A Christmas story. By Charles Roberts

 

A holly wreath surrounded the polished brass lion’s head knocker on the old oak door.  Inside.  The large black cat sat impassively on the grubby table looking down at the old woman who rocked slowly in the batted rocking chair.  The room hadn't been cleaned for years and the dust lay thick on everything, stale and putrefying food still on the plates and in the pots.  The sink, thick with grime and dirt, overflowed with dirty plates and cooking pots.  With each movement of the chair, the old cat could hear a faint crunch as the curved wooden runners moved in the groove caused by their long years of movement in the earthen floor.

“I know thy’s looking at me,” the old woman said, her eyes still closed.  Her dirty white hair hanging down almost to the floor and swinging with each rock of the chair.  Long white eyebrows almost covering her closed dark brown eyes, her long hooked nose and overlong curved chin almost touching.  Her heavily creased skin, which was once white, but now dark grey with grime and in-grained dirt.  Her head resting against a greasy, dirty cushion, the once white collar of her dress now a grimy yellow, tight against her filthy neck.  Old, stale food spattered down the front of her black dress the sleeves of which had worn trough at the elbows with age, the cuffs ragged and torn.  Her long-wrinkled hands and fingers thick with grime and dirt rested on the arms of the rocker.

“Didst 'ear me?” she questioned, again without opening her eyes.  “I said that I can feel yer lookin’ at me!”

“Aye!” the cat answered, “I 'eard you.  Is thy bound for to sit i' that chair all day?”

“I’ll sit 'ere for as long as I see fit.  If you’re a wantin for ought thy can get it thyself.”

“But...!”

“Now 'ush with thee, can’t you see I's thinking, or does thy want changing to a mouse?”

Just then, an old owl, who was perched atop a dust laden welsh dresser, opened its eyes and looked at the cat hungrily as it moved its weight from one foot to the other.  The cat glanced up at the old owl, then stood and walked through the muck and grime to the opposite side of the table, he lept across to the sink landing on an upturned cooking pot, which moved slightly knocking a filthy plate from its precarious balancing spot to shatter on the floor beneath.  He tried to look out of the grime-covered window, licked his front left paw, which he used to wipe a hole in the grime.

“Snowin’!” he called.

“Much?” the old woman asked.

“Aye!  Comin’ down ‘ard.”

“Good!”

“Be dark soon!”

“Never gets dark when it snows.”

“No!  Keeps folk in their ‘ouses though.”

“Just what we want!”

“What’s thy thinkin’ about?”

“Thy’ll find out when I’m good an’ ready.”

The old cat turned and jumped back to the table disturbing yet another filthy plate which dropped and shattered on the earthen floor.

“Does thee ‘ave to make all that row?” the old woman called without moving, “am I going to ‘ave any pots left by time thy’s finished?”

“May be if thy washed and….”

“Don’t go tellin’ me what to do an’ not to do.  Thy ought to remember thy position i’ this ‘ouse.”  She casually waved her right hand and the two broken plates flew back up to the sink and landed on top of the pile, whole once more, as though nothing had happened.

“Are yer thinking ‘bout ‘im?”

“I’m a thinkin’, that’s all thy needs to know.”

“So, it is ‘bout ‘im!”

“Thy’s getting’ too clever for thy own boots thy is.  Sure you don’t fancy a change?”

The old owl spread his wings and gave a few flaps, all the while looking down at the cat, hungrily, dust swirling from the dresser top with each wing beat.

“No!” the cat said glancing up at the owl.  Aye!  I know what thy’s waitin’ for too, he thought as he walked through the grime and filth on the table to sit looking down at the old woman who was still rocking slowly, both hands on the arm rests and her long dirty hair swinging in time with each movement of the chair.

“Cans’t thou see village lights?”

“No!” the cat said, glancing towards the dirty window.

“Snows so thick then?”

“Aye!  Aye it is.  Anyone goin’ out this eve ‘d be a fool.” He thought for a while, then, “or mad!” he said.

“Or mad!  Do you think me mad?”

“Nay!”

“But thy thinks me an old fool does thee not?”

“Nay!  But when thy’s thinkin’ bout ‘im, then…”

“Who says I’s a thinkin’ bout ‘im?”

“’Tis writ clear across thy face.  Every year thy thinks ‘bout ‘im.  Every year at this time, thy mind is full o’ ‘im and thy memories.”

“Memories!  Aye!  That’s all I has left.  Memories!”

“Why does’t thy think about ‘im at this time o’ year?”

“’Cause!” she spat looking up at the cat sitting on the table.

“’Cause what?”

“’Cause this is when ‘e went away.”  She said resuming her position and closing her eyes once more

“Left yer!”

“No!  ‘E went away.  ‘E were a friend and thy don’t forget friends.”

“Never?”

“What would thee know about ‘avin’ friends, thy’s just a cat.  When thy makes friends, it takes time.  Days, weeks, months even, and thy’s friends ‘til thy heart stops to beat, ‘till thy brain stops thinkin’ and thy thinks ‘bout ‘em every day, even when they’s gone.”

“But 'e' may not be dead!'

“'Ow does’t thee know?  'As't tha seen 'im?”

“Nay!  I's not seen 'im!”

“Well ‘old thee gob then.  If thy doesn’t know, keep it to theeself.”

Just then the old cat noticed a mouse run out from under the dresser, he licked his lips at the thought of fresh meat, but something caught his eye, it was the old owl.  Who in one movement swooped down from his perch, on the top of the dresser, grabbed the mouse in his talons, flew round the room to land back on top of the dresser in a cloud of dust.  The cat looked up at the old owl and scowled as he watched the old bird swallow the mouse whole.  Thee wait, he thought, one day thy’ll let thy guard down and I’ll ‘ave thee and she won’t be able to do nought about it.  I’ll ‘ave thee if it’s the last thing I do.  He continued watching the bird and listening to the wooden runners grating on the earthen floor as the old woman rocked slowly.

A silence engulfed the room broken only by the soft sound of the wooden runners on the earth floor.  Hours passed, or it may have been only minutes, the old cat pricked his ears up and turned his head to look at the door, the old owl too took his eyes off the woman and looked at the door in expectation.  The rocking stopped and the room became totally silent and still.  This silence was broken by a soft tapping on the door.  The old woman turned in her chair and looked, first towards the door, then to the cat.

“Dids’t ‘ear that,” she whispered.  The cat rose, walked across the grubby table, watching where he was putting his feet.  He reached the far side and stopped, ears pricked, listening for the slightest sound.  “Cans’t thy ‘ear anything?” the old woman asked.

“Shush!” the cat said in annoyance, half turning his head towards her.  There it was again, a soft tapping on the door.

“Who’s there?” the old woman called loudly.

Silence.  Followed by the soft tapping on the old oak door.

“It must be that damned wreath moving in the wind,” she said eventually.

“No wind tonight,” the cat said quietly.

Again, the tapping on the door, but this time a little louder.

“Who’s there?” the old woman called.

Silence followed for a while to be broken by the tapping on the door, this time a little louder.

“If thy knows what’s good for thee, thy’ll stop it and go away.” She called loudly.

Silence again to be followed by a louder knocking on the door.

The old woman braced her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself up to stand on the dirt floor, she listened to the silence, to see if she could hear anyone outside in the snow.  She looked through the window at the snow falling thick and heavy.

The knock on the door again, this time louder.

“Who is it?”

“Is thy goin’ to let me Bess?” a man’s voice called out, “I’ve journeyed long this night and am in need of some good company.”

“It’s ‘im,” the cat said looking back at the woman.

“Aye it is,” she said waving her arms about her head and muttering something, as she did so, all the pots and plates in the sink became clean and flew around the room to find their rightful place in the Welsh dresser, the table cleaned itself, much to the disgust of the cat as a wet cloth almost swept him from his position on the table edge.  The old owl almost disappeared in a cloud of dust as another cloth whisked along the top of the rapidly filling dresser.

“Come in, don’t wait outside in the cold and snow. Get theeself in, t’doors never locked for thee.”

The door swung slowly open and in stepped a tall, rotund man.  He had long white hair and a long white beard.

“By gum Bess it’s good for to see you again.  The old place is looking fine,” he said as a dirty duster flew passed his head to shake itself outside.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, tears rolling down her dirty cheeks, “how long ‘as it been, seems like years.”

“Just the one Bess,” he said closing the door behind him, “just the one.”

“Thy’ll ‘ave a drink and a bite?  I suppose thy’ll be off on thy travels shortly.”

“Tonight’s the night Bess, old girl.  The busiest night of the year.  I can’t stop, but I just had to drop in to see if my old friend was still about and well.”

“As can be.  I’m a gettin’ old now my friend, I’m a gettin’ old and one of these days….”

“Nay Bess.  I’ll not have you talk like that.  You’re not old.  Not my Bess.”

“What does thy mean, ‘busiest night o’ the year.’  Thy’s not still goin’ t’ all them work ‘ouses and debtors’ prisons is thee?”

“The children have nothing Bess.  Someone has to give them something at Christmas time.”

“I’ that case thy’d better ‘ave these,” she waved her hand in the air and a large sack appeared by the door. 

“You’re not still casting your spells are you?  You’ll get caught one of these days my girl.  You know that one wrong word from someone who is jealous of you….”

“Jealous o’ me!  Why I got nothin’ to be jealous of.  Look at me, an old woman in an old ‘ouse wi’ an old cat.”

The cat looked at his mistress and meowed, while the old owl shuck his feathers, closed his eyes and went back to sleep while the mouse meal digested.

“You take care Bess,” he said as he pulled his sable trimmed red coat on and opened the door, “cold out this night Bess,” he said as a flurry of snow blew round the now open door.  He pulled a white fur trimmed red hat out of his coat pocket and put it on.  “Take care of yourself Bess and I’ll see you next year.  Hopefully I’ll be able to stay longer and talk.  This snow has delayed me this year.”

“If thy’s goin’ through t’ village, thy wouldn’t mind doin’ me a favour wouldst thee?  For to save me goin’ out i’ this weather”

“And what would that be Bess?”  She waved her hand above her head again and another, smaller, sack appeared.

“Drop them off to all t’ poor o’ village.”

He looked at the sack, then glanced back at her, “what do you call this Bess?”

“T’ magic o’ Christmas my friend.”

He looked into the sack, then picked it up with a shake of his head then went out into the cold night air.  The door swung shut with a bang, waking up the old owl, who looked around the room, then closed his eyes once more and went back to his dreams of a room full of fat mice.

“Told thee ‘e’d come,” she said to the cat as she went back to her rocking chair.  Soon all that could be heard in the room was the quiet crunch of the wooden runners on the hard earth floor.