King of the Vagabonds (16 page)

‘And what?’ Pinkie prompted.

‘You look after yourself too.’

‘Of course I will. I’m a vagabond, am I not?’

15

The Test Begins

Sammy’s period in Quartermile Field had sharpened his wits and he had some ideas of his own of how to exploit his opportunities, whilst still sticking to the conditions Brute had laid down. He was allowed carrion only – so be it. Carrion was any dead animal so, although he himself could not hunt, there was nothing to stop him dispossessing another cat of prey
it
had killed. With this plan of action in his head, Sammy fell asleep near his store of mice and voles.

However, aside from Pinkie, he had other friends amongst the vagabonds. There was Brindle, who certainly meant to be of assistance whenever he could. Brindle had decided that any carrion or scraps he came across must be reserved for Sammy, whereas in the past they would simply have been left for Scruff. He would tell Sammy of anything he found, and his sister Brownie was prepared to do the same. Then there was Patch, who had some sympathy with Sammy’s predicament. The old cat knew very well the test set him was preposterous and designed to defeat him. Patch had been impressed before by Sammy’s readiness to adapt to a life that was quite foreign to him. Now, without actually being able to provide him with food, he would make sure that anything he caught could be won by Sammy, if the young
tabby was determined enough. For Patch alone had guessed what Sammy’s tactics would be.

Lastly, and strangest of all, there was Brute himself. Envious he might be, but the King Cat had been surprised at Sammy taking up his challenge. He had not desired this and it had not been his design. Now he could see there was more to Sammy than he had recognized at first. He admired his courage and, as his father, how could he allow him to suffer more than was compatible with the vagabonds’ own sufferings? None of the other cats had been required to pass such a test of endurance. He thought about Stella. Whatever would she think of him if she knew about this? She had asked him to restore Sammy to his comforts, not torment him. So, all in all, Sammy was justified in sleeping peacefully.

When he awoke, the clear autumn light was losing its strength. He ate one of his mice and took stock of his situation. There was no need to move yet. He did not feel hungry. He watched the light fade gradually. He blinked in the glare of the setting sun, as it dipped behind a row of houses. Suddenly he found himself thinking of Molly. When this ordeal was behind him, Sammy decided, he would go back and tell the old dog, his friend, all about it.

In the gathering darkness he tried to imagine what the other cats would be doing. The allotments would be beckoning most of them; the hungry ones anyway. For him they were out of bounds now, except as a thief. And thief he would become. But not yet. He must not strike too early and put them all on their guard. He could afford to wait whilst he still had food. He shivered as a gust of wind whipped through his fur. The dark hours were becoming colder. Sammy needed that shelter. He was certainly not inured to the cold in the way that the
other cats were who had been born in the open air. So winter could defeat him even if he should survive this test.

He stirred himself. He wanted to be on the move now for warmth’s sake. He threaded his way through the weedy growths, which were dying back with the onset of autumn. Mottle the tortoiseshell scuttled in front of him in the blackness and ran on without a word. He saw Brownie lapping from a pool of rainwater. She kept her eyes on Sammy as she drank. He felt he had suddenly become an outsider again; an object of curiosity.

He left Quartermile Field and wandered morosely in the direction of the stream. When he got to it he wondered why he had come, for fishing was forbidden him. He trotted along to the wood and singled out the holly tree where he had hidden the pigeon. A quick climb and he was assured it was still there and, as yet, remaining fresh. Sammy scrambled down and went pattering over the first fallen leaves under the trees. He had never explored the entire wood. Now seemed a good time to do so.

The trees rustled and shook in the strong breeze, drowning out other noises. Sammy knew nothing of the habits of nocturnal wild animals, so he had no fear. Half-heartedly he chased a few dry leaves about as they spun in the wind. He came across a hedgehog making a meal of a slug and smacking its lips over it with the greatest enjoyment. Sammy wondered what a slug would taste like. The hedgehog ran away at his approach.

After a while the young tabby tired of the deep darkness of the wood. He ambled unhurriedly towards its perimeter, startling a small animal which raced across his path. Sammy gave chase. The creature easily eluded him and was soon safe in its hole. He left the wood and made his way to the houses where the cats sometimes begged
food in the winter. These were unfamiliar buildings to Sammy, but he soon found that they looked very like those near his old mistress. He was quite at home in gardens and went from one to another, investigating everything. Lights shone out from windows but the gardens were empty of life. No chickens here, no dogs and no cats. All safely shut up, he supposed.

A door opened in one house, briefly throwing out a patch of light into the adjoining garden. Sammy heard human voices again for the first time since he had heard his mistress calling him. There was the rattle of a dustbin and then the door closed again. Sammy sat down and meditated. The voices, friendly and cheerful, took him back to his time as a kitten. How he had loved his mistress’s voice: sometimes shrill, sometimes soft, but always so kindly. He even recalled the gardening boy, Edward. Did he miss contact with humans? He thought he must do, otherwise why was he thinking about them now? Supposing he had never heard about Beau and his kind of life, would he have been content to stay where he had been born and brought up? No, no. That was not possible. His father’s influence would still have worked on him. Stella’s authority had waned as he got older, just as his father’s invisible sway had grown. And where
was
Beau? Would he ever meet him? It was strange they had not encountered each other somewhere. Sammy could not help thinking that, if they should do so some time in the future, he would feel himself to be on a par with his father. He was no longer the naïve domestic pet.

‘Didn’t expect to find you up here so soon,’ a voice behind him spoke abruptly.

Sammy jumped. Lost in his thoughts about Beau, it was as if he had caused his father suddenly to materialize in the darkness. But it was only Scruff.

‘I – er – was just exploring a bit,’ Sammy replied.

‘Found anything?’

‘No. I wasn’t actually looking for food.’

‘Get away.’

‘No, I’ve got a small amount put by for a day or two.’

‘Have you? And here I’ve come,’ Scruff said, ‘because I thought you’d beat me to all the scraps on our patch.’

‘We haven’t come to that just yet,’ said Sammy. ‘I’ll leave the coast clear for you for the present. It’s turning colder, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t talk about it. But this is nothing. You wait till the frost starts to nip at you. Oh, it’s difficult to keep still at night.’

‘Do you find yourself any cover in the winter?’

‘There isn’t much to be had,’ Scruff answered grimly. ‘Paper’s a good thing if you can find any. It gets blown into the area sometimes. There’s always a fight for it. You can guess how I fare. Best I can hope for is to climb in amongst the brambles.’

‘Have you always been lame?’ Sammy asked.

‘Pretty well. Wasn’t born like it though. I got into a fight, of course; got bitten very badly. Never been the same since.’

‘What happened to the other cat?’

‘Cat? It was a dog.’

‘A dog!’

‘Yes. Don’t sound so surprised. Dogs are no friends to us. They chase us and – well, I got caught. But I gave it something to remember. You should have heard it yelp!’

‘Dogs aren’t always like that,’ Sammy said slowly, thinking naturally of Molly.

‘Aren’t they? Don’t you believe it!’ Scruff rasped.

Sammy could not but be reminded of their different backgrounds.

‘Then there’s the stone-throwing I told you about,’ Scruff went on. ‘That really finished my leg good and proper.’

‘Yes,’ said Sammy. ‘I can see that. Well, I won’t interrupt you. You’ll prefer to be alone, no doubt.’

‘Wouldn’t say that,’ Scruff muttered in his gruff way. ‘You’re not like the others. They haven’t much time for me.’

‘Just as you like then,’ Sammy said brightly. He was glad Scruff had appeared.

‘Shall we see if we can rustle something up?’ the lame black cat offered.

‘All right.’

‘I haven’t eaten well for days,’ he went on. ‘I could do with something tasty. Your human friends are very wasteful. You can sometimes dig a bit of their food out for yourself without needing to beg for it.’

‘Well – lead on then,’ Sammy said. Here was a new experience in store.

Scruff went unevenly across the garden, sniffing carefully. He had an acute sense of smell, and relied on his nose to lead him to food. It was his best asset.

‘I don’t think there’s anything around here,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the next one.’

They got into the neighbouring garden. Sammy was surprised to see that Scruff managed to climb well enough, despite his game leg.

‘Much more promising,’ was the black cat’s verdict. His nose was inhaling with gusto. ‘There’s something about.’

Sammy followed him. Scruff found some discarded rib-bones left over from a barbecue. For the life of him Sammy could not see that they could be eaten. But Scruff did not hesitate. He grabbed one greedily and began to gnaw. Sammy watched him.

As Scruff moved on to the next one he said, ‘There’s enough for you.’

‘Yes,’ said Sammy, ‘but surely—’

‘Oh, you can get something off ’em,’ Scruff told him. ‘Can’t pick and choose, can we?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Sammy. He took one of the ribs, more because he did not want to seem to be turning up his nose at it than because he thought it would do him any good. He was not at all used to bones and had no idea how to treat them. Scruff, of course, was an old hand. He knew just how to pin a bone down at one end so as to be able to lick or gnaw at the scraps of meat still attached. Sammy would have done well to have tried to ape him – that would have been the safest method. But, instead, he stupidly attempted to chew the bone itself, crunching it up and splintering it into sharp fragments.

It was only a matter of time before one of these dangerous shards of bone fixed itself in his throat. Sammy began to cough in a cat’s typically wheezy fashion. The more he coughed the more the bone seemed to penetrate. His coughs became more violent. He began to choke.

‘Spit it out! Spit it out!’ Scruff called to him urgently.

But Sammy could do nothing to help himself. He gasped and wheezed, his sides heaved, he lowered his head to the ground. His whole body was racked by the spasms of the painful choking coughs. He could not draw breath, his eyes began to dim. . . .

‘Jump about a bit, shake your head,’ Scruff advised. ‘You might loosen it.’

Sammy could no longer hear him. The bone was lodged fast and his strength seemed to be ebbing away. Still he coughed, savagely, painfully, as if his throat was being torn across. A final gurgling choke came from his mouth, his legs shook and then collapsed under him. He
sank to his belly; his chin rested on the ground. There was a horrible stillness.

Scruff limped to his side, expecting the worst. But there was life still in Sammy’s eyes. They gazed at the lame cat with a hopeless expression. The splinter of bone had shifted its position slightly but only sufficient to allow the young tabby to take shallow breaths of air. He dared not move for fear of it choking him again. He could not speak. He lay almost motionless.

‘You should never try to swallow bone,’ Scruff said unhelpfully. ‘I didn’t realize; I would have told you before. Lie still now until you feel easier. Perhaps you’ve dislodged it. If not, there’s nothing to be done.’

Even in his agony Sammy was struck by the apparent heartlessness of Scruff’s remarks. But he knew that the vagabond cats’ (and, in particular, Scruff’s) attitude to life was one of resignation. The hardship and perils they constantly faced made life a tenuous sort of thing. It was a never-ending struggle and when they themselves could no longer cope with it, then they accepted their lot unquestioningly.