CAT LADY SANS CAT

THE LOCKDOWN MONOLOGUES

CAT LADY SANS CAT

BY / JANE HARRISON

WOMAN, in her early sixties, is sorting through dresses as she talks to the camera.

All these dresses. And yet I’m living in trackies. Like the rest of the world. And one of Toni’s old Fair Isle jumpers.

I’ve let myself go…

Lets down her hair from bun. Puzzled look.

A dreadlock. Crap.

It happens incrementally – and Iso makes it so much easier. Hair colour growing out? ‘Transitioning’ to elegant grey. The trackies? I bet even Boris Johnson did them. You start showering every second day, then third. Ah. Saving water. Even if trackies have a little bit of widdle from when you sneezed.

Before you know it… You’re like that woman who came down from the hills once a year to have a haircut. The hairdresser pulled her bun down, and there was a nest of cockroaches in it.

Urban myth? I don’t think so.

It’s the underlying fear. Ask any woman of a certain age who lives alone. Descent into ‘Cat Lady’ territory. Ugghhhh.

Not me. I prefer dogs. Although cats don’t eat the face off their owner when they’ve died. Alone. That’s the other fear…

I love clothes. I’ve loved them since I was a kid Even though they were mostly hand-me-downs. Apart from when my best friend’s mother made us matching dresses. People would ask, are you twins? Except she was pretty.

My best friend’s mother, Mrs Norton, was a dressmaker who worked from home. She loved gossip. Her clients would tell her stories, then she’d tell us.

One client… Apparently, this lady’s kitchen window overlooked the neighbour’s overgrown garden. But he’d cut this niche in the bushes so that the lady could see him. And, basically, he’d flash his willie at her.

I’m sure that story’s true. Cos I used to see that fella with his willie, like a pink salami, hanging out of his shorts.

Maybe oddballs were tolerated more in those days?

Or maybe that lady and her neighbour – maybe they were both lonely, and maybe they had an unspoken agreement?

There’s characters in the city too. My favourite homeless person – if you’re allowed to have a favourite – is Fay. She bunkers down near the Library. I try to stop and say a few words and slip her a few dollars. She never asks, except once. She wanted some lip gloss for her cracked lips. I was on my way to Big W so she hooked her arm in mine.

I had a moment of – wooo – that was before the war on germs – but I scolded myself – and off we went. Actually, I’m glad she tucked her arm in mine. It was nice. I think she got a strawberry lip gloss.

Some days I sit on my balcony. Have you noticed how the native birds have come back to the city? Shrieking and warbling. They start so early, when all I want to do is sleep.

But the pigeons and seagulls? They’ve vanished. None on the library steps. Maybe they’ve starved to death.

The city’s so quiet. Was it Ava Gardner who said Melbourne was the perfect place to make a film about the end of the world?

But I did see a fox.

I miss the buzz. I miss… criss-crossing the lanes on the way to work. Past the old Greek shoe repairer. The cafe where the girl with the face tattoos almost knows my order. She looks at me… as if I am just an old woman who’s had a dull life. No. I did crazy things when I was her age. Naughty things, even. I was a punk with blue hair.

I guess I am a dull middle aged woman. Who works in a library. Well, I did work at the library... I got laid off. I don’t feel I should be looking for another job when there’s so many young people out there looking. Like the girl with the face tattoos.

So. No job, but I’m keeping busy.

I’ve tossed out all the old out of date spices. Recipes ripped from magazines. I put a stack of paperbacks in the little library. Thanking them, Kondo-style, with gratitude for their service.

The bedroom’s the last and hardest room. The wardrobe’s the last and hardest task. Hard enough doing my side...

All these dresses... Swishy, colourful dresses. Even as a punk I couldn’t do all black. Too many when I’m living in trackies. When would I ever wear them? When I hardly leave the flat.

I did have one excursion during the lockdown. A friend knocked on my door. I was shocked. Wasn’t expecting him, or anyone. Didn’t know what to say. He was going for a walk… did I want to join him?

We walked through the gardens. We chatted. About the state of the world. All the upheaval…

Afterwards, we had a G&T on his verandah and his wife asked me how I was going, like really?

I brushed it off.

When I got up to leave he and his wife went ‘bugger it’, and hugged me. Like an electric shock. My eyes filled with tears. It’d been so long since anyone had touched me.

It’s five months since Toni died… We’d been together 26 years.

I’m tactile. We used to hold hands watching TV.

I wake up at 1am and I roll over to the slight indentation in the mattress.

I’m not afraid of grief but I’m not wallowing in it.

She stops folding.

I can edit the dresses. But I can’t clean out that side of the wardrobe. Not even Toni’s old shirts that are missing buttons… They spark joy. And longing. They still smell of Toni. Very faintly.

I don’t have to wear the Fair Isle jumper every day. I’m not a ‘Cat Lady’. Not a ‘Cockroach Lady’ either. But I could get a rabbit. And call it Alfonso. And –I could stroke its ears while I watch TV.