Black.
The clamour of the city was endlessly grating. I live right in the heart of London, up on the tenth floor. The ceaseless hum of cars, the buzz of neighbours air conditioners, the endless voices down belowit all seems to seep through the walls. And as if to make matters worse, the heat has been unbearable lately, so keeping the windows shut is simply out of the question. Ive been given only two weeks holiday from work, but I cling to the hope that I can escape, at least for a little while, from the suffocating routine of my officea hive of people forever dashing about, gossiping, squabbling for attention and trying to get ahead. All I want is a bit of quiet and peace. At forty-six, living alone in a big flat, the citys hustle has finally worn thin.
After some thought, I decided to rent a little cottage somewhere out in the country for a few days, just to distance myself from civilisation. The search took ages, but then I found something that might just work: a small village about ninety miles outside London. The price was reasonable, the cottage looked perfectly nice in the photos. After phoning the owners, I decided to book it and set off.
***
The village greeted me with the scent of grass, the hum of insects, the barking of the occasional dog, and with the curious looks of a few locals. The cottage itself was small but had a wonderful, homey air. The landlady, a kind woman in her sixties, showed me around before leaving me with the keys.
Enjoy your stay, love. Youll find its a good place to just be, she smiled.
Thank you, its exactly what I needed, I replied.
It seemed that the village was mostly inhabited by pensioners. The garden of my rental was dotted with old cherry trees and a few haphazard flowerbedsno one seemed too fussed about tending them. The old wood fence leaned a bit, giving the place a certain English charm.
Curious to explore, I decided to go for a walk. Villagers were far and few between, and although they looked at mea strangerwith some surprise, no one was unfriendly. I happened upon a tiny village shop in the centre. Inside, a woman in her early fifties stood behind the till. The shelves held milk, bread, sausages, cleaning bits and bobs, not much more. I stepped up to the counter.
Can I help you with anything, dear? she asked.
I was just thinking what to get for breakfast. Can I have about three hundred grams of this sausage? And a fresh loaf, please.
And where are you from, then? she asked, using the easy, familiar tone of small village life.
Oh, Ive rented a cottage here for the week, a bit of a holiday for me. Im Abigail, by the way.
Im Margaret. Which house, then?
Number twenty-threeclose by, I think.
Ahhh, Margaret mused. Thatll be old Edna Winters place. Youre brave, you are.
Why is that? Who was Edna? I booked the place through Anna.
Annas her daughter. She lives in the city. Edna passed on about a year ago. Bit of a strange one, was Edna. People say she was odd. Didnt treat anyone, as such, just kept to herself. She had one friend, Mabel, who lives across the wayvery old dear. They were close, those two. Chat to Mabel if you like, she might tell you more. But thats an odd house. Some lodgers came and wentcouldnt last more than a couple of days. Said it gave them the creeps.
I found it quite cosy, actually, even if the garden could use a bit of care. Im only here a week. I just need a breather from London.
I see. Well, you take care, all the same. You never know.
Thank you, I said, taking my bread and sausage.
And dont go wandering at night! she called after me. Too many stray dogs and, well, sometimes the wildlife gets a bit bold.
***
Evening drew in. My first night in a strange cottage was ahead. I locked the windows and the door; sleeping on my own in a new house brought a certain unease. Occasionally a dog would bark, and outside I could hear the crickets or the distant calling of owls.
I made a light supper and found a book on one of the landladys shelves. Settling down on the sofa, I let myself get pulled in, until the comfort of the warm blanket lulled me. But I didnt sleep for long. Suddenly, I heard a faint knock. My heart pounded, erasing any hint of drowsiness. I peered into the darkness, straining to catch every sound.
Mice, probably, I told myself. Im not particularly afraid of rodents, although the thought isnt comfortingjust par for the course out here.
The knock came again, barely audible.
What if someones come into the house? That thought made my heart race even more. I was too scared to move. Then something fell in the kitchen. I froze, not knowing what to do. If it was an intruder, best not to let them see meI had no idea what kind of person I might be dealing with.
After that, there was no more noise, but I couldnt sleep until first light. Only when the sky began to brighten did I finally manage to drift off.
I woke to sunlight pouring through the window, making the room feel entirely safe and even inviting. I got up slowly and tiptoed to the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place, nothing that might have fallen in the night. But something caught my eye: on the table lay a dried-out daisy. I was certain it hadnt been there the day before. I checked the doors and windowseverything was locked, just as Id left it.
Who could have left a flower in the house? And how, with everything shut?
A prickle of unease ran through me.
Perhaps its been there all along and I just didnt notice, I reasoned. Then Margarets words floated back to me: Edna was a strange one.
Nonsense, Abigail. No time for superstition. I tried to dismiss it. Ive always been sensible, certainly not one for talk of ghosts or witches.
I spent most of the day wandering through the fields and narrow lanes, trying to set the strange feeling aside. As dusk fell, though, I found myself dreading another night alone in the cottage.
I double-checked every lock and window, then climbed into bed. Sleep refused to come. I listened to the silence, attuned to every tiny creak.
And then, there it was againa soft sound in the kitchen. I froze, barely breathing. Someone in the house? Ednas ghost? No, surely not. I barely slept a wink, and by morning, I was resolved: either I would leave early, or Id get to the bottom of all this.
***
First things first, I went back to the shop and bought a torch. I wasnt about to tell Margaret about the flower or the noisesshed only laugh, or start going on about village superstitions.
In the daylight, the cottage was just as peaceful as ever. No unexpected objects appeared, everything was just so. As evening came, I staged a little stakeout in the kitchen, huddled in the far corner with my torch in hand, determined to uncover the truth. As darkness fell, I wanted nothing more than to flee to the safety of the bedroom, but curiosity kept me where I was.
Night settled in, deep and absolute, and the house was swathed in stillness. Suddenly, there was a noisea mug falling from the cupboard near the hob. Heart racing, I flicked on the torch and shone it towards the sound.
Staring back at me was a cat. A large, black cat with piercing green eyesstartled, curious, and utterly alive. Just a cat, I realised, sagging in relief.
And where did you spring from?
Of course, he didnt answerhe just paused, then leapt away, vanishing into the shadows.
For the life of me, I couldnt work out how a cat had ended up inside a locked house. Nor could I figure out where hed gone. But the answer had to be somewhere outside the world of rummaging ghosts and folkloric witches.
With morning, I resolved to ask around. I crossed the lane to the house opposite, where I found a kindly old woman in the garden; she watched me approach with mild interest.
Good morning, I called. Im staying in the cottage opposite yours.
Morning, dear, she replied, without much ado.
Bit of an odd question, but does anyone here own a black cat? Hes been showing up at my place at night.
Thats Edna Winters cat youve seen. After Edna died, he was left on his own. Anna, the daughter, doesnt want him, so he just wanders about. He was Ednas companion. He survived last winter somehowsometimes I feed him. Keeps coming back to his old home, looking for his mistress, I suppose. Shame, really.
Gave me quite a fright, I must admit. Some of the villagers told me Edna was a well a bit of a character.
She just nodded.
Good cat, though, she said after a pause. Edna loved himsaid he was special. Never went near anyone he didnt take to. Clever, he is. And hes chosen you, it seems. You should take him in.
Take him? But
Go on. He might bring you luck. With that, she turned and shuffled back inside.
Id not planned on adopting a cat, let alone one already grown and belonging to another, but I thought I could at least feed him while I was there. That evening I bought whatever cat food the shop happened to stock, poured some into a saucer and left it in the kitchen. By the next morning, it was completely gone.
***
On the last day before heading back to London, I found myself feeling more at ease. This little adventure had done me gooda stark contrast to the city grind. That final evening, I filled the dish for the cat once more and sat down with a cup of tea before bed.
Through the dimness, I saw movement. The black cat padded into the kitchen, took one look at me, then at the food, and gave a plaintive mew. He ate a few mouthfuls, then fixed me with a thoughtful gaze before coming closer, hesitantly rubbing his head against my ankles.
Hello, Blackie, so weve met at last. You really did give me a fright that first night, you know. But Im leaving for London tomorrow. At that, he mewed again and, with sudden boldness, jumped up onto my lap.
And what am I supposed to do with you? I muttered, as he curled up, closed his eyes, and started to purr. We sat there quietly for a long while before he stretched, hopped down, and disappeared into the night.
The next morning, as I was loading my bags, I glanced around to make sure Id left nothing behind. The keys were to go through the letterbox for Anna. Stepping outside, I spotted the cat by the gate, watching me.
Are you seeing me off, then? I asked.
He meowed and pressed a little closer.
I hesitated, pity welling up for the poor creature, left to fend for himself.
Im hardly what youd call a cat person, and life in London isnt easy for a pet but perhaps youd like to come with me?
With a gentle meow, he nuzzled my legs, and I couldnt help but laugh.
All rightlets give it a go, I said, lifting him into my arms. He didnt fight or try to flee.
The journey home, with its changes and delays, took ages. Blackie (as I started to call him) sat calmly the whole way. When we arrived, I put him down in the flat, and he immediately began exploring, careful and deliberate, as if making up his mind about his new home.
***
He turned out to be a genuinely remarkable catclever, considerate, always using his tray, curling up beside me at night, and sprawling across my knees during the day, purring softly. I no longer felt quite so alone; somehow, this enigmatic friend had cast a gentle, comforting spell over my life.
