by Ruth Hay
That was when I discovered I was pregnant with you, Justine.
It was too much for Dean to cope with. He begged me to get a termination.
I refused. It was the beginning of the break between us.
I got a job in a local store but we had to move to a rented place and it was obvious that your father was becoming more and more depressed.
When you were born, I hoped everything would improve.
Instead, everything became worse.
A crying baby drove your father to distraction and he took it out on me. At first, he dealt with his anger by throwing things around. Then he turned to throwing things at me, and finally at attacking me for imagined slights and perceived negative comments.
I tolerated this situation far longer than I should have, Justine. I wanted us to be a family, to fight together for a future, but it was a fight I was in on my own, with a young child.
I stuck it out until you were three then, after a particularly violent explosion that left me with a broken arm, I decided to leave him.
No one knew of the fear I hid. No close family members could help me out with money or a place to live. When I remembered Aunt Ellen’s legacy to me, I packed up our things and took off for Cornwall.
I left a note for your father with a post office box number where he could contact me if he decided to change his ways and I crossed the country with you and the last of my money.”
Estelle stopped to take a breath. I could see how much this retelling had cost her.
I knew the rest of the story now.
Dean Dixon had never traced us, or even tried as far as I knew. Ellen’s cottage was not what my mother expected but it was a safe haven. She looked after me and taught me, until I was mature enough to deal with other people and school, and still control my psychic abilities.
It was a story told succinctly and without emotion. My mother had practised this over and over. She had not paused throughout.
This was the bare, unvarnished truth, that she had carried alone, for so long.
The horrible truth now descended on me like the proverbial tonne of bricks.
I had blamed my mother for neglect and isolation and lack of family support.
I deliberately chose a career that would separate me from my origins and leave my mother behind.
I did worse than my father did to her. I abandoned her for no good reason.
My mind whirled as I attempted to blend this new realization into my consciousness.
I felt ashamed and guilty.
I did not know how my mother survived two betrayals and still found the courage to start again with Oliver Rosyth.
In her way, she was stronger than I was, and I owed her more than a lifetime of devotion could repay.
Was I too late?
Catling jumped up onto my lap as I sat immobile with my mind whirling. She brought me back to the present with her purrs and paws.
I looked at my mother with the compassion I had never offered to her. There were tears in her eyes but she was strong. The story had not broken her down as it was now breaking me down.
She was a survivor.
I was her inadequate, careless and selfish daughter.
Twenty
Catling was the only observer of the scene in the Rosyth home’s living room that day.
I crossed over to my mother and took her in my arms.
There were tears and apologies and promises of reconciliation and more tears and kisses and only a little of the long story of my years apart from her. Much of that could never be told for security reasons, but I did give her my cell phone number and the address in Perranporth, and I extracted a promise that she and Oliver would travel to the North Coast to see me before the summer was over.
A curious Oliver appeared, finally, with a tray of hot tea and was pleased with the happy sounds he could hear and the much lighter atmosphere than the one he felt when he left the room.
Catling reacted in a strange way, however.
She jumped from me to Estelle and back again. I got the sense that she approved of this reunion. In several unlikely ways, she had orchestrated it for me.
My mother relished Catling’s enthusiasm and reached out to her whenever she came close.
“I suspect this is a very special little animal, Justine. She seems bonded to you. Is there another story here?”
“Oh, yes there is!” I announced. “But there’s no time to tell that now. We must be on our way.”
I was anxious to leave Exeter behind, so no one could connect us to the discovery and arrest of Alan Crawley.
There were fond farewells on the doorstep and a package of delicacies that never were eaten from the tea table, for the journey.
I left my mother’s home as a new person. I had downloaded as much of my positive feelings as I could to her, and I knew she was content that we had made a brand new start together.
The drive home was unremarkable, other than the singalong I was doing with the car radio on the way.
Catling had never before heard my singing voice and she responded with attempts to do the same. These strange squeaks made me laugh more than I had in years. The laughter was cleansing. Many dark things dropped out of my memory then and I felt lighter and happier.
In so many ways, this move to Cornwall was having good effects on Justine Dixon Jordan.
There was one shop in Perranporth that stayed open late in the evenings. I stopped there to pick up groceries and cat food. Catling was fast asleep in her carrier and did not notice we had stopped. I too, needed sleep after all the excitements of the last two days.
I made it up the final hill to home, in darkness. One light greeted us from the porch and inside all was in good order.
In some ways, it was a homecoming like the first one, or in truth, even better than the first.
Now I had my companion cat with me and she was much more than an ordinary puss. I realized there would be so much more about my Catling that I would discover in the future.
I put down my bags and looked around. Calm and comfort met my eyes. No threat from Alan Crawley remained. He was expunged from my memory, as were all his evil deeds.
I had made, previously, an anonymous donation to the RSPCA, for the care and re-homing of the animals found in Joan Crawley’s barn. A similar donation went to Dr. Daniel Hudson’s veterinary work.
I had neighbours who were kind and caring people. John and Sarah were welcome young visitors.
I had a family connection with Estelle that I had given up on years before and that now promised to enrich my life.
In short, I had a new beginning that was warmer and richer than most I could remember in my peripatetic life. If fate allowed me to live on forever somewhere here in Cornwall, It felt appropriate and right.
I went straight to bed with Catling stretched out by my legs for added warmth and reassurance.
I could feel a little strain along my right leg from all the urgent running of late. That would require a little therapy in the coming weeks.
Catling had learned much of the wider world during our Exeter adventure, but her devotion to me was secure.
I decided to dismiss the incident with Alan Crawley’s eyes as something of an aberration. I could not reconcile that action with anything I had ever known about cats.
Dreamless sleep descended in the silence of my house. I reached down to stroke my Catling’s head.
I was content.
Twenty-One
It was a glorious summer. Local people said it was one of the finest in memory.
I wandered the hills above Sea View without fear. All my grim memories were gone and Catling roamed by my side, exploring and learning and growing bigger and more beautiful with every passing day.
I could not make her approach the place by the riverside where I had found her.
That was no loss. There were hidden valleys and other branches of the river untainted by our bad memories. We rarely met a person on our explorations. Most residents or
visitors to Perranporth, stayed near the beautiful bay and the sands and did not venture beyond those delights.
I introduced Catling to the beach one evening when it was empty of summer visitors. She revelled in the grassy banks and rolled down the dunes, but she was wary of the water’s edge and she only dabbled her paws in the gentle waves once, before retreating.
Catling did express some interest in the stone cross of St. Piran that we found when walking farther along the beach. I remembered the dream of the man emerging from the sea and the stone that was at the base of his makeshift cross. I fingered the engraved swirling designs of Celtic decorations but no more came to me about the saint.
It was enough for me that he was still revered by the Cornish people, and his arrival on their shores was celebrated annually.
Estelle and Oliver arrived as promised. I had purchased a lounge chair that was comfortable enough to sleep in for a few days to allow the couple to have my bed upstairs.
They enthused about Sea View and Perranporth Beach and the land beyond the hilltop.
Oliver took up a position where he could get the most expansive views and spent time composing music on his guitar for a group that was about to travel on tour to Australia.
Estelle and I had plenty of opportunity to repair and strengthen our fragile bonds over tea and local delicacies. Our talk became gradually more normal and not forced.
I skipped over my work history, saying that it was government work that took me to foreign lands for various periods of time. She accepted this and turned her attention to my personal history.
Again, I had to divert her, and she knew I was doing it. My early marriage to Shaun Jordan was not a comfortable memory. I assured my mother that it was not a matter of abuse of any kind, and she was content with this, in the knowledge that, in the fullness of time, I would probably reveal the whole story to her.
I discovered, to my complete amazement, that my mother was the source of some of my psychic instincts. I noticed this when she interacted with Catling, who she insisted on calling Catrine. She said Catling was a nice name for a tiny kitten but the fine cat she saw now, deserved a more appropriate name.
I could not argue with this logic and over the period when my mother was with us, I gradually transitioned to Catrine and my cat did not seem to mind one bit.
In fact, Catrine was extremely interested in my mother from the first. She hovered near her and watched her face when we were in conversation, as if she were watching a film especially designed for felines.
After several hours of this behaviour, I had to accept that she ‘saw’ something in Estelle that fascinated her. I waited until we were settled for the night on the extendable armchair downstairs, and I could attempt a mind-to-mind connection without fear of interruption. Catrine was much stronger now in every way, and I felt sure she could tolerate this intrusion for a short time.
I placed her on my knees in front of me, which was her preferred position, and I began the process. I felt receptive signs immediately. She had been waiting for this!
A number of fleeting impressions flew past my mind, settling on a photograph I did not recognize. It looked like a young lady with brown curly hair. I thought it could be my mother but Catrine showed me a younger version of my mother holding this photo in her hand and then she showed me the Wychwood with all its creatures alive and dead who wandered there.
I was so startled that I broke the connection immediately, and sat back aghast that this cat could have the ability to take from me and my mother, visions she had no way of obtaining otherwise.
Catrine merely licked her paws in a satisfied manner and promptly went to sleep on my knees.
I was wide awake now and trying to figure out this mystery. Who was the woman in the photo, and what was this incredible cat who held an affinity for my family?
Was my mother aware of this mind-melding situation, or did it happen without her knowledge?
Needless to say, I did not sleep much for the rest of that night.
I constantly looked at my sleeping cat and wondered how I had found her. Had I created these bonds with her that surpassed anything I had ever heard of between a human and a cat?
Certainly, there were reports of dogs acquiring strong bonds with their owners, but cats?
That was a different thing altogether.
My midnight musings had to consider, also, the possibility that my abilities derived from my mother, whether or not she knew of it. I must find out for sure and I must handle this enquiry very carefully. Accusing anyone of latent psychic tendencies was not, normally, welcome information.
The night eventually passed. I woke, somewhat groggy, but with clear memories of the photo and the Wychwood. Catrine seemed hungry after her nightly mental work. She ate double her usual amount and drank a lot of water. She showed no signs of distress.
Oliver was on the phone to his musical group and my mother was packing their belongings for the trip back to Exeter. I had to talk to her at once or the opportunity would be lost. I could not stand the mystery to remain unsolved.
Over a final cup of coffee, I asked about the photo, which I described in some detail.
“Oh, I know that photo! It was in a frame in the cottage on top of an old bookcase. What made you think of that, Justine?”
“A dream I had last night. Do you know who it was in that photo?”
She could hear my urgency and responded at once.
“It was Aunt Ellen, of course! She was a funny old bird. The people around there said she was ‘The Witch of Wychwood’. They also said I was her image when she was a young woman. I couldn’t see it myself, other than the hair, of course.
I am sorry you never met her, Justine. You used to remind me of her when you spent so much time in those woods all by yourself. I was always a little scared of that place but you were totally comfortable there and you would chat on about the animals and people you saw. You were quite the dreamer, with a vivid imagination, in those days.”
So then, my mother did not suspect I really saw things and talked to animals when I was a child.
It could be that Aunt Ellen was the source of my abilities and my mother passed them onto me without knowing she has the same ability dormant inside her.
It had taken an extraordinary cat to connect these strands and show me the truth.
I would never again underestimate my Catrine.
Twenty-Two
Summer gradually faded into colourful Autumn.
I missed my mother but we talked on the phone frequently and we planned to meet in Exeter at Christmas.
“You will be glad to avoid the winter storms for a time. Stay with us as long as you like. I bought a basket for Catrine.”
Dr. Dan and I met for coffee in town whenever the Vet Van came by. He told me about the anonymous donation that allowed him to hire more assistants including the two girls from the Veterinary College who helped with Catling when she was small.
He looked thoughtfully at me when he told this story and I knew he was waiting for a confession. He never got one.
I asked if he knew where Alan Crawley was. He said Crawley was incarcerated in a half-way house environment since he had injured one eye and lost the sight of the other.
“He will be there for some time and I doubt he will ever work again, never mind be allowed to have anything to do with animals. He swore to the court that he could not recall how the eye injuries happened.”
Catrine accompanied me everywhere I went and she was pleased to see Dan again.
We were a familiar duo in the town and accepted anywhere with smiles of approval. Catrine always behaved beautifully and the memory of her violent behaviour in the former pet shop faded from my mind a little.
I could not remember living before in such a supportive and friendly place as Perranporth.
I was in no hurry to move from there but fate had other plans.
December arrived with fierce gales from the Atlantic that swept over the town and thundered o
nto the hillside just above Sea View, raining hail downward in the worst days. I began to consider what my mother said when warning me about the weather.
I went outside in the gap between bursts of wind, to secure the blue chair and bring the lavender pot nearer to the house, when my phone rang.
I was wearing my overcoat and my two phones were in my coat pocket. I never left the house without these. It was a survival practise taught to me many years before, when I entered government service.
One of these phones was a regular type, but the other had a peculiar ring that identified it as the one Simon used. I took this second phone out and opened it up. I expected a ‘How are you doing?’ call, but that was not what happened.
“Secure location?”
It was Simon’s voice all right. He would not go ahead if I were to be in a place where others could overhear. The phone was locked for his communications only, and the message came through a satellite. I knew at once that this had to be important.
“How’s the leg?”
“Much better now, thanks. What’s up?”
“I have good news and bad news.”
“Good news first.”
“Jackson says to tell you Ramses is doing well in Noreen’s care. He thinks the entry point to the tower was through an air vent that narrowed and prevented him from exiting again.
I hope you understand this. I have no clue!”
“It’s fine. Thank Jackson for me. What about the bad news?”
The very fact that Simon had willingly delayed his message to convey good news first, meant he had something else to say that I would not like. I took a deep breath and waited.
“There’s a situation in a Northern Nation of your acquaintance that demands your special attention. I would not ask unless it was important. The team is not complete without you.”
