Cat Mummy (2 page)

She stays indoors, dozes all evening, and then sleeps all night, back on my bed. She likes to lie on my feet like a live hot-water bottle.

She’s about as playful as a hot-water bottle too. I can’t believe she was ever a cute little kitten like Sporty, Scary, Baby and Posh. You could run a clockwork frog right
over
Mabel and she wouldn’t budge. She’s never stalked or killed anything in her life. She doesn’t know that’s the way cats are supposed to hunt food. She is happy to amble into the kitchen and wait for Gran to open her tin of Whiskas. It’s the only exercise she takes all day.

Gran says I’ve got to remember Mabel is very, very old. Mabel has been very, very old ever since I can remember. She was my mum’s cat.

I haven’t got a mum. She died the day I was born. That’s almost all I know. Gran still can’t talk about Mum without her eyes going watery. Even
Grandad
cries. So I don’t talk about my mum because I don’t want to upset them.

I’ve got a dad but I don’t see him all that often because he’s left for work before I get up
and
he’s nearly always still at work when I go to bed. I once heard Gran say my dad is married to his job. Just so long as he doesn’t marry a real lady. I definitely don’t want a stepmother.

I’ve read all about stepmothers in fairy stories. They don’t have a good image. Laura’s got a step
dad
and she certainly doesn’t think much of him. He’s the one who put poor Dustbin on a diet. He even suggested Laura’s
mum
should go on a diet and made her upset about having a big bottom – which she can’t help.

Thank goodness Dad doesn’t seem interested in any ladies, with big or little bottoms. He hardly ever talks about Mum but he once said she was the loveliest woman in the whole world and no-one could ever replace her. This was a great relief.

I love my dad. He sometimes takes me out for treats on Saturdays, just him and me. For my last birthday he took me all the way on the train to Paris and Disneyland, which was fantastic –
and
he bought me a giant Minnie Mouse doll. I have her in my bed every night. It gets a bit crowded with Mabel as well.

People are sometimes sorry for me because
I
haven’t got a mum. Sophie once put her arms round me and said it must be so awful. I was bad then and made myself look so sad that Sophie would be specially sweet to me, but I really don’t mind a bit not having a mum. I don’t miss her because I never knew her. The only time
I
get upset is when we go to visit my mum’s grave. It’s very pretty, with a white headstone, and the words
Beloved Wife and Daughter
in curly writing. Gran always arranges freesias in a little vase. They’re my mum’s favourite flowers. I can’t help thinking
about
my poor mum underneath the pink and yellow flowers and the white headstone in the dark, dirty earth. There are worms. I hate thinking about my mum being buried.

I try to imagine her alive instead. I’ll tell you a very private secret. I sometimes talk about my mum to Mabel, because Mabel doesn’t ever get upset.

I talk and talk and talk about my mum. Mabel listens. When she’s not asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Where’s Mabel?

WHEN I GOT
home from school I ran into the hall and stepped straight into this little mess of cat sick.

‘Y-u-c-k!’

I was wearing open-toed sandals, which made it a
lot
worse. I hopped around going, ‘Yuck Yuck Yuck’ and Gran sighed and hurried me into the kitchen and got a bowl of water and a cloth and some disinfectant.

Mabel was dithering at the end of the hall, hanging her head.

‘Honestly, Mabel! Why do you have to throw up right where I’m going to walk in it? What have you been eating, you naughty cat? You’re disgusting!’

Mabel drooped and slunk away.

‘Yes, you jolly well should be ashamed,’ I said.

‘Don’t be too hard on Mabel, Verity,’ said Gran. ‘I don’t think she’s very well. That’s the second time she’s been sick – and she’s had a little accident too.’

‘Mabel’s always having little accidents,’ I said.

She’s so lazy she doesn’t amble over to her litter tray in time.

‘Mabel isn’t getting any younger, you know,’ said Gran.

‘
You’re
not getting any younger, Gran, but you don’t sick up your food or do little wees all over the place,’ I said, giggling.

‘You cheeky baggage,’ said Gran, pretending to give me a smack on the bottom.

She laughed, but she still looked a bit worried. My tummy clenched.

‘Gran, there’s nothing
seriously
wrong with Mabel, is there?’ I asked. ‘She has just got a little tummy upset, hasn’t she?’

Gran hesitated. ‘I hope so. I think she’s just getting older, dear, like I said.’

‘Maybe we should take her to the vet’s?’

‘I’m not sure there’s much they can do for her.’

My tummy clenched tighter.

‘But she will be all right, won’t she, Gran?’ I said. ‘I mean . . . she’s not going to die or anything?’

I felt myself blushing as if I’d said a really rude word. We hardly ever say words like ‘die’ or ‘death’ in my family.

‘Well . . .’ said Gran, swallowing. ‘We’ve all got to pass away at some time.’

‘But not for ages and ages. Mabel isn’t going to die
soon
, is she?’

Gran didn’t answer properly. She just wriggled her shoulders. ‘Shall I make some of my special home-made lemonade? And then maybe you’d like to watch television?’

Gran only makes her lemonade on special days and she usually nags me
not
to watch television. She likes me to read a book or draw a picture or play in the garden.

I started to feel panicky. Gran seemed to think that Mabel might be going to die soon. It sounds so silly but I’d never ever thought about Mabel
dying
. I knew she was old but I sort of assumed she’d stagger on for ever on her soft spreading paws.

I was starting to feel really, really mean for scolding poor Mabel. I wanted to give her a big cuddle and say sorry.

‘Back in a minute, Gran,’ I said, and I went charging upstairs to my bedroom, Mabel’s usual lurking spot.

My bed was empty. Well, Minnie Mouse was lying there with her yellow heels sticking up at an angle – but no Mabel.

‘Where’s Mabel?’ I said, tossing Minnie onto the floor.

I looked underneath my bed. Mabel might be really embarrassed about being sick on the hall carpet. She’d hidden underneath my bed in the past. But she wasn’t there now.

‘Mabel?’ I called. ‘Where are you, Mabel?’

I looked all round my bedroom. I searched
through
the toys and clothes on the carpet. I looked on the windowsill behind the curtain. There was no sign of her anywhere.

I went to look in Gran and Grandad’s bedroom. Though Gran always kept their door shut to stop Mabel exploring, Mabel had long ago learnt the knack of nudging it sharply with her hip so that the catch sprang open. I looked on the bed, the rug, the rocking chair, even under the dressing table.

I looked in the bathroom although Mabel detests water and shrieks if I splash her when she noses in and I’m having a bath.

I went charging downstairs and into the kitchen. Gran was stirring her lemonade.

‘Gran, I can’t find Mabel!’

‘She’s not on your bed? Though I must say it’s not a very hygienic habit, especially if Mabel’s poorly. We don’t want her being sick on your bed now, do we?’

I wanted Mabel so badly I wouldn’t have cared.