The Cat Among Us

by Louise Carson

  Prudence came the next morning, so after breakfast, Gerry thankfully left the cat dishes and boxes to her, and drove to view the garden she was to paint. It took her about fifteen minutes to drive from her southern end of Lovering, through the village proper, and from there, west to the well-established development where her future client lived.

  After a few wrong turns and frequently consulting a local map she kept in the glove compartment, she found the address and parked, studied the house and its front garden.

  The house was square and so was the garden. The house was white shingled with pink trim and a pale blue door upon which a heart-shaped wreath of ivy was hung. The garden was similar: no lawn, but filled with roses, peonies and other assorted blooms in white and pink with a touch of blue. Hmm, thought Gerry, very chocolate box, but nice.

  “Hello!”

  Gerry jumped. The voice was that of a pleasant-looking man — plump, middle-aged, spectacled — who was walking a tiny white dog. “Are you the artist my wife was telling me about?”

  Gerry got out of the car. “Yes, I’m Gerry Coneybear. How do you do?”

  “I’m Al Shipton and I’m pleased to meet you. What do you think of the garden?”

  “It’s very sweet, Mr. Shipton, and beautifully complements the house. Your wife’s work?”

  His eyes twinkled. “She designs. I do the heavy lifting. Come on. She’s excited. This painting is a birthday present for her.” He picked the dog up. “And this is Mitzi.”

  Mrs. Shipton was in the kitchen. She’d prepared a tray of pastries and coffee and brought it into the living room. She was Mr. Shipton’s female counterpart except she wore contact lenses instead of spectacles. Gerry showed her samples of her work and, predictably, Mrs. Shipton picked a conservative style. The house was to be included in the painting. As she left, Gerry concluded she was a nice woman but with little sense of humour. When she’d seen the original sketch Gerry had done of Cathy’s house — the house as a blousy matron in floppy hat and full skirt — she’d passed right over it.

  Never mind, thought Gerry, as she took some photos of the property; at five hundred a pop, a few more of these commissions would be most welcome. She’d left Mrs. Shipton a few of her cards with a request she give them to her gardening friends.

  She grabbed a quick lunch at the donut shop by the highway on-ramp and went home. Prudence handed her a message. “Mrs. Muxworthy called and asked if Saturday night was okay. Here’s her number.” When Gerry called, the phone went to an answering machine so she just confirmed and hung up.

  That afternoon she drafted a rough idea for the Shipton painting. The birthday was in three weeks and she wanted to work while the impression was still fresh in her mind. But first, to relieve her feelings, she quickly sketched the house, first as a wedding cake with plants as decorations, then as a chocolate box, with large gooey confections spilling out of windows and into the garden.

  During a coffee break, she went into the gallery. It was now painted a dull off-white, and rows of tiny lights had been installed near the ceiling. She’d also had Doug give a coat of dove-grey to the wide-planked flooring. The room was ready. Now, where was the art?

  One wall was going to be for large posters from her Mug the Bug comic strip. One wall would be for her series of humorous house portraits. She’d almost finished the one of Mr. Parminter’s house, its varied architectural features flying off in all directions. She had ideas for the other two walls, just not yet acted upon.

  Back in the dining room, she walked from chair to chair, patting each occupant and explaining her plan. “Just for one or two days, guys, you’ll all have to go either outside or upstairs. I’m going to need this room for the reception, okay?”

  Eyes, green or yellow, blinked lazily. Some purrs could be heard, a few of the reclining forms sat up and stretched. A thought occurred to her and she went to find Prudence. “Prudence, did my aunt ever appear frightened of anyone or anything?”

  Prudence put down the mop she was wielding and considered. “Not frightened, exactly. But there were a few times I found her holding a letter and just staring, looking worried. When I asked her if anything was wrong, she said it was just bills. Why?”

  “Cathy said something, very general, nothing in particular, about Aunt Maggie being afraid. It was probably just bills. Which reminds me, have you noticed a smell over where the weeping field is?”

  Prudence nodded. “Maggie was meaning to replace it with a tank but never got around to it.”

  “Mm. I better get that done.” She wandered to her studio, thinking, there goes a chunk of the money Maggie left me for the house.

  That night, she sat in her aunt’s office in one of the little rooms formerly for servants. Gerry had put off sorting her aunt’s papers, feeling it an invasion of privacy, but now it seemed necessary. She needed to understand what work had recently been done on the house and what bills she might expect in the future.

  Marigold kept her company, inevitably sitting on the very pile of papers Gerry needed. She picked the little creature up and cuddled her. “You’ve gained a little weight, haven’t you, Princess?” Gerry put her on a pillow she suspected her aunt had kept on the desk for that purpose. But Marigold simply sat on a different pile of papers. When Gerry got to those, she put the cat on the pillow again and this time she stayed there.

  Gerry had cleared the desk and now dived into the small black filing cabinet. “I should be methodical,” she muttered, but groaned when she saw the first file was marked BILLS — Miscellaneous. It bulged. The one after it, slightly thinner, was CATS. “You guys are important too,” she said to Marigold and removed the file.

  Each cat had one or two sheets of paper describing how they looked, acted; where Maggie had gotten them; all their trips to the vet. “Holy cow!” Gerry exclaimed when she pulled out the VET file and estimated the yearly bill. She’d certainly need a few commissions to cover that!

  All method now lost, she began pulling out only the files that interested her. There was another exclamation when she saw the amounts, year after year, for property taxes. “Well, Marigold, this has been a wake-up call. I need to figure the yearly outgoings and then calculate how much I’ll need to earn.”

  She was feeling a bit daunted so went back to the beginning of the filing cabinet. “Knowledge is power,” she told the little cat. “It’s not knowing that can wreck things.”

  She worked until she got up to ‘H’ for HYDRO, then went to bed, dreaming of giant pink and white numbers chasing her through Mrs. Shipton’s garden.

  Thunder boomed and lightning cracked the night, and she had trouble getting back to sleep. She finally got out of a restless bed early and faced a rainy day. She performed the routine for the cats but felt stale, and decided to take an umbrella and explore Lovering properly. A short drive brought her to the edge of town where commercial activity began.

  “Ah, coffee.” She poked around in the tiny gift shop–café, then walked to the next shop that interested her — full of fabrics. It was such a pleasure to handle the differently patterned tablecloths, napkins, aprons and placemats. They had clothes too. She bought a black fedora with a red feather jauntily stuck on one side and segued to the next store — a patisserie — where she bought a quiche, a small one, for her supper, and an almond croissant to consume immediately.

  She was sitting feeling very pleased with her rainy-day activity and thinking, “When pressed for money, go shopping!” when Doug came in, bought coffee and a ham and cheese roll and plunked himself next to her.

  “What’s up, boss?” he enquired pleasantly.

  “I’ve escaped.”

  “We all need to do that from time to time.” Melted cheese oozed out of his sandwich and Gerry found herself salivating.

  “Looks good.”

  “So order one.” She did and felt really decadent, having eaten her dessert first.

&nbs
p; “Doug, did my aunt ever appear frightened about anything? More than worried, frightened?”

  Doug wiped his mouth and looked grave. “She wanted me to keep it quiet but I guess now she’s gone…she asked me to keep on the look-out for signs someone might try to hurt the cats — spot traps or poisoned meat. I never found anything.”

  Gerry didn’t know why but she felt a bit disappointed. “But nothing directed against her, personally?”

  “Not that I knew of. Gotta go.”

  Gerry finished her sandwich and, the urge to shop slaked by her mini-spree, went home for a rainy-day nap. That evening, working late again, she finished the painting of the Shipton house.

  She hoped it would be okay with the Shiptons; she’d put Mitzi sitting in one of the windows. If they didn’t like it, she could always paint the little dog out.

  She yawned and went around the house, checking doors and windows, had a last scrape at the cat boxes, said goodnight to the cats, who were mostly all inside, counted them, as she’d formed a habit of doing, and found four short. Bob and the boys, of course. Probably outside, stalking damp mice.

  She looked out onto the sloping back lawn. Rain was still falling and a mist rose from the water’s surface. She was looking for cats but instead saw a canoe cross from right to left, pause while its occupant looked at her house, then continue on its way upriver.

  Who would be out after midnight in such weather and why were they looking at her home?

  She shivered and broke her fearful mood. Nonsense! Whoever it was, they were probably looking at all the houses along the shore, just enjoying the summer night. But, her sensible self continued, in the rain?

  As she settled to sleep, she was thankful for the calm presence of Marigold at her side and, a little later, a wet Bob, who leapt onto her bed, groomed himself dry, then curled at her feet. Her last thought before sleep reclaimed her was that she resembled the effigy of a medieval lady she’d seen on a tomb, her companion animal likewise disposed.

  Prudence arrived earlier than usual the next morning, to be met by a groggy Gerry. “You look a bit rough,” the housekeeper remarked, setting out the cat dishes. “Better make your coffee.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Prudence opened the kitchen door and, as the hairy mass exploded into the room, the women took their coffee into the winter living room next door. A bird flew into the window they were facing and Gerry let out a small scream.

  “Whoa, who’s a bit jumpy?”

  “Not a lot of sleep. Did the household expenses, actually, two nights ago, and I’m a bit discouraged. How will I be able to pay for this place? And the vet bills!”

  “Have you thought about giving art lessons? Private or classes? There was a guy who used to do that but he moved away. A lot of retirees studied with him.”

  “I never taught before,” Gerry said slowly.

  “It’s almost August. Design yourself a nice little ad and put it in the local paper. You could teach here.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. And make them supply their own materials. You don’t want to buy that stuff and then have nobody show up.”

  “Well, we’d start with sketching, anyway, so just paper and pencils would be needed. It might be fun. Good idea, Prudence. What would I do without you?”

  A pleased-looking Prudence smiled into her coffee. “It’s all part of the service.”

  Gerry drew the ad and drove to the office of the Lovering Herald, located in a cute little house in the village. “Run it for two or three weeks, end of August, early September, alongside the ads for music and dance lessons,” said the genial proprietor, who, with his young daughter, seemed to be operating the business alone.

  “Um, I’m going to have an art show at my home, maybe in September. Could you run an ad for that too?”

  “Sure could. And we’ll come and cover it. Give you a nice write-up in the paper. Won’t we, Judith?”

  The girl, tall and dark, nodded shyly. Her father continued, “She likes art, Judy does. Took it in high school. Maybe she’ll take one of these courses of yours, eh, Jude?”

  Gerry smiled at the girl. “That would be nice, Mr., er — ”

  “Parsley. Bill. And my daughter, Judith.”

  More Parsleys, thought Gerry, getting into her car. I’ve really got to study that family tree, see who I’m related to.

  After her bad night, she napped again that afternoon, woke up as Prudence was leaving. She yawned. “I’m all turned around. You’re leaving early.”

  “That’s why I came early. It’s my day for a visit with Mother.”

  “Where does your mother live, Prudence?”

  “She doesn’t live anywhere. She’s buried not far from your parents at St. Anne’s.”

  Gerry spoke slowly. “So, you’re going to the graveyard?”

  Prudence also spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. “No. I’m going to see Mrs. Smith, a medium. Mother speaks to me through her.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t, and you think I’m foolish, but I believe in it and it does me good.” Prudence said all this in such matter-of-fact tones that Gerry had nothing more to say except, “Well, then, enjoy yourself.”

  And Prudence marched down the road, pushing the empty baby carriage.

  On her way to the Muxworthys for dinner, Gerry picked up a bottle of her favourite rosé. She parked in the church lot, as Cece had instructed her, and walked to number 3.

  The small front yard had a paved path right up to the door and a little bed of hollyhocks, cherry tomatoes and herbs. It was charming, and she told Cece so when he opened the door. “It’s Bea’s work. Come and meet her.”

  A large woman came to greet them. “I’m Bea. Nice to meet you, Gerry.”

  Gerry handed her the wine and Bea spun her wheelchair around, saying, “I’ll put it in the freezer. That’ll cool it quick.”

  The small room was sparsely furnished. An easy chair and chaise longue faced the TV, while along one wall were ranged Cece’s desk, filing cabinets and a table with stacks of files. “Come through,” Bea called.

  The living room opened into a kitchen with table and chairs and another sitting area beyond: a glass conservatory with pots of flowering plants. Beyond that, Gerry could see Cece’s car.

  “It’s MS,” Bea was saying. “Some days I can walk and some I can’t. Today I can’t.” She put on oven mitts and opened the oven door. “It’s ratatouille. They have such wonderful vegetables at the farmer’s market each week. And it’s just across the way.”

  Gerry, who’d been vaguely aware such a market existed, mumbled something about not being much of a cook.

  “Neither am I, really, but there’s such good produce in the summer, I’m inspired. Believe me, by January, I’m reheating store-bought meat pie and opening cans of soup. Cece, get out the cheese and paté and I’ll slice the bread. Oh, and the wine. That’s everything.”

  Cece poured the wine and Bea raised her glass. “Bon appétit!” she said in a passable imitation of Julia Child. Caught off guard, Gerry laughed. “Oh, good,” Bea sighed. “Now I can relax. You wouldn’t believe how uptight some people get around a wheelchair.”

  “Well, I was a little,” Gerry admitted, helping herself to the ratatouille. “This is delicious.”

  “Dip your bread in the sauce,” Cece encouraged, demonstrating.

  “This paté is pretty good, too,” said Gerry, spreading it on the bread.

  “Farmer’s market,” said Bea. “Top me up, darling.” She held her glass out to Cece. The look he gave her made Gerry suddenly aware of how long it had been since someone had looked at her like that. Lucky Bea. Lucky Cece.

  After supper Bea showed Gerry her collection of orchids. “More will be in bloom in the winter. I don’t know why. Stress?”

  Gerry took some photos of the orchids that were
in bloom. One in particular — a pansy orchid with white-edged and splotched maroon petals — attracted her. Perhaps she could do individual plant portraits, miniatures maybe, and sell them in a local gift shop.

  Suddenly, she felt a burst of optimism. She would make it work, earn enough money to support The Maples, the cats, and enjoy herself at the same time. “Thank you so much,” she said, impulsively bending to embrace Bea. “You’ve cheered me up.”

  That night, filled with a renewed sense of purpose, she tackled the bottom drawer of her aunt’s filing cabinet. There, underneath the hanging file folders and pushed into the back, she found the letters.

  7

  August passed in a whirl of deadlines, visits with prospective clients, and telephone conversations fielding questions about her upcoming classes.

  Word had spread even before the ads appeared in the Herald, and she had a few interested people.

  The Shiptons were thrilled with the painting of their house, and Gerry was invited to toast it hanging over the fireplace in their living room. Far from objecting to Mitzi at the window, they ordered another painting — with Mitzi as the main subject. Gerry took some photographs of the dog inside and in the garden, and was relieved when Mrs. Shipton gave her until Christmas. “It’s my gift from Al, so you have until December twenty-fourth.”

  The first classes would start after Labour Day, and, after consulting with the students, the time was settled for Wednesdays from one to four. This was a Prudence day, so Gerry could count on her to tidy in the morning, care for the cats, and prepare tea and snacks for the mid-afternoon break.

  After some thought, she decided she’d teach in the bamboo room/studio. First, it was charming and the students would be impressed and interested to view part of the house’s art collection on its walls. Second, it was away from the cats and only Marigold came in there, so, hopefully, if anyone had a cat allergy, it would be a safe place for them. And third, all of Gerry’s art supplies, easel and drawing table were there, handy if she needed to demonstrate.