Short Story: A Black Cat

Short Story: A Black Cat

My mother brought the black kitten home on my thirteenth birthday. It was completely black. The only splash of colour was its pink tongue and green eyes and from the moment she carried it inside it was obvious she was mother’s cat.

“Give her a name dearie,” mother said, adding a cackle.

“Mother, you don’t have to speak in that funny voice or cackle with me. I’m your daughter, remember?”

“Yes, yes dearie, but be so kind as to name an old woman’s pussy-cat,” she said with yet another cackle. I sighed and search as I could for something suitably different. The only name that tumbled out of my head was, “Tiddles”.

I’ll give mother her due, she wasn’t fazed at all and looked at me steadily, nodded and said, “Tiddles it is then.”

It came as a shock when I realised she had taken me seriously and, mother being mother, had adopted my suggestion. The kitten glared at me and spat. I groaned.

Tiddles grew healthy and strong and became mother’s constant companion, following her to the shops, walking with her tail erect and her feet dancing or sitting on mother’s shoulders as she did when she was a kitten. Tiddles ignored me or if she took notice of me she walked past with her tail high and her nose in the air showing her disapproval. She certainly showed how she felt about me and no matter how often I tried to make peace with her she would spit, turn her back on me and walk off to sit washing a paw and glaring in my direction.

But with mother she was a sickening sycophant – even more so when mother put on her cackling voice and fossicked around the kitchen with her herbs and spices. I had early come to the conclusion that my mother was weird and, I have to admit, so was Tiddles. You could say that I am weird too, but with a mother like mine what would you expect? Apart from her skill with herbs and natural healing, telling fortunes, mid-wifery, laying out the dead and having a natural way with animals, mother is also a seamstress. You might say that being good with the needle was an advantage if you are willing to wear black, red and green long flowing dresses and robes, which are fine if you’re dressing up but not for every day wear. And with my hair being dark mother always insisted that I have purple and red streaks in it. Even now that I am grown up as they say, I still cannot get away from her sartorial interference.

And as for Tiddles. From the moment she arrived she made herself at home and took to yowling at the moon when it was full and during the day, in between sleeping and eating, she sat on our gate post and stared at all who passed by. In particular she would spit and swear at the parson, missy Oliver who played the church organ arching her back and fluffing up her fur with her tail shaking with angry tension. I assumed she disapproved of the vicar.

Unfortunately, mother is not very well and lately she is getting erratic and very strange, cackling to herself at odd times and waving her arms around chanting odd words and phrases. Tiddles, now getting scrawny and a bit cranky herself, stalks around with her all day and rides on her shoulders when we go out in the village on one of mother’s jobs. But what was most disturbing about the cat was the way she met visitors at our gate and escorted them into the house and once inside never took her eyes off them. Those who tried to stare her out found their eyes watering and blinking long before Tiddles even thought about closing hers. Her favourite recreation was to sit on the large gatepost and stare at passers-by who always seemed to hurry on muttering as they passed our house.

Whenever we went out in the village people would bow to mother, look fearfully at Tiddles and me and pass on making the sign of the cross or muttering the Lord’s Prayer as if we were demons or devils, but most of them, when the need arose would come visit our cottage. The young men of the village avoided me and I grew resigned to becoming a spinster for the rest of my life and wondered, often but got no answer, who my father was and how mother had managed to have me, her child.

By this time I was used to her ways and I got used to carrying a bag with the ‘doings’ in it and mother carrying either a bag of herbs or a crystal according to whether it was a death or a birth with Tiddles balanced on her shoulders. Mother sang happily whatever it was, a trait I never got used to although at times I found myself humming along with her, which was disturbing.

But it was even more disturbing when suddenly without warning mother collapsed on the floor of the kitchen and died. No noise, no fuss, she was working on some of her remedies and stood up to do some task or another and simply fell on the floor. By the time I reached her she was dead.

“Was it her illness that killed her?” I asked Doctor Pendleton.

“No, it was not that. Her heart just stopped.”

Oddly I noted that Tiddles was nowhere in sight. In fact apart from coming in to be fed Tiddles stayed outside until after mother was safely buried – in the churchyard – which I thought peculiar as mother and I never went to church. I came back from the funeral, alone and feeling lonely. Mother may have been weird, eccentric perhaps but I missed her. I lifted the latch and went inside and with hardly a thought sat in mother’s old chair where she often sat with Tiddles curled up on her lap or cuddled deep inside her robes purring as mother stroked the cat’s head and body.

“Mother, I will miss you,” I said and hearing a slight noise I turned to face the door. And there was Tiddles tripping along on her dark paws, green eyes glowing, whiskers twitching and tail flicking excitedly behind her; old now but still lively. She was purring and looking directly at me, stopped at my feet and with her characteristic determined leap she jumped up on my lap and, still purring loudly, curled up and closed her eyes. I put my hand down on her head and stroked between her ears gently with my fingernails. She raised her head a little pushing against my fingers and purred even louder.

“There, there dearie,” I said, and cackled.