The rubbish lorry rolled up to the tip, and a large grey sackno, a ragflapped onto the concrete. The bin man, Mr. Thompson, muttered as he set off to clear it away, but the rag wriggled and slipped behind the bins. Peering into the narrow gap between the iron wall and the containers, he spied a big grey cat, trembling with fear.
That longawaited, beloved summer had finally drawn to a close. August, unusually cool and rainy that year, counted down its last few days.
One early morning a sleek foreign car pulled into a courtyard in the modest town of Ashford. Mr. Thompson, sweeping up leaves that had fallen earlier than usual and were still damp from the nights rain, immediately noticed the vehicle. No one in the neighbourhood owned such a fine motor; the car was a mystery.
The tinted windows hid the interior. Perhaps a resident has a visitor, Thompson thought, but he was wrong.
The car idled for a minute, then drove on toward the dustbins and stopped. The passenger door opened just enough for a large grey rag to tumble onto the slab.
What sort of people are these, not even tossing rubbish in the bins? Must clean this up after them, the bin man grumbled, hurrying to the spot. The vehicle soon rolled away, leaving Mr. Thompson to curse his wasted effort.
The grey rag was in fact alive; it slithered behind the containers. When Thompson looked into the narrow space between the wall and the bins, he saw a sizeable grey tom, its body huddled, eyes wide with terror.
What on earth? he muttered. Our little yard has become a refuge for the unwanted. First a tiny puppy, then a pair of kittensthankfully someone took them in. Now an adult cat has been cast out. Who would want such a brute? Hell only end up a vagrant. He urged, Come out, dont be shy.
The cat kept its head tucked even deeper.
Get out now, before the rubbish lorry arrives and crushes you with its bins, Thompson called.
The feline remained motionless, like a statue, perched in an awkward, though safe, stance.
Disheartened, Thompson moved on. His work was public, and the days sweep still lay ahead in the next yard.
What a lot of people these are the older man muttered as he trudged away.
Thus the big grey cat of almost British pedigree found itself in a strangers garden, suddenly bereft of roof and the comforts that pets of a household enjoy.
When the rubbish lorry finally turned the corner, the cat, panic flashing in its eyes, bolted from its hiding place and leapt into the yard. With nowhere else to go, the newly homeless creature scrambled into the grass beneath a large bench and curled there, lost in bitter thoughts.
In the cats mind everything seemed turned upside down. He could not fathom why he had been abandoned nor what his next step should be.
A faint hope lingered deep within: perhaps someone would return for him. Better to wait in the yard than risk being lost entirely, the cat decided, though the thought left him trembling.
Mrs. Martha Whitaker, who had given her daughter Emma away in marriage, now lived alone on the second floor of a typical fivestorey block. Emma and her husband lived in the same town and visited often. They were not just mother and child but the best of friends, sharing every secret without a word of discontent.
The neighbours, spotting the clean, calm cat, assumed it belonged to the household and merely roamed the courtyard for a stroll. Mrs. Whitaker herself adored the large grey beauty, watching it with quiet admiration.
When the yard was empty, the cat would climb onto the bench for a better view and safety, especially as autumn set in and no one lingered there any longer.
Passersby hurried past, preoccupied with their own business, paying little heed to the dour sentinel of the bench. The cat spent the night there, for there was nowhere else to go. Venturing far in search of shelter seemed perilous; surely the owners would return at any moment, the cat thought.
Food was scarce. Thanks to the diligent bin man, nothing lay about in the yard. The only sustenance came from the tip, but the cat faced fierce competition from a flock of crowswellfed, confident birds with sturdy beaks that arrived in swarms and claimed the rubbish first. Their sharp eyes never missed a chance to snatch a morsel, and even the occasional dog that nosed around the bins kept its distance, wary of the birds and the gaunt cat.
Weeks of street life transformed the oncewellkept feline into a clearly straysmarked creature. Residents, fearing disease or scratches, strictly forbade the children to approach him.
Yet a few altruistic tenants, including Mrs. Whitaker, left crumbs for the hungry cat. Autumn took full command, drenching the ground with long, dreary rains that turned everything a dull grey.
The cats mood matched the weather; he felt utterly despondent, convinced that no one would ever come for him again.
It was Mrs. Whitakers neighbour, a compassionate young woman named Harriet, who, after hearing the bin mans tale, took notice of the shunned cat. She had often found owners for other street animals, but despite her best efforts, no one would adopt this particular wanderer. Some feared taking in a stray whose owners had vanished for unknown reasons, and persuasion fell on deaf ears.
Harriet consulted her own family, but even she hesitated, fearing she could not manage a fullgrown cat. Mrs. Whitaker felt a pang of pity for the wanderer but could not summon the resolve to take him in. Unbeknownst to them, the cat, overcoming his fear each night, would climb the fireescape near Mrs. Whitakers flat and slip into the flower boxes attached to it, from where he would stare long into the kitchen window, inhaling the comforting scents of home-cooked meals and the warmth he so dearly missed. When the night grew cold, he would return to his bench.
Two months of homelessness passed. Nights grew colder, and the drenched, defeated cat resigned himself to the bench.
At the November holidays, Emma and her husband Eugene arrived to stay with Mrs. Whitaker. She spent the whole day bustling in the kitchen, preparing roasts, salads, pies, and setting a generous spread for the evening.
Another rain, and they say snow is coming by morning, she sighed, placing a teacup on the table and drawing the curtains a little wider. The grey cat stared at her, eyes wide with apprehension.
In an instant the cat leapt backward, nearly slipping off the slick, wet railing.
Whats the matter, mother? Why are you so frightened? Emma asked.
The cat on the balcony, the one that always sits on the bench, is scared too. What if it falls?
How did it get up there? Emma wondered.
They stepped onto the balcony and saw the cat huddled on the bench, its fur matted with rain, trying to preserve the last crumbs of warmth that drifted in from the open window.
It must have crawled up the fireescape, Eugene observed. Brave little thing. We should give him something to eat.
They lingered in the chilly air, then set a kettle on the stove. Mrs. Whitaker, lost in thought, sat at the table as Emma poured tea.
Mother, Ive put a slice of cake with the roseflavoured icing you love. Have some tea while its hot, Emma said gently.
Mrs. Whitaker pulled the curtain aside, tears glistening, and stared out the window.
No, I cant, she whispered, taking a piece of roast meat and heading to the hallway. Ill be right back, she declared, slipping on an old coat.
The cat, trembling in her hands, seemed to revert to a limp grey sack, its paws dangling helplessly. Mrs. Whitaker cradled the shivering stray and brought him inside.
No one ever asked Mrs. Whitaker why she did it. They did not need to, for she was the only resident who acted with true humanity.
The oncescrawny cat spent a week curled under a hot radiator. The rich food mattered less than the comforting domestic heat. Mrs. Whitaker christened him Percy Proctor, adding the dignified middle name Hawthorne to mark his newfound respectability.
Against all doubts, Percy proved an exceptionally genteel fellow, behaving with the decorum of a true English gentleman. If there ever were a perfect cat, it was Percy Hawthorne Proctor. He settled into the family as a cherished member, beloved by all.
From time to time his owner would tease him, Percy Proctor, for what crime were you cast out of a home and left on a bench?
The wandering feline remained silent. He lacked human speech, and even if he possessed it, he could not answer, for he himself did not know.
Percy has now lived in Mrs. Whitakers caring home for nearly two years. He is fed, petted, and content. Yet when he hears raised voices echoing from elsewhere, a lingering fear from his former domestic life flares, and the oncelarge, sturdy cat curls up on the floor, seeking refuge.
Those who know the great grey cat can only guess. Why, indeed, was the perfect cat Percy cast out?
