Dear Diary,
October has been relentless. The rain never stops, the wind howls through the back garden, and the old castiron kettle whistles as if mocking me. I sit in the kitchen of my modest flat in South London, staring at the empty wall clock. For two years my life has run like clockwork: up at seven, tea at eight, the news at nine. Everything is in its placeslippers neatly lined by the door, mugs arranged in the cupboard with their handles all facing the same way. This routine kept me afloat after Margaretmy wifepassed away.
Stunning, just perfect, I whisper to myself. Lottie would have loved this.
In the evening I head to the corner shop for a loaf. On the steps outside the building I notice a shivering orange tabby, fur all matted, one eye clouded. He trembles, half from the cold, half from fear.
Hey there, mate, I say, crouching down. You dont look too well.
The cat looks at me as if to say, Dont you talk to me like that, old man. Lifes hard enough.
I reach out. He doesnt bolt; instead he lets me pet him, a faint purr escaping his throat.
Little icecube, I mutter, shaking my head.
Just then Margaret Clarke, the woman from the flat above, descends the stairs carrying a sack of rubbish.
Stephen! What on earth are you doing with that creature? she yells.
Its freezing out there, I reply.
She scoffs, Exactly! Itll bring fleas, infections nothing good.
I glance from her to the cat, then quietly say, Shall we take him somewhere warmer?
Youre mad! Margaret protests. Dont bring that dirt into the flat!
Would it be any cleaner if he died here? I wonder aloud.
I bring the cat home. He follows, hesitant but not trailing. At the doorway he sniffs the air.
Dont be shy, come in, I coax. This isnt the street.
First, I whisk him into the bathroom. Warm water and a splash of gentle shampoo make him close his eyes in bliss.
Poor thing, I murmur, examining the scars and old wounds. Who did this to you?
I feed him bits of ham and cheese; they disappear within minutes.
Ill call you Ginger, I decide. Sounds right.
I lay an old towel over the radiator, and Ginger curls up, drifting to sleep instantly. I watch him and think, Now what? I need food, I need a vet. Yet theres something alive in the flat now that wasnt before.
Just one night, then, I tell him. Well see what tomorrow brings.
The next morning Im roused by a clatter. The kitchen is in chaoscabbages overturned, soil scattered, a mug shattered. Ginger sits, dignified, licking his paw.
What have you done? I exclaim.
He looks up, indifferent, as if to say, Good morning. Howd you sleep?
Im done, I sigh, exhausted. I cant keep this up. Im not ready.
I stand amidst the wreckage, feeling my orderly world crumble. Two years of perfect order reduced to a mess in a single night. It feels like a barnyard after a storm.
Buddy, I speak to Ginger, I cant handle this. Im sorry.
I pick him up and head for the door, only to be met nosetonose by Margaret, who has come to collect her rubbish.
Ah! she declares, eyeing the devastation. I told you this would end badly!
I glance at her, then at Ginger, who presses against my chest, purring softly.
I wont give him away, I say suddenly.
What? You wont? she gasps.
Itll get used to me. Ill look after him.
Hell tear the place apart! she retorts.
Its not a palace anyway, I shrug. She snorts and slams the door, leaving me alone with the cat and the wrecked kitchen.
Alright, Ginger, I sigh deeply. Since youre here, well make a deal: no more mayhem.
I spend half an hour tidying up while Ginger watches, his tail flicking. You see how things are now? I ask while sweeping. Im the old man, youre the audience. What can I do?
He mews, as if agreeing.
By lunchtime the flat shines again. But as I sit down to eat, Ginger leaps onto the cupboard and knocks a stack of books to the floor.
Youre a menace! I shout, but the anger fades quickly. Something inside clicks back into place.
That evening I go back to the shop for cat food. The shop assistant lifts an eyebrow.
Got a new pet? she asks.
Looks like it, I reply.
Do you keep a cat in a flat? Good heavens! she laughs.
Im still in shock, I answer.
At home I serve the fresh kibble. Ginger devours it eagerly.
Do you like it? I ask.
He rubs against my leg in response.
A week passes and my life is unrecognisable. I no longer wake at a set time; I rise when Ginger decides its time for his morning chest patrol. Evenings are no longer for the news; theyre spent playing with a piece of string.
Lottie would have laughed at this, I think, imagining my sisters amused face at my chaotic, yet contented existence.
The flat now has a little cattree by the window, a scratching post, extra bowls. The dead silence that once filled these rooms has vanished; warmth and life have taken its place.
Margaret drops by as per her schedule, sometimes with a comment, sometimes just to stare at Ginger.
Youve turned this into a zoo! she huffs. Youll get cockroaches soon.
What cockroaches? I chuckle. Its cleaner than most places.
She sighs, shakes her head, and leaves. The flat smells of livedin comfort rather than sterile emptiness.
Three weeks later, Im painting the radiator on a stool when Ginger darts under my arm, his paw slipping into the fresh paint and leaving a trail of orange across the room.
You little artist! I laugh, scooping him up.
A knock at the door.
What now? Margaret barks as she bursts in.
Gingers making art, I explain, pointing to the splatters.
Its an outrage! she shouts.
Come on, Margaret, its beautiful! I grin.
The fourth week brings a new toy from the shop. The assistant sighs.
Youre spoiling that cat, she says.
Hes worth it, I admit shyly.
Ginger greets me at the door with a soft purr.
Missed me? I whisper. I missed you too.
He truly missed me. I rushed home as if someone were waiting, and realised I needed that companionship.
That orange little tiger has revived me.
A month later, Margaret returns with a request.
May I take a photo of him? Ill send it to my granddaughter.
Of course, I agree.
She snaps a picture; Ginger poses like a seasoned model. Margaret laughsa sound I havent heard from her in years.
After she leaves I think, Shes changed too, perhaps for the better, or maybe Im just seeing it that way.
Morning brings the same unsettling quiet.
Ginger? I call, stumbling out of bed.
No answer. No familiar patter on my chest.
Where are you, my friend?
I search under the sofa, in the wardrobe, behind the fridge. Nothing.
On the kitchen counter sits an untouched bowl of food. My heart clenches.
This cant be happening, I whisper, voice shaking.
I scour the flat again, then againnothing.
Balcony! I recall.
I dash up to the landing. The balcony is glazed, but the little window was left ajar yesterday.
A tiny shard of a terracotta pot lies on the floor.
Lord Almighty I mutter. He could have fallen.
The fourth floor, the pavement belowbare concrete.
I throw on a coat and rush outside, checking every shrub, every flowerbed, looking under cars, in the basement.
Ginger! Where are you? I shout.
Passersby turn, their eyes soft with sympathy.
Sir, are you alright? a young mother asks, pushing a pram.
My cats gone missing I say, fighting tears.
Maybe hes just out for a wander? It happens.
Im not sure, I admit.
I circle the whole estate, then the neighboring ones, but theres no sign of him.
Exhausted, I return home, sit at the kitchen table, staring at the untouched bowl. The ache in my chest deepens.
A knock on the doorMargaret.
Stephen, I heard you shouting outside. Everything alright?
My cats vanished, I croak.
Vanished? she repeats.
I woke up and he was gone. He could have fallen, run off I dont know.
She looks around the flat.
Did you check the basements? The sheds?
Yes.
Perhaps someone took him in? Sheltered him?
The thought pierces me harder.
I dont know, Margaret, I say, finally using her first name. My heads a mess.
Dont be too hard on yourself, she pats my shoulder awkwardly. Hell turn up. Cats are clever; theyll find a way back.
Her words bring little comfort.
I lie awake that night, ears straining for any familiar meow, but only silence answers.
By dawn I realise I cant live without him. In a month Ginger became part of me.
The second day of the search, I wander the neighbourhood from sunrise to sunset, showing strangers a photo.
Seen a ginger cat with a white chest? I ask.
People shake their heads. At a pet shop the clerk offers, Do you want to put an advert up? On the community boards?
Im no tech whiz, I admit.
Ill help, she smiles. Give me the picture.
She posts it online: Missing cat Ginger. White chest. Last seen on Peace Road. Reward offered.
The phone remains silent.
By the third day Im almost resigned, staring out the window, thoughts adrift. A month ago my days were predictable; now chaos, warmth, laughter have taken their place, then vanished, leaving a deeper void than before.
Its how it is, I mutter, looking at my own reflection. Old men arent meant to be happy, just to sit quietly and fade away.
But my heart rebels. I crave his purr, the feeling of being needed.
In the late afternoon of the third day I sip tea mechanically, trying to keep my hands busy.
Then, faintly, from somewhere down the hall, a soft meow drifts up.
At first I think its my imagination, but it repeats plaintive, stretched.
I leap up, rush down the landing.
Ginger?! I shout.
Silence.
I climb the stairs to the next floor.
Ginger! Are you there?
There, in the narrow space by a window, I see himshivering, dirty, but alive.
Lord, I gasp. How did you get up there?
Hes thin, but when I press him close he gives a barely audible purr. Tears spill down my cheeks, the first in two years.
Fool, I whisper. Why did you let me think you were gone?
I bring him inside, hand him warm milk, give him a small portion of food. By evening hes perkier, batting at a stray piece of yarn.
Look at you, I smile through the tears. Youre right at home now.
January arrives, three months after Ginger first entered my life, and a month after he disappeared. I stand at the window, sunshine spilling onto the sill where Ginger lies, fat and content.
Youve turned into a proper house cat, I joke.
He merely rumbles, eyes halfclosed.
A knock at the doorMargaret again.
May I come in? she asks, peeking in.
Come on in, Margaret, I reply.
Shes become practically a honoured guest, often bringing tea and little knitted mouse toys for Ginger.
Hows our little king? she coos, patting his soft belly.
He lives like royalty. Eats, sleeps, causes a bit of panic now and then, I answer.
Did you ever regret taking him in? she asks.
I think of the clutter, the toys, the fur on the carpet, the loss of strict order. Not once, I say honestly.
She smiles, Maybe I should get a cat myself. Things have been dull lately.
Just make sure you take him to the vet, vaccinations and all that, I warn.
Will do, she replies, winking.
In the evenings we sit on the sofa, I watch the telly while Ginger dozes on my lap, stretching and rolling onto his back.
Remember when I tried to kick you out? I chuckle, scratching his fluffy rear. What a foolish man I was.
The January wind bites outside, but the flat is warm, alive, and comfortable.
I look at the sleeping cat and realise Im truly living again, not merely existing.
Tomorrow morning Gingers whiskered face will be my alarm. That will be happiness, pure and simple.
Sleep tight, Ginger, I murmur.
And I drift off to the soft rumble of his purr, the sweetest lullaby I could ever ask for.
