King of the Vagabonds (9 page)

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Tiptoe was inside the chicken coop, picking up scraps of grain. The wire mesh was no barrier to a hungry mouse. The hens were asleep, and so was the cockerel. Tiptoe saw a shadowy figure crossing in front of the enclosure. He recognized Sammy at once.

‘Sammy! Look at me. I’m in here.’ he called. When the cat failed to respond, Tiptoe squeaked louder. He saw Sammy pause and search round for the sound.

‘In
here
, Sammy. Amongst the feathered ones. Tee hee.’

Sammy trotted over and peered through the wire. ‘Didn’t expect to see
you
,’ he murmured distractedly. ‘What are you doing there?’

‘One of my sources of supply,’ Tiptoe answered.

Suddenly Sammy perked up. An idea struck him. Tiptoe could help him. The mouse was no pet; he knew something of that other world of the vagabonds. Perhaps he would have some ideas.

‘You look drenched,’ Tiptoe remarked to the tabby. ‘I’m surprised to see you out in this.’

‘There is a reason,’ Sammy replied. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. I need your advice. Have you finished eating?’

‘Of course not. I’ve never finished eating. Tee-hee. But
wait a bit I’ll come out.’ Tiptoe pushed his tiny body easily through the wire mesh. ‘We can’t stand here,’ he said. ‘What about the shed? Is it safe?’

‘Er – no,’ Sammy lied. ‘No, it isn’t. Stella’s on the prowl.’

‘Over here then,’ said Tiptoe, ducking into a flower-pot lying on its side. ‘You get under that plant.’

‘What’s the use?’ grumbled Sammy. ‘It’s as saturated as I am.’

‘Please yourself. What do you want to ask me?’

Sammy collected his thoughts. Then he poured out the story of his new acquaintances the vagabonds, of Brute, of the bargain and how he had to prove himself. ‘Now I don’t know what I’m to do,’ he finished up. ‘These half-wild cats are going to come into my garden expecting to be fed. But how can they be with my mother and sister around – and Molly? And if they’re not fed what will they do? Oh Tiptoe, can you think how I’m to get out of all this?’

The mouse was very still and quiet, something quite foreign to his nature. His mind was racing. He had realized at once the implications for himself and his relatives if the stray cats entered Mrs Lambert’s garden. His own comparatively quiet life would be disrupted in the worst possible way. These animals were not friendly pets; they were hunters. And he and his kind were the hunted – they would never know a moment’s peace again. He had told Sammy he liked adventure, and did enjoy the sort of mild risks he ran every time he entered Mrs Lambert’s cottage. But that was quite different from this. His life would become fraught with the most awful peril. He had to think of a way of helping Sammy that would, at the same time, help himself and the other mice.

‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘you certainly seem to have bitten off more than you can chew, don’t you? That’s what comes of going into Quartermile Field.’

‘What – what do you mean?’ Sammy cried. ‘I haven’t—’ He broke off as the whole thing suddenly became clear. Of course, it made sense. His mother’s warning. Molly’s explanation of it being out of bounds; the other sort of life. He knew now. He
had
been to Quartermile Field. Now he was caught up by its strange force, changed by it, excited by it yet repelled by it too. And he was bringing its influence with him back to his old peaceful, comfortable home.

Tiptoe saw that he understood. ‘Too late for regrets,’ he said sharply. ‘We have to think how to outwit the – er – vagabonds.’ He pronounced the word with the utmost distaste.

‘There’s no time,’ Sammy moaned. ‘It’s to begin tomorrow night.’

‘You deserve to go hungry for the trouble you cause,’ Tiptoe told him. ‘But here’s what you must do. You must keep out of sight all day. When your mistress prepares your food you don’t show up for it. If I know her ways she’ll leave it around for a while in the hope of your coming to claim it. If the food’s outside there’s no problem, because the strange cat will eat it when it’s dark. Your mistress won’t know it’s not you.’ He paused, as a thought struck him: ‘But supposing she leaves the food inside?’

‘She only does that when it’s wet – like tonight,’ Sammy answered.

‘You’d better wish for dry weather then,’ Tiptoe said wryly. ‘And, whatever you do, don’t show yourself at all.’

‘I’ll roam about,’ said Sammy. ‘Perhaps I’ll stay in here. But what about the next night and the next. . . . They’re coming one by one.’

‘Same thing,’ Tiptoe replied. ‘Keep out of sight. As long as the food disappears, your mistress will go on providing it. Am I right?’

‘I hope so,’ said Sammy. ‘But what of Stella and Josephine? They’re going to be suspicious if they never see me.’

‘No good worrying about that,’ answered the mouse. ‘It’s only a matter of time before one of them – or the dog – will encounter one of the strangers. They can’t be forever asleep.’

‘Molly sleeps indoors at night,’ Sammy informed him. ‘So she’ll be out of the way.’

‘Well, remember what I said,’ Tiptoe admonished the young cat. ‘Keep out of the way tomorrow and say nothing to anyone. And now I’d better go and warn all
my
friends.’ He ran off through the ceaseless rain, along paths and tunnels known only to the mice. Sammy was left alone to ponder for the first time on the real danger in which, quite unintentionally, he had placed his little friend.

At last, tired of the wet and discomfort, the young tabby scaled the dividing fence and jumped into his own garden. Outside the shed he shook himself. He crept in, hoping to find Stella and Josephine asleep. But they were not.

‘Here comes my greedy brother,’ came Josephine’s voice in the darkness.

‘Sammy?’ This was Stella’s voice now. ‘You’ve become quite a wanderer.’ There was no mention of the meal-time incident.

Sammy did not reply. All he wanted was to dry off and go to sleep.

‘Why did you do it, Sammy?’ his sister continued. ‘Our mistress seemed quite upset.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Sammy answered grudgingly. ‘I
suppose for a bit of fun, that’s all.’

‘It wasn’t much fun for Molly,’ Josephine persisted.

‘All right, Josephine. It doesn’t matter,’ said her mother. ‘Molly didn’t miss the meat so it’s not important.’

Sammy thankfully began to lick himself. What he had done that evening was trivial compared with what was to come.

Early the next morning he left the shed and his mistress’s garden behind. He would have liked to have seen Molly and given her an explanation, but it was too early for the old dog to be around and, in any case, he dared not risk it. Mercifully the rain had stopped. The ground and every plant of course, were still soaked, but all was beautiful to look at. The late summer sun was reflected in every dazzling water-drop and the air was fresh and cool and heartening. Sammy ran briskly along. He had decided to spend the day in Belinda’s meadow. His flagging spirits were revived by the morning and a refreshing sleep. Tiptoe had found a solution to his dilemma and he – Sammy – had been to Quartermile Field and back. He thought about the waste ground. It was not so terrifying. If what he had encountered was all there was to the place, he really did not know what all the fuss was about.

Belinda was standing in the centre of her lush green field with her head bent to the succulent vegetation. She was enjoying an early morning feed. Despite the recent downpour her coat seemed as clean and silky as ever. She was so absorbed she did not notice Sammy’s approach. Eventually she looked up, chewing meditatively.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘it’s the cat who sought his father. And did you find him?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ Sammy replied. ‘But I did find a lot of other cats.’

Belinda put two and two together. ‘You’ve crossed the road?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m surprised you didn’t find Beau amongst his cronies,’ the goat went on. ‘He often is.’

‘I don’t know who my father’s cronies are,’ Sammy said, wondering if there could be another group of cats somewhere, ‘but they’re certainly not the animals I spoke to. None of them knew of him.’

‘Strange,’ Belinda mused. ‘Still, the ways of cats are mostly beyond me. You can be very inscrutable.’

Sammy began to look for a less drenched patch of ground where he could sunbathe. He felt he really needed to stretch out in the sun after the chills and damp of the previous day, and it would be a pleasant way of whiling away the time. He selected a good place where the grass was fairly short, lay down and dozed. From time to time he opened his eyes or changed his position, and sometimes Belinda wandered over to have a word. So the day passed.

In the afternoon Sammy became aware that he was feeling frightfully hungry. There was no light titbit, no dish of milk on offer here. He would simply have to go without. He got up, stretched, yawned, and sauntered to a pool of rainwater for a few laps. He wondered what the vagabond cat would bring for him to eat that night.

At last it was dusk and Sammy knew it was time to make tracks. He thought of Mrs Lambert preparing the animals’ meals and he felt so hungry he almost weakened. But he knew he had to carry this difficult arrangement through. He went as far as the garden with the chicken-run and settled down to wait in a secluded corner. Luckily the weather had remained dry.

The cockerel was patrolling his territory as usual. Now and then he cast a glance at the young tabby who was
crouching nearby. Suddenly he stopped and screeched out: ‘Learnt to fly yet?’

Sammy looked away disdainfully. He was in no mood for such nonsense. But the cockerel evidently thought he had hit upon rather a clever joke. He continued to call periodically in his piercing voice. ‘Learnt to fly yet, cat?’ And, as if providing himself with the answer he knew would not be forthcoming, he varied this with: ‘Cats can’t fly! They only climb.’ His cries were monotonous and irritating, and in the end, exasperated with the bird’s stupidity, Sammy moved to a quieter spot.

The evening grew darker. Sammy tried to picture to himself what was happening in his own garden. Stella, Molly and Josephine would have eaten and probably prepared themselves for sleep. His mother and sister would have washed themselves meticulously as always. Molly, of course, did not bother with this. It was one of the first things Sammy had learnt about the differences between cats and dogs. Dogs did not wash themselves. They seemed to prefer a good scratch.

He thought about the all-important plate of food – his food. It should still be standing close to the kitchen door, waiting to be emptied. But supposing it was not? Supposing his mistress considered it unwise to leave it there? After all, what was to stop Stella or Josephine eating it? No, Stella would not, he knew. She was set in her ways and only ate what she needed. And Josephine? She was not greedy. Sammy comforted himself with the thought. It should be all right. But then there was Molly. No, no, that was even more unlikely, that Molly should eat it. She took an age to eat her own meal.

Sammy tried to relax, yet the temptation to check that the food was there was almost irresistible. He dreaded the outcome if it was not. Suddenly he tensed, hearing a
scrabbling noise against the fence nearest to him. It must be the vagabond cat. He looked up. Yes, it was Scruff, perched on the fence top. Sammy was relieved it was not Brute.

‘Over here,’ Sammy hissed.

Scruff jumped down, awkwardly because of his lameness. He was carrying something in his jaws. He came over and deposited two dead mice at Sammy’s feet. Sammy stared at them with misgiving. They looked extremely unappetizing and had a rank smell.

‘Here’s your rations,’ Scruff announced abruptly. ‘Now where’s mine?’

‘I’ll show you,’ Sammy muttered. ‘But is this all there is for me?’ He indicated the mice. ‘There’s not much meat on them.’

‘Did the best I could,’ Scruff replied gruffly. ‘What do you expect? You’re lucky to have two of ’em.’

Sammy sighed. Famished as he was, he did not know if he could bring himself to taste them.

‘I’ll go and see if it’s all clear,’ he told the black cat.

Scruff’s eyes had the intense gleam of hunger in them. He was half-starved. Sammy was sorry for him.

‘Be quick,’ said Scruff. ‘Much as I could do to hold off eating these here on the way.’

Sammy climbed to a vantage point overlooking the back of his mistress’s cottage. He was astonished to see a plate and a bowl still standing by the door. The door was closed. There was meat on the plate and milk in the bowl. Oh, how he would relish some milk! And, after all, there was no agreement about providing milk as well. Whilst he hesitated, Scruff’s voice sounded impatiently below him.

‘Well? What’s the delay?’

Sammy had a quick look round to make sure no one
was about. Evidently Mrs Lambert was not keeping watch for him. His mother and sister, too, were not visible. Now was the moment.

‘Up here,’ he called.

Scruff joined him eagerly.

‘You can see the food quite plainly. It’s all yours,’ Sammy told him. He was hoping Scruff would only interest himself in the meat. But he was disappointed. The lame cat descended into Mrs Lambert’s garden. He paused to sniff awhile. Satisfied, he made a beeline for the bowl of milk, lapped it up without a pause and then commenced on the solid food.

Sammy was interested in Scruff’s eating habits. It was as if he had not eaten for days. The meat was bolted with barely a chew, until about a quarter of it remained. This the cat gathered up carefully and held in his mouth while he returned to Sammy’s side.

‘Are you planning a reserve store?’ the tabby asked him.

Scruff had to drop the food to answer. ‘This is for Brute, of course,’ he growled.

‘Brute?’

‘Yes, Brute. Surely you don’t think the King Cat will come to fetch for himself? He doesn’t come into these sorts of places. But what would you know about it?’

Sammy understood. Each of the other cats was obliged to save a portion of their food to take to their overlord. Brute had them all running about for him, even the lame Scruff.

‘Eat your mice,’ Scruff muttered. Then he collected up the meat again and ran off.