Not a whiff of that cat or youre out, Im telling you! bellowed the landlady.
The room Mary had rented was modest and snug, but full of sunshine. The furniture had seen better days, but it was solid and respectable. The landladyMrs Edith Wilkinshad made herself clear right from the off.
I run a tight ship, I do. Order. Cleanliness. Peace and quiet. If youve got a problem, say so straight awaydont bottle it up.
Mary had nodded, worn out from years of noisy bedsits, late-night revelries, and squabbling neighbours on the outskirts of London. Compared to all that, this little flat felt like heaven.
She soon settled in. The two women managed to rub along. Mrs Wilkins proved not so much unkind as unyieldinga reserved woman whose eyes always seemed clouded with some long-standing grievance against the world and perhaps life itself.
Mary did her utmost not to trouble her. She cooked at dawn, when Mrs Wilkins was still in bed. She tiptoed about, barely dared put the wireless on, and went about her days as quietly as a church mouse.
And then, quite unexpectedly, along came Pippa.
She was a cat who simply appearedslight, grey, bright-eyed with an air of intelligence. Shed sit by the garden gate, mewing up at passersby as if pleading, Please take me in.
Mary, despite herself, couldnt leave her out in the cold.
Up she brought her, gave her milk, found an old towel for her bed inside a cardboard box. The cat curled up, purred, and Mary felt her own heart thaw for the first time in months.
My darling Pippa, she whispered.
It seemed an easy enough secret to keep. Mrs Wilkins rarely stepped into Marys little room, and somehow Pippa wasnt one for mischiefshe never scratched the chairs or darted behind the curtains, happy to just purr away on the windowsill.
But one evening, Mary heard the dreaded voice:
Mary Bennett!
It was so icy and sharp, she leapt up. Mrs Wilkins stood in the hallway, face skewed with fury, brandishing a tuft of grey fur.
What is the meaning of this?! Whos in your room?!
Mrs Wilkins looked as though it were a snake or a rat, not a harmless cat. Her cheeks were crimson, hands shaking.
I cannot abide them! Filthy creatures! Fur everywhere and the stink!
But shes clean, honestly
I mean it! Not a hair, not a breath of that cat in my flat, or you pack your bags and go!
She stormed off, slamming the door.
Mary slumped back down, hands trembling. Pippa brushed against her ankles, softly mewing.
Oh, what will become of us, my dear? Mary whispered, tears welling up. Where should we go now?
To start over again? Packing? Finding a new place?
But the thought of leaving brought on such weariness she couldnt bear it. So Mary resolved: unless Mrs Wilkins physically threw her out, shed stay, and keep Pippa hidden.
The coming days became a farce of cloak-and-dagger survival. Mary hid Pippa in the wardrobe at the sound of Mrs Wilkins footsteps. She fed her only at dawn or late at night, when Mrs Wilkins had nipped down the shops. The litter tray was tucked away behind the battered old suitcase in the farthest corner.
Almost eerily, Pippa seemed to understand; never a mew, never a scamper. Shed just perch on the sill, gazing outside with mournful green eyes. Mary couldve sworn even the cats breathing might give her away.
Youre my clever girl, she would whisper, stroking Pippas warm grey fur. Just a little longer, my love. Well be alright.
But they werent. Not really.
Mrs Wilkins had started prowling the flat, casting suspicious glances in every nook, sniffing the air. One day, she paused for what felt like an age beside Marys door, listening.
Mary clung to Pippa, heart battering in her chest.
Please, God, dont let her hear.
Mrs Wilkins stayed a moment longer, then moved off, but now the whole place felt strained and heavy, as if waiting for a storm.
At supper, Mrs Wilkins didnt speak, eating her broth with her eyes fixed on the table. Then, abruptly:
Do you take me for a fool? she shot across the table.
Mary nearly spilled her tea.
You think I dont know youre hiding that animal? You never threw it out. Dont lie.
Mrs Wilkins
Enough! She pushed back her chair. I warned you. So youre cunning, are you? Well see. But I dont want to seeor heara trace of that cat. And when my grandson comes to visit, I want no sign at all! Not a whisper of it!
She swept out, leaving Mary utterly at a loss.
Grandson?
The following day, Mrs Wilkins spoke of him. Her tone was dry as dust, but Mary caught an undercurrent of strainperhaps worry, perhaps something more.
Its Oliver coming down for the holidays. Hes twelve. His parents barely have a minute for him; I suppose they think Im cheaper than a nanny. Hell arrive Friday.
Thats lovely! Mary tried to sound hopeful. You must be looking forward to it.
Mrs Wilkins pursed her lips.
Looking forward. He was once my little boy. Now all he does is stick his nose in that blasted mobile. Barely says a word to me. Comes for a week, sits in silence, then clears off for another year.
There was pain in her voicetrue and deep.
But hes your grandson! He must love you.
Love, Mrs Wilkins scoffed. I doubt it. All he wants is decent Wi-Fi.
She paused, then added in a lower voice, And not a hair of your cat, understand?
Mary nodded. But in her mind: where would she hide Pippa for a whole week?
Friday came too quickly.
Oliver arrived after teaa tall, awkward lad with headphones clamped to his ears, thunder-cloud face, a bag over his shoulder. He mumbled a greeting and shut himself away.
Mrs Wilkins fussed with the dinner table.
Oliver, do eat something, love.
Not hungry.
I made these sausages special for you, sweetheart.
I said Im not hungry!
Mary lay in her room, listening through the thin partition, her heart aching. Poor Mrs Wilkins, trying her best, and the boy not even meeting her gaze.
Pippa, for her part, sat on the windowsill, watching the darkness outside with the saddest eyes.
Hold on, sweet girl. Not much longer.
But the next day, disaster struck.
Mary popped out to the toilet, only for a moment. She pulled the door nearly shut behind her, not thinking there was no lock.
Perhaps Pippa just needed to stretch. Or perhaps she was curious. Somehow she slipped out, padding quietly into the hallway.
When Mary returned, Pippa was gone.
Paniccold as ice.
Pippa! Pip!
Mary dashed into the corridor and stopped dead.
There, in the sitting room, Oliver was sitting on the floor, Pippa curled at his side. The boy was stroking her, and she was purring so loudly the old clock seemed to shiver in sympathy.
Oh! Mary gasped.
Oliver looked upand for the first time, smiled.
Is she yours? he asked.
She iswell, yes, butit was an accident, honestly, Im so sorry, Oliver
Can I stroke her a bit more? Shes so soft and friendly!
Of course.
Mary stood dumbstruck. If Mrs Wilkins appeared any second, thered be mayhem. But Olivers eyes glowed with happiness, and he looked at the cat as though she were a blessing sent from heaven.
And then Mrs Wilkins entered from the kitchen.
She froze on the threshold.
Mary braced herself for an outburst.
Oliver? Mrs Wilkins said softly. Are you playing with a cat?
Yes, Gran! Listen to her purr! Can I feed her, please?
Mrs Wilkins said nothing at first, simply watching him. At length, she nodded.
All right. You may.
From that day, everything changed.
Oliver hardly left Pippas side. He fed her, played with her, even sketched her portrait in crayon. His phone lay ignored on the settee. He began to laugh again, chatting about school, his mates, how he wished he could have a cat of his own.
Mrs Wilkins would linger in the kitchen, listening to his stories. Something warm, almost tender, came back into her eyes.
One evening, she approached Mary.
She can stay, she said quietly. Your Pippa. Let her stay. I didnt know… Shes brought a bit of happiness to this house, at last.
And Mary saw, quite unexpectedly, a single tear run down the old womans cheek.
Three months drifted by.
Oliver telephoned dailynot his parents, but Mrs Wilkinsto ask after Pippa, beg for a glimpse of her via video. Mrs Wilkins, thoroughly flummoxed by modern devices, would fumble with the mobile, Pippa usually darting just out of shot.
Bother these contraptions! Oliver, can you see her?
I can, Gran! Hello, Pip!
And on hearing his voice, Pippa would approach, mewing as if she understood.
Gran, you promise I can come for the spring holidays?
Of course, darling. Pippa and I will be waiting.
And they truly did wait. Mrs Wilkins had already spotted a new feather toy for Pippa in the shopthinking, Oliver will love this.
Mary was no longer living in hiding. She cooked in the shared kitchen, had tea with Mrs Wilkins, and they swapped tales about their livesabout Marys late husband, how hard things had been after hed passed.
You know, Mrs Wilkins, if it hadnt been for Pippa, I really dont know how Id have managed.
Mrs Wilkins would nod, understandingly.
Animalsthey know when youre down. They turn up, quietly, when you need them. Dont they?
The two women were almost friends nowtwo solitary souls and a little grey cat, fate having drawn them together.
When spring arrived, Oliver returned, a great rucksack bulging with gifts: a fancy collar for Pippa, her favourite treats, and a new soft basket.
Spent my own pocket money, Gran! he declared.
Well done, love.
For a week, Oliver played with Pippa, roamed the garden, sketched, and, before he left, asked:
Gran, could I come for the whole summer this year? Please?
Of course, my darling!
As she hugged him close, Mrs Wilkins realised: happiness wasnt found in silence or spotless order. No, it was here: in the laughter down the passage, in a childs arms around your waist, in the small feet running along the landing.
And all thanks to a rather unremarkable grey little cat.
