31 October
I never imagined that taking in a shortterm lodger would turn my flat into a covert battlefield of nerves, whispers and a stray cat. Yet here I am, pen in hand, recounting the odd weeks that have passed since Emily Clarke moved into the little, sunfilled room I let out on the outskirts of Manchester.
The room itself is modest, furnished with sturdy but worn pieces that have seen better days. When I first showed Emily the place, I made my expectations crystal clear:
I’m a stickler for order, cleanliness and quiet. If anything bothers you, speak up straight awaydont let it fester.
Emily gave a brief nod. All she wanted was a peaceful nights sleep, free from the raucous neighbours and drunken squabbles that used to haunt her previous flat on the council estate. The prospect of calm seemed almost heavenly.
She settled in, and I discovered that I wasnt the terrifying landlady Id imagined. Im simply a private, reticent woman, eyes often shadowed by a lingering, unspoken disappointment in the world. Perhaps life has been unkind, perhaps Ive let it harden me.
Emily did her best to be invisible. She cooked at the crack of dawn while I was still in bed, moved about like a whisper, kept the television off most of the time, and lived as quietly as a mouse.
Then one chilly evening a tiny, gaunt grey cat appeared on the steps outside, its bright green eyes pleading. It was as if the creature were silently begging, Please, take me in. My heart softened, and I fetched the animal, fed it, gave it water, and tucked it into an old towel in a cardboard box. The cat curled up, began to purr, and for the first time in months I felt something thaw inside me. I whispered, Little one, youre welcome here.
I named her Misty, and keeping her hidden seemed easy enough. Margaret Whitakermy landlordrarely entered my room, and Misty proved to be a gentle soul: no clawing, no sprinting, just purring and napping on the windowsill.
One evening, however, Margarets voice cut through the quiet like a cold wind:
Emily Clarke!
Her tone was frosty, her face twisted as she stood in the hallway, clutching a tuft of grey fur.
What is this? Whos that in my flat? she demanded.
Its a cat, I managed to say, my own voice shaking.
Margarets reaction was as if Id brought home a snake or a rat. Her cheeks flushed, her hands trembled.
I cant stand that mess! Fur everywhere, the smell! she snarled.
Shes clean, I protested weakly.
Either get rid of the cats spirit or vacate the flat! she shouted, then stormed back to her own room, slamming the door behind her.
I sank onto the sofa, trembling. Misty padded over, rubbed against my legs and let out a plaintive meow. What do we do now, love? I whispered to myself, tears slipping down my cheeks. The thought of packing up and starting over loomed large, yet I lacked the strength to leave.
I resolved to stay, at least until Margaret forced me out. The coming days turned into a clandestine game of hideandseek. I slipped Misty into the wardrobe whenever Margarets footsteps echoed in the hallway, fed her only in the early hours or late evenings when Margaret was at the shop, and tucked the litter box into the far corner behind an old suitcase.
Misty seemed to understand the stakes. She stayed mute, perched silently on the sill, watching the world with those mournful green eyes. Occasionally it felt as if she breathed more carefully, trying not to give herself away.
Youre a clever one, I murmured, stroking her warm grey back. Just a little longer, and everything will sort itself out.
But nothing sorted itself out.
Margaret prowled the flat, her expression sour, sniffing every corner, even pausing at my door to listen for any sound. My heart hammered as I clutched Misty close, praying she wouldnt hear us. After a tense minute she left, but the air in the flat seemed to grow heavier.
During dinner Margaret ate her soup in silence, eyes fixed on the bowl. Then, abruptly, she snapped:
You think Im a fool?
I choked on my tea.
I know you havent kicked the cat out. Youve hidden her somewhere. Do you think I dont feel it?
Please, Margaret, I begged. Im not trying to deceive you.
She rose sharply, her voice sharp as a knife. Dont lie to me. If youre going to keep her, make sure theres not a whisker out of place and no sound. When my grandson arrives, there must be no cat spirit lingering!
She retreated, leaving me bewildered.
The next day she spoke of the grandson in a dry tone, but a flicker of anxiety shone through. James is coming for the holidays. Hes twelve, his parents are always busy, so hell stay with me on Friday.
Thats nice, I replied, trying to sound supportive. You must be looking forward to having him around.
She grimaced. Hes like a stranger now, glued to his phone, never really talking to me. Hell be here a week, then off again. Its the same every year. Her voice cracked with genuine hurt.
Youre his grandmother, I said. He loves you.
She snorted. He probably doesnt. All he cares about is the internet. She fell silent, then added, And make sure your cat isnt here. Understood?
I nodded, already wondering where I could hide Misty for a whole week.
Friday arrived in a blur. James sauntered in, a lanky teenager with headphones and a gloomy expression. He barely exchanged a word, dropped his bag, and shut himself away in his room. Margaret fussed over the table, coaxing him to eat, but he stared at his phone, replying curtly, No, thanks, whenever I offered him a bite of mince pie.
From my own room I could hear his indifference, and Misty watched the world from the windowsill, eyes heavy with sorrow. Hold on, little one, I whispered. Just a bit longer.
The next morning, while I was in the bathroom, I left the room door ajarthere was no lock. Perhaps Misty, curious as always, slipped out through the gap. When I returned, the cat was gone. Panic seized me. Misty! I called, heart pounding. I darted into the hallway and froze.
There, in the middle of the sitting room, James sat on the floor, Misty curled in his lap, purring so loudly it sounded like a motor.
Oh, he breathed, eyes finally lifting from the screen. Whose cat is this?
Its mine, I stammered, mortified. Im sorry, James, she just wandered.
Can I pet her a bit more? he asked, his voice softening. Shes so sweet.
Of course, I replied, halfexpecting Margaret to burst in at any moment.
Margaret appeared from the kitchen, her eyes widening at the scene. She stared at James, then at the cat, then at me. For a beat she seemed about to explode, but then a slow nod slipped from her lips. All right, she said quietly. You may keep her.
From that moment everything changed. James stopped tapping away at his phone and began feeding Misty, playing with her, even sketching her portrait with a pencil. He left his phone on the sofa and laughed, telling Margaret stories about school and friends, dreaming of one day owning a cat of his own.
Margaret, for the first time, watched her grandson with a faint smile. After a few evenings she approached me.
Let her stay, she whispered. Misty brings a bit of joy to this house.
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Three months later, James called every evening, not his parents but his grandmother, asking to see Misty on video call. Margaret fumbled with the camera, cursing the contraption, Bloody thing! Can you see her, James?
Yes, Grandma! Hi, Misty! James chirped. The cat, hearing his familiar voice, padded closer to the screen, meowing as if she recognised him.
Ill be back for the spring break, James promised. Well have a proper holiday.
Margaret had even bought a cat toya feather wandfrom the shop, thinking James would love it. I no longer hid in corners. I cooked alongside Margaret, shared tea, and told her about my late wife, how we met, and how hard life had been since she passed.
You know, Margaret, I said one night, if it werent for Misty, Im not sure Id have made it through.
She gave a small, understanding nod. Animals sense our grief. They come in when we need them most, no words needed.
We grew into something like friends, two solitary souls bound by circumstance and a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, James returned, backpack brimming with gifts: cat food, a new collar with a tinkling bell, and a plush bed.
I bought all this myself, he declared proudly.
Good on you, lad, Margaret replied, hugging him.
James spent the week playing with Misty in the garden, drawing her, and laughinga sound that filled the flat with warmth. Before he left, he asked, Can I come back for the summer, stay longer?
Of course, Margaret answered, her eyes lighting up.
In that moment she seemed to realise that happiness isnt found in silence or pristine order, but in the bustle of footsteps, the sound of a childs laughter, and the soft purr of a cat curled on a windowsill.
Looking back, I see that the tiny grey cat forced us all to confront our fears, to open doors wed kept shut, and to let a little chaos in.
Lesson learned: a little kindness, even when it feels risky, can melt the coldest of hearts and bring unexpected joy into our lives.
