The Ghost Cat Quotes

“And then two thoughts entered his head: one was of his mother; her eyes gummed together and her tortoiseshell stripes vibrant and gold as she licked him along his sticky fur as a newborn kitten. It was an image he had never had before during his whole life, but here it was now so clear and bright he could almost touch it. And then Eilidh...her smiling lips and rosy face looking down at him as he curled up near the fireside in 1902, tired and woozy.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“It was the same lamppost Grimalkin had seen being lit in the 1890s when it was still fueled by oil, and then in the 1910s, when it ran on gas, and then again in 1953 when it was wrapped in coronation buntings. Today, it looked especially sturdy and proud. It had seen so much; entire lives had risen and been snuffed out under its timeless orange glow. Grimalkin felt a sudden pang of sadness. That lonely feeling that had accompanied him so often during his hauntings returned with a vengeance. It was only among these things—these inanimate objects that stood year in year out—that Grimalkin could find any real consistency and comfort. This venerable old post of steel, endlessly illuminating the night air, had been like a gentleman keeping watch at his window for an incoming storm.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“The women are referencing the Pillar Box Wars of the 1950s during which Elizabeth Windsor’s status as the second Queen Elizabeth to rule over the UK was challenged in Scotland. Many pillar boxes in Scotland with the new royal cipher in Scotland were vandalized at this time”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“Several minutes passed. A robin sang, its flock of looping crotchets ducking under the half-open window. Downstairs, the cups clinked against the sink as the kettle ceased its whistling. The cries of the revellers fell quiet and the wind dropped to a whispering breeze. Unaware. All so unaware. Finally, some minutes later, there was that last flicker of sunlight on the floorboards, one last gust of wind, a last scuffle of footsteps and the last chime of birdsong that coincided with Eilidh MacNeil’s time on this earth. And all the spirit, passion and longing that accompanied her body on this mortal coil slipped away and were no more.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“How sad,” said Eilidh, her breath seeming to labor. “That there is no mention, from our good lord, about our beloved beasties and Grimalkin joining us in the afterlife. I shall see, my darling Alfie, I doubt not that. But our wee fluffy pals...always so noble! Always so loyal. With us through so much.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“Halfway down, Grimalkin turned to his left, dissolving through the stone wall into an immaculately appointed back garden; each rhododendron and acacia, each cube of lawn and vivid tulip petal was so perfectly appointed, pruned and ordered that Grimalkin felt almost taken aback. He was now in the Grange; the poshest part of town3. Legend has it that the cats down here in Victorian times would almost exclusively be pedigree. Indeed, one wealthy old family back in 1894 had, according to local gossip at the time, decorated an entire stable, beside a garage, specifically for their cats. The butler, Mr. Afflick, was apparently very kind to local cats, often surreptitiously letting in strays with an affectionate call of, “I dare say, you’re set on stealing wee Luna’s cream,” or “You’re a sleekit wee thing, here, have some victual. Don’t go spreading it around, mind, and make scarce or I’ll be out of a position by lunchtime.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“There are some occasions when a cat shows immediate repulsion to food on account of it being unfit for the consumption of any self-respecting beast. On these occasions, the assembled mass of so-called nutrition is so abhorrent that the cat in question will immediately reel back and retch, often producing a “furball of disapproval” in the process. What Grimalkin saw along the table on that June Coronation Day of 1953 was nothing more than a smorgasbord of pure alimentary horror. Carrots and parsnips lay slopped over each other, blanched of their color, and overcooked to the point of seeming somehow out of focus. Cakes and jellies had been dyed in the colors of the Union Jack; but the once solid red, white and blue colorings had run into each other, turning the jellies into a liver-colored slop, resembling a sea anemone caught up in an oil slick. It was a sight that made Grimalkin feel nauseous, despite having built a stomach that could happily withstand 2-week-old squirrel offal in the 1890s. And here, next to his paws, sat a little pyramid of sandwiches cut into triangles on a plastic plate. He sniffed the bread only to lurch back with a noseful of an odd, synthetic smell that appeared to be emanating from some canary-yellow replacement for butter between the slices. Cans stood like sentinels between the party hats and dishes, with equally dubious names like Crest Top Collard Greens and Crest Top Pork & Beans.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“Of course, the man had no idea of Grimalkin’s presence. But Grimalkin was so starved of human contact and affection that he was positively whisked into a deep, calm sense of relaxation in that blissful moment. He could even trick himself into thinking that he was the object of the elderly man’s affections, not little Towser. He thought of Cat-sìth and how he would have preferred to renegotiate the terms of his hauntings, not to look and learn from the future, but to simply sleep on lovely warm laps on rare, hot Edinburgh summer days throughout the ages. That would be far more pleasant...”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“The novel rights of Peter Pan were eventually bought by Hodder & Stoughton in 1911. Upon his death, Barrie bequeathed the rights of Peter Pan to Great Ormond Street Hospital in London. The hospital still earns royalties for every Peter and Wendy–related film, book or play produced or shown to this day.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel

“As Grimalkin padded over to the fire grate, which was just starting to lick with flames, he caught sight of his own reflection in Eilidh’s brass firebox. A hunched tabby cat stared back at him, crooked of tail and jagged of whisker. His eyes, once lizard-green and flashing with alertness, were now, at 15 years old, cloudy and drawn ever-so-slightly down at the corners, so that his pupils looked unnaturally large. To the unassuming passerby, this might have given them a melancholy air, but, to the more perceptive among cats and humans, it in fact spoke of a profound and restless wisdom. His fur, at one time the envy of the neighborhood for its dazzling mix of browns, marmalades and creams, was now flecked with white and constantly matted with bits of grit that he could never completely lick off. His forelegs were stout, with big paws, the likes of which would not seem out of place on one of his wildcat cousins, excepting his neatly rounded toes; and his ginger hind leg, once his proudest attribute when prowling the communal gardens, had now turned a deep fox-red and was bent in a half curve that he couldn’t straighten out. There was a majesty about him, as there was with all handsome cats grown old, and a robustness to his form that suggested a prodigious Victorian diet of lark pie, pork suet and dripping. He was a thinking cat and, as such, enjoyed a life of quiet intellectual contemplation.”
― Alex Howard, The Ghost Cat: A Novel