A Certain Kind Of Solitude

• Joanna Margetts, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2013

There are those unusual characters in this life who find it deeply troubling to work in a partnership, or find the company of their colleagues simply too much to bear. Then there are those who merely find any sort of company displeasing.

Mrs. Marjory Gripe came from the latter category.

Just now returning back to her small apartment from the post-box, she was quietly congratulating herself that she had avoided making any of those meaningless pleasantries on the way down. Stepping over one of her cats, she prised open the seal of her letter and read:

Dear Mrs Gripe,
Based on your renowned book, “CAT: a wonder”, we, the Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Felines are reminding you of the Society’s annual prize-giving ceremony tonight. We would be delighted for you to attend.

Grumbling with distaste, she crumpled the letter into her coat and proceeded up the stairs. Every year, the same thing. Would they not leave her alone? But with a sudden flash of malice that comes to an ageing recluse, she decided that yes, she would attend to spite them all. Then they would never ask her back.

On entering her appartment, she looked tenderly at the ginger haired, snub-nosed Bunty, who occupied the largest frame on the dresser. She then turned her attention to a less agreeable object: the clock. Six already. A sigh escaped her.

So at six thirty, she found herself standing outside the faded brick building dedicated to the Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Felines wearing her favourite fez-shaped hat. Inside, two hundred wrinkled women milled about, gossiping, laughing...
Despising every second, Mrs Gripe clung to the walls and stayed there resolutely until a gaggle of women tentatively approached.

“We would just like to say, Mrs Gripe, that we quite simply adore your hat. What a wonderful colour! And how daring of you at such a gathering!”

Mrs Gripe smiled politely. A male voice boomed across the hall. Mrs Gripe was thankful for the reprieve in conversation.

“Hullo Ladies. It’s nice to see you all here again. Tonight, however, we have a special guest. Would you please welcome, Mrs Marjory Gripe, the author of the international best seller, “CAT: a wonder!”

Mrs Gripe shuffled up to microphone. “Er.. Are there any questions?”

“What motivated you to write this book?” a quavering old voice inquired.

“Er…It all started with Bunty actually, my cat. He was the most remarkable specimen one could ever hope to encounter…to begin with he had a most astonishing deep red fur… I never thought I would ever see such beautiful red hair again.”

Mrs Gripe noticed with amused satisfaction that several women in the audience were frantically whispering.

“The shock of his death seemed to set off a creative surge in me….”

Several women’s eyes darted involuntarily to the remarkable original ginger structure perched on top of Mrs Gripe’s head.

One woman half-rose and then promptly collapsed. Another followed. Then there was a scream. And another scream. It was pandemonium.

“Look! Her hat!”
“Oh poor Bunty!”
“And to wear it here, too!”

A cold sweat formed on Mrs Gripe’s brow. This was not the reaction she had expected. A new sentiment assaulted her. Surely it was not shame? All her motives for attending this society now seemed ludicrous.

“Ladies please. I had it made after Bunty’s death, obviously, and there was no cruelty involved. I thought I’d simply immortalise my greatest friend…in hat form.”

Another wail followed this announcement. Leaving the hysteria behind her, Mrs Gripe slipped behind the curtain and vacated the hall.

Alone in her apartment, she reclined beside the fire.