King of the Vagabonds (7 page)

‘You’re – you’re all hunters, I expect?’ he enquired awkwardly. The cats ringed him round.

‘Of course we’re hunters,’ said Scruff.

‘And vagabonds,’ said the white cat with the black marking.

‘It – er – it must be very exciting,’ Sammy remarked. He was aware that he sounded foolish. His inexperience amongst these veterans of hard living made him feel like a tiny kitten again. He seemed to shrink.

‘Exciting?’ exclaimed one of the tabbies, a female. ‘Are you excited, Brindle?’ She spoke to another tabby.

‘Oh yes, very,’ he growled. ‘I’m excited right now. There’s nothing like starving from time to time to make you excited, is there, Brownie?’

The female tabby looked into the distance as if pondering the question. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘Getting soaked to the marrow in a rainstorm in winter can be very exciting.’

‘Doesn’t compare with being target practice for stone-throwing humans,’ Scruff remarked in a tone that implied he actually enjoyed it. ‘That really is the
height
of excitement,’ He turned to Sammy. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ He extended his damaged leg for scrutiny. Then he walked right round the visitor with a very accentuated limp.

Sammy’s face fell. ‘I must seem stupid,’ he muttered. ‘My life’s so easy. Trouble-free, uneventful, but – deadly dull.’

‘How awful for you,’ said Pinkie with mock sympathy. The innocent Sammy was completely taken in.

‘It’s not that bad. Just boring,’ he said. ‘How I’d enjoy some of your experiences!’

The cats exchanged glances. This pet cat was ingratiating himself. But there seemed to be an opportunity for some light relief for
them
here. They believed they had an idiot amongst them.

‘You see, my father’s like you,’ Sammy went on. ‘You know – a – a vagabond. I think some of his qualities have
rubbed off on me. Perhaps some of you know of him? He’s called Beau.’

None of the animals appeared to know anything about a cat called Beau. Only in Pinkie’s eyes was there a brief flicker, maybe of recognition, at the sound of the name. But Sammy failed to notice and Pinkie said nothing.

‘You’ve told us your father’s name,’ said the ginger cat. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Sammy.’

‘I’m called Sunny,’ said the ginger cat. ‘You can probably see why.’

‘Your colour?’

‘Clever, aren’t you?’ was the sarcastic reply. ‘Same with her.’ He indicated the tortoiseshell and white. ‘Easiest name for her was Mottle, so that’s what we call her.’

‘So you’ll understand why I’m called Patch,’ said the white cat with the black marking. ‘Well now, you’d like to try our way of life, would you?’ He opened his mouth in a sort of grin, revealing that he had lost a good few of his teeth. It was obvious that he was quite old. ‘And maybe you will. Perhaps we could all get some amusement out of it.’ He looked round at the others meaningfully. ‘Of course, there are conditions attached,’ he went on. ‘You’d have to prove – er – your suitability, sort of thing. I think that’s fair, don’t you?’

‘More than fair,’ Sammy answered promptly. He could hardly suppress his excitement. ‘You’re the leader of the – er – vagabonds, I take it?’

The other cats were highly amused at this. Sunny rolled over on to his back and twisted around in his delight. Patch glared at him, pretending to be angry. ‘All right, don’t forget I
was
the leader once,’ he reminded them all. He sauntered over to Sammy and sat down right by him. ‘No, I’m no longer leader,’ he informed him. ‘Too old now. And not strong enough. You’ll see
Brute some time though. He’s not around at present.’

‘Brute?’ repeated Sammy.

‘Yes – a good name too,’ said Patch. ‘Doesn’t do to cross him. But we all know our place, you see, so there aren’t too many ructions. Brute’s the King Cat all right. He gets all the best pickings.’

‘The pickings?’ Sammy did not understand.

‘Pick of the grub, pick of the basking spots, pick of the shelter, pick of the female company.’

‘I see.’ Sammy remembered what Scruff had said about Pinkie. She seemed to be in a place of honour.

‘Now then, about your qualifications,’ Patch resumed.

‘Yes?’

‘Can you fight?’

‘Er – I don’t know, I’ve never—’ began Sammy.

‘No problem. We’ll soon find that out. Can you hunt?’

‘I – I’ve never had to,’ Sammy faltered.

‘’Course you haven’t. You’re a pet, aren’t you?’ said Patch. ‘The thing is, if you had to – could you?’

‘I’m sure I could learn.’

‘That’s the way. Now, let’s see. Can you swim?’

‘I – I—’ Sammy stuttered.

‘I’ve never had to!’ all the other cats chorused at once. They were laughing at him. Sammy felt small.

‘You see, Sammy, you might have to do a bit of fishing. So it’s best to know how.’ Patch seemed to be quite genial.

‘Swimming comes naturally, doesn’t it?’ Sammy queried.

‘Natural as can be. Now – can you climb?’

‘Oh yes!’ Sammy cried, pleased to lay claim to one skill.

‘Thought so,’ said Patch shortly. ‘You’ll have to prove it, mind.’

‘That’s easy,’ said Sammy. ‘Any time.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Brindle cautioned him. ‘We mean real climbing. Not trees or fences.’

Sammy was puzzled. What else was there? But Patch was speaking again.

‘You’ll have to cease to be a pet. You can’t live in two places,’ he said. His mind was working on an idea to the vagabond cats’ real advantage.

‘I understand that,’ said Sammy. But when he thought of Stella and Josephine and Molly his heart gave a little tug.

‘You have a master?’ Patch asked.

‘No. A mistress. She’s very kind.’

‘Does she feed you properly?’

‘No need to ask him that, Patch,’ Brownie interjected. ‘Just look at his full coat.’

‘Yes, and how plump he is,’ remarked Brindle. ‘I can almost smell the good things he gets to eat from here.’

‘What do you eat, Sammy?’ Pinkie wanted to know.

‘All sorts,’ he answered. ‘Meat and liver and fish. You know, the usual things we all eat.’

‘The – usual things?’ Scruff muttered. He was drooling. He had never known the taste of rich food. The other cats were all swallowing hard too.

‘Look,’ said Patch, with difficulty. His mouth was running with water. ‘Here’s what I think you should do.’ He swallowed. ‘You should stop eating such food straight away.’ Swallow. ‘If you really mean to live like us . . .’ Swallow. ‘. . . show us that your old attachment is over.’ Swallow. ‘And – and—’

‘Bring some of the food to us!’ cried Sunny.

‘Er – yes, that’s right,’ Patch agreed hastily. ‘You know, to sort of demonstrate your sincerity.’

‘Then we’ll know you mean business,’ explained Sunny.

‘All right,’ said Sammy. ‘When shall I do it?’

‘Sooner the better, I should think,’ said Scruff with feigned nonchalance. His jaws ached with longing. ‘Wouldn’t you, Patch?’

‘Certainly. When are you fed?’

The vagabond cats milled around in their eagerness. Their stomachs were in knots of anticipation. Sammy felt a dozen eyes fastened on him.

‘I could go back now and beg for a titbit,’ he suggested.

‘No titbits,’ said Brindle. ‘Something more solid, we’re thinking of.’

‘The main meal is in the evening,’ Sammy informed them.

Their faces fell. But Patch said, ‘Very well. Come to us tonight. We shall all be waiting.’

The cats began to disperse. Scruff limped away too. Pinkie, however, remained behind.

‘You might as well see a bit more while you’re here,’ she offered.

‘Thanks,’ said Sammy. ‘It could be useful.’

The little white cat led him off across the uneven ground, skirting the main clumps of vegetation. She had a dainty, light sort of walk which rather fascinated her companion. He stole several sidelong looks at her as they went along. Eventually he said, ‘You look in better shape than the others.’

‘Do I? You’ve been studying me then?’ she asked, archly.

‘Well, it’s quite noticeable,’ Sammy answered. ‘You don’t look so much like a vagabond.’

‘That’ll be Brute’s doing then,’ said Pinkie. ‘He gets the best food so I sometimes get a share.’

On the other side of the waste ground was a very high wire mesh fence which was broken in many places. Behind this the remnants of some old allotments lay.
Growths of cabbage, lettuce and other vegetables, long ago turned wild, still sprouted here amongst the grasses, nettle and dock. Pinkie stopped by one of the broken sections of fence.

‘This is where you go through,’ she informed Sammy. ‘Rabbits come here most evenings to feed. The young ones are no match for the likes of us. Now I’ll show you something else.’

They went along a depression in the ground towards a dilapidated wooden building which leant at a crazy angle away from the lie of the land. It was not unlike Sammy’s shed at home. But there was no door on this old ruin, very little left of the roof and no floor. Pinkie looked at Sammy significantly.

‘This is my place of shelter,’ she announced with a fine sense of ownership. ‘Actually I was born here – underneath, d’you see? I had brothers and sisters but now I’m the only survivor. My mother got run over.’

‘Does Brute—’ Sammy began.

‘Yes.’ Pinkie forestalled him. ‘It’s his shelter too – when he’s around. He comes and goes. He has other females to visit. But I’m his favourite.’

Sammy asked, ‘And the others? Do they use this shelter?’

‘The other vagabonds? No. They daren’t. It’s the King Cat’s.’

Sammy understood.

Pinkie returned to the subject of food. ‘Sometimes we find scraps. . . .’

Sammy had already noticed a group of houses which bordered the plot near Pinkie’s shelter. Apart from these the waste ground was surrounded by fields and patches of woodland. The two cats continued the circuit of the site. Presently Pinkie stopped again and sat down.

‘On that bank over there,’ she said, ‘you can often see
mice of different sorts. They come out of little holes and there’s a perfect place to lie in wait for them – here, behind this tree stump. But you’ve got to be alert. They’re very, very quick.’

Sammy thought of Scruff and his limp. He wondered how he made out.

‘Who’s the quickest of you?’ he asked his guide.

‘Brute, of course. He’s best at everything. That’s why he’s the King Cat.’

‘What about Scruff?’

‘He’s the least agile of us,’ Pinkie answered. ‘He doesn’t do very well. He usually feeds off remains, if there are any to be had.’

Sammy was sympathetic. He thought he would try and help him when he brought the food. He would look for Scruff first.

Pinkie took Sammy back to the point where he had first entered the bomb site. He was eager to get home now. He remembered the road had to be re-crossed and he wanted to be gone before the traffic posed much of a threat. Already he could hear the sounds of cars passing by at frequent intervals. But he hesitated, wondering whether to ask Pinkie for guidance. Now it was her turn to examine him. Secretly she was pleased with Sammy’s appearance and, while he paused, she looked him over closely. Finally Sammy decided not to ask for help. He recalled he was expected to prove himself. He turned to go.

‘I shall see you later, I suppose?’ he murmured.

‘Yes, you can count on it,’ Pinkie replied.

As he went, Sammy looked round once. The little white cat was sitting in the same spot, watching him, and blinking in the bright sunlight.

8

Brute

Sammy got across the road safely and was soon back in his own garden. He had decided not to say anything to Stella about the plan for the evening. He knew perfectly well she would not want him to mix with the vagabonds – she had already warned him about his father’s style of life. He spent the day dodging showers of rain and avoiding Josephine’s questions. Stella made no enquiries at all; her interest in her offspring was quite evidently on the wane. Sammy was longing for a sight of Tiptoe. He had so much to tell him. But, as luck would have it, the mouse did not show up.

The evening arrived. Mrs Lambert was preparing the animals’ food in the kitchen. Sammy heard the familiar sound of chopping and the chink of food plates, and then the mistress called her pets to their meal. It was raining again and they were to eat indoors. Stella and Josephine made short work of their meat and sat, licking their chops, while Sammy fussed about his, trying to decide which pieces to leave. He wished his mother and sister would go away. He did not want their suspicions aroused. But, because of the weather, they were in no hurry to leave.