The Cat Among Us Page 6

  He seemed to know she was special, put the right food in the right spot, fed the others. “Oh my God! Prince Charles!” He clutched his head and ran out the door.

  She could hear him praising the dog. Apparently, it was still alive. She stretched and hopped down from fridge to counter to floor.

  The others made way as she passed. “Small but mighty,” she recalled the woman, the old woman, saying proudly.

  Outside, and from under the hydrangea, she watched as the man fetched water for the dog, heard its sloppy drinking.

  It subsided back under the picnic table. The man had just lit a cigarette and sat at the table looking at the lake when the phone rang. He cursed and went inside.

  She crept up on the dog. It lay on its side, twitching and moaning. It smelt like — dog. She passed it and made for the shore. The man had pulled his canoe high up out of the water, presumably so it wouldn’t bump against the rocks. She sniffed one end of the rope; the woman — the young woman — had touched it. She followed the rope with her nose, hopped up on the prow of the canoe, smelt the man who’d just fed her. And in between?

  She dropped into the canoe, stepped delicately around damp patches, found the man’s jacket, curled up and slept.

  She woke when she heard the young woman’s car pull in and the dog begin its absurd barking. She yawned and stretched and wandered over to Yalta.

  She’d never understood why the old woman and her friends laughed when speaking of the place, or why the laughter increased when the boys, known to the woman as Winston, Franklin and Joseph, made their appearance on their chosen hunting ground around the pool.

  The woman would say, “It just all came together and Yalta it became.” And the guests would laugh knowingly.

  A human thing, it must be, but First Cat didn’t even understand cat jokes, such as the ones played by Second Cat, the boys and certain of the others. Such as the one being played even now. She crouched behind a screen of ivy and watched.

  Defiance was asleep, stretched out on his side as had been the dog. Very slowly, Second Cat was creeping up on him, and equally slowly, the boys were doing likewise, surrounding him.

  First Cat backed away. She knew the scene was soon to erupt. Sure enough, she’d gone only a few steps towards some flowering plants, green freckled bells clustered along upright stalks, when all hell broke loose.

  Either Defiance had awoken or the others had pounced — the result was the same — a rolling spitting ball of angry cat fur. After a brief look, First Cat continued her walk through the formal garden, past the green dangling bells, some large plants with big white trumpets for flowers, and some violet-blue flowers ranged on tall spikes. By these latter plants she paused. She smelled something, something she remembered.

  Second Cat zoomed by, then Defiance, then the boys. They disappeared through the hedge into the neighbour’s yard, where First Cat never went. She was hungry again, and tired, and went inside.

  5

  Gerry spent the next few days between cat and dog maintenance, hospital visiting and supervising Doug finishing what they now called the gallery. Cathy had surgery late Monday, and by Wednesday noon was able to be brought home.

  Prince Charles was already in residence, and Gerry left the two happily dozing on the sofa, promising to come by that evening to check on them.

  “Whew!” she remarked to Prudence when she returned home. “That was intense!”

  Prudence was having her afternoon break on the screened back porch and Gerry joined her with a coffee and a sigh. “Ah,” she said as she leaned back.

  A perfect late June day. Bees buzzed in the garden, butterflies and dragonflies danced near the shore. A light breeze rustled through the Virginia creeper that partly covered the porch. A squirrel chittered high in a tree. A plane hummed overhead.

  A few cats were going about their business. Most of them slept in the daytime, but from time to time one wandered by. Marigold sat on a chair near the women. Bob and Stupid faced each other on the path to Yalta, about ten feet apart, both sitting in the sphinx position, only their tail tips twitching.

  “Who’ll win, do you suppose?” asked Gerry.

  “Oh, Bob, of course. He’s the good guy. Don’t they always win?”

  “In a perfect world.” Gerry paused. “Thank you for putting in the extra time, Prudence. Things got kind of crazy, what with the dog sleeping on the porch, the cats upset by him and my work deadline.”

  “I think you did very well by Cathy,” said Prudence slowly. “You take after your aunt. She was kind too.”

  Gerry was embarrassed. “Oh, well, I know she’s alone and I like her. And anyway, isn’t everyone in this village sort of related? We most of us come from the same place. Devon, wasn’t it?”

  Prudence nodded. “There was a village of Lovering in Devon and when they started coming here in the 1800s, they made another one. All the Coneybears and Petherbridges, Parsleys, Muxworthys, Catfords, Striblings.”

  “And Cricks,” said Gerry, referring to Prudence’s family.

  “Yes, the Cricks as well, though I was a Catford before I married.”

  “Like my Gramma Ellie!” Gerry exclaimed. “See? We’re related too. Are you on the family tree?”

  Prudence smiled faintly. “I suppose I must be.”

  Bob and Stupid were now about five feet apart. “Right,” said Gerry. “I’m going for a swim.” She marched over to the two cats and stood between them. “You two should be friends.” She picked up Bob and went closer to Stupid. “Stupid, wouldn’t you like to be friends with Bob?” Stupid turned and walked away as Bob struggled in Gerry’s arms.

  She continued down to Yalta, took off her clothes and walked down the steps, entering the water with a shudder of pleasure. Bob sat on her shirt and groomed, embarrassed at having his standoff interrupted.

  She floated on her back, contemplating the patches of blue visible through the surrounding trees’ leaves. She’d gotten in the habit of skinny-dipping recently. The pool was surrounded by an ivy-covered chain-link fence and no one should be on the property unless she knew about it. Besides, who would drop in on her? She hadn’t made a lot of friends. Yet.

  And was she related to a lot of the locals? She walked up the stairs, towelled off and basked on a lounge chair. Bob sat nearby companionably. Really, she thought, he and Marigold would be enough. And Mother was sweet. And you couldn’t have Mother without Ronald, she supposed, and the honour guard. Oh, they all had their good points. Except Stupid and Lightning. Stupid spent half his time on the neighbour’s property. Who was the neighbour? Weren’t they sick of Stupid coming over into their garden all the time?

  She dressed and went to the gate in the cedar hedge that separated the two properties. The families must have been close once, to have a gate installed. “Hello?” she called cautiously. “Stupid?” She opened the gate, suddenly worried about trespassing.

  “Hello,” a quavery voice replied. “Come through. Is it Gerry, my dear Maggie’s niece?”

  Gerry called “Yes” as she passed along a narrow path overgrown by balsam.

  The voice continued, “A little further. You’re almost there. Hello.”

  She’d stepped out onto a patch of soggy, ragged lawn. Further up, near the house, an elderly man sat in a chair in a gazebo. A grey cat sat on his lap. The man waved a hand, gesturing for her to approach.

  The house, a Victorian monstrosity, loomed darkly behind him, its turrets and gables, widow’s walk and gingerbread house trim all clashing horribly. Gerry thought it was wonderful, itched for her sketch pad.

  She squelched through the wet grass to the dryer ground where the gazebo stood, remarking cheerfully, “My feet are wet.”

  “It floods in springtime. It’s much lower than your property.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Blaise. Blaise Parminter. And this is Graymalkin.”

  Gerry took the h
and gingerly, avoiding putting her own anywhere near the cat. “That, sir, is Stupid.”

  Blaise covered the cat’s ears loosely. “Shush, now. How would you like to be called Stupid every day? I could never understand why a kind person like Maggie would call him that. Of course he just got meaner.” He added softly, “He’s my friend.”

  “I can see that. Do you feed him?”

  “Only human food: salmon, tuna, chicken.”

  “Yet he keeps returning to my place. I wonder why?”

  “Well, he needs the company of the other cats, I suppose.”

  “You have my permission to try to keep him with you at night if you like.”

  “I would like that.” He spoke directly to the cat. “Will you sleep at my house tonight, Graymalkin?” The response was a purr. Stupid looked at Gerry, as if to say, “See what you missed out on? Who’s stupid now?”

  Gerry said goodbye and walked thoughtfully home. Prudence was feeding the teeming throng. “One less plate, Prudence. Stupid is going to live next door with Mr. Parminter.”

  Prudence nodded. “He always did like that cat. Said he was misunderstood. And Stupid never scratched or bit him.”

  “Were he and Aunt Maggie ‘friends’?”

  “Oh, not like that. But real friends who cared about each other. They liked the same music, poetry. Mr. Parminter is a poet, you know. Quite well respected. Helped start the literary festival.”

  “Lovering has a literary festival?”

  “Yes, and two art societies. Culture goes on outside of cities too.”

  “I know it does.” They’d finished washing the cat plates and Prudence was washing the floor. “I’m just going to the graveyard, Prudence. I’ll see you Friday.”

  Gerry picked a few flowers, then walked the short distance to the little church. Lovering, for such a small town, was denominationally well represented with five churches. A few minutes’ walk away was St. Anne’s Anglican Church, a small stone chapel built by landowners in the mid-1800s. It had a simple flat steeple for its single small bell and a little churchyard between the church and a few apple trees.

  Gerry walked to the back of the churchyard where the memorial wall was. She remembered her father telling her that behind the church had been a pig farm, and that the highlight of his Sundays had been being allowed to run around the back of the church after service, to hang on the farmyard gate and watch the pigs.

  The farm was no longer there, though the farmhouse, gate and field were, beyond the barbed wire fence that marked the end of the churchyard. The memorial wall was a recent addition, built when the space for graves and their bulky markers grew scarce. Here were attached brass plaques for some of Gerry’s family — her parents, her Aunt Maggie. Others, like her grandparents, had their names chiselled in black or grey granite stones where their ancestors’ names had preceded them.

  She paused and touched first her mother’s, then her father’s, then Aunt Maggie’s plaques, and laid a few blooms on each, then sighed. She still had to look in on Cathy.

  She found her friend up and cooking. “You shouldn’t be doing that!” she admonished, taking the frying pan away and sitting her down.

  “Just eggs and toast,” Cathy protested weakly. “Add a couple more and eat with us.” Gerry scrambled the eggs, toasted bread and made a pot of tea. “It’s so good to be home,” Cathy stated. “You have no idea.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve never stayed overnight in hospital.”

  “I have a great admiration for the nurses. They work so hard. As do the doctors, I’m sure, though you don’t see as many of them. But the noises and the voices. Especially at night. People get weird and cranky. I’m exhausted.”

  “Then you must have an early night.” Gerry put down her cutlery. “Cathy, when you were dopey the first day, you said Aunt Maggie was afraid. Actually you said ‘she’ but I thought it was Aunt Maggie because then you said, ‘I’m sorry, Maggie.’ And something about the canoe being in the wrong place and the boys.”

  “Did I, dear? I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t remember saying it or don’t remember Aunt Maggie being afraid?”

  Cathy looked blank. “Neither, I’m afraid. But I’ll think on it, Gerry, I really will.” She reached down and petted Charles’s head. “Thank you for caring for Charles. He seems fine.”

  “Prudence and Doug helped. Charles is an easy dog. I quite like him. Makes a change from the cats. Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you.” She fetched a large tote bag and took out a flat paper parcel tied with string.

  Cathy handled the object before unwrapping it. “Well, I guess it’s a painting or something.” She surveyed the neatly framed drawing. “Why, it’s my house! It’s Fieldcrest! Oh, it’s funny! It looks like a lady. Thank you, Gerry.”

  “It’s part of a series of portraits of local houses I’m working on. But yours was the first, the one that inspired me. I may ask to borrow it back, okay? If I give a show, which I’m planning to do.”

  “A show? Where?”

  “I thought at the house in a few rooms on the ground floor. With nibbles and wine, of course, to pull people in.”

  “Oh, would you like me to do the nibbles? Little cheesy tarts and so on?”

  “That would be wonderful, Cathy. I was hoping you would. But you should rest now.” Charles and Cathy slowly accompanied Gerry along the hall from kitchen to front door, where the women said their goodnights.

  6

  The next few weeks passed quickly as Gerry settled into the summer routine of The Maples.

  Up around seven, feed cats, do cat boxes, drink coffee on porch staring at lake. Work. She was still receiving some work through her Toronto connections, but not much, and, worried she’d experience a drop in income, put an ad in the local paper, offering to immortalize people’s children, pets, houses, gardens. So far, she’d received one commission: to paint the garden of a local amateur gardener, famous (so Prudence told her) for her peonies and roses.

  After work, lunch, then, if she had no appointments, more work. Some days she saw no one; others, only Prudence. She saw Andrew across the road going to and coming from work, or working in his garden, but only to wave to or briefly chat with. Since the uncomfortable dinner at the Parsley, he’d kept his distance.

  The cat feeding and cat boxes were repeated at four, and around five every day, Gerry usually poured herself a cold glass of rosé and thought about supper while soaking in the pool or sitting on the porch. Evenings she spent on the porch, cheating the mosquitoes, reading or sketching as the summer light held until almost ten.

  It was on one such evening around eight that she heard a car arrive at the front of the house. She went through and peered out one of the windows through its flimsy curtain. Her aunt’s lawyer, Cecil Muxworthy, was getting out of his car. Never a good thing, Gerry thought, to see a lawyer at the door, then reprimanded herself. He might be here to give her news of another legacy! She opened the door. “Hi, Cece, how are you?”

  “Fine, Gerry, fine. You got a moment? Something’s come up.”

  She got him a cup of tea and they sat on the porch.

  “God, it’s lovely here.”

  “Where do you live, Cece?”

  “Oh, in the village, in one of those condos next to the United church.”

  Surprised he couldn’t afford better — the condos were narrow townhouses with tiny gardens, suitable for the elderly, and Cece couldn’t be much more than fifty — Gerry mumbled, “Oh, those are nice and convenient for shopping. You don’t need the car.”

  “Yes. Convenient. I use the living room as my office.” He seemed nervous. “Look, Gerry, there’s been a complaint about one of the cats.” He looked guilty. “It’s my fault. I happened to visit Mr. Parminter — he’s one of my clients — and he mentioned you’d given him one of the cats.”

  “I did. The cat w
as unhappy here and I thought Mr. Parminter seemed lonely.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, but I mentioned it to my wife and she said something about how nice it was of you to Margaret, and now Margaret is saying you’ve broken one of the main conditions of the will — that you keep the cats.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! How old is Mr. Parminter? Ninety-something? How long can he live? Just say the cat’s a loan and that I’ll take care of it again when Mr. Parminter is no longer able. Good enough?”

  The lawyer looked relieved. “Yes, I think that could work. I’m sorry about that, but your cousin…”

  Gerry finished his sentence. “My cousin wishes I would go away and she could live here or sell up and have the money. I don’t blame her. I’ve been very lucky. And she’s being petty. Is there anything else?” She sounded exasperated.

  He got up to go. “Thank you for the tea. My wife and I wondered if you’d like to come for dinner some time. Perhaps this weekend?”

  Gerry softened. “Oh, that would be nice. Thank you.”

  He nodded. “My wife will call you. Good night.”

  “Good night.” Gerry stood at the front door and waved him away. She closed the door and sat on the front step, screened by the shrubs that separated the little half-circle of driveway from the road.

  Left over from the days when the carriage would pull up to the front door for the ladies to get out, she mused. So gracious. And the side entrance for the men after they’d put away the horses. The old shed/garage must have once been the stable. That reminded her of her car door, expertly sanded and the paint colour matched by Doug.

  Across the street she saw Andrew moving in his lit-up living room. He bent down and disappeared. Then he appeared to stretch toward the ceiling. Is he exercising? No, he’s dusting! she realized. He’s dusting his china. I wonder if he finds it soothing.

  The light went out in the room and she suddenly felt embarrassed, as though she’d been snooping. Bob strolled up and she stroked his head. “Time for bed, little man?” He yawned and she copied him. “Time for bed.”