A rustcaked council car rolled up to the tip. A huge, drab grey rag shot out onto the concrete slab. The caretaker, muttering to himself, trudged over to haul it away, but the rag wriggled like a worm and slipped behind the bins. Peering into the narrow gap between a steel fence and the rubbish containers, he caught sight of a massive grey tomcat, crouched and trembling.
The longawaited, beloved summer was drawing to a close. Its crownAugusthad turned this year into an unseasonably cool, rainsoaked month, counting down its final breaths.
One early morning a sleek foreign saloon slipped into a backgarden of a terraced house in a leafy suburb of Manchester. The caretaker, raking leaves that had fallen earlier than usual and were still slick with overnight drizzle, stared at the newcomer. No one in the block owned such a glittering vehicle.
The tinted windows hid the interior. Perhaps a residents visitor? Mr. Michael thought, but he was wrong.
The car lingered a minute, then rolled toward the rubbish bins and halted. Its passenger door cracked open, and the grey rag fluttered onto the concrete.
What sort of folk are these, not even willing to toss it into the bin, the caretaker grumbled, hurrying to clear the oddly placed litter. While he moved, the car idled past him and disappeared down the alley.
His haste proved pointless. The rag was alive; it slithered behind the bins. Looking into the narrow space between the fence and the containers, the man saw the huge grey cat, curled tight with fear, shivering.
Whats this then? Why does our little courtyard attract such misery? he muttered. One day a tiny puppy is left here, then two kittens. At least the good folk collected them. Now an adult cat is dumped. Who would want a beast like this? Itll end up a vagrant, I suppose. Come out, dont be afraid.
The cat kept its head tucked deeper under its body.
Come out, or the lorry will come and crush you with its bins
The cat stayed as still as a statue, perched in an awkward, but in its mind safe, ostrichlike pose.
Dejected, Mr. Michael moved on. His job was out in the open, and he still had to finish the sweep and head to the next yard.
Honestly, what kind of people the old man grumbled.
Thus the great grey Britishtype cat found itself stranded in a foreign garden, suddenly without a roof, without the comforts that house pets enjoy, unlike the streetwise strays.
When the rubbish lorry finally arrived, the cat, panicked, bolted from its hiding place and lunged into the courtyard. With nowhere else to go, the suddenly homeless creature dived into the grass beneath a large bench and lurked there, sinking into its bitter thoughts.
In the cats mind everything turned topsyturvy. He could not understand how hed ended up there or what to do next. Deep inside, a thin hope flickered: perhaps his owners would return and take him back. Better to live in a house than out here. So he resolved to wait in the yard, hoping they wouldnt come looking and find him missing.
Mrs. Gillian Harper, who had seen her daughter Emily off to marriage, now lived alone on the second floor of a typical fivestorey block. Emily lived with her husband in the same town and visited often.
They were not only mother and daughter but also the closest of friends, with no secrets or hidden grievances, the sort that sometimes fester even among kin.
The locals, spotting the clean, tranquil cat, assumed he belonged to someone and simply roamed the garden for a stroll. Mrs. Harper watched the sleek grey creature with quiet admiration.
When the courtyard was empty, the cat would climb onto the bencha bench that, with autumns arrival, no one used any longerfor a better view and safety.
People hurried past, busy with their errands, rarely noticing the dour sentinel of the bench.
He spent the night there, for he had nowhere else to go. Wandering far in search of shelter was dangerous; at any moment his owners might return, thought the cat.
Food was scarce. Thanks to the diligent caretaker, nothing lay scattered in the yard. The cat could scavenge only what the tip offered, but he faced fierce competition from a flock of rotund crows, their strong beaks flashing as they swooped down first, eyeing any scrap. They kept a vigilant watch, and even the occasional stray dog shied from their united front, leaving the weakened cat ever more desperate.
After weeks of street life, the cats oncerespectable coat grew ragged, and the neighbourhood began to label him a stray. Parents, fearing disease or scratches, warned their children to stay away.
Some residents, however, quietly left bits of food for the hungry felineMrs. Harper among them.
The cat made his home on the courtyard bench. Autumn fully claimed the scene, drenching the earth with long, dreary rains that turned everything a sullen grey.
The cats mood matched the weather. He felt his spirit sink, convinced no one would ever claim him again.
A compassionate young woman named Samantha, who often rescued abandoned fourlegged wanderers, heard the caretakers tale and took notice of the dumped cat. She tried to find a permanent home for the winterstricken animal, but the neighbours balked at taking in a stray they didnt know.
She consulted friends, but none could commit, and Mrs. Harper, fearing she couldnt manage a grown cat, hesitated too.
She felt genuine pity for the wanderer, yet she could not summon the resolve. Unbeknownst to her, the cat, mustering courage each night, sometimes scaled the fireescape beside her balcony and slipped into the flower box attached to it. From there he watched the kitchen window, inhaling the tempting aromas of homecooked meals, yearning for the warmth he had lost.
Two months passed in his makeshift refuge. Nights grew cold, and the damp, despondent cat resigned himself to the bench.
When the November holidays arrived, Emily and her husband Ethan came to stay with Mrs. Harper for a night. She busied herself in the kitchen, roasting a joint, arranging salads, baking a tart, and setting the table. They lingered over food and conversation well into the evening.
Another rain, and theyre saying snow by morning, Emily remarked.
Mrs. Harper placed a teacup on the table, drew the curtains back, and let out a soft sigh, hands clasped to her chest. The frightened grey cat stared directly at her.
In a heartbeat the cat leapt backward, nearly slipping off the slick railing.
Whats the matter, love? Why are you so startled?
Emily answered, Theres a cat on the balcony that always sits on the bench. Hes frightened too. What if he falls?
Ethan peered out onto the balcony and saw the cat, hunched on the bench, his fur damp, trying to hold onto the few crumbs of heat that the open window had given him.
He must have climbed the fireescape, Ethan guessed.
Brave little thing. We should give him something to eat.
They all shivered in the damp air and decided to warm up the kettle. Mrs. Harper, lost in thought, sat at the table while Emily poured tea for everyone.
Here, Mum, Ive got a slice of cake with a little rose on it, just the way you like it. Have some tea while its hot, Emily said.
Mrs. Harper drew the curtains aside, tears glistening, and gazed out the window.
I cant go on like this, she whispered.
She grabbed a piece of roast and headed to the hallway.
Ill be right back, she declared, pulling on her wellworn coat.
The cat, trembling in her arms, turned from fear to bewilderment, and then, as if the tension melted away, his body softened back into a limp grey sack of fur. She cradled the cold, damp stray close and carried him inside.
No one ever asked Mrs. Harper why she did it. They didnt need to; she alone among the many residents acted with true humanity.
The grateful cat spent a week napping on the heated radiator. Food mattered far less than the soothing domestic warmth. The new mistress named him Percy, and, with a touch of formality, added Percival Whitmore as his middle name.
Percy proved, against all expectations, to be a gentlemanpolite, cultured, and impeccably behaved. If an ideal cat exists, it is Percy Whitmore in the flesh. He became a beloved member of the household, the centre of affection.
Sometimes his owner jokes, Percy Whitmore, what crimes did you commit to be cast out onto that bench?
Percy, having roamed for months, says nothing. He lacks human speech, and even if he possessed it, he could not answer, for he does not know.
Percy has now lived in Mrs. Harpers caring home for nearly two years. He is fed, petted, and content. Yet, if he hears someone raise their voice, the old fear from his former domestic life resurfaces; the big, strong cat curls onto the floor and tries to disappear.
Everyone who knows the great grey cat is left guessing. For what reason was the perfect cat Percy thrown away?
