Listening to nothing.

** This story contains references to road traffic accident***

She sits uncomfortably perched on the wall at the top of the long garden of the Victorian semi. Beside her is the cat basket, and a tin of tuna fish, a spoon, a small cat dish and her book.

Mostly, she just sits quietly, scanning the roof tops and bushes nearby for the little black cat. Periodically she tries to read a page of her book, unable to follow the story and rereading passages without understanding,but trying anyway.

Sometimes she spoons a little tuna onto the dish, and gently taps it, calling the cat.

" Pip...Pippers... come on, tea time kitty..."

She calls without much hope. This is the eighth time the blasted cat has returned here, her old house, and each time it's taken longer to persuade her into the cat basket and take her ....take her to the new house : she corrects her thoughts from the word "home. "

Because the new house it is not home. Maybe it will be , one day, but at the moment it is categorically not home , not for her and clearly not for Pip the cat.Its a tiny, newish terraced house on a housing estate half a mile from here.

Everyone agreed it was a sensible move. Easier to maintain, smaller since it was only her now, less housework, a neater garden with no hedge to trim. And she wanted to move, she really did, because every day she woke up and stared at all the places that Chris should have been and was not.

She tries not to look at the house she's sitting outside. Someone else's curtains, and garden furniture adorn it. When she looks at what used to be her and Chris' s bedroom, her world tips and sways and she has a terrible sense of unreality. For 35 years, that was her bedroom.She can still conjure up the particular quality of light at six am on a summer's morning, as she woke beside her husband's bulk, his warmth radiating through the bed, snoring stenorously.

She can still feel the stair bannister under her hand, hear the special click of the bathroom door, and she can almost hear Chris in the shower, humming tunelessly, making that " wooft" noise that he always did as he stepped out of the shower into the chilly bathroom.....

" Any luck?"

She's startled out of her thoughts by the new owner , Matt, as he approaches her at the garden wall. He smiles a little uncomfortably and really who could blame him..he must be sick of the sight of her perched on his garden wall at dusk. The summer sun is going down and there's a coolness to the air, as bars of sunlight stripe the velvety lawn through the fence. Nearby she can hear a lawn mower drone through the stillness of the evening.

" No, I haven't even caught a glimpse. She's around though, I can tell by her tracker collar " she replies awkwardly. She squints up at him ,and smiles tentatively. " I'll just give it ten more minutes if that's ok. I do appreciate you letting me sit here".

He moves his hands helplessly.

" I don't understand what she thinks is here though, why she can't settle at your new place. It's been six months, hasn't it? You'd think she'd be used to it by now .." he trails off , perhaps realising the delicacy of the situation.

" Oh I don't know " she replies gently. " I guess it's taking us both some time, you know, in the circumstances, it's been a difficult year and Chris was always the cat whisperer. ".

Matt nods and tries to look sympathetic but she can see the momentary horror in his face as she mentions Chris's name. Maybe he thinks she might start crying, or say something about his death, or something else equally taboo. She's noticed this a lot since Chris died. People try to avoid talking about him, and if she mentions his name, their eyes swivel frantically to the nearest exit, and sentences are left half finished, with bright promises to be in touch soon.

Nobody wants to hear his name. Or to hear her talk about the night he died- the bike wheel spinning uselessly , the ambulance's whirling lights, the blood on the road.The car driver's striken face. He looked so young, she almost went to comfort him, before the police stepped smoothly between them and moved her to one side. Heaven help friends and acquaintances if she should mention that. A widow has to be one dimensional, stoic and benign . She must bear her burden silently and with dignity. She cannot fall to her knees and in a voice raw with pain beg whatever deity is listening to take it back, take it back ....

" Well, actually I think I'll pack up now " she says and sees relief flood Matt's face. " I'll pop back in a day or so. She might be really hungry by then".

" Yes of course!" Matt says in a false jovial voice, rubbing his hands. The kitchen light behind him turns on and she sees through the French doors for a moment. She can see the sink, and Matt's wife moving from it to the cooker with some vegetables. Her world tilts again because surely that should be her? And Chris should be coming into the kitchen, asking what was for dinner and lifting a pot lid to see....? Matt sees her looking and trots down the garden path away from her , half sentences of reassurance float back towards her.

He draws the blinds on the doors ,and she's shut out , left out of the warm circle of family life.

Abruptly she stands and walks away, the cat basket banging against her leg, tuna fish and dish sliding around inside it. She swallows the lump in her throat and wipes her eyes crossly. Stupid damn cat.

Under a bush, not ten feet away, Pip stares at her impassively. She stretches luxuriantly and yawns, her belly rumbling. Suddenly alert, she tenses and lifts her head to smell the air, and hears the gentle whirr of bike spokes, as she jumps fluidly onto the wall to wait for him, coming down the road.