The Haystack (6 page)

M
ILLY ATE THE MINCE
, drank the milk, used the dirt box, and jumped back on the foot of my bed, licked herself and wriggled till she woke me. Then she slept while we had breakfast.

“What about when I go down to the shops?”

“She’ll be fine.” Dad put on his bicycle clips. “Tip her dirt box on the compost heap, and fill it up from the potato patch. Make sure she’s got something to drink. She’ll probably sleep while you’re doing the shopping.”

“She slept all night, woke me this morning, and went back to sleep again.”

“Cats do that.”

“Are you going to read us some more Mowgli tonight?”

“We’ll see. Keep the door and windows closed. Back at midday.” The gate clicked.

He’d folded a sheet of newspaper and tied it to the end of a piece of string. Milly saw it when she came out. She leapt on it, lay on her back and clawed it, bit it, held it
between her front paws and rolled over and over, ripping it with her hind claws.

I washed and dried the breakfast dishes, and she rubbed against my legs. She chased the broom as I swept the kitchen. When the paper train whistled nine o’clock, I was tipping her box on the compost heap. I put in clean dirt, whipped inside the back door, and closed it before she could get out.

I swept up some dirt, and she tussled with the broom again, eyes glaring. When I thought Mr Barker would have sorted the mail, and Mr Bryce would have written the names on the papers, I tied the torn bit of newspaper so it dangled from the light cord. Milly was lying on my bed, grey fur and black stripes dappled with sunlight coming through the lemon tree, as I closed the back door and ran.

Mr Barker gave me a letter for Dad and asked, “How’s the kitten?” As I trotted past the billiard saloon, Mrs Doleman asked, “What have you called your kitten?” And Mrs Besant said, “I hear you’ve got a kitten.” She wrapped the bread and popped it into my basket. “That’s nice.

“I’ve got a kitten,” I called, going into the butcher’s. Several people waiting laughed, and Mr Cleaver said, “I’ve put in some scraps”, and gave me our parcel.

The Kelly girl handed me the paper. “I remember when I got a kitten,” she said. “Did yours make a mess on the
floor? Mine did, and Mum made me clean it up myself.”

“Dad filled a box with dirt,” I said, “and Milly used it last night. She’s a girl.”

“Here. Two boiled lollies.”

“Thank you, but I haven’t got any bottles to swap.”

“They’re a present,” said Mr Bryce.

“Not on tick?” I asked, because he’d trapped me that way before. He shook his head and tried to look hurt, so I’d feel sorry for him, but I knew him now. He was as bad as Dad.

He pushed his glasses up on top of his head. “A present for the new kitten.”

“Thank you, Mr Bryce, When she’s grown up, my kitten’s going to fix the big rat in the back shed. It hid in the wheat barrel and, when Dad took off the lid, it stood up, shook its fist, and wanted to fight him.” I grabbed the lollies, grinned at Mr Bryce, and tore out, straight into Mrs Dainty.

“Oof! Running round corners again.”

“Mrs Dainty, I buttered her paws like you said, and it worked. And Dad said to say thank you.” I ran again.

“We say ‘as’, not ‘like’,” Mrs Dainty called after me. “Like is not a conjunction.”

“Hoy! Maggie!” It was the Kelly girl, holding up my basket. I’d forgotten it with Dad’s letter, the bread, the meat, and the paper, but I had Mr Bryce’s boiled lollies in my hand.

“Some people would forget their head, if it wasn’t screwed on,” a sharp voice said somewhere, but I was running again.

Freddy Jones was playing on the path. “I’ve got a kitten,” I told him.

“Huh. Our cat had kittens, so I put them in a sack with a brick and chucked them into a bucket of water.”

“Look at that.” I opened my eyes wide.

“Look at what?” Freddy Jones picked up his cotton-reel tractor and wound the rubber.

“That.” I kept staring and pointing. “That dent in the dirt, where your tractor tipped over…”

“Just an old footprint.”

“Not just any old footprint.” I stretched my eyes like Milly’s, and made my mouth round like Choral Speaking. “That’s a tiger’s footprint. Shere Khan’s.”

Freddy Jones stared at it, dropped his tractor, and backed away. “You’re not supposed to scare me; I’ll have nightmares.”

“I heard Shere Khan last night. That roar he makes when he’s hungry.”

“I’m going to tell my mother on you.”

“Tonight, after you’ve gone to bed, you’ll hear him trying to get in your window. Shere Khan eats man cubs. And then there’s Bagheera.” I wrinkled up my nose, snarled, and showed my claws. “He’s a black panther, and he eats more boys than Shere Khan.”

I turned and ran as Freddy’s gate clicked. “Mum!” he bawled.

I climbed on the bed and curled myself around Milly, and she went on sleeping. I almost slept myself, then remembered the meat needed putting in the safe, and the twelve o’clock whistle would be going soon. I lifted myself off, not disturbing her, put the meat in the safe, the bread in the bin, the paper on the table, and stood Dad’s letter against the alarm clock on the mantelpiece.

I pulled out the damper, tipped on some coal to get the fire going again, put the kettle over the ring so it started to sing, and had another look at Milly.

The factory whistle had hardly finished blowing before Dad was leaning his bike against the back shed.

“Where is she?”

“Miaow!”

“She doesn’t do that for me…”

“It’s only because she hasn’t seen me since this morning.”

“Dad, everybody asked me about Milly, and Mr Bryce gave me a couple of boiled lollies, and I tore out of the shop and butted my head into Mrs Dainty.”

“I hope you told her you’re sorry.”

“Mmm, but she said like’s not a conjunction and something about people forgetting to screw their heads on.

“Where’s my boiled lolly?”

“You never let me eat boiled lollies for lunch.”

Like Mr Bryce, Dad used to be good at making me feel bad. Not any more. He tried crying, but I just laughed and made him a cup of tea, and we had the leftover mince on toast, while Milly played with the tattered bit of paper. Then Dad had another cup of tea, read his letter, and had a look at the
Herald.

“Do you want to read the ‘Supplement’?” he asked, but I was doing the dishes, then I wiped the table around him till he shifted the paper, and I swept the floor, taking care to bump his feet with the broom till he got up and said he might just have a look at the garden.

That afternoon, Dad did the washing. “It’ll dry overnight, and I can bring it in tomorrow.”

“You don’t do the washing on a Saturday, specially not Sunday. You’re supposed to do it first thing on a Monday.”

“It’ll be raining by Monday. Besides, I’m not getting up early to do the washing before I go to work, just because of a lot of—” I knew what he’d been going to say.

We had chops for tea, with mashed potatoes again, which was good, but with soggy boiled cabbage, which was bad. I closed my eyes, held my nose, shoved the cabbage down, and saved my chop till last. I nibbled around the bone and put it on the hearth, but Milly wasn’t that interested.

“She had a good go at the scraps Mr Cleaver put in for her,” Dad said. “Chewing bones is something dogs do.” He gave me another chop. “Gruff!” he barked.

“Miaow!” I told him. “I wonder if cats eat dripping on toast?”

“There’s a tin in the safe, but it might be a bit salty for her.”

I sat in Mummy’s wicker chair, and Milly jumped on my lap. Dad washed a bagful of sultanas in the colander, opened a newspaper on the rack above the stove, and spread them to dry.

“Why do you wash sultanas?”

“They’ve been handled by umpteen different people, from the growers in Australia and South Africa, to when they’re weighed and made up into bags at the store. They pick up all sorts of dirt, dust, and straw—because they’re sticky. I’ve even seen maggots in them.”

“Eugh!”

“These ones were okay. Do you want some?”

M
ILLY DIDN’T LIKE SULTANAS
, but I nibbled a handful, plump and moist from their wash, better than when they dried out.

“Dad,” I said, “I told Freddy Jones about Shere Khan.”

“Oh, yes?”

“And I showed him one of his footprints outside his place.”

“What else?”

“I told him Shere Khan eats boys.”

“Come on, you might as well tell me everything.”

“I told him tonight he’d hear Shere Khan trying to get in his window. And I told him about Bagheera; I said he’s worse than Shere Khan.”

“If you think you’re going to run down the street before you go to bed, and roar, and scratch Freddy’s window—forget it. Remember what happened the time you hooted like a morepork? Poor Freddy.”

“He said he had a mother and I didn’t.”

“All the same.”

“He reckoned his cat had kittens, and he put them in a sack and drowned them.”

“He’s just trying to impress you. You give him nightmares with stories about Shere Khan, and I won’t read you any more about Mowgli. Look at those knees. Just as well it’s Saturday night. You can have a good bath, soak off the dirt, and wash your hair while you’re about it.”

Stretched out full-length, head floating, I could turn the hot tap on and off with my toes.

“Are you going to use all the hot water?” Dad yelled from the kitchen.

I waited a few minutes and yelled back, “Are you going to rinse my hair?”

“Did you scrub those knees?”

“Hold on.” I held my nose, closed my eyes, and Dad tipped the bucket over my head.

“All wet wisps like a drowned rat. You can open your eyes now.”

“I’ve got soap in them.”

“Here.” Dad dabbed them.

“Why does cold water take away the sting?”

“It just does. Here’s a towel and your pyjamas; they’ve been warming on the rack. Make sure you dry yourself properly.”

I ran out to the kitchen, wrapping my head in the towel. “Read us some now? Please, Dad? Milly wants to hear some more about Bagheera.”

So, while I sat with my feet in the oven, and Milly sat on my lap, Dad read us the bit about how no jungle animal, not even Bagheera, could look Mowgli between the eyes, and how Shere Khan plotted to overthrow Akela, the wolf leader, and eat Mowgli. But Mowgli took the Red Flower, the fire in a pot, and singed Shere Khan’s whiskers, and then Mowgli cried, and I cried with him, because he had to leave his family and the jungle, and go to live with men.

“I wanted him to live for ever with Mother and Father Wolf, and Baloo, and Bagheera.”

“It’s not the end of the story.”

“But it said he left Mother Wolf…and I love Mother Wolf.”

“Of course you do.” Dad hugged me. “But there’s more to come.”

“Will you read us some more tomorrow? Because Milly’s worried about Mowgli. You see, she’s got no mother now.”

Dad stretched and yawned.

“Promise?” I asked, looking him between the eyes.

“Promise.” Dad stared back and closed the book without looking down. “I know what you’re trying to do. Just look at the clock. High time you and Milly were in bed.”

“You looked away at the clock,” I told him, “so you must be a jungle animal.”

I think Dad piggybacked us both to bed. Outside, I knew the black shadow was keeping guard in the lemon tree. If Shere Khan roared for Freddy Jones I didn’t hear him, because I woke and it was Sunday morning, and Milly was staring at me, her nose almost touching mine.

“Were you trying to wake me up?” I stared back until she closed her barley-sugar eyes. When she opened them, I stared between them as Mowgli did. Milly looked away, and I knew the story about Bagheera must be true.

“My name is Mowgli,” I told her as I slipped out of bed. “I am crying because I am a man’s cub, and I must go.” I rubbed my eyes. “But I will come back to lay out Shere Khan’s hide upon the Council Rock. ‘Do not forget me! Tell them in the jungle never to forget me!’“ But Milly had curled up and gone to sleep.

I fed the chooks, told off the cockerels for making such a din, warned the wicked old white rooster what I’d do, collected the eggs, and emptied Milly’s dirt box. I poked her poop with a stick.

“That’s an awful stink.” I threw the stick on the compost heap. “For a dainty little kitten…”

When I came back, she was asleep again and wouldn’t wake up and look away, not even though I held my face
right up to hers and stared and stared between her eyes.

I let up the blind carefully, so it wouldn’t shout “Hulla-baloo!” and looked outside at the lemon tree, but the black shadow had hidden itself, and the yellow footballs hadn’t grown any bigger. Milly yawned, looked at the sun spilling through dark green leaves, and yawned again.

“You’re the sleepiest cat ever,” I laughed, and there was a groan from Dad’s room.

“Shhh!” I put my finger to Milly’s lips and grinned at her.

Dad groaned again. It sounded like “Hurgle”.

I put my hand over Milly’s mouth to stop her giggling.

“What’s the time?” he asked.

I whispered, “Half past nine, hang your britches on the line”, as I ran out to the kitchen, looked at the alarm clock, and called, “Half past six. Dad, do I have to go to Sunday school?” I whined, “Milly will miss me.”

The voice gave several long groans which meant: “That’s all right, but you’ll have to explain to Mrs Dainty. You know she watches.”

“I’ll tell her I had to keep Milly inside.”

Dad groaned back to sleep. Sunday was his morning for a lie-in, which was why I took pity on him, and tried not to let the blind fly up.

“You stay there,” I told Milly, and got the fire going.
Dad had set the porridge to soak before going to bed, so I shoved the saucepan over the heat.

Milly seemed to know as soon as the kitchen was warm. I stirred with the wooden spoon and told her, “You got trodden on, last night, sitting there.”

When porridge starts going “Slop! Plop! Glop!” it looks like the mud pools at Rotorua. Still stirring, I moved the saucepan to the back of the stove, so it wouldn’t catch, put the kettle over the heat, and listened to it sing. Milly ran and sat under the table when I nearly trod on her, but she could still see everything from there.

“Aren’t you a clever kitten?”

Dad came out, bumping into everything, arms straight out in front of him. “Is it midnight yet?” he asked in his sleep-walking voice.

“It’s after seven, and I felt the washing, and it’s just about dry enough to bring in.”

“We’ll bring it in as soon as it looks like clouding over.

“How do you know it’s going to cloud over?”

“It’s been fine for days; and it feels like a change coming.”

“Mr Bluenose says he can feel it in his bones.”

“That’s aches and pains in his joints. Rheumatism.”

“What’s that other -ism word? What Kaa did. I woke up this morning, and Milly was staring into my eyes,
trying to…trying to—you know!”

“Hypnotism?”

“Trying to hypnotism me.

“Hypnotise.”

“Hypnotise me. So I stared back between her eyes like Mowgli looking between Bagheera’s.”

“Did it work?”

“She just closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. Dad, do you think I could hypnotise the old white rooster?”

“You put your face too close to his, he’ll peck out your eyes.”

“But you said you can make a chook go to sleep by tucking its head under its wing.”

“I wouldn’t try it on that wicked old devil. Which reminds me, I thought we might have a cockerel for dinner today. What did you say?”

“Nothing; I just wondered if Freddy Jones would go to sleep, if I stuck his head under his arm.”

Dad tried to catch me and put my head under my arm, but I was too quick. “You can give me a hand catching a cockerel,” he said.

“Are you going to kill it?”

“It’s kinder to kill them first, before cooking them.”

“Oh, Dad.”

They came running when I threw a bit of wheat and called, “Chook! Chook!”

“You’re about the biggest.” Dad grabbed a cockerel by the legs, so it flapped its wings a couple of times, then hung upside down with its beak open. “It’s not a bad weight.”

I followed to where the axe leaned against the chopping block.