After dinner Tom leaves to meet Hilda, and I walk home with Kate, carrying a bag of scraps and giblets for her cats.
While she's fiddling with the two sets of keys to open her door, the man next door sticks his head out.
"Messenger was here a little while ago with a telegram for you. Wouldn't give it to me."
"A telegram?" Kate gapes.
"Yeah. He'll be back."
The man looks pleased, like he's been able to deliver some bad news, and pulls his head in and shuts his door.
We go into Kate's apartment, and cats come meowing and rubbing against her legs, and they jump up on the sink and rub and nudge the bag of scraps when she puts it down.
Kate is muttering rapidly to herself and fidgeting with her coat and bag and not really paying much attention to the cats, which is odd.
"Lots of people send telegrams on holidays. It's probably just greetings," I say.
"Not to me, they don't!" Kate snaps, also sounding as if they better hadn't.