The cat went here and the cat went there,
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
‘The Cat and the Moon’
W.B. Yeats
Mid-September 2006
TRY NOT TO FEEL too disappointed, my love,’ he says. ‘I’ll get away first thing, no matter what. Absolutely. Promise. Be with you before lunch.’ And then he hangs up.
‘Try not to feel too disappointed,’ she mimics his voice. ‘Or, if you’re disappointed, don’t tell me about it—isn’t that what you mean? Well, I’m not exactly disappointed, Jonathan. More like bloody pissed off.’ And something else, but best not to go there. Sally pushes her fingers through her hair. Jonathan would say she was being irrational as usual. So where in the marriage contract does it say anything about rational? Probably in the small print. Always read the small print, Dad used to say.
‘He’s right, of course, we’re both mature adults. These things happen in most marriages, if people are honest. And I’m trying to be honest—well, one of us has to be. So what’s wrong with a few hysterical outbursts, anyway? Perhaps it’s my way of coping. That’s what you therapists call it, isn’t it, Jonathan? What’s all that other psycho-shit you’re always throwing at me? Something about learning to move on? Taking responsibility for your own feelings? Look, I’m trying, aren’t I? I said I’d come on this lousy weekend. I’ve driven all this way, and found us some supper. The least you could do is turn up.’
She realizes she’s been shouting at an empty room. Who else is going to hear her? Well, only the woman from the house at the corner, and that’s several hundred, mud-clogged yards away. She’d been loading straw stuff onto a truck when Sally had stopped to ask the way. Nice woman. What was her name? Abbie? Said she might call in after she’d seen to the horses. And what would she be greeted with? Some maniac yelling at the walls.
Sally walks back through the hall to the kitchen where she’d dumped the box of groceries on the table.
So why did he wait till I got all the way here? What’s wrong with the mobile? We could both have stayed at home and come up together in the morning. This was all his idea, anyway. ‘Let’s have a quiet weekend in the country, just the two of us. Make a fresh start, put the whole incident into perspective.’
She rummages in her bag and retrieves her mobile. Yes, it seems to be working. No messages. Defeated, she struggles out of her coat, throwing it over the back of a rocking chair, rubs at the mud splatters on her new skirt and succeeds in making the stains worse. Then she makes a quick inventory of the room and lets out a long, low whistle.
‘You’ll have no trouble finding it.’ He’d sketched out a map. ‘It’s straight out of London, up the M11, turn onto the A11 and the Newmarket bypass, heading for Bury St Edmonds. Hallowfield village is just over the Suffolk border, about two miles past Newmarket on the left. It’s well signposted—you can’t miss it. You can get settled in and I’ll be there in a few hours. I’ll get away as soon as the meeting’s over. You know what Friday afternoons are like. Don’t worry, you’re going to love it.’
He was certainly right about her not being able to miss it. As she turned off the main road, the Hallowfield sign seemed to leap out straight in front of the car. She’d had to swerve sharply and slam on the brakes to avoid crashing into it. Stupid place to leave a signpost. It was obvious from the chipped bricks on the base that she wasn’t the first motorist to be ambushed. Then a painted sign politely informed her that Hallowfield welcomed careful drivers.
Tall hedgerows flanked the roadsides and autumn sunshine sprayed the trees with gold. There must have been some recent rain. Puddles at the roadside snatched blue from the sky, and muddy tyre tracks traced the path of farm vehicles across the road as if giant snails had crawled out of the fields. Sally wound the window down. Fresh air and that sour tang of decay that told of Harvest Home and stubble rotting back into the earth. It made her think about school days and the morning assembly table laden with fruit and harvest loaves. All is safely gathered in.
She drove on. A scattering of old houses dozed in the afternoon sun and a postman, wobbling on a bicycle, waved as she passed. When you live in London you start to believe that’s all there is, a vast unending city. It’s easy to forget this other world beyond the M25. This is how most—well, a lot of—English people live. Perhaps Jonathan was right. They needed some space, needed to breathe.
The road suddenly divided, opening up around a triangle of grass. The village green? Yes, with a duck pond and an ancient oak tree. Some sort of tree, anyway, big and old. She pulled into the kerb outside a row of shops to take another look at Jonathan’s piece of paper. According to his map she would have to see a church. Yes, there it was, its tower rising up behind the shops and no obvious way to get to it. No sign of Wicker Lane: she’d have to ask directions. Perhaps one of the shopkeepers?
It was a basic assortment. A general grocery store next door to a teashop, then a post office, a hardware store and a Chinese takeaway, its neon window signs incongruous under the sagging thatched roof. Most of the buildings were of flint stone, like large, flaked pebbles stuck in cement, with red brick to edge the corners and ancient wooden beams woven into the stone to support windows and doorways. A film-set village, straight out of an advert for real ale. A pub? Of course, there it was across the road—the Green Man. And another one further along. Well, two pubs and a Chinese takeaway, that takes care of the nightlife. There was no one around, as if all the villagers had seen her coming and gone into hiding. Sally decided to try the general store: at least the door was open and there was a light on inside.
The directions she was given were easy to follow and she found where Wicker Lane ought to be, only it wasn’t a lane, just a muddy track clogged with long grass. The woman loading the straw outside the corner house assured her Stonewater Cottage was only a few yards further on. Her renewed optimism began to deflate when the car nearly sank into the mud. That’s how she ruined her new skirt, looking to see how far down the wheel had gone. But the car had moved and the lane had curved and suddenly there it was and she had forgiven the traffic, the signpost, the mud. And she’d nearly forgiven Jonathan. Nearly.
There was a large gravelled lay-by outside the fence, enough to take several cars and still allow space to turn around. There hadn’t been much time to admire the outside. As she struggled with the box of groceries and the key, a telephone started ringing somewhere deep inside the house. She never could ignore a ringing telephone, had some vague fear about it being the one call that would change the rest of her life. Only who was going to call her here? She hadn’t been the least surprised to find that the front door opened straight into the kitchen and managed to dump the shopping on the table before running to the telephone, which was, of course, in the hall. The caller turned out to be Jonathan.
Now she’s in the kitchen again. It’s an enormous room, and all that provincial stripped pine is a little overstated but straight out of the glossies. Her admiration sags slightly when she spots the shiny, black, wood-burning stove, then remembers Jonathan saying that it’s actually a gas-driven Aga that supplies all the hot water and heating. She moves instinctively through the central hallway and into the living room, her hands caressing polished wood and latticed glass cupboards set against white painted walls. The low, dark-beamed ceiling lends a softness to the room, making the billowing sofas and tapestry cushions even more inviting. Everything looks new and fresh, untouched.
‘I think I could live here.’ Sally’s aware of a subtle seduction and is ready to collude with it. She allows herself to be led into the back room, ignoring another door she knows to be a broom cupboard. Yes, this little room would make a perfect office. There’s space for her desk and computer, and her drawing board could stand in the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon sun. She could learn to arrange dried flowers in cracked vases and plant spring bulbs. ‘Hey, now, come on. We’re only here for the weekend.’ She checks the other door and it is a broom cupboard. Another glass-panelled door leads from the hall to the outside. Through it she can see the ragged remains of a garden.
Climbing the twisting staircase, she finds three identical doors. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she tries the door ahead, thinking it must be the main bedroom. She guesses the one to the left is the bathroom, the one on the right a spare room with an unmade bed and discarded boxes.
She enters the bedroom and stands gazing into the dressing-table mirror. Her face is pale and drawn, almost white against her straight, dark hair. Her hazel eyes are ringed with dark smudges. Poor little Sally, as Jonathan calls her. She looks as tired as she feels and even younger than usual, despite the slick tailored jacket with the La Croix brooch on the collar. It’s made of silver and amber and doesn’t suit her at all, but she’s wearing it because it was a present from Jonathan. As a tentative peace offering it probably cost more than her father earned in a week. Sally and the brooch are reflected in the glass, with the room behind her, a tableau in which she has now taken her place. She watches herself move around the bed, her hand smoothing the quilted spread, touching small china ornaments and lace covers. It feels like home.
A shiver runs through her. She pulls herself back to reality. ‘What do I know about country cottages? Perhaps they make them to a standard pattern and that’s why this one seems to feel so familiar. A sort of déjà vu? What I need is a cup of tea.’
She stands at the kitchen sink, filling the kettle and looking out of the window and across the fields. In the distance she can make out what must be the main highway she’d turned off to reach the village, a ribbon of dull grey stitched in broken lines between semi-bare trees. Toy cars speed to and fro. She wonders if she will be able to see Jonathan’s car in the morning. Then she feels certain that she will. And everything will change. The conflict, the distrust, the hurting—all that will be over. Everything will be so simple.
She flips the switch. No little red light. No hiss of heating element. She crosses the room and tries the light switch. Nothing. For the first time she notices there’s no gentle hum of household gadgets going about their automated business. But there’s a chill in the room, and it will grow even colder later when the sun goes down. She locates the electric meter and her heart sinks. The main switch is on, the fuses are intact, but nothing is happening. Even the Aga needs power to ignite the gas.
‘Oh, shit!’ She slumps down into the rocker, pushing her hair from her face. ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ Had she passed a motel on the way in? All she could remember was trees. ‘Damn you, Jonathan Crawford. If I survive till morning I think I’m going to kill you. No, that’s unfair. You didn’t plan for this.’
But now something is humming. A soft throbbing drone, at first barely audible, then seeming to surge, resonating like a hundred angry bees. Looking around the kitchen, she sees a small grey object on the rug in front of the fire. Sally stares for a moment, not comprehending. The cat waits to be acknowledged.
‘Where did you come from?’ The place had been locked when she arrived, although the owner had been in yesterday to make it ready for them. ‘Surely you haven’t been shut in here all night? No, you would have shot out as soon as the door opened.’ She would have seen the cat if it had tried to sneak in with her. It must have been hiding somewhere in here all the time, even though Sally has been through every room and everything had been left secure. ‘Thinking of moving in, are you?’
‘Look, I don’t wish to appear anti-social, but you can’t stay here. I don’t actually like cats, and Jonathan will boot you out as soon as he arrives.’ The cat stops purring and regards Sally down the length of its nose as if she were an insolent child. She is the interloper, after all. The animal probably lives here and is being pretty tolerant under the circumstances. Oh hell, Sally thinks, I’d give anything for a cup of tea. There’s that bottle of wine in the box of groceries. Perhaps not. Or there’s some milk—better than nothing; there must be a glass somewhere. A few moments later she finds herself bending down to place an overflowing saucer in front of the cat.
‘What the hell am I doing this for?’ Don’t stroke a cat in the street, her father used to warn her. It’ll follow you home and we’ll never get rid of it. ‘But I didn’t stroke it, and I certainly didn’t decide to feed it. I don’t even remember finding the saucer. Jonathan’s right, I really do need this break.’ She sits down again and watches the cat as it sets about the business of drinking, crouching low, long neck extended. It looks awfully thin, but its table manners are impeccable. ‘The cat that got the cream, eh?’ The creature ignores her. Hadn’t the woman in the shop said something about a cat?
‘Just here for the weekend, are you? Well, you’ll be needing some bread, potatoes…How about milk, nice fresh eggs for your breakfast?’
Sally had only wanted directions, but since she was there…Well, they would need some basics, and there was dinner for the evening. There was always the takeaway, or perhaps one of the pubs did meals. No, let’s do this properly. There would be plenty of time to cook and little else to do. She took a wire basket and looked around.
The shop was a sort of mini-supermarket which seemed to sell a little of everything, including the morning newspapers and dairy produce. A bank of shelves was stacked high with fresh vegetables, probably straight from those fields. The dividing wall was missing, exposing the studs that formed an opened divider to the next-door teashop; a glimpse of checked tablecloths and copper kettles, local enterprise.
‘Staying at Trevor’s place then, are you?’
‘Yes, I expect so.’
‘Well, it’s nice to see it being used again, even if it is only for holidaymakers.’ There were no other customers in the shop so the woman was finding odd things to tidy up as a blatant excuse to follow Sally around the shelves. ‘Mind you, I don’t know that old Martha would approve of all those alterations. Husband not with you?’
‘He’ll be along later. Who’s Martha?’ The name rang a bell.
‘Well, that’s nice. Probably not used to being on your own, are you? Martha? But of course, you wouldn’t know. Yes, lived there all her life. Quite old she was when she died. Trevor—he was related to her on his mother’s side—he found her one morning. Must have passed in her sleep. He was the only one she would have anything to do with, except her cats, of course. I think they got shipped off to the RSPCA. All except that grey one, it was nowhere to be found.’ She drew breath. ‘Now, anything else I can get you?’
‘You wouldn’t have any wine, I suppose?’
‘Certainly, my dear, I’ve got red and white.’ A proud flourish revealed half a dozen bottles of each. ‘Only three pounds a bottle. My Jack got it cheap at the wholesaler’s. Has a good eye for a bargain, does Jack. You can easy pay ten for a bottle like that in Newmarket, you know. Which would you prefer?’
I’m going to regret this, thought Sally, unable to offend by refusing.
‘Oh, er, red, I think.’ The label was unreadable. Probably ‘Produce of Outer Mongolia’.
‘Now, you don’t want one of those frozen birds,’ Sally had been rummaging in the freezer chest, ‘all water and chemicals, they are. I’ll get Jack to find you a nice fresh one. Jack…’ The woman bustled away before Sally could protest, but was back a moment later. ‘He’s just sorting you out a nice plump bird. That’s Jack’s side of the business—he’s got a free-range barn out the back. We sell no end of eggs through the shop, and he always has a few of the hens all cleaned and oven-ready for our weekend customers. Now you’ll need some fresh vegetables to go with that. What about carrots and some peas? Couldn’t get any fresher if you jumped the hedge and picked them yourself.’ Plans for dinner, it seemed, had been taken out of Sally’s hands. ‘My name’s Ruth, by the way, since you’ll be coming in here again.’ She began sorting through the piles of vegetables and loading them into brown paper bags. ‘Yes, funny thing about that cat. Her favourite it was, practically worshipped each other. Then it just disappeared. Perhaps it knew she’d passed on. Cats are like that, aren’t they? Sometimes know things we don’t. Still, I don’t suppose you’ve got any animals yourself, living in the city and all.’
The saucer licked clean, the cat returns to its place on the rug and begins its after-dinner wash. This is a creature who maintains standards even in hard times. The dull, grey fur and crumpled ear disguise traces of a more aristocratic ancestry. The paws are dainty, the bones long and delicate.
‘Well, cat, what the hell do I do now? Try to find this Trevor, I suppose. Can’t call Jonathan—he’s still in his blessed meeting. Might be easier to go back to Newmarket and find a hotel. I could ring Jonathan from there, then he can pick me up in the morning and we can sort out Trevor and his damn cottage then. What do you think?’
The cat tidies a few stray hairs in its tail, then looks straight at her. Only now does Sally become aware of the creature’s eyes. Two orbs, clear as iced moonlight, search out her own, piercing her with their gaze and pinning her to the chair. The purring begins again, slow and soothing. Then somehow the cat is on her lap, and her hand, obedient to some primitive instinct, is moving down the length of its back. Long strokes, soothing, caressing, in rhythm with the pulsating song. Sally begins to drift down a long, dreamtime tunnel. From somewhere, a long way away, she hears the voice of a woman singing an old nursery rhyme.
Pussycat, pussycat, where have you been?
I’ve been to London to look at the King.
Her body jerks her awake. The cat is sitting alert, ears pricked forward. The late afternoon sunshine has completed its journey across the floor and the room is in semi-darkness.
‘Oh, God, what the hell time is it? Come on, I’ve got to get out of here. Where are my car keys?’
The cat leaps to the floor, bounds across the kitchen and lands on top of the Aga. At a flourish of the cat’s tail, the boiler emits a low-throated boom. At the same time, flashes of blue lightning strike Sally’s still-sleepy eyes and neon strips flood the kitchen with light. The gas fire kicks into life.
‘Oh, thank God. That’s one hell of a party trick, Puss. What do you do for an encore?’ Then her smile withers. It is just coincidence. Must be. Or perhaps cats feel power surges in the wire or something? What the hell, just be thankful. A reassuring red light signifies the approach of tea. At the same time a car pulls up outside.