Peter Beagle - Tamsin

“Meena thinks the house really is haunted,” I said. “She says they have them all over the place in India. No biggie.”

Sally shook her head. “I don’t do ghosts. Although I had a very strange harpsichord once, before you were born…” But she stopped herself and shook her head again. “No. No ghosts. Brownies, gnomes, fairies at the bottom of my garden… Did you see the kitchen this morning?”

I’d seen it. Like woodchucks had been slamdancing in the pantry. I told her about Meena’s poltergeist, but she sighed and shrugged, and said it was probably altogether different in India. Then she asked, all of a sudden, “Baby, are you liking Evan any better? As a stepfather, I mean.”

I shrugged. “I’ve never not liked him,” I said, which was perfectly true. The only thing I really disliked about Evan was that I didn’t dislike him; because if somebody wrecks and devastates your entire life, he ought to at least have the decency to be a fullout, David Copperfield-style, vicious rat bastard, not a skinny Limey farmer who liked to play the guitar. “He’s all right. As a stepfather.”

“Well, that’s something ,” Sally said. She put her hand on my cheek. “He likes you a lot, you know. Admires you, in fact, though I can’t think why.” I didn’t say anything. Sally sighed. “This is turning into a tough gig, Jenny. It’s going to be a much harder, longer job than Evan estimated, reclaiming this relic of a farm. But he’ll get it done. Of course, you may be pushing our wheelchairs by then, but it’ll be done. And somewhere along in there, we may even have found the time to sneak off for a honeymoon. Right now, as far as I can see, from here to senility we’re just going to be digging holes and tearing things down.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “And the piano?” Sally looked at me. I said, “You haven’t touched the piano since we got here. I know you haven’t, because it’s way out of tune, you’ll have to get somebody from Dorchester or wherever. Unless you’re just going to let the boggarts have it—hey, it’s your piano.” I hadn’t realized I was really upset about her not playing the piano until I got started. Mister Cat finally opened his eyes, yawned, and walked up the bed to see if I was being uncool again. He always knows.

Sally didn’t get mad, though. She leaned forward and put her arms around me. Sometimes it used to make me prickly when she did that, and I’d turn into a bag of knees and elbows, but right then it felt good. I curled against her, with Mister Cat burrowed down against my stomach, so the three of us were comfortable and quiet together. I about fell asleep.

I think I was asleep when Sally said, “Jenny? Meena really said she saw a poltergeist?”

“Lil girl,” I mumbled. “Felsorry.”

“Because there’s some evidence that there actually might be such things. Something to do with—what?— emanations from somebody else who might have lived here once. Lord, one minute it’s The Twilight Zone , and the next minute you can get doctorates in it. Who knows anything for sure anymore?” She stroked my hair, but I felt it as far away as her voice sounded.

I think I said, “Nemnations, boogers,” but I didn’t hear myself. Just Mister Cat purring in his sleep, all night.

It’s a good thing Mister Cat liked Julian. I don’t think Julian could have stood it otherwise.

Mister Cat doesn’t like a lot of people. He tolerates just about everyone, but it’s not the same thing, and Julian would have known. But Mister Cat pushed his head into Julian’s face, and did his paws-around-the-neck thing, and actually let Julian drape him around his shoulders, as I’d said he would. I’ve never seen him let anyone do that—I was just saying it to make Julian shut up, and hoping he’d forget. Mister Cat shows off sometimes.

He wasn’t anything like that with Tony—polite but formal, that was about it. But what he really liked to do was sit in the doorway of Tony’s practice room and watch him dance. It didn’t matter if Tony was only doing stretches, or walking around thinking—Mister Cat was perfectly happy to sit there and watch him at it. Tony would close the door when he noticed him, but then the room would get stuffy and he’d have to open it again, and Mister Cat would be back like a shot. Absolutely, totally, utterly fascinated.

Tony wasn’t. It went almost the same way every time—he’d come marching up to me and say something like, “Jenny, is it too much to ask for you to keep that animal away from my studio?”

“He’s not doing anything,” I’d say. “He just loves the way you dance. I’d think you’d be flattered.”

“Well, I’m not. I don’t like being watched. It makes me nervous.”

I’d say, “Interesting career you’re likely to have,” and Tony would get furious and stamp away, yelling, “I mean by cats! I don’t dance for cats!” And I really would try harder to make sure Mister Cat stayed outside or in my room during the day. But I already knew it wouldn’t work. New York or Dorset, Mister Cat goes where he wants to go, and all I’ve ever been able to do is trail along after him. Which is why everything that happened happened, any way you look at it. If Mister Cat hadn’t been so captivated by Tony’s dancing, I don’t know if I’d ever have met Tamsin. Meena thinks it was fated, but I don’t know. You’ll see. Any minute now.

Mister Cat took his own time about exploring his new outdoors. Cars and construction, manholes and dogs and crazies he knew about, but he’d never seen a cow or a chicken or a hay-baler in his life, and he found out fast why foxes are different from city dogs. (Albert was no problem—Albert didn’t notice anything that wasn’t a sheep.) But unlike me, he didn’t waste one minute bitching and moaning and carrying on. I watched him prowling a little farther from the Manor every day, getting used to the whole idea of grass and dirt, sniffing everything and then sitting back and thinking about it. No hurry. He hung out in the dairy a lot, and he climbed trees after squirrels as though he’d been doing it all his life—I only had to help him get down once. The second day out, he was already peeing on things and rubbing against them, to mark them with his own smell. I should have done that.

By the time he’d been in residence a couple of months—say late April or early May—he knew everything there was to know about Stourhead Farm. He didn’t like all of it, either. He might wander all day, but he mostly stayed in at night, though I left my window open for him when the nights started getting warmer. And when he did go out, he’d always wake me up coming back, which he practically never did in New York. Not just by digging down under my blankets and getting as close in as he could, but he kept talking —that sound he makes that isn’t a meow and certainly isn’t a purr, or even that questioning prrrp ? that cats do. It’s a rough, really urgent kind of sound—not loud, but specific , that’s the only word I can think of. He only makes it when he’s telling me something important that he already knows I won’t understand. I will later on, but never in time.

So. Early May, and Sally had actually gotten the piano tuned, and even turned up a couple of pupils—sisters, I remember—in Dorchester. She told me that the money wasn’t anything much, “But I need to be teaching again,just a little, just so the farm won’t swallow me up. That’s the one thing I’m afraid of.” She asked me if I felt like coming along for company. “Lydia’s not much more than a beginner, but Sarah’s going to be good. You could listen, or you could go wander and meet me at the car.”