Paws and Whiskers (9 page)

I think you’ll enjoy the following extract, and don’t worry – if you read the whole book you’ll find there’s a wonderful happy ending.

ICE LOLLY

Today in the library Mrs Caton gives me a book to read in the holidays. It’s called
Three Men in a Boat
, and it’s old. I like old books! I like the thought of other people reading them. People from long ago, before I was born. I imagine them turning the pages and chuckling to themselves at bits they find amusing, or maybe going
tut
if there’s something they don’t approve of, and never dreaming that years later, in another century, someone like me will be turning those same pages and reading the exact same words.

I put the book to my nose and sniff. I always do this with books; Mum used to do it, too. She used to
say that the smell of a book was better than the smell of the most expensive perfume.

Mrs Caton laughs. ‘Why is it that real book people always do that?’ she says.

‘Do what?’ says Jolene, jealously. She likes to think of herself as a book person, in spite of not knowing whether Elinor M. Brent-Dyer goes under B or D. I bet she couldn’t get through
Jane Eyre
, even though she is in Year Nine. I read it with Mum when I was only ten!

Now I am being boastful.
I have nothing to be boastful about
. Yesterday we had the results of our end-of-term maths exam, and I came next to bottom. On the other hand, I came top of English. Mum would have been ever so proud. She would have said, ‘You take after me, Lollipop, you don’t have a mathematical brain. You’re more of a language person.’

But coming next to bottom is nothing to boast about; even Mum would agree with that. So I have absolutely no right to feel superior to Jolene. She might have come
top
of her maths exam, for all I know.

I tell her about books smelling better than perfume, and she does that thing that people are always doing, she looks at me like I’m from outer space.

‘Dalek!’ she hisses, as she flounces off across the library.

‘What did she call you?’ says Mrs Caton.

I mutter, ‘Dalek,’ hoping that she won’t hear and will just forget about it. But she’s frowning.

‘Why Dalek?’ she says.

I say that I don’t know.

‘It doesn’t seem a very pleasant thing to call someone.’

I tell her that it’s like a sort of nickname. Nickname makes it sound friendly. Mrs Caton doesn’t look like she’s convinced. She says, ‘Well, anyway, I was going through my bookshelves and I came across
Three Men in a Boat
and I thought of you immediately. It was written round about the same time as your favourite,
Diary of a Nobody
. My dad introduced me to it. I used to think it was absolutely hilarious! Mind you, that was when I was about fifteen or sixteen, so I was quite a bit older than you. But you’re such a mature reader . . . I’ll be interested to know how you get on. Give it a go and see what you feel.’

I promise her that I will.

‘You can read it over the summer holiday. Just a little bit at a time.’

Earnestly, I say that I never read books a little bit at a time. ‘Once I’ve started I can’t stop. I just get greedy and gobble them up!’

‘Well, don’t get too greedy,’ says Mrs Caton.
‘You’ve got weeks and weeks ahead of you.’

The bell rings for the start of afternoon school. Tomorrow is the last day of term. I tell Mrs Caton a big thank you.

‘I’ll start reading straight away! And I’ll take really good care of it.’

‘I know you will,’ she says. ‘You’re a book person. But don’t forget . . . a little bit at a time. I don’t want you being bored.’

I couldn’t be bored by a
book
. I tell her this, and she smiles and says, ‘Different books suit different people . . . and don’t gobble! You’ve got the whole of the summer.’

I go slowly back to class. I can’t imagine what I’m going to do all through the summer. I can’t imagine not going to the library every day and seeing Mrs Caton. I don’t think, really, that I’m looking forward to all those empty weeks.

I used to love the holidays when Mum was here. We never went away anywhere, we couldn’t afford it, but we used to go on days out. We used to visit places, all over London. Sometimes out of London, like we’d jump on the train and go to the seaside and buy sticks of rock and paddle and build sandcastles. It was fun! Even if we just packed sandwiches and went to Kensington Gardens to see Peter Pan and
feed the ducks. Or like maybe Mum would suddenly say, ‘Let’s go somewhere different! Let’s catch a train and just go off . . . where shall we go to? Tell me which direction! North, east, south, west . . . you choose!’

So then I’d say, like, ‘North!’ and off we’d go to King’s Cross or Euston. We’d look at the indicator boards and Mum would say, ‘Pick a destination!’ I knew I couldn’t pick anywhere too far away, like Birmingham or Manchester, but it still gave us lots to choose from.

We didn’t really go places so much after Mum was in her wheelchair, but we still had fun. We’d stay home and play games, like Scrabble, or Trivial Pursuit, or Monopoly. We didn’t have a Monopoly board, but Mum said that needn’t stop us, we’d make one for ourselves. Making the board was almost as much fun as playing the game! We printed out lots of money on the computer and Mum giggled and said, ‘Let’s hope the police don’t break in and catch us at it! They’ll think we’re forgers.’

I bet if the police
had
broken in, it would still have been fun. Everything was fun, with Mum. It’s not much fun with Uncle Mark and Auntie Ellen. They never play games, and if I suggested going to the station and choosing a place to visit they’d give me that look, like,
How weird is that child?

They’re going to Wales in August. I suppose I’ll go with them, though I don’t know where I’ll stay. Holly and Michael are staying with their nan, but there isn’t room for anyone else so Uncle Mark and Auntie Ellen are booked into a hotel. I don’t think Auntie Ellen would want to pay for me to be booked in as well, she’s already complaining about how much it costs. So I don’t know quite what will happen. Maybe I could go and stay with Stevie, except that Stevie doesn’t have people to stay. Perhaps I’ll just stay behind, by myself. That would probably be best, otherwise what would happen to Mr Pooter? He couldn’t come to Wales, and Auntie Ellen wouldn’t pay for a cattery, and anyway he would
hate
being in a cattery. But I’m not leaving him home alone!

When I get back after school I find him curled up on the bed. He chirrups at me, but doesn’t get up. I look quickly round to check that he hasn’t had any more accidents. Yesterday he was sick on the duvet; just a little bit, I managed to sponge it off. Today I can’t see anything. My heart lifts.

‘Good boy,’ I say. ‘Good boy!’ I scratch behind his ears, the way he likes, and try to roll him over to tickle his tummy, but he won’t roll. ‘OK, dinner time,’ I say. I fetch his bowl and one of his new expensive cat food tins. In the old days he was so eager that
he used to jump up and head-butt, and push his way into the bowl before Mum had even had a chance to get the food in there. He doesn’t do that, now. I have to coax him.

I take his bowl over to the bed. He doesn’t look at it.

‘Nice kitty food,’ I say. ‘Yum yum!’ I pick up the bowl and pretend to eat out of it myself. Mr Pooter watches me, unblinking. ‘Now you have some!’ I offer him the bowl again, but he turns his head away. ‘Chicken and liver . . . yummy yummy!’ I smear a bit on my finger. His blunt nose crimples. He’s almost tempted . . . and then he turns away again. He’s not going to eat, no matter how hard I try.

I sit on the bed, stroking him. Stevie once said that cats are creatures of habit. ‘They don’t like change. Upsets them.’ I think that maybe Mr Pooter is missing Mum. I whisper, ‘I miss her, too!’ I wish there was something I could do to make him happy. I wish he could creep into my ice house with me. We could huddle there together, and no one could get at us.

I go down to tea, leaving his bowl beside him on the bed. When I come back, it is still there; the food is still in it. I’m beginning to worry. His coat isn’t as shiny as it used to be, and I can feel his ribs sticking out. I don’t know what to do!

I’m going to ring Stevie; Stevie will know. She knows everything about cats. I take my mobile out of my bag and bring up her number. My heart is thumping. As a rule, in the evening, she doesn’t bother to answer. She and Mum had a special code. Mum would let the phone ring three times, then immediately ring again, so that Stevie would know it was her. But I’m not sure she’ll remember; her memory isn’t what it was. And even if she does, she still mightn’t answer. She’ll know it can’t be Mum.

If she does answer, she’ll be cross. She hates people telephoning her. But I have to do it, for Mr Pooter.

I let the phone ring three times and press the off button. Then I ring again, and this time I let it keep ringing. It rings and it rings. I sink down next to Mr Pooter, and for just a minute my ice house begins to crumble. I feel the back of my eyes prickling. And then I hear Stevie’s voice, barking into my ear.

‘
Yes?
’

‘S-Stevie?’ I say.

‘Who is this?’

She sounds suspicious. I tell her that it’s Laurel. She says, ‘Laurel Winton? This time of night?’

It’s only six o’clock but Stevie is an old lady. I stammer that I’m really sorry to be a nuisance.

‘Well, get on with it,’ says Stevie. ‘I’m in the middle of feeding time.’ And then she shouts, very loudly, ‘You! Thomas. Get out of that dish!’

I giggle, in spite of myself. She has always had trouble with Thomas. He’s large and stripy and he steals food.

‘No laughing matter,’ grumbles Stevie. ‘Cat has no morality. What can I do for you?’

I tell her that I’m worried about Mr Pooter. ‘He doesn’t want to eat and he keeps being sick and his ribs are showing!’

‘Kidneys,’ says Stevie.

I swallow. ‘Is that serious?’

‘Old cat. Could be. Needs to go to the vet. Get treated.’

‘Will they be able to make him better?’

Stevie says there are things that can be done. Special diets. Tablets. But I must take him straight away. ‘No hanging around. Get him there immediately.’