Thomasina - The Cat Who Thought She Was God

by Paul Gallico

  The lane was at the south end of the village, where the tide crept upon a pebbled shore and small sand runners and sea birds pecked, yet nearby, at no more than a hundred yards distance and swelling upward from the sea, there was a copse of pale gray ash, smooth-boled beech, and gnarled oak. It was for the shelter of these woods lying at the entrance to the grounds of the dark-stone manor house that Mary Ruadh ran as fast as her legs could carry her and her burden, as though if she did not reach it quickly, her grief would overtake her and catch her naked in the open where she could not hide.

  At the foot of a giant oak, so ancient that its roots, like the veins on the hands of the very old, stood out from the ground to form ridges of moss-covered shelter for a small body, Mary Ruadh flung herself beside the limp remains of her friend, for on that day that had begun so ordinarily and usually, like any other day, she had lost all she had.

  It was not only her cat, her dear companion and friend of whom she had been bereft, but also her father.

  Now, however, she wept over the immediate, beating the earth with her feet and fists and burying her face again and again in the soft, still flank, crying aloud over and over the beloved name of Thomasina until her wailing filled the grove and reached the ears of Hughie Stirling and brought him over to where she lay, to discover the cause.

  Hughie, the son of the laird who lived in the large manor house in the park on the slope a mile or so from the shore, was a boy of nine, attractive, with blue eyes of unusual clarity and color beneath dark brows and long lashes with curly, crisp dark hair, high brow and cheekbones, and square chin of the Campbells, to whom the Stirlings were related. A leader in the parish school, which he attended with youth of all degree and scale in and about Inveranoch, he was enjoying the lazy days of summer-holiday freedom.

  Clad in shorts and white T shirt, Hughie went over and knelt by the side of the child and examined the still figure of the cat. “Hello, Mary Ruadh. I say, whatever has happened to Thomasina? Is she dead?”

  Mary raised her tear-stained face to see her friend and protector kneeling above her. She poured out her heart to him. “She was sick and Daddy killed her,” she wailed. “She couldn’t stand up this morning and when I took her to Daddy to be cured he made Willie Bannock put her to sleep. She’s dead.”

  The boy examined the cat more closely and gave the body a tentative prod. Even then, the sweetish scent of the chloroform still clung to it, and he wrinkled his nose. His quick mind saw and understood what might have happened. Raised among animals, dogs, cats, horses, livestock, and in an atmosphere where they were less sentimentally regarded, he knew how quickly a beast could be stricken with a sudden illness and an agony which made shooting a mercy. He said, “Maybe it was all for the best, Mary Ruadh. Maybe Thomasina was so sick your father couldn’t help it—”

  The child turned upon him a look of mingled despair and sudden hatred, and Hughie, more sensitive than most, was at once aware of his error, yet helpless in the new onrush of tears and sobs, as, confronted with this last blow, the seeming disloyalty of her friend, she cried, “Daddy didn’t even try. He just went and had her killed,” and then added, “I hate you too—” In a paroxysm of grief she buried her face in the ground and dug into the moss with her small fingernails.

  At a loss for what to do, Hughie first pronounced a valedictory over the departed: “She was a good cat,” he said, and then added, “Don’t cry so, Mary Ruadh, you’ll do yourself a hurt. Maybe Thomasina is in heaven already with wings and is having a lovely time chasing winged mice.”

  The little girl glanced at him for a moment with slightly less hostility, but the tears and sobs that wracked her slender body continued. Hughie could not find it in him to care greatly about the cat, for his world was full of assorted cats who lived in the barns and stables or snoozed in the kitchen behind the stove and one was like another, but the awful grief afflicting Mary Ruadh touched and frightened him . . . He was near enough her age to understand the greater tragedy of her loss of trust in her father along with the companionship of her pet. Plainly there was nothing more to be done for Thomasina, but he was deeply concerned over Mary Ruadh. He had heard of people dying from a broken heart. Unless something were done to help her, his playmate, over whom he had exercised a kind of benevolent watch throughout the summer and who was strangely dear to him, might lie there until she wept herself to death over the corpse of her cat.

  So much a man already was Hughie Stirling that in this crisis he remembered that where one could not console the next best thing was to distract. He said, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Mary Ruadh. We’ll give Thomasina the best and most wonderful funeral any cat ever had. Mary! Mary Ruadh! Do you hear me? We’ll give Thomasina a grand burial this very day. I know just the satin box at home that will do for the casket. We’ll put in the young heather for her to lie on, which is as soft as down—well, almost, anyway. Are you listening to me, Mary Ruadh?”

  She was. The agony of sobs began to diminish and when she raised her head and tear-brightened eyes from the gray-green sward of old moss and roots, the anger and mistrust had gone from them. There was definite interest.

  Hughie pressed the advantage thus won and at the same time began to fire his own vivid imagination, for even as he invented and improvised to divert the unhappy child, the idea began to sound most promising and might result in a “do” that would be talked about by his companions in Inveranoch for a long while to come.

  “Look you, Mary Ruadh,” he cried, “we will have a procession through the town as long as when Lachlan Dougal was buried and you shall wear widow’s mournings and walk directly behind the casket, weeping.”

  Mary Ruadh was now frankly interested in the proposal. She picked herself up and knelt facing Hughie, so that the body of Thomasina lay between them, unnoticed. “Will I wear a veil and a black shawl? Mrs. McKenzie has a black shawl.”

  “Of course,” Hughie assented, delighted with the results he was achieving and more and more carried away with his idea, “I’m sure I can find you a veil of mother’s. We’ll have the funeral this very day in the afternoon. I’ll ask Geordie McNabb, and Iain will bring his brothers and sisters and others from the school.”

  Mary Ruadh asked, “Can the dustman come?”

  “Well, no,” Hughie replied, “he’d very likely be working—”

  Then as the child’s face fell, he had another brilliant inspiration. “Do ye ken Jamie Braid, the son of Sergeant Braid, father’s piper? He’s been learning the pipes and already has unco’ skill. We’ll have him. Can ye no’ see Jamie in his kilts with his ain wee pipes (Hughie when he became excited was apt to drop somewhat into the local way of speech), wi’ the ribbons flying and his bonnet set saucily upon his knob, piping Macintosh’s Lament?”

  Mary Ruadh was quite enchanted now. Her eyes were as round as half-crown pieces and tears no longer flowed from them.

  Hughie continued: “Well, and I’ll wear my formal kilts with skean dhu and sporran and every one on the street will turn his head as we go by and say, ‘There goes the poor widow MacDhui, a-burying of her dearest Thomasina, God rest her soul, foully done to death—’ ”

  “Really truly, Hughie?”

  “Oh yes,” the boy promised, “and I’ll tell you something more.” He was now beginning to be intoxicated by his success, not only in distracting his unhappy friend, but at the same time organizing a splendid afternoon’s entertainment, far better than the somewhat tame picnic he originally projected. “We’ll make a headboard!”

  “What is a headboard?”

  “Well, it’s a kind of a thing like a gravestone when you are in a hurry. It tells about the person who is buried there.” Here his own blue eyes widened and he ran his fingers through his crisp, dark hair, seized by the throes of literary composition and quite forgetting his prior judgment rendered upon the assassination, namely that Mr. MacDhui probably had no alternative but to put the cat out of its misery. “We’ll print on it, ‘Here lies THOMASINA—MURDERED July
26,1957.’ ”

  Mary Ruadh’s gaze was brimming with worship. The word “murdered” had the proper ring to it and filled her with a curious satisfaction. She looked down now upon the still form of Thomasina; gloomy retrospect enveloped her once more as the memory of the morning’s events returned and out of it she pronounced sentence: “I’m not going to speak to Daddy ever again.”

  Hughie nodded absently. Mary’s family vendettas were her own affair and none of his concern as long as they did not impinge upon the grandiose funeral, the details of which any Highland chieftain or even modern local inhabitant of Inveranoch would have been proud.

  He went on creating: “I’ll play the part of the minister and make the speech at the graveside—‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust’ and then all about what a wonderful person the deceased was and how sorry everybody is that she has gone away to her heavenly reward. And after that we’ll cover over the casket with earth and lay our wreaths and flowers on the mound and we’ll come away from the grave to a merry tune skirled by Jamie Braid, after which we’ll have a feed of some kind, a real draidgie, and all be gay and cheerful again. Well, what do you say to that, Mary Ruadh?”

  By way of reply she put her arms about Hughie’s neck, leaning over Thomasina to do so, and hugged him, for he had brought something interesting and exciting at least momentarily into her life; something was about to happen in which she would play a major role and she was quite enchanted with the program.

  “Good lass!” Hughie said, produced a reasonably clean handkerchief, wiped the tear stains away from her face and held it for her to blow her nose. Then he brushed her pinafore where leaves and moss had clung to it, ran his fingers through her bright hair and, setting her then upon her feet, said, “There you are, then. I’ll be taking Thomasina home to prepare the casket; I’ll find Geordie McNabb and he’ll wake over her whilst I’m having lunch and getting everything ready. Jamie’s brother Ewan will go and tell the others. We’ll all meet here when the tower clock strikes three, and form up for the procession.”

  Nearly a head taller than she, he stood smiling down at her, mightily pleased with himself and with her as well. It would be a great “do” that afternoon, probably the best of the whole summer, one that would be remembered and spoken about by him and all his friends and companions for long after. He picked up the remains of Thomasina and flung them unceremoniously over his shoulder and, turning Mary in the direction of her home, started off with an affectionate pat on her shoulder. “Off you go now. And remember, wear your mourners and don’t be late. A funeral’s no good at all without the widow or weeping relatives. And this one is going to be quite the best ever.”

  Mary Ruadh now trotted off obediently. She did not so much as turn around to give the departed and departing Thomasina another glance. That Thomasina, the one she had carried about with her and nursed and played with and cuddled to her at night, was “gone away” never to return, which was her understanding of death, for it had been explained that her mother had “gone away” when she was very little. Gone away, then, meant not there any more. Yet the yearning remained, and her left arm, over which Thomasina was usually draped, felt strangely unweighted. She had had no experience of knowing what to do with a love when once the object of its power and intensity of feeling was no longer there to receive it.

  And then there was something else besides the death of a person, since Thomasina was in many ways more real to her and human than many of those surrounding her, and that was the death of a love, which had happened almost simultaneously and was still going on within her.

  The gentle, the all-wise, all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving father had “gone away” too. In his place there remained only the mountain of a man with the bristly red beard, thunderous voice, and iron arms who had set her on the other side of the door while inside his office the murder of Thomasina was taking place. As Mary Ruadh thought of the lovely word that Hughie had used and which was to become a permanent part of Thomasina’s memorial, a slight smile of satisfaction played about the corners of her otherwise innocent mouth. The grownup who had brought about the disaster of Thomasina’s departure was still to be dealt with.

  8

  Mr. Veterinarian Andrew MacDhui missed the funeral procession of his late victim that afternoon, for he was engaged in proceeding through another part of the town in the company of his friend, Mr. Angus Peddie, to bear good news to blind man Tammas Moffat, that, in a sense, he would “see” again.

  Mr. Peddie dropped in upon the animal doctor shortly after three o’clock to learn what had happened to the Seeing Eye dog he had been instrumental in securing for Tammas, who was one of his oldest parishioners. He was a wonder, was Mr. Peddie, and known all over the town for being able to smooth-tongue a person out of a contribution when there was a need. His way was to appear to be letting you in on something, like a hot tip on a horse, or a winning pools combination; he made you a cheerful and excited co-conspirator and before you knew it, you had parted with a pound note, or ten shillings, or whatever you happened to have on you at the moment. And blessed if later on, when the results showed, you didn’t feel as though you had won something.

  The minister found Mr. MacDhui looking tired but satisfied when he entered his consulting room. Peddie said, “I stopped by, Andrew, to ask whether there was any news of Tammas’s dog—good or ill—”

  MacDhui savored for a moment the pleasure of the reply he had to make, before indulging in it, but the smile of gratification would not stay from his full lips; his strong teeth showed through the red bristles of beard and mustache as he replied, “Well, I have saved Tammas’s eyes for him. The dog will manage. In three weeks it will be good as new.”

  Mr. Peddie said, “Ah. Oh, splendid, splendid. I knew it would be so. I was expecting it.”

  MacDhui cocked his head at his friend. “Your faith, Angus, flatters me, but I might tell you—”

  “Oh,” Mr. Peddie said innocently, “I wasn’t referring to you in this instance, I meant—”

  MacDhui barked a savage laugh. “Hah! Your Higher Power, of course. Well, my friend, if you knew how many times the slender thread of your faith came near to being snipped. It’s almost a miracle the beast is alive—” He checked himself as he realized what he had said.

  Peddie nodded cheerfully and said, “Well, yes, that’s what I asked for. In matters of faith, narrow escapes don’t count. It’s the results really that matter, isn’t it? As for what you would do, I had not the slightest doubt. Shall we go and tell the good news to Tammas? He was in a great torment of worry when I left him. It is a terrible thing to be blind and alone. The dog was his comfort as well as his guide.”

  “Eh?” MacDhui asked. “What do you want me along for? You can tell him—”

  “Well, actually, it was you who said it. But then you wouldn’t be the first to confuse the Power and the instrument. Come along, Andrew, it will do you good to see the old man’s joy.”

  MacDhui grumbled in his throat, but he put on his old tweed jacket with the leather patches at the elbow’s and pockets, loaded a great black pipe, took up his twisted blackthorn, and said to Peddie, “Want to have a look at him first?”

  He took the minister to the hospital part of the house. The dog lay on clean straw, his hindquarters encased in bandages and plaster. But his fine eyes were alert and keen, the pointed ears picked up, and he beat a rat-tat-tat on the floor of his cage with his brush at their coming, whined and scratched at the door with his forepaws.

  “What a beautiful sight,” Mr. Peddie said, and feasted his eyes on it.

  “Don’t pamper or spoil him,” MacDhui said to Willie Bannock, who was hovering nearby. “He’s been trained for but one man.”

  Tammas Moffat lived on the other side of town, the poorer section, and as the two men walked thither chatting, the faint wind-borne skirl of pipes in lament reached the ears of Mr. Peddie for a moment and he paused, cocking an ear. “That’s strange,” he said, “I thought I heard the sound of Macintos
h’s Lament. But there’s no’ any burial today I know about.”

  It was the faraway mourning of the little pipes of Jamie Braid, the sergeant piper’s son, in funeral procession for Thomasina that had reached his ears. Mr. MacDhui hearkened for a moment and then said, “I hear nothing,” and they continued on.

  Tammas Moffat had a room on the second floor of a two-story house of whitewashed stone and roof of gray slate in a section of such tenements, drab new council houses and the remains of several wartime Nissen huts. Several small children were playing in the dust before the house; a gray and white gull with but one leg perched on the chimney and an old woman in cap and apron was sweeping the doorstep.

  “Is Tammas Moffat in?” Mr. Peddie inquired.

  She paused in her sweeping long enough to say, “I have nae doot ye’ll be finding him at home. I have not heard him stirring.”

  “Thank you. We’ll go up then. The veterinary here has good news for him about his dog.”

  “I’m sure your news will be welcome. He was badly put out when the poor bonnie creature was hurt. I haven’t seen a sight of him since he came home.”

  They entered and went up the dark, narrow stairs, Peddie leading. There was no sound in the house whatsoever, though from below they could hear the dry susurrus of the sweeping and the rumbling of the baker’s van and then the beat of the gull’s wings as it flapped off the chimney.

  Mr. Peddie paused irresolutely, halfway up the stairs. He turned to look back at the veterinary. “Andrew—” he said.

  “Well—?”

  The minister did not continue, and the silence became oppressive. The rotund little man was much more of an instrument of communication from outside sources than his outward appearance indicated or most people suspected. He was an extraordinarily kind and sensitive man, so sensitive that at that moment he felt his soul go sick within him.

  “Andrew,” he said again, but changed his mind when the looming bulk of his friend pressed him on and he merely said, “Well, we will see, then.” He proceeded to the top of the stairs and with heavy, lagging footsteps walked to the end of the landing and knocked at the closed door. He waited for a moment, with ever-waxing certainty, and when there was no reply, opened the door gently and went in, followed by MacDhui.