The Cat Among Us

  THE CAT AMONG US

  LOUISE CARSON

  Doug Whiteway, Editor

  © 2017, Louise Carson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Doowah Design.

  Cover icons courtesy of Noun Project.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Carson, Louise, 1957-, author

  The cat among us / Louise Carson.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77324-015-2 (softcover).

  --ISBN 978-1-77324-016-9 (EPUB)

  I. Title.

  PS8605.A7775C38 2017 C813’.6 C2017-904696-9

  C2017-904697-7

  Signature Editions

  P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

  www.signature-editions.com

  For Chanel and Aiden,

  special friends

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  CATS

  PART 2

  TEACUPS

  PART 3

  HORTICULTURE

  PART 4

  ART

  NOTES

  PART 1

  CATS

  In the dim early morning light, she padded noiselessly from room to room. Other cats, draped on sofas, tables, chairs, followed her with their eyes, their necks swivelling lazily.

  She was smaller than most of them, with petite features and stubby paws — a calico longhair — the favourite.

  At the cat flap First Cat paused, whiskers twitching. She’d come to the contraption late, didn’t like it, but had reluctantly conceded its usefulness.

  A black shape leapt over her, butting the flap with its shoulder and was through. The flap, a rectangle of flexible carpet, cut from the dining room rug and nailed above the back door’s cutout, retracted, snapping First Cat on her nose. She blinked, then pushed.

  Pausing on the narrow, grey-painted deck that hugged the back wall of the house, First Cat surveyed the world.

  Below the deck, another level: a pink flagstone and mortar path also followed the contour of the building, led to asphalt on the left where the woman kept her car, and on the right to an enclosed back porch. Only the most favoured few were invited into this sanctum. Something about floor-to-ceiling screens and claws.

  Perennials threatened to take over the stone path, sending small volunteers to root in its cracks. First Cat sniffed delicately at a clump of alyssum as she made her way from wood over stone to the slightly damp soil under a hydrangea bush. Her spot.

  Four white feet glowed against dark earth. The black cat rolled from side to side, revealing the three white diamond patches that narrowed and widened from just under his chin to his belly.

  Second Cat. He knew she was there. She hunkered down, made herself a small, compact watcher.

  She knew why he had so quickly become a favourite. Whereas she had come as an adult to the house and had had to work hard to be loved among so many, Second Cat had arrived as a three-month-old kitten. That had been a bitter winter for First Cat, listening and watching as the woman bonded with Second Cat.

  Now that he was four years old, he’d lost the advantage of kittenhood, but still possessed something First Cat knew she’d never had, something prized by the woman: a sense of humour.

  He showed it now by turning his rear to her and kicking up a token few crumbs of earth. First Cat sprang, clouting one of his hips. He took off, darting out from under the hydrangea onto the lawn, to blink in the light and crouch, fair game for the swooping swallows. First Cat ignored his predicament.

  The lawn stretched down a ways till it stopped by a strip of wild flowers. The woman didn’t bother much with these plants. She concentrated on those closest to the house, where she grew herbs and vegetables and flowers for her bouquets.

  Beyond the wild flowers were the rocks and pebbles of the beach. Not much for First Cat down there, though, on a hot day, there was something pleasant to her in lying on a shade-cooled rock, listening to the lake caress the shore.

  The lake, the outermost edge of First Cat’s world, where she knew she’d never venture.

  An ant trundled by, towing a fragment of leaf. First Cat dozed. She was aware of half a dozen other feline forms in the garden besides those of herself and Second Cat.

  To her left, somewhere below the asphalt and the car, but before the thicket that led to an abandoned house, she could hear Mother purring as she groomed a half-grown cat held between her paws. Mother was one of the few cats whose given name was the same as her real one. Mother was Mother. Anyone, including the woman, could see that.

  On the beach, three black-and-grey-striped tigers blended and unblended with the stones, as they worked out their complicated relationship during a game of catch the butterfly. Brothers, their positions within their own hierarchy continuously shifted, though within that of the house, they were fairly close to the top. The woman called them “the boys.” It seemed appropriate to First Cat.

  The only other cat she sensed nearby was the one the woman called “Stupid,” because of his habit of suddenly biting or scratching her hand. A slim, shorthaired grey male, the other cats knew him not as Stupid but as Defiance, and gave him a wide berth. First Cat had heard the woman say of Defiance that he not only had no sense of humour, but he had a maliciousness to him, that he was an incorrigible.

  First Cat wandered out from under her bush and sat at the edge of the lawn. The swallows wouldn’t bother her there. No sign of Second Cat. She was wondering why breakfast was so late when she heard a dismal yowl from inside the house, then another. As she pushed through the cat flap into the dining room, she saw the others were uneasy: shifting positions, grooming.

  She passed from the dining room into the hallway and froze as another yowl filled the house. Second Cat leapt ahead of her. She followed him, slowly hopped up the stairs towards the woman’s bedroom. Second Cat, stiff-legged, skittered sideways back out into the hall, his short black hairs as puffed as possible. He stood aside as First Cat slowly entered the room.

  The woman lay in her bed, unmoving. There was a strong smell. First Cat wrinkled her nose, then jumped on the bed to her spot on the right near the woman’s side.

  Instead of warmth and the rhythm of the woman, expanding and contracting regularly like the lapping of the waves on the shore, there was absence. First Cat curled into her usual place and waited.

  1

  The lawyer’s voice droned on. “And to my nephew, Andrew Petherbridge, I leave my Royal Doulton, the Hummels and the other objects from my collection of porcelain.”

  Gerry opened one eye, sneaked a peak at her cousin Andrew, who was, she supposed, trying to look pleased, and closed the eye, resettling into her doze.

  The train ride from Toronto, the drive to Lovering in the rented car, settling in at Fieldcrest, Cathy Stribling’s big old bed and breakfast, were part of yesterday’s blur. Today’s included breakfast with Cathy and other guests, Aunt Maggie’s funeral and interment, lunch at the Parsley Inn with the family, and now the reading of the will at Andrew’s house.

  Gerry suppressed a smile as she imagined Aunt Maggie’s delicate figurines arranged throughout Andrew’s place. Not that Andrew wasn’t as conservative in his taste as the porcelain — he was — but he went more toward simple heavy leather and wood furniture, as evidenced by the pieces in his living
room. The brass barometer on the wall was the room’s single ornament. What had Aunt Maggie been thinking?

  The lawyer continued with his list of bequests. “To Prudence Crick, I leave the sum of ten thousand dollars, in thanks for her service and her friendship.” Who the heck was Prudence Crick? Gerry opened her eyes to see if she could pick her out from the ten people who were sitting in Andrew’s living room. She thought she knew most of them. Probably Prudence was that stoic-looking fiftyish woman sitting on one of the kitchen chairs at the back of the room. The others were turning towards her with half-smiles and nods. Evidently, the amount was approved. Gerry became somnolent again, reflecting on what she’d left behind in Toronto — what? — just yesterday morning?

  Her landlady had been kind but firm. “You have three months’ notice and, I’m sorry, but I’m getting on and need my son and his girlfriend close by, so they’ll be moving in after you leave.”

  After four years, that was it. She’d moved into that apartment when she turned twenty-one, a year before her dad died. Practically the only legal way to eject a tenant, a good tenant, was to have family move in.

  She should look at it as a plus. A chance to move on to a better place. She groaned inwardly. Three months. And rents in Toronto so high. And she’d have to pay first and last months’ rent. Maybe Aunt Maggie had left her a bit of money. That would help with the move.

  “And to my niece, Geraldine Coneybear, I leave my house, The Maples, and all the contents therein, except those previously mentioned, as well as the sum of fifty thousand dollars, to assist her in its maintenance.”

  Gerry jerked upright and both her eyes snapped open. Andrew was shaking her hand as the other relatives crowded around. “Wow, Gerry! Fantastic! Good for you.” Andrew really had a very nice smile. Too bad they were cousins. And how come he’d taken all the tall genes?

  “Yes, Gerry. Lucky you.” This smile not so nice. Margaret, Andrew’s older sister, named for their aunt, loomed, her three glum-looking sons flanking her. Had she hoped to inherit? Gerry had no more than a second to get the impression of grinding teeth before her Aunt Mary, Aunt Maggie’s sister and Margaret’s mother, replaced her.

  “Gerry!” She threw her arms around her niece, then held her at arm’s length. “More like Deborah every day! The poor thing. She was so glamorous, your mother. That red hair and creamy skin, although she did have a tendency to freckle. And that fabulous figure.” Here she raked Gerry head to toe with a critical glance. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Of course, dear Gerald’s funeral.”

  Gerry flinched, thinking of that sad day when they buried her father near her mother.

  “Is it really three years?” her aunt continued. “And now Maggie. It’s just me left, isn’t it?” She laughed.

  Her husband, Geoff Petherbridge, looked embarrassed, but then, Gerry reflected, he’d had a lot of practice. “How are you, Gerry? Good to see you.” He pecked her on the cheek. “Are you surprised to be Maggie’s heir?”

  “Totally, Uncle Geoff,” replied Gerry, rubbing at the lipstick she knew Aunt Mary had pressed onto the side of her nose. She leaned forward and, under her breath, asked, “Did I get it all?”

  Unfortunately, her query coincided with a lull in the general conversation. Geoff looked surprised and was beginning his reply, “Well, you heard the other bequests — ” when Margaret interrupted her father with a cold edge to her voice.

  “Weren’t you paying attention, Gerry? You get it all. Everything. The house, land, furniture. The paintings.” She seemed to choke on this last word and everyone stood still, waiting.

  Gerry, now fumbling for a tissue in her pocket, replied, “I meant the lipstick Auntie left on my nose. Have I removed all of it?” She turned to Andrew, hopeful of a friendly response.

  He gravely examined both sides of the nose before saying, “Clear.”

  Gerry silently mouthed, “Take me away.”

  Andrew smiled. “Why don’t I bring you back to the bed and breakfast, Gerry? It’s a lot to take in and you must be tired.”

  The lawyer stepped forward. “Miss Coneybear, my card. When you have a moment, there are arrangements, conditions we must discuss.”

  Gerry took the card. Cecil Muxworthy. She looked up, way up. Another giant. “Thank you, Mr. Muxworthy. I’ll call later today if that’s all right. I should get back to Toronto soon.” With a vague wave and a general, “Goodbye,” she backed out of the room.

  As she passed an open doorway on her way to the front door, Gerry glanced into the room and was stunned to see shelves full of china figurines. To Andrew, she remarked, “So, you’re a collector.” He smiled and nodded.

  As they stepped onto the narrow strip of land next to the ditch and a car passed close by, Andrew pushed her ahead of him. “Single file.”

  “I’d forgotten how hard it is to walk on the side of the road here.” She impishly looked up at him. “Aren’t you worried about leaving Margaret at your place? She may be jealous of your barometer.”

  Andrew made a face. “They’ll let themselves out. We all have keys to each other’s houses. Margaret is just…disappointed. She’d have loved living at The Maples. You remember what a great house it is.”

  They turned and looked at the long yellow building across the road from Andrew’s more modest cottage.

  “I’ll have to sell it, I’m afraid.” Gerry brightened up. With the money from The Maples, maybe she could stop renting and stick a toe into the ocean that was the Toronto real estate market. “I’ve got my work and my friends…” Her voice petered out, then she cheered up. “It’ll be amazing to have money.” She hastily amended her expression. “I mean, I’d rather Aunt Maggie was still alive, but — ”

  “But you’re glad you’ve benefitted. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s natural to be pleased.” After a pause Andrew added, “It will change your life.”

  “And you, Andrew, are the Royal Doultons and the Hummels going to change your life?”

  Andrew laughed. “Serves me right. I always admired them in front of her. She loved them so. Actually, I do collect ceramics and Aunt Maggie’s will round out my collection.”

  “Well, there are certainly enough of them, if I remember correctly. Her mother started collecting them, didn’t she?”

  “I think our Grandfather Coneybear presented the first one to his wife in 1938 when your father was born.”

  “Sweet. You’re lucky, Andrew, both your parents are alive.”

  “I know. It was just bad luck your mother getting cancer so young, Gerry. And your father was — what? — fortyish when you were born?”

  “Just forty. We almost share the same birthdate, four days apart.” Gerry grew pensive, remembering her namesake father and her mother, buried in the same little churchyard where they’d left Aunt Maggie that morning.

  They’d reached the drive leading to Fieldcrest, and Gerry said, “If you don’t mind, Andrew, I’ll go in and have a rest. See you later, maybe.” He left her there with a cousinly kiss.

  Gerry studied the large square building with its wraparound roofed veranda, wondered if she could incorporate it in any of her work. Its outline loomed the larger as it was set on a slight rise. The roof overhang brought the proportions down a bit and the veranda grounded the entire edifice. It was a monstrosity but kind of fun. Gerry took out her sketch pad and pencil from her purse and did a quick study.

  Yes. It could be whimsical if she exaggerated the roof, there, like a hat, and pulled the walls in a bit like a waist. The veranda could flare out like a skirt. She hastily closed the pad when she observed her hostess, Cathy, yoo-hooing from the veranda. “Tea-time, Gerry! Tea-time!”

  Gerry sighed and went up the stairs, looking at her feet. She just wanted to be alone. She changed her attitude when she saw the spread Cathy had prepared.

  A plate of sandwiches, with their crusts removed, cut into triangles, squar
es and fingers. Not just scones, but three types of scones: currant, cranberry lemon and — Gerry’s eyes widened — chocolate chip. Thick cream mounded in a bowl, butter, three types of jam, honey, and a lemon loaf, thinly sliced. Drool formed in Gerry’s mouth as she eagerly sat down in a tatty old wicker chair that creaked every time she moved.

  This, then, was the reason for Cathy Stribling’s sturdy figure, though Gerry knew the woman worked hard enough that she deserved a skinnier one. She’d seen her that morning from her bedroom window, digging in one of her gardens, later walking her dog, and, even later, when she was sure all her guests were awake and fed, cutting the immense lawn with a small electric lawnmower and a complicated series of connected extension cords. She seemed to be thriving, a genuinely happy person.

  Gerry heard Cathy’s dog, toenails clicking on the wooden floor, moving towards the veranda. He rested his head on Gerry’s lap, soaked her navy blue skirt with drool, and collapsed with a groan on the mat by the door.

  Gerry took a sandwich and a scone and was given a cup of black tea, perfectly brewed. She leaned back against the wicker chair’s cushions and sighed. “Cathy, you really shouldn’t have.”

  “Well, I don’t usually offer my guests quite as high a tea as this one, but you’ve had a hard day, so, I thought…no, Charles. Si-t. Wai-t.” Her dog, a fat basset with something else mixed in — spaniel? setter? something with wavy hair — sat and waited, then, as exhaustion overcame greed, sank back down. Gerry dropped a crumb of scone near his nose and watched as he snuffled and eventually found it.

  “I see you love animals,” said Cathy, demolishing a stack of chicken sandwiches, “as I do.” She began on the ham.

  Gerry quickly helped herself to a cheese and pickle. “Well, not so much love as like.” She reached down to pat Charles. “They’re nice, I guess.”