Footsteps in the Snow and other Teatime Treats by Trisha Ashley

Author:Trisha Ashley [Trisha Ashley]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2014-05-23T16:00:00+00:00

10

First published by Your Cat Magazine

A KITTEN TOO FAR

At ninety, my mother was all frail bones and bird-bright eyes but still stubbornly independent, though after the last of her ancient cats finally passed away, I’d noticed that she tended to dwell more on the past than the present.

I became increasingly worried about her living alone, though I knew she wouldn’t agree to come and live with us, because she and my husband had never got on.

“You be careful, our Jenny,” she’d warned me on my wedding day, within earshot of poor Desmond. “There’s no trusting a man who can’t abide cats.”

But after a fall led to a visit to the accident and emergency department, I said to her firmly,

“Now Mum, you remember we’ve always agreed that when the last of the cats went, you’d move into residential accommodation near us? Well, I think that time has come.”

Of course, she resisted the idea. “If you hadn’t made me give up Shelly for rehoming, I’d still have a cat,” she said obstinately. “And I’m fine on my own.”

But she looked frightened even as she said it and I could see the fall had shaken her up.

“The neighbours complained enough about eight cats,” I pointed out, “Shelly was a kitten too far. But the rescue centre said they’d found her a lovely home.”

“She had one of those with me,” she snapped crossly, but I ignored that and got out some brochures of retirement homes I’d been to see, near enough for me to pop in every day. I’d narrowed the list down to three that were clean, bright, modern and efficiently run, but of course when I took her to visit them, she found fault with them all …

Then a friend asked me if I’d consider a small residential home in a nearby village. “A friend’s aunt’s there and she’s very happy, but it’s not a purpose built, modern place like the ones you’ve been looking at.”

“Mum didn’t seem to like those at all,” I said gloomily. “She said they smelled of disinfectant and hospitals, and the light bouncing off the painted walls made her eyes ache.”

“She might prefer somewhere like The Hollies, then,” she suggested. “It’s an old house set back in nice gardens and more homely than smart.”

Well, I thought it was worth a go, so I loaded my mutinous mother into the car and set out yet again, though I wasn’t hopeful, just desperate.

The house, which was up a leafy lane, was a square Victorian redbrick and Mum perked up slightly.

“Eh,” she said, “I worked in a house just like this before I met your father.”

“You never told me about that!”

“I never told you a lot of things,” she said darkly, but at least unlike the previous places we’d seen, she let me help her out of the car without protesting.

The owner, a plump, pleasant, middle-aged woman, who introduced herself as Mrs Jones (‘but do call me Maria – there’s no formality here’), showed us around and I noticed that

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