THE RUSSIAN

The late afternoon sun came streaming through rain dirty windows casting a wild pattern upon the wood floor. The old lady looked up at the clock on the dusty mantlepiece. It had gone past seven and still no sign of Angel. Her aged face relaxed into a beautific smile as she recalled the first meeting with the svelte Russian Blue cat.

It had been a warm sunny afternoon like this one. She’d offered him a meal and a place to rest. Silent and weary he had taken Harry’s old seat opposite her own by the fire. He had no words, but the look in his blue green eyes told her of his gratitude. Then he slept. World weary and somehow battered by life, she watched sleep weave it’s cure, draining the tension from his body.

And so began a pattern. He came to her every day at the same hour.
They ate in companiable silence before the fire. With his fine bright eyes he seemed to be able to tell her of all he’d seen in the world that day.

Since the passing of Harry; her old faithful moggie, she’d felt all alone in the world. No reassuring quiet feline company. No sharing of meals. She’d missed dearly, the kind warmth of that wonderful old cat. She named him Harry after the Clint Eastwood movie as he’d been so dirty and dishevelled when she’d found him at the roadside. He’d shared her life for 15 years. Watching her read, knit or sew. He regail her with tall-tales of his loves and losses. Occasionally she’d wake aware of being watched and there he’d be smiling at her with a gift. Gifts!

Usually some terrified mouse held in submission beneath his huge furry paw. She’d thank him. Rescue the mouse and let it go onto the fire-escape. He’d grin, purr and saunter to the tuna cupboard to reel her in. He had been some cat!

The noise from the busy street below drifted up through the open sash window as she watched the particles of dust swirl in the sunlight. She worried when he was late. The Russian brought an air of calm. In her eighty-four years she’d witnessed history in the making many times over. Watched governments come and go. Hemlines rise and fall. She had raised a family with her dear husband and buried him in the spring of her sixty-seventh year.

In herself she still felt like the same twenty-two year old starting a new life in the big city. Her hair was now snowy, her face etched with laughter lines and worn with care. But, life had been good. Her great grand children came to visit most weekends. Her daughters called in every other day with food and chatter about their own kids and grandkids. She was happy.

By a quarter to eight the sun was fading in the sky. Storm clouds had darkened down a late summers day. Rain gently washed the windows.
She eased herself from the chair and walked slowly to the open window.
“oh Angel where are you?” she thought. As she bent to close the window, a sleek wet shape leapt deftly through and skidded elegantly to a halt on the wooden floor.

There stood Angel soaked to the skin all sleek and black from the rain. He trotted around the kitchen, tail high in happiness to see her. She dried him off till his coat shone blue again. He sat and ate noiselessly by the fire. The flames seemed to gild his body. She watched and waited for this beautiful little creature to claim his usual seat. After meticulously washing his face. He sat for some time just watching her. Then he spoke. A clear contented stream of miaows.

To her surprize, he leapt onto the arm of her chair. She daren’t breathe.
His hopeful eyes searched her own for a full minute before settling on her lap purring deeply and sinking into sleep. She ran her fingers over his silken coat, and thought about the original blue grey cats brought from Archangel, Russia by immigrants at the turn of the century. These mysterious intelligent creatures were now sought after all over the world.

And here he was asleep, her cat. Her Angel or as the great grandkids would have it ” the Russian, who came in from the cold ”.

© FCS 2003-2009

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