Juliet Marillier
He stalks up the long hall, each step a small poem of feline grace. An early morning hush lies over Autumn Gardens. Outside, the first birds are calling. Inside, there’s a distant rattle of crockery. He passes the doors, many doors, each slightly ajar. The residents lie still under their quilts, wrapped in memories that will vanish when they wake.
Ah! Feet in slippers, here by the wall. A woman makes a shuffling progress, clutching the rail. He slips away, shadow-quick. Her ending will come soon enough; it is not for him to trip those faltering feet. His task is not to deliver death. Only to witness. Only to guide.
Good smells ahead. The kitchen is at the far end of this hall—he is not allowed to enter. But he eats well. His man feeds him in their safe place, every morning after they wake, every night before they sleep.
There was a time before: starving, snatching, devouring whatever scrap might come his way. Beetles, worms, smears of stuff in sharp discarded cans. It was a time of fear, of fighting, of running, always running. A big tom tore his ear. A hurled stone bruised him. But he got away. Over and over he got away.
A baying dog chased him. He caught his foot in a fence, hauled himself free, ripped flesh from his leg. There was blood. He hid under bushes. Licked and licked, but could not make it better.
A man came with cheese and meat and a trap, and he was caught. He fought the box that shut him in. He bit the hands that touched him; terror made him strong. But they were gentle hands, lifting him out, tending to his wound. He knew, for the first time, the feeling of a full belly.
That was then. This is now. The man—his man—brought him here, made him his own safe place. A warm bed, sweet water, good food. He has a friend now, and a home. He has a solemn calling.
Autumn Gardens Eldercare
Staff Meeting: March 2, 2010
Agenda
The morning rounds bring him to the sunny room where the residents of Ward D now sit in their chairs. Some stare at the television, a flickering parade of images, a buzz of sounds. Some nod in half-sleep. It is nearly time for the wheeled trolley to bring tea and biscuits. He knows who will feed him crumbs and who will look through him, not seeing.
“There you are, Piff.” Kind hands, these, reaching down to stroke him gently behind the ears. The touch contents him. He has many names at Autumn Gardens: Stripey, Honey, Thistle, and Orlando. To his man, he is Hamza. Those names are unimportant. He is Cat, servant of Bast.
Here is the old woman who smells of flowers. He remembers a garden where he hid once, a place all tangled foliage and deep hollows; the same smell was there. He stations himself by the woman’s feet, waiting. The trolley creaks in; there’s a tinkle of crockery up above.
“I’m going home this afternoon,” the flower woman says. “Kalgoorlie. My son’s coming to pick me up.”
“That’s nice, dear.” The trolley moves on.
A generous supply of crumbs descends. They are the kind he likes best. Rattle of cups on saucers; muted voices. More crumbs here and there. He wanders, grazing.
The trolley creaks out again. He settles, comfortably full, to drowse the morning away on a sunny window seat. His senses tell him there will be no further work until night falls and it is time to warm his man’s feet. But soon, very soon, the call will come.
“So, the cat,” says Sonia Bell, folding her arms and turning her stare straight on Tariq. Sonia Bell is Autumn Gardens’ new administrator. This is her first staff meeting. Tariq sees in her eyes that she is weighing him up. He must tread carefully. If Hamza is to stay, Tariq must stay.
The residents need Hamza. The staff understand this. They leave the doors ajar so Hamza can go in and out, doing his work. Tariq fears that Sonia Bell will find the issue too hard and choose the crudest of methods to make it go away. There was a complaint, not long ago. He hopes nobody has mentioned that to their new boss.
“A therapy cat, I’m told,” she says now. “And you look after it...” Although she has just been told all their names, she checks her list. “Tariq?”
Tariq explains that the cat lives with him in the caretaker’s flat, that Hamza has the freedom of Wards D and E during the day, that the cat makes the residents happy. In the face of Sonia Bell’s raised brows and silence, others speak up: the cat helps the residents remember, they say. Good memories of home and family. The cat is well behaved, does not leap uninvited onto laps, does not bite or scratch. It is kept clean and flea-free. The arrangement was approved by the previous administrator.
“You brought the animal with you when you took the position of caretaker?” Sonia Bell asks Tariq. “Where are you from?”
He does not tell her that in Afghanistan he was a qualified mechanical engineer. He does not mention his wife and three children, all gone to God. He does not speak of the blood and death, the harried flight, the long path to Australia and a new life. The endless time in detention, the crippling grief, the despair. And when at last he had his visa, the soul-destroying struggle to have his qualifications recognized, the impossible sum required to upgrade them. He does not talk of his grandmother, still in her home village, and the harsh law that means he cannot bring her here. Every month he sends money. But he cannot be sure it reaches her.
“Rivervale,” he answers, which is true enough; he shared a house there with other refugees before he got the job at Autumn Gardens. “The cat, too. He was hurt, scared, harried. He sought sanctuary with me.”
Sonia Bell opens her mouth and closes it again.
“Ms. Bell?” Andrea, the senior nurse, speaks up. “You know this visit by the Minister, how you were saying the ABC might be here filming? Wouldn’t it be good if the cat could be included? It’s a real human interest story. Unusual. Quirky. Just a suggestion, of course.”
Sonia Bell has nothing to say. But later, when the meeting is closed, Tariq hears her talking to Andrea about the Minister’s visit. She mentions the cat. This troubles him. If Hamza appears on television, the woman who complained might speak to the ABC. This is his job, his home, Hamza’s home. They could lose their safe place. And the residents of Autumn Gardens could lose something precious beyond measure. Impossible to explain to cool-eyed Ms. Bell the precise nature of Hamza’s work. If he said to her, My dreams show me what he does, or, In the pattern of his days I see a deep and sacred duty, she would surely think him crazy. Here in Australia, such ideas are alien.
That night, with the cat curled in the crook of his knees, Tariq explains this to Hamza, quietly. Rain is falling outside; the drumming on the roof almost drowns his voice. The cat shifts, circles, settles again. Perhaps he understands the tone, if not the words. If Hamza could speak as men speak, perhaps he would say, Rest easy, friend. But the cat holds his silence, and in time the two of them fall asleep. Above and around them, the rain still falls on Autumn Gardens.
Bast calls. The cat is instantly awake, every sense alert. He leaves the bed on quiet feet, and his man does not stir. The door to their safe place is not quite closed. He pads through into the dimly lit hallway. Moves along the shadowy path, following the silent summons.
The door to Ward E is shut. The place is deserted. There’s nobody to let him through. But he must go there now. The call of Bast rings in his mind and he cannot refuse it. He makes a slight change in the substance of himself, and passes through the closed door.
From a room further down the hall comes a muttering. “He never paid me back, he never paid for what he took.” But that is not the one he needs. The cat moves along beside the skirting board, reaches the door he wants, slips in. Makes one strong leap, lands softly, moves up the bed to settle by the old woman’s side.
Her eyes are closed. Her breath rattles in her chest; he feels the trembling effort of it and presses his own body closer. Come. It is time. I will lead you through the gate.
She’s alone here. There’s nobody but him. But he is all she needs. He is Bast’s servant, her messenger, her gatekeeper. I am compassion. I am mercy. I am a friend. Walk on with me.
The old woman’s fingers touch his soft fur; they feel his warmth, his life. Maybe she speaks his name. Maybe that is only a last sigh, a final outward breath. They walk, side by side, to the gate between this world and the other. On the threshold she halts for a moment; looks back; looks down at him. He sees in her eyes a life lived long and mostly well; a life, at its end, with much stripped away. She smiles, steps through, is gone.
The cat stays with her as her body cools on the bed, as the rain stops falling, as day comes to Autumn Gardens. He stays until a woman brings a cup of tea and a bright morning greeting. She pulls the curtains open, letting in the light. She gasps, spilling the tea. She rings a bell, and suddenly the room is full of people. Time to go. He jumps down, heads swiftly along the hallway, through the now-open door and back to the safe place. His man is up now, yawning as he boils the kettle, rustling packets on the bench. The cat weaves a pattern around his man’s legs, anticipating breakfast. Bast’s work makes him hungry.
“I dreamed of home,” Tariq says, as he and the cat eat their meal. “I dreamed of my parents, Hamza. Back then, before the time of blood, life was hard, yes. But we helped each other, all of us. Our mothers and fathers, our grandmothers and grandfathers, they brought us up, provided for us, kept us safe. And when they grew old, it was our turn to care for them. How can anyone leave their old folk in a place like this? No wonder they forget. No wonder they cannot make sense of things. Where are their families?”
Hamza licks out his bowl. Sits back, uses a paw to give his face a wash, delicate, leisurely.
“I should not judge,” Tariq murmurs. “I have a home here, safety, work. I am fortunate. But I do judge, Hamza. How can I not? It is for the best, perhaps, that I cannot bring my grandmother to Australia. At least, at home, she will die among friends.” If the Taliban do not come, if the house is not bombed, if my money is reaching her. If those friends are still alive. If the village still exists. If, if, if. These days, his mind goes in circles too much of the time. “Work for you last night, yes?” The cat was gone when he woke, and now that Hamza has returned, there is something in his eyes, something in his demeanour, that tells of a job well done. The bell was ringing earlier. Tariq wonders which of them has died.
Later, while Tariq is fixing a leaky tap in the kitchen, Mr. Mitchell from Room 7—Harry, he likes Tariq to call him Harry—comes in to watch.
“Will you pass me the shifting spanner, please?” The tool box is on a chair close by. He knows Harry likes to help.
“This one?” Harry holds up a screwdriver. “This one?” A pair of pliers. “This one?”
“Yes, that one. Thank you.”
While Tariq does the job, taking a little longer than he needs to, Harry watches in silence. Then, suddenly, the old man says, “Afghanistan. My grandson was there. Camp Russell. Got his picture somewhere.” He hunts in the pockets of his shapeless clothing, the pants, the cardigan, the shirt. “Got it somewhere.” He starts to sound panicky.
“My hands are too dirty,” Tariq says. “Show me later, yes? Your grandson is a soldier?”
“He was there. Camp Russell. Medevaced out. They sent him home.”
Tariq focuses all his attention on the plumbing job. Tries not to hear the explosion; tries not to see what it did to his family. He knows he should ask Harry about his grandson, about what happened, because this is something the old man remembers. Although it is painful, it is a clear, true thing among the broken remnants in his mind. But Tariq does not want to hear the answer. He does not want to hear that the grandson who does not visit Harry was blown up by an IED or driven mad or killed by friendly fire. “I’m sorry,” he says, testing the tap. “Thanks for your help with the job, Mr. Mitchell.”
“Harry.” The old man lifts a hand to wipe his eyes.
Tariq keeps a clean handkerchief in his own pocket; many of the old folk weep when he stops to talk to them. He passes the handkerchief to Harry. Asks the question despite himself. “Your grandson—he survived? Came safely home?”
“He’s coming to see me. Any day now. Got his picture somewhere . . .”
There’s a lump in Tariq’s throat. “Show me later,” he says. “My hands are too dirty. Look—here comes Hamza. It must be time for tea and biscuits.”
For many days, Bast is silent. The cat enjoys his food. He keeps his man’s feet warm at night, not needing to stir, not needing to leave the safe place. In the mornings, he spends time in D Ward. He eats his biscuit crumbs, then naps in the sun. In the afternoons, he makes the rounds of E Ward, visiting the bed-ridden. He waits.
Tariq and Andrea have been summoned to the administrator’s office.
“There was a complaint,” says Sonia Bell. “A letter on the file, from a . . .” She checks her notes. “Silvia Gastaldo. Her mother was a resident here.”
The complaint has surfaced, after all. Tariq knows this cannot be a good thing. His heart is going too fast. He wishes he could be more like Hamza, who is calm even in the presence of death.
“Why did neither of you mention this at the staff meeting?” Sonia Bell’s eyes are like cold stones. “You must have known about it. Unless my predecessor was extremely lax.”
Andrea speaks up. “I’ve seen it, yes. Tariq hasn’t, but he and I did discuss it.”
“And?”
Tariq and Andrea look at her. Tariq is not sure what she wants from them.
“Why was no action taken?” Sonia Bell demands, brows up. “A letter in which Mrs. Gastaldo suggests the cat has free access to the bedrooms, indeed the beds, of the dying—in which she states her terror that the cat’s presence may hasten her mother’s passing, and implies that if the animal is not kept away, she may move her mother out of Autumn Gardens. This could have caused untold harm. Suppose she’d gone to the press with the story?”
Tariq exchanges glances with Andrea.
“Action was taken. Mr. Butterworth spoke to Mrs. Gastaldo,” Andrea says. “He promised the cat would be kept out of her mother’s room. She seemed satisfied with that. Actually, Maria—Mrs. Gastaldo’s mother—loved the cat. She was sad when he didn’t come to visit her anymore.” When Ms. Bell makes no comment, Andrea adds, “How could what she suggests be possible anyway? He’s an ordinary cat, not some sort of angel of death. Anyway, she didn’t want him banned altogether, only kept away from her mother.”
“The mother died,” says Sonia Bell.
“It is a dementia ward, for old people.” Tariq feels he must be a little brave, even if it means offending his boss. “There are many deaths. Maria’s daughter was present when she died. The cat was not.”
There is a silence. Tariq sees that Sonia Bell is not happy. But he has only told the truth. Andrea, too.
“This is a care centre. Our first priority must always be our clients and their families.” Sonia Bell’s voice softens, but it is not enough. “On numerous occasions this cat has been found on the bed of a recently deceased person. Sometimes in a closed room. It is as if the creature seeks out the dying. A person needs not be superstitious to find that disturbing. I understand your arguments. But Autumn Gardens is well known, even sought after, for the high standard of care provided. Something like this—it’s simply not in keeping with our professional standards. And it’s unhygienic. If there’s another complaint, I’ll have no choice but to take action. I hope you can understand my position.”
Tariq’s heart is cold. Hamza, his Hamza.
“This should be discussed at the next staff meeting,” says Andrea.
“I’m happy to have it on the agenda. But you must understand that any decision will rest with the administrative team, not with the staff.”
Out in the hall, Tariq is too distressed to speak.
“Bitch,” mutters Andrea. “It’s okay, Tariq, I’ve got a plan.”
His man is upset. The cat, lying beside him in the dark, feels the tension in his body. He hears the catch in his breathing. Something is wrong.
“I’ll keep you safe,” his man whispers. “It’s all right.” His hand moves in steady strokes, down the length of the cat’s back. “We are survivors. If need be, we’ll find another place. We’ll get through this, Hamza, my treasure.”
The cat snuggles closer, a deep purr running through him. But the man does not settle into sleep. Through the long night he whispers and murmurs and prays. The cat moves up the bed. With a rough tongue, he licks the tears from his man’s face.
Autumn Gardens Eldercare
Staff Meeting: April 4, 2010
Agenda
Perhaps, Tariq hears one of the nurses say before the meeting, Sonia Bell believes the prospect of performance assessments will keep them all quiet on the subject of the cat. He goes to the meeting in fear, certain that both he and Hamza will lose their jobs before the day is over.
But Andrea has been busy. She raises the Gastaldo complaint under Other Business, not waiting for Ms. Bell to mention it. She produces a sheaf of papers.
“There are statements here from all the nursing staff and patient care assistants,” she says. Oh, so calm! But the look in her eyes is that of a warrior. “You’ll find they add up to a strong endorsement on the benefits of a therapy cat for nursing home residents with dementia. The cat stirs good memories for the D Ward patients. He provides company and solace for the E Ward people. A lot of our residents die alone; there’s no disputing that, it’s plain fact. The cat plays a part. An important part. Better him than nobody at all.”
Sonia Bell says something about doors being left open for the cat, and security. One of the patient care assistants points out that if the doors are shut, the staff cannot hear an old person call out for help. Tariq knows that a closed door is no barrier to Hamza. If there is need for him, and if the way is barred, he can go through. Some of the staff, at least, must know or suspect this. It is a thing that cannot be said in Sonia Bell’s hearing.
“Thank you. You present important information,” says Ms. Bell. When nobody comments, she adds, “But my position on the cat stands; it’s in accordance with our OH&S policy. One more complaint and the animal must go. Now, is there any further business?”
In the cold before the dawn, Bast calls. The cat is up, out, along the hallway in a whisper. His man sighs and sinks back into troubled sleep.
The room he needs is in Ward D, the place of tea and biscuits and folk who still remember a little, who still walk a little, whose eyes hold a dimming spark. Here is the door, set ajar. Here is the bed, and the old man lying on it. The cat pauses on the threshold, for there is someone else in the room: a young man in uniform, sitting by the old man in the half-dark, holding his hand, speaking low. The soldier’s form is indistinct, shadowy. No threat, this one. The cat leaps to the bed, pads up to settle by the old man’s arm.
“Cat,” breathes the old man.
“And a fine cat he is,” says the soldier. “Remember Tiger? He used to bring in those giant rats and lay them at your feet like trophies. God, he was huge. A real tank of a cat. I was dead scared of him. Mind you, I was a lot smaller then.”
The ghost of a smile crosses the old man’s face, but he’s in pain; his body tightens. “Tige . . .” he murmurs.
“He’s waiting for you,” the young man says, standing up. “Him and some other old friends.”
The old man makes a wheezing sound. He tries to breathe in, but cannot.
Come. Come with me. I will walk with you. It is time.
“Time to be moving on, Grandad,” says the young man, almost as if he could hear. “Catch up with the fellas, have a brew, right?”
They walk on, the old man and the cat, and the soldier walks with them. At the gate between here and there, they pause. It’s hazy on the other side, but a small crowd of figures is waiting. Some old, some young. One four-legged, with a busy tail. The old man straightens his shoulders, lifts his head. There’s a dawning wonder in his eyes. “You don’t mean—?” he says, looking at his grandson.
They walk on through, the old man and the young, and are gone.
Tariq, who has not fallen asleep until four in the morning, is woken by a commotion in D Ward. The cat is gone from their safe place. Fearing catastrophe, he throws on some clothes and follows the sound of a woman sobbing.
The crying comes from Mr. Mitchell’s room. Harry’s room. The old man, his friend, lies dead on the bed with Hamza curled by his side. It’s a young woman crying, a woman sitting beside Harry, holding his hand, weeping in big gusty gasps. Andrea’s there too, and another nurse, John, offering the woman a box of tissues.
“I’m sorry,” the woman sobs. “So sorry I didn’t get here in time. It’s terrible, I should have come ages ago, I wanted to . . .” The story comes out word by sad word. Her husband killed in action two years ago. Her children small and needing her; grief driving her half-mad. The long distance to travel; the struggle to get the payment she was due. “But it’s no excuse,” she says. “I should have been here. That’s what Dave would have wanted. Someone to hold his grandad’s hand at the end. Someone to be by his side, like his mates were for him, after the blast.” She has told them how Dave died in the helicopter, on the way to the base hospital. How the others sat by him, trying to hold the pieces of him together for long enough.
By the time Sonia Bell arrives, the young woman is more composed. She dabs her eyes with a tissue. Hamza is on her knee. Tariq stands by the window; he has listened as Gemma told her story, hers and Dave’s. Andrea has stationed herself by the door, making sure nobody tries to whisk Harry’s body away until Gemma is ready. But even brave Andrea cannot keep out Sonia Bell. Her voice precedes her along the hallway, demanding answers.
When she appears in the doorway, Tariq freezes like a hare before the wolf. Andrea collects herself and makes the introductions. Sonia Bell eyes her staff, each in turn. Rules have been broken. She opens her mouth to speak.
“I’m so glad the cat was here,” says Gemma, her voice hoarse with crying, her fingers buried in Hamza’s fur as she holds him close. “It makes such a difference, Ms. Bell. That Mr. Mitchell wasn’t quite alone at the end. Having the cat to remind him he was loved, even if . . .” She draws in a shaky breath. “I don’t suppose I could have a cup of tea, could I? I’ve driven all the way from Geraldton . . .”
Her mother is with the children. Gemma has come, not because anyone rang and told her the old man was near death, but because she had a powerful dream of her husband. When she woke, her mind was clear about what Dave wanted her to do.
This is something Tariq understands. Dreams and portents, signs and strange messages make sense in a world where cats walk through walls. He stays while Gemma drinks her tea, listening as she talks, now about Dave and his grandfather and the bond between them. Harry, too, was once a soldier, in a different war.
Sonia Bell does not send Tariq back to work. She tells Andrea to let her know when they are ready, then quietly leaves them.
Beyond the doorway, Autumn Gardens wakes to another day.
The Minister visits Autumn Gardens, along with the ABC camera crew. He speaks to the staff. He asks Tariq about the cat; Tariq answers with polite caution. The Minister strokes Hamza, who purrs. There is an announcement of additional funding for dementia care. By the end of the visit, Sonia Bell is smiling. It is the first time Tariq has seen this. Perhaps, he thinks, it was fear that made her sharp with them—fear that she would fail in her new job, fear that the staff would judge her, fear of cats maybe. Or a fear that belongs to the world outside Autumn Gardens, who knows? He must remind himself that Sonia Bell has her own story. She looks happier now, and that can only be a good thing.
Later, Tariq and Hamza watch the coverage on television. It includes an interview with Gemma, filmed at the war memorial in Geraldton, with sparkling sea beyond. She speaks of how well-loved the cat is by all at Autumn Gardens. She talks, too, about her plan to start a support group for young war widows. Tariq thinks how strong she is, how courageous in her grief. Her husband would be proud.
“We are safe, my treasure, my Hamza,” whispers Tariq in the night, as the cat nestles in the crook of his arm. “For now, we are safe.” He speaks in soft Dari, the language he uses when he and the cat are alone.
The cat need not comprehend the words. He understands his man’s breathing, the movements of his body, his sighs and tears and rare laughter. He knows that his man is no longer afraid, and that makes him content. For now, he will sleep, warm and secure. Soon enough, Bast will call again.
Author’s Notes:
The Gatekeeper is very loosely based on the true story of Oscar (born 2005), a therapy cat living among dementia patients in the Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence, Rhode Island.
Bast, or Bastet, is the cat-headed Egyptian goddess of family, protection, music, dance, and happiness. In her earliest form, she was a warrior goddess, more lion than domestic cat. This story is dedicated to my dear friend Meg Tanner, who spent her last years in an establishment similar to Autumn Gardens, though not in the dementia ward. When she went into care, Meg had to re-home her beloved cat Piff, short for Epiphany.