The Cat Among Us Page 2

  “Oh, my dear, I don’t know what I’d do without Prince Charles.”

  Gerry’s eyebrows automatically lifted on hearing the dog’s full name. Obviously, Cathy either didn’t realize or care how odd this sounded. “It’s very lonely here when there aren’t any guests.”

  Cathy was older than Gerry’s cousins Margaret and Andrew, in her fifties. Gerry didn’t know her that well, whether she’d ever been married, for example, and wasn’t in the mood for exchanging personal confidences. She could use some information though. “How is the old house — The Maples? Is it still in good shape?”

  “Oh, your aunt kept it as well as she could. It’s the wood, you know.” Here Cathy looked around at her own walls and floors, rather helplessly, Gerry thought. “I do what absolutely needs to be done,” she continued. “The roof, the plumbing. But don’t go down into the basement, my dear.” She shuddered. “You don’t want to know.”

  Before her eyebrows could lift again, Gerry reminded herself that Cathy was probably referring to mould or dust or spiders, not skeletons, and asked for another cup of tea. She took a slice of the lemon loaf and almost fainted. Still warm!

  Cathy went on: “In the winter, when there aren’t any guests — and I believe your aunt did this too — I close doors and just heat a few rooms for me. Sometimes” — here she laughed — “I’ve had to thaw the plumbing with my hair dryer.”

  Gerry laughed politely and thought of her soon-to-be-vacated apartment in Toronto, complete with a landlady who handled all the repairs and maintenance. Oh, well, she’d just have to find another. She sighed and put down her cup. “Is it all right if I go for a nap?”

  “Of course, dear, you must be exhausted. It was a lovely funeral, though. Your room’s all made up.”

  Gerry stood. “Can I use your phone? A local call,” she reassured when Cathy began to look worried. She added sadly, “There’s no one in Toronto I need to call.”

  2

  Gerry swore as she swerved to avoid the woman pushing the black baby carriage along the winding river road. Her own fault; she’d been looking at houses, remembering which ones her parents’ friends had lived in, which ones she’d visited to play with other children. The woman, with her neutral clothing, had blended with the road. If not for the carriage…and Gerry shuddered, thinking of the carriage, its occupant and the woman all flying through the air.

  “It didn’t happen. It didn’t happen,” she muttered and pulled into the parking pad next to The Maples. Look at that view. It must be worth millions. Waterfront doubled the value of a property. For the first time she felt a bit awestruck that her aunt had given her all this.

  She was still sitting in the car, clutching the steering wheel, when Cecil Muxworthy (“call me Cece”) arrived. He peered in at her. “You look a bit pale. Are you all right?”

  Gerry got out and confessed. “I almost hit a woman and a baby on the road coming here. I’m still a bit shaky.”

  “That’s terrible.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “But there’s no baby involved.” When Gerry looked confused, he added, “You didn’t recognize Prudence, your aunt’s cleaner?” Gerry shook her head. “Prudence doesn’t drive, and she always says the only reason she’s still alive is because she doesn’t walk anywhere without her carriage.” He added, “It seems she’s been proved right. Unfortunate.”

  “Why unfortunate? I didn’t hit her.”

  “I just thought you’d maybe want her to continue to clean the house.”

  “Oh, yes, I see. You mean keep it nice for potential buyers to look at. Well, maybe she didn’t notice me in the car. It’s a rental.”

  “Yes, well. That’s not important right now. I have to tell you some of the conditions your aunt laid out when she left you the house. Shall we?” He indicated an old picnic table in some shade at the side of the backyard. “It’s a lovely view. Perhaps we could conduct our meeting here, then go inside after.”

  Gerry preceded him down the stone steps onto the lawn and plunked herself at the table. “It’s so quiet, you don’t really hear the road. I could get used to this.” She stretched her arms and turned her attention to the lawyer, thin and homely but with a pleasant expression, in his early fifties, she estimated.

  Cece shot her a quick look before explaining. “It’s because the lawn is below road level and the house absorbs a lot of the noise. Not that it’s a noisy road.” He took her aunt’s will from his pocket, unfolded it and laid it on the table before them. Behind him Gerry saw a small tri-colour cat sitting composedly on the deck above them.

  “Did my aunt have a cat?” she asked. “Because that one looks like it owns the place.” The cat lowered its front end until it was lying like a sphinx, staring at Gerry and Cece.

  “Mm. Ah. Yes. She had a few. She had a few cats.”

  “I remember one or two when I was little and we visited, but they always ran away from me.” Gerry became aware of some rustling behind her, turned in time to see a grey form melt into the raspberry canes. “How few?” she asked.

  “Prudence says twenty, but I’ve never seen them all together to make a count. But she would know.”

  Gerry whistled in amazement. “Twenty! Boy, it must be hairy in there.” She looked in trepidation at the house. “Is the furniture all torn up?” she asked anxiously.

  “We’ll go inside in a moment and you can see for yourself. My, my, look at the time. My wife will be expecting me shortly.” He cleared his throat. “These are the conditions of your aunt’s bequest to you. ‘My home and its contents…previously mentioned…’ Here we are. ‘…on the condition that she inhabit the house,’” Gerry groaned. “‘for a period of not less than five years consecutively,’” Gerry sat upright. “‘and that she cherish,’” Gerry groaned again. “‘my dear companions: Marigold, Bob, Mother, Winston, Franklin, Joseph, Blackie, Whitey, Runt, Mouse, Stupid, Kitty-Cat, Harley, Max, Lightning, Jinx, Cocoon, Min-Min, Monkey and Ronald.’” The lawyer counted. “Yup. Twenty. Cats.”

  Gerry’s voice was muffled as she rested her face on her arms on the table. “Ronald?” she asked faintly.

  “Ronald.” Cece produced a set of keys and slid them across the table. “Want me to come in with you?”

  Gerry took the keys. “Do you know the house? Like where the electrical is and so forth?”

  “Yes. But Prudence knows it best.”

  “Okay, then. I guess you can go. Thanks. Thanks for your help.” They shook hands and Cece drove away.

  Gerry sat back down at the picnic table and looked at the lake. Mature trees, mostly maples, framed her view. The water was still and the sky was blue. She turned her head to see the little cat still staring. As Gerry rose, the cat rose too, stretched its little back and yawned. Gerry walked to the side door, read Yale on the lock, and inserted the likeliest key. A match. She entered a little square porch, just big enough for an old bureau and a recycling tub. Some of her aunt’s boots and shoes were still there, tidily lined up.

  Gerry paused and gave a moment to remembering her father’s youngest sister. A tall, happy woman, she’d never married, been content to live a quiet country life, walking the short distance to her church where her ancestors (and some of Gerry’s) were buried, working in her garden. Not a bad life, Gerry supposed. She unlocked the kitchen door with the next key on the bunch and stepped inside. The calico cat darted in almost between her feet, making her stop.

  The kitchen was much as she remembered it, except for the footbath-sized container of kibble under the small table. The floor and counters were neat and clean. She stepped into the next room, the winter living room, her aunt had called it, where a giant ancient hearth dominated. A rectangular table with six straight-backed chairs filled the river-view side, while a couple of rockers stood in front of the fireplace. On the street side of the room was a long cushioned bench Gerry lay on when she was a child.

  This was the room she
remembered most from Christmas visits with her parents — where they would eat and warm themselves, where her aunt had her Christmas tree. “Too many ghosts,” she murmured, and walked through a narrow passageway lined with cupboards full of china and crystalware. It felt strange to think all this stuff was hers. Back in Toronto she had the remnants of a cheap set of dinnerware she’d bought when she left home, as well as the odds and ends she’d accumulated. But this, this spoke of generations. She stepped into the large formal dining room.

  Finally, some more cats. Around the edges of the room, against its walls, were pulled out the dozen chairs that went with the massive mahogany table. Over each chair’s upholstery was draped a towel. And most of the chairs displayed at least one cat. It was a bit eerie.

  As the cats registered Gerry, some of them sat up. One, a large marmalade tiger, left the chair she shared with a small white cat and came up to Gerry, rubbed against her legs. The little calico who’d been accompanying Gerry walked over to the tiger. The tiger moved away.

  “Oh, you’re the boss, are you?” Gerry addressed the calico. As the kitchen and winter living room had been, the dining room was spotless. The room leading off of the dining room, which Gerry remembered as a study, had been turned into a display area for her aunt’s ceramic collection. Gerry flicked the light switch and gasped. Lights inside the cases, which lined the walls, illuminated hundreds, possibly thousands, of china figurines: Andrew’s inheritance. As she looked at the various groupings — ladies in long colourful skirts, rabbits, children in shorts gazing winsomely — Gerry shuddered. Not her cup of tea. Andrew was welcome to them.

  She returned to the dark dining room and opened the blinds on the windows overlooking the lake, then turned and counted the cats. Twelve, including the little bossy one. The others must be elsewhere in the house or outside. She moved into the spacious entranceway — as big as a room — and remembered why she loved it.

  To her right was the front door with its small covered porch. On her left was the wide staircase leading up to a landing with a view of the lake. The staircase split to the left and to the right at the landing, then turned again to finish upstairs on a narrow balcony above her head. She hugged herself. It was hers!

  A long narrow washroom was tucked behind the staircase and she went to check it. As she pushed on the partially open door, her nose told her she’d found the cats’ toilet or, rather, toilets. Six litter boxes stretched from the doorway to the toilet itself. A cloth bag of plastic bags hung from a nail on the inside of the door. She selected one and scooped. Yuck. One of the downsides to cat ownership. She set the bag outside a door that led to the screened back porch. The sleek grey cat she’d caught just an impression of earlier darted in. Gerry could see where he or someone had been plucking at the screen door with sharp claws. She wondered if cats, like dogs, needed their nails trimmed.

  Back in the entranceway, she turned left, entered her favourite room in the house, and the farthest from the kitchen. Known as the summer living room, it had been shut up in winter as too difficult to heat, but during the other seasons was, she suspected, her aunt’s favourite as well.

  Here were the books, lovingly protected behind glass-fronted bookcases, and prints and paintings displayed against the delicate pale green walls. From waist height down, the walls were lined with golden bamboo. The whole room had a sort of oriental-Impressionist flavour.

  The artist in Gerry expanded. If she moved that sofa down there, and rolled up the carpet, here was a room in which she could draw and paint. She was relieved to note an absence of towels on the light green upholstery that covered the white painted banquette built in along two of the walls. She guessed that because of the wallpaper, most cats were forbidden the room.

  “Except you, of course,” she said to the calico who had softly followed her in and who she was getting used to having at her heels. “You’re dogging me, you know.” Bad taste, the cat blinked. “Sorry,” said Gerry. They went out of the room and upstairs.

  Five bedrooms for the family, separated by a partition from the servants’ bedrooms where a narrow second staircase led down to the winter living room. “I forgot about that.” She pushed on the partition. It opened easily, led to the modern bathroom, an office and a couple of small rooms being used for storage. “Well, of course Aunt Maggie didn’t want to go down then up again to go pee in the night.” The cat watched Gerry as she inspected the tub and sink, ran the taps briefly, and looked out the window.

  There was Andrew, standing in his garden across the road, looking at the house. Gerry stepped back. He must have been the one Aunt Maggie turned to when she needed assistance or advice. Someone to change a fuse when the lights went out. Gerry shivered at the thought of winter in the house if the electricity failed. “Oh, no,” she said, looking down at the driveway to her right. Someone was pulling in.

  “I’d have been here earlier but some maniac tried to run me off the road. I was so upset I had to go tell Mother.” Prudence Crick set out twenty small plates on the kitchen counter. She opened four large cans of cat food, then removed some plastic containers from a shopping bag she’d brought and opened them up, showing the contents to Gerry. The kitchen door was shut but Gerry was aware of a furry multitude mewing and pushing at its far side.

  “Chopped cooked chicken — dark meat — and chopped cooked chicken livers. For Madame. She’s got hyperthyroidism and can’t eat the regular stuff. Won’t touch kibble.” At Gerry’s wide-eyed look, she smiled grimly. “You’ll get used to it. You eat chicken?”

  “Yes,” Gerry murmured faintly, wondering if Prudence was offering her a portion of the chopped meat.

  “So when you cook some for yourself, you just cook extra for her, eh?”

  Gerry was about to admit she rarely cooked when Prudence jerked her head in the direction of the small cat, the only one allowed in the kitchen during meal preparation, apparently, who was passively awaiting the presentation of her food.

  Prudence continued, “Just don’t salt it. It’s the salt that revs up the thyroid. I know. I had to cook salt-free for Mother for years.” She began to set the plates on the floor. Gerry passed the remainder to her and was stooping to add the plate of chopped chicken and liver to the rest when Prudence stopped her. “That one goes there.” She pointed to the top of the fridge.

  “Well, obviously,” Gerry joked. No response from Prudence, but the little cat jumped from floor to chair, to counter to fridge top. Gerry meekly put the dish in front of her. Prudence opened the kitchen door.

  Nineteen varicoloured bodies rushed in, found a spot and began eating voraciously. Prudence pointed them out, telling their names. “That big marmalade is Mother because she’s motherly. She’s one of the biggest, so easy to recognize. Those three grey tigers are the boys — Winnie, Frank and Joe — they’re brothers.”

  “Who’s the little white one near Mother?”

  “That’s Ronald.”

  Gerry bent over and stroked the thin back. The little cat shivered and continued eating. “Pleased to meet you, Ronald.”

  “He’s Mother’s latest and the last one to arrive here.”

  “Her latest?”

  “Her latest adopted child. She’ll look after him until he’s grown and settles in.” Sure enough, Mother had been unable to finish her plate of food, had made room for Ronald to gobble it up. Prudence then rattled off the same list of names Gerry had just heard enumerated in her aunt’s will. Prudence concluded by looking at the top of the fridge where the little calico was cleaning her whiskers with her paws. “And that is Marigold — Top Cat.” The cat paused in her grooming to acknowledge the sound of her name, then resumed her licking. Prudence added, picking up empty plates and filling the sink with soapy water, “But I call her Madame, don’t I, Madame?”

  Some of the other cats shifted their attention to the tub of kibble while others wandered back into the house. Gerry, bemused by all the activi
ty and trying to put names to various hairy faces, only half heard Prudence, then snapped to attention. “…every Monday and Thursday from nine to three with a short break for lunch. Of course until you move in, I’ll come every day, feed them and clean the boxes. Forty dollars regular and ten just to do the cats.”

  Gerry calculated rapidly and made a decision. “Could we just do once a week cleaning and of course cat feeding when I’m away, which I will be…” Gerry spoke slowly, with the dawning realization that what she was saying was really going to happen “…until I pack up my Toronto apartment and move…” She gulped. “…move here.”

  Prudence eyed her keenly, let the water out of the sink and grabbed the mop, which she wet under the tap. “Make a nice change for you, Miss, going from a city apartment to a house with a garden. And it’s not as if you’re a stranger.”

  “Call me Gerry, please. And may I call you Prudence?”

  “You may.” She finished her mopping, rinsed the mop in the sink and returned it to its corner. “Will I come back tomorrow or Thursday to clean?”

  “Thursday.”

  “I’ll need a bit of money for Madame’s meat.”

  “Of course. How much do I owe you? My purse is in the car.”

  Prudence took an old flat black purse off the counter and led the way out the side door to the parking pad. There, parked next to Gerry’s bright red rental, was the black baby carriage.

  Gerry found herself walking the upstairs hall between the family’s bedrooms and the servants’, the thin white kitten clasped in her arms. She was wearing her favourite soft white nightgown. A low moon illuminated the hall with its slanted light. She pushed the partition gently and slowly it opened. She heard her mother’s low, drugged voice call her name, and entered the little white room where she lay. The ceiling was steeply angled either side of the window where the head of her mother’s narrow bed was placed. Gerry laid the white kitten down on her mother’s chest. Her mother turned her head, opened her mouth and —