“Emma, wheres Ginger? The question tumbled from my lips the moment I stepped inside. A cold dread crept over me. Normally, my ginger tom would bound into the hallway to greet me, meowing impatiently for dinner. But tonight, an uncomfortable hush hung in the air.
Tom sat at the kitchen table, hunched over, staring down at his hands, refusing to meet my eye. His mother, Margaret Robinson, had been staying with us for over a week. She sipped her tea calmly, as if nothing unusual had happened.
Wheres the cat? I asked again, my fingers stiff with nervous energy.
Oh, just leave it, Margaret dismissed me with a wave. Your cats gone now. Scarpered.
What do you mean scarpered? My voice broke. Hes terrified of the outdoors! Someone must have opened the doorwho was it?
I took him, she replied smoothly, without a hint of remorse. We went for a driveto the countryside. Theres open air, fields, mice to chase. Thats what a cats life should be! Not this filthfur everywhere, litter tray reeking. Tom and I, wed like grandchildren, and I wont have a baby growing up in this squalor!
I stood there, stunned. The countryside? In winter? With a house cat?
You you agreed to this? I looked straight at my husband.
Em, Mum said She claimed shes allergic he mumbled, unable to lift his gaze.
Allergic to compassion, more like! The words shot out before I could swallow them. Tell me exactlywhere did you leave him?
Oh, I dont remember, Margaret sniffed. Along the A34 out of town, maybe twelve miles off. You wont find him. Dont start weeping, I did you a favour.
I grabbed my car keys in silence.
If I dont find him My voice trembled, vicious with grief. Pray you never see me again.
For three days, I searched for Gingertramping through frostbitten fields, calling his name, taping posters to lamp posts, running on no food and less sleep.
On the third evening, my phone rang.
Excuse me, missare you missing a ginger cat? Hes out by the petrol station, meowing away, poor thing.
I tore down the road, the world a blur. It was himemaciated, filthy, his ear blackened at the tip with cold. He recognised me instantly, launching into my arms, purring with what little strength he had left.
He spent the next week at the vetdrips, injections, a hospital stay. The vets said hed pull through.
I staggered home in the early morning, empty, ragged and raging.
Margaret was asleep on our sofa, her suitcase propped in the corner, her coat and boots nearby. She had meant to stay until the weekend.
I gathered up her suitcase, coat, boots and hat, and carried the lot out to my car.
Then I woke Tom.
Get up. Were going.
To where? he croaked, bleary-eyed.
Were taking your mother to the station.
We woke Margaret.
Mrs Robinson, please get ready. Youre leavingfor the station. Now.
What? My trains not till Saturday! she protested.
Your plans have changed.
We got in the car. I drove in silence, lips pressed tight. Tom kept opening his mouth, but every time he caught my eye, he shut it again.
I sped past the turning for the train station.
Emma, where are you going? Margaret started to look worried. The stations not this way!
I know, I answered, pulling up by the same petrol station where Id found Ginger. Twelve miles from townempty road, swirling snow, freezing wind.
I got out, lifted her suitcase from the boot, and dropped it on the verge.
Out you get, Mrs Robinson.
Why? Why here? she demanded, anxious.
Why not? Wonderful nature, fresh air. A taste of freedomshould do you good.
Are you mad? she shrieked. Its freezing! Ill catch my death!
Ginger was freezing, too. But you said it was a good deed.
She turned to Tom, pleading. Tom! Say something!
Tom went pale. He glanced at her, then at me, then at the black silhouette of the woods.
Mum call a cab, he said quietly. Emmas right.
I climbed back into the car.
Youve got a phone. The taxill be about half an hour. Ginger didnt have a phone.
We drove away. I checked my rear-view mirror and saw her still there, shouting after us, suitcase in hand.
Of course, she wasnt left to freezeshe caught a cab home. But she never set foot in our house again. As for Tom he apologised for weeks on end. I told him the next time he failed to protect those who depend on us, hed be following his mother. To the woods.
Was it a cruel revenge? Or justice served cold? And maybe, just maybeshouldnt cruelty to the defenceless always be remembered, never forgiven?
