the subject of a painting. (He might not, if he realized what noxious substances they were busy lathering their heads with at the time).

And now, time to take in the view before changing for dinner. He clattered up the steps to the door leading out onto the platform. Seagulls drifted about, hunting scraps, the occasional sparrow swooped down onto the roof-tiles, or perched along the edges, peering up at him, mutely questioning him as to the quantity of breadcrumbs he might have about his person.

The day is not quite finished, nor yet the evening quite begun. There is that lingering light, what some like to call the Flemish light you see in Carpaccio or Bellini. It is a little more than twilight yet a little less than dusk. It is the moment of change, where one thing becomes another, or is not quite as it appears.
It is the moment for change. The cat starts to grow in the smallish, neatish boat which also begins to turn into . . . A long and narrow and black boat, with a cabin in the middle, in the best of traditions.
A low rasping chuckle across the water; a velvety movement in the prow of the boat and suddenly, a figure rises apparently from nowhere, doffing his hat to the world at large, before settling down again. To the passer-by, it would appear there really is someone sitting there.