The sound of heels announced her before she appeared. They clicked briskly across the paving, paused at the corner of the building, and then arrived with her at the patio: a young woman in her mid-twenties with a takeaway container in one hand, a thermos in the other, and a canvas tote bag over her shoulder.
She had a sleek ponytail; her blouse was crisp, her tailored trousers ended in a pair of heels. Everything about her appearance said professional. Only she knew how tired she was under the corporate-look armour.
The young woman stopped at the edge of the courtyard and blinked. Until the previous week, she had walked past this door assuming it led to the rubbish bins. It was just that kind of door. But last Tuesday she had wandered through it and stopped, astonished. She could hear bees. Actual bees. In the middle of the city.
So now every time she came out here, she would stop for a moment to listen to their busy hum. The garden was small. It was just a patch of concrete, really, but somebody had wedged pots into every conceivable corner and coaxed a lavender bush and a rosemary one into looking as though they had always meant to grow there. There was a hanging pot of nasturtiums and a small tray of pansies. The sagging patio chair had been propped up and cleaned. And there was a woman in her fifties watering the plants with the focused attention Sophie could only envy. She hadn’t been able to focus like this on anything for months.
And there was also, she noticed, a cat.
The cat was sitting on the warm paving stones a little way off, watching her arrival with the polite curiosity of a small local dignitary receiving a visiting diplomat. He was a long-haired brown tabby of considerable fluffiness, with a dark stripe running down his back that was catching the noon light in a magnificent visual effect. His ruff sat around his neck like a formal collar. His long white whiskers fanned wide from both cheeks, giving him the general expression of someone who took his own opinions seriously. He met her eyes with a green cat stare and did not blink.
Sophie, who grew up with her own tortoiseshell called Poppy, knew when she was being assessed and did not attempt to fuss over him. She smiled politely in his direction and turned toward the woman with the watering can.
“You don’t mind if I sit here, do you?” she asked. Her voice came out quieter than she intended. But the woman must have heard her. She looked up and smiled.
“Not at all,” she said. “You are always welcome. I am glad someone else has found this place.”
Sophie let out a breath she had not quite noticed she was holding, and lowered herself onto the sagging patio chair.
“Thank you,” she said. “It is much nicer here than eating at my desk. I did not even know this garden was here.”
“It is a bit hidden.” The woman set the watering can down and wiped her hands on the front of her cardigan. “I only started fixing it up a few months ago. I hope you don’t mind my cat. Cricket. He is curious but he will not bother you. He is a well-mannered gentleman.”
“I love him already.” Sophie hesitated. “I should say I am a little bit allergic to cats. But only if I touch them or if we are inside. Outside is fine. So please don’t feel you have to keep him away.”
The woman smiled. “He doesn’t usually approach at speed.”
Cricket, for his part, showed no sign of intending to approach at any speed at all. He was watching Sophie’s takeaway container with the mild interest of a cat who has already had lunch, and observing her moving ponytail, gathering information about the newcomer.
Sophie opened the container. The smell of grilled chicken and quinoa lifted into the honey-coloured air.
“I’m Sophie, by the way,” she said.
“Nadya,” came the reply.
They fell quiet for a moment, in the not-unfriendly way of people whose silence has come naturally rather than been managed. The bees hummed. A bus went past on the main road. Sophie ate two forkfuls of quinoa and, without meaning to, sighed audibly at the third.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was more of a sigh than I intended.”
Nadya smiled with understanding. “Work?”
“Yes,” admitted Sophie. “Work has been,” she started, and then reconsidered the word “work” but could not think of a better one. “Work has been a lot. My job is exciting, in theory. I am in marketing. I run social campaigns for a small agency in this building. It sounds good at dinner parties.”
“But?”
“But it is a treadmill, and it runs fast.”
Nadya laughed. “Yes. I know that one.”
“I have this feeling,” Sophie went on, encouraged, “that if I step off for even a second, everyone else will keep going, and by the time I look up I will have been left behind. I am aware that this is not a rational fear. But it is a fear I have anyway.”
Nadya sat down slowly on the wooden bench along the wall. “I had that fear for twenty years.”
“May I ask?” Sophie said carefully. “Are you retired?”
“I was made redundant,” said Nadya, “and then, without meaning to, I became a person who grows lavender.” She smiled again. “I suppose you could say that I am retired now. Early retirement isn’t unusual these days.”
Cricket, who found humans making noises pointless but occasionally interesting, took two soundless steps closer and sat down again in the shade of the rosemary. He arranged himself in his most compact and dignified pose, folded his paws underneath him, and did his best to give the impression of a small, slightly bored magistrate. Benevolent but still judging.
“Look at him,” said Sophie, delighted. “He is inspecting me.”
“He is. He takes his time to investigate everyone. And he judges us harshly. So it takes him a while to decide.”
“He is a rescue. I got him about two years ago from an animal rescue group. I don’t know much about his past, but he had a rough start, and it took a very long time before he learned to trust me. He isn’t a lap cat, but he might come and sit under your chair if he wants to be friendly.”
“Bless him.”
“He is very brave, in his way. He was a strictly indoor cat, and I started bringing him out here only a couple of months ago. It is still a new experience, but he is getting more comfortable.”
Sophie glanced at Cricket, who was pretending very hard not to be listening to any of this. His eyes were closed, but his ear was turned away, in the manner of a cat who has heard his name and has chosen to ignore it.
“He is a bit like me, then,” Sophie said, half to herself.
Nadya looked at her. “In what way?”
Sophie set her fork down.
“I am learning how to be comfortable with my working life. I get home most nights, so tired I can’t even remember what I used to like to do for fun,” she said. “Then it is the weekend, and my parents live an hour north so I drive there and back down the next day, and I am even more tired than when I left. And my mum asks over and over whether I am eating properly and dating anyone and looking after myself. I know they mean it kindly. That is the worst part. I just cannot tell them that I would give my left arm for one uninterrupted Saturday morning where nothing is required of me, because it would break their hearts, and they raised me to be a person who does not break the hearts of those who love them.”
She stopped, a little surprised at herself.
“That came out of nowhere,” she said.
“That did not come out of nowhere,” said Nadya. “You have probably been walking around with it for a while. Sometimes it is easier to say such things to strangers.”
Sophie made a small conceding gesture with her fork.
“My brother settled down early. Bought a place. Married a lovely woman. Has a baby boy. My parents adore him. They also adore me. But I know what they are secretly hoping for. And I am not ready. I do not want to be settled. I want a Saturday to go for a proper walk in the bush by myself, and to buy myself a coffee at the end of it, and I want to not have to explain that to anybody.”
“Then don’t explain it. Just have the Saturday. Skip the drive. See your parents the weekend after. Or visit them for a shorter time. For a Sunday lunch instead of the whole weekend.” Nadya looked at her mildly. “You can love your parents very much and also skip a Saturday dinner.”
Sophie stared at her.
“I am the age at which one gets to say that.” Nadya went back to the watering can and moved along the pots one at a time, tilting. Cricket rearranged himself, as cats do, and produced a small yawn that showed all his teeth in a fashion he probably regarded as photogenic.
At some point while Sophie was finishing her lunch, he stood up and, with the air of someone who has decided that a formal invitation is no longer necessary, walked over and sat down at Sophie’s feet. He did not touch her, didn’t even look at her. He simply took up his post beside her feet and made it clear that he was, for present purposes, keeping her company.
Sophie felt that she had been given a special honour.
“Oh,” she said, softly. “Oh.”
She finished her lunch, screwed the lid back onto her thermos, looked again at the fluffy royal guard beside her chair and at the green cheerful plants, and she felt something inside her chest that had been very tight for a long time slacken by, oh, half a notch. Maybe a full one.
“I should go.” She looked at the older woman. “May I come back?” she asked.
“Anytime.” Nadya smiled at her.
Sophie stood up carefully so as not to disturb Cricket, who did her the courtesy of not standing up as she left. She dropped her rubbish in the bin and looked one last time at the cat still sitting patiently, and she thought, for the first time in a long while, that she was going to be all right.
Then she went back inside and returned to the pile of emails demanding her attention.
Izabela Shopova is a Bulgarian-Australian non-fiction writer, passionate traveler, nonlinear thinker, amateur artist, avid reader, learning designer, science lover, analog astronaut, mother and daughter, cat lady, fighter for democracy and for a better future. She has survived two emigrations, one divorce, and one teenager, has 3 passports, 7 published books and a tiny apartment in Brisbane, Australia, which she shares with Cricket the Garden Cat.
You can find her books on Amazon or check them out on Goodreads. and read excerpts here on Substack
What stayed with me wasn't the conversation itself, but the quiet permission it offered.
Sometimes people don't need advice or dramatic change. They simply need one place, one person, or one moment that reminds them they don't have to carry everything alone.
I appreciated this whole story, but Cricket was the cherry on top! My husband and I are cat lovers and my dad has an extensive cat rescue. And when I’ve earned a cat’s trust I feel like I’ve won the lotto or something!