Helen Brown - After Cleo

I’d hardly been able to believe my luck that day I walked down a medieval aisle in Switzerland to see my handsome husband-to-be waiting at the altar. ‘Til death us do part’ had rolled lightly off our tongues. The idea of having to part some day was the last thing on our minds. But the mastectomy had made us both run through the scenario – one of us trying to sleep in an empty bed while the other floated away into stardust. Such a powerful reminder of the fragility of our relationship had made us appreciate each other more; made us less afraid to express affection. It was strange to think cancer could enhance a marriage.

Rob and Chantelle delayed their honeymoon to take a trip to Vietnam later in the year. We put on brunch at the convent cafe next morning for guests who were reluctant to leave. A surprising number showed up, competing for the shadiest corners in which to devour croissants and coffee. The sun scorched a hole in the sky while the air buzzed with stories from the night before.

One by one, they kissed our cheeks and crunched down the gravel path. As our guests turned and waved goodbye I felt a touch of sadness . . . but only because one of the happiest twenty-four hours of my life was over.

Hostage

The glower can be mightier than the claw

We pulled up outside Shirley in the late afternoon, anxious to learn if Jonah and Ferdie had survived their honeymoon weekend. Rob and Chantelle, eager to collect their beloved cat baby, were only ten minutes behind. We wanted to present a picture of feline harmony by the time they arrived.

As we climbed the path we heard insistent meowing from behind the front door. Good , I thought, at least one cat’s alive . Philip turned the key and opened the door cautiously. Jonah thrust his head through the crack and glared up at us. ( ‘You took your time!’ he seemed to be saying.)

The house felt oddly tense and silent, as if it’d been the scene of unspeakable drama. Lydia gathered Jonah in her arms and inspected him for signs of damage. Eyes, ears, nose and feet were all intact. Not bad after two days with a cat double his weight. We called for Ferdie. No reply.

Vivienne had probably separated the boys and put Ferdie in the cat run, I thought. We went outside and peered into the towers and through the tunnel. No sign of silver fur.

The floor was littered with unfamiliar cat toys, along with some handmade contraptions including six empty toilet rolls cellotaped together in the shape of a pyramid.

Lydia found a note under a house key on the kitchen table:

Hi there. Hope you had a great wedding. The boys got along fine, though Ferdie tried to eat Jonah’s food as well as his own! Jonah still thinks he’s boss. He wanted me to spend all my time with him. Whenever I tried to cuddle Ferdie he got jealous, so I had to give Ferdie hugs when Jonah wasn’t looking. I lent them some toys, and made a few as well. Hope you don’t mind.

Vx

P.S. Jonah loves playing hide and seek for cat treats inside the toilet rolls.

Ferdie had obviously been in residence while Vivienne was staying. But where was he now? The girls searched for him upstairs while I scoured downstairs, calling his name. Jonah sat like a prince on top of his scratching pole nonchalantly licking his paws.

‘What have you done with Ferdie, boy?’ I asked.

Jonah swished his tail and narrowed his eyes as if to say it was none of my business.

‘Do you think he ran out the front door when we opened it and nobody saw?’ asked Lydia.

Impossible. One of us would’ve noticed. Besides, Jonah had filled the entire entrance hall both physically and personality-wise.

‘Rob and Chantelle will be here soon,’ said Katharine. ‘What are we going to tell them – Ferdie’s got an invisibility cloak?’

If their beloved cat had disappeared it was going to be their worst wedding present. And I’d spend the rest of my life feeling responsible. No, worse. Guilty.

‘Did you hear that?’ asked Philip, whose ears are differently tuned to mine.

‘No. What?’

‘Meowing. It was coming from . . . over there,’ he said, pointing at the fireplace.

‘You mean that muffled . . .’

‘There he is!’ said Philip, crouching on all fours and peering up the chimney. ‘He’s hiding up here!’

I’d heard of Santas up chimneys, and the occasional bird and chimney sweep. But never a cat.

The girls and I watched, astonished as Philip reached into the void. After a few grunts and groans, Ferdie emerged. His fur was daubed with soot. His pride had taken a bashing. Apart from that he was unharmed.

Jonah was a lightweight compared to Ferdie, and a failure as a fighter. We were amazed he’d managed to frighten his weekend housemate up the chimney.

Ferdie was ecstatic when the newlyweds arrived to collect him. We weren’t going to say anything, but Chantelle noticed the soot marks on his fur. Her eyes widened as Philip described the chimney rescue. For all our good intentions, Ferdie was desperate to escape Jonah’s psychological torture. I’d never seen a cat spring so gratefully into his carry case.

Rob and his bride climbed into their car with their precious cargo on board. We stood with the girls on the verandah and waved goodbye.

‘What a great weekend!’ I sighed, as Philip put his arm around me and we turned to go back inside.

‘Apart from the finale,’ he added.

Heroes in Wheelchairs

Cats don’t understand the meaning of self-pity

I’d hoped Rob’s wedding might have proved a turning point for Lydia. Like any beautiful young woman, she’d basked in the admiring looks and flattering comments she’d received that night. But to my disappointment she was soon back in her white pants and pale tops, complete with shoulder-hugging shawl.

Three days after the wedding I could stand it no longer and asked if she was returning to Sri Lanka. To my relief, she announced she’d decided to stay in Australia for a while and change her study course to Psychology.

Seizing the chance to update her looks, I dragged her around some shops. But my attempts to interest her in hairdressers and clothes nearly always failed. Whenever I tried to bully her into letting me buy a dress that showed off her figure, Lydia would examine herself in the shop mirror and put her head to one side. It’s lovely, she’d say, but she really didn’t want me spending money on her.

Shop assistants would shake their heads as we left empty-handed. Some said they’d never seen a mother begging her daughter to let her buy her things, and not the other way around.

She often went out to meditation sessions or Buddhist society meetings at night, never to anything requiring lipstick and heels. The absence of men, suitable or otherwise, was noticeable at first but then we grew used to it. When I asked what’d happened to Ned, Lydia said he’d fallen in love with an actress. I scanned her face for signs of emotion, but could find none.

Sometimes I peeked through her door to see her sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, in front of her homemade altar, Jonah looking at her quizzically under the gaze of the laughing monk.

Desperate for a hint of what was going on inside her head, I took the sneak’s option and interrogated her sister. Katharine’s response wasn’t entirely satisfactory. She said Lydia was still thinking about becoming a nun. Or writing a book, or opening a retreat centre. While I’d always encouraged Lydia to dream, her ideas seemed as floaty as a Chagall painting.

As well as going back to university, Lydia resumed her work with disabled people, graduating to a wider range of clients. The bus she drove turned up regularly outside the house. One day she called me out to meet a group of teenage boys. Preparing for some masculine banter, I followed her out to the vehicle where she slid the door open. Three wasted figures swayed like plants on the seats, their mouths open, their hands locked into claws.