YEAR OF THE CAT by AL STEWART. Story by Paul Gleeson.

Driving home, May 1977

With never-ending traffic ahead and behind them, the Datsun 200B was trying to get off the highway. The squashed family was at its mercy.

The eldest had recently entered teenage years and was feverously scratching. The fabric of his Sunday best, purple slacks and matching purple cardigan, will do that.

His Mum was trying to find her family some musical solace. They turned slowly off the highway to a range of car horns and into, lifeless suburbia. Jagged powerlines, with their wires hanging on to huge drops, brown homes and their frosted windows, and overflowing gutters. All seemed ill-prepared for the next deluge. Mum was fiddling with the dial, but the glitchy radio was not getting her urgency—pure static.

She tweaked again, the static faded, and the DJ announced ‘You are on 3XY, and we are gently rocking the suburbs’. The radio announcer speaks again, telling us that its more than just a song about a cat.

A piano solo build. Soothing and timeless. The drums and bass kick in. Resonant and mighty.

The rain begins. Lyrics unfold. The itchy teenage boy is ushered away.

A seaside town appears.

A local market is in full swing. Perfectly aligned trees keep each stall in shade. Families and couples wander, enjoying the freedom that only a Saturday can bring. The warmth of the sun dries out his ice body, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee and children’s laughter fills it.

He closes his eyes to the sun. Al Stewart is giving him something he has never had before.

A woman appears in front of him, in a silk dress and flowing hair. Skipping through copper stones, she smiles and waves and reaches back to hold his hand. She guides him to the market.

There’s a bump in the road, and he’s jerked back to reality. Staring out his window, huge rainclouds are invading over the hills, and then, passing his school, the fear of Monday abounds.

The lyrics lock the traffic lights to green. Music is now king. The lead break begins. Ever so smooth, ever so gentle. Note by note. It at first entices him and then, again, lures him away.

Wildly, he searches for her, up and down the gravel roads of the small town, he then trudges along the water’s edge. All that’s left are the worn patches of grass where the market once was. The waves begin to heighten as the water soaks his feet and the salt stings his eyes. He is oblivious to these sensations.

A guitar solo slowly builds and intensifies, screaming through the car. Dad and Mum shift in their seats, remembering the old days.

A lonely sax begins, and she reappears in front of a warm, crimson sunset.

The 200 B is making its final ascent.

Closing lyrics reach in and tease.

For the last time, she appears.

A lone tear meanders down the left-hand side of his face and sits next to his chin. The teenager speaks.

“I never really had a chance with you, did I? You’re sending me back to the wolves.”

She looks away.

He tries again. Begging.

“Please. Please don’t leave me. You can’t. I’m alone, so alone. I can’t face this.”

“Sh,” she tells him, reaching towards his tears.

“You know you’re loved,” she rethinks, seeing his past and knowing his future. “At least, I love you.”

A sax is lingering. The seaside sky is black, except for an arch tinge of salmon red. Streetlights come on.

He watches her face dissolve in the frosty window of the car. He spreads his fingers and puts his hand on the tingling ice window. The car jerks as it hits the driveway and Dad growls about Radio Gold returning to Radio Bland.

Stereo Story#793