by Holly Webb
Emmie stared anxiously at her reddened fingers, sore with cold, wondering if she had done something wrong. I can’t think what. Why else would he want to see me, though? She had Lieutenant Craven in her head as the tall hero that Jack obviously worshipped – she had seen that even from the few words the boy grudgingly spoke during lessons.
Miss Sowerby pounced on her at the top of the stairs, and sighed about her hair, which was all sticking out of its plait, but she didn’t make her comb it out. She hurried her along the hallways as eagerly as Arthur had. These were the grander parts of the house, the corridors that the children had never been into. There were thick curtains drawn over most of the windows. Even before the war had started, it had been hard to keep enough servants to care for so large a house. Now, with so many of them gone off to enlist or to do war work, the endless task of opening the curtains and closing them before the blackout had been allowed to lapse. The passages were dim, even in the bright snowlight, and faces glimmered out of dark portraits as Emmie was hurried by.
There was a fire lit in Lieutenant Craven’s small study, full of rather dusty velvet-covered chairs. The room had been shut up while he was away; it smelled musty, and there was a fine layer of dust on the huge wooden desk. Standing in front of the fire was a thin, tired-looking man in a dark uniform with glittering buttons.
Emmie was used to seeing Mrs Craven worried about food, or there not being enough blankets, or the possibility that the second gardener’s youngest boy had scarlet fever. She had never seen her smile like this before. The light from the window glowed behind her, but her thin, pale face was lit up from inside, so that she shone like the paintings in the passageway.
Emmie ducked her head, embarrassed. She felt as if she were intruding.
“Emmie?” Lieutenant Craven sounded as uncertain as she was.
“Yes,” she whispered back, staring at her knitted socks.
“I’ve brought you something.”
Emmie looked up, frowning. “Me? You don’t even know who I am.”
“Mr Sowerby wrote to me about you. He wrote to me that he’d found you crying in the garden, and you told him about your cat.”
Emmie scowled, ashamed for a moment that someone else knew. She had spent so long trying to hide herself away, so no one saw her. Jack had crowed over her tears, and now Mr Sowerby had written it in a letter to this stranger in uniform. She looked up, about to say something angry, but then she caught his eyes. The same dark grey eyes as Jack’s, fringed with black lashes.
She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “I miss her,” she muttered, trying to be polite, and only managing fierce instead of angry.
“Emmie, look.” Mrs Craven stood up, and put an arm around her shoulders, pushing her gently over to the armchair by the fire. On the chair was a basket – a wicker picnic basket, very like the one she had tried to bring Lucy in, months before.
“Is it a cake?” Emmie asked, bewildered.
Lieutenant Craven laughed. “Look and see.”
Emmie shook her head stubbornly. He was laughing at her.
He stopped smiling, and came closer, squatting down next to the basket. “Mr Sowerby wrote to me – he told me how you’d fought to bring your little cat. He said the first time he saw you, you looked completely lost, wandering around the gardens as though you’d never seen flowers before.” He looked down at the basket, his dark brows drawing together. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me, to be away from here, Emmie. This is my home. I’ve lived here always – everything in me is tied up with Misselthwaite, even when I go away. Letters are like a glimpse of home for me; I read them over and over. I could see this lost little girl in my gardens. Even though I’d never met you, I’d read about you so often. I knew you, and I liked you because Mr Sowerby liked you.” He smiled to himself. “He knew what he was doing, telling me about you in the garden, and the cat left behind.” Lieutenant Craven glanced at the basket, and reached out one hand, as if he was going to pat it – then he drew his fingers back, cautiously.
“I’ve got a week’s leave, that’s all, but I had to spend last night in London, as I couldn’t get a train till this morning. So I went to the Home – your Miss Dearlove had written to me as well, she’s been worried about leaving the building empty – she wanted someone to check that all the windows were secured still. To make sure no one had broken in.”
Emmie nodded, still unsure what this had to do with her.
“I walked all round the building, you see. Making sure everything was all right. Into the yard, and up the fire escape.”
Emmie gasped, suddenly breathless. She felt like she did that time she’d had a fight with Arthur. He’d pushed her, hard, and she’d smacked against the wall and lost all the air inside.
“Did you see her?” she whispered, forcing the words out.
He nodded. “She must have heard me thumping about on the fire escape. Perhaps she thought I was you.” He snorted. “She was so quiet that I didn’t even notice her until she was on the step below me. I tried to grab her – goodness knows what I’d have done if I’d caught her. Put her in my pocket?”
“She ran away?” Emmie came closer, putting her hand on his sleeve. “Was she all right? Was she thin?”
He nodded. “Very thin, I’m afraid. So I went back to the hotel, and borrowed a torch, and they managed to find me some fish-paste sandwiches. I told them I’d missed lunch.”
“Fish paste?” Emmie echoed, looking at the basket, and wrapping her arms tightly round her middle. She felt as though she was holding herself together, holding everything in. Did he mean what she thought he meant, or was she making up a stupid story again – like the house she’d imagined for herself and Lucy in the garden, her pretty honeysuckle house?
Emmie wanted to run, and tear at the fastenings of the basket. But what if there was only a cake in there after all – or fish-paste sandwiches?
“Mm-hm. I’m glad I thought of it. She was tricky to catch. Though at least it wasn’t too hard to see her, against the snow.”
“You – you mean it? You’re not just teasing me?” Emmie asked, stepping closer.
He snorted, and held out one hand, so she could see the deep red scratch across the back. “I’d be careful when you get her out. She’s cross about the basket.” He nodded at Emmie. “I sat on that fire escape in the snow with a plate of fish-paste sandwiches, waving them about like a clown.”
“And she came back?” Emmie took a step closer.
“It took her a while. She came out from behind the bins in the yard. She didn’t want to come anywhere near me, but she couldn’t resist the smell of the food. She’s very thin. She might leap out when you open the basket, Emmie. She didn’t want to go in there at all, and she’s been shut up since yesterday afternoon. I didn’t dare open it again; I just lifted up the lid a fraction and posted more sandwiches in. I know that sounds cruel,” he added apologetically, “but I didn’t want to lose her in the hotel, or even worse, in a train. I wouldn’t have put it past her to escape at some station in the middle of nowhere.”
“Lucy?” Emmie whispered, crouching down in front of the chair. What if it was the wrong cat? What if this was all some stupid joke? Jack would do that, and this was Jack’s father. She scowled at the basket, trying not to be too hopeful.
There was no sound, except a faint creaking of the basket, as if something inside had moved, just a little. The darkness behind the strands of wicker shifted slightly.
Emmie smiled, just faintly, almost believing that it was true. She could imagine Lucy, glaring suspiciously through the wickerwork. She was surprised Lieutenant Craven only had one scratch. Carefully, she began to thread the wicker catches back through their loops, and then she lifted the lid, just a little. A pair of green eyes shone out of the shadows of the basket, and Lucy hissed at her.
Emmie sat back on her heels. “It’
s open,” she whispered. “You can come out now.” She desperately wanted to throw the lid back and hug Lucy tight, but the little cat had been in the dark for so long.
Lucy had huddled up at the back of the basket, full of distrust, but now she crept forward. A small dark muzzle appeared out of the gap, fringed with black whiskers, and a faint smell of concentrated fish.
“Hello, puss,” Emmie said, her voice very low, and calm – like Mr Sowerby talking to the robin.
Lucy edged out a little further, so that all of her small black head was free. She darted a glance sideways at the Cravens, and Emmie was almost sure that she recognized Lieutenant Craven as the person who had stuffed her into the basket. She practically spat.
“It was the only way he could bring you,” she explained gently. “I know you didn’t like it. But if you come out, you could have some milk.” She glanced sideways at Lieutenant Craven. “I’ll give her what would be on my bread and milk at teatime; I don’t like bread and milk anyway.”
“She can have her own allowance of milk,” Mrs Craven murmured. “We’ll stretch to it. It isn’t rationed yet, and anyway, we get it from the farm. And she’ll deserve it if she can mouse.”
“She did catch a couple of them at the Home,” Emmie assured her. “But then she left a dead mouse in one of Mrs Evans’s slippers, so nobody was very grateful.” She lifted the lid up a little more, and the dark ears flickered. “Lucy… Come out, sweetness… I never thought I’d see you again… I thought someone would take you away, and – and I don’t know what.” She did, but she wasn’t going to say it.
The black cat suddenly erupted out of the basket, hissing, and Lieutenant Craven took several steps backwards, making his wife laugh.
“She’s already drawn blood once,” he pointed out, tucking his hands behind his back.
Lucy scrabbled and clawed and landed in Emmie’s lap, where she sat hunched up and rigid, with her ears laid back, glaring around the room.
“Ssssh, ssssh, puss…” Emmie muttered, spilling out a stream of soothing nonsense words to calm the furious cat down. “It’s all right, yes, horrible basket. Shall we put it in the fire, yes, shall we, mmm? I don’t mean it,” she went on, flicking her eyes sideways to Lieutenant Craven. “Probably you have to give it back. Yes, yes he does…”
“Where did you find a cat basket?” Mrs Craven asked him in a whisper.
“It’s a very expensive hamper, actually. And I went and bought it at Fortnums, when I realized I’d need something to put her in. What was in it might have to be your Christmas present for the next several years.”
Mrs Craven pressed her hand over her mouth, laughing at him.
“And Mr Sowerby can have the basket,” Lieutenant Craven added. “If he can get the stink of fish out of it.”
Lucy’s ears were still flat, but now she was sniffing cautiously at Emmie’s fingers. “It is me,” Emmie promised, running one hand down Lucy’s back. She could feel the cat’s ribs under her dull fur. “You’re starving,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with tears. She looked round at Lieutenant Craven. “I don’t think she’ll ever be grateful, but I am. You don’t know how much. I think you rescued her just in time; I don’t suppose people are throwing away as much food as they did before. She’s even skinnier than she used to be. Thank you.” Emmie nodded her head to him, almost like a formal little bow. She didn’t know how to say it better, but she wished she could.
Lieutenant Craven half-bowed back to her, very smartly. Emmie supposed he was used to doing that sort of thing on ships. “I only wish I could have brought her sooner,” he said, smiling. “I worried about her too, when I was on the ship and thinking of you all. Would she go with you now, do you reckon? She doesn’t want to be anywhere near me – or the basket.”
Emmie ran her hand over Lucy’s back again, and then down from behind her ears, so that the thin cat shivered, and stretched a little, and nestled closer. Emmie nodded. “Could I take the basket though? I know she doesn’t like it now, but she might want it to hide in. She does like little dark places. I don’t think Mr Sowerby would want it really – the smell won’t go. Fish paste doesn’t.” Then she swallowed, pulling Lucy tight under her chin and feeling the soft warmth of her domed head. “I don’t have any money.”
Lieutenant Craven blinked at her, as though he didn’t understand.
“For the basket – or the expensive things you had to buy in it…”
“But you’ve been working in the gardens,” Mrs Craven broke in, and Emmie saw her kick her husband, very gently, as if she was telling him something. “The children have been working very hard.”
Lieutenant Craven nodded. “Mr Sowerby said that. And with so many of the gardeners called up, he told me you children were a blessing. You’ve earned a basket. You can owe me the scratch,” he added, grinning at her, and Emmie nodded. She knew he was joking, but she didn’t care. She did owe him. She knew that.
As she walked away from the study, with Lucy still tense in her arms, Emmie thought about keeping a cat in a house with a hundred rooms. How would she ever know where Lucy was? Emmie waited for her to wriggle and fight and jump away, but Lucy huddled still, as daunted by the huge house as Emmie had been.
Miss Sowerby was polishing a table at the end of the passage, even though as the housekeeper that was a job she wouldn’t usually do. Emmie quickened her step, and Miss Sowerby dropped the cloth as soon as Emmie appeared, and beamed at her. “He found th’ little cat for you, then?”
“You knew about Lucy too?” Emmie asked, confused. “Did Mr Sowerby tell you?” He was her brother, Emmie supposed. They would talk.
Miss Sowerby peered down at Lucy, cringing in Emmie’s arms, and made a soft, chirruping noise to her. “And desperate for someone to love. Go an’ show her to Miss Dearlove. Tell her Master Craven brought her for thee. But nicely. Don’t tha’ smirk.”
“I wouldn’t,” Emmie said quickly. “It’s too important. I wouldn’t. Miss Sowerby, can I really keep her in the house? She’s never been a proper house cat. She doesn’t know about … about being clean. What if she makes a mess?”
The housekeeper sighed, and looked thoughtfully at the two skinny little creatures. “She’ll learn, I expect. If she makes a mess, you come t’ me, and I’ll help thee clean up.”
Emmie nodded. She could feel Lucy relaxing a little, the hammering of her heart slowing. She followed Miss Sowerby through the house to the servants’ hall, gently murmuring to Lucy about how much she was loved, and how many mice she could catch in the dusty old house.
They came upon Jack in the dim passageway that led to the servants’ hall, and the kitchen, clutching a doorstep of bread and dripping. Miss Sowerby clicked her tongue at him.
“You’ll spoil tha’ dinner!”
But Jack didn’t even look at her. He glared at Emmie. “My father came home – he’s been away for months – and all he wanted was to talk to you.”
Emmie glared back. “It was important.”
Lucy’s whiskers twitched, and she leaned a little out of Emmie’s arms, catching the scent of the dripping. Jack stepped back, staring at her wide-eyed.
“Your cat!”
“He found her. Your father did. He had to go to the Home, and he saw Lucy, so he brought her back.” She swallowed, trying to think of something nice to say. Jack was horrible, but his father wasn’t. “It was very kind of him,” she managed primly.
“I don’t know why he bothered,” Jack muttered angrily, barging past. “That looks more like a rat to me.”
“Jack Craven!” Miss Sowerby snapped. “Apologize.”
But Jack was already gone, racing up the passageway and slamming the door at the bottom of the stairs. Miss Sowerby sighed, and ushered Emmie on into the servants’ hall.
“There she is!” Arthur swung round from the table as he saw them at the door. “What did he want? Emmie! Your cat!”
“Lieutenant Craven found her,” Emmie said simply. She gave Miss Dearlove a pleading look. “He went and found her, Miss. Mr Sowerby the gardener wrote to him and said about me and Lucy. He knew I missed her. Lieutenant Craven brought her all the way here in a hamper.” She bit her lip, and forced herself to sound humble. “Please may I keep her?” Deep in Lucy’s fur, her fingers were crossed. If Miss Dearlove said no, it didn’t matter. Emmie was keeping her anyway. And Miss Dearlove could hardly send her back. But it was the right thing, to ask. For Lucy she’d do it, however much she hated to speak sweetly and beg.
Emmie buried her face in Lucy’s fur, and looked sideways at the matron, trying to see what she would do. Miss Dearlove’s fingers clenched on the soup spoon she was holding, and then she dropped it in her bowl with a clinking sound.
“He went to the Home?” she murmured. “I wrote to him…”
“He checked all around.” Emmie nodded. “He said the windows weren’t broken. And then he sat on the fire escape. He had sandwiches.”
Miss Dearlove shook her head wearily. “You’ll have to keep her then. He’s the owner of the house, Emmie. If he fetched her, I can’t tell you no.”
Emmie swallowed, and didn’t look at her. She couldn’t stop herself looking happy, and she was sure Miss Dearlove would think she was being rude. “Thank you, Miss Dearlove.” And then she added quickly, “I promise I’ll keep her out of your way, Miss.”
“You’d better see if Mrs Evans and Mrs Martin have got anything you can feed her.”
Emmie nodded, and hurried out towards the kitchens.
“Miss Sowerby told us, Emmie,” Mrs Evans surged over to cluck at Lucy. “Isn’t she thin, poor little dear…”
Mrs Martin looked at Lucy doubtfully. “She’s not much bigger than a mouse herself. Is tha’ sure she can hunt?”
“That mouse was in my slippers, Betty, I’m telling you,” Mrs Evans assured her grimly. “Sit down here, Emmie, I’ll find her a saucer for some milk, and you eat this soup.” She rubbed one work-reddened finger under Lucy’s chin. “Go on, girl. You’ll have to let go of her some time.”
