Kate

Chaucer is curious. There seems to be a lot of to-ing and fro-ing going on, and everything is out of place. There is a pile of boxes in the living room, and he hasn’t seen his special dish (aka Chaucer’s Saucer) for days. There is definitely something up, but he can’t put his paw on it. His cat-carrier has been brought out of the garden shed and is now sitting ominously on the kitchen floor. He sniffs around it. Smells of disinfectant and cat-food. Perhaps he is going to the Vet? But that doesn’t seem right: he had a check-up and vitamin jab not long ago. The Vet had called in her colleague and between them they gawped in wonder at his magnificent paws, counting six toes on each one. Chaucer hasn’t a clue about numbers - after four he can only do “lots” -  but he does know that he is unique in the paw department. (Not so in the fur department: common-or-garden ginger.)

So, not the Vet, then. Perhaps he is going to be sent to Kate’s friend, Emma for a few days while she goes on holiday somewhere? Chaucer has a distain for Emma that only cats of his calibre can aspire to. She is altogether quite unsatisfactory as a cat-sitter and needs to understand her shortcomings. Last time he refused to come out from underneath the bed for hours and then peed in her bunny slippers to underscore his disapproval for being dumped like a poor relation for days on end. 

Chaucer’s curiosity soon turns to outrage, when, without so much as a by-your-leave, he gets scooped into the carrier and strapped into the front seat of Kate’s car. When the car pulls into a strange street, and Kate unlocks the front door to an unfamiliar house, Chaucer lurks as far back into the carrier as he can, and only comes out once Kate waves a piece of chicken in front of him. He has his principles, but he is no fool, and will never look a gift chicken in the mouth. Having gobbled up his treat, he begins to explore his new living quarters. Not bad, as it turns out. Cat flap is closed, but from the kitchen window sill he can see there is a small garden to be explored. Nice, climbable curtains, too, if he’s not mistaken.

Kate can’t quite believe it. The last few months have been a whirlwind, and her head hasn’t yet stopped spinning. Being able to afford her own home had seemed a dream that she would never realise, but after Aunt Clara’s demise, and subsequent bequest, here she is. Number 7 , Wellington Road is all hers. It may be small - just an ordinary two-up two-down terraced -  but it’s all hers. Nobody was more surprised than Kate when she found out that the main portion of her great aunt’s estate had been left to her. Of course, monies had been left to her only nephew (Kate’s dad), and to various charities deemed worthy of Aunt Clara’s benevolence, but somehow, at some point in time, Aunt Clara had decided that it should be Kate who would inherit the most. 

Truth is, Kate was always a bit scared of her great aunt: Clara was always finding fault with Kate, even as a small child: “Pick your feet up, Katherine, no-one wants to hear you shuffling about like a tramp.” “Put your knife and fork down when you are eating, Katherine. Are you conducting an orchestra?” “Stop slouching, Katherine, you look like a sack of potatoes.” “Speak up, Katherine - don’t be such a mouse.”As the dusty damask curtains creaked their way around Aunt Clara’s coffin at the crematorium, Kate breathed a sigh of relief. No more snide comments, no more passive aggressive remarks. No more dreaded Sunday afternoon phone calls where Kate dutifully asked after her great aunt’s health and listened wearily to her list of grumbles and grievances. When her dad called to let Kate know that Clara had departed this world, she felt that proverbial weight lift from her shoulders. Aunt Clara had a way of making her feel so insignificant, so inadequate, so imperfect. But now, Aunt Clara has given her the means to finally make a more independent life for herself. Not that she much minded living at home with her parents - far from it - but this feels like stepping into magical portal and finding herself on a different planet.

Kate does not have much to unpack.  A few mis-matched pieces of crockery and a laundry basket of bedlinen and towels that her mum no longer wanted: “It will get you started, and then when you are settled in and have got an idea of what you need, we’ll do a lovely shopping spree at John Lewis.” Her dad, meanwhile, had handed her a sizeable cheque with a promise not to tell her mother. “Treat, yourself, Katie - you deserve this.” As Kate pours herself a celebratory Prosecco, Chaucer winds himself around her legs. Having got over the indignity of the cat-carrier, he is in a conciliatory mood and would rather like his supper. “Okay, okay, I’m on it. Rabbit or Beef tonight, Sir.? Meeowooow? Rabbit then. Now, where did I put your dish, hmmm?”. In truth, Chaucer isn’t a picky eater, just happy to get his two square meals a day.  Rabbit will do fine.

Later, when Kate has made up a bed and found Chaucer’s basket, she curls up on the sofa with a new book and the last of the Prosecco. It’s been a long day , but it’s her wont to always finish the day with a chapter or two of a book. This one is not too bad - the fifth in a mystery series, but a main character is starting to grind on her - a supercilious old biddy who likes ordering people about. Hmmm. Perhaps a bit too close for comfort? She’s had enough of the Aunt Claras of this world to last her a lifetime. Time for bed. Chaucer is sound asleep in his basket, so Kate leaves him be and makes her weary way up the stairs.

The next morning (Sunday) Kate is awake early. Nearly the end of Summer, but still warm with a light breeze. Kate looks out onto the garden - just a small patch of grass, but with some pretty borders that she hopes she can keep in good order. She’d forgotten about the bird feeder in the garden, but the sparrows will have nothing to fear from Chaucer. Although he finds birds interesting, he has absolutely no desire to go chasing them around the garden and dragging them through the cat-flap as a surprise present for his housekeeper. No, Chaucer has reached a certain point on the evolutionary trajectory to be able to ignore the primitive hunter in him. He would much have a nice bowl of GoCat than have to catch his own breakfast. 

Kate puts on the kettle and roots around for her coffee bowl. Having spend three weeks in France as a teenager, Kate always drinks her morning coffee from a bowl. And having had a father who was fussy about his coffee, she follows his example by grinding the beans for her cafetière every morning. It is a reassuring ritual to start her day. Chaucer, having ears like radar, hops from his cat basket to make his presence felt in the kitchen. Once he hears the coffee grinder whirring into action, he’s up and waiting by his bowl like a sentry on guard duty. “Morning, Chaucer,” chirps Kate. “How are you this fine morning? Did you sleep well? What would you like for breakfast? Well, on today’s menu we have left-over chicken. And perhaps Sir would enjoy a handful or two of kitty-kibble? How does that sound?” That’s sounds perfectly acceptable to Chaucer, especially if it is accompanied by some of yesterday’s gravy. Coffee made, and cat attended to, Kate settles down at the kitchen table. Now that she has moved in she is not entirely sure what to do with herself. She has spent so many months planning and organising and fretting, she didn’t spend much time thinking past moving day. She is interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. 

It’s a pleasant surprise to find Gerald standing on her doorstep. She knows Gerald from her job at the Library - a regular customer whom she has a great respect for - not least because of his excellent knowledge of books and warm manner.

“Morning Kate, I hope you don’t mind me coming by unannounced” 

“Not at all Gerald - lovely to see you. Sorry I’m still in my pyjamas - it’s been a tiring few days.”

“Not at all - sorry to intrude on your Sunday morning, but I wanted to drop these off.” He hands Kate a bowl of freshly-picked tomatoes.

“Oh! Thank you so much…umm” She stammers. “I’m so sorry I’m in no fit state to invite you in - I’m still unpacking, and I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, been or gone.”

“Quite, quite. I understand….” And at this moment, Chaucer sees his opportunity to escape. Shooting past a startled Gerald, he makes a break for it. 

Chaucer scrambles over the wall and into next-door’s garden. Fearing that he might be pursued (quite by what, he is unsure), he foregoes the fishpond and heads for the next garden. He jumps deftly over the dividing fence and runs towards some shrubbery that will give him cover while he plots his next move. Unfortunately, Chaucer does not have a next move. Before too long, someone appears with a basket of washing to put on the line. Chaucer peers at them through the rhododendrons. They hum as they peg out the clothes. Chaucer has seen this activity before, so knows not to get frit as the t-shirts and tea-towels wave about in the breeze. The person wanders back into the house, leaving Chaucer alone to contemplate his life choices: right now, he’s beginning to wonder if making a break for the border was such good idea. All is quiet, so he saunters up to the house along the path, and considers the back door. It’s a bright shade of red, but that is lost on Chaucer - he can only see grey. What he can see, though, is a cat flap. Kate used to have one of these handy doors at their last house; curiosity prevails over prudence in Chaucer’s limited cat-brain, and he pokes his head through. The coast is clear, and, having assessed the dimensions of the opening with his magnificent whiskers, he manoeuvres himself through the cat flap and into a sunny kitchen.

Meanwhile, Kate and Gerald are on opposite sides of  Wellington Road calling out and shaking boxes of Go-Cat. They both feel rather foolish, but needs must. There is no response. Nothing. After 40 minutes of fruitless searching of every front garden in the street, Kate thanks Gerald, and retreats back home. “This is hopeless. Daft cat, where have you got to?” She can only hope that Chaucer has enough nouse to find his way back. Meanwhile, Chaucer is taking in his new surroundings, sniffing his way around the kitchen. He hops on to the kitchen table. Result! A couple of bowls of left-over cereal look promising. He puts his nose into the soggy cornflakes and gives them a tentative lick. Bah. Not good - milk’s OK, but not the rest of it. Not tasty at all. He winds his way through the rest of the breakfast detritus, unwittingly dislodging a spoon that clatters to the floor. He scoots under the table for cover. This is not going well. In the living room, Rose is roused from her second guess at the Wordle. Something has fallen in the kitchen. She is in two minds: to go and investigate (which means uncurling herself from her comfy position on the sofa) or staying put for another five minutes. It is not clear who is more surprised when Rose enters the kitchen. Cat and human look at each other for a few moments trying to work out what just happened. Chaucer’s first instinct its to bolt, but that is soon overruled by his second instinct, which is to see if there is a second breakfast in the offing. He meows, hopefully. And puts on his best please-feed-me-I’m-hungry face. In the meantime, Rose is scrambling to understand what on earth a ginger moggie is doing in her kitchen. Rose bends down to take a closer look. 

“Good morning, Kitty. How did you get in?” Chaucer’s not sure what this means, so tries the plaintive meow again. 

“Oh, my goodness, that’s a sad meow. Are you hungry?” Chaucer looks at Rose as if she is stupid and repeats his best unhappy meow. Rose dutifully fills a saucer with some milk and sets it down for him. He laps it up, while Rose contemplates her next move. She hasn’t seen this cat in the street before, and wonders how it managed to get through the cat flap, which hasn’t been in use since their kitty bounded over the Rainbow Bridge a couple of years back. Then she notices his paws. “Wow! Look at those paws!” She gets on all fours to take a better look. “You’re unbelievable! Surely someone must be missing you. We’d best get you to the vet to see if you have a chip.” Chaucer has a chip. Of course he does (every respectable cat has a chip) and he never leaves home without it. He licks the last of the milk from the saucer and wanders into the hallway, inspecting these nice new surroundings. 

“Hello, yes. Is that Jo? Hi, Jo, it’s Rose here…yes, that’s right - Sooty’s mum. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is that I’ve got a stray cat in my house….” Unfortunately, Rose and Mike have given away their cat carrier, so Chaucer has the humiliation of being transported to the Vet in a cardboard box. He meows in protest all the way, and into the waiting room. Fortunately, they don’t have long to wait, and Chaucer is soon on the Vet’s table being scanned as if he is a can of beans at the supermarket. 

“Actually, I don’t know why I’m scanning him, I know exactly who this is, don’t I, Chaucer?”, says the Vet, “I’d know those paws anywhere. But just to make sure….” Beep beep. Kate’s phone number pops up on the screen. 

Not long later, Rose is ringing Kate’s doorbell, and Chaucer is back where he belongs. And not too long after that, Chaucer is fast asleep in Kate’s kitchen, stretched out in a pool of warm sunshine.