Night, a Woman, a Cat and the Fridge
“Dont look at me like that!”
Catherine shoots a glare at the cat, as stern as she can manage in the middle of the night. She even arches an eyebrowsomething her mother always told her off for in childhood. Catherines brows were thick and met in the middle then, not at all like her mothers pencil-thin, perfectly plucked arches. Hers favoured her father more than her mother, and as a girl, she had always wished otherwise.
Of course, Catherine had brought her eyebrows to order long ago, and she isnt exactly young anymore. The cat, stubborn as ever, knows all this and isnt moved by her warning look in the least. He sits on the window ledge, gazing at Catherine with wide, unimpressed eyes, his odd green stare flaring up whenever the light from the hallway seeps into the kitchen. The door, propped open by Catherine for the illusion of escape, sometimes gently swings in the draught, refusing to shut and cut her off from reality. Catherine finds this rather irritating; she’d rather the door just close, giving her the right to open anotherthe fridge door.
She shifts a little on the kitchen floor, where she’s sat for more than an hour, positioning herself more comfortably against the wall and staring, hypnotised, at the fridge.
She knows exactly whats inside, right down to the last sausage, the shelves gleaming after her most recent, enthusiastic clean. Catherine is always in charge of the food shopping, which often provides the family with ample material for teasing.
“Catherine, why on earth did you buy capers? Who even eats them in this house?” her husband had laughed, spinning the small jar in his hands. “Whyd you buy them?”
“Theyre tasty!” she had replied.
“Fine. Just invent something to use them in that wont take ten years to make.”
So Catherine invents. She whips up something unique, as following a recipe is never quite her forte. At first, the family eye her odd dishes with suspicion, but before long its all gone, crumbs and all, and theyre asking for seconds.
Everyone tucks inexcept Catherine.
Shes never quite mastered eating her own cooking. Not at all!
The process itself sweeps her awayminutes of inspiration and pleasure. But as soon as her creation reaches the table, something odd happens. It’s as if a mysterious grandmother with no relation to Catherine comes shuffling into the kitchen, muttering to herself with her last remaining tooth, grinning slyly before leaving behind a fully starving Catherine, unable to bring herself to eat what shes just made.
Catherine suffers for it, assuaging these passions with whatever she can scroungea bit of ham, a wedge of proper English cheddar, rolls, biscuits, sweets, or even the odd wafer or two. Sometimes she nicks a digestive from her young son, reasoning that his childrens biscuits are far healthier, so her conscience isnt pricked too much. She convinces herself shes only protecting her health.
And good health, thats something Catherine always seems short of.
She isnt overweightnot in the slightest. Everything she eats is burned up by the relentless cycle of daily life: three children, a husband, a cat, and a house. All demanding her constant attention. And then theres workshe respects it, sometimes even loves it, depending on whether it lets her focus on what matters mostcaring for her family.
Shes never really been one to moan about her health. Shes grown up holding on to her mothers simple philosophy: “Itll pass on its own!”
Her mother would say it whenever Catherine complained of feeling poorly.
“Cathy, dont be silly! You havent got a fever! Oh, you checked… Good girl! Have a cup of tea with some raspberry jam and go to bed! Itll pass by itself!”
Her mothers magic phrase followed Catherine through childhood, and perhaps thats why, even though her job and common sense told her thats not how these things work, she ignored problems as they cropped up after her first son was born. Who has the time? It’ll clear up on its own.
Things were much tougher after her second son. Catherine struggled to get up at the sound of a demanding child, but still refused to complain to her husband. What sort of mother cant look after her own child?
Chris, her husband, understood without her having to say.
“Cath, Ill take over,” he would say, ushering her out of the nursery with the baby in his arms. “Well manage just fine. You get some sleep. You need it.”
Catherine would plunge into sleep for hours, only to wake just as worn out and guilty as before. Guilty for not being there for her sons or husband.
What sort of woman can she be if she cant make herself useful?
If only Catherine questioned where these anxious feelings stemmed from, everything would fall into place. No woman could be happy with the words “youre just a bit odd” hanging over her headher mothers and grandmothers favourite phrase.
“Cathy, sit up straight! What do you look like, all hunched like a treble clef? Straighten your back, love! Ann! Why are you quiet? Shell ruin her health like this!” her grandmother Martha would exclaim with perfectly manicured hands.
“Mother, give me a break! She doesnt listen. Ive tried talking, Ive even tried punishing her! She never changes! Imagine that!” Catherines mum would reply.
Five-year-old Catherinelighter than a kittenwould straighten up, tears sliding into her bowl, terrified to pick up her fork again or lift her eyes from the plate.
Her mother and grandmother were always right, werent they? She was different…
Why being slender and dainty was such a family obsession Catherine only realised much later, as a chubby, awkward teenager terrified of even going to school. In her mothers old photo albums, she discovered a round-faced, bright-eyed young womanher mumso like herself, right down to the freckles and plumpness. Her own waist was slimmer than her mothers at that age.
So why had she been criticised so harshly, for every mouthful, for every difference?
At last, Catherine asked.
“Dont you get it? Look in the mirror! Wholl marry you? Id given up hope for myself till I got a grip on things. Thank Mum for that. She never cooked even for my father, so he wouldnt be tempted to overeat. The whole family lived on a diet!”
“Mum, when did Grandpa leave Grandma?”
“What a question! Thats got nothing to do with it. Noof course not! My parents were just incompatible. It happens. People drift apart.”
“But how do you stop understanding someone after so many years?”
“Cathy! Enough of this nonsense. Go do something useful!”
Catherine didnt need to ask what that meant. Shed put on her old trainers and head to the school playing field. She didnt run or do gymnastics in the afternoon thoughnot when there were boys about playing football. Shed sit quietly on her favourite bench under the lime tree and think about life, only jogging a few laps at dusk when everyone else had left, berating herself for her laziness.
These long moments of reflection proved fruitful. If she wasnt beautiful and no one would marry her, maybe shed make herself useful and stop people looking at her sideways. Shed realised long ago that if youre useful enough, your appearance doesnt matteronly what you can offer does.
“Mum, Im going to be a doctor.”
“You? Honestly, Cathy, with your grades…”
“My grades are fine. Its not about looks, is it? I do well in school!”
“Well, its a respectable profession, I suppose.”
“Exactly!” Catherine tried not to show too much delight, worried her mum might change her mind.
Catherine became a doctor. A good one. With little private life, she poured her heart into her studies and succeeded.
Her mother watched with a sigh but left her to it; there were enough problems at home. Catherines grandmothers health was failing, so Catherine got some peace for a while.
Not for long, though.
“Shell never find a husband. She only cares about studying! Well have to take this into our own hands!”
Even as she grew frail, Martha marshalled her efforts. Soon, a matchmaker arrivedhow, no one ever discovered. But the bustling, lively woman worked quickly.
“Your daughters a peach! Clever and pretty, too! Shell be snapped up!”
Catherine was stunnedwho, her? She was plainer than anyone, despite losing a bit of weight and clearing up her skin. She blended in now, with a little makeup, but pretty?
The match was found, nonetheless.
The first time Catherine met him, she could barely hide her amusement. Short, awkward, hands fidgeting, looking anywhere but at Catherine or the matchmaker.
She was too polite to be rude and tried to keep the peace, knowing how much her family had invested. The tea with her mother and the suitor passed quietly enough, and a first date was arranged. Catherine turned up lateheld back at universityand when she dashed into the café and didn’t see the familiar figure, she shrugged and began to leave, only to be stopped by a waiter.
“Are you Catherine? The young gentleman waiting for you was a bit of a wreckbroke a glass and left this note for you.”
The note was brief: “Dont look for me!”
Catherine couldnt help but laugh.
“I wasnt going to!” she said, loud enough for the waiter to hear as well.
Hed obviously read the note, and after a moment, smiled.
“So, are you free this evening?” he asked.
Catherine didnt really know what came over her. She crumpled the note, looked the waiter over, and asked, “Whats your name?”
“Chris.”
“Tell me, Chris, are you just feeling sorry for me?”
“No,” he answered, his smile fading, his eyes serious.
“If youre not…,” Catherine searched his face. Would she always be different to people? She made up her mind. “Ill wait for you tonight at the park entrance, by the medical school.”
“I know it!” he beamed. Catherine believed himhe didnt pity her.
Shell remember their first date perfectly, every exchange, and every laugh, even years later. They both adored jazz, both hated cottage cheese, both dreamed of getting a cat and never wanted a dogtoo little time for the training. Both wanted a house and a career that meant something, not just money. They just fit. As though fate decided to stop letting them wander separately and brought them together.
Catherine and Chris dated for over a year.
Catherines mum wrung her hands, urging her to reconsider.
“Hes not your match!”
“Why not, Mum?”
“Well”
“A waiter?”
“Hes just working therehes studying, you know. And whats wrong with being a waiter?”
“Hes got a sick mother and a five-year-old sister he supports. Why would you want that burden?”
“Doesnt it show hes a good man, Mum? He looks after his own. Hell look after me if need be.”
“Catherine! This is ridiculous!”
“Mum, Im finally learning to look after myself. Didnt you want me to get married? Well, Chris has proposed. What more do you want?”
“Nothing! I just want you to think of yourself sometimes!”
“I do.”
Their wedding was postponed.
“Cathy, I dont know what Ill do if Mums not around…”
“What do you mean?” Catherine stared at her fiancé. “Well look after little Irene, of course!”
“You think well manage?”
“Do we have a choice?”
Catherine helped Chris nurse his mother, but her efforts were in vain. When it seemed time was running out, they quietly registered their marriage, only taking Irene as a witness.
“Are we a family now?” Irene asked seriously as the registrar finished.
“Yes, love.”
“And me?”
“Youre our family too, of course.”
“Good.”
Said so solemnly, Catherine realised this little girl understood more than any of them.
Chriss mum appreciated Catherines kindness.
“Thank you, dear soulthank you for Irene and for Chris. Sorry to leave such a burden with you. I wish I could have been around longer…”
“Thats not the point,” Catherine gently stroked her mother-in-laws fragile hand. “Will we get better then? Or shall we just feel sorry for ourselves?”
“Thank you for that too, Cathy,” she smiled, thinly. “Lets get better then. Lets.”
But Chriss mother passed away a month after their marriage. Catherine arranged the farewell and tried to comfort Irene.
“Mummy isn’t hurting any more?” Irene whispered, clinging to her.
“No, darling. No more hurt.”
“And no more injections?”
“No, sweetheart. No more injections…”
Catherine could have wept like a child herselfher mother-in-law, warm like Chris, had captured her heart in all too short a time.
When Catherines mother found out she’d married without a word, she was offended.
“What about the wedding? Did I raise you for this? No party, not a word!”
“Mum, you know why…”
“I dont want to hear it! My only daughter married and said nothing! Thats all I need to know.”
Catherine, knowing she was at fault, tried to explain, but it was futile. So she gave her mother some space.
The separation stretched to years…
Of course, she visited, helped around the flat, and made sure Anna kept healthy. But everything was so stiff and formalit was as if they were strangers. No matter how Catherine tried to rebuild the relationship, nothing worked.
Finally, she cracked.
“Mum, do you have any other children?”
“What sort of question is that? Of course not!”
“Then why are you trying so hard to lose the only one you do have?” Setting the blood pressure monitor aside, Catherine shrugged. “Mum, I never asked before, but I really want to knowwhy dont you love me?”
Her mothers composure broke. Always so collected and stern, Annas tears caught Catherine off guard.
“Mum, please, dont cry!” she flustered, rooting through drawers for the valerian drops, cursing her lack of tact. “Wait, Ill find them!”
For the first time, Anna showed her daughter that her feelings werent as shallow as theyd appeared.
Calming, she took the glass of water and sighed.
“Of course I love you, Cathy. I do! I just was never taught to show it. Mum said not to spoil children. Talk to them honestly, no sugar-coating. Otherwise, theyll be caught out in the real world, not knowing how to cope. She said not to fuss, not to hover. I tried to learn. But in the end, I lost more than I gained. You grew up, on your own, barely touched by anything I said… Sometimes Im glad, sometimes heartbroken. Sometimes, I feel Ill call and call but youll never hear me It frightens me.”
Catherine soothed her, but her words lingered. Her greatest fear now was passing that same mistake to her own children. Even though Irene and her sons clung to her, trusting her more than anyone, she worried she never gave enough love or support. How much is enough? How does one even know?
Chris saw the worry and tried to help, but Catherine, for reasons she couldnt fully explain, felt she had to sort it herself.
And so, nights find Catherine sitting on the kitchen floor, before the fridge, lost in thoughther company, the cat and her luminous white, best friend sheltering all that shed been denied as a child.
She picks apart her past, Mother, and Grandmother, realising the truth: had she spoken up sooner, let her mother know her feelings, things might be different. She might have lost a little reputation as the “good girl,” but gained self-confidence instead.
This realisation comforts her, even as it stingsso much time gone just to recognise the obvious.
The door opens and Chris appears, neither looking at his wife nor the cat as he goes straight for the fridge, taking out cheese, tomatoes and herbs. He settles beside Catherine, hugs her, and hands her a sandwich.
“Go on, love, have a bite.”
“Chris, if I keep eating at midnight, Ill never fit a single skirt again!”
“Eat!” He takes a bite himself and winks at the cat. “You want some?”
The cat is hardly going to argue. He jumps down from the window, takes his piece of cheddar, and curls up on Catherines lap.
“I love you anyway…” Chris grins, watching Catherine eat. “Even if you weighed a ton, it wouldnt matter. You know that. Can I askwhats really wrong?”
Catherine finishes her sandwich, nestles into Chriss familiar neck, and strokes the cat.
“Its fine…” she finally says, and this time, she almost believes it. “Just… no need for a ton, Chris. Im quite happy at a size eighteen, for a woman my age, thats not too shabby.”
“More than! Ive never seen a more beautiful woman.”
“Say it more often, will you?”
“If youll stop sneaking off at night to the fridge.”
“Chris!”
“What? Come on, lets go to bed, woman!”
Catherine gratefully takes his hand, lets him help her up, hugs him tight, thankful he understands even without explanations. She silently promises herself to tell him whats been gnawing at her all this while.
“Chris?”
“Hm…”
“Are we expecting another little one?”
“How did you know?” Catherine looks up, surprised.
“Oh, Cathy! Ive known you too long! These midnight chats with the fridge gave it away. How far along?”
“Three weeks.”
“Brilliant!” Chris hugs her, and she shushes him.
“Quiet! Youll wake the kids!”
The cat sees them off to the bedroom, then returns to his spot on the window ledge, curling up to savour the silence.
Soon, nighttime peace will become the norm, as new business arrives for Catherine, and the cat will leave his kitchen watch, choosing instead to sleep by the cradle in the nurserywarm, milk-scented, and gentlerather than on a cold window sill.
