I slipped into the flat and immediately felt a prickling unease the whole place was dead quiet. Are they all asleep? I wondered. From the kitchen emerged my pallid wife, Margaret, and our teenage daughter, Emily. Their faces were the sort you get when you think youve just seen a ghost, and perched on Emilys lap was a tiny kitten, its fur as soft as newwool.
It was dark down in the cellar, but the kitten hardly seemed frightened by the gloom any more; it had grown accustomed to it. It knew Mother would be back soon, ready to feed it, lick it from the tip of its tail to its whiskered nose, then settle beside it and hum a lullaby so the little creature would never feel alone again.
That night, though, Mother was unusually late. It was out of character for her.
Even though the cellar was usually a dim, halflit world, the kitten had learned to read the clock. When Margaret left, it would curl up, tuck its nose under a paw and drift off to sleep. When she returned, she was either already there or arrived before the kitten even felt a hint of hunger.
But today something went wrong. Two hours had slipped by since the kitten woke, and Mother was still nowhere to be seen.
Did she forget? Abandon us? the thought never crossed the kittens mind. Something must have happened If it was true, the little one feared the worst: its days might be numbered.
The cellar was never short of water; a leaky pipe had burst a day before the kitten was born, leaving a fresh puddle beneath it at all times. Food, however, was scarce. There was never a scrap to be found, so Margaret had to go out each day on what she called the hunt.
The kitten scrambled from its warm cardboard box, padded to the wall and stared up at the single opening that let a sliver of daylight pierce the cellar gloom. The hole was tiny, and because tangled brambles grew outside it, the light barely reached inside, leaving a oppressive halfdarkness that made the kitten feel uneasy.
It pulled its hind legs close and tried to leap toward the opening the very one through which Margaret came and went but it was still too small. It gave the jump a dozen times, each attempt ending in a soft thud on the cold stone floor.
Just as the kitten landed on all fours after yet another miss, the cellar door creaked open with a chilling screech. The suddenness caught it off guard; it froze, hoping to stay unseen. Instead, an elderly neighbour, Mrs. Whitaker, stepped in first, followed by two burly men squeezing through the narrow doorway.
Look at these lazybones! one of the men shouted. I told you the cellar was a breeding ground for kittens. Lets grab them all and get them out!
Were only dealing with one right now, the property managers assistant tried to protest.
Soon therell be twenty, the other replied. You here to argue? Just catch them and throw them outside!
The men began scouring the cellar, poking around in the damp corners, taking breaks to light cigarettes. It wasnt until Mrs. Whitaker intervened that they finally cornered the kitten.
Nothing you can do without Mrs. Whitakers word! she scolded the men, her voice sharp as a kettle. She tossed the kitten out onto the street, slammed the cellar door shut, and sealed the little hole in the wall so tightly that even a fly would struggle to pass.
Get lost, you little scamp! she barked. Never come back here again!
The kitten fled, its tiny heart pounding as it glanced back at the dark place it had called home. With its mother gone and nowhere left to hide, it felt the weight of the world pressing down.
The world beyond the cellar was bright and fragrant with fresh grass. People strolled, birds sang, and strange, roundfooted beasts with glowing eyes roamed the fields.
Among them, the kitten saw cats that reminded it of Margaret, but the mother itself was nowhere in sight. It let out a faint meow, then a louder cry, hoping perhaps Mother would hear. The cats turned, eyes soft with sympathy, as if to say, Weve been there, before looking away.
Are you still here? I told you to scram! cried Mrs. Whitaker, who had never liked cats. Nobody knew why she disliked them so much; perhaps it was just an old habit of taking out her frustrations on any creature that crossed her path.
With no other choice, the kitten bolted, not knowing where to go, only that it had to get as far away as possible. The street was a blur of trees, hedges, passing cars, and looming brick houses. The rush made its head spin, forcing it to stop short of a bustling roundabout.
Adults glanced at it, smiling politely. Children pointed, begging their parents to take the little creature home, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. Only one mother asked her son, Are you ready to give up your tablet for a real adventure? If you are, well take him in.
No way, the boy replied, wiping his mouth after finishing a chocolate ice lolly, and went back to his screen.
The kitten, now famished, followed a tantalising scent to a posh restaurant called Grandmas Kitchen. The aromas of roast beef, poached fish, and steaming oysters wafted out, making its stomach rumble.
It slipped through a cracked door that led straight into the kitchen, slipping into a narrow gap. Inside, towering stacks of cardboard boxes formed a makeshift shelter. The kitten curled up in an empty box just as two men entered.
Thomas, your cooking is divine, but youve got to keep the kitchen tidy, the owner, Mr. Sinclair, complained, eyeing the mess.
Arthur, Im swamped. I cant do it without a helper, Thomas replied.
The search is on! Weve placed ads in every paper. In the meantime, sort the rubbish before the health inspector shows up. Ten minutes, then Ill be back to check.
A bald, shortstatured bloke disappeared into the back, and Thomas eyed the cardboard piles, ready to comply. He tossed a box near the bins and heard a faint meow. Did I step on something? he muttered, picking up the box. Inside lay a trembling kitten.
Hope its not a rat, Thomas whispered, remembering his childhood fear of rodents. He stared at the kitten, bewildered. Where did you come from?
He asked the little creature, halfexpecting an answer. The kitten simply meowed, its tiny voice lost among the clatter of pots.
Thomas, never a pet lover in fact, hed always opposed keeping animals in his flat, despite his daughter Emilys pleas for a dog or a cat felt an odd tug of compassion. He thought, if the kitten was already in the kitchen, why not feed it?
He fetched a tin of turkey, slowcooked it in his signature sauce, shredded it finely, and set it before the kitten. The tiny animal devoured it greedily, the taste of which seemed almost heavenly.
Just then, Mr. Sinclair strode back, eyes narrowed. Whats that crate? Did you forget it? he snapped, nudging the box with his foot. The kitten let out a startled Miaow!.
Cat in my kitchen? Ill sack you on the spot! Do you understand the health regulations? the owner thundered.
Thomas knew he couldnt leave the kitten starving, but the law was clear. Take it to the dump now! the boss ordered.
Reluctantly, Thomas carried the box to the refuse area, pausing to make sure the kitten was unharmed. He set the crate aside, then hurried back to the stove, where other diners awaited their stew of turkey, priced at £12.50 per plate.
The thought of the kitten haunted him. Maybe I could slip it into the storeroom until nightfall? What if the bald man looks there, or the kitten escapes and gets caught? He decided against risk; his job paid well, and a single misstep could cost him everything.
Soon, a delivery boy in ragged clothes shuffled past the bins, rummaged inside, and tossed some leftover scraps into the very box Thomas had set aside. Unaware, he carried the box back toward the same cellar from which the kitten had been evicted earlier.
The boy, his shoes scuffed and his shirt torn, dropped the box onto a pile of rubbish. Ah, you little rascal! shouted Mrs. Whitaker, brandishing her cane. I told you not to come back! Take this! She swung the cane with a loud crack, sending the box flying toward the landfill.
Just then, a small girl named Annabelle emerged from the buildings entrance, having been sent by her mother to take out the trash. Mrs. Whitaker grabbed Annabelles wrist, pleading, Dear, could you also fetch that cardboard box for me?
Annabelle, whod heard the old womans sharp tongue before, reluctantly agreed, hoping to avoid more scolding. She tossed the rubbish bag into the bin, and as she lifted the box, a faint scratching sounded from within.
She pried it open and found the kitten, its eyes wide with astonishment. Oh my! This is exactly what Ive always wanted! she exclaimed, clutching the tiny creature to her chest. Her mother met her at the doorway, sighing, Sweetheart, what will your father say?
Annabelle, already smitten, vowed never to let anyone harm the kitten again.
Back at the restaurant, Thomas finished his shift, changed into his coat, and stepped out into the fading dusk. The silhouettes of cardboard boxes against the rubbish bins were still visible. He hurried over, opening each one, hoping against hope to find the kitten.
Each box was empty. He checked them again, doublechecking. Did it run off? Hide? He switched on his phones torch, emitting a highpitched Kisskisskiss that hed never used as a child.
Two street cats sprinted toward the sound, but the kitten was nowhere among them. Dejected, Thomas trudged home, chastising himself. What a fool Ive been, he thought. My daughters been asking for a cat for three years, my wife wouldnt mind, and Ive sent it out into the cold
His conscience gnawed at him, urging him to confess. He considered having a drink, but hed never touched alcohol his parents had raised him that way.
He decided to write a text to his wife, Lara: Ill be home soon; we need to have a serious talk.
When he finally entered the flat, the silence was palpable. Are they sleeping? he asked, his voice low. From the kitchen emerged a pale Margaret and a bewildered Emily, eyes wide as if theyd just seen a spectre. In Emilys arms, the very kitten hed fed that afternoon with tender turkey sat, purring softly.
It was the same little creature hed chased through the dump, the same that had haunted his thoughts all night. Thomas rushed to his daughter, cradling the kitten, tears streaming down his face.
Margaret and Emily stared, mouths agape, never expecting such a dramatic scene after Thomass ominous text.
Thomas, what? Lara began cautiously.
No, I didnt plan any of this, he stammered, holding the kitten close. I just wanted to make a proper dinner for him.
And so, the Rumsey family welcomed their new kitten, affectionately called Whiskers. He now had a warm home, plenty of food, and a whole lot of love to share.
