A Guest For Breakfast

Dark. Chickens. And a musty smell of wet goat and hay.

Goat? Curious.

Muffled pattering. Coming from above. Light rain? Probably a wooden roof?

Wind. And creaking. Definitely wood somewhere.

Rustling. Snuffling. Languid clucking. Morning sounds.

A dusty strand of gray light, iced with the faintest breath of cool air.

Ah. That way.

Floor dirt? All the way down? Anyway, solid enough, and dry.

A whiff of mouse. Fresh? Close by?

Not important now, but good to keep in mind—just in case.

The crack. Floor level. Just enough space to sniff.

Definitely wet goats. Chickens. Hay. Damp wood. Dirt. Human?

One?

Footsteps. Just one set human. Dog?

No. Excellent.

Now if I just lean a little this way . . .

Damn. A little more force?

No. Alright. How about underneath?

Not this way. Over here?

Aha. That did something at least. Very well. Let’s see if you can be useful.

. . .

Evie had her hand on the coop latch when she saw a small grey paw emerge from beneath the old tack room door. It felt its way along methodically from the middle to the right and then back again left. Evie set down her basket. The paw stopped. Then slowly drew itself back under the door. Both she and it seemed to wait, no hurry on either side, and then there came a light tapping from inside the tack room. A pause. Tap tap tap. A pause. Then a very polite mewing.

“Hello there.” Evie took a step towards the door and, having done so, released a torrent of much more insistent knocking from within. She had met her fair share of frightened strays, so Evie went calmly outside and came back with Alf’s old rake, which he always left leaning carelessly against the side of the barn this time of year. (“No use making more work for myself putting it away when I’ll just need it again in the morning.”) She stuck out the old plastic handle and carefully nudged the tack room latch. It gave a reluctant groan as it stretched languidly upwards, then slipped its catch and subsided again to rest. The door also sighed morosely as it swung haltingly towards Evie—just enough. A face emerged. Followed by the rest of a small, grey tabby cat. It took two steps out of the tack room and then sat—carefully, purposefully—curled its tail around its toes and regarded her with polite interest. Evie felt oddly as if she were an unexpected guest in her own barn and was now to be interviewed to see if she would be permitted entry into the cat’s tack room.

“Who are you then? Did Alf lock you in yesterday?”

The cat continued to watch her, a look of mild curiosity in its green eyes, but said nothing in response.

“I’d have thought you’d be a bit more keyed up, being locked in all night. Though I am obliged if you made yourself a good supper of some of the mice.”

Mice. Yes. I’ll have to look into that before I leave.

The cat’s expression hadn’t changed. Evie felt she was being tolerated, but that, just perhaps, this cat had more important things to be getting along with.

“Alright then. Well, ‘long as you’re feeling fine, I’ll be getting along with collecting the eggs. Alf’ll have the kettle on by this point and be waiting for breakfast.”

The cat seemed to smile and gave a small trill of sympathy. But kept its place on the tack room threshold. Ever the gracious host.

“Right. If you’re needing anything then, you know where we are.”

Why in the world she had to explain herself to a stray cat, she couldn’t say. But here she was. At least she could be confident he wasn’t about to attack her, and if he’d needed help out of the tack room, the chickens would be safe enough. Evie leaned Alf’s old rake against the wall by the barn door, collected her basket, and returned to the chickens. The sassy old broads were fully awake now, chatting amiably amongst themselves as Evie let herself into the coop, scattered a few handfuls of feed in the trough, and set about collecting the morning’s breakfast. She kept glancing over her shoulder, and the cat continued to sit, patiently watching, that half-smug look of indulgent approval on his fine face.

Helpful, polite, deferential. And I remember your face. Not quite according to plan, but this will do nicely for now.

He was sitting there still five minute later when Evie—eggs in basket and chickens fed—let herself out of the coop and turned towards the hungry goats.

“Now you’re welcome to all the mice you like, and I don’t think you’d be so rude as to fluster the ladies, but just in case, I will ask you leave the chickens to themselves.”

Chickens are too much trouble anyway.

The goats knocked happily against her legs and gave her wellys a few gentle nibbles as she spread their breakfast in their indoor trough—no one ought to eat in the drizzle.

“And I know you’re too smart a one to go bothering the goats. It would be a shame to muss that shiny coat with a hoof mark.”

I am certainly too smart to associate with goats. Polite of you to notice.

The cat continued to smile beatifically as she let herself out of the barn and headed back towards the house.

Alf had indeed got the kettle on—and also had the bacon going—by the time Evie came through to the kitchen. She set the basket on the floor by the stove and went to the fridge for a pat of butter.

“I met the strangest cat in the barn this morning.” She pulled the frying pan from its home on the back burner and ran the pat around the inside.

“How’s that then?” The kettle gave a whistle and Alf heaved himself up from his seat at the table to fetch the pot.

“He must have snuck into the tack room when you were out last night and got himself stuck, poor thing. Funny little soul, though. Asked to be let out, polite as you please, then just sat and watched me collect the eggs and do the feeding. I felt so strangely as if I’d intruded on his breakfast and he was too polite to slam the door in my face and send me away.” She cracked four eggs into the bowl of milk Alf had left for her on the counter and began to whisk as the butter warmed itself in the pan.

Alf considered the pot as he poured in the water. “Odd thing. I can’t remember seeing a cat last night. I also can’t remember opening the door to the tack room. Sure I didn’t need anything in there—just left the rake outside. Knew I’d need it again today with all the leaves coming down. There must be a hole in the back wall of the barn.”

“Then why would he need letting out? A mystery to be sure. Well, perhaps we’ll see him again. Handsome thing he was.” Evie poured half the eggs into the sizzling butter and Alf set the steeping pot of tea on the table with the cozy on top.

They did see the cat again. Just after breakfast. Evie had just stood from the table to start the washing up when its bright green eyes appeared in the kitchen window.

“Alf. Here he is!”

Yes, here I am.

Alf looked up from the puzzle he was working in the morning paper and said, “Well, there he is indeed,” and lowered his head again.

The cat glanced curiously around the kitchen, then turned his benevolent gaze again upon Evie, whose eyes were just about on a level with his as she stood at the sink. It opened its mouth and bobbed its head as if to say, “Well, are you coming?” before turning gracefully and leaping off the window sill and onto the back porch. Here, it turned again, folded its tail around its toes once more, and waited.

The real test now. Will you be good enough to come back out in the rain to let me where I need to go?

Evie put down the dishcloth and went out to it.

Perfect. Everything according to plan after all.

She had only just released the back door knob when the cat unfurled its tail and trotted happily down the porch steps and back towards the barn. Evie followed, across the lawn and in through the old red door (“we really should get around to getting this rehung before winter”). When her eyes had once more adjusted to the musty gloom, she saw the cat, sitting once more in front of the tack room door. The obstinate old thing must have creaked shut again after she’d left, and for some reason, known only to himself, the cat seemed to want back in.

Come along then, I haven’t got all day.

“You are an odd one. found a taste for our mice, have you? Well, you’re welcome to them any time.”

Not really, I have better breakfast waiting for me at home, but it is only right that you should offer.

Feeling more at ease now they were a better acquainted, Evie crossed to the tack room and tugged open the door again.

“I’ll just tuck this old brick in here so you don’t get stuck again.”

Better and better.

"Help yourself to all the mice you’d like.”

I will, thank you.

Brick in place, she retreated a modest distance and smiled down at the cat.

The cat smiled back, gave a chirp, then turned neatly and disappeared back into the tack room. Evie stood a moment or two, listening to the gentle rustlings of a cat exploring, and then, quite suddenly, all was silence. The chickens chatted away behind her, the goats snickered at their own private jokes as they foraged around in the damp leaves just outside, but from within the tack room, nothing.

Evie stepped quietly to the door. She listened. Still quiet. She grabbed the handle, pulled it back just enough to let in some light, and peered through into the gloom. Shadows.

“Hello?”

She took another step into the tack room and clicked on the old bulb which hung from the lowest rafter. There were the feed bins, lids firmly latched. There were the rest of Alf’s gardening tools, hung neatly on their pegs. Her summer hat. His barn boots. Dust. And nothing else. No mice, no hole, and no grey face.

The cat had gone.