A Celebration with a Spark
An uneasy spirit of impending chaos hung in the house. Lillian sensed it before she even crossed the threshold. The stairwell reeked of burnt something, and the steps were slick with soapy water, as if a flood had swept through. Pushing the door open, she tossed the bouquet she’d brought from work onto the shelf, kicked off her aching heels, and slipped into her battered old slippers—though wellies might have been wiser, given the puddle swallowing the hallway. Somewhere deep in the flat, a muffled yowl rose from the cat, while an ominous hissing, buzzing, and crackling echoed from unseen corners.
“George, what in God’s name is going on?” Lillian called, her stomach knotting with dread.
A moment later, her husband appeared in the doorway. Barefoot, in just his boxers, his face smeared with soot, streaked with scratches, and sporting a spectacular black eye. A tea towel was wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban—as if he’d just escaped a bazaar in the East End.
“Lil, love, you’re home already?” George mumbled, fiddling with the edge of the towel. “Thought you’d be at the office do till midnight, what with the speeches and all—”
Lillian exhaled sharply, sank onto the ancient footstool by the door, and, through gritted teeth, demanded,
“Explain yourself, George. What fresh disaster have you unleashed?”
“Right, love, my sweetheart,” he stammered, “just don’t lose your temper, yeah?”
“I lost my temper in the nineties when thugs tried shaking down the firm. I panicked when our savings vanished in the crash. I cracked when the recession nearly finished us off. After that, I stopped caring—even if the whole place floods. Out with it. What circus have you staged this time?”
“Well, see…” George hesitated, rubbing his bruise. “I wanted to throw you a proper celebration. A surprise, yeah? Thought I’d tidy up, do the laundry, cook dinner. Took the day off, chucked a load in the washer, popped down the market… Well, went to the market first, got some beef, only it started leaking.”
“The beef?” Lillian narrowed her eyes.
“No, the washer!” George blurted. “But not right away. I stuck the beef in the oven, started cleaning, and then the cat—”
“Is he alive?” Lillian’s eyebrow arched.
“Course he is!” George grumbled. “Just a bit damp. Swear, when I turned the machine on, he wasn’t in there! Then somehow… he was.”
“How?!” Lillian leaned forward. “How does a cat get inside a locked washing machine?”
“Dunno,” George shrugged. “Teleported, maybe. They’re crafty buggers, cats.”
Lillian closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and said in a measured voice,
“Go on, George. This is getting better by the minute. But first, show me the cat. I need to see he’s in one piece.”
“Er, sunshine,” George faltered, “gotta go to him. He’s… sort of stuck.”
“I hope his paws are intact?” Lillian eyed her husband’s scratched-up face.
“Oh, absolutely!” George confirmed grimly, rubbing his cheek. “Just temporarily… immobilized. For his own good.”
“Fine, we’ll deal with that later,” Lillian waved a hand. “What next?”
“Well, while the cat was… ah, washing, I smelled burning. Rushed to the kitchen, opened the oven—flames everywhere! Burnt my fingers, splashed oil, and boom! Hair singed, smoke billowing, I’m trying to put it out when the cat starts screaming. Ran back to the washer, saw his eyes in the porthole, staring like a convict. Turned it off, tried opening it—it’s locked. Cat’s howling, stove’s on fire, face hurts, hair’s smouldering… Grabbed a crowbar, and—well, the washer started leaking. Cat shot out, tore through the flat, caterwauling, smashed three vases, shredded the wallpaper, wrecked the curtains, spilt the champagne I got for you. Neighbours downstairs started banging on the pipes, threatening to neuter someone. Dunno if they meant me or the cat. But honestly, love, it’s under control. No need to worry!”
Lillian wiped her eyes—whether from laughter or horror, she wasn’t sure—and, shoving George aside, stepped into the flat. The devastation was biblical. Water sloshed across the floor, the kitchen reeked of charred frying pan, wallpaper hung in tatters, and the air was thick with the stench of burnt meat and feline vengeance. The cat, crucified on the radiator, was bound at all four paws, its face wrapped in an old scarf. But alive—which, frankly, was a miracle.
“Lil, he didn’t want to sit still,” George hurried to explain. “Was worried he wouldn’t dry before you got home. Couldn’t wring him out—kept squirming. Had to tie him down, wrap his face so he’d shut up. Neighbours were threatening the police, fire brigade, and some old witch to curse us.”
Wordlessly, Lillian untied the cat, wiped him down with the towel from George’s head, and freed his muzzle. The cat hissed, shot her a filthy look, and vanished under the sofa.
“George, you absolute menace,” Lillian sighed. “The poor thing nearly suffocated. Though after a spin cycle, I doubt anything scares him now. Or me.”
She collapsed onto the sofa, clutching the damp cat, and stared at her husband.
“Well?”
“What?” George blinked. “Should I head straight for the gallows, or do you want to suffer a bit longer?”
“Congrats, you numpty,” Lillian groaned. “It’s Mother’s Day today.”
George beamed, bolted to the next room, and returned with something hidden behind his back. Dropping to his knees, grinning despite the bruise and soot, he said,
“Lil, my sunshine, my heart. Thirty years we’ve been together, and every day, you amaze me. You’re the loveliest, cleverest, most patient, strongest, most wonderful woman, mum, and grandma. Happy Mother’s Day. Here.”
He handed her a little box with a gold ring and a bouquet of roses—crushed, bedraggled, but still clinging to life.
“They were proper nice at first, honest,” George added sheepishly. “Just the cat… didn’t go easy on ’em. Don’t be cross, Lil. Wanted to make it special. From the heart.”
Lillian pulled his head to her chest, sniffed the roses, and smiled.
“Blimey, they still smell. Not like smoke, even. George, no more experiments, yeah? Just flowers next time. Another celebration like this, and the whole block will collapse. The neighbours won’t survive it.”
“Wanted it to be different from work,” George muttered. “They give you posh bouquets, fancy gifts—I wanted it proper, with a bit of spark—”
“Oh, you gave it spark,” Lillian snorted. “Too much, honestly. But it doesn’t matter. You meant well. Now come on, you great plonker—let’s salvage the flat and appease the neighbours. Before they really do call a witch. Heaven knows what her husband gets up to. Who knows what’s on her mind after a day like this…”
