A Work In Progress
The old woman yawned and stretched out her arms until her fingers clicked. She pulled herself slowly up from the chair and reached for the gnarled wooden stick which stood against the wall in the corner. The television spoke static into the dark room. The old woman stood watching it for a moment, inclining her head as if listening to a news story. She jabbed at the screen with the stick, a short, sharp jab. On the third go she succeeded in hitting the off button and the television slowly died into darkness, the black and white patterns of static haunting the screen for a few seconds before blackness overtook the room.
The old woman shuffled across the room, one hand grasping the polished wooden head of the stick. Blue moonlight crept in from behind the half drawn curtains and the room was bathed in a timeless nighttime aura. The woman could see fine in the blue light but reached out to where a lantern hung on the wall and swung open its glass door. Inside a thick candle stood melted to the base, a crooked and blackened wick awaiting a flame. The woman fumbled in a drawer, throwing out old newspaper cuttings onto the floor.
Across the room, in a pile of old coats and fisherman’s jumpers a black cat stirred slowly from its sleep. It’s head shook slowly as the noises of the old woman’s rummaging crept into his dreams. The cat stretched out its paws and settled back into sleep. A crash shook his fur and he jumped up to land on four feet, watching intently and silently from the shadows of the collection of coats and jumpers as the old woman swore across the room.
She bent down slowly to retrieve the dropped matches and seeing that the noise belonged to her, the cat crept forward and wound itself around her legs.
‘Shoo,’ she said, groping for the matches, ‘you’re in the way.’ The cat coiled itself tightly around her shins, ignoring the bony fingers that jabbed into his sides as they sought out the matches from beneath him.
‘Mikhail!’ The woman cried and she jabbed her stick into the cats ribs. Mikhail shot off to the other side of the room where he sat hissing at the woman from beside the sink, his tail curling around unwashed dishes.
‘Oh quiet down. Pussy.’ The old woman said. She straightened up with a cracking of her back as old bones slid into familiar places. She slid the matches open and scratched one along the strip on the side of the packet, filing one of her fingernails blunt in the process. She held the struggling light to the lamp and blew a reddish dust from the candle. She offered the flame to the wick and suddenly a red light filled the room.
The woman put the match out with the tip of her tongue then threw it towards Mikhail on the sink. By now the cat had settled down and was licking a dirty plate. The woman ambled towards him.
‘Good,’ she said, the red light sending deep shadows across her face. ‘Are we friends now?’
The cat said nothing but when the old woman kicked his bowl out from under the table he jumped into life and began once again to wrap himself around her legs.
‘You’re the ficklest cat I’ve ever known.’ She said as she brought a cold half empty bottle of milk from the fridge.
‘Pass me that bowl’ she said, but Mikhail stayed where he was. Using the stick the old woman managed to hook the bowl and with a quick movement of her wrist she sent it spinning into the air. It turned once, twice in front of her eyes in the red lights and then quick as a heartbeat she snatched it from the air with her spare hand. Mikhail rolled his eyes.
The old woman set the bowl down on the side and took out a dusty bottle of rum from the bread bin. She set it up right on the counter and searched amongst the dirty crockery for a glass. Into the bowl she poured the milk and then set the bottle down in a wet ring on the sideboard. The red light coming from the candle turned the milk pink. The old woman shook the bottle of rum and watched as dark shapes moved through the glass. She unscrewed the lid slowly and slopped some of the dark liquid into the cat’s milk.
‘Here’s a dab of rum Mikhail’ she said and bent down slowly, setting the bowl at her feet. Mikhail went to it and brushed his rough tongue across the surface of the liquid. He paused and looked up at the woman. The old woman stood watching him the glass half filled with rum in her hand.
‘Oh come on you fussy bastard. Would you rather it was vodka? Well, this is what we have, so Proust!’ She said, tipping back the warm liquid in one. Mikhail turned back to his bowl and soon the milk was gone. A drowsyness crept through the cat’s body and he let it take him back to his pile of rags where he burrowed deeply.
‘Fussy little cretin.’ The old woman said. The candle had burnt low now and the woman opened the glass gate and blew sharply, sending spittle and wax onto about the glass sides of the lantern. The room fell back into blue moonlight. Through the curtains the old woman could see the moon, growing ever fatter as it shone across the silver knifeblades of the grass.
‘That’s enough for tonight.’ She said as she turned back from the window. ‘Off to bed for me, and you,’ she said into the darkness, ‘and you.’
Thomas Ward
