28April
Its been a long stretch of rain and drizzle lately, and the August I was hoping for slipped away without a single sunkissed day. This morning, as I was sweeping up the damp leaves that fell earlier than usual from the garden walls of the flat block on Haverford Street, a sleek foreign car rolled into the courtyard. Id never seen such a polished vehicle around these parts a glossy black sedan with darkened windows, the kind youd expect in the city centre, not in our modest council estate.
I thought perhaps one of the residents had a visitor, but the car lingered only a moment before it turned toward the rubbish bins. The passenger door cracked open and, astonishingly, a large grey rag was flung onto the concrete. I muttered to myself, Even a rubbish bin cant catch this lot, and hurried over, ready to clear away what I assumed was a careless piece of waste.
As I approached, the rag wriggled and slipped behind the bins, disappearing into the narrow gap between the metal fence and the containers. I peered into the darkness and, to my utter disbelief, saw a big grey cat a Britishshorthair, Id guess cowering, its fur puffed up, eyes wide with terror.
What on earth is happening here? I grumbled. First a stray puppy, then a couple of kittens, and now an adult cat tossed out like yesterdays trash? I called out, trying to coax it forward. The cat stayed frozen, its head tucked even deeper under its shoulder as if it were a frightened mouse.
Come on, lad, the bin lorry will be here any minute and itll smash you flat if you stay hidden, I urged, but the cat remained as motionless as a statue, perched in a position that seemed both uncomfortable and, to him, safe.
I sighed and moved on. My job is to keep the courtyard tidy; I must finish here and then head over to the neighbouring block. The whole scene left a sour taste in my mouth. Its odd how people dump not just their rubbish but also whatever they consider a nuisance.
Later that day, the garbage truck rumbled down the lane. The cat, spooked, bolted from its hiding spot and darted toward the courtyard. With nowhere else to go, it squeezed beneath a large bench and settled among the overgrown grass, its mind evidently a whirlwind of confusion. He seemed to wonder why hed been abandoned and what his next move should be.
In the weeks that followed, the residents began to notice the grey feline. Some thought he belonged to a tenant and was merely out for a stroll. Mrs. Margaret Clarke, a widowed woman living on the second floor of the building, took particular interest. Her daughter, Emily, lived nearby with her husband, Ethan, and visited often. Margaret and Emily were not just mother and daughter but also the best of friends no secrets, no hidden resentments, just an open, easy bond.
When the courtyard was empty, the cat would climb onto the bench now seldom occupied as autumn set in to get a better view and feel safer. Passersby hurried past, eyes glued to their phones, barely giving the gloomy resident a glance. For the cat, the bench became a makeshift home; venturing farther felt too risky, especially if his original owners ever returned.
Food was scarce. Thanks to the diligent work of Mr. Thompson, the courtyard was tidy, leaving little for scavengers. The only competition came from a gaggle of crows, bold and wellfed, who swooped in whenever a scrap appeared. Their sharp beaks and unflinching stare would have even the bravest dog think twice. As the weeks turned into months, the cats sleek coat grew matted, his eyes dulled, and the other residents, fearing disease, warned their children to stay away.
Despite the murmurs, a few of us quietly left bits of food for him. Margaret was among those who slipped a small piece of sausage behind the bins when she thought no one was watching. Autumn rain fell in relentless sheets, drenching the courtyard and turning everything a muted grey. The cats spirit seemed to mirror the weather low, resigned, as if hed accepted that no one would ever come back for him.
One evening, a compassionate young woman named Charlotte, who often helped the local shelter, heard the story from Mr. Thompson. She tried to find a home for the cat, but the tenants were reluctant to adopt a stray that had been tossed aside for unknown reasons. Even after consulting with friends, Charlotte felt she couldnt take the responsibility alone, and Margaret, fearing she couldnt handle a fullgrown cat, hesitated as well.
What Margaret didnt know was that, each night, the cat would brave the cold and climb the fireescape beside her flat, inching along to the little flower box attached to it. From there he gazed into the kitchen window, inhaling the warm aromas of stew and fresh bread, longing for the domestic comfort hed lost.
Two months passed. The nights grew colder, and the rain turned to sleet. On a weekend in early November, Emily and Ethan arrived for a short stay. Margaret spent the whole day bustling in the kitchen, preparing a roast, salads, and a spiced cake. The house filled with chatter and clinking teacups.
As the night settled, Margaret set a cup of tea on the table, pulled the curtains aside, and felt a sudden chill. The grey cat, perched on the bench outside, startled and leapt backward, almost slipping off the slick railings.
Whats gotten into you, love? Why are you so frightened? she whispered.
Emily noticed the cat on the balcony and asked, Mum, is that the cat that always sits on the bench? He looks terrified.
Ethan peered over and said, He must have climbed up the fireescape. Brave little thing. He then suggested, We should give him something to eat.
The family gathered around a kettle, letting the water boil, while Margaret, eyes glistening, poured tea for everyone. Emily handed her mother a slice of cake, frosting pink, Just the way you like it. Margaret tried to hide her tears, pulling the curtain tighter as she stared out the window.
Enough, she whispered to herself, standing up, grabbing her old coat. Ill get him inside.
She approached the bench, and the cat, trembling, let himself be lifted. In that moment, his oncestiff form softened, his body turning limp like the rag that had first been tossed from the car. Margaret cradled the shivering creature, wrapped him in her coat, and carried him up the stairs to her flat.
No one ever asked Margaret why she did it. Perhaps because, among the many residents, she was the only one who acted with true compassion.
For a week the cat lounged on the radiators, basking in the heat. Food, though appreciated, mattered less than the comforting warmth of a home. Margaret christened him Percy, giving him the grand middle name Percy Prokopovich as a playful nod to his mysterious past. He proved to be a genteel, wellmannered feline the sort of cat one might imagine in an English country novel.
Sometimes Margaret jokes, Percy Prokopovich, what crimes did you commit to be cast out onto that bench? He merely blinks, unable to answer, his feline tongue forever silent.
Percy has now lived with Margaret for nearly two years. He is fed, petted, and content. Yet, whenever voices rise sharply nearby, his ears twitch, and he darts to the nearest corner, as if seeking refuge from a memory of that cold, rainy night.
Everyone who sees the big grey cat wonders: why was such a fine creature discarded? The answer remains a mystery, wrapped in the drizzle of an English summer that never truly arrived.
