The Wordsmiths Book 2021

The Cat on the Sill

A woman with flowers walked down the street, her heels loudly clacking along the footpath, and the smell of the flowers lingering for a moment after she had passed. The cat sat watching from the windowsill as the light slowly faded and a chill set into the air. The bars on the window obstructed the cat’s view, reminding her of her prison, but also her safety. A safety she returned to each day, sitting enclosed by the heavy curtains behind her with their familiar smell of dusty cretonne. The cat gazed out at the same street, somehow different each day. On good days, a strong wind would blow neighbouring smells through the mesh covering the window, bringing news of the busy life outside. A fly flicked up in front of the cat’s face, buzzing against the mesh. The cat crouched and sniffed at it, but paid no more attention than that. She knew the mesh would hold; the fly wouldn’t get in and she wouldn’t get out. The only hunting afforded the cat were the cockroaches under the oven. Even then, the bigger ones scared her and ruined the sport of it. A door clanged, followed by the metallic crunching of a key as the front door opened and closed with a heavy slam. The cat gently pushed the curtain with her left paw. The man walked in, his heavy breathing rumbling through the house as he made for the kitchen. He was a corpulent man with excessive body hair and a musty smell. The cat sat and listened to the dull shifting of crockery and the loud blare of the electric kettle. She was hungry but knew better than to bother him for food straight away. She turned back to the window but found her claw stuck in the curtain. She backed against the mesh, flicking her arm in an attempt to free it but the claw was stubborn and clung to the heavy material. She scrambled and hopped, ripping the claw from her paw and crashing back into the mesh as she broke free. “Holly?” The man shouted from the kitchen. He toddled into the living room, tea slopping over the sides of his mug, and slumped into the shredded single armchair. He looked at the window, but Holly stayed low and still against the mesh, watching her abandoned claw hanging in the curtain. The man mumbled to himself and lifted his swollen feet onto the cracked coffee table in front of him. The television flicked on as the man exhaled thickly. “Holly!” He grumbled. She didn’t move. He only said it out of habit. He liked to know where she was, but didn’t care to see her. Holly licked her paw and turned back to the window again, checking to see if anything had changed. There was always someone doing something out there; people waiting for buses, holding hands, eating, looking for food, running, cycling, driving – people finding ways to stay busy. Moving, so they didn’t have time to catch a glimpse of their sallow faces and feel their misery. The air was heavy outside the window, thick with smog, dust and smoke, weighing the people down, breathing each other’s filth until it made them sick. “Holly.” The air inside was stale but smelt of home. The man got up and trudged back into the kitchen. He burned some toast and ripped the lid off a tin of cat food. Holly leaped from the windowsill and skipped into the kitchen, weaving between the man’s legs. He grumbled and

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