After Cleo: Came Jonah

by Helen Brown

  Getting back into the social scene was painful to begin with. Some of her friends only seemed to laugh, talk and drink. She found it hard to fit in. A couple of times she came home tearful, again regretting how she’d spent the past five years. I tried to assure her that while the benefits of her experiences mightn’t seem obvious to her yet, they’d added great richness to who she was and would stay with her forever.

  Walking along Chapel Street with her one Saturday night, she glided along the pavement, oblivious to admiring glances from men. When I nudged her and asked if she’d noticed that cute guy trying to make eye contact, she seemed almost startled.

  Katharine, Philip and I were delighted when she came along to operas, musicals and the occasional trashy film with us. During her devout phase she’d rejected entertainment as a ‘diversion’.

  It was wonderful to see her wearing clothes that weren’t from a charity shop. To my surprise, she developed an addiction to a boutique specialising in conservative outfits with cashmere and leather accessories. Jonah was particularly pleased about that. He scurried into her bedroom whenever he could to steal her scarves.

  ‘I’m ashamed to confess it,’ she said one day. ‘But I have a weakness for animal skin prints.’

  I bought her a fake leopard-skin handbag. Jonah naturally assumed it was his and started carrying it around the house.

  Lydia took her cooking skills to new levels. Not only could she recreate Mum’s ginger crunch to perfection, Julia Child and Nigella Lawson became household friends.

  Jonah galloped eagerly into the kitchen whenever he heard her rattling in the pot cupboard. It meant no end of games – jumping up on the bench and being shooed off again. Lydia solved the situation peaceably, placing his tallest scratching pole in the middle of the kitchen so he could supervise. This involved much ‘talking’, answering every question with a meow or a cluck – or, if he disapproved for some reason, one of his snitching sounds.

  ‘I’m just his under-chef,’ she chuckled.

  Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, I almost missed the smell of incense. She wasn’t meditating much anymore. I suggested maybe she shouldn’t give it up altogether.

  Since Katharine had moved out to residential college at university, the house was quiet with just the three of us – four, counting Jonah. After a few months, Lydia was ready to move into a flat with people her own age. She and three friends found a modern apartment above an art gallery in Carlton. Sunny and spacious, it was ideal. Now she’d decided to do a PhD as well as a Masters in Psychology, she planned to stay there a few years.

  She left home on one of those brilliant sunny days we sometimes get in winter. Her bed was fine to go once Philip had sawn out the piece of wood that had been saturated with Jonah’s misdoings.

  The apple tree waved its bare branches in farewell as a pair of removal men trudged down the path with her desk, chair and boxes of clothes. After they’d driven away, she called me upstairs. Her room was empty except for a cluttered bookshelf. I ran my hand over the apricot walls. They still had an otherworldly quality.

  ‘We’ve had quite an adventure,’ I said, picking up a plump meditation cushion. ‘Aren’t you taking this?’

  ‘You can keep it if you like,” she said.

  ‘Meditation,’ I said, turning the cushion in my hands. ‘It does sometimes help me tune out after I’ve been writing.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of becoming a nun, are you?’ Lydia chuckled.

  I shook my head and laughed. She put her hands on my shoulders and drew me close.

  ‘Thanks for everything, Mum.’

  My ears went hot. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.

  My stroppy, strong-willed daughter who’d only ever called me Helen had finally called me Mum.

  Tail’s End

  Set them free . . . within reason

  That afternoon, I clicked Jonah into his harness and carried him into the back garden.

  As I stretched on a lounger and closed my eyes, the cat jumped on to the sunbed next to mine. Purring and rolling ecstatically in the golden warmth, he invited me to rub his tummy. Like all good concubines, I obliged.

  Half a tablet of cat Prozac had become part of his daily routine. He was still demented, charming and bossy but the medication had made a big difference to his ‘little problem’. He only sprayed these days if one of the black cats from down the road glowered through a window at him, or he caught someone packing a suitcase. Dad’s piano was still a source of unwholesome interest so, to the curiosity of visitors, it remained in its protective covering.

  ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you?’ I said, as he lay on his side and slid his eyes shut.

  Our feline seemed so calm and happy I decided to risk giving him what he’d always craved. He hardly seemed to notice when I undid the harness. We lay side by side, savouring the sunshine and each other’s company. He was free now, and he’d chosen to stay with me. Flattered, I closed my eyes and drifted into a haze.

  Except I couldn’t relax entirely. Every few seconds I checked Jonah was still lying next to me. He appeared comatose. Once, when I opened one eye I caught him examining me with a piercing gaze, as though ascertaining whether I was asleep.

  Pretending to doze, I watched the crafty creature check me out again. Satisfied I was unconscious, he sprang off his lounger, gave himself a congratulatory shake and trotted stealthily away. My heart sank as his tail disappeared around the side of the house.

  Sighing at the thought of another neighbourhood gadabout, I rolled off the lounger and plodded after him. That cat couldn’t be trusted.

  As I rounded the corner, he was pattering past the wheelie bins. Too far away for me to catch, even if I broke into a sprint.

  ‘Jonah!’ I whined. “Come back.”

  The cat stopped in his tracks, turned his handsome face to me and blinked.

  ‘It would be nice if you stayed home,’ I said.

  The feline hesitated. I waited for him to bolt. But, to my astonishment, he lay down on the path, rolled on his back and put his feet in the air as if to say, ‘You might as well come and get me.’

  Bundling him into my arms, I kissed his furry forehead. In return he honoured me with a good-natured purr. He’d enjoyed the joke.

  Cats and daughters. Let them roam a little.

  But keep an eye on them.

  Acknowledgements

  Becoming an international author has brought some amazing women and men into my life. I’ll always be grateful to Louise Thurtell at Allen & Unwin for her incredibly generous support. A passionate publisher, Louise is an author’s dream. She has also become a fantastic friend and mentor.

  Heartfelt thanks to Jude McGee, along with Wenona Byrne and her rights team at A&U for taking Cleo to the world.

  And to Lisa Highton at Two Roads, UK, for her kindness and unflinching good taste. And Martina Schmidt of Deuticke, Austria, for transforming Cleo into an elegant German speaking cat.

  I’ve often wondered why authors thank their agents. Since the divine Elizabeth Sheinkman of Curtis Brown took me on I’ve found out. She’s a great visionary and cheerleader, not to mention an incredibly glamorous woman.

  Robert Dark, computer nerd and father of five, helped me understand how powerful a website can be.

  I was honoured when Julie Wentworth, the world’s best yoga teacher, offered Friday afternoon yoga sessions in her flat while I was working on this book. She is tonic to the soul.

  Gratitude, too, for regular massages from Bronwyn Quigley and workouts with Stephen Holden. Without their help keeping my body in order during the long writing months I’d have fallen apart.

  The friendship of Douglas Drury, Deirdre Coleman, Liz Parker, Sarah Wood, Geoff Clifford and Sue Peden, Rocky and Jeanie Douche, Heather Leviston, Roderick and Gillian Deane, Mano and Heather Thevathasan, James Fisher, Kim Paleg and others is beyond price.

  Heartfelt gratitude to the medics who guided me through breast cancer. Scribbling a book or two is not
hing compared to the work they do saving lives.

  Thanks, too, to my brother Jim Blackman and his partner Aaron Beckett.

  And to Bronte and Stevan at Spoonful, for providing coffee jet fuel for the writer’s soul.

  Some fans have stayed with me through the years, providing beacons of confidence in my ability when it’s wavered. Maureen Riesterer, Mary Stanley-Shepherd and Jim Chalmers of Christchurch, Faye Ketu of Ekatahuna, Iskra Lewis and many others. You know who you are.

  It’s impossible to express sufficient gratitude to those who agreed to appear in this book under their real names. Vivienne Smith, animal behaviouralist extraordinaire, helped us see our wayward cat through fresh eyes.

  My sister Mary Dryden deserves special mention. Not only did she bring Jonah into our lives, she brought her light into our house when it was needed.

  People sometimes ask how my family feel being the subject of my writing. All I know is they’re incredibly tolerant and big hearted. Philip, Katharine, Rob, Chantelle and baby Annie – you are jewels in my casket.

  Deepest thanks of all to Lydia for so generously agreeing to be central to this story. No doubt you’d tell it differently from your perspective. Perhaps some day you will. In the meantime, I hope you appreciate this book for what it is … a kind of love story.

  And Jonah, if you’re reading this, that goes for you, too.