Life had never been kind to Alfie. Not from the start, at least. Sure, hed had a family oncefather, mother, grandparentsthough everyone called it “troubled.” They scraped by in a cramped flat in Manchester, his dad and granddad taking odd jobs just to keep food on the table. Then, when Alfie was barely seven, a bottle of cheap vodka took them all. Only Gran survived, but her mind was gone.
By the time Alfie started year one, he was in a childrens home. His temper, sharp as a blade, made friendships impossible. Fists clenched, he fought anyone who so much as looked at him wrong. The other kids learned to steer clear, but he never made a friend. He visited Gran a handful of times over the years. Shed become a ghost of herself, hoarding strays from the alley, wandering the bins for scraps. Neighbours avoided her.
When Alfie aged out of care, he moved in with Gran. The house reeked of cat piss and neglect. He tried throwing a few of the strays out, but Gran wailed like a banshee, and even he couldnt bear it. He found work as a labourer, crashing in the site hut most nights with the other blokesrough lads like him, with stories just as grim.
One night, after too many pints, Alfie and Max squared up over nothing. A shove, a curse, then fists. Alfie could handle himself, but when Maxs mate Jack jumped in, they left him barely standing. He crawled home, ribs screaming, and collapsed onto his bed in the dark.
He woke to warmth pressed against his sidesomething soft, purring. A cat. He flinched, but the pain dulled where the creature lay.
Morning came, and the cat was still there. Big green eyes, patchy furthe kind people called lucky.
“Piss off,” Alfie croaked. The cat flicked its ears, then slunk to the floor.
He didnt go to work.
Postie Auntie Vera fussed over him, threatening to call an ambulance. Alfie refused. Hed been worse. She brought soup, fed him and Gran. The cat returned that night, curling into the ache in his ribs, its purr a steady hum.
Days passed. The cathis catalways came back. The others, the quick and clever ones, fought for Grans scraps. But this one, slow and strange, waited for him. Alfie started buying cheap tins at the corner shop, hiding them from the others.
His cat. The words felt foreign, sweet.
One day, he took her to the vet.
“Name?” the vet asked, filling out the form.
“Doesnt have one.”
“Got to call her something.”
“Just leave it blank.”
The vet sighed, then examined her. “Shes young. Three, maybe four. Whats the issue?”
Alfie hesitated. “Dyou think she can see? Even a bit?”
The vet shook his head. “Completely blind. But shes healthy. Good weight. Just keep her fed, wormed, flea-treatedyeah?”
After paying, Alfie stared at the prices on the shelf. Cat food, toys, flea dropssince when did it cost so much?
A voice behind him: “Excuse me, young man.”
An elderly woman, neat as a pin, clutching a handkerchief. “I couldnt help overhearing. My catMarmaladeshe passed last night. Ive got supplies if youd like them?”
Alfie blinked. “I cant”
“Please.” Her voice wavered. “Id hate for it to go to waste.”
She led him to her flatwalls covered in school photos. A teacher.
“You dont sound like one,” Alfie said, awkward.
She smiled. “Never needed to shout. They just listened.”
Her flat was warm, tidy. A broken light switch caught his eye.
“Let me,” he said, surprising himself.
Later, over tea, he told her about the care home, Gran, the building site. She listened, really listened. For the first time, Alfie didnt want to leave.
At home, he unpacked the suppliesa carrier, bowls, toys. Flipping open the vet passport, he hesitated, then scrawled: *Marmalade*.
He started visiting Miss Higginsthat was her nameregularly. She fed him proper food, asked about his day. No one had ever done that.
One night, watching Gran pick at her food, something cracked inside him. He opened the cat food, fed every damn stray in the house. Made Gran porridge, bought milk. Then he curled up in bed and criedproper sobs, the kind hed swallowed since childhood. Marmalade pressed close, purring.
When his call-up papers came, Miss Higgins took Marmalade in. At the vet, she saw the name and hugged him tight.
Gran died while he was serving. The funeral was bleak, hollow. That night, at Miss Higgins, Marmalade didnt leave his side.
After his discharge, Alfie split his time between his place and hers. Auntie Vera had rehomed Grans cats. He studied, thanks to Miss Higginsturns out he had a brain under all that rage.
Years later, when his son, Oliver, asked why Marmalades eyes were “funny,” Alfie smiled.
“She sees different, mate. Not with her eyes. She sees what hurts. Whos good.”
Oliver gasped. “Magic?”
Alfie stroked Marmalades head. “Yeah. Magic.”
