The Catlady (7 page)

“It was nothing,” Vicky said. “We happened to be passing the cellar door and we heard the child mewing. ‘Kittens should
be seen and not heard,' as the saying goes, but on this occasion it was fortunate that the child cried out.”

“And that Your Majesty's hearing is so sharp,” said Florence.

“All our five senses are in perfect working order,” said Vicky imperiously, and she waddled regally out of the room.

Chapter Six

Probably on account of the Catlady's strangely respectful treatment of Vicky, Mary Nutt began, despite herself, to think quite a lot about this strange idea of reincarnation.

In the Catlady's library she first consulted an encyclopedia. “This belief,” she read, “is fundamental to the Hindu and Buddhist concepts of the world.”

So millions of people believe in it, she thought. They can't all be barmy. Perhaps Miss Muriel isn't either.

Reincarnation, she read, accounted for the differences in the character of individuals
because of what each had once been. So was the fact that Vicky was short and tubby and bossy and that the other cats always let her eat first and seemed to be very respectful toward her—was that all because this ginger cat had once been Queen of England? Rubbish, one part of her said.

Millions believe in it, said another. Of course it would be a comfort to me to be able to believe that my mother and father are alive again, in some shape or form. If only I could, she thought.

I wonder what form Miss Muriel believes she will assume when she dies? Which may not be all that long, she thought. She's aged a great deal in the years that I've been here.

For some time now the Catlady had not come down for breakfast. She ate very little anyway, and Mary, seeing how frail she was becoming, persuaded her to have a tray with a cup of tea and some toast and marmalade brought up to her bedroom.

One morning Mary knocked as usual and took in the tray.

“Shall I pour for you both, Miss Muriel?” she asked.

“Please, Mary dear.”

So she saw to the Catlady's tea and then, as usual, filled a saucer with milk and put it on the floor for Vicky.

“How are we today, Miss Muriel?” she asked.

“A little tired. I'm not getting any younger, I fear.”

“You stay in bed,” Mary said. “I can bring you some lunch up later.”

You're really looking very old now, she thought. But not unhappy. Maybe because of this belief of yours that when you die, you'll start again as someone or something else.

“I've been thinking quite a lot,” she said, “about what you said to me some time ago. About being reborn, in another body.”

“I shall be,” said the Catlady firmly.

It still seems odd that she's so sure, Mary thought.

The Catlady did not get up at all that day, saying that she did not have the energy. It was the same all that week, a week that by chance contained two bereavements for Muriel Ponsonby. The cat that had once been her uncle Walter died, and then her old school friend Margaret Maitland.

“Both cats were very old, though, weren't they?” Mary said in an effort to console her friend.

“As I am,” said the Catlady.

“Anyway,” said Mary,“it's nice for you to think they will both be reborn, isn't it?”

“As I shall be,” said the Catlady.

What am I saying? Mary asked herself. I'm barmy too.

She could not make up her mind whether the Catlady was just tired or whether she was ill. And if so, how ill? Should I call the doctor? she thought.

What decided her was a request that the Catlady made.

“Mary dear,” she said. “Would you fetch Percival and Florence and Coco and Hazel? I should like to say goodbye to them.”

When Mary had done so, she telephoned the doctor. He came and examined the old lady, and then he took Mary aside and said to her, “I'm afraid Miss Ponsonby is very ill. To be honest with you, my dear, I don't hold out much hope.”

“She's dying, you mean?”Mary asked.

“I fear so.” Shall I tell him about Miss Muriel's beliefs? she thought. No, he'll think I'm mad as well as her.

The next morning Mary Nutt woke early and dressed. As she went downstairs from her bedroom in what had been the servants' quarters and made her way to the kitchen, she noticed something odd. There was not a cat to be seen, anywhere.

She was about to put a kettle on to make tea when one cat walked in through the kitchen door.

It was Vicky, who stared up at Mary with her customary grumpy look and made a noise that meant, Mary had no doubt, “Follow me.”

Up the stairs went Vicky, Mary at her heels, and in through the open door of the Catlady's bedroom.

On the floor, in a rough circle around the bed, were sitting all the other cats of Ponsonby Place: Percival and Florence and their children, Rupert and Madeleine, the newly widowed Aunt Beatrice, Ethel and Edith, and a number of others.

All sat quite still, gazing up at the bed, on which the Catlady lay stretched and still. On her face was a gentle smile.

Mary picked up a hand. It was icy cold. “Oh, Miss Muriel,” she whispered. “Who or what are you now?”

Chapter Seven

The vicar was afraid that the funeral of the late Miss Muriel Ponsonby might be very poorly attended. Her mother and father were long dead, he knew (though he did not know that they, and other relatives, still lived, in different shape, in Ponsonby Place). The only mourner he expected to see was Mary Nutt.