The house hummed with the uneasy spirit of impending chaos. Edith sensed it even before she crossed the threshold. The stairwell reeked of something burnt, and soapy water flooded the steps as if a great deluge had passed. Pushing open the door, she tossed the bouquet she’d brought from work onto the shelf, kicked off her aching heels, and slipped into her worn house slippers—though wellingtons might have been wiser, given the puddle in the hall was deeper than the one outside. From somewhere inside, the muffled yowling of the cat mingled with ominous hissing, buzzing, and suspicious crackling.
“Albert, what in blazes is going on?” Edith called, feeling unease simmer in her chest.
A moment later, her husband appeared in the doorway—barefoot, clad only in his underpants, his face smeared with soot, crisscrossed with scratches, and sporting a splendid black eye. A tea towel was knotted atop his head like a turban, as though he’d just fled a bazaar in the East End.
“Edie, love, you’re back already?” Albert mumbled, twisting the edge of the towel. “Thought your office do would keep you late—toasts and speeches and all that…”
Edith sighed heavily, sank onto the old footstool by the door, and, biting back her irritation, demanded:
“Out with it, Albert. What have you done now?”
“Well, Edie, my dear,” he began haltingly, “don’t fly off the handle, please—”
“I flew off the handle in the nineties when thugs tried shaking down the business. I worried myself sick when the accounts emptied in the crash. I lost my temper when the recession nearly finished us. After that, I stopped caring—floods or fires, what’s the difference? Spit it out—what circus have you made of the place?”
“Right…” Albert hesitated, rubbing his bruised cheek. “I wanted to surprise you. A proper celebration, see? Thought I’d clean up, do the washing, cook supper. Took the day off, loaded the machine, popped to the market—well, went to the market first, bought the beef, but then it leaked.”
“The beef?” Edith narrowed her eyes.
“No, the washer!” Albert blurted. “Not straight away, mind. I put the beef in the oven, started tidying, and then the cat—”
“Is he alive?” Her eyebrow shot up.
“Course he is!” Albert grumbled indignantly. “Just a bit damp. Thing is—when I turned the machine on, he wasn’t in there, I swear! Then suddenly… well, he was.”
“How?!” Edith leaned forward. “How on earth does a cat climb into a closed washing machine?”
“Dunno,” Albert shrugged. “Teleportation, maybe. Clever blighters, cats.”
Edith pinched the bridge of her nose, inhaled deeply, and said coolly:
“Go on, Albert. This is getting more fascinating by the minute. But first—show me the cat. I want to see he’s unharmed.”
“Ah, love…” Albert shifted awkwardly. “Best go to him. He’s… er… out of sorts.”
“Legs still attached, I hope?” She eyed his scratched face.
“Oh, right as rain!” Albert confirmed glumly, rubbing his cheek. “Just temporarily… restrained. For his own good.”
“Fine, we’ll sort that later,” Edith waved a hand. “What else?”
“Well, while the cat was… eh, spinning, I smelled smoke. Ran to the kitchen, yanked the oven open—flames shooting out! Burnt my fingers, splashed oil, and—whoosh! Hair singed, smoke everywhere, me fighting the fire, and then the cat starts shrieking. Rushed back, saw his eyes through the porthole, staring like a prisoner. Turned the washer off, tried opening it—but it jammed. Cat howling, cooker blazing, face throbbing, hair smouldering… Grabbed a crowbar, and—well, the washer started leaking. Cat shot out, tore through the flat like a mad thing, smashed three vases, shredded the wallpaper, pulled down the curtains, knocked over the champagne I’d set out for you. Neighbours banged on the pipes, swearing they’d have me neutered—him or me, not sure. But it’s all under control now, Edie, no need to fret!”
Edith wiped her eyes—whether from laughter or horror, she couldn’t say—shoved Albert aside, and stepped into the flat. The devastation was staggering. Water pooled on the floor, the kitchen reeked of charred beef, wallpaper hung in tatters, and the air smelled of burnt offerings and feline vengeance. The cat, crucified atop the radiator, was bound at all four paws, his muzzle wrapped in an old scarf. But alive—which was a miracle.
“Edie, he wouldn’t stay put,” Albert hurried to explain. “I didn’t want him catching a chill before you got home. Couldn’t wring him out—kept squirming. Had to tie him down and muffle him to keep him quiet. Neighbours were threatening the constables, the fire brigade, and some old witch to curse us.”
Wordlessly, Edith untied the cat, dried him with the towel wrested from Albert’s head, and freed his muzzle. The cat hissed once, indignantly, then vanished under the sofa.
“You’re a proper knight in shining armour, Albert,” Edith sighed. “Nearly suffocated the poor thing. Though after a spin cycle, I doubt much scares him now. Or me.”
She collapsed onto the sofa, clutching the cat, and levelled a look at her husband.
“Well?”
“Well what?” Albert blinked. “Should I fetch a noose now, or let you suffer longer?”
“Congratulations, you great fool,” Edith exhaled. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
Albert’s face lit up. He darted into the next room and returned, hiding something behind his back. Dropping to his knees before her, beaming despite the soot and bruises, he began:
“Edie, my sunshine. Thirty years we’ve been together, and every day you amaze me. You’re the loveliest, wisest, most patient, strongest, and kindest woman, mother, and grandmother. Happy Mother’s Day—and may you stay as marvellous as ever. Here.”
He held out a little box with a gold ring and a bouquet of roses—crushed, bedraggled, but clinging to life.
“They were lovely before,” Albert added sheepishly. “The cat just… didn’t approve. Don’t be cross, Edie. I wanted to make it special. From the heart.”
Edith pulled his head to her chest, sniffed the flowers, and smiled.
“Well, they still smell nice. Not of smoke, at least. Albert—no more experiments, all right? Flowers will do. Another celebration like this, and the house’ll collapse. The neighbours won’t survive it.”
“Wanted it to be different from your office do,” Albert muttered. “Fancy bouquets, gifts—I wanted it to have heart. A bit of spark.”
“Oh, you gave it spark all right,” Edith snorted. “Too much of it. But never mind. It’s the thought that counts. Now come on, you great disaster—let’s salvage what’s left and smooth things over with the neighbours. Before they really do call a witch on us. God knows what hers gets up to. Who knows what she’d do after a day like this…”
