Cleo

Mum ran forwards, bent over the bassinet and boomed “Shooooo!” Cleo flattened her ears and hissed back. I watched helpless while two of the most powerful females in my life declared war on each other.

“It’s okay, Nana,” Rob said. “Cleo’s just trying out the baby’s bed. She wants to make sure it’s comfortable.”

“There’s only one place cats belong,” Mum proclaimed, grabbing Cleo around the belly and marching her to the front door. “Outside!”

After her abrupt landing on the veranda Cleo shook her self in disbelief. Why on earth had the giant grandmother woman tossed her out of her bed?

Back in the kitchen, Mum filled the electric kettle while Rata sat devotedly at her feet.

“That cat will smother the baby,” she said.

Through the window I saw Cleo licking herself all over with long comforting strokes. No doubt she was hatching a plan.

“Cats and babies don’t go together,” Mum continued. “They drop fur everywhere. Have you seen? It’s all over Rob’s pillowcase. The whole house is covered in cat fur. It gives babies asthma. And the claws. Cats have no patience. They lash out and scratch babies on the face. Cats aren’t like dogs, are they, Rata? They get jealous…”

“Cleo’s not jealous,” Rob said.

“Just wait till the baby’s here,” said Mum.

“Cleo’s looking forward to the baby,” said Rob. “She says it’s a blessing.”

Mum’s hand froze on the kettle’s handle. She shot me a worried look.

“What do you mean says?” she asked Rob. “You think the cat’s talking to you?”

“No,” I said quickly. “He just had a couple of dreams about Cleo. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. You know what kids are like.”

“He’s been through an awful lot,” she said to me under her breath. “You don’t think he’s going a bit strange, do you?”

“He’s fine,” I said firmly, arranging mugs on a tray.

“Frankly, I don’t know why you’ve bothered with a cat when most people would give anything to have a dog like Rata,” she continued. “Rata’s practically…a human being. She’s like having another person around.”

I’d forgotten what a dyed-in-the-wool dog person Mum was. Rata thumped her tail amiably on the floor. Mum was right: Rata was the most lovable dog in the world.

“Whenever Rata stays with me she keeps me company at night. I never feel scared because she always barks at strangers. She’s a wonderful guard dog. Her fur’s so silky. Don’t you love the way it feels? And the best thing about her is the way she listens. Haven’t you noticed the way Rata listens to everything I say?”

My heart stopped. How had a woman who’d once been so strong and forceful suddenly grown into an old lady with wavy grey hair and bifocals? The once regulation stiletto heels and pointy toes had surrendered to sensible shoes made of soft leather and with toes rounded enough not to trouble her bunions.

But she was giving decrepitude a run for its money. With her fashion flair (vibrant jackets with shoulder pads highlighted with chunky jewelry) and a lifelong commitment to coral lipstick, she was at the stylish end of the late seventies age group. Nevertheless, she looked more fragile than before. And for the first time she was actually asking me for something. She wanted company, protection, someone to give and receive love, and most importantly a pair of attentive ears.

As I poured the tea Mum wandered down the hall towards our bedroom with Rata at her heels. Compared to hers, my life was brimming with adults, children and animals. And now there was the baby to look forward to. Mum wanted more than television and knitting needles. She needed healing as much, if not more, than we did. A grandparent’s grief is a double dose—grief for the lost grandchild and empathy for the unhappy adult child whose dream of family has unraveled.

“I don’t believe it!” Mum yelled.

I followed her voice into our bedroom. Cleo had ensconced herself in the bassinet again. She and Mum were locked in a mutual glower.

“How did you get back inside?” she growled at the cat.

Cleo raised herself on all fours, curved her tail down to look like an old-fashioned pump handle and growled back.

“Through a window, probably,” I answered.

“That cat’s a liability!” Mum snapped, scooping Cleo up and putting her firmly outside again. “You’re going to have to keep your bedroom door shut.”

The Battle of the Bassinet went on day after day. Even though I tried to keep our bedroom door shut, it constantly seemed to glide open. Cleo never missed an opportunity to reinstate herself in her new bed, and Mum was constantly at the ready to toss her out.

My attempts to call a truce between two determined females were pointless. Tensions between cat and grandmother were driving me crazy. Unable to sleep one night, I climbed out of bed around midnight, went under the house and fumbled in the dark for the hand mower. Mowing the lawn by moonlight calmed me down for a bit (and probably provided Mrs. Sommerville with entertainment).