“Matilda from the Council Flat, or How the Cat Brought the Old Man Back to Life”
—Simon, she’s still just lying there, — Mary’s voice was barely above a whisper, trembling as if weighed down by more than just worry. She stood by the window, her forehead pressed against the glass, peering into the overgrown courtyard of their ageing council flat in one of the older corners of Manchester. —Hasn’t moved for hours. Doesn’t even twitch an ear…
—Might be dead already if it’s not moving, — grunted Simon, eyes fixed on the telly where a football match played with a raspy commentator.
—Simon, honestly! — Mary shot him a reproachful look. —She’s alive. Eyes open. But they’re empty… Doesn’t see a thing, just stares at one spot like she’s looking into the past.
—Means she’s ill. Her time’s come, that’s all. Found herself a grave under our birch tree.
—No, Simon. It’s that cat. From flat five. The owner’s funeral was yesterday, remember? Old Mrs. Higgins—ten years older than us. And her kids… took the flat, tossed the cat out like rubbish. Saw it myself—slammed the door shut, and there she sat, waiting.
Simon frowned. He remembered old Mrs. Higgins—used to nod to her husband back when they’d chat on the bench. The man had even rallied the lads to put up the playground and benches years ago. Now? Grandkids visit once a year, and the cat’s left alone.
—Yesterday, you say, — he muttered. —Couldn’t the kids take her?
—Simon, all they cared about were the square metres. Memories, books, even the cat who lived with their mum over a decade—straight in the bin. Disgusting.
She slipped into the hallway, tugged on her shoes, and left. Fifteen minutes later, she returned with the cat in her arms—grey, scrawny, but breathing. It didn’t struggle, as if it had already given up.
—Judge me all you like, I couldn’t leave her! — Mary called from the doorway, setting the poor thing on the rug.
The cat—just a common tabby, no spring chicken, with hollow eyes like her soul had been scorched out—curled up by the door, unmoving.
Simon said nothing. Just turned away. But Mary wasn’t done: she warmed some broth in the kitchen, shredded chicken into it.
By morning, the bowl was empty.
—There, clever girl, you ate! Means you want to live. Your owner’s waiting… but not yet, alright?
But settling in was slow. A week passed, and the cat still camped by the door. Only her eyes followed anyone coming or going. Slept by day, ate at night. Not a sound.
It grated on Simon.
—Sprawled right in the way! — he grumbled. —No room to breathe. Pick another corner, why don’t you?
Once, he even nudged her with a shopping bag.
—Blimey, shift already! — he snapped, but the tabby just looked at him—no anger, just like he was a stranger. Like the whole world was.
After that, she moved to the living room. Pressed against the wall like a shadow. No complaints, no meows, no rustling. Just existed.
—Call this a cat? — Simon huffed. —More like a ghost.
—Shame on you, Simon! — Mary flared up. —She’s waiting for her owner. They were together all those years… Imagine it’s you one day—sat in a corner, kids whispering behind your back, grandkids climbing over you, just reminiscing… Pray someone’s there to hold your hand.
Simon fell quiet. A pang in his chest. She was right. They say how you treat animals tells how you’ll treat people. He stopped grumbling. Even bought a bag of proper cat food. First time in his life.
Then, the impossible happened.
Mary came back from their daughter’s—babysitting the grandson. Heard Simon talking the moment she stepped in. Not to himself, not on the phone. She walked in—Simon in his armchair, the tabby—now Matilda, as he’d taken to calling her—perched on the armrest, staring right at him.
—Life… breaks you. But it mends you, too. Just got to make it to morning. And have someone there. Doesn’t have to be a person. Just… someone who won’t turn away, — he said, like a confession.
—And she understands you, does she? — Mary smirked, blinking back tears.
—Course she does. Right, Matilda?
—Mrow, — came the firm reply.
Mary laughed—first proper laugh in ages.
—Alright, philosopher, fetch some flour. I’ll make pancakes. Fancy some?
Simon didn’t answer. Just stroked Matilda and left. She watched him go. Warmly. Almost human.
Half an hour later, he returned with flour… and more cat food.
—Heard the lads are playing dominoes by the benches. Fancy joining. Been a while.
—You’re daft. I’m not playing that nonsense, — Mary chuckled.
—Wasn’t asking you. Matilda. We’re going.
Mary watched from the window—two figures crossed the courtyard. An old man and a cat. He talked, she listened. A peaceful pair. Almost like family.
