Martin has worn down my defenses

Provence

My older, adopted sister came to stay. She suffers from peripheral neuropathy secondary to diabetes and is registered disabled. It’s a worry watching her negotiate the cliff path and the twelve stone steps to the front door with her stick, but she adores it here. Since reversing her insulin-dependent diabetes with an extreme fasting keto diet, her mobility has improved and she no longer uses a mobility scooter.

My sister got cross when I doubted the veracity of both his ID and love for her

Obesity and diabetes killed her twin brother five years ago this week. He was sixty-two. First he partially lost his eyesight, then sensation in his feet and fingers, and finally his legs. Anthony was a kind soul: a hardworking mechanical engineer who loved his family. When we were younger he and his wife would come to visit for a few days and he’d do manly stuff such as checking the tires, radiator and lights on my car and mending things in the house. Even when we were wee he had endless patience for his annoying ginger sister: when I was a baby, pushing my stroller round the farmhouse courtyard for hour after tedious hour and later teaching me to play football, fire a bow and arrow, climb trees and shoot an airgun. He was strong, the best gymnast and cricketer in his class and I’ve never seen anyone throw a stone further than he could — or laugh as hard at my attempts. He’s one of the reasons I exercise a lot and occasionally challenge my daughters and pals to arm wrestling tournaments.

We don’t have much in common, my sister and I, apart from our tragic, weird and abusive childhood, but we have great affection for one another. We talk little about the horrors and more about the landscape and people on the periphery of our younger lives. “Remember that lady we used to have tea with in Edinburgh? She was like a Scottish Joyce Grenfell.” “Dad’s bridge partner, Peggy.” “I loved going there; nice cakes.” “Yeah but Mum used to tell us we were only allowed one.” Occasionally, as with most adult siblings, we bicker about a memory. “You weren’t there. I told you about it!” “Yes I was!” “No you weren’t”… etc.

Only once in the past forty-five years have we got close to falling out and that was earlier this year when she was catfished for a second time. With the help of an online friend of a friend I’ve never met — proving social media isn’t all bad — I outed the first scammer who claimed that he was a widowed Canadian doctor working for the Peace Corps but was, in reality, a Ghanaian fraudster using the photographs of a German engineer. This time it was a widowed American deep-sea diver who, in his early sixties, still traveled the world working, except when he was sailing the huge yacht he part owned, or riding his Harley-Davidson to the Grand Canyon. She got cross when I doubted the veracity of both his ID and love for her.

In the Netflix documentary Sweet Bobby and Me, which I’ve read about but not seen, Kirat Assi, the woman who was catfished for ten years by a female cousin posing as an online lover, expresses dismay at being called gullible and naive. But the words just mean easily persuaded, and some people, like my sister, are more trusting and less worldly and skeptical than the rest of us. After three months of gentle WhatsApp disagreements — me pleading, sending articles and documentaries on the subject — she told me to stop. Following a ten-day silence I got a message from her: “Sorry love, you were right. He’s asked me for money. Told me he lost his credit cards in a diving accident off the coast of Mexico… I’ve ended it and reported him.” “Who knew you could tap a card on the ocean floor?” I said.

But then aren’t we all occasionally susceptible to attention and flattery, especially if we’re momentarily vulnerable or lonely? Early one morning last month, after a grueling workout, I sat in the doorway on the top step enjoying the view when he came and sat beside me. At first I’d discouraged his efforts at friendship, but we’d got closer over the past weeks. Sitting there side by side felt companionable, pleasant almost, so I said nothing and stayed still. Then he brought his face close to mine and stroked my cheek. A simple touch. After all these months of fending him off — I was lost. I promised myself I wouldn’t let him into my bed.

I don’t even like cats. There are far too many in the village. Driving up to the main road from the car park we have to avoid running over litters of kittens of varying ages as they dart one by one across the track. It’s like a video game. This one is a tabby, about a year old and so tiny, skinny and starving — I had to feed him. A week later in view of his intelligence, geniality, small stature and ability to make me laugh, I called him Martin, after my second favorite writer. Martin Amis was 5ft 6in and in his last book, Inside Story, tells his girlfriend, the fictional character Phoebe, that small men try harder. His namesake certainly does; repeatedly flinging himself at the front door and sliding down it with his claws to get my attention. Sometimes he joins me while I do weights and HIIT. When I was lying on the mat doing oblique crunches he turned his back to me, inches from my face and lifted his tail. “You’d better make the most of those Martin… They’re coming off on Tuesday…”

This article was originally published in The Spectator’s UK magazine. Subscribe to the World edition here.