The Scarf

Photo by Mark Rabe via Unsplash

Written by Kimberley

“Be careful not to slip,” George said. “They haven’t made it up here with the gritter yet.” “Don’t worry,” Linda said. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen snow.”

The clouds had been ready to burst for days, growing fluffier as the temperature dipped. The snow finally made her appearance in the early hours. First as sleet, then as powdery flakes leaving a thick blanket in their wake.

When they lived in the countryside, they watched it fall outside their window with a fire roaring, but age forced them into the city where even the snow looked different. It was the only way they could get the help they needed, the only way to continue living together under one roof.

They escaped the confines of their apartment every chance they got. Their daily evening walk becoming more of a religious practice than an optional jaunt around the local park. Each walk was the same. The same route, the same faces, the same grey buildings churning out smoke plumes.

“What’s that?” Linda said, pointing to the base of the lamppost separating their street from the next.

“Looks like a parcel,” George said. “Out here in this weather?”

George crouched down to brush the snow off of the top. If it was someone’s parcel, they had taken to it with a permanent marker to render their address illegible.

“It’s just rubbish,” George said. “Wait, pass me the key.” “Why?”

“Who leaves a parcel taped up in the street? It’s not open.” “You can’t just open other people’s parcels.”

“They don’t want it.”

He took the brass key and ran it along the tape, bracing the box with his free hand. The wet cardboard lid gave way beneath his fingers. There, in the corner, was a little mottled cat. Her breath no longer made the freezing air turn white and her body no longer felt the cold.

“Pass me your scarf,” George said. “My scarf?”

“Your scarf,” he said, holding out his open hand.

Taking the scarf, he lifted the lifeless cat with one hand and wrapped it around her with the other, making sure all four damp paws were tucked in.

“What are you going to do with it?” Linda said.

George unbuttoned the top of his coat and placed the small cat inside, refastening two of the buttons to keep her in place. Had he found her sooner he would have felt her shiver.

“Well there’s only one thing we can do, really.” Offering his scarf to Linda, they continued their walk.

“Could the skies today have been any greyer?” Linda said while taking off her shoes in the hallway.

“I’ll get a fire going,” George said. “Did you hear me?”

“Hear you?”

“The skies, could they have been any greyer?” “At least they hid the smoke.”

George knelt down by the fire and placed two pieces of firewood on the grate. Between them, he stuffed a few sheets of newspaper before adding more wood. It didn’t take long for a small fire to bloom, not with years of practice under his belt.

“Linda, please can you put some water in a bowl?” “Don’t you mean milk?”

“I think I read once that you’re not supposed to give them milk.”

After slipping into her pyjamas, Linda placed a bowl of water on the stone hearth before disappearing into the kitchen. When she returned, she had a laundry basket lined with George’s scarf in her hands.

“This should work,” Linda said.

“Did you get too close to the fire? Your heart is melting.” “I don’t want it destroying anything, that’s all.”

George unbuttoned the top of his coat and lifted out the cat, her remains still draped in Linda’s scarf. He placed the bundle in the basket before getting ready for bed.

They liked to lay in bed in the morning. Linda with her book and George with his crossword. He taped a small flashlight to the side of his glasses so that Linda wouldn’t stir if he woke early, as he often did.

It wouldn’t be a problem this morning - even the upstairs neighbour awoke to the crash.

It wasn’t the machinery in the city, though it was the obvious culprit. “What is it doing?” Linda said.

George sat up rubbing his eyes and grabbed his glasses. By the fireplace he could just make out the scarf caught on the corner of the hearth, but no cat.

“I’ll deal with it,” George said. “Go back to sleep.” “Sleep?” Linda said. “Is my vase in one piece?”

“Your vase is fine,” George said, holding his breath as he switched on his torch to check.

George walked carefully around the room, looking for what had broken. Had the fireplace still been lit he would have noticed the shards of glass on the floor, to the right-hand side of the hearth.

The photo had been upturned on their mantelpiece for many seasons, surrounded by trinkets. It didn’t feel right to store it away in the dark, but they couldn’t bear to look at him every day.

“It’s the photo,” George said, catching sight of the shards.

Linda made her way out of bed. “Be careful,” George said.

“I’ll be careful.”

“There’s glass everywhere.”

“I’ll be careful. Here, pass it to me.”

George bent down to pick up the broken frame, shaking it to cast loose any of the remaining glass. The little mottled cat brushed up against his leg as he passed it to Linda, before reaching down to pick her up. Going from cold paws to cut paws wasn’t going to happen on his watch.

“If only we could’ve helped him too,” Linda said, smiling back at her boy in the frame. “We had to respect his choice.”