Paws and Whiskers

by Jacqueline Wilson

  When they were got out of the house, Jane said, ‘What, have you two baskets, young ladies, full of good things, to carry to old Martha? Well, I am very glad; for she is a good and pious old woman.’

  Soffrona coloured, but did not answer, and Sophia smiled, and said, ‘She has not got any thing for the old woman in her basket: she has only got Muff, wrapped in flannel, in it.’

  ‘O, Miss!’ said Jane, ‘how can you think of doing such a thing? What a trouble it will be to you to carry the kitten all the way! And we have two miles to walk, and most of it uphill. Please to let me carry the kitten back to the house.’

  ‘No, no, Jane,’ said Soffrona, ‘no, you shall not.’

  ‘Shall not, Miss!’ said Jane: ‘is that a pretty word?’

  Soffrona looked very cross, and Jane was turning back to complain to the lady: but Sophia entreated her not to do it; and Soffrona submitted to ask her pardon for being rude, and promised to behave better, if she would permit her to carry the kitten where she was going. So that matter was settled, and Jane and the little girls proceeded.

  I could tell you much about the pretty places through which they passed in going to poor Martha’s cottage, which were quite new to the little girls. They first went through some dark woods, where the trees met over their heads like the arches in a church; and then they came to a dingle, where water was running at the bottom, and they crossed the water by a wooden bridge; then they had to climb up such a steep, such a very steep hill, covered with bushes; then they came to a high field surrounded with trees, and in a corner of that field was old Martha’s thatched cottage. It was a poor place: the walls were black-and-white, and there were two windows, one of which was in the thatch, and one below, and a door, half of which was open; for it was such a door as you see in cottages, the lower part of which can be shut while the other is open. There was a little smoke coming out of the chimney, for Martha was cooking her potatoes for her dinner.

  ‘Do you think Martha has any milk in her house?’ said Soffrona; ‘for poor Muff must be very hungry by this time.’

  ‘I fear not,’ replied Jane: ‘but come, young ladies, we have been a long time getting up this hill, and we must be at home by three o’clock.’

  So they went on, and came close to the door, and stood there a little while, looking in. They saw within the cottage a very small kitchen; but it was neat, and there was nothing out of its place. There was a wide chimney in the kitchen, and in the chimney a fire of sticks, over which hung a little kettle. Old Martha was sitting on a stool within the chimney. She was dressed in a blue petticoat and jacket, and had a high crowned, old-fashioned felt hat on her head, and a coarse clean check handkerchief on her neck. Before her was a spinning-wheel, which she was turning very diligently, for she could not see to do any work besides spinning; and by the fire, on the hob, sat a fine tortoise-shell cat, which was the old woman’s only companion. ‘O!’ cried little Soffrona, ‘there is a cat! I see a cat!’

  ‘Dear, Miss,’ said Jane, ‘you can think of nothing but cats.’

  ‘Well, Jane,’ answered Sophia, ‘and if she is fond of cats, is there any harm in it?’

  Jane could make no answer, for by this time old Martha had seen them, and came halting on her crutch to meet them, and to offer them all the seats in her house; and these were only a three-legged stool and two old chairs.

  Sophia then presented the old woman with what she had brought from her mamma, and Jane gave her a bottle of medicine from her pocket: and the old woman spoke of the goodness of Almighty God, who had put it into the lady’s heart to provide her with what she needed most in this world.

  Now, while Sophia and Jane and Martha were looking over the things which the lady had sent, the old cat had left the hob, and had come to Soffrona, and was staring wildly, and mewing in a strange way round the basket; and at the same time the kitten within began to mew. ‘Puss! Puss! pretty Puss!’ said Soffrona, for she was half afraid of this large cat, yet at the same time very well inclined to form a friendship with her.

  At length, those that were with her in the cottage saw what was passing, and Martha said, ‘Don’t be afraid, Miss; Tibby won’t hurt you. Poor thing! She is in great trouble, and has been so ever since yesterday.’

  ‘What trouble?’ said Soffrona.

  ‘Some rude boys came in yesterday, and stole her kitten,’ replied Martha. ‘I was in the wood, picking a few sticks, and left the door open; and the boys came in, and ran away with the kitten; and the poor cat has been moaning and grieving like a human being – poor dumb thing – ever since. The cruel lads! I saw them go down the hill!’

  ‘O!’ said Soffrona, ‘and I do believe—’

  ‘And I am sure,’ said Sophia.

  ‘And I am so glad!’ said Soffrona.

  ‘And how happy she will be!’ said Sophia.

  And Soffrona immediately set down her basket and opened it, and put the little kitten on the floor, for the kitten was indeed poor Tibby’s kitten.

  It was a pretty sight, an agreeable and pleasant sight, to behold the joy of the old cat when she saw her kitten. The poor creature seemed as if she would have talked. Martha took up the kitten and laid it on a little bit of a mat in the corner of the chimney, where it used to be; and the old cat ran to it, and lay down by it, and gave it milk, and licked it, and talked to it in her way (that is, in the way that cats use to their kittens), and purred so loud, that you might have heard her to the very end of the cottage. It was a pleasant sight, as I said before, for it is a pleasure to see anything happy; and Soffrona jumped and capered about the house, and knew not how sufficiently to express her joy: and as for little Sophia, her eyes were filled with tears; and poor old Martha was not the least happy of the party.

  And now, when it was time to go, Soffrona took up her empty basket, and giving the kitten a kiss, ‘Little Puss,’ she said, ‘I will rejoice in your happiness, though it will be a loss to me, for I must part with my little darling. But I will not be selfish: Mamma says that I can never make myself happy by making other things miserable. Goodbye, little Puss: if God will help me, I will try never to be selfish.’ And she walked out of the cottage, wiping away her tears.

  ‘But you will let her have Muff, won’t you, Martha,’ said Sophia, ‘when her mother has brought her up, and can part with her?’

  ‘To be sure I will, dear Miss,’ replied Martha, ‘for I was delighted to hear her say that she knew she never could make herself happy by making others miserable.’

  When Muff was a quarter old, she was brought to Soffrona, and became her cat, and lived in her service till her yellow and black hairs were mingled with grey.

  VARJAK PAW

  by S. F. Said

  When you write children’s books and become reasonably well known, journalists sometimes want to interview you for their newspapers or magazines. This is mostly enjoyable, because it’s fun to talk about your own book, but you have to be quite wary. Sometimes a few unscrupulous journalists try to trick you to come out with all kinds of comments and then twist what you say.

  I think my most delightful and interesting interview ever was with S. F. Said. He knew so much about children’s books and we found we had all sorts of things in common – we even shared a passion for gothic silver jewellery. He told me that he’d written a children’s book himself and so I asked him to send me a copy when it came out.

  I was thrilled when I read Varjak Paw. It’s new and contemporary and original, and yet it already reads like a true classic of children’s literature.

  VARJAK PAW

  Varjak awoke at the foot of the wall. His head was pounding, his paws aching. It wasn’t quite light yet, but the night was almost over. The fall from the tree must have knocked him out. What a dream! He wondered if he’d ever have another like it.

  He shivered. It was cold out in the open, and the grass beneath his body was wet. He stood up, shook the moisture from his fur, and looked around.

  The view cleared his head instantly. Outside
was like nothing he’d seen, or even dreamed of.

  The Contessa’s house stood on top of a high hill. Beneath it was a broad, green park. Beyond it, away in the distance, was a city.

  Stretched out under the open sky, shining like silver in the pre-dawn light, the city was a huge, mad jumble of shapes and sizes. It had tall towers, gleaming steel and glass – but also squat brick houses, dark with chimney smoke. Wide open gardens jostled with narrow alleys; sharp pointy spires topped soft, curved domes; concrete blocks loomed over bright painted billboards.

  They were all in there together, side by side, each one part of the whole. There was so much, he couldn’t take it in. All he could hear from here was the wind rustling through the treetops, but down in the city it looked noisy and bustling, a place that never went to sleep.

  His whiskers twitched with a mix of energy, excitement, danger. His heart beat faster, just looking at it. It seemed like a city where anything could happen, and probably did. A place you could do whatever you liked, and no one would stop you. Where you’d be able to find everything you wanted – even a dog.

  The terror of the night before, the fight with the Gentleman’s cats: it seemed a long time ago, and very far away. There was sadness in his heart for the Elder Paw, deep sadness, but his grandfather had trusted him with a mission. It was his duty as a Blue to save the family, and Varjak intended to see it through.

  He ventured down the hill. It was steeper than it looked, and soon he found himself running, almost rolling down the slope. But it was a joy to stretch out in the open. A splash of sunshine lit the horizon. He’d never seen a sunrise before, and the sky Outside was alive with streaks of amber light.

  The sky flashed past his eyes as he sped up, sprinted to the bottom. He bounded over a fence at the foot of the hill and into the park.

  Around this time, back in the Contessa’s house, the family would be waking up and licking each other clean. Varjak grinned. He hated washing, and already there was a satisfying build-up of mud between his claws.

  Next, the family would obediently munch their food out of china bowls. It would be the Gentleman’s vile-smelling caviare today. But now that he was Outside, he wouldn’t have to eat anything he didn’t like. He could choose what to eat and when to eat.

  After eating, the family would go to their litter trays. Ha! Varjak crouched by a tree. No litter tray for him today. It felt good; it felt natural. It felt, he thought, like it ought to feel.

  This was how it would be in the future. It was going to be the best time of his life. He’d return from the city with a dog (whatever a dog was) and defeat the Gentleman and his strange black cats. Then he’d lead his family out of that stuffy old house into this wonderful new world. They’d all say he was a proper Mesopotamian Blue, a true son of Jalal. They’d offer him every kind of honour and reward, but he’d turn them down. ‘I did it for the glory of the family,’ he’d say humbly, and they would cheer him even more.

  Varjak wandered further and further in his happy daze. He barely noticed the fiery shades of sunrise burn out, leaving a sky the colour of cold ashes.

  A violent sound cut through his thoughts. It was like a shrieking and roaring at the same time, and it scared him. The sound came from a black road that circled the park in the distance. He crept towards it, ears pressed against his skull. And then he saw them.

  It was a column of fearsome monsters. They were rolling down the road, roaring at each other and everything around them. Huge monsters made of metal with sharp edges all around. They had yellow eyes at the front and red eyes at the back. They moved on round black wheels which turned so fast it made Varjak dizzy, and they belched a trail of choking smoke behind them on the wind.

  Could these be dogs?

  What were the Elder Paw’s words? These monsters were big enough to kill a man. Their breath was foul; their sound was deafening. And they filled his heart with fear.

  This was it. He was sure they were dogs. He’d found them.

  THE DIARY OF A KILLER CAT

  by Anne Fine

  Anne’s the author of many prize-winning books, some very funny, some very serious. Her prose is always immaculate, every single word selected with unerring judgement. Anne once said she wrote all her stories with a pencil in a notebook, rubbing out each sentence until she’d got it exactly right. I don’t know whether she still does, but her prose certainly reads like it.

  Her Killer Cat books are wickedly funny – rather like Anne herself. She loves to tease. Wait till you read her comments about her own killer cat in the Pets’ Corner section!

  THE DIARY OF A KILLER CAT

  ‘Come out of there, you great fat furry psychopath. It’s only a ’flu jab you’re booked in for – more’s the pity!’

  Would you have believed him? I wasn’t absolutely sure. (Neither was Ellie, so she tagged along.) I was still quite suspicious when we reached the vet’s. That is the only reason why I spat at the girl behind the desk. There was no reason on earth to write HANDLE WITH CARE at the top of my case notes. Even the Thompsons’ rottweiler doesn’t have HANDLE WITH CARE written on the top of his case notes. What’s wrong with me?

  So I was a little rude in the waiting room. So what? I hate waiting. And I especially hate waiting stuffed in a wire cat cage. It’s cramped. It’s hot. And it’s boring. After a few hundred minutes of sitting there quietly, anyone would start teasing their neighbours. I didn’t mean to frighten that little sick baby gerbil half to death. I was only looking at it. It’s a free country, isn’t it? Can’t a cat even look at a sweet little baby gerbil?

  And if I was licking my lips (which I wasn’t) that’s only because I was thirsty. Honestly. I wasn’t trying to pretend I was going to eat it.

  The trouble with baby gerbils is they can’t take a joke.

  And neither can anyone else round here.

  Ellie’s father looked up from the pamphlet he was reading called ‘Your Pet and Worms’. (Oh, nice. Very nice.)

  ‘Turn the cage round the other way, Ellie,’ he said.

  Ellie turned my cage round the other way.

  Now I was looking at the Fishers’ terrier. (And if there’s any animal in the world who ought to have HANDLE WITH CARE written at the top of his case notes, it’s the Fishers’ terrier.)

  OK, so I hissed at him. It was only a little hiss. You practically had to have bionic ears to hear it.

  And I did growl a bit. But you’d think he’d have a head start on growling. He is a dog, after all. I’m only a cat.

  And yes, OK, I spat a bit. But only a bit. Nothing you’d even notice unless you were waiting to pick on someone.

  Well, how was I to know he wasn’t feeling very well? Not everyone waiting for the vet is ill. I wasn’t ill, was I? Actually, I’ve never been ill in my life. I don’t even know what it feels like. But I reckon, even if I were dying, something furry locked in a cage could make an eensy-weensy noise at me without my ending up whimpering and cowering, and scrabbling to get under the seat, to hide behind the knees of my owner.

  More a chicken than a Scotch terrier, if you want my opinion.

  ‘Could you please keep that vile cat of yours under control?’ Mrs Fisher said nastily.

  Ellie stuck up for me.

  ‘He is in a cage!’

  ‘He’s still scaring half the animals in here to death. Can’t you cover him up, or something?’

  Ellie was going to keep arguing, I could tell. But without even looking up from his worm pamphlet, her father just dropped his raincoat over my cage as if I were some mangy old parrot or something.

  And everything went black.

  No wonder by the time the vet came at me with her nasty long needle, I was in a bit of a mood. I didn’t mean to scratch her that badly, though.

  Or smash all those little glass bottles.

  Or tip the expensive new cat scales off the bench.

  Or spill all that cleaning fluid.

  It wasn’t me who ripped my record card into tiny pieces, though. T
hat was the vet.

  When we left, Ellie was in tears again. (Some people are born soft.) She hugged my cage tightly to her chest.

  ‘Oh, Tuffy! Until we find a new vet who’ll promise to look after you, you must be so careful not to get run over.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ her father muttered.

  I was just glowering at him through the cage wire, when he spotted Ellie’s mother, standing knee-deep in shopping bags outside the supermarket.

  ‘You’re very late,’ she scolded. ‘Was there a bit of trouble at the vet’s?’

  PETS’ CORNER

  I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I was six years old. As a child I read about authors with enormous interest. I especially liked reading about their own childhood, the books they’d liked to read themselves and, most of all, the pets they’d had.

  So here’s a special selection of favourite authors telling you all about their pets.

  TUFFY

  Everyone loves Tuffy the Killer Cat, and I admit he is based on a pet we had for years and years. Usually we have huge and hairy Bernese mountain dogs, and I adore them. (I’ve always preferred a pet you bump into to one you trip over.)

  But when we lived in California my younger daughter was so happy at school that she didn’t want to come back to Britain. We had to bribe her to cheer up about the idea. ‘As soon as we’re back home, you can have a cat.’

  She held us to the promise. The cat was pleasant enough with Cordelia, but it was foul with us. (I expect it knew that both Richard and I prefer dogs.) Richard disliked it even more than I did because he loves to garden and is fond of wildlife, and we all know what cats get up to in a freshly dug vegetable patch, and how they like to amuse themselves with vulnerable small creatures.

  The years went by, and Cordelia went off to university, leaving us with this nasty-tempered and ungrateful beast. We did our best, but no one has ever been so glad to hear a vet say sadly, ‘I’m afraid this cat is on a high road to Nowhere . . .’