The Cat Vanishes

by Louise Carson

  “It was probably Bob,” Gerry reassured her. “He loves it in there. Must smell of mice.” Prudence walked into the living room and pointed. Gerry followed her to see Bob in the banana box playing with the kittens. “Not Bob, then,” Gerry admitted.

  “I have to tell Mrs. Smith about this. I have to ask Mother — not you, dear.” She reassured the cat who stirred at the sound of her name. “My mother — if she knows what’s going on. Gerry, someone was there.”

  Gerry tried to look nonchalant. She knew Prudence paid regular visits to a medium — Mrs. Smith — and that she believed she contacted her dead mother’s spirit through the woman. “Well, not today. Today is Christmas. We relax. We eat. I have to check Cathy’s.”

  “I’m not staying here alone! I’ll come with you.”

  “Fine. We’ll check Cathy’s house. I wonder if she has a sump pump. I know she has a basement.”

  After Gerry brought in more wood from the shed — no one tapped her shoulder — and they ate leftover meat pie for lunch, they bundled up and walked over to Cathy’s.

  On the way, Gerry noted Andrew’s car was not in his driveway. He must have slept at his mother’s. Neither his nor Mr. Parminter’s houses seemed to have come to any harm, except for small boughs and twigs strewn everywhere.

  As they mounted the wide steps to Fieldcrest’s broad veranda, Gerry said, “Just walk around the left side, Prudence, and check the windows and roof. I’ll go to the right, then meet you back here.”

  Gerry picked up a few twigs that had blown on to the veranda and rattled the windows. All locked. She walked back to the front door and opened it, Prudence coming close behind.

  “Let’s go upstairs first and check the ceilings for water damage.” Automatically, to relieve the gloom, Gerry’s hand reached for the light switch. Light illuminated the stairs. “That’s funny. It wasn’t working last time I was here.”

  Prudence paused halfway up the stairs and reached inside the fixture. “Bulb was loose. I’ve tightened it. Should be fine now.”

  They each took one side of the long hallway, peering into the bedrooms, looking at ceilings for signs of dampness.

  “Okay?” Gerry queried when they met back at the head of the stairs.

  Prudence nodded. “But that light’s out again.”

  Gerry flicked the upstairs switch a few times, then shrugged. “Maybe a loose connection in the lamp. I’ll leave a note for Cathy.”

  They checked the main floor and the kitchen. Gerry opened the basement door. “You don’t have to come down here if you don’t want to,” she said over her shoulder. “Cathy said it’s pretty bad.”

  “You’re not leaving me up here,” Prudence indignantly replied.

  Gerry flicked the switch at the top of the stairs and a bare light bulb went on in the basement and illuminated their descent. “The wine cellar, I presume.” She gestured at a half-full rack.

  They heard a steady trickle of water and followed it to a sump pit. In a thankful voice, Gerry said, “God, I’m glad I don’t have a basement. If the power goes off, the whole place must flood.”

  There was a dusty, mouldy smell that tickled her nostrils. She sneezed.

  “Come on,” urged Prudence. “It’s not healthy. We’ve checked enough.”

  They were standing next to the large old furnace, a metal box with many ducts leading out of it in different directions, when they heard a scrabbling sound.

  “What’s that?” Prudence clutched Gerry’s arm.

  “A squirrel that’s got in? A mouse?” Gerry suggested.

  The scrabbling was coming from below the workbench that stood under the basement’s one window. For no particular reason, Gerry grasped a hoe that was leaning against the wall among other yard and garden tools.

  More like an old armoire or bureau, perhaps made by a farmer years ago, the bench sported a drawer with two cupboard doors beneath, one of which was slowly opening from the inside!

  Gerry felt the hairs on the back of her neck slowly extend and was fairly certain she had stopped breathing. Beside her, Prudence made not a sound.

  Bob’s clever face, ears and whiskers festooned with cobwebs, peeked out of the armoire. “Bob? What?” Gerry relaxed and replaced the hoe.

  Prudence burst out with, “How on earth did he get here? He never followed us! Through the snow? No!” She got on her hands and knees, and, pushing the cat to one side, stuck her head in the cupboard space. She backed up hastily, hitting her head. “Ow. It doesn’t go anywhere.”

  Gerry picked up Bob and dangled him in front of her eyes. “Now Bob, do tell us of your travels.” She laughed.

  For some reason, Prudence chose to be offended. “It isn’t funny. It feels odd. Something’s going on.”

  Gerry lowered Bob and gave him a cuddle. “Okay, okay. I was just trying for some comic relief.” When Prudence still looked troubled, Gerry added, “You’re going to ask Mrs. Smith and, er, your mother, right? They’ll help. Not that Bob in a cupboard has anything to do with your, er, man in the shed. I think. I mean, I do not think. Prudence, this is turning out to be a very confusing Christmas. Let’s go home, relax, read a book or something.”

  A somewhat exasperated Gerry and thoughtful Prudence crunched their way home, Bob tucked inside Gerry’s jacket. Gerry retreated to Aunt Maggie’s bedroom with several cats and her book — Fairacre Festival by Miss Read, set in a tiny English village in the 1960s, in which its quaint villagers raised money to repair the church roof, crushed by a tree during a storm.

  Apropos, thought Gerry. I wonder how many people will be talking of that very thing today — finding the money to repair damaged houses and cars. To be comfortable she changed into pajamas and dozed.

  Around five o’clock she went downstairs to see about supper. As she popped a frozen quiche in the oven, peeled some potatoes and made a simple salad, she thought of all the families sitting down to feast together. Prudence being here for Christmas dinner was a surprise. There hadn’t seemed much point in buying and cooking a turkey with all the trimmings for just herself. At six o’clock she tapped at the door of Prudence’s room. “Prudence, supper.” The sound of snoring was the only response. She decided to let her sleep. Who knew how poorly she’d slept the night before?

  Gerry poured a glass of wine and ate her meal. A yawning Prudence joined her around an hour later. “I hope I’m not awake all night,” she moaned, filling her own plate and glass.

  “You’ll be fine. It was an unusual night and day.”

  A knock at the front door interrupted any further discussion. “We’re in our robes,” a horrified Prudence whispered.

  Gerry giggled and went to peek out from behind a curtain. Tall, male — her cousin Andrew! She threw the door open. “Andrew! Merry Christmas! Have you come for a visit?”

  Homely but nice was Gerry’s personal description of Andrew. He smiled, stepped into the foyer and hugged her. I’d forgotten how different it feels to hug a man, Gerry thought.

  “Hello, you,” he said. “Hello, cats,” to the few who’d braved the cold draft of air to see who it was. “Prudence!” His voice held a note of surprise.

  Gerry explained and asked if he’d eaten. “I was hoping you’d ask,” he said. “I spent yesterday and today at my mother’s. Doug brought the boys over today. You’d think I’d be full with all that feasting, but I’ve been working so hard shovelling around Mother’s and then my house, that I’ve got my appetite back. Well, you’re very cozy in here.”

  His gaze took in the Christmas tree, the fire, the rocking chairs and the remains of their dinner, as well as the two women in robes and slippers. While he knelt to admire the kittens, Gerry put some food to reheat and gave him a glass of wine.

  “How are the boys doing?” asked Prudence.

  Andrew joined them at the table. “To be honest, I think they miss their grandfather more than their mo
ther.”

  Gerry and Prudence exchanged a glance. It was no secret Margaret had neglected her husband Doug (now her ex-) and her three boys because of her strange obsession with her mother, Mary. Only Gerry and Prudence and almost certainly Mary knew the truth of Aunt Maggie’s death, though sometimes Gerry thought Andrew suspected.

  She asked, “And they’re getting used to having Doug full-time back at the house again?”

  Andrew spoke slowly. “I think so. It’s hard to tell. They’re so solitary and secretive at that age. Anyway, what have you been up to?”

  As Gerry brought his meal from the kitchen, she was surprised to hear Prudence describing the incident in the woodshed. “Tapped me on the shoulder, the way you do when you’re trying to get someone’s attention, but there was no one there.”

  Well, why shouldn’t Prudence confide in Andrew? She’d known him all his life. Gerry kept forgetting that she was the relative newcomer to Lovering.

  Prudence rose. “I’ll do the dishes. You keep Andrew company, Gerry.”

  Gerry lowered her voice, although Prudence was making a lot of noise in the kitchen. “What do you think of her story, Andrew? Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “These old houses have seen a lot of human drama. I wouldn’t be surprised if some people are sensitive to the energy. Whether it actually manifests itself, who can say?”

  Remembering how Andrew’s father Geoff took his life earlier in the year, Gerry laid her hand briefly on the hand he wasn’t using to shovel in his food. “I’ve thought about you, Andrew; your terrible loss; what you must be going through. I didn’t like to intrude.”

  He swallowed a mouthful. “Gerry, I —”

  “Oh!” She jumped up, went to the tree and deposited a medium-sized package in front of him. “Your present. And it’s still Christmas!”

  He picked it up and shook it. “Hmm. Will I be surprised?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe. You don’t have anything like it.”

  He ripped off the paper and opened the lid of a square box, then unwrapped the object from its nest of tissue paper. “Oh! It’s lovely. Thank you, Gerry.” He held the china foal, brown with cream ankles and blaze, delicately poised on long legs as though it had just been born, and leaned over to kiss her. Then he reached into his pocket and extracted a small box.

  Gerry opened it quickly. Inside was a little gold key.

  Andrew explained. “Aunt Maggie gave it to me when I was young. She said it would unlock my heart’s desire. I didn’t understand what she meant for a long time. Now I want you to have it. Maybe you’ll find what you desire.” He rose. “And now I should go. We’re all tired, I’m sure.”

  Gerry stammered her thanks for the gift before returning it to its box and putting it on the mantel. Andrew gave both women a peck on the cheek and let himself out.

  “And that’s Christmas,” said Prudence with a sigh, as they wearily went up to bed.

  Burrr. Bur, bur, bur, burr. Whack! Burrrrrrrrrrr. Gerry stirred, a buzzing in her ear, and looked at the clock. Eight. The dent on her pillow and a few calico hairs showed where Lightning had been and gone. Bob snuggled at her belly. The familiar lumps of the Honour Guard pressed around her feet.

  She turned toward the window. As usual, it was too frosted to make out details, but she saw something large and yellow high in the willow tree. The yellow thing descended, much as Bob would have, by clinging on to the tree’s main trunk with arms and legs. “Hudsons!” She put on yesterday’s clothes and went downstairs. “Cats, coffee,” she muttered, but Prudence had beaten her to it, even already having cleaned the litter boxes.

  A shopping list had been started. Cat litter — lots, headed the list. Gerry groaned. Prudence must be planning the monthly mammoth task of emptying, scrubbing and refilling the six boxes that serviced the fur brigade. She poured a coffee, shrugged on her coat, slipped into her boots and stepped outside.

  The Hudsons had already removed the tree that had blocked the driveway and threatened the road, and Prudence was picking up the small boughs and sticks left over from their task. “Kindling,” she said.

  Gerry grunted and turned to look over by the pool. Having downed the dangling willow bough, the Hudsons were cutting it into a few smaller sections so it could be moved. When they’d done that they approached the car-and-shed problem.

  “Drag her?” Young Hudson asked his elder.

  “Lift her a bit, then pull down there. Or push.” The father nodded at Gerry. “Might need your help, Miss.”

  The Hudsons tied two ropes, one at either end, to the tree that lay across the car and shed roofs. Gerry took hold of one rope, the one closest to the house, while Prudence took the other on the far side of the shed, almost in the thicket that separated Gerry’s property from next door’s ramshackle, abandoned house.

  Young Hudson stood between the car and the shed with his saw, slicing boughs off. His father drove the tractor near his son, engaged the shovel under the tree and slowly raised it. Gerry understood that she and Prudence were to hold the tree steady as it lifted, preventing it from swinging towards the house or Young Hudson.

  When the tree was high enough, Old Hudson inched forward until the tree hovered clear of the driveway, car and shed. Young Hudson shouted, “Okay, when I give the signal, let go.” Gerry nodded. Prudence nodded. The tree swung ominously. Prudence slipped and the rope flew out of her hands. Old Hudson drove forward and dropped the tree as Young Hudson screamed at Gerry, “Let go! Let go!”

  Then Gerry was stumbling across snow and tree to Prudence, who lay, gasping, in the thicket. Gerry helped her up. “Are you all right?”

  “It happened again, Gerry. Only this time it was a hand on the rope, someone helping me.”

  Young Hudson was already cutting the tree into six-foot lengths. “We’ll be back sometime to turn all this into firewood,” his father assured them, before both Hudsons drove away, one in the slow-moving tractor, the other in the beat-up red pickup truck.

  Over breakfast Prudence declared, “I can’t stay here any longer, Gerry. I’ve spoken to my neighbour and he’ll take me.” When Gerry raised her eyebrows, Prudence added, “He and his wife will take me. And I want to supervise the tree removal from my bedroom.”

  “Gosh, Prudence, I forgot you haven’t even seen the damage yet. It’s going to be a shock.”

  “What? Another one?” Prudence replied with an attempt at humour. “I was thinking, Gerry. Will you come with me when I consult Mrs. Smith? She might pick up something through you. It’s your house, your shed.”

  Gerry nodded. “Sure. I must confess I’m curious. I’ve never been to a séance. Now, I’ll run you home.”

  When Gerry dropped Prudence off, the neighbours across the street from her house took over, and after she took one disbelieving look at her cottage, ushered her into their home. Gerry drove past her own house to Lovering to shop.

  She’d loved having Prudence stay but breathed a sigh of relief when she let herself back into her house alone, laden with groceries. Something to do with being an only child, I suppose, she thought. She unloaded the six boxes of cat litter and the Mini’s suspension relaxed.

  She made herself a treat for lunch: ham and cheese on a croissant and, as she had no plans to drive that afternoon, enjoyed a glass of white wine with it.

  She flipped through last Saturday’s newspaper as she ate, found herself idly humming, “On the first day of Christmas —” She stopped. Christmas had been yesterday. Wasn’t that the first day of Christmas? So, today was the second. “Two turtle doves,” sang Gerry, and got up to look at Andrew’s present.

  The gold key, less than an inch long, glittered in the light of the fire. What did it open? A jewellery box? A music box? I wonder, she thought, and went upstairs looking for some little trinket of Aunt Maggie’s that might need a key.

  When her search proved fruitless, she pocketed the k
ey and drifted into the office. It was coming up to month’s end. She better have a look at the bills.

  She sat down at the desk and switched on the room’s electric heater. Surprisingly, she was already caught up with the banking. She looked at the boxes of family papers Aunt Maggie had stored. Why not?

  Dragging the nearest one over, Gerry emptied it onto her tidy desk. Old bills going back to Gerry’s grandparents’ times. She should probably toss them. Packets of letters, each tied with string or ribbon. Those might be fun to read in bed or by the fire. Set aside. Deeds for property which ran along the lake, the other side of the main road, and up into the fields and woods beyond Cathy’s house. These will be a nightmare to sort, thought Gerry. Oh well, I’ll give it an hour.

  Three hours later, it was dark outside. At some point, Gerry must have switched on the desk lamp. The deeds had indeed been difficult to sort, but once she figured out to make a short description of each one on a separate piece of paper, the task became easier. And once she had them in order, she realized she had part of her family’s history in her hand, the earliest part, but couldn’t yet put the pieces together.

  She yawned. “Coffee. I need coffee. And cats need to be fed.” She switched off light and heater and, taking the deeds with her and leaving a packet of old letters on her bedside table for later, she went downstairs.

  When the beasts were busy munching, and after Gerry had emptied and scrubbed out two cat boxes and tipped them on their sides in front of a roaring fire, she sat at the table looking at the deeds, a steaming bowl of café au lait and two of the Two Sisters’ Teahouse’s scones nearby.

  Here was the record of the land granted her great-great-grandfather John Conybear (the name was misspelled) in 1845 when he was — Gerry rummaged among the papers for her copy of the family tree — when he was about thirty-five years old. Family lore had it that he’d left Devon and run away to sea when he was about ten years old, emigrated while still a teen, and eventually owned his own boat, or at least a share in one.