Eric McCormack - Cloud

I met her husband for a few minutes on my first morning. He was, indeed, the same plump man I’d seen in the study hall.

“Jacob Nelson,” he said, holding out his hand. His face was shiny, as though he’d just applied polish to it. He had a confident, grown-up way about him. “I hope your room’s all right. As you can see, the house needs a lot of work but we haven’t got round to fixing it up yet. I inherited it a few years ago from my uncle, who was an artist. Deirdre probably mentioned that your room was once his studio.”

The idea of inheriting such a place — it would have held six families from a tenement — was almost incomprehensible to me.

“Students usually aren’t too fussy about little things like decor. That’s why we like to rent to them,” he said. “Deirdre was a student for a while, too. After we married she decided she’d rather stay home and look after me and the girls.” He laughed indulgently. “I play violin in the orchestra so I spend most afternoons rehearsing at Symphony Hall for weekend performances. But I’m afraid I have to practise here in the mornings. I trust that won’t disturb your studies too much.”

I assured him I’d be at the university in the mornings, so his practising certainly wouldn’t bother me. Nor did it. Some mornings, in fact, I’d linger for an hour or more, just to listen to him play. How he could extract such intricacies of sound from one instrument amazed me.

Indeed, most things about this new world I’d stumbled into amazed me. It was so different from the Tollgate it might have been another planet, what with inherited mansions and virtuoso musicians and beautiful women free to devote their lives to the care of a legion of cats. I realized that a woman like Deirdre had always been unattainable for the likes of me. She was a goddess to be adored, not an ordinary woman with everyday human needs.

DURING MY FIRST WEEK in my new room, a curious thing happened. It was around midnight on Saturday.

I’d just climbed into bed after several hours of studying the Anglo-Saxon poem The Wanderer , a thousand-year-old meditation by a solitary exile who’d lost everything. Some lines were stuck in my mind as I lay there:

There is now none living

To whom I dare

Clearly speak

Of my innermost thoughts.

Those words had stirred up once again the grief that overwhelmed me the day the explosion wiped out my parents, my home, and everything in it. I felt quite as miserable as that ancient exile.

Just then, a great screeching of cats from outside the room shattered my mood. I lay for a moment, then got out of bed and opened my door a crack to see what was causing the racket.

A crowd of about twenty cats, led by the big barn cat, was gathered outside the music room howling like a mad choir. Their tails were all upright, fluffed out like banners. Unusually, the music-room door was closed, though a sliver of light was visible along the bottom.

During momentary lulls in the howling, I thought I could hear other sounds coming from inside the room. It might possibly be Jacob, going over his music for the next day. Or maybe not. I was wide awake now so I decided to check for myself.

I edged my way out into the hall, closing my own door softly behind me. I waded through the electric bodies of the cats till I reached the music room. Even above the howling, I could definitely hear sounds now from inside. As quietly as I could I turned the door handle and pushed the door open ever so slightly to make sure there wasn’t enough space for the cats to slip through.

I put my eye to the narrow opening.

Jacob was lying on top of Deirdre on the leather couch. Their pyjamas and housecoats were scattered on the floor. Unclothed, he looked plumper than ever. She, on the other hand, was much thinner than I’d imagined, the bones of her arms, legs, and ribs quite prominent.

They were making love rhythmically. Deirdre looked up at him, making little squealing noises. At times, her eyes would widen and her squeal would become an outright scream, whereupon the cats’ howling would rise to a crescendo.

Since the door was now slightly ajar, I was afraid the howling of the cats must surely sound louder to the lovers. But they seemed not to notice. So for quite a few minutes I maintained my position at the crack, watching their activities. When their efforts began to wind down, I very carefully closed the door, negotiated my path through the cats back to my own room, and got into bed.

Sometime later in the night, the cats woke me with their howling. This time I stayed in bed. The howling went on and on, then, at a certain moment, the cats shrieked in unison. After that, all noise stopped and I managed to fall asleep again.

THE NIGHT HOWLING occurred on some weekdays and on all Saturdays while I stayed with the Nelsons. I must admit that most times I took the opportunity to reassure myself as to the cause, holding the music room door slightly ajar, watching and listening while the lovers and the cats performed.

On mornings after, I’d often meet them before I left for the university and they’d invite me to have coffee with them in the kitchen amongst the cats. They called me by my first name now and insisted I call them Deirdre and Jacob.

I was almost certain they were aware of my being a spectator at their nighttime activities in the music room. But no mention was ever made of it.

Perhaps nothing needed to be said. There was something quite pleasant in it for all three of us, as well as for the cats. But Deirdre was no longer a goddess to me — if anything, she was more human than I’d ever have believed. The sight of her emaciated body and the sound of her amorous screaming were responsible for that.

DUNCAIRN. I heard that name for the first time from the lips of Jacob. It was on one of those mornings over coffee, and we’d been talking about my plans after I graduated. I told him and Deirdre that I hadn’t really anything concrete in mind. The truth was, I’d been seriously considering the prospect of leaving Scotland entirely — perhaps heading for one of those warm, exotic places I used to visit in my imagination. But I didn’t feel inclined to confess that to anyone, yet.

“Have you given any thought to teaching?” said Jacob. “The reason I mention it is that a few weeks back I ran into an old friend who was at university with me years ago. He’s principal of the high school in a little mining town in the Uplands, and he happened to say he was on the lookout for a one-year replacement teacher to start in September. Duncairn, the place is called. Seemingly it’s hard to get an experienced teacher to go to these out-of-the-way towns, never mind just for a temporary job.”

I could see that he and Deirdre had come up with a plan, for she was nodding her approval as he talked.

“Look,” Jacob said. “We were wondering if I should send my friend a note suggesting you as a possibility — that is, if he’s still looking for someone. What do you think? I mean, probably nothing will come of it anyway.”

I was, of course, interested. The idea of being a teacher in a little country school sounded very attractive, but I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to hire someone so utterly unqualified as I was. Still, I told Jacob to go ahead, if he thought it was worth a try. I didn’t give much more thought to the possibility than that.

MY STUDIES WENT very well during the rest of that month I stayed with the Nelsons — partly because my mind was no longer full of Deirdre. My romantic image of her had moderated sufficiently that I was able to concentrate on preparing for the finals.

In due course, the exams were taken and passed. A week after the results were announced, an official-looking letter came for me. I opened it and read the typed single page.