by Jane Gilley
After Gracie divorced Harry for his infidelities and rented a flat, back where Marjorie and Oliver lived in Hampshire, Gracie hoped she’d finally be able to help her mother, providing she could persuade her to be helped.
‘You’ve got to leave him, Mum. Look, why don’t you come and live with me, now I’m on my own? I’ve got the two bedrooms so we can have one each. It’d be nice to have some company for a change and we get on well enough, you and I, don’t we? We could have days out and, well, I just think it would be lovely for us both,’ Gracie had said.
It had sounded like a heavenly idea to Marjorie.
‘Well, I’d like to leave, Gracie, but to be honest I’m frightened of him. What if he made life even more unbearable for us, in some way? Besides I don’t want to involve you in all of that again. At least it’s not as bad as it used to be. Anyway, darling, you deserve a happier life now you’re free from Harry and you’ve got some lovely friends and a good job at the school. I know you mean well, sweetie, but I’ll be okay. I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?’
To herself, when she was alone, polishing and cleaning the house the way Oliver liked it or when he was down the pub, drinking heavily and playing snooker with his old army mates, Marjorie used to think, Why are we still together if you don’t love me? Divorce might have been an option for some people but she knew Oliver would never grant her one and she wouldn’t have wanted one anyway. So, mostly, she just wished he was dead.
And then he did die.
He died one Sunday morning sitting at the table, chewing his toast, waiting for his bacon and eggs, banging on the table with the handle of his knife, making dents in the table top.
‘Where’s my bloody breakfast?’ he’d called from the dining room. ‘And if you don’t hurry up – aargh! Wha’s happenin’ to me? Marj! Marj!’
Hearing the change in his tone from anger to panic, Marjorie had rushed into the dining room and then stopped, realising exactly what was happening. Her father had died from a stroke too. They told you the signs to watch out for on the telly. She watched in disbelief as her husband slid from the table onto the floor; his right hand hooked like a claw, reaching out to her in his last gesture of anger.
‘Do something, b-bitch!’
But something snapped in Marjorie at that moment. How dare he!
How absolutely dare he speak to her like that! She’d given him her life and he’d trodden all over it. His awfulness had even sent Gracie out of their door. And this was how he was treating her, even now? She’d been totally prepared to help him, until that point, despite the relentless abuse he’d inflicted on her.
Instead, she took a deep breath and folded her arms. She would help him – she’d be his wife to the bitter end, as per her wedding vows – but she had something to say to him first.
‘It serves you right, you old bastard!’ she said, exuberantly.
She saw one of Oliver’s eyebrows flick up in surprise; she’d never dared answer him back before.
‘Do you realise what you’ve done to us, over all these years? Did you enjoy inflicting all that pain? Did it make you feel more worthy as a man?’
He didn’t answer. His eyebrow dropped; his eyes stared out in front of him.
She was aware of the tick, tick, ticking of the dining room clock, as she waited for an answer. She even thought at the very least he might say, ‘I’m sorry, love.’ How very different their lives might have been, if he hadn’t been such a beast of a man! How very different their days might have been, if he’d been kind, instead of forcing his wife and daughter to walk on eggshells, fearful of what he might do or say to them next!
Why wouldn’t he answer her? Clearly he wasn’t remorseful in the slightest about the way he’d treated her over the years!
With a sigh, she turned to ring the doctor.
‘Well, he’s gone all red like he’s choking or something. But I don’t, um, I don’t know how to dislodge anything if it’s stuck, you see. Well no. We’re old folks, love, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything like that. The – the what did you call it? The something thrust? No, I don’t know how to do it, love,’ Marjorie replied to the doctor’s receptionist. ‘Yes, I think he was eating some toast. I tried banging on his back but nothing’s come out. Oh, wait a minute. Oh, gosh! Oh, now it looks like he’s not breathing. So shall I, um, shall I ring the ambulance instead?’
Chapter 3
Stacy was soaked from the hefty downpour by the time she got back to her flat, following afternoon tea at the community centre. She stood dripping on the doormat; her yellow cardigan now soaked with cold rain. She’d forgotten her umbrella and it had rained in heavy blobs, despite the heat. She hated her hair getting wet because it expanded, uncontrollably, into a frizzy mess if she let it. That’s why she’d kept it long, a bit too long really, in the hope the weight would keep it down. It didn’t make much difference though. Her clothes needed to go straight into a washing machine, but she didn’t have one. She always did her washing at the laundrette next to the corner shop, so her clothes would have to wait in the washbag until she got around to doing that. The first thing she wanted to do, however, was have a shower, to wash away the stickiness from choosing the right colour but wrong fabric for her afternoon tea outfit. She didn’t actually have any going-out outfits because she never normally went anywhere.
She felt quite relieved to be home, but as she turned the key in her door she was greeted with a cacophony of pitiful mews and yowling. It sounded a little different to usual. As she entered her flat a black and white cat slouched from behind the kitchen door and wound itself around her ankles, staring wistfully up at her with its lovely yellow eyes. Stacy bent down to stroke it.
‘Oh, Pooch, my little pretty,’ she murmured, picking it up and kissing its face. But the cat suddenly struck out a paw and clawed the side of her face.
‘Ow! Naughty Pooch!’ she exclaimed, dropping the cat, which ran off with a howl. ‘Bad kitty!’
Stacy stomped along the corridor to the bathroom, holding her face. She glanced in the mirror. It was only a little nick but it had left a spotted trail of blood, sliding towards her chin. She dabbed at the blood with some toilet paper. Pooch probably hadn’t meant it. He’d be skulking in the lounge now, fearful of another telling-off. But she had to get her wet clothes off first and get sorted.
However, turning from the sink, she could see some of her other cats – Ebony, Chater, Melanie and Dingle – leaping around in the bath playing with the shower extension. They were having fun. She didn’t particularly want to disturb them. But then she breathed in smells she didn’t really want to smell, either. One of them had probably weed and they were all in it now. Damn. The bath would need cleaning before she got in and used the shower attachment. But Chater was currently problematic and skittish following the incident with the toilet lid falling on him yesterday. Maybe shooing them out of the bathroom wouldn’t go down too well with him at the moment, either. She certainly didn’t want him hissing and clawing her again this afternoon.
Sighing, Stacy took her cardigan off and dropped it by the sink. She needed to see if Snowball looked any better. But the yowling was louder in the lounge when she opened the door. She sidestepped their climbing frames and empty tins of cat food, overflowing litter trays and unfortunate ‘accidents’ all over the lounge carpet. It really needed cleaning in here. John, her next-door neighbour often banged on her door to complain about the noise and smell. How, she wondered, could he possibly smell anything when they lived in separate flats? He was such a Moaning Minnie!
‘Snowball, my little – oh! Snowball!’
Stacy gently picked up the tiny limp body from beside the radiator and held it like a baby in her arms. A tear slid down her cheek and plopped onto the little lifeless black kitten.
Casper tried to jump on her lap and sniff Snowball as she sat down on the sofa. She pushed him off. But he jumped back on again. So, that’s why they’re concerned, Stacy thought.
But what should she
do now? She knew she had to get the kitten out of the flat. Maybe the odd-sounding mewing would stop then. She’d have to find a sealed plastic container to put him in, ready for burying somewhere. That would probably calm the others, too, she thought. Their mewing was constant. If only she could switch that noise off, sometimes! She needed her shower, yes, but her priority was to get Snowball away from the others because she could see the tiny kitten looked somewhat scraggy and when she turned him over – oh no – he’d been mauled!
She went into the kitchen, stepping over Rover the ginger tom – narrowly missing treading on Canterbury her pregnant cat. How had Canterbury got out of the bedroom? Had she left the door open, by mistake? And was Rover bothering Canterbury now?
‘For God’s sake, guys!’
She pushed Canterbury along the corridor with her foot, as gently as she could, and finally got her pregnant cat back inside the bedroom. But she’d had to put Snowball on the floor whilst she kept Canterbury just inside the bedroom door, with one hand, and then shut the bedroom door with her other. Unfortunately – quick as a whip – Rover spotted Snowball and went to paw him.
‘Stop it, Rover! Was that you before? Get into the lounge! Now stay in there, naughty boy!’
Stacy was always stressed with the effort of trying to keep them all separated or stopping fights. She often got badly scratched for her efforts. It was partly the reason she always wore long-sleeved clothes, even in the summer; to cover her unsightly sores! She realised keeping all the cats in her one-bedroom flat had probably not been her best idea. And whilst she knew that cats tended to grieve a dead companion, both Rover and Chater had become unpredictable animals of late. Probably being cooped up in her small home meant their behaviours weren’t as they should be. Yet her obsession with cats hadn’t started off like this.
Stacy loved cats. They were her kind of animal. They weren’t as needy as dogs, even though she knew dogs were loyal. As a child she’d lived on a farm with her parents and brother, so she was used to animals. However, the cats her father had kept were for ratting only. She’d never been encouraged to pet them, although she had done sometimes.
‘Never know what germs they carry, so leave them be,’ her father used to say.
So it was a complete joy to her when she was able to leave home and buy this flat with her half of her grandmother’s inheritance. Having her own place meant living by her own rules and also meant she could have as many cats as she liked! So she’d started off by buying a couple of kittens from a pet shop. Then people had wanted her to take their cats when they moved house or if someone found a stray. She knew about the Cats Protection society but they always seemed to be terribly busy with their own intakes. So Stacy had thought she was helping everybody out by taking cats in herself.
Trouble was, working every day in the library meant she could only see them lunchtimes and evenings, and so she’d often come home to find chunks out of them when they’d been fighting and once one got stuck behind the back of the kitchen units, which had meant getting someone to remove the unit and rescue the cat. So vet bills were fairly high because she was at the vets quite a lot. Yet she still hadn’t got round to sorting out a pet plan for them all yet.
Some days it felt like she was fighting a losing battle, trying to keep them all alive and happy and fed or separating them into the various rooms. And trying to find out who got on best with who was always a worry with new cats. Occasionally she found them new homes but not often. She’d had most of her current cats for nearly two years now – Snowball had been a new addition. Yet, despite their traits, despite being problematic, she loved them all dearly. It was wearing though. But she couldn’t simply give them all away! Who would look after them like she did? Who else would spoil them with those little tins of sardines or smoked salmon, when she could afford it? Cat charities were probably overworked and no one else had the time to help her out.
Stacy didn’t mingle with anyone from work and really only had the one friend, Elsa, from primary school days, although she hadn’t seen her in ages. Elsa lived in the village Stacy was from and had been such a bright, happy girl, emerging from school with hordes of qualifications, destined for university and a life of amazing possibilities. But a skiing accident had taken all that away from her. Now she still lived at home, relying on her parents. Of course, they took her out in her wheelchair and looked after all her needs to the very best of their ability. But it was so sad. Elsa was the only friend Stacy had because all her time was taken up looking after her nine, no, eight cats and kittens. At least Elsa was usually in, when Stacy found the time to Skype, even though she hadn’t managed it in quite a while. In fact, Stacy hadn’t been back to visit Elsa nor her own parents for a good few years. She hadn’t learned how to drive, so it meant getting on and off the three buses it took, in order to visit them, which meant far too many hours away from the cats.
God, the place stank!
She knew she ought to get rid of the lounge carpet and buy laminate flooring. Much easier to clean, of course. Yet when did she have time to go shopping for new flooring? How could she make changes, in any respect, when she didn’t have the time to do that? The afternoon tea experience had been a bit of an experiment for her. She’d seen the flyer in the corner shop window and because she’d known it was only for an hour or so and, fortunately, nearby, she’d risked going. She hadn’t been anywhere in a long time, so it had been really nice talking to other people instead of trying to reason with her cats, for once. And the cake had been delicious! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had nice cake. Her weekly shopping jaunts meant only going to the corner shop or next door to the laundrette, and buying local was a much quicker option than getting the bus to the supermarket and leaving all her cats for hours on end. Yet she’d have loved to go shopping at a supermarket – any supermarket – with all the mouth-watering offerings they had on display, at far more reasonable prices.
‘I need a shower,’ she said out loud, above the mewing.
But to do that she needed to get Melanie, Ebony, Dingle and Chater out of the bath and wash the bath down. She chewed her lip, knowing she’d come out of that scenario with more than a couple of bites and scratches. Fortunately, she kept a lot of disinfectant to hand.
She’d considered getting separate cat carriers to leave the cats in, when she went out. That way she could maybe spend a bit more time doing things she wanted to do. But she knew that was a horrid idea because then they’d be stuck in them most of the day while she was at work and wouldn’t be able to move around properly in them. So that’s why she gave them free rein of the flat. Or rather, free rein of whatever part of the flat she’d allocated them to.
No, there was no other choice. She’d simply have to keep doing what she’d been doing these last few years. No time for boyfriends, shopping or living. Just time to look after her poor little kitties.
Question was, who was going to look after her?
Chapter 4
It had been a week of thunderstorms and drizzle, since the last afternoon tea meeting at Borough Community Centre, and the ladies and gents and the few younger people slurping tea and munching biscuits around the tables at this week’s afternoon tea had been lamenting over that fact.
One lady had slipped in the doorway, due to the wet being traipsed in on people’s feet. She’d been helped up by a woman who she was delighted to recognise as being her long-lost childhood school friend from a neighbouring town.
‘Pauline? Pauline Rastock? Oh I don’t believe it!’
‘Goodness, is that you, Emily? Emily Blye? Well, what a coincidence!’
‘Small world! Look, let me help you. Oh, your foot looks quite swollen. Can you stand on it?’
‘No, not very well. It’s quite painful! Now how are we going to get into the hall with me like this?’
‘Right, well, just put your weight on me and we’ll hobble. Yes, that’s it. Let’s get a table together. It’ll be wonderful to catch up. Oh and I hear they’ve got chocol
ate cake this week.’
‘Chocolate cake? Gosh, we are being spoilt, aren’t we?’
Marjorie smiled as she passed the two enthusiastic ladies. People were making friends or rather reuniting with old friends. Unfortunately, Lou wasn’t well enough to make it this week but promised she’d come next week if Gracie would bring her. But Marjorie’s eyes lit up at the sound of chocolate cake being served this week. What a treat! She used to love baking but it tended to end up down a wall or trodden into her carpet when Oliver was alive. She shuddered at the thought of what she’d had to put up with throughout those awful years.
‘Have you put your suggestions in the box yet?’ said one of the elderly gents from last week. His question interrupted her thoughts, making her jump.
‘What? Oh no. I’m perfectly happy just coming here for afternoon tea. Especially as we’ve got chocolate cake this week.’
‘Ah yes.’ The gent smiled. ‘I can see everybody’s thrilled about that. Although I must say I prefer Victoria sandwich, myself. My name’s Raymond, by the way, like it says on my sticker. They wrote it out for me, which is helpful as I’ve got a bit of arthritis in my right hand, so I don’t tend to write much nowadays. They’re nice people, Eileen and Taynor, aren’t they? It’s marvellous what they’re trying to do for us, don’t you think? And I can’t wait to see what suggestions everybody comes up with next week. So where’s your sticker, then?’
‘Er, I might get one later, if I remember. I don’t think I’ll necessarily be coming all that often. Maybe occasionally.’
‘Ah,’ Raymond said. ‘Well, look. Do you mind if I join you at your table?’
Marjorie shook her head, although maybe a little too vigorously, and started to ramble.
‘Um, no you can’t join me. I don’t know where I’m sitting just yet and I was just about to try and find the toilet. Do you know where they are?’