‘The light of the Full Cold Moon filled her kitchen. It had turned the running tap into a silver stream and dusted the work tops with a luminescent glow. Through the window, the early frost had transformed the garden into a fantastic landscape: white-coated branches, like spiky fingers snatched at Will o’ the Wisp grasses that danced tantalisingly beneath them. The washing line had become a diamond necklace, and delicate,  lace-edged cabbages, like silent sentries, stood guard over the vegetable patch. The moonlight was so bright that she had not needed to switch on the kitchen light, and now stood washing her supper dishes in the half-light, enchanted by its ethereal beauty.
The memory of a paper moon that had hung above her seventy years before, crept into her mind. She had been proud to be   chosen to play Yum-Yum in her school’s production of The  Mikado, and still remembered every word of her songs. She hummed quietly as she washed her cup and placed it on the draining board.  By the time she had reached the knives and forks, the sound had grown, until finally, the words had burst out of her, and she turned her face upwards to address the moon directly,

“Ah pray make no mistake, we are not shy
We're very wide awake, the Moon and I”

It was what she did - sing songs, that is. Her voice had become slightly more breathy with age, and it sometimes cracked on the high notes, but singing still gave her immense pleasure. After all, there was no-one to please but herself. Every room of the house had its own collection of songs, each linked to a person or a memory. As she walked up the stairs at night, she would be one step behind her husband as, shoulder high, he had carried the children to bed. ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’ had always extended their journey from the foot of the staircase to the top step. He had marched up and down in time to the rhyme, as the children had giggled and begged for more. She would  sometimes repeat the actions as she went to bed now, pausing  half way up to smile at the photograph of her son and daughter on the wall. They had been caught in time: her son a  chubby-cheeked school boy in short trousers and next to him, her daughter looking like a puppet master who was very much in control. She had always pulled the strings, that one.  In the end, she had pulled them so hard that she had whisked her    son-in-law and grandchildren across the sea, all the way to Canada, where they had lived for the past forty years. Dutifully, her daughter rang once a week, although of late it had slipped to once a fortnight.  At least it was something. Her son was less than fifty miles away, but her contact with him had diminished to a card at Christmas, and occasionally one on her birthday. He made the excuse that he was no good at letter writing, or that his phone had no credit. Two years ago, he had surprised her with a visit, but she had been relieved when, after an hour of small talk, he had made his excuses and left. Memories were the best    company. She had carefully wrapped and preserved them in her songs, like her aunt’s best china in the attic. Each night when the Grand Old Duke’s journey was done, the tempo would change as she passed the empty nursery. There her voice would soften and Brahms Lullaby would carry her to her bedroom. As she got ready for bed, she would sing, Beautiful Dreamer. It had been her husband’s love song to her when they had first met. She would touch his empty pillow when the song was done and wish him goodnight.

The washing up was finished and she glanced at the whey-faced  clock above the kitchen window, a pale imitation of its celestial counterpart.
“Dead on ten,” she noted.
Routine had become almost as important to Mrs  Murgatroyd, as her songs. It would have been so easy to drift through her days, without purpose or meaning. Each day, she rose at six and each evening, retired at ten. The time between the two points was filled with activities, which were either related to her house or garden, and once a week, she would walk to the shops at the edge of town. Further than that, and it all became too confusing. She found the noise of the traffic threatening, and the people in such a hurry that they would push past her with a  disapproving look. Tonight she would be late to bed as, bewitched by the moon, she had been reluctant to leave it. Taking a deep breath, she filled her lungs and sang its praises again.

“We're very wide awake, the Moon and I”

As she reached the end of the verse, she was startled by a small sound from somewhere close by. She stood in silence for a minute and listened, but the only sound she could hear was the dripping of the tap. Once again, she sang the chorus, and there it was once again: a small sound, almost an echo of the last word. She peered into the garden, but could see nothing. Cautiously, she slid the bolt on the kitchen door and turned the key. Her daughter  always warned her to keep the door securely locked at night, so she opened it just wide enough to be able to peer out into the darkness. A wave of ice cold air met her, making her cheeks tingle and her eyes water. Seeing  nothing, she called out,
“Hello, is there anybody there?”
Receiving no reply, she told herself that she was imagining things and quickly locked and bolted the door again.
“Moonstruck,” she muttered to herself, “that's what you are, moonstruck!”
As she turned to make her way across the room, she froze, for there in the middle of the kitchen, in a pool of  moonlight, sat a cat.  Its fur, a snow-white puff ball, glistened, while its bright blue eyes flashed like sparks to rival the stars above.
She would laugh the next morning when she would recall      saying, ‘Where have you come from?’, as if anticipating an     answer, but now she found the way the cat fixed her with its unwavering gaze, disturbing. She hurried across the room and switched on the light, while the cat continued to watch her   closely. The warmth of the kitchen was causing the ice crystals on the tips of its whiskers to fall gracefully to the floor, and its fur to lie wet and flat against its body, as the frost turned to water.
“Poor thing,” she said, “you’ll catch your death!”
Taking an old towel, she knelt beside the cat and gently patted it dry, working away until its coat resembled a pure, white pom pom. She smiled as her efforts were rewarded with loud purrs and the cat nudged her hand affectionately. Spontaneously, she began to sing a song that her children had loved,

“… the cat came back the very next day,
The cat came back, we thought he was a goner,
The cat came back, he just wouldn't stay away”

As she reached the end of each line, the cat chirped a response, and an inexplicable feeling of happiness rose inside Mrs Murgatroyd, one that she had not experienced for many years.
“You’re a clever one,” she said with delight, then suddenly, her mood changed and she added, “Someone must be missing you.  Someone must be worried.”
Reluctantly, she opened the kitchen door and called to the cat, “Come on, out you go!” She clapped her hands to encourage it to move, but it remained in the centre of the kitchen floor. It  deployed that cat’s trick of ignoring what did not suit it, and started to groom itself with long, slow licks of its tongue.
“Well, I suppose one night won’t matter …”
Having provided her visitor with a few scraps of cold chicken, a saucer of water and an empty box in which to sleep, she closed the kitchen door and went to bed. It was not until her head hit the pillow, that she realised that The Grand Old Duke of York, Brahms Lullaby and Beautiful Dreamer had all been forgotten, but before closing her eyes, she kissed her finger tips and placed them on the empty pillow and whispered, “Goodnight”. Her eyes had started to close when the soft padding across the bed, a moment of kneading and a softly purred lullaby announced the cat’s arrival.
When she woke at six the next morning, the space where the cat had lain was empty.
“Moonstruck!” she scolded herself, thinking that her  visitor had been nothing more than a figment of her imagination, but when she entered the kitchen a few minutes later, the cat was sitting near to the kitchen door.
“Oh, well,” she said sadly opening the door, “nothing lasts forever.”
However, after a few minutes in the garden, a faint mewing   signalled the cat’s return.
“What am I going to do with you?” she pondered as she watched the cat eating the last of the chicken.  At that moment, she heard her neighbour’s door slam, and quickly went to her front door and opened it. She searched her memory for the young woman’s name and remembered it just before she had reached the garden gate.
“Emily!” she cried.
Her neighbour stopped and turned, surprised by this sudden contact with a neighbour, who usually kept herself to herself.
“Emily,” Mrs Murgatroyd repeated, “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know if anyone has lost a cat? It’s white and obviously very well cared for.”
It was only when the girl turned and she read the logo on her jacket, that Mrs Murgatroyd remembered that Emily  worked at the animal rescue centre in the town. Her neighbour’s glance towards the end of the road told Mrs Murgatroyd that she was in a hurry, probably catching a bus, or being given a lift to work.
“I’m sorry, you’ll be late  …” she started to say, but to her  surprise, Emily closed her gate and walked up Mrs  Murgatroyd’s path.
“Many cats are chipped, these days,” she said, and being met with a blank stare, explained how microchipping worked. While Mrs Murgatroyd stood by like an anxious parent, Emily examined the cat and offered to take it to the centre.
“We can scan for a chip,” she said. “If there is one, it will tell us who the owner is.”
“Could I …,” Mrs Murgatroyd hesitated.
“Come with her?” Emily finished the sentence. “Of course. Let me just make a phone call.”
A few minutes later, a van pulled up and a young man  carrying a cat carrier made his way up the garden path.
In less than half an hour, the cat and Mrs Murgatroyd had been driven to the centre, the scan carried out and they now sat in the reception area, anxiously waiting while the database was searched. Her eyes stayed fixed on the office door, a sense of foreboding growing by the minute. Finally, the door opened and the young man who had collected them appeared.
“Good news!” he started, then realising that what he had to say would not be welcome, continued less  enthusiastically.
“The cat is registered to a lady in the next street to yours.  We’ll take her round now.” In an attempt to soften the blow, he added, “Her owner will be most grateful to you. Would you like to come along, then I can drop you home.”
Mrs Murgatroyd nodded her thanks and a few minutes later, found herself outside a house, not dissimilar to her own. The young man’s knock on the door was answered by a woman, whose red-rimmed eyes served as a testament to her grief.  She had obviously been worried by the cat’s disappearance and Mrs  Murgatroyd felt ashamed that her selfishness had caused so much  distress.
“Mrs Eveline?” the young man asked.
“Miss,” came the reply. “My mother was Mrs Eveline.”
The young man explained that her cat had been found and was being returned. This news was not met with gratitude, in fact it seemed to have the opposite effect, and succeeded in setting off a fresh wave of weeping.
Between sobs, Miss Eveline informed them that her mother had died, quite recently and quite suddenly.
“ … And the cat is just another problem to be sorted out!” she whimpered.  She explained that she had a dog and would not be able to take on the cat.  She turned to Mrs Murgatroyd.
“I don’t suppose …”
“I could take her?” Mrs Murgatroyd could hardly contain her excitement.
“Luna is a good cat.  She won’t be any trouble.”
“Her name is Luna?” asked Mrs Murgatroyd.
“Yes, my mother named her after the goddess of the moon. I wondered what had happened to her. She was never a cat to wander off. Our neighbour thought he saw her disappearing round the corner as he passed the door last night. My mother was putting the empty milk bottle on the step and he wished her goodnight.  As she stood up, he saw her clutch her chest and fall to the ground. The doctor said it was a massive heart attack, and nothing could have been done.” She dabbed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“What time was this?” asked Mrs Murgatroyd.
“He remembered the time on his phone as he dialled 999.  It was dead on ten.”
“Dead on ten,” Mrs Murgatroyd mumbled and felt a slight breeze ruffle her silvery hair.

It was soon agreed that Mrs Murgatroyd would adopt Luna, and after collecting her basket and a few pouches of cat food, soon found herself back in her cosy kitchen.
“Keep her in for a few days,” the young man advised. “She’ll be less inclined to wander.”  He had reached the door when he turned and added, “Oh, and by the way, Merry Christmas!”  
In all the excitement, she had forgotten that today was Christmas Eve and tomorrow was Christmas Day.  She returned his  greeting and had just sat down in her kitchen when another knock came at the door. On opening it, she was surprised to see her neighbour, Emily, standing on the doorstep, her arms laden with gifts.
“Everyone at the Centre wanted you to have these,” she said. “We receive so many donations of  toys, blankets and so on, that we don’t know what to do with them all, and after your  kindness in taking in Luna, we thought you might find a use for them.”
Mrs Murgatroyd thanked her, but it was apparent from Emily’s reluctance to leave that there was something else.
“It’s about tomorrow,” she started tentatively. “We wondered if you would like to join us for Christmas dinner.  It’s just family and a few friends.  Nothing special.”  She caught the old lady’s half glance towards the back of the house and quickly added, “Of course, we realise that you won’t want to leave Luna so soon, so we thought you might like to bring her too!”
The next morning, Mrs Murgatroyd put on her best dress and the pair of earrings that had been her husband’s last gift to her, and after tying a red ribbon to Luna’s collar, carefully carried the cat to Emily’s door.
“I know red is not your colour,” she whispered to the cat, “but it is Christmas and one must make an effort.”
The warmth of the welcome she received brought back memories of the days when her own children had lived at home. When the meal was finished, the guests, full and content, sat in front of the blazing fire while Emily served coffee. As she passed a cup to Mrs Murgatroyd, she was pleased to note that her guest was at ease, humming quietly to herself, her cat on her lap.
“I love to hear you singing,” she said. “It always cheers me up!”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs Murgatroyd, “I hope I don’t disturb you.  I can’t help it, you see.  The songs just pop into my head and have to make their way out.”
“In a terrace, it’s hard to keep secrets,” Emily smiled, “but don’t worry, yours is safe with me … as long as you lead us in a few carols.”
Realising that it would be futile to protest, Mrs Murgatroyd cleared her throat and began with one of her favourites,
“Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” she began.
“Meow,” Luna echoed.
“How still we see thee lie.”
“Meow.”
The audience was captivated and as soon as one song finished, they begged for another duet. Mrs Murgatroyd could not remember a time when she had been happier.  As darkness fell, Emily walked her home and thanked her for making Christmas such a memorable one.
In bed that night, she told her husband all about her day, before kissing her fingertips and laying them on the pillow. She felt content, with Luna to her left and her memories to her right. She knew that she was entering a new phase of her life, when some new routines would be merged with old ones.
“Dead on ten,” she would say every night, as she carried her supper dishes into the kitchen … after first checking that Luna was curled up in her basket, of course.’