Paws and Whiskers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  William must have been sad about the loss of his powers. He gave up the company of other cats and sat alone in the house with his memories and reflections. But despite his seventeen years, he kept himself sleek and trim. He was mostly black, with dazzling white socks and shirt front, and a splash of white in the tip of his tail. Sometimes he would seek you out where you were sitting, and after a moment’s thought, jump on to your lap and stand there, feet splayed, gazing deeply without blinking into your eyes. Then he might cock his head, still holding your gaze, and miaow, just once, and you would know he was telling you something important and wise, something you would never understand.

  There was nothing Peter liked better on a winter’s afternoon when he came home from school than to kick off his shoes and lie down beside William Cat in front of the living-room fire. He liked to get right down to William’s level, and to put his face up close to the cat’s and see how extraordinary it really was, how beautifully non-human, with spikes of black hair sprouting in a globe from a tiny face beneath the fur, and the white whiskers with their slight downwards curve, and the eyebrow hairs shooting up like radio antennae, and the pale green eyes with their upright slits, like doors ajar into a world Peter could never enter. As soon as he came close to the cat, the deep rumbling purr would begin, so low and strong that the floor vibrated. Peter knew he was welcome.

  It was just one such afternoon, a Tuesday as it happened, four o’clock and already the light fading, curtains drawn and lights on, when Peter eased himself on to the carpet where William lay before a bright fire whose flames were curling round a fat elm log. Down the chimney came the moan of the freezing wind as it whipped across the rooftops. Peter had sprinted from the bus stop with Kate to keep warm. Now he was safely indoors with his old friend who was pretending to be younger than his years by rolling on to his back and letting his front paws flop helplessly. He wanted his chest tickled. As Peter began to move his fingers lightly through the fur, the rumbling noise grew louder, so loud that every bone in the old cat’s body rattled. And then, William stretched out a paw to Peter’s fingers and tried to draw them up higher. Peter let the cat guide his hand.

  ‘Do you want me to tickle your chin?’ he murmured. But no. The cat wanted to be touched right at the base of his throat. Peter felt something hard there. It moved from side to side when he touched it. Something had got trapped in the fur. Peter propped himself on an elbow in order to investigate. He parted the fur. At first he thought he was looking at a piece of jewellery, a little silver tag. But there was no chain, and as he poked and peered he saw that it was not metal at all, but polished bone, oval and flattened in the centre, and most curiously of all, that it was attached to William Cat’s skin. The piece of bone fitted well between his forefinger and thumb. He tightened his grip and gave a tug. William Cat’s purr grew even louder. Peter pulled again, downwards, and this time he felt something give.

  Looking down through the fur, and parting it with the tips of his fingers, he saw that he had opened up a small slit in the cat’s skin. It was as if he were holding the handle of a zip. Again he pulled, and now there was a dark opening two inches long. William Cat’s purr was coming from in there. Perhaps, Peter thought, I’ll see his heart beating. A paw was gently pushing against his fingers again. William Cat wanted him to go on.

  And this is what he did. He unzipped the whole cat from throat to tail. Peter wanted to part the skin to peep inside. But he did not wish to appear nosy. He was just about to call out to Kate when there was a movement, a stirring inside the cat, and from the opening in the fur there came a faint pink glow which grew brighter. And suddenly, out of William Cat climbed a, well, a thing, a creature. But Peter was not certain that it was really there to touch, for it seemed to be made entirely of light. And while it did not have whiskers or a tail, or a purr, or even fur, or four legs, everything about it seemed to say ‘cat’. It was the very essence of the word, the heart of the idea. It was a quiet, slinky, curvy fold of pink and purple light, and it was climbing out of the cat.

  ‘You must be William’s spirit,’ Peter said aloud. ‘Or are you a ghost?’

  The light made no sound, but it understood. It seemed to say, without actually speaking the words, that it was both these things, and much more besides.

  When it was clear of the cat, which continued to lie on its back on the carpet in front of the fire, the cat spirit drifted into the air, and floated up to Peter’s shoulder where it settled. Peter was not frightened. He felt the glow of the spirit on his cheek. And then the light drifted behind his head, out of sight. He felt it touch his neck and a warm shudder ran down his back. The cat spirit took hold of something knobbly at the top of his spine and drew it down, right down his back, and as his own body opened up, he felt the cool air of the room tickle the warmth of his insides.

  It was the oddest thing, to climb out of your body, just step out of it and leave it lying on the carpet like a shirt you had just taken off. Peter saw his own glow, which was purple and the purest white. The two spirits hovered in the air facing each other. And then Peter suddenly knew what he wanted to do, what he had to do. He floated towards William Cat and hovered. The body stood open, like a door, and it looked so inviting, so welcoming. He dropped down and stepped inside. How fine it was, to dress yourself as a cat. It was not squelchy, as he thought all insides must be. It was dry and warm. He lay on his back and slipped his arms into William’s front legs. Then he wiggled his legs into William’s back legs. His head fitted perfectly inside the cat’s head. He glanced across at his own body just in time to see William Cat’s spirit disappear inside.

  Using his paws, Peter was able to zip himself up easily. He stood, and took a few steps. What a delight, to walk on four soft white paws. He could see his whiskers springing out from the sides of his face, and he felt his tail curling behind him. His tread was light, and his fur was like the most comfortable of old woollen jumpers. As his pleasure in being a cat grew, his heart swelled, and a tingling sensation deep in his throat became so strong that he could actually hear himself. Peter was purring. He was Peter Cat, and over there, was William Boy.

  The boy stood up and stretched. Then, without a word to the cat at his feet, he skipped out of the room.

  ‘Mum,’ Peter heard his old body call out from the kitchen. ‘I’m hungry. What’s for supper?’

  That night Peter was too restless, too excited, too much of a cat to sleep. Towards ten o’clock he slipped through the cat flap. The freezing night air could not penetrate his thick fur coat. He padded soundlessly towards the garden wall. It towered above him, but one effortless, graceful leap and he was up, surveying his territory. How wonderful to see into dark corners, to feel every vibration of the night air on his whiskers, and to make himself invisible when, at midnight, a fox came up the garden path to root among the dustbins. All around he was aware of other cats, some local, some from far away, going about their nighttime business, travelling their routes. After the fox, a young tabby had tried to enter the garden. Peter warned him off with a hiss and a flick of his tail. He had purred inwardly as the young fellow squealed in astonishment and took flight.

  Not long after that, while patrolling the high wall that rose above the greenhouse, he came face to face with another cat, a more dangerous intruder. It was completely black, which was why Peter had not seen it sooner. It was the tom from next door, a vigorous fellow almost twice his size, with a thick neck and long powerful legs. Without even thinking, Peter arched his back and upended his fur to make himself look big.

  ‘Hey puss,’ he hissed, ‘this is my wall and you’re on it.’

  The black cat looked surprised. It smiled. ‘So it was your wall once, Grandad. What’ya going to do about it now?’

  ‘Beat it, before I throw you off.’ Peter was amazed at how strongly he felt. This was his wall, his garden, and it was his job to keep unfriendly cats out.

  The black cat smiled again, coldly. ‘Listen, Grandad. It hasn’t been your wall for a long t
ime. I’m coming through. Out of my way or I’ll rip your fur off.’

  Peter stood his ground. ‘Take another step, you walking flea circus, and I’ll tie your whiskers round your neck.’

  The black cat gave out a long laughing wail of contempt. But it did not take another step. All around, local cats were appearing out of the darkness to watch. Peter heard their voices.

  A fight?

  The old boy must be crazy!

  He’s seventeen if he’s a day.

  The black cat arched its powerful spine and howled again, a terrible rising note.

  Peter tried to keep his voice calm, but his words came out in a hiss. ‘You don’t take ssshort cutsss through here without asssking me firssst.’

  The black cat blinked. The muscles in its fat neck rippled as it shrieked its laugh that was also a war cry.

  On the opposite wall, a moan of excitement ran through the crowd which was still growing.

  ‘Old Bill has flipped.’

  ‘He’s chosen the wrong cat to pick a fight with.’

  ‘Listen, you toothless old sheep,’ the black cat said through a hiss far more penetrating than Peter’s. ‘I’m number one round here. Isn’t that right?’

  The black cat half turned to the crowd which murmured its agreement. Peter thought the watching cats did not sound very enthusiastic.

  ‘My advice to you,’ the black cat went on, ‘is to step aside. Or I’ll spread your guts all over the lawn.’

  Peter knew he had gone too far now to back down. He extended his claws to take a firm grip of the wall. ‘You bloated rat! This is my wall, d’you hear. And you are nothing but the soft turd of a sick dog!’

  The black cat gasped. There were titters in the crowd. Peter was always such a polite boy. How splendid it was now to spit out these insults.

  ‘You’ll be birds’ breakfast,’ the black cat warned, and took a step forwards. Peter snatched a deep breath. For old William’s sake he had to win. Even as he was thinking this, the black cat’s paw lashed out at his face. Peter had an old cat’s body, but he had a young boy’s mind. He ducked and felt the paw and its vicious outstretched claws go singing through the air above his ears. He had time to see how the black cat was supported momentarily on only three legs. Immediately he sprang forwards, and with his two front paws pushed the tom hard in the chest. It was not the kind of thing a cat does in a fight and the number one cat was taken by surprise. With a yelp of astonishment, he slipped and tottered backwards, tipped off the wall and fell head first through the roof of the greenhouse below. The icy air was shattered by the crash and musical tinkle of broken glass and the earthier clatter of breaking flowerpots. Then there was silence. The hushed crowd of cats peered down from their wall. They heard a movement, then a groan. Then, just visible in the gloom was the shape of the black cat hobbling across the lawn. They heard it muttering.

  ‘It’s not fair. Claws and teeth, yes. But pushing like that. It just isn’t fair.’

  ‘Next time,’ Peter called down, ‘you ask permission.’

  The black cat did not reply, but something about its retreating, limping shape made it clear it had understood.

  The next morning, Peter lay on the shelf above the radiator with his head cushioned on one paw, while the other dangled loosely in the rising warmth. All about him was hurry and chaos. Kate could not find her satchel. The porridge was burned. Mr Fortune was in a bad mood because the coffee had run out and he needed three strong cups to start his day. The kitchen was a mess and the mess was covered in porridge smoke. And it was late late late!

  Peter curled his tail around his back paws and tried not to purr too loudly. On the far side of the room was his old body with William Cat inside, and that body had to go to school. William Boy was looking confused. He had his coat on and he was ready to leave, but he was wearing only one shoe. The other was nowhere to be found. ‘Mum,’ he kept bleating. ‘Where’s my shoe?’ But Mrs Fortune was in the hallway arguing with someone on the phone.

  Peter Cat half closed his eyes. After his victory he was desperately tired. Soon the family would be gone. The house would fall silent. When the radiator had cooled, he would wander upstairs and find the most comfortable of the beds. For old time’s sake he would choose his own.

  The day passed just as he had hoped. Dozing, lapping a saucer of milk, dozing again, munching through some tinned cat food that really was not as bad as it smelled – rather like shepherd’s pie without the mashed potato. Then more dozing. Before he knew it, the sky outside was darkening and the children were home from school. William Boy looked worn out from a day of classroom and playground struggle. Boy-cat and cat-boy lay down together in front of the living-room fire. It was most odd, Peter Cat thought, to be stroked by a hand that only the day before had belonged to him. He wondered if William Boy was happy with his new life of school and buses, and having a sister and a mum and dad. But the boy’s face told Peter Cat nothing. It was so hairless, whiskerless and pink, with eyes so round that it was impossible to know what they were saying.

  Later that evening, Peter wandered up to Kate’s room. As usual she was talking to her dolls, giving them a lesson in geography. From the fixed expression on their faces it was clear that they were not much interested in the longest rivers in the world. Peter jumped on to her lap and she began to tickle him absent-mindedly as she talked. If only she could have known that the creature on her lap was her brother. Peter lay down and purred. Kate was beginning to list all the capital cities she could think of. It was so exquisitely boring, just what he needed to get him off to sleep again. His eyes were already closed when the door crashed open and William Boy strode in.

  ‘Hey Peter,’ Kate said. ‘You didn’t knock.’

  But her brother-cat paid no attention. He crossed the room, picked up her cat brother roughly and hurried away with him. Peter disliked being carried. It was undignified for a cat of his age. He tried to struggle, but William Boy only tightened his grip as he rushed down the stairs. ‘Ssh,’ he said. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  William carried the cat into the living room and set him down.

  ‘Keep still,’ the boy whispered. ‘Do what I tell you. Roll on to your back.’

  Peter Cat had little choice for the boy had pinned him down with one hand and was searching in his fur with the other. He found the piece of polished bone and pulled downwards. Peter felt the cool air reach his insides. He stepped out of the cat’s body. The boy was reaching up behind his own neck and unzipping himself. Now the pink and purple light of a true cat slipped out of the boy’s body. For a moment the two spirits, cat and human, faced each other, suspended above the carpet. Below them, their bodies lay still, waiting, like taxis ready to move off with their passengers. There was a sadness in the air.

  Though the cat spirit did not speak, Peter sensed what it was saying. ‘I must return,’ it said. ‘I have another adventure to begin. Thank you for letting me be a boy. I have learned so many things that will be useful to me in the time to come. But most of all, thank you for fighting my last battle for me.’

  Peter was about to speak, but the cat spirit was returning to its own body.

  ‘There’s very little time,’ it seemed to say, as the pink and purple light folded itself into the fur of the cat. Peter drifted towards his own body, and slipped in round the back, at the top of the spine.

  It felt rather odd at first. This body did not really fit him. When he stood up he was shaky on his legs. It was like wearing a pair of gumboots four sizes too large. Perhaps his body had grown a little since he had last used it. It felt safer to lie down for the moment. As he did so the cat, William Cat, turned and walked very slowly and stiffly out of the room without even a glance at him.

  As Peter lay there, trying to get used to his old body, he noticed a curious thing. The fire was still curling round the same elm log. He glanced towards the window. The sky was darkening. It was not evening, it was still late afternoon. From the newspaper lying near a chair, he could se
e that it was still Tuesday. And here was another curious thing. His sister Kate was running into the room crying. And following her were his parents, looking very grim.

  ‘Oh Peter,’ his sister cried. ‘Something terrible has happened.’

  ‘It’s William Cat,’ his mother explained. ‘I’m afraid he’s . . .’

  ‘Oh William!’ Kate’s wail drowned her mother’s words.

  ‘He just walked into the kitchen,’ his father said, ‘and climbed on to his favourite shelf above the radiator, closed his eyes and . . . died.’

  ‘He didn’t feel a thing,’ Viola Fortune said reassuringly.

  Kate continued to cry. Peter realized that his parents were watching him anxiously, waiting to see how he was going to take the news. Of all the family, he was the one who had been closest to the cat.