An Expensive Hobby
“Emma, again? Seriously? I feel like Im working just to support your cat!
The cat, whom Emma was wrangling into the carrier yet again, managed to slip from her grasp, thudded to the hallway floor, and slunk off into the corner, wailing in a manner so dramatic youd think he was auditioning for the Royal Shakespeare Company. From the look of him, the cat whom Emma had once given the rather grandiose name of Byron was determined to sell his so-called worthless (in Olivers words) life for as much as he could wring out of her.
Byron or Baz, as Emma affectionately called her feline friend had been with her for a good ten years. She never really knew his true age. Shed rescued him from the street, and not as a kitten either. Even then, he was already a full-grown, if sprightly, tomcat, or so the vet told Emmas mum at the clinic.
Emmas mother, Margaret, had barreled into the vets surgery clutching the scraggly, blanket-wrapped cat as if she were smuggling the Crown Jewels.
Save him, please!
Where on earth did you find this monster? the receptionist said with a wince. He looks like a proper stray!
What does it matter where hes from? Hes my cat now! You can see hes not well. Do I somehow have second-rate money in my purse, or is it good enough for pedigree cats only?
Margaret was so riled that the overworked vet tech decided to comply without arguing. Wise move.
Margaret Helen Smith was an uncommonly stubborn woman. Life had made her so. Try raising a daughter alone, looking after two pensioners, and doing it all on a nursery workers salary. Youd grow teeth too!
Margaret could always stand up for herself if she had to. But she was also incredibly warm-hearted: adored children and cats, and sometimes even dogs, though shed had a lifelong fear of them.
She responded to nonsense from no one not the neighbours from the block, not the parents at her nursery, and certainly not the odd stranger who thought she was an easy target.
But Margaret had her own, rather unique method a sort of verbal judo, where instead of arguing, shed pivot the conversation until even the nastiest grumbler would end up confiding in her. No shouting, just the right word in the right place and suddenly shed be listening to tales of woe and offering comfort, as if shed planned it all along.
How did it work? Why did people just open up for her? Not even Margaret knew. Perhaps her gift was that she actually listened rather than trying to shout above the din. Who can say?
But this rare skill didnt seem to translate to dealing with her own family.
Her husband did a runner exactly a week after the wedding. Margarets mother often joked hed lasted longer than shed expected.
It stung, but Margaret accepted the verdict. She admitted that she wasnt the easiest person to live with, and as her soon-to-be-ex-husband had so kindly put it, Youre about as much a wife as I am a prima ballerina.
Margaret was upset, naturally, but a couple months later, discovering she was expecting gave her a curious sense of peace. She would be a mother. No man needed for that!
Never had she looked forward to anything as much as her daughters arrival not Christmas, not even her own birthday. Her life was usually so bland youd count real celebrations on one hand.
Margarets mother, Dorothy, was not exactly supportive.
Why saddle yourself, Margaret? Youre young, decent-looking, your prospects arent hopeless. But a baby? Youll be eating nothing but beans on toast and your child too! Children are a terribly expensive indulgence, Margaret! Youll see, one day.
Mum havent we always lived like that?
Exactly, and what good has it done?
Margaret hesitated, wanting to listen but somehow everything inside her rebelled. The thought of not having this child suffocated her. How could she erase what was already part of her? Even if it didnt yet have a face or a name.
All it took to settle things was her grandmother turning up unannounced, straightening her best scarf, the one she only ever wore to church, and declaring:
Have your baby, Margaret. Ill help!
But Nan, what about Granddad? He cant cope on his own in the village.
Oh, Molly, dont you fret. Your granddads sturdy enough! Hell manage. If needed, well bring him here. Right!
Then she plonked a neat, embroidered bundle on the table inside was her favourite tablecloth, the one Margaret had lovingly stitched for her years before.
Remember this? Go on, open it!
Margaret had never seen so much money in one go. Not before, not since.
Granddad sold the house. Theyre putting a dual carriageway through the village, plots are worth a fortune now. Its all here enough for a flat, at least a small one. The rest is up to you.
I cant, Nan, I just cant accept all this.
Course you can! Not for you, then for the baby. Who else will care for your child if not you?
That bundle was the final straw in the family feud.
Oh, so thats how it is! When I asked for help, Mum, what did you say? Nothing for you! And now you show up with a blue-rimmed plate loaded up just for her?
Grannie sent Margaret out and had a long word with her daughter but didnt manage to sway her view. How come Margaret, with her odd decisions, ended up with help, support, even her own place? Some people win the lottery, but not this big!
Nobody ever worked out what Margaret had supposedly done wrong. She hadnt gone out partying or made a fool of herself. She got pregnant by her husband, for heavens sake wasnt that normal? As Nan put it, If it all falls apart, its never just one persons fault. You cant pull a cart with only one horse pulling.
And hes meant to be a proper stallion, too! Dont fret, Margaret. Youve plenty of good years ahead.
Margaret said nothing about years, but never stopped thanking her grandmother.
The flat Margarets nan found was a masterpiece of thrift: four rooms in a battered Edwardian terrace, in need of an overhaul. Nan terrorised the estate agent into offering a hefty discount and found a handyman team to make it habitable on a shoe-string.
Dont look at me like that, love! All those years selling veg at the market growing it is the easy bit, getting a fair price is trickier. Trust your Nan.
The flat was the best find: four real rooms, a bit run down, but a lively crowd of cheerful blokes, under the stern eye of the foreman and Nans supervision, sorted it in two months. Margaret tip-toed into the nursery with the cot assembled, burst into tears.
Oh, darling! Dont cry plenty to be happy about. Now come and help me break in the new kitchen!
Emma was born a bit early, but grew up healthy, sturdy, and surprisingly gentle. Margaret had learned a thing or two from her own mothers tactless advice and swore things would be different for her child.
Of course you love your Nan best! She bought you a flat and helps with the baby! But me? Not even allowed to babysit!
Mum, come as often as you like please dont make a scene. Emma gets frightened.
Shes only a baby! How could she possibly be frightened? Because I speak up a bit?
Mum, you dont speak you shout
Her mother wouldnt listen. Well see what you say when your daughter treats you like this!
She wont! For once, Margarets tears dried up instantly.
She will! Youll see! Its all about how you raise them. I spoilt you and now Im paying the price, Miss High and Mighty!
Thank you, Mum, Margaret replied, cool as a cucumber.
For what?
For teaching me what not to do. Thanks for saving me from that mistake.
Her mums patience snapped, but Margaret was already composing herself.
One things certain: Ill be a different kind of mum.
Easier said than done.
Margaret never felt certain she was getting it right, but Emma wasnt difficult just blessed with a formidable will. Even as a toddler, she knew exactly what she wanted, always managing to get her message across with admirable persistence.
Mummy, can I have a sweetie?
After lunch, darling!
Not even one?
No, sweetheart.
Alright, Mummy. But after lunch, two sweets? Ill eat up nice and clean!
This wheedling always got a laugh from Margaret. After Emma cleared her plate, shed get two always.
It was little things like this that shaped Emmas character. She soon realised that tantrums were beneath her, and even managed to bring her occasionally cantankerous grandmother to heel with a flutter of her eyelashes:
Nana, please dont shout. It makes you look cross and youre so pretty! You dont want wrinkles, do you? Come over here!
Why? Mums mother would instantly fall silent, complaint forgotten.
Emma would climb into her lap, gently trace a finger over Nanas frown lines and crows-feet.
See? All gone! Youll look lovely again!
Margaret would watch in amusement as her mother melted under Emmas deft fingers, but stayed silent. It was for the best.
Over time, things at home improved. Margaret went to work; Nana and Granddad, who eventually sold up and moved into town, looked after Emma. Together they coped.
Things got tough when Nana fell ill. The doctors had nothing encouraging to say, but Margaret hardly needed their grim predictions.
Nana, maybe we should go to London? There are specialists
No need, Margaret. Ive lived my life. Not scared to go just dont want to leave you lot behind. And mind your granddad, hes been all at sea without me!
Stop, Nana, you cant say that
Dont mind me, pet.
It was around this time that Emma dragged a cat home.
The day Baz made his appearance in their lives coincided with a frantic afternoon when Emma vanished. She left school as usual, took the shortcut home, and simply disappeared.
Granddad, who was meant to be picking her up, missed her by a few minutes.
How could a child vanish on a straight road right to your doorstep? Mystery of the century.
Everyone hunted for Emma: classmates, neighbours, Margaret, who raced home from work, even Granddad and a wheezing Nana.
But Emma turned up of her own accord, wild-eyed, hugging a grubby and half-dead cat. Margaret, beside herself with worry, said nothing, just bundled both child and animal in a blanket and asked, Are you hurt, darling?
No, Mummy but hes hurt! Help him, please!
So off they went to the vet.
Baz, it turned out, had survived not only a brush with dogs (the plumbers fixing the pipes had chased them away) but hunger and bad luck as well. With some treatment and a lot of TLC, he was soon pronounced fit by the vet.
Here you go! And make sure he gets his jabs after cant have him running wild without a passport, can we?
Margaret winced at the bill. You could buy a pedigree for that! she muttered, but paid up anyway.
Once home, counting out the rest of her pounds and pence, Margaret fretted. She was short until payday; Bazzy needed medicine, Nana needed hers, and Emmas birthday was right round the corner.
Mummy, can I ask you something? Emma, up past bedtime, shuffled in and hugged her.
What is it, darling?
I dont need any birthday presents Promise I can keep the cat? He can be my present.
Margaret hugged her daughter tight and glanced at the grey, snoozing fluff-ball. Shed tried to tuck him into a box, but he just kept hopping out to nestle against her, purring like an old boiler.
No prizes for guessing Bazzy stayed.
Astonishingly, this battered tomcat settled into domestic bliss with surprising grace. Never a nuisance, he quickly became devoted to Margarets aging parents and hardly left Nanas side.
Bazzy even started to change the familys fortune. After paying for the vet, Margaret decided shed had enough of making do on her lowly salary and pension top-ups. Spurred by the courage of a new responsibility, she quit her job and soon found work as a nanny with a family recommended by a friend, marvelling that she hadnt jumped sooner.
From then on, she never wanted for work passed around like a treasure, her wages increased with every new gig. Each evening, shed tickle Bazzys now-healed ear: Baz, you changed everything. If not for you
Baz would purr in reply, tapping her hand, but always keeping a watchful eye on Emma his junior mistress and chief playmate. He spent all the time he could with Emma except when Nana insisted he keep her company instead.
Bazzy was there for Emma through everything learning her sums at school (often sitting on her homework), when she quietly wept outside Nanas door, and when Granddad slipped away just months after Nana. Bazzy was also there when, years later, Margaret against all odds finally met a decent bloke and married into happy-ever-afters.
Margarets new husband absolutely doted on her. Even her opinionated mother warmed to him, especially after he let her borrow his car with chauffeur for garden-centre runs. Now, Margarets mum would float from her flat with her seed trays, boasting to the neighbours, My son-in-laws driving me to the allotment.
Emma, by this time a student at college, found herself unexpectedly independent. She got on well with her stepdad, but chose to keep the old flat for herself.
There, she introduced her boyfriend.
Wow, Emma, your place is lavish!
You think so?
So roomy! Hang on whats that?
A hissing, bristling furball shot from Emmas bedroom and launched itself at Oliver. He yelped and leapt away as Baz, clearly offended, made it known that boyfriends were not automatically welcome.
Get rid of him! Please!
Emma calmed the cat, but there was never any love lost between Bazzy and Oliver, who took every chance to nudge the old tom out of the way when Emma wasnt looking.
A year later, Emma and Oliver tied the knot. Yet cracks soon appeared, with Oliver offering up the sorts of criticisms that would have made Margaret drop her tea in horror and watching history repeat itself, as her daughter now heard the same words she once had.
What kind of woman are you, Emma? Is that supposed to be stew? Its just brown water. You cant cook, you know. Some kind of wife you are!
Emma, taught to cook by her grandmother (and who knew her way round a stew since she was ten), was hardly incompetent. But Oliver found no faults until Baz gave him an opening.
Whats wrong with him? Oliver gasped at the vet bill. Emma, have you lost it? I dont spend that on my own check-ups and hes just a ball of fluff!
Baz isnt just a ball of fluff! Hes family!
Whose? Not mine. I dont want that sort of in-law!
Cant believe youre saying this.
Ill say it again it happens once more, and Ill throw him out myself!
Emma, who had found out she was expecting just that morning, said nothing then, deciding to pick her moment. But as Baz, now a senior cat, had another accident, she found herself once more packing him into the carrier when Oliver stormed in from his morning run.
He prided himself on his health good eating, daily exercise, and presuming Emmas inability to grasp the gospel of wellbeing was her own failing.
When he found out more money was needed for Bazs care, he chucked his trainer at the wall and declared, Enough! I refuse to blow cash on that useless fur collar! Out he goes!
Only if I go too! Normally unflappable, Emma exploded (perhaps hormones or shredded nerves).
Right then both of you! Im done! Why must I put up with this?
Something shifted in the room a final, irrevocable change. Emma, whod been so intent on keeping the family together, suddenly realised this was not the life she wanted.
She didnt remind him that it was actually her flat; she didnt point out whod been here longest.
She just fished Olivers keys from his jacket pocket, gave him her own, and said, Im pregnant. I cant be stressed, cant row. The cat understands this; you dont. Please leave now. When youve calmed down, maybe well talk. But as for living together no more. If you can cast out a creature whos been family for years, what will you do to me when I become inconvenient? My needs dont count, do they? Fine. We did have good times thank you for those. But now, theres too much bad. I dont need it, neither do you. Go. Take your things later. Now, I have to take Bazzy to the vet. Hes ill and Im responsible for him. Thats that.
Oliver didnt argue. He stuffed his gym bag with car documents and his jacket, slammed the door, and left.
Emma was certain her confession the baby hadnt even registered. At that moment, all he cared about was jettisoning the cat.
She gently placed the carrier on the floor and watched Bazze, this time, hop in willingly.
Ready? Lets get you sorted. Its time for a change, old chap starting with your health!
Baz got better. Of course, age would have its say, and Emma would become a regular at the vet, but the next routine would belong to a child a daughter of her own. Baz would allow this daughter liberties he allowed no one else: a tug on his tail, cuddles that squashed his ribs, a place on his favourite blanket. That kitten would have the best nanny alive one with a fuzzy paw and purrs that could lull a giggling tot to sleep.
Emma toyed with naming her daughter after her grandmother, but her mother talked her out of it.
Check with Oliver, Margaret advised. Shes your child together, even if you wont live together. Youve kept things civil this far. Time to do even better; not easy, but its for her.
Emma listened much to Olivers surprise.
Blimey. Never thought you had such wisdom.
Growing up, arent I? Well, are you in?
Yes thanks, Emma.
For what?
For putting our child before your pride. Ill be there, dont worry.
And, against all odds, Oliver kept his word.
Little Alice grew up across two homes, never quite understanding why adults arranged the world this way, but happy with her two cots and her two beloved bunnies: one at Mums, one at Dads. She had Granny Margaret and Gran Val, Olivers mum, but love was a single, shared thing. Alice, sensible as her mother at that age, managed to convince all the adults that if they loved her, they couldnt possibly still harbour grudges against one another.
Only old Bazzy knew the full story but he never told a soul. Not because cats cant talk, but because, honestly, what would be the point?
After all, as any mum-cat could tell you gentle mothers raise gentle kittens.
And little Alice? Well, she was as gentle as they come. When the day comes that she leans over her own childs cot, strokes his cheek just so, shell say, in time-honoured fashion, Hello, little one. Ive been waiting for youWelcome home.
And if there happened to be a slightly tattered, grey cat in the photograph on her dresserone Emma swore could purr a storm from beyondwell, that was just luck, or maybe the start of another chapter in a very old story.
Because in their family, hearts stretched wide, forgiveness grew like ivy on old walls, and even the most expensive hobbiesloving stubbornly, keeping promises, rescuing scrappy catsalways paid for themselves in the end.
And somewhere, with the sunlight slanting through a nursery window, the daughter of a gentle mother smiled in her sleep, safe and loved and watched overby family, by memory, by the warm ghost of a purring friend.
