Get rid of the cats spirit or vacate the flat! the landlady shouted, her voice echoing down the narrow hallway.
The room Poppy had taken was tiny but bright, its old solid furniture creaking with history. Mrs. Victoria Blake, the landlady, warned her as soon as the key turned in the lock:
Im a strict sort. I like order, cleanliness, silence. If anythings wrong, tell me at oncedont keep it inside.
Poppy nodded, yearning only for a night of calm, free from the rants of neighbours and the howl of drunken voices that had haunted her in the cramped council flat on the edge of town. Here, in this modest flat on a quiet suburb of Birmingham, it felt like a slice of heaven.
She settled in, and the first days passed uneventfully. Mrs. Blake was not angry, merely closed off, her eyes holding a perpetual, quiet resentment toward the world, toward people, perhaps toward life itself.
Poppy tried not to intrude. She cooked early while the landlady still slept, moved silently, kept the television off, lived like a mouse.
Then one evening a cat appeared, as if it had drifted in on a sigh. A thin, grey feline with intelligent green eyes perched on the landing, mewing plaintively as if saying, Please, take me. Poppy could not resist. She carried the creature upstairs, fed it, gave it water, laid an old towel in a cardboard box. The cat curled into a tight ball, purring; and for the first time in months something inside Poppy melted.
Little Milly, she whispered. My sweet.
Hiding Milly seemed simple enough. Mrs. Blake rarely entered Poppys room, and Milly proved to be a quiet creatureno scratching, no wild dashes, only soft purrs and long naps on the windowsill.
One night, a voice cut through the stillness:
Poppy!
Mrs. Blakes tone was icecold, making Poppy flinch. She stepped into the corridor where the landlady stood by the door, her face twisted, a tuft of grey fur clenched in her hand.
What is that? Whos in there?
Mrs. Blake, I
A cat?!
The landlady shrieked as if the creature were a serpent or a rodent. Her cheeks flushed, her hands trembled.
I cant stand them! The dirt! The fur everywhere! The smell!
But its clean, Poppy protested weakly.
Rid the cats spirit, or youll have to leave the flat! Mrs. Blake snapped and strode away, slamming the door behind her.
Poppy sank onto the sofa, her hands shaking. Milly padded over, rubbing against her legs and letting out a plaintive meow.
What shall we do now, my dear? Poppy whispered to herself, a tear sliding down her cheek. Where do we go?
Should she start over, pack her things, flee? She felt too spent to move.
She decided: as long as the landlord didnt force her out, she would stay, and she would hide the cat even better.
The following days turned into a bizarre, exhausting game of espionage. Poppy slipped Milly into the wardrobe whenever she heard Mrs. Blakes footsteps. She fed her only at dawn or late night, when the landlady disappeared to the corner shop. The litter box was tucked into the furthest corner of the room, behind an old suitcase.
Milly seemed to understand. She never meowed, simply perched silently on the windowsill, watching the street with sorrowful green eyes, breathing as quietly as if she feared to give herself away.
Youre clever, Poppy murmured, stroking the warm grey back. Just hold on a little longer. Everything will sort itself out.
But nothing sort of out.
Mrs. Blake patrolled the flat with a face that seemed betrayed, sniffing corners, pausing at Poppys door to listen. Poppy froze, clutching Milly to her chest, her heart thudding like a drum about to burst.
Lord, please dont hear us, she thought.
Mrs. Blake lingered a moment longer, then left, though the atmosphere in the flat grew dense, oppressive.
At dinner, the landlady ate her soup in silence, eyes glued to the bowl. Suddenly she snapped:
You think Im a fool?
Poppy choked on her tea.
I understand perfectly. You didnt throw her out. You hid her. You think I dont feel it?
Mrs. Blake
No more lies! the landlady leapt up, voice cracking. I warned you. But if youre so clever, fine. No fur, no sound! And when my grandson comesno spirit left!
She stormed back to her flat, leaving Poppy bewildered.
A grandson? The next day Mrs. Blake spoke of him in a dry tone, but a tremor of something elseperhaps excitement or anxietysneaked into her voice.
My grandson Oliver is coming for the holidays. Hes twelve; his parents are always busy. Hell be here on Friday.
Thats lovely, Poppy replied, trying to sound upbeat. You must miss him.
Mrs. Blake grimaced.
Hes become a stranger. He lives in his phone, hardly ever speaks to me. Hell sit for a week and then leave, as every year. It hurts, she muttered, a genuine ache breaking through.
But youre his grandmother! He loves you, Poppy insisted.
He might, the landlady snorted. He only cares about his internet.
She fell silent, then added softly, And make sure the cats spirit is gone. Understand?
Poppy nodded, wondering how to conceal a cat for a whole week.
Friday arrived in a blur. Oliver stepped into the flat that eveninga lanky, angular teenager with headphones glued to his ears and a gloomlined face. He greeted with a single word, slipped into his room, and shut the door.
Mrs. Blake fussed about dinner, coaxing the boy to eat. He stared at his phone, muttering, I dont want any.
I made your favourite meatloaf, she pleaded.
I said I dont want it, he snapped.
Poppy, listening through the thin wall, felt her heart tighten. Poor Mrs. Blake, trying so hard while her grandson ignored her.
Milly perched on the windowsill, watching the darkness beyond the glass with mournful eyes.
Hold on, dear, Poppy whispered to herself. Just a little longer.
The next morning something unexpected happened. Poppy went to the bathroom for a moment, left the bedroom door ajarthere was no lock. Perhaps Milly, curious or needing a stretch, slipped through the crack and slipped into the corridor.
When Poppy returned, the cat was gone. Panic surged, a cold sweat ran down her spine.
Milly! My sweet! she called, darting into the hallway. She stopped dead.
In the living room, on the carpet, sat Oliver, and beside himMilly, rubbing against his leg, purring as loudly as a tractor starting up.
Whoa, Oliver breathed, his eyes finally brightening. Whose cat is this?
Its mine, Poppy stammered, stepping back and forth. Im sorry, Oliver, she just
Can I pet her a bit more? he asked, his voice childlike, marveling at the soft creature. Shes so cuddly!
Of course, Poppy replied, bewildered. On one side, Mrs. Blake would burst in, a storm of accusation; on the other, Olivers delighted gaze made the cat glow.
Soon the landlady emerged from the kitchen, stared at the scene, and froze.
Poppy braced for an explosion.
Oliver, Mrs. Blake said quietly, are you playing with the cat?
Yes, Grandma! Look how she purrs! Can I feed her?
She lingered, watching her grandson, then slowly nodded. Fine.
From that moment everything shifted. Oliver never left Millys sidefeeding her, playing, even sketching her with a pencil. He tossed his phone onto the sofa and laughed. He talked about school, friends, and how he dreamed of having a cat of his own.
Mrs. Blake sat at the kitchen table, listening, and for the first time her eyes softened.
One evening she approached Poppy.
Let her stay, she whispered. Milly. Shes brought a little joy into this house.
A single tear slipped down the landladys cheek.
Three months passed. Oliver called every evening, not his parents, but his grandmother, asking to see Milly on video chat. Mrs. Blake fumbled with the phone, cursing the terrible technology, Bloody thing! Can you see her, Oliver?
Yes, Gran! Hi, Milly! he chirped. The cat, hearing his familiar voice, padded closer to the screen, meowing as if she recognized him.
Grandson, Ill be back for the spring break, right?
Absolutely, Gran. Well be waiting with Milly.
The anticipation grew. Mrs. Blake had even bought a feathertipped cat toy from the shop, convinced Oliver would love it.
Poppy no longer hid in corners. She cooked alongside Mrs. Blake, sipping tea, sharing stories of her own lifeof a husband lost, of grief and the long road after. You know, Mrs. Blake, if it werent for Milly, I dont know how I would have managed, she confessed.
The landlady nodded, understanding.
Animals feel us, she said. When were down, they come, without words.
They became almost friendstwo solitary women, bound by fate and a modest grey cat.
When spring arrived, Oliver returned, backpack bursting with gifts: cat food, a new collar with a tiny bell, a soft cushion.
I bought everything myself, he declared proudly.
Good lad, Mrs. Blake praised.
Oliver spent the week chasing Milly around the garden, drawing her, laughing. On the day he left, he asked, Gran, can I come back for the summer? Stay longer?
Of course, love, she replied, hugging him tightly. Mrs. Blake felt a warmth bloom inside her, not from silence or order, but from the bustling laughter and the pattering of tiny feet in the hallway.
All because of a humble, unassuming grey cat.
