Eric McCormack - Cloud

On the third day after the explosion, a funeral service for all those who’d died was held in an area of the Necropolis called the columbarium. There, niches in the walls held urns containing the ashes of the dead. Only one urn was needed for the ashes of the bits and pieces of those who’d died in the explosion, for there was no way of knowing who was who. The service was attended by more than two hundred inhabitants of the Tollgate wearing their best suits and dresses. The names of the dead— there were seventeen in all — were read out to the accompaniment of weeping, mainly from the women and children.

I tried to be stoic, but when I heard “Joseph Steen and Nora Steen,” I lost control of myself and gratefully joined the chorus of weepers. In a way, I was glad my father and mother were included in this communal mourning, for we had no relatives or close friends. If my parents had been the only ones killed in the explosion, I would surely have been the sole mourner.

The way they died justified their beliefs about the world. My mother’s unspoken dread about the precariousness of everything had certainly been borne out. As for my father, he’d at least have taken some satisfaction from this unassailable evidence that his views were correct. I imagined him sitting at the bottom of the smouldering crater, his cigarette smoke mingling with the smoke of the bomb, calling up to me: “Well, Harry, wasn’t I right about The Big Blunder?”

After two weeks of mourning and moping in the hostel, I made up my mind to do what would have pleased my parents most: start preparing for my final exams. Using the allowance given to the survivors of the explosion, I bought some spare clothes and looked for a room near the university where I could hole up for a month till the exams.

I had trouble finding anything available for so short a period. Then I saw, in the window of a sprawling three-storey house, the sign:

Furnished Room for Rent — Student Only

A flagstone pathway took me past a scrap of lawn to the front door, which was badly in need of paint. The brass nameplate read J. & D. Nelson . I knocked several times, but there was no response. Just as I was about to leave I heard the click of an inside bolt and the door opened.

For the first time in weeks, an emotion stronger than grief took charge of me. Standing in the doorway was Deirdre— Deirdre, the girl I’d adored in the study hall, the girl who’d disappeared from my life two years before. She was wearing a grey skirt and sweater and I could smell the faint scent of lilac. Her green eyes were looking at me quite coolly.

“Yes?” she said.

I waited for her to remember me but she gave no sign of recognition.

“Are you here about the room?”

I almost blurted out something about her sitting across from me in the study hall. Instead, I told her I needed a place to study for my finals. Would the room advertised be available for rent for just the next month?

“Yes, it would,” she said. “Come in.” She opened the door wide into an enclosed hallway. Lying around were various pairs of boots and shoes. She herself had no shoes on.

“There’s something you ought to know,” she said. “We have a number of cats and they have the full run of the house— except the room for rent. If you don’t like cats you should look elsewhere.”

I assured her I did indeed like cats. I was thinking fondly of poor old Milly, how she used to sit in the evenings on my knee, or Mother’s, purring as we read.

Deirdre’s green eyes seemed to soften.

“I’m relieved to hear that,” she said. “Take your shoes off and leave them here. There are tails and paws underfoot.”

I took my shoes off and put them beside the others in the hall.

“Follow me.”

She opened another door from the enclosed hallway into the house and we went inside.

THAT FIRST INSPECTION of Deirdre’s house was memorable. The pleasant shock at seeing her again was only slightly negated by the fact that she didn’t seem to recognize me. Her lilac perfume made my head spin.

I quickly understood that “a number of” cats was an understatement. There were at least twenty of them of differing shades and shapes all around us, greeting us as we went through the inner door. I placed my feet carefully, tiptoeing through them as though we were crossing a stream with occasional stepping stones.

As we progressed through the house, she talked expertly about the cats, using terms for them I’d never heard: this one was a “patched tabby,” that one a “stripy mackerel,” the other a “torby.” Some were “blotched,” some were “ticked,” some were “bobtailed,” the biggest one was a “barn.” All the cats in the house were female. She called them her “girls.”

Because of the cats everywhere, but principally because Deirdre was my guide, I had trouble concentrating totally on the house itself. Yet one thing was certain: this was the biggest house I’d ever been in. The kitchen alone seemed to me to be the size of the entire apartment I’d been brought up in. The surface of its huge stove and its various counters were adorned with basking cats.

“Of course the kitchen will be at your disposal,” said Deirdre. She then led me up to the second floor by a staircase that seemed as wide as some at the university. Off the landing she pointed out the main bedroom. Its door was shut but several other doors were ajar, with cats wandering in and out.

We climbed on up to the third-floor landing. The nearest door was open and led into a large room.

“This is the music room,” she said. “My husband practises here.”

Inside I could see several old bookcases full of books, an armchair, and a tattered leather couch. A number of cats lay around, some on the closed lid of a grand piano. By the window that looked out onto adjacent roofs, an upright wooden chair and a music stand were situated.

I was still thinking about that “husband” as Deirdre led me along the hallway beyond the music room to a door that was closed.

“This is the room for rent,” she said. “We try to keep it cat-free.”

She opened the door, led me inside, and then closed the door to keep our accompanying group of cats out.

The room seemed as large as the music room, but more dramatic. The entire wall on the south side was built with opaque glass blocks that let in daylight. A bed, a wardrobe, and a big mahogany desk with a lamp and leather chair were the main pieces of furniture. Near the bed, three steps led up to a little bathroom and a shower.

“The previous owner’s hobby was oil painting and this was his studio. That’s why the light’s so good,” Deirdre said. “What do you think? Would it serve your purposes?” I thought she sounded a little anxious.

Of course, I told her I really liked it. I’d have enthused over any old rat hole just to be near her again.

“Good! Then that’s settled.” She looked pleased.

My worry was that the price might be too much for me, but when I asked her about that she shook her head.

“Don’t concern yourself,” she said. “Since you’re a student, whatever you can afford will be just fine. The room’s available immediately, so you can move in whenever you wish.”

I took her at her word, went back to the hostel, picked up my things, and moved in that very night.

I BEGAN TO STUDY HARD, making much use of the university library. But when I did work in my room in Deirdre’s house, I was always aware of her presence. Any conversations I had with her were brief, and mainly in passing, when I was leaving for the university or for a nearby café where I’d sustain myself on bread rolls and coffee (the kitchen cats were rarely disturbed by me).

I kept wondering if I should remind her of our days together in the study hall. Maybe what I’d been through had changed my appearance and she just didn’t recognize me. Or maybe I’d made no lasting impression on her at all. Rather than discover that, I preferred not to ask.