THE INTERLOPER
by
A. F. McKeating
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
The Interloper
Copyright © 2011 by A. F. McKeating
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Table of Contents
The Interloper
About the Author
Other Books by A. F. McKeating
The Interloper
One day a cat fell out of a book. Resolutely, he licked his wounds, dusted himself off and straightened out the yellow feather in his hat. Then, after looking around at the grey and colourless land in which he found himself, he set off to explore.
He went along a country road. Presently he came to a little farmhouse with a neat front garden, a wishing well and a small collection of animals in the yard. A dog barked furiously behind the wall, but the cat ignored it and found himself a quiet spot on the lawn in which to lie and take the sun. A grey feline, the present incumbent of the fireside and as stout as an overstuffed cushion, watched him from the long grass in the corner. The visitor bowed politely and doffed his hat; the other cat merely hissed and arched its back.
"Mr Simpkins!" called a woman's voice from the doorway. "Have you found a friend?"
The grey cat twitched its tail with displeasure as a pair of bare, plump arms scooped up the visitor and clutched him to a warm, soft bosom.
"Come here, kitty," she said. "Let me look at you."
Mr Simpkins watched in silence as she carried him inside and shut the door.
* * * * *
"Who dressed you up, poor love?" asked the woman, removing his hat and setting him down on a kitchen chair. "Let's take off these nasty clothes, shall we?"
The cat found its tongue. "Excuse me, madam," it said, horrified. "I think you'll find that clothing distinguishes us from the animals, as do our manners. I'll remove my hat, but the boots must stay on."
"A talking cat. Whoever would have though it?" the woman said, shaking her head. "I thought I'd seen everything. Well, you look as though you need a decent meal inside you. Come and sit by the hearth while I fetch you some milk."
The cat stretched lazily in the warmth of the fire and closed his eyes. He listened with satisfaction to the busy clatter of pots and pans. He was weary of giant killing and servant baiting and turning tricks for the king. Too many stories. Fame had come at a price in the end. Now he craved peace and obscurity, and thought that this seemed like a good place to stay.
Mr Simpkins glowered in the shadows.
"You don’t say much, do you?" said the visitor.
Mr Simpkins glared and hissed.
"Now, now," chided the woman. "Don’t spit, Mr Simpkins. Be a good host and share your supper nicely."
She made a fuss of their guest, brushing his fine black coat until it shone and nestling him into a soft blanket as though he were a baby. Later, when she had gone to bed, he shrugged it off impatiently and got to his feet.
"Still there, are you?" he asked, looking over his shoulder as he warmed himself at the fire.
The two cats regarded each other carefully.
“This is a nice set up you’ve got with her,” said the visitor with a sly grin and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. “Bet you run this place when she’s in bed.”
Mr Simpkins stared in cold silence before turning his back pointedly and curling up in the farthest corner of the hearth.
The other cat shrugged. “If that’s how you want it... But I can see what’s needed here.”
* * * * *
And so the visitor set about making himself indispensible to his hostess. He told her she was beautiful, her skin as soft as peaches. He ran her baths and read her poetry, deliciously impish verses that made her giggle girlishly as she nibbled the chocolates he brought her. He performed her many little services such as these. And more besides.
She neglected her work and sometimes forgot to feed the animals until their impatient calls reminded her of their hunger.
"How did I manage without you?" she asked, simpering inelegantly.
He bowed his head in quiet acknowledgement of her praise.
He held court in the yard, regaling the other farm creatures with tales of his adventures. They listened, dumbstruck and wide-eyed, as he strutted and preened himself in front of them, before finishing with a bow and a flourish of his hat.
He grew bolder. He basked in their applause and strode about in his shining boots, offering morsels of advice and information. He lectured them about self expression and dignity, and taught them to speak. All except Mr Simpkins, who refused to talk, even when they teased him for being slow and stupid. He watched as the cat wormed his way into the woman's affections, his sweet lies making her blush and laugh coyly behind her hand. He watched as she fell deeper into his thrall.
Soon the cat taught the farmyard animals to scorn the woman and to yearn to better themselves. He no longer took her chocolates or read her poetry. He made her work from dawn till dusk, keeping the place neat and running after him with a hundred little chores
"For what makes her better than you, after all?" he asked the inhabitants of the farmyard. He gestured expansively with a paw. "Take back what is yours by rights."
And so the creatures grew contemptuous of the woman and laughed at her, at first behind her back and then to her face. They refused to help her and would only do as she asked after a stern word from the cat.
"Haven't I treated you kindly?" she reproached them. "Haven't I been a good mistress to you all?"
They scorned her appeals for friendship, for they admired the cat and were eager to become his followers and imitate his ways. They each wanted so much to impress him, to be the one that caught his attention. Until the day the goat disagreed with him and he began to talk menacingly about setting examples.
* * * * *
Then, little by little, they learned to fear him. No-one could say who was the first to see him as he truly was. Not that it mattered by then, for they were no longer his followers, but his minions. The truth did them no good then. His comments had become orders and his advice declarations. He ruled the yard with an iron grip and put the dog on short rations when he didn't work hard enough. The chickens fared little better. He nipped them if they didn’t lay, being fond of a poached egg in the morning. Now they were all complaining about their new master, but it was too late to tell the woman. She, too, was afraid.
"Oh, why wouldn’t you listen to me when you could?" she moaned helplessly when she heard of their woes.
Meanwhile, the interloper mocked Mr Simpkins for his idleness.
"You've no self-respect," he said with a disdainful sniff. "You were content to sit here and grow fat, day after day, while the place fell to pieces round your ears. You still won't go near the chickens for fear that mangy old mongrel will get you. What's the matter with you?"
Mr Simpkins glowered, but never said a word.
* * * * *
One day the inhabitants of the yard staged a small mutiny and the dog presented a petition to his mistress for lack of anyone else to whom they could appeal. "We won't stand for it a minute longer," he yelped. "Look. We demand action."
The woman took the bit of paper. "As if this is my fault. Is this all the thanks I get for looking after you all these years?" she asked the dog reproachfully.
When the cat heard about the insurrection, the dog was whipped soundly and had even shorter rations that evening.
And so it went on. The cat was now the master and the woman cowered as he strode about, yell
ow feather bobbing vengefully as he watched for further signs of rebellion. She had even given up her bed to him now. The yard, once peaceful, grew noisy with the sound of complaints… as long as the cat wasn't around to hear them. Mr Simpkins kept aloof. He no longer slept by the hearth and now spent his nights in mournful silence in the long grass behind the house.
One day the woman sighed and asked him, “However did this happen?”
Mr Simpkins stared at her.
“You’re the only one who hasn’t spoken,” she said and wept when he slunk away from her outstretched hand. “Ah, well. It’s no more than I deserve.”
Mr Simpkins sat in thoughtful silence. He watched the woman climb wearily into the car and drive off to town to buy yet more sweetmeats and trinkets to appease the tyrant. He watched the cat wave a spiteful claw at the goat, who skipped away quickly before it could catch her flesh. He watched the dog begin to curl his lip, then think better of it. He watched the cat leap over the fence into the woods beyond, off on some spiteful mission against the creatures who lived there no doubt.
Mr Simpkins strolled quietly over to the kennel. The dog looked up and growled at this unexpected overture of friendliness but, unconcerned, Mr Simpkins stared back at him, eyes gleaming. He bowed his head.
The dog appeared to listen carefully. “A deal. Is that what you have in mind?” he asked after a moment, his face brightening with understanding. "Yes, I see. Something for something. You'd better come inside."
They were closeted in the kennel for a long time. When they came out, the dog looked both relieved and troubled. "At my signal, then," he said.
Mr Simpkins nodded and strolled away.
* * * * *
That night, as the woman slept, the dog began to howl as though the heavens were collapsing. The ducks started up a terrible racket, accompanied by the chickens, who began to make a furious clucking as though the devil were amongst them. The goat kicked the walls of her pen incessantly.
Angrily the cat stuck his head out of the bedroom window and called, “What’s going on down there?”
They continued with the hullabaloo, unmindful of his protests. The cat slipped on his hat and boots and stomped downstairs. The woman slept soundly in the kitchen, worn out by her labours. A pile of unfinished mending lay on the table. He hissed and made a note to deal with her later. He stepped out into the yard.
“This had better-” He was cut off as a deeper darkness came down over his head and a rope was tied around his feet. He felt himself being heaved up and carried on many shoulders and wings.
“Stop, you fools!” he shrieked over the kerfuffle. “I gave you voice. Is this how you thank me?”
They ignored him, carrying him on towards the well.
"I'm a giant killer! I've taken on more than you before breakfast!" he yelled as they jostled him onwards. "Woman! Help me!"
But no-one came. He yelped as something sharp butted his behind. All at once he felt himself falling, falling... And then all was silent. This is the last story that he fell out of.
* * * * *
When the woman rose early the following morning, she was struck at once by the deep quietness that had fallen over the farm. She went outside and gazed around as the light grew stronger. The dog snoozed peacefully in his kennel. The chickens scratched calmly in their run. The goat nibbled with implacable serenity at something yellow hanging out of her mouth. The woman looked at the chickens again. Was there perhaps one less?
Inside the house there was no sign of the cat. Even his hat had gone. The woman looked towards the kitchen hearth with a faint smile.
“Oh, you’re back,” she said. “Would you like an egg for breakfast?”
Mr Simpkins sat by the hearth with a contented look upon his face. And a small white feather on his lips.
About the Author
A. F. McKeating is from Cumbria, England originally. She has had a varied career, from museum assistant to civil servant. She has had pieces of fiction published in various places, such as the Ranfurly Review, Friction magazine and on Everydayfiction.com. She enjoys reading as much as writing and believes there's always time for a good story.
Other Books by A. F. McKeating
The Monster Inside
The Accidental Career of Hilary Darke
Past the Shadows
and coming soon…
A Shade Darker – the sequel to The Accidental Career of Hilary Darke