Mabel in the Shadows

I loved to tuck myself into the armchair behind the sash window, letting the warm sunshine play on my fur, ears pricked to the birdsong outside. I was an enthusiastic bird-watcher in those days, springing to attention to observe their fluttering wings as they came to the feeder. People assume that witches’ cats are black, but that’s a colourist stereotype. I was a tabby with jade-green eyes, ‘hiding in plain sight’, as she put it. The same applied to Herself. People saw what they expected – a mild-mannered academic, tall and lean, her dark hair tied back with a black velvet clip. It’s true she might get a little heated when teaching the European Witch Hunt to her mostly indifferent Second Years but who could make anything of that?

I was born in the shed beside her house, one of four stray kittens tumbling over each other in the dust and dried leaves blown in through the open door. It was the end house of a high brick terrace, with a long, unkempt garden behind, perfect for prowling. Our mother, an elegant tabby with a hint of Persian, was killed by a huge, black four-by-four that roared up the street as she was tripping delicately off the pavement. I don’t expect the driver even noticed, but we, watching from where we crouched under the hedge, were horrified to see her transformed in a second into a flattened heap in the gutter. Herself took pity on the smallest kitten, bullied by the others when she left out the cat-bowl, and took me in to the porch to feed me up. I never left.

Not that I surrendered my independence – no self-respecting cat does that! But I permitted her to feed and stroke me. I’d sit on her lap gazing up into her grey eyes and purring encouragement, while she told me how beautiful I was, and what adventures we were going to have. In time she trained me and I became her familiar – I learned to help her find herbs for spells and gathered a few frogs and mice for the cauldron. We exchanged opinions about the strength of potions – my feline sense of smell was sharper than hers, I could judge the subtle scents of the mixtures more precisely. We had a small herb garden by the back door. The Professor, immersed in his own world of books and computer, wouldn’t have noticed, but her son, visiting from abroad, overheard our conversation and joked that we were discussing philosophy. But mostly we were simply planning our excursions. Oh yes, they were on a broomstick of hazel wood, adapted for comfort. She rode on a bicycle saddle and fixed a short plank where I could perch comfortably in front of her. We hid it in the shed, behind the spades and hoes, and on moonlit nights stole away, leaving the Professor snoring in their bed upstairs.

We’d loop-the-loop high above the bare branches of the beech trees at the end of the garden, saluting other witches and their familiars, some alive like us, whooping at the moon; others the ghosts of past denizens of the night. I would twitch my tail at an almost transparent cat, catching its purr on the wind… We attended parties, held around a fire in a forest clearing. I remember us dancing to the wild music of spectral violins, laughing figures weaving circles in the light of flickering flames, the smell of wood smoke and pine trees... On other nights we held gatherings there, addressed by one of the Sisterhood on subjects such as ‘Sourcing and annealing your wand’, or ‘Broomstick maintenance,’ or ‘How to counteract global warming with spells’. When Herself went vegetarian we had to rethink many of our spells and she gave a talk on ‘New recipes for the vegetarian witch’. I made friends with a handful of other cats, and we’d sing fabulous serenades to the moon, a-cat-pella, of course!

We played a few pranks too, Herself and myself. We made Mat O’Leary’s van swerve in front of the squad car one night, so that they arrested him for drunk driving. Oh, he was drunk all right, and I’m sure we saved some cat or human from being run down, eventually, but he was used to driving drunk and wouldn’t have swerved if we hadn’t zoomed him with the broomstick!

And we got our own back on Imelda Moriarty for dumping her rubbish over our fence. She thought the garden so neglected we wouldn’t notice. I didn’t mind – I’d managed to salvage half a fish-finger from the heap – but Herself was outraged. The following night we broke into her newly decorated sitting-room – it’s easy to sail through patio doors on a hazel broomstick – bringing a tin of powdered charcoal and dabbing my right paw into the pot, I made some drawings and prints on her light blue walls … Small things, but they made us laugh.

But mostly we made spells to help humans with their difficulties – what a contrary species – I don’t know what they’d do without our assistance! We’d put love potions in people’s drinks when we thought they were meant for each other but too shy to make a move – we cats are much less complicated in our courting! The effects didn’t last, but our help gave them a start… We stopped would-be suicides from jumping over bridges, freezing them in their tracks until they had time to reflect, and whispering that the sadness would pass and not to waste their one precious chance at life. We wrapped bereaved old ladies in a gossamer of happy memories to lighten their day. We showed playground bullies what it felt like to be frightened.

Occasionally, we made mistakes, especially when we were trying out new vegetarian recipes for a book she was writing. Just at the wrong moment I jumped onto the table, twining around the pots and jars, as I liked to do, and my tail must have waved over the cauldron, because it suddenly turned a florescent pink! Herself burst out laughing and I followed her gaze backwards. I arched my back and spat in horror, but she just went on laughing. ‘What’s so funny?’ I hissed. ‘This is disgusting! I never liked bling!’

‘I’ll be able to find you in the dark now,’ she chuckled.

‘No way! Reverse it this minute.’

‘I think we used the last of the St John’s Wort flowers,’ she replied. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to stay like that till the next batch of flowers appears.’ And so I remained for the next few days, seated in her study on a pink cushion for camouflage, tucking my florescent tail around me, only able to venture out late at night, keeping to the hedge in the hope that the glow wouldn’t attract attention. If the Professor missed me at dinner, he never said. She told me to stay still if he popped his head around the study door. He’d never notice the tail. People generally don’t register small things they’re not expecting.

We lived together happily for years, brewing up our concoctions for spell-casting, taking our regular excursions, and just being together. I spent many an afternoon curled up on her knee as she wrote at her desk; she cooked me delicious fish dinners. The Professor, when he noticed me at all, didn’t like me. ‘I’m not a cat person,’ he would remark. ‘Am I a person cat?’ I wondered. He objected to my sitting on Her lap, especially at dinner time. He’d arrive in from the pub, where he went after a day in his study at the computer. Herself would serve dinner. Sometimes, he’d still be reading the book he brought to the table. As soon as she was seated, I’d spring onto her lap, kneading her legs in affection.

‘Get that dirty cat away from the table,’ he’d look up and bark. Dirty indeed.

‘She’s doing no harm, John,’ she’d reply. But she’d lift me down gently to the floor. Sometimes, I’d jump back up again, making my point. One day, when he noticed me dribbling a little as I purred, he took his plate, scraped back his chair and headed out the door and back to his study. That suited me fine. She sat for a while, head bowed, sighed, put me down, and went over to the sink to wash the dishes.

Then suddenly, misfortune struck. Herself was awarded a fellowship to do some research in Australia. She would be gone for six long weeks. She bought cans of food for me and set about preparing meals to put in the freezer for the Professor, each one clearly labelled.

‘It’s only for six weeks,’ she whispered in my ear, ‘In a few months I’ll be able to retire and we’ll spend every day together’.

The Professor promised he’d look after me, but I knew what that meant. He often forgot to feed me, engrossed in his writing. He never cleaned my bowl, and we cats are fastidious creatures. I couldn’t eat new food piled on top of stinky old stuff. He let the water in my basin go cloudy. The final showdown came when my litter tray filled up. He pronounced it disgusting and refused to touch it. At last, I left a tiny little deposit on the floor beside the tray, just a hint. Well! He shouted that I was a filthy beast and kicked me out the door. For good. I yowled outside for a bit but it had no effect and was undignified, so I gave up.

I foraged for sustenance as best I could, catching mice and even the odd rat, but my speed was failing – I was an old cat by now and maybe not quite as independent as I’d always assumed. I’d linger on the stone steps or wander disconsolately in the garden. By the time Herself returned, I’d taken myself under the beech trees to die.

I watched the Professor open the door to greet her as she carried her bag into the house. She was out again minutes later, calling me. I replied at once, miaowing and twining myself around her legs as usual but she couldn’t hear me, and eventually returned indoors. Day after day, I would watch her come and go to work and then after she retired, pottering around the garden or writing in her study, the Professor going off for his pint every afternoon.

Later on – I’m a little vague about time these days – it was a sunny, breezy morning in spring. Herself came out to the back garden and I noticed how grey and bent she had become. She worked away piling up twigs and branches for a bonfire and went into the shed, returning with the broomstick. Our broomstick! With a lurch, I recalled her telling me that the only way to destroy a witch’s broomstick was by fire. I rushed after her, aware she couldn’t hear me anymore. But she turned in surprise, dropping the stick as she did so, and realised that I had disappeared again. Grabbing it hastily, she stared and began to cry, reaching out to stroke my head, starting when her hand went through thin air. We talked for ages until she had to go inside and make the dinner. Now she comes out to me whenever she can, spending time weeding in the garden to cover her tracks. The neighbours say she’s odd and has taken to talking to herself. She doesn’t ride the broomstick any more – ‘Witches get old and arthritic like everyone else, my dear,’ but she didn’t burn it.

And here I remain, hidden in the woodland, bathed in the green light of summer, filtering through the beech branches or nestling among drifts of russet leaves in the winter, waiting for her to join me in time. We’ll soar together again, the wind at our backs, over the treetops in the moonlight.