Granddad Is No Longer With Us

Grandad is Gone

Kate has just returned from yet another business trip and hasn’t even taken off her coat or unpacked her suitcase when her mother calls.

Her mother, Margaret Wilson, sounds anxious. But Kate pays little attention, probably just tiredness catching up with her.

Kate, love, are you home yet?

Hi Mum. Yes, just got in, finally. Ive literally just walked through the door. Whats the matter? Is something wrong?

Thats good. Im glad youre home.

Kate immediately senses her mother has something she wants to share but seems to be dragging it out, whether unsure of how to start or for some other reason.

Most likely shes gathered up the latest gossip from all the neighbours and cant wait to fill me in thinks Kate. But right now, thats the last thing she wants.

What she wants above all else is to collapse on the bed and get a proper nights sleep, having had no luck resting on the train, where in the compartment next door, a group of four young lads had merrily refused to sleep and, after midnight, held a full-blown singalong with a guitar.

And yes, they sang about her too:

Summer fields and orchard trees,
Mist upon the river streams.
Katie wandered out at sunrise,
High upon a grassy bank, it seems

If Kate had been in a good mood, perhaps shed have smiled, but at that moment, she only wished their guitar strings would snap. They didnt, of course.

Mum, let me rest for a bit, get myself together, and Ill call you back. We can have a good natter then, ok?

Im not sure youll be able to

What do you mean, Mum? Only now does Kate realise her mothers voice is oddly strained.

I dont think youll get to rest.

Why not? Ive been on a business trip, for goodness sake. I deserve it. Im not expecting any visitors, and Im not going to anybodys either. Or is there something youre not telling me? Youre not planning to turn up unannounced, are you?

Kate Grandad is gone.

Kate turns pale, grips her phone tightly, and slowly sinks onto the sofa. That was the last thing she expected to hear.

His neighbour, Mrs Mary Ford, called me this morning. Shed brought him some milk, but David Shepherd was He was lying there, just inside the door, holding his chest. It looks like he was gone all night. We need to go up to the village to say our goodbyes, to bury Grandad. The neighbours will lend a hand if you need help. Kate, are you listening?

Kate is so stunned she barely knows what to say. But manages a faint, Yeah, in reply.

Mrs Ford rang the rest of his family, but they flat out refused to come. Said if hed left them an inheritance, maybe theyd think about it, but otherwise, whats the point in wasting time and money? And the old house in that little village you know no ones wanted it in years. Margaret Wilson pauses briefly, gathers herself, and continues.

And honestly, Ive no desire to go back there either, especially since your grandfather told me never to set foot in his house again. Not even for the funeral. And, remember, I promised him I wouldnt. So, youre our only hope, love. Will you go, Katie? Will you take Grandad on his final journey?

Margaret Wilson falls silent. Kate doesnt reply, just stares at the sideboard where the last letter from her grandfather restssent, as the postmark shows, nearly a month ago. She never had the chance to read it, being away for work yet again.

This was the third business trip in six months, and hardly the last. The company had opened an office in another city and she was the only one to be sent. Others had health problems, children to care for, or family reasons only Kate was free and carefree.

Kate, its just I dont want the neighbours thinking weve forgotten him entirely. He could be difficult, yes, but he was a person. And you always got on with him, didnt you? What should I tell Mary Ford? Will you go up to the village?

Yes, Mum. Of course. Only

Kate stands, goes to the sideboard, picks up her grandfathers letter for a second, then puts it back down.

But Mum, how did this even happen? He seemed well when I saw him at Christmas. He was full of energy, not a single complaint.

Oh, love I dont know. Margarets voice is soft. He was old, Katie. Most men dont even get to retirement these days, but your grandad was well into his eighties. We shouldnt complain. God rest his soul.

Kate is in shock. She loved her grandad, probably more than anyone else kept in contact with him. Neither Davids other relatives nor her mother had spoken to him in years.

With her mother, it was mutual; a longstanding resentment.

Grandad could never forgive Margaret for Andrews deathhis only son, Kates father. He blamed her for working Andrew too hard, for driving him to an early grave, just as shed always saidmen that age rarely reach retirement.

And there was some truthas Margaret had urged her husband to leave his steady job for hard contract work to fund home improvements, a new cottage, and the life she wanted. Andrew had obliged: he was a teacher but spent months away on sites, returning laden with presents and money. Until one time, he didnt return at all; his heart finally gave out.

At the funeral, Grandad David wept and wailed. Most of those attending shared his pain, for, as everyone said, No parent should outlive their child.

That was the end of all contact between David and Margaret. He demanded she never set foot in his home again.

Margaret had snapped back, Fine by me. Im not to blame. A man should be the provider, thats his role. He never complained about his heart, never said a word. She only narrowly avoided being hit by a lump of firewood hurled in anger.

All those years, Grandad kept contact only with his granddaughter. He adored Kate, and she loved him back, visiting him in the summer holidays, and as she grew up, writing letters. Yes, letters.

Because Grandad David never accepted modern technology: no phone, no smartphone, no tablet, let alone a computer. Perhaps that was why his relatives ignored him. Who writes letters in the 21st century? Why bother when you can just call or email?

Neighbours thought him odd, maybe even losing his grip.

Hes lost his marbles the old ladies would gossip on the green. He lost his wife, then his son. How can anyone not go a bit odd?

In his last month, villagers were all the more certain he was slipping. Even Mrs Ford, who always defended him, began to have doubts. He was, she reported, constantly talkingto a cat. To no one, really, since no one had ever spotted a cat at Davids cottage.

After hanging up with her mother, Kate tossed her phone on the bed and wept. She had so wanted to see Grandad that summer but never managed it. First one business trip, then another Her boss had lost his mind, brushing off her concerns with, I’m within my rights, Kate. If youre not happy, you can hand in your notice. But tell me, where will you find another job with a salary like yours?

And the truth was, Kates wages were good, so she put up with it, hoping, at the end of these trips, normal life would resume. Still, she felt a twinge of resentment; everyone deserved to be treated with respect, not like a workhorse.

***

At the funeral, everything passes as usual: after a moments silence and a last nail in the coffins burgundy-clad lid, the men lower it into the grave. Each tosses a handful of soil, soon covered over again.

Fresh flowers, wreaths, a new grave. Kate cant quite accept it. Is that it? Grandad was here, and now hes just gone.

Not quitetherell be the wake, with plenty of whisky and reminiscences, kind words about the departed. Thanks to these stories, both now and in the years to come, David Shepherd will “live on”, if only in memory.

When the food and drink are done, the guests start heading home, or to the village shop. Soon, Kate finds herself completely alone, feeling hollow, wounded, and desperately lonely.

I never got to say goodbye she sighs.

To occupy her mind, she cleans the house thoroughlyairing out the rooms, washing the old wooden floors, dusting every corner, sweeping away cobwebs, storing leftovers in the fridge. The air grows fresher.

Despite its austere, modest furnishings, her grandads spacious home feels comfortingly homely.

Glancing out, she sees dusk has fallen. She steps onto the porch and breathes in deeplyvillage air, full of blossom and cool stillness.

Surveying the garden, she finds neat rows of empty vegetable bedsthis year, for the first time, nothing planted. Perhaps Grandad sensed he wouldnt see another harvest.

The apple trees are blossoming; blackcurrant and raspberry bushes abound. Grandad never let the land go wild.

Who will look after all this, now? Kate wonders, sitting on a bench beneath the apple tree. She calls her mother to tell her shes seen Grandad off.

Well done, Katie. For all his faults, he was still family.

He was normal, Mum. Just had too much loss in his life. Dont hold a grudge. He loved my father more than anything; sometimes people speak harshly when theyre hurting.

Oh, Katie, I know. I dont hold anything against him. May he rest in peace. So, when are you heading home? Today? Tomorrow? Must be eerie there all alone?

Im not leaving yet. Ive taken some leave. I want to stay for a while. The nine days, at least. Maybe you could come?

Oh, Katie, I cant make it that far. And with the gardening season in full swing, theres no free time. You know that. And, anyway, you forgot your father’s grave is out there too. Youve not visited since the funeral.

I told your grandad we should bury Andrew in the city, not the countryside, but he wouldnt budge. Anyway, my favourite serials about to start. Call if you need me.

Kate smilesher mother always finds a way to disappear when the conversation turns uncomfortable.

Back in the house, Kate brews a pot of tea from dried currant and mint leaves, sips it, and heads to bed.

Before sleep, she takes out Grandads letter from her bag. Shes already read it, but it left her feeling puzzled. Usually, he writes about life, but this time, it was all about a cat.

She never knew him to own a cat. Hed never been fond of animals. Kate reads the letter once more in the quiet, still house. Again, none the wiser

Some Blackie he calls the cat. Where did he get Blackie from?

Youd never guess, sweetheart, but Blackie loves milk. They say its bad for grown cats, but he drank half a bottle yesterday. Ill need to ask Mrs Ford for moreshell be surprised. I usually get by on three pints a week but Ill run out again at this rate. At least she gets paid for it. Blackie is always hungry. I dont know what else to feed him, the fridge is nearly bare. But you know, I still havent really caught sight of him. He keeps out of the way. I feel his eyes on me, though, always watching. I hope when you visit, maybe youll be able to find him. Or maybe we can try together. I reckon hes been badly treated and thats why hes so shy.

Thats only a glimpse of what Grandad wrote about his furry companion.

Only Kate hadnt found any such cat. Not after several days in the house or garden. Surely, if a cat were living there, shed have noticed?

Yet That feelingbeing watched, as Grandad described? Kate felt it keenly. Shed turned round more than once, convinced someone was there, but saw no one.

Ill have to ask Mrs Ford about this Blackie tomorrow

***

She wakes at dawn.

Sunlight peeps through the curtains; sparrows chirp, cockerels crow in the distance. A perfect English village morning.

Kate opens the window wide and listens to the unfamiliar sounds, recalls childhood holidays making birdhouses with Grandad, and remembers she planned to see Mrs Ford about the cat.

What cat? Mary Ford asks, puzzled.

Im not sure Blackie. In the last letter he only wrote about himbefore that, never mentioned a thing.

Ahh! Mary smacks her forehead. Thatll be it. About a month ago, I overheard him talking to a catwell, talking to the air, really. I glanced over the fencenothing there. The next day, the same. Every day after, hed chat with his invisible friend. Told him stories about his wife, about Andrew, God rest him. Always calling him Blackie. And he wasnt the only one talking to empty spaceus neighbours hear things too. But you know, love, no one’s seen such a cat. Not in his house, not outside. And I popped in often enoughmilk, pies, just for a chat. Asked if I could meet the cat, but hed brush me off: When I catch him, Ill show you! I honestly thought your Grandad you know. If he did have a cat, surely one of us would have seen it by now?

I suppose so Kate replies slowly. Although, somehow I just cant believe hed lost his mind. He was all there, Im sure. Maybe theres something we dont know. Or maybe hes just the best-hidden cat in England. Have you heard of any black cats missing here in the village?

No, none missing, and, come to think of it, I dont know anyone with a black cat

Kate returns to the cottage, cleaning up the garden, unable to stop thinking about Blackie, Grandads mysterious visitor.

If the cat was here, where is he now? she wonders.

But out in the long grass, peering from his hiding place, the real Blackie is watching her.

Hes noticed her above all the others who came by these days. Something draws him to hera kindness, a familiarity, something he cant quite express. Maybe its because she reminds him of Grandad, who fed him milk, meat, whatever he had, these last weeks.

Blackie would never let himself be seen but always kept watch. Just as David had told his granddaughter, the cat was wary of people, always hidinghurt once too often, he saw humans only as a reminder of pain. Hed been chased away, pelted with sticks and stones, forever moving from one village to the next, hoping for a home.

Then he’d found Grandad: trusting eyes, gentle words, a kind presence. Blackie would listen from the shadows, while David poured out his soul, sitting on the bench under the apple tree or working in the garden. The man was a comfort to him.

Still, Blackies fear outweighed any longing for affection. He regretted never making himself known before the old man died. Hed been on the verge of showing himself when, one day, Grandad was suddenly gone.

Blackie noticed the smell of death immediately and stayed at the door all night, unable to get in, mewling softly for company.

Now, he watches Kate, certain shes kind, like her grandfather. Yet he hesitates still. Experience has taught him not to trust easily.

But eventually, he lets his guard slip. Its the ninth day, the house is quiet, the mourners gone, and Kate finally spots him.

There you are, Blackie! she exclaims, delighted. So Grandad wasnt just imagining you. Come on, lets get acquainted.

She takes a step towards him, and Blackie darts away out of sight.

Oh, Blackie, why so shy? she laughs, peering into the bushes. I have to leave soon, but Id love to meet you properly. Dont worry, I dont bite.

Just then, Mrs Ford arrives carrying cabbage pasties (best taken for the journey, as the guests at the wake have cleared out the table). Hearing Kate talking, she peers over the fence and sees her, but no sign of Blackie.

Well, I never Mary thinks, hurrying away, forgetting the pasties entirely. First her grandfather, now shes talking to invisible cats These things must be catching, airborne or something nowadays

That afternoon, storm clouds roll in, swallowing the sun. The air grows thick and tense, broken only by frantic clucking from Mrs Fords chickens, and distant rumbles of thunderwarning of the coming tempest.

Looks like a big one, Kate frowns at the sky. Definitely a storm brewing.

It isnt just a storm; its the worst in years. Within minutes, the wind lashes the eaves, rain pours down in sheets. Kate calls for Blackie to come in, but hes nowhere to be seen

Out in his hideaway, Blackie huddles flat against the ground, trembling at every thunderclap. The storm terrifies himworse even than people ever did.

***

Rain hammers on the roof, letting up only to return with renewed force. The darkness outside is complete; Kate lies wide awake in bed, listening to the wild storm.

Suddenly, a deafening crash.

She bolts upright, looking out at the window as lightning blazes and thunder shakes the glass. The curtains fly out in the wind. She has no sooner thought to close the window when a flash of lightning illuminates two glowing eyes in the gap.

Oh heavens! she cries, recoiling. A shadowy figure bursts insidea soaked, pitch-black bundledashing past her legs, into the wardrobe, then under the bed.

Its Blackie.

Kate manages, with much coaxing, to tempt him out. She dries him off with a towel, then brings him onto the bed, where together, with lightning still flashing outside, they share their warmth.

Strangely, huddled together, the storm doesnt seem quite so frightening.

***

Kate wakes to find Blackie at the window, pawing the frame, trying to get out into the cool sunlight.

And where do you think youre heading, little man? she asks with a smile.

Blackie stops and looks back at her, sheepish, almost apologetic for yesterdays panic.

Meow he calls, scratching at the glass, asking to be let out.

No breakfast, no freedom, she teases, scooping him up. Besides, youve a choice to make. You can stay here, or come with me to town. I think Grandad would have wanted me to take you, and Id like that too. But its your choice, Blackie. I hope youll pick wisely.

Once hes been fed, Kate lets him out, then starts to pack. There are a few hours until her bus.

When she finally steps outside with her suitcase, Blackie is waiting for her on the porch. He winds around her legs, gazes up at her, and the decision is made: hes coming too. After all, she doesnt bite, and he feels safethe first time in a long while.

She bends down, smiling, I thought youd decide that, Blackie.

Mrs Ford catches sight of Kate on her way to return the keys to the house. Shes astonished to see the cat in Kates arms.

So, thats the cat, is it?

The very one, Kate nods. You see, Grandad was alrighthe just ended up with a very nervous cat who trusted no one. But itll be alright now.

Mary Ford sighs in relief. And Ill look after the cottage until you come again?

I will. We both willme and Blackie. I dont know how often, but we will be back.

Thats good. And heretake these with you, Mary hands over a bag of pasties.

Thank you, Mrs Ford, for everything.

Sitting on the bus, Kate gazes at the sky. Just for a moment, she thinks she sees Grandad’s face in the clouds.

Even Blackie, curled in her lap, presses his nose to the window, peering upwards.

A gentle, reassuring, smiling face looks down at them both. Perhaps even a wink.

Then the bus moves off and the cloud disappears. And even if it was simply their imagination, it doesnt matter.

The important thing is: Kate knows Grandad hasnt vanished entirely. He lives on in her mind, in her heart, and in Blackies. No matter where he is now, she knows hes glad that his granddaughter and his mysterious furry friend found each other.