The Cat Who Came Back for Christmas

by Julia Romp

  Now you should know by now that I don’t do things by halves and this Halloween party was no different. Neighbors and friends had been invited, and Mum was standing in the kitchen dressed as a dead pensioner while I chased Ben around. Nob, Tor and her husband Del, Boy, Sandra and the kids were all coming. Arthur, who’d moved away from the estate with his mum a few months before, so we didn’t see so much of him, was also invited and the guests of honor were going to be five of George’s classmates. I knew that just like him they’d never get to go trick or treating or be invited to the kind of parties that most kids go to, so I wanted to give them a Halloween memory to keep forever.

  Once I’d decided to do that, what happened next was what usually happens with me: I didn’t know when to stop. I’d done an extreme makeover on the whole of the downstairs of the house, but instead of making it look better, I had transformed it into a creepy haunted house. I wanted people to feel as though they were in another world from the moment they stepped on to our driveway. After searching the Internet for ideas, I’d come across a Web site run by a man in America who sold everything you could think of for Halloween, and while I knew they went to town over there, this was something else. The man had fake dead bodies hanging off the front of his house and had even built his own coffins. It was amazing. Even though I was going to have to do something on a smaller scale, because there was only so much in the budget after all, there was one thing he had that I wanted.

  The man made and sold “butlers”—six-foot lifelike figures that looked a bit like Herman off The Addams Family and came dressed in suits, with rigid hands to hold a tray and a recorded voice like the ones some dolls have, only the butlers’ voices sounded not cute but scary. Those butlers were so brilliant I knew I had to have something like them, and to do them proud I was going to have to make everything else just as good. Getting the butlers shipped over was going to be way too expensive, though, so I tracked two down on a Web site closer to home, ordered them and set about creating props.

  The first thing I made was gravestones out of polystyrene blocks that I’d painted gray, before twisting chicken wire into body shapes and dressing them in ripped clothes to create fake dead people. Their heads were made out of witches’ masks stuffed with wet newspaper, and I’d bought bales of hay that were now on the driveway with pumpkins perched on them. The dead bodies were hanging off the front of the house, along with two gray skeletons, broomsticks and spiders, and I’d even gotten a smoke machine so that when people arrived, they had to walk through the foggy graveyard past a fake guillotine, where I was going to take photos of the partygoers. The cost had gone up and up, of course, but my family had helped once again because they’re good like that and always join in my schemes.

  Earlier in the day, Mum had come over to decorate the lounge and we’d hung cobwebs, spiders and bats all over the walls. Then we’d put huge pumpkin lampshades over the lights to make the room glow orange and I’d rigged up a strobe light to make sure things looked really creepy.

  George had had a face like thunder when he got home from school and saw what we were doing.

  “She’s not right, is she?” he said to Mum as he pointed at me. “Who’d do all this? This is too much.”

  “I know, love,” she replied. “But that’s your mum and she’s been like it since she was a little girl. She’s a dreamer.”

  George was right in a way. I’d gotten so carried away that I’d even continued the party out into the back garden with another fake graveyard on the lawn and a haunted house in the shed with lucky-dip buckets full of sawdust, baked beans and mud. But I was determined to make sure that George and his friends had the night of their lives and I was hoping that even if he did not like it now, George might get a bit more interested when the party started.

  Nerves filled me, though, as the house filled up and all George’s classmates arrived, and friends, family and neighbors too. Everyone looked fantastic: Lewis was a pirate of the Caribbean, Wendy, Kayleigh and Sandra had come as witches, Tor was a ghost, Boy was covered in chains and Nob wore his jeans because he’d wanted to come as Michael Myers from the Halloween film but we’d all decided that he might scare the kids too much.

  George was quiet at first, despite the fact that from the moment people started arriving, Ben had been rushing around as though it was his very own party. He weaved in and out of people’s legs, skittered across the graveyard and dived into the lucky-dip buckets. But as George watched Ben having such a good time, he slowly joined in himself. Soon he was eating sweets and hot dogs with his friends, jigging to the music a bit and even visiting the graves. One of his classmates got so excited by the whole thing that he ended up hitting me over and over with his toy sword, which made George roar with laughter.

  The party just kept getting bigger: kids who were out trick or treating dropped in to get some sweets, and the house ended up heaving so much that even the police turned up. They weren’t there to arrest anyone: they’d heard about what we were doing from a neighbor who’d seen me getting it all ready and they’d brought a bucket of sweets and a photographer from the local newspaper to take a picture of the kids. We had a great old time as the bobbies tucked into hot dogs and the pensioners from the bungalows came for a look with their grandkids. Everyone was welcome, and of course the night ended with Lewis dancing to “Thriller.”

  I was just so pleased that George had joined in and although he didn’t say much about it at first, he came home the next week and told me that his school friends had been talking about the party.

  “Miss Worgan said it sounded fantastic,” George said. “We’re going to talk about it in assembly.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You could tell them how I made fake graves and you wore a red cape.”

  George looked thoughtfully at me. “Will we do it again next year?”

  “Yes. Even bigger.”

  Ben, sitting on George’s lap, meowed and I looked at him. He had loved the party and even though George didn’t say any more, I was beginning to think that he might just have enjoyed it too.

  After that day at Cranford, George had started to mention love in a roundabout way. Sometimes when I tried telling him not to do something naughty, he’d grin as I spoke.

  “You know Ben loves you, don’t you, Mum?” George would say as he laughed. “He do or he don’t? He does or he don’t? He would or he wouldn’t? I’m going to ask him.”

  Or I’d be on the phone to Mum and he’d suddenly shout down the stairs.

  “I love you, Nan!”

  “Did you hear that?” I’d ask Mum excitedly.

  He did not say the words “I love you” to any of us face to face, but that didn’t matter. Just hearing George use the word “love” was more than I had ever thought was possible, and he showed there was so much more bubbling up inside him each time he hugged and kissed, petted and stroked Ben. But although he could show his affection to Ben, George still couldn’t bring himself to do the same with me, so I held on to the times when we rough played together, as I had done since he was small. As he wrestled me to the floor, pushed his face close to mine or held me down as he pretended we were fighting, I was glad that he felt comfortable enough to do this with me. All boys enjoy tumbling around and I’d seen my brothers do it often enough when they were young, so I rough played with George because he didn’t have a dad at home or brothers to do it with. I wanted him to have just a bit of time to feel free without do’s and dont’s, because there were a lot of those at home and school.

  Rough play was George’s way of getting close to me, so I’d laugh along as he bashed into me—even if it was a bit hard at times—enjoying the moment until he felt he’d got too close and pulled away as he told me I smelled or had funny hair. That always happened—George’s senses got overloaded with information and he pulled back. But then he was showed his affection for me by rough playing and I loved it.

  His other favorite game was to pretend to be a cat just lik
e Ben, and he did it so much that I’d almost stopped noticing it by now. Getting down on the floor, George would crawl around with Ben or make purring noises like him. But when he started bumping into my legs or sitting closer to me on the sofa as he pretended to be a cat, I realized something was beginning to change. George still wouldn’t even let me take his hand, but it was as if he was slowly trying to come physically nearer to me.

  I was careful not to react, even though the longing inside me to hug and cuddle him was as strong as it always had been. Although I’d learned to push it down over the years, there were still moments when I saw other mothers pull their child on to their laps to give them a kiss or cuddle and felt a twist deep down that I’d never known that kind of love with George. So maybe that’s why when he touched me for the first time, I almost didn’t let myself think about it too much. It was as if I was scared to admit what was happening, in case he never came near me again.

  It was a night like any other. I was on the sofa and George was sitting at the other end with Ben stretched out across his chest and shoulder as he ran his fingers through his fur. After a long cuddle, Ben jumped off George’s lap and walked to the door into the garden to let us know he wanted to go out, and I got up to open it before lying back down on the sofa as George played on the floor. But when I settled back down George started to crawl over to the sofa. I didn’t take much notice until I realized that he was about to climb up on to it. Without a word, George got up next to me and lay on top of me, stretching out his whole body against me just as Ben had lain on him a minute ago. I could hardly believe it was happening.

  George softly rubbed his face against mine and I didn’t move a muscle, afraid of making a wrong move and scaring him. I had never been so close to him. I felt his weight against me and I didn’t want to ruin this precious moment.

  “Ben was a Japanese sumo wrestler,” George said.

  “Was he really?”

  “Yes. He does karate and kickboxing. He is a black belt, I know. He won the world’s best karate cat but didn’t want the trophy because he’s not a cat.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do. I lifted my hand and gently pushed my fingers through George’s hair as he lay against me. If I cuddled him just as he’d cuddled Ben, maybe he’d be comfortable.

  “You’ve got a hairy face,” George said and I stopped moving my hand for a moment, thinking that he was about to draw away.

  But he didn’t. Instead George carried on lying on me and I stayed completely still, willing myself not to scare him away. He was so close I could feel his breath as it danced on my cheek.

  “Don’t move your hair on me,” George said. “I don’t like your hair.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t stare at me. I don’t like it.”

  “I won’t.”

  I lowered my eyes as I pushed my fingers into George’s hair again and ruffled it back from his forehead. Just to be this close to him was something I had imagined so many times. Could I allow myself to accept it was real now that it was actually happening?

  “Ben thinks Buster doesn’t have manners,” he said and I smiled as I thought of the tabby imposter that Ben still didn’t like at all. “But Buster don’t have manners because he lives on the streets and Ben forgets he was homeless once and used to eat crisps out of the bin.”

  I giggled and lifted my head to look at George. I couldn’t stop myself. But this time he was looking back at me with his eyes so blue and clear.

  “Ben has traveled the world so he can help other cats,” he said.

  “Where has he been?”

  “He went to Cyprus on holiday.”

  I flexed my fingers and scratched them softly across George’s scalp. His hair was so soft, his body so relaxed as he cuddled into me. “Was it hot in Cyprus when Ben was there?” I asked him.

  “Yes. The cats stay by the pool all day because it’s hot. Ben wears factor 50.”

  I curled my hand around George’s ear before rubbing his nose softly, careful not to be too greedy to touch him, until he suddenly sat up.

  “I’ll go and find Ben,” he said, lifting himself off me and walking toward the door.

  “OK, George,” I said as he disappeared into the garden.

  I stayed quite still, my breath stopped inside me. To hug my child, feel the weight of him after 11 years of empty arms, was a gift I’d never dared hope to be given.

  Chapter 13

  Halloween was such a success that the local housing association heard about it and contacted me to ask if I’d be interested in volunteering for them. They said they wanted to train me for a qualification that would allow me to organize community events and eventually get paid for doing it. I was so pleased that I filled out the forms they gave me listing all the reasons why they should give Julia Romp a chance at working. Then I went to a meeting in a room full of people wearing suits and panicked. Who was I kidding? Organizing things to help people get out and about in their community might be the best kind of job I could think of, but it wasn’t my world. I had had three jobs ever since George was born—a day shift, an evening one and the nighttime one, all with him—and I couldn’t juggle all that with work outside my home.

  The next Halloween was a whole year away, though, and that seemed far too long to wait for another party. I was itching to get organizing again, and then fate played its hand, just as it often does, when I got a letter from Marjorie Kinnan. The school wanted parents to do things for Christmas to help raise money for a new minibus, and that was all the excuse I needed. My mind went into overdrive as I thought about what I could do. A carol concert? No. As Mum said, I was tone deaf. An ice rink? No. That was a step too far, even for me. Then I had the perfect idea: a winter wonderland, a Christmas scene conjured up at our house in west London that would make people think they’d flown to Lapland for an audience with Father Christmas himself. There would be lights and music, reindeer and snow. Loads of people on the estate didn’t have the money to take their kids to see a Father Christmas in a shopping center because it cost a bomb, but maybe I could raise a bit for Marjorie Kinnan by creating something on their doorstep and asking them to give what they could. Whatever we raised would be a bonus, because at the very least people from around the estate could have a festive night out with their kids and I wanted to do something, however small, to thank Marjorie Kinnan for all they had done for George. The winter wonderland would run through the whole of December to give people the chance to come back again and again if they wanted to.

  I’ve always loved Christmas. When we were young, Dad would stand at the bottom of the stairs and I’d feel my heart racing as I waited for him to call us downstairs. The moment he did, Nob, Tor, Boy and I would tumble down, tripping over each other to get to the present pile first. Then as I grew up I learned to love Christmas even more, because I got to make it last for weeks as I decorated and shopped, wrapped presents and sent cards.

  But for George Christmas was both a happy and difficult time. It was happy because he liked all the build-up and loved to decorate the house just as much as I did. We had great fun decking out the place and George had built up a huge collection of singing Christmas toys over the years that always took pride of place. He had everything from a reindeer and a snowman that sang to three cuddly mice dressed in Christmas gear and a penguin in a Santa suit which could also hold a tune. It was chaos when he switched them all on, but George loved those toys and I loved seeing his face as they made a racket. The difficult bit always came on Christmas Day itself, because George never reacted to the expectation hanging in the air. It made him feel uncomfortable—so much pressure on one day when he wanted every one to be pretty much identical. So over the years I’d learned not to make too much of Christmas Day and treat it like any other. George had presents and sometimes he’d open them; more often he didn’t. I had a wardrobe full of wrapped boxes that I’d collected over the years.

  As I thought about my winter wonderland, I wondered how George would react to it. I knew
he’d enjoyed Hallowe’en but the party had been pretty much full of people he knew and the winter wonderland would mean a lot of strangers coming to the house. It would be hard for George, but after thinking about it a lot, I decided to give it a go. I so wanted to do it and George could take part or not as much as he wanted to. If it was too much for him, I’d make sure no one went into the house so that he could have it all to himself with Ben.

  The more I thought about the winter wonderland, the more I had a picture in my head. Just as I’d done for Halloween, I was going to make a little world for people to lose themselves in. Night after night, I stayed up planning it all, pictures whirling around inside me as I dreamed. When it was all finally clear in my head, I got to work. The first thing I had to organize was the lights, because they’re the Mick Jagger of Christmas—the bit that gives it rock, roll and sparkle. Lots of people decorate the outside of their houses with lights for Christmas—fairy lights, flashing Santas, glowing reindeers and stars twinkling in the darkness—and I loved seeing houses done up like that. It’s like a Christmas card you give to everyone who walks past your front door.

  I’d been decorating our house with lights ever since we moved, but that wouldn’t be nearly enough for the winter wonderland. Our little driveway was going to have to be transformed into a festive scene to draw people in and a few fairy lights just wouldn’t do. So the first job was to track down lights—stars and bells, a Christmas tree and train, lights to go in trees and all over the front of the house—and even though my budget was small, it’s amazing what you can find on eBay. I’d also decided to line the drive with Christmas trees strung with fairy lights to make a proper entrance. I didn’t even let myself think about the electricity bill; I was far too carried away to worry about it.

  The wonderland also needed to have a centerpiece and I wanted it to be a sleigh. So I jumped at the chance when my friend Sarah said her lovely dad, Simon, who was a woodworker, could help me. I sketched him a picture of my dream machine, which was big enough to fit a dozen people, but I went back to the drawing board after finding out that the wood alone was going to cost me £500. This was Hounslow, after all, not Harrods. In the end Simon made me a sleigh that was big enough to fit a couple of kids in, so they could have a photo taken, and he didn’t charge me a penny for his time because he was so kind. He did such a brilliant job that when I finally went to pick up the sleigh, I had to have a sit in it before rushing home so that Mum and I could paint the wood cherry red and gold.