The Cat and the Canary

published by Scribble Magazine

I had followed the ginger cat’s slow swagger up the moss covered drive to the house. He’d sat down amidst the unwashed milk bottles at the front door, and eyed me with casual loathing. I’d met his type before.

I had a feeling that if I rang the bell, the door wouldn’t be answered, so I simply let myself into the hall. The parlour palm stood dead in its brass pot. A dusty fly paper, crowded with last summer’s kill, swung, gently across the face of the grandfather clock, keeping perfect time. From the smell of tobacco and fried bacon, I guessed Jacob had breakfasted recently. Nevertheless, he could have been out on one of his regular progresses about the town. These never took him far apparently, but that’s not to say he wouldn’t be gone for hours. His sister had said it was impossible to know what took him the time exactly, but nosey-ing down back alleys, trespassing along the railway, necking whiskey in the park and pissing in the bandstand were all likely to feature on his itinerary.

On the other hand she’d said, if Jacob had been expecting the return of the cat, he would still be somewhere in the house.

I stepped through the litter of cigarette papers into the living room, the room that I imagined the family had kept in a state of immaculate readiness, wax polished and pot-pourri-ed, for fifty years. Now crumpled shirts sprawled over the back of the sofa. On the hearth rug, Crown Derby plates spilled over with flakes of tuna and Kitty-Cat Crunchies. The mantel shelf was thick with unopened letters, doubtless some other lawyer’s somewhere in the sedimentary layers.

I sat down to wait in a green leather armchair, now roughened by the sharpening of claws.

“Guess what I’ve got!” Jacob was standing in the doorway in shorts and bare feet, despite the January chill, holding out his right hand to me, fist clenched.

“Morning, Jacob. My name is Gilbert P …”

“Go on, guess!” He shuffled closer, hammer toes raking over the dirty carpet.

“Really, Jacob, I couldn’t begin to guess.” But he continued to look at me expectantly. “A spider? No, maybe a woodlouse?” I offered, recalling far off days when it would have been my younger brother trying such a trick.

“Wrong!” He opened his hand to reveal a fifty pence piece. “Special one. Worth a fortune.” The coin looked perfectly ordinary, but he was already tucking it in his back pocket safely away from further scrutiny. “Got it in my change from the shop yesterday. They didn’t notice, so I said nothing.”

“Jacob, Libby’s asked me to talk to you about moving out of the house.”

“I once found a gold watch on the beach at Scarborough. Ooh, it would be August, no July, nineteen seventy-five. Yeah, sixth July, nineteen seventy-five. Overcast it was, came on to rain later.”

There was a long pause whilst Jacob seemed to be watching the gathering clouds in the Scarborough sky and recalling the first raindrops on his upturned face.

“Now, if I’d been allowed to keep that gold watch, I could have sold it and made a fortune.”

I stood up stiffly. “Jacob, I’ve come about you, about moving out of the house …”

“And then I’d have taken that job I was offered in South Africa.”

I stepped closer. “About moving out, Jacob.”

But he wasn’t giving up easily. “Would you like to see my plastic bags? I’ve got two thousand nine hundred and thirty seven.”

“Jacob,” I spoke firmly into his squashed, furry ear, crusted with soap and dandruff. “You can’t stay in the house.”

He looked at me, suddenly bewildered, as if he’d just realised he’d been talking to a stranger all along.

“Sorry, Jacob.” I spoke softly now, trying to reassure him I meant no harm. “But you need looking after, your sister Libby says, so the house has to be sold.”

He chewed the skin on his index finger, thinking of his next move. “I knew you’d come. I remember you. You live at Avalon, that big house up the street. You keep birds. And guess what?”

“What, Jacob?”

“You once came to see my parents.”

“That’s right, Jacob.”

“October, nineteen ninety one. Yes, you were very polite, very professional, very…” he stopped mid-eulogy. Something had caught his eye out in the garden. “I think Tom’s here.”

“Who?”

“Tom. Tom Cat,” he said pushing me aside in his hast to open the front door.

The cat made a stately entrance and arranged himself magnificently at the foot of the stairs, and Jacob, having dropped on to all fours, began keening softly into the animal’s ear.

Jacob didn’t notice my departure, and the cat stared straight into the middle distance, seemingly at nothing.

*

Halfway down the drive, I stopped and rewound to the day Libby had called on me a couple of weeks previously. I had propped up the wooden tea tray on the front step on which I’d scrawled the usual message, ‘Gilbert is in the aviary’. All the local bird fanciers already knew my aviary was the garage next to the house camouflaged by flaking green paint, and I didn’t want to see anyone else.

Looking back, I realised I might have given the poor woman a fright bursting out of the garage’s double doors, dressed all in back, my head swathed in a deerstalker and goggles, like some enormous house fly, seated astride my mobility scooter. However, she hadn’t seemed perturbed.

“You’ve come about the baby canaries?” I think was my opening question, and I indicated the cardboard sign, attached to my front bumper, offering young canaries for the very reasonable sum of ten pounds.

“No.”

She was a redhead, smartly dressed, with a smile full of sharp little teeth. Then I’d alighted from my vehicle. “Finches?” I’d asked, straightening up with some difficulty.

“No, not finches either.”

“Well, I’ve nothing else for sale at the moment, m’ dear.” She was beginning to annoy me, standing there with her arms folded, as if I were trespassing on her time and property, not vice versa.

“Are you Mr Pybus, the solicitor?” she’d asked, somehow making ‘solicitor’ interchangeable with ‘crook’.

“Well, I’ve retired from the law. Didn’t fit the corporate image, you know,” and I’d pulled off the goggles and bowed. “So I began to breed caged birds.”

“I’m Libby Robinson,” she said and then paused, as if I should recognise the name and be impressed. “Do you still do legal work?”

“No, none at all. Only the birds now.”

“I thought you may be able to help with my brother Jacob.”

“Would he like a canary?”

“No. He has a cat.”

“Ah, I see your problem then. Cats and canaries are rarely good companions.”

“It’s really about getting him into sheltered accommodation, so he can be looked after. He’s not all there, you see. I wondered if you could talk to him.”

I remember thinking that I knew her type, always wanting free advice, the type that resented having to ask for help, so made as sure as hell they didn’t pay for it. I’d turned away to pick up a tiny bird that was fluttering in circles along the bottom of the privet hedge. I smoothed the dusty yellow feathers, then holding the creature to my mouth, breathed on it until it became quite still. I could hear the chittering of the other canaries and finches rising and falling from somewhere inside the garage. From the high trees beyond, the wood pigeons echoed mournfully. As far as I was concerned the interview was over. But she still stood there.

“You canaries need just one quarter inch of torn netting and suddenly you’re gone,” I’d said softly to the tiny bird I was nursing, “But you get cold too easily. And lost. Don’t survive long out of your own home.”

“Well, you see, for a start, there’s this cat,” she’d begun again. “You see, Jacob adores it. Well, actually, it’s his only friend…”

“That cat again.” I’d shuddered at the thought of it. “Why can’t he just take it with him to this sheltered accommodation?”

“The thing is, it’s not his. It belongs to a family in the next street, but they’re out at work all day, and because Jacob is at home…” She stopped, embarrassed to go on, “… he’s sort of adopted it…”

“So it’s really a question of actual legal ownership of the cat, as opposed to mere physical possession…” I’d patted the bird in my hand and, becoming lost in my thoughts, slipped it absently into my jacket pocket. “Yes, I’ll visit your brother. Give me some more details, m’ dear, and your address so I can write to you, let you know how I get on.”

*

In the end, I wrote only two letters to Libby. The first one was written by hand on the inside of a flattened out packet of millet, which was all I had to hand at the time, but I photocopied it for my records at the library before sending it in an envelope kindly provided by the Inland Revenue.

My dearest Libby,

I have met with your brother, Jacob, on two occasions now and I am pleased to report satisfactory progress in this matter so far.

Before meeting Jacob, I had to undertake some essential preliminary work shadowing the tomcat, Tom, in order to ascertain his correct address. The mobility scooter proved invaluable in this regard. I then spoke to the legal owner of Tom, a Mr Bates, regarding Tom and Jacob’s relationship. In doing so, I had to divulge some background information regarding your family, but I think you will agree that whilst this is a technical breach of client confidentiality, it was essential in order to secure Mr Bates’ co-operation in this matter.

In short, Mr Bates agreed that should he be challenged by Jacob, he would confirm that he had instructed me in the matter of the ownership and custody of Tom. As I understand it, Jacob has not, as yet, checked the position with Mr Bates, but I still believe this was a necessary precaution to take.

I am happy to report that from my first visit to Jacob I was able to establish a good rapport with him, so much so that on my second visit he showed me his most impressive collection of plastic bags. I then confirmed that Mr Bates had asked me to call regarding Tom, and we had a long discussion about falsely holding oneself out as the owner of a cat and thereby depriving the real owner, Mr Bates in this case, of the natural love and affection of his pet. Moreover, I hinted at the possibility of unpleasantness from cat owners in the area over unwanted kittens, and the consequences of supplying cat nip, which I note Jacob has been growing in large quantities next to the greenhouse. I also touched on possible allegations of assault relating to neighbouring tomcats and other small domestic pets. I suggested the only safe course of action was for Jacob to remove himself at the first opportunity to a location some distance away i.e. a property on the other side of town, possibly sheltered accommodation.

In about a week, I shall invite Jacob up to the aviary and show him my birds. If he would like one of the canaries, I would be happy to supply one on the understanding that it cannot be kept by anyone who has, or who purports to have, a cat. I will report to you again at this stage in the matter.

I trust the above is in order. If the strategy is successful in getting Jacob to move, I should be grateful if you could kindly settle the fee of £10 for the canary in due course, as I think it unlikely I will be able to recover this from Jacob. I make no further charge for my time in this matter.

In the meantime, if you or your family require any canaries or finches or any related advice, please do not hesitate to call on me at the aviary.

Yours truly,

Gilbert Pybus

My second and final letter was typed for me by Janice, who used to be my secretary, and was delivered by hand after Jacob’s visit to my aviary, in a sharp white window envelope.

Dear Libby,

Further to my earlier letter, I now have to report some very serious developments in this matter.

As planned, Jacob came to visit me at the aviary about a week ago. During our conversation, he stated several times that I had drafted your parents’ wills in 1991 and that he had been expecting me to contact him, because ‘it was all wrong about the house’.

After such a period of time, I no longer recall the details of many of the clients I have acted for, so I checked the records of my old firm, Tremble & Wittering, and found Jacob’s recollection regarding the wills to be completely correct. Under the terms of the wills dated 19th October 1991, Jacob has the right to live in your parents’ house rent free, with whomever he so wishes, for the rest of his life. Jacob confirmed to me that he has at no time consented to leave.

Moreover, Jacob was not particularly taken with the canaries or with the finches during his visit to the aviary and I do not believe he would make a good birdman. Despite my advice, he remains a dedicated cat lover. Unfortunately, since my discussions with Mr Bates, the legal owner of Tom Cat, this animal has ceased to visit Jacob on a regular basis, and, as a consequence, Jacob is becoming anxious and withdrawn.

I respectfully suggest that if you wish to avoid legal proceedings being issued that you desist in trying to force Jacob to move into alternative accommodation and furthermore, obtain a new cat for him as a matter of urgency. I understand that there are several cats awaiting adoption at the local animal rescue centre which can be secured by a modest donation to their funds. I have advised Jacob on his rights and shall be calling on him shortly to check that he has been provided with a suitable cat. I trust that this matter is now closed.

Yours sincerely,

Gilbert Pybus

And that was indeed the end of the matter, other than to say that although I will never take to the animals myself, I was strangely gratified when I visited Jacob a few weeks later to find him lying amongst the debris on the living room floor, playing with a portly, black tomcat called Pybus.

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, events and incidents of the work are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.