Cats Undercover

by Ged Gillmore

  But Tuck was wrong. For the next morning, everything was worse, not better. Not only had Ginger failed to return, but now Minnie had disappeared too.

  NOT MUCH TO CROW ABOUT!

  Tuck sat sadly next to the one-hinged gate. This was the furthest part of the farm from the farmyard, where the long, overgrown driveway ran out of the hollow and met the road. It was two hours since he had woken up and found himself alone and he had arrived at the gate intending to set off on an adventure: to discover what had happened to Ginger and Minnie. But now he was here, it didn’t seem like such a good idea. For one thing, he already felt an awful long way from the safety of the farmhouse. For another thing, from up near the road, if he turned and looked past the farm, he could see the massive expanse of the Great Dark Forest.

  ‘What if I end up in there?’ he thought. ‘Surely I’ll die of fright before I can rescue anyone?’

  He turned again and looked at the tarmac of the road instead, trying to think of a better idea than an adventure of discovery and rescue. After all, Minnie had disappeared overnight once before. On that occasion she’d turned up the next morning in a wonderful mood, refusing to say where she’d been or why she was so tired. But Tuck knew, in his heart of hearts, this time, things were different. Swallowing his fear with a gulp, and reminding himself Ginger and Minnie were probably in danger, he stepped out onto the road. He turned left and told himself he was being brave.

  The weather was very different from the night before. The stormy wind had completely disappeared, leaving behind an empty blue sky and quiet air beneath it, as if all the birds and insects and rustling leaves had blown away somewhere else. Tuck looked around him as he walked down the road and thought he’d never seen such a still day. Nor had he ever been so lonely. On and on he walked, away from the farm where he lived and along the borders of other, better-kept properties. There were furrowed fallow fields, carefully cropped crops and great green growths of grass.

  ‘Goodness,’ thought Tuck. ‘Having a scary adventure isn’t half as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, it’s rather pleasant.’

  Half an hour later he was crying.

  ‘Wooooh,’ he wailed. ‘Waahaaah. I’ve run out of idea,’ (he’d only had one to start with) ‘and don’t know what to do. Boohoo-hoo. Baa, baa, ha, ha.’

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking ‘Baa, baa, ha, ha’ sounds like a sheep laughing, not a cat crying and, I must admit, it’s possible I got a bit mixed up there. You see, as Tuck walked and wailed, he wandered past a field of sheep, all of whom were rather brainless. No sooner did they hear poor Tuck crying than they all ran over to the fence which separated them from the road and started laughing at him. Which, of course, made Tuck cry all the more.

  ‘Maaaaah,’ he cried.

  Well, of course this made all the sheep join in saying ‘maaah’ too, just to mock him and because they didn’t know many other words. You know what sheep are like.

  ‘Maah!’ he said.

  ‘Maaah,’ said the sheep.

  ‘Oh, stop it! Maaah,’ said Tuck.

  ‘Maaah,’ said the sheep.

  Now, this could have all gone on for several pages, and in the pre-edited version of this book it did, but at that moment (phew!) Tuck heard a lovely voice calling to him.

  ‘Oh, my goodness,’ it said, in a soft and rather old-fashioned way. ‘What a to-do and a hoo-ha! Whatever’s the matter, you poor little pussycat?’

  Well, I’m sure if you heard anyone talking to you in such a patronising and creepy way you’d run down the road screaming ‘Stranger danger!’ But Tuck was not you. Unless, Tuck, you’ve learned to read and this is you reading the book, in which case it is you. But for everyone else, I can categorically state: Tuck was not you (even if, coincidentally, your name happens to be Tuck). So Tuck stopped his crying and looked around him. But could he see anyone? Well, do you think I’d be asking if he could? He could not.

  ‘Oh!’ he sniffed. ‘Has the invisible man come to help me?’

  ‘Hoh, no, ha, ha,’ chortled the rather patronising voice. ‘I’m not invisible, you’re just looking in the wrong place.’

  So Tuck looked under his tail, at each of his paws, into the ditch beside the road, into the hedge and, lastly, into the field of sheep.

  ‘Behind you!’ said the voice.

  Tuck turned around and around, but there was no one on the road, no one in the ditch, no one through the hedge and no one in the bare brown field behind him but a raggedy old scarecrow.

  ‘Give up,’ said Tuck, who was never very good at guessing games and generally got a headache before they were over.

  ‘It’s me, you funny little thing,’ said the voice.

  Tuck looked up at the sky, down at the tarmac, up and down the road.

  ‘Over here!’

  Tuck looked … well, there was nowhere else for him to look, so he just looked stupid.

  ‘It’s me, the blooming scarecrow, you muppet!’ said the voice, losing its patience before remembering it was supposed to be a nice kindly character. Tuck does tend to have that effect on people.

  ‘Oh! ‘said Tuck. ‘A scarecrow!’

  And he looked up in time to see the scarecrow stop rolling its button eyes and start rearranging its pillowcase face into a smile. Tuck jumped over the ditch, through the hedge and ran over the furrowed ground to the scarecrow. But then he stopped with a start (never easy).

  ‘Ooh!’ he said, looking at the scarecrow’s ragged brown coat and torn black trousers with a rag hanging from one pocket. ‘Are you a scary scarecrow?’

  ‘Are you a crow?’ said the scarecrow, with something of a strain to the lovely lilt in its voice.

  ‘Er … no?’ said Tuck, who hated difficult questions.

  ‘Well, I think you’ll be fine, then. Now, what’s all that dreadful fuss about? Are you lost, you poor wee thing? Can I help you?’

  Two difficult questions at the same time!

  Tuck thought for a long time and then said no he wasn’t. But he had lost Ginger and Minnie and that was even worse. And with that he started crying again, blubbing through the entire story which you’ve read so far and which—I have to be honest—I cannot be bothered repeating.

  ‘Oh dearie, dearie, do,’ said the scarecrow. ‘What’s your name, you poor darling little puddy-wuddy cat?’

  ‘Tuck,’ said Tuck.’

  ‘Well, my name’s Sheryl,’ said the scarecrow, thus revealing herself to be female which, I have to say, came as a surprise to me, but who can tell these days?

  ‘And let me ask you this,’ she continued. ‘Is Minnie a rather plump pussycat with long hair of lots of different colours?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tuck sadly. ‘Oh, if only someone knew what had happened to her!’

  The scarecrow smiled knowingly. ‘Well, I think I might know someone who saw what happened. Someone who stands here all day and sees everything that happens down there on that road. Someone who’s happy to help.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Tuck. ‘Will they be back soon?’

  There was a brief silence whilst the scarecrow took a deep breath and struggled to maintain her composure.

  ‘It’s me!’ she said at last, nice as pie, which isn’t always that nice, but generally is.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘For goodness sake!’ said Sheryl, losing her rag, which fluttered down and lay beside Tuck in the field. ‘I saw the whole thing. Your friend Minnie walked past early this morning, not looking very happy, and when I called out to her she was rather rude.’

  ‘Why?’ said Tuck.

  ‘What do you mean, why? I don’t know. I’m a helpful scarecrow not a blooming psychic. I mean, er … hoh, no, I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh. Well, who would know then?’

  Sheryl the scarecrow looked a little annoyed by the question. It looked to Tuck like she was struggling to keep the smile on her pillowcase face.

  ‘Try the wise old owl,’ she said with a huff, ‘he generally knows everything.�
��

  ‘And where does he live?’

  ‘In the Great Dark Forest.’

  ‘Oh no!’ miaowed Tuck. ‘I couldn’t go in there, it’s far too great and dark and foresty.’

  ‘Well, what do you want me to do for you then, you silly cat?’ snapped Sheryl. ‘I’m supposed to be kind and give you good advice, and then you turn out to be a fairy or a witch or something with magical powers, and you’re so grateful you turn me into a human again and we all live happily ever after. But you’re not, are you? You’re just another cat, walking on legs without realising how grateful you should be for them. Nothing at stake for you, is there? Whereas me—here for fifteen years now and counting—a stake is all I’ve got. And you can guess where I’ve got it!’

  ‘But …’ said Tuck. ‘But …’

  But the scarecrow’s good nature had apparently worn off. She narrowed her button eyes at Tuck and said ‘Boo!’

  ‘Agghhhh!’ Tuck screamed, forgetting he wasn’t a crow. ‘Aggghhh … which way?’

  Sheryl the scarecrow turned as if on the wind and pointed along the road.

  ‘Run on, little one,’ she said, in a tone which, I think you’ll agree, sounded rather false by now. ‘Run like the wind. Run. No, faster than that. Faster! Oh, for goodness sake, get out of here! BOOOOOO!’

  And so Tuck ran, as fast as only Tuck can run, back to the road, not sure whether to scream or cry or shout out, ‘Minnie, my darling, I’m coming for you.’

  Needless to say, he then turned the wrong way.

  WHAT A BORE!

  Meanwhile, three miles to the south and half an hour to the east—so basically south-east if you think about it (do make an effort)—Ginger was waking up and trying to remember where she was. There was sunlight in her eyes, which meant she couldn’t be in the stables. And it was very quiet, which meant she couldn’t be on the farm, where there were always birds twittering about. Then she remembered.

  The night before, she had needed less than five minutes to catch up with the two rats and the bag of lark shanks they’d come back for. Resisting the temptation to eat the rats then and there, she’d followed them carefully. All night long she tracked them across the overgrown fields behind the ruined milking shed, where the grass competed with wild flowers and tangled weeds. Until then, Ginger had assumed the fields were unpassable and had always given their messy mangled mishmash a miss. But now, as she followed Fleabomb and Bumfluff, she found that below the grasses and flowers and weeds was a network of paths for smaller animals. Tiny lines of paths for ants and insects, larger strips for voles and field mice, slithering stripes for snakes—eek!—and one particularly padded path along which she now followed the rats. Oh meaty munchies, this path smelled good, and Ginger was in no doubt that all the missing food had been dragged along it, just as Fleabomb and Bumfluff were now dragging their load. On and on she followed them, through the stormy night, while the two rats bickered constantly.

  ‘Sure it stinks something horrible down here,’ Bumfluff kept saying. ‘Like dead bodies, so it does.’

  To which Fleabomb replied ‘Still, it makes ye hungry, don’t it?’

  ‘Yer always hungry so yer are, Fleabomb McGee. Would yer push harder from the back there?’

  ‘And ye’re always stinking, Bumfluff McGuff. Would ye like to pull at all?’

  All night long they went on like this, which was fortunate as their arguments covered up the noise of Ginger squeezing her ample frame along a trail made for smaller animals than herself. What Ginger couldn’t understand was how these two rats had managed to steal so much food so quickly. Only a few days before she’d checked on the smokehouse and found it full. Wherever the rats were going, surely they had to get there soon, otherwise on previous journeys they would never have had time to go back and steal some more. It must be around the next bend, Ginger told herself, or over the next rise in the path, or just a few metres more. But then the path would straighten out again and still there was no end in sight.

  It was hard work following the rats. Ginger had to make sure she was far enough behind so they wouldn’t hear her, but close enough so she didn’t lose them. At the same time, she had to resist all the other tasty treats she saw around her. Voluptuous voles and meaty mice, crunchy cockroaches and wiggling worms. And, more importantly, she had to keep her six cat senses on high alert to be sure not to become dinner herself for a snake or a fox or a weasel. By the time the rats decided to rest for the night, she was utterly exhausted.

  ‘Is me back not hurting me more than I can say?’ said Bumfluff. ‘Cheeses, Tia Maria and processed, I’ll never bend over again.’

  Fleabomb nodded in agreement. ‘Are me shoulders not aching like me front paws are coming out their sockets, so?’

  Bumfluff pointed with his nose at a hole in the ground. ‘Here, this hole here will happily hold us the night, so it will. Shove the bag down first and then we’ll scamper down after it.’

  ‘Ye do it,’ grunted Fleabomb. ‘I’m done in.’

  And so, as Ginger watched, the two rats set about bickering again until, at last, they and the bag were down the hole. Only once she heard them both snoring did she look for somewhere to sleep herself. It was the first time in hours she had taken her attention away from the rats and the stolen food and she was amazed to find where she was. There were no long grasses nor tangled weeds nor fallen stems nor brambles overhead. Instead there were huge great pine trees reaching up towards the black sky. Ginger realised with a shiver she had followed Bumfluff and Fleabomb right through the wild field and into the Great Dark Forest.

  And now, half a day later, here she was waking up in the GDF. Yikes! Just the idea of it made her tremble. But then Ginger remembered she was a bad-sass brave-cat, not a sissy scaredy-cat, and she had a quiet word with herself. Everything was going to be OK. For one thing, she’d had the foresight to climb into a tree before settling down for the night. And for a second thing, the forest floor looked quite welcoming with the morning light coming gently through the trees. And for a third thing … But Ginger couldn’t think of a third thing. She was too hungry. Oh rumbling tummies, was she hungry. Not only had she trailed those two rats through the night, she’d also trailed the smell of nine months’ worth of missing food. And even up here, on the third branch of a pine tree, she could smell the bag the rats had taken down the hole with them. She wasn’t alone. Her stomachs could smell it too and one after another they grumbled, ‘Feed me, feed me, bubbleburp.’

  Ginger sighed and looked down at the hole in the ground below her, wondering if she could leave it unguarded while she went to find some food.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said a voice. ‘They’re both still in there.’

  Ginger froze. She had thought there was no one else around. But now, looking to the right of the rats’ hole, she saw a strange grey animal the same shape and size as a pig. But, unlike the short-haired and pink pigs she had met on her travels, this animal had thick grey and bristly fur, a black nose and tough little horns either side of its snout.

  ‘Yikes!’ said Ginger. ‘You can’t climb trees can you?’

  ‘Good morning,’ said the animal, staring up at her. ‘At least, I suspect it is morning. It may, in fact, be afternoon. Morning finishes at midday, and it is now possibly later than that, judging by the time of the year and the position of the sun. I notice you sleep in late. Well, that’s the joy of being a cat, I suppose; whereas the rest of us have to work day and night just to stay alive. You arrived here after midnight, obviously following those two rodents, and here you are still, still looking at their hole, and I can only assume you’re keen to check they’re still there. And—’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ginger. ‘But what kind of animal are you?’

  The grey animal puffed herself up and snuffled huffily.

  ‘I’m a wild boar.’

  Ginger decided not to comment on that, given the sight of the boar’s frightening tusks. It might be against the law, sure, but it would be neither chore nor sore for
the boar to gore her from jaw to paw. Instead, she asked the boar her name.

  ‘Noreen,’ said the boar. ‘Noreen is the diminutive form of Nora. Nora means light or honour and is most likely from the Latin name Honora—’

  ‘Fascinating!’ said Ginger, with her sweetest possible smile (which, I have to admit, wasn’t all that sweet). ‘And how do you know the rats are still in their hole?’

  ‘I’ve been watching them for you all night’ said Noreen, the boring boar. ‘I judged from your careful tracking of them, combined with your self-restraint in not eating them, that you might want to know exactly where they went and when. I considered it my citizenly duty to assist you in this endeavour, although you are a total stranger to me. However, as a good citizen of the Great Dark Forest, I must also warn you of the immense danger of pursuing the rats any further. You see—’

  Ginger suppressed a yawn. ‘Don’t mind if I have a quick wash as I listen, do you?’ she said, sticking one of her legs straight up in the air and licking the back of it. Now, most of us would take that as a very clear sign to snuffle off and mind our own business, but not Noreen. She was, after all, a complete bore of a boar.

  ‘Not at all, please continue. I am aware of how much cats like to keep clean. As I was saying, you face an immense danger in following the rats. They are not working alone, but are part of a network of … Oh!’

  Noreen stopped talking as suddenly as she’d started and wandered off into the trees.

  ‘Great,’ said Ginger quietly. ‘Thanks, for that. See ya. Wouldn’t want be ya.’

  But then, two seconds later, Noreen the boring boar’s words finally penetrated Ginger’s skull.

  ‘Hang on!’ she shouted after the boar. ‘Wait up, what do mean “immense danger”?’

  She jumped down from the tree, landing rather painfully on a sticky-up pine needle, and ran after Noreen.

  ‘What do you mean “immense danger”?’ she repeated when she’d caught up with her.

  ‘Truffles!’ said the boar, her flat nose to the ground.