and buried my face in the soft glittery scarf Ellen was wearing.
My best move was making friends with John. He hated Jessica and screamed if she went near him, and he even ran away from strange cats in the street, running as fast as his little legs would carry him. Jessica had made him frightened of all cats.
So I spent a long time purring and rubbing against John as he sat playing on the floor. I never messed with his Lego or ran off with his teddy bear like Jessica did. I didn’t want to make John cry, so I approached him gently, always purring, and one day he stretched out his little hand and touched my fur. I crept close and pretended to go to sleep curled up against his legs, still purring of course. John kept very still and began to stroke me.
‘Nice cat,’ he said to Ellen.
‘He’s not like Jessica. He’s a kind, loving cat,’ Ellen said, and after that John wanted to hold me and even play with me. I’d made a big effort to be good, and it was worth it.
‘We’re going to keep you, little cat,’ Ellen told me joyfully a week later. ‘No one has claimed you. We’d better give you a name.’
I looked squarely into her eyes and radiated ‘Solomon’ to her. To my surprise she got it right. Ellen really was quite psychic.
‘I’ll call you Solomon,’ she said, ‘because you’re so wise. You are exactly like the cat I had as a child, and he was called Solomon. You don’t make trouble like Jessica. I’m so glad we can keep you.’
In that golden moment I understood the wisdom of the angel. She had planned for me to take that long journey and arrive on Ellen’s lawn looking pathetic. Even if I’d been born in the same street, Ellen would not have come looking for me since she already had Jessica. Appealing to Ellen’s motherly need to shelter a lost kitten had ensured me a place in her home and in her heart.
I couldn’t believe that this slim, stressed woman with dark circles under her eyes had once been a free spirit, a happy child who would dance barefoot on the lawn or who loved putting on her beloved pink ballet shoes and twirling all over the house, over the beautifully polished wood floors which were now covered in a tatty old carpet. I’d encouraged her by scampering about, making her laugh while she was dancing, and watching her eyes sparkle with creative energy.
I wondered why Ellen never danced now. She didn’t play the piano either. One day when Joe was out and John was asleep, I sat on it and just looked at Ellen. I knew she was telepathic so I sent her my thoughts. It worked.
‘Are you trying to tell me something, Solomon?’ she asked.
I put my chin on the polished top of the piano and I could sense the silent strings inside, waiting to be played. I dreamed of the rippling music Ellen used to play when she was a child, and sent the dream into her mind.
She looked at the clock, then sat down and opened the lid. I was thrilled. My fur tingled as I waited for the music to begin.
It didn’t work out as I’d expected.
Ellen sat there with her long fingers over the black and white keys, frozen and silent. Then, she slammed the lid down and burst into tears. She flung herself onto the sofa, sobbing and sobbing.
Horrified, I crept close to her, purring and licking the tears from her hot cheeks. It was all I could do.
I wanted to understand, so I remembered my previous life and why Ellen had cried when she was a child. When Ellen was ten years old, I’d wanted to give her a present to show how much I loved her. I knew she liked robins because there were cards all over her bedroom with pictures of them. So early one morning I headed out into the frosty garden and caught one for her. As I ran up the stairs with the robin’s soft body in my mouth, I was excited. It was the first bird I’d ever caught, and I was going to put it right on Ellen’s bed for her. A real robin!
Ellen was sitting up in bed, waiting for me as usual. I put the robin down with the greatest care on the duvet in front of her and sat back, satisfied with my act of giving.
But instead of saying thank you, Ellen burst into tears. Her mum came running in and gasped when she saw the robin lying on her little girl’s pink duvet.
Ellen cradled it in her small hands, sobbing and sobbing. ‘Look at his lovely colours,’ she cried, stroking the robin’s breast with one finger. ‘His breast is orange, not red. Look at his tiny feet all curled up. And he feels so warm. Look at his beak, and his sweet little face. Oh Mummy, he’ll never sing again will he? He’s dead.’ Ellen howled in grief. ‘I can’t make him fly again.’
She looked up and saw me sitting there. ‘You horrible cat, I HATE you. Go away!’
Her mum picked me up. ‘That’s not fair, Ellen. It’s natural for cats to catch birds, isn’t it, Solomon? He thought he was bringing you a present.’
She tried to take the robin away, but Ellen sobbed even harder. ‘No Mummy. I’ve got to look after him, even if he’s dead.’
Later, I watched in astonishment as she wrapped the dead robin in layers of rainbow tissue paper and put him in a cardboard box. When her mum wasn’t looking she took the bread knife from the kitchen, dug a hole in the ground under a rose bush, and buried the gift-wrapped robin. Ellen didn’t stop crying all day, but she did forgive me when I cuddled up to her, purring. It taught me a lesson I would remember forever.
But I didn’t understand why she was crying now, over the piano! I soon found out though when Ellen began to talk to me quietly, her speech interrupted by sobs.
‘I love music so much, Solomon. But I can’t do it now. I’m too exhausted. Music feeds my soul you see, and I can’t do it in fragments of time. It has to be total, so that I disappear into it. And I’ve got painful memories of it too. Mum was always pushing me to perform for people, and she’d get so angry because I just couldn’t. I used to freeze. Then she would punish me by locking the piano, or taking my ballet shoes away.’
We both looked up at the pair of faded pink ballet shoes hanging under the mirror on the wall.
‘It was the same with ballet. She and my teacher wanted me to perform. And it wasn’t about performing, Solomon,’ she said passionately, stroking my fur very fast. ‘It– it was about joy. Like you and Jessica when you play on the stairs. It’s pure joy and fun.’
I sat up and looked at her for a long time, trying to show her that I understood. I kissed her on the nose and purred into her soft ear. That made her smile, and she said, ‘Were you that cat, Solomon? Were you?’ I did a loud purr-meow. ‘I do believe you are the same cat, come back to me. We’ll be friends forever, Solomon, won’t we?’
She got up and walked over to the piano.
‘Maybe I will play a bit – for John,’ she said, and stroked the lid thoughtfully. ‘And for you. But there’s not time right now.’
I knew Ellen was unhappy. Often she’d sit in the garden so tired that she would almost fall off her chair. She coped patiently with John’s lively, bubbling personality. She was always there for him, playing with him, reading him stories and laughing with him. Ellen’s mother love was too strong for her own good. If John hurt himself she panicked, and if he was ill she always thought he was going to die. She worried about him so much.
‘Why isn’t she
