by Colin Dann
She stole back for her remaining kitten. But Little Sammy was gone! Pinkie sprinted to the kittens’ sleeping-box, calling him desperately. He was not there either. She began a frantic search of the yard, all the time terrified that the massive black hound would suddenly loom up behind her. The dog’s furious howls of frustration pierced the silence as it discovered there was no meat. Pinkie was beside herself with anguish. Little Sammy had vanished and suddenly she guessed the reason. In her absence Toby must have returned and, either as punishment or as a means of persuading her to come back, had carried him off. There was no hope of finding him. Toby’s new base was unknown to her. She had left her other kittens defenceless. How could she hope to save them if that hungry great beast should by chance head in their direction? Once again Pinkie was friendless and unsure about what to do for the best.
She couldn’t stay where she was. The black dog’s furious howls had ceased. It was turning its attention elsewhere. Despite her fears, the little white cat had to know its intentions. She sprang to the top of the wall and squatted there, panting. Almost at once the great dog emerged. It hurled itself over the wall, then braked to a halt. From the corner of its eye it had noticed Pinkie cringing against the coping. It stared at her and, amazingly, gave a feeble wag of its tail. With the utmost misery it boomed, ‘No food! No food!’ Then it turned and galloped away without a backward glance, as if by sheer pace and energy it could obliterate its exasperation. Here was no monster but only a fellow creature suffering familiar distress. Pinkie felt a degree of sympathy for the animal. Now she had no option but to return to her remaining kittens. She knew it could not be long before Toby would seek her out.
13
Go north!
SAMMY, IN THE Embankment Gardens, had tried talking to the pigeons. The birds, of course, kept their distance. They were not going to be tricked into any trap by a cat. They were flustered by his presence in their feeding grounds and the last thing any one of them wanted to do was to allow the animal close enough to hold a conversation. Sammy was getting nowhere. There was only one way to get information out of them. He must catch one and make it talk. For a long time he circled the area, trying to spot a pigeon that was a little slower or a little older than its fellows. The human figures, wrapped cosily in their overcoats enjoying the winter sunshine, continued to supply the pigeons with crusts. From time to time they cast a wary eye on Sammy whom they hadn’t seen before. They were distrustful of the cat, concerned as they apparently were for the birds’ welfare. Sammy kept well away from the lunchers. He distrusted them as fervently as they did him.
Eventually, as lunch hours drew to a close, groups of people began to disperse. The gardens were soon empty, save for the cat and the birds. The pigeons and a few sparrows competed for the last few crumbs scattered around the seats. Sammy crawled underneath one of the wooden benches and watched the birds’ squabbles. The pigeons forgot about him. He wriggled closer. Inevitably one of the birds strayed too close and Sammy was on to it before it knew what was happening. He was careful not to crush it or injure it too severely because he wanted this pigeon to live. His grip was just tight enough to prevent its escape.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ he said coolly, ‘and in fact you’ve nothing to fear from me as long as you do what I want.’
The pigeon had received such a shock it was unable to utter a sound.
‘What I want from you is some assistance,’ Sammy went on. ‘You simply have to tell me how to get to the canal.’
The pigeon was silent.
‘Do you know where it is?’
The pigeon blinked.
‘Look, you’re not helping yourself much,’ Sammy rasped, irritated by the bird. ‘I shan’t release you if you won’t co-operate. Now. Let’s try again. Do you perhaps know where the park is?’
The captive pigeon stirred slightly but was unable to recover its composure sufficiently to talk. However, Sammy was encouraged. He relaxed his grip just a fraction. ‘You are a Trafalgar Square pigeon, I suppose?’ he muttered, half to himself.
‘N-no,’ the pigeon suddenly gasped. ‘I’m – not. You’ve got the – wrong bird.’
Sammy seethed. It was too late to start all over again. The other birds had, of course, scattered immediately he had pounced on this one. His anger almost persuaded him to kill after all, but that would have gained him nothing except a meal. He restrained himself with difficulty. ‘Very well,’ said Sammy. ‘Show me the way to Trafalgar Square. I have to consult with your friends there. If I let you go, will you fly off in the direction I must take?’
‘Yes, yes, anything,’ the pigeon gabbled. ‘W-watch me. I’ll indicate the way. You must find the island surrounded by roads.’
Sammy eased his claws back and the pigeon instantly flapped furiously, and soared upwards. Then it made a turn and, with Sammy following its flight intently, it winged its way towards the square. The tabby retired to the shrub border to wait until nightfall, satisfied that at last he had something to go on.
During the evening, overcome by hunger, Sammy raided the litter bins that were spaced at intervals around the gardens. He swallowed anything that was remotely edible and promised himself that the next day he would find some real food. As he did the rounds of human debris he had the distinct feeling he was being followed. When he looked behind he could see nothing, yet the feeling persisted. He paused to eat some stale bread and was astonished to hear a miaow of greeting. Sammy’s head swivelled round and he saw Phoebe trotting across the dark grass towards him.
‘You haven’t got very far,’ she commented.
Sammy explained he was about to move on. Then he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
Phoebe didn’t reply at once. Then she said, ‘I suppose I came to see if you’d caught anything.’
‘But you didn’t know I was here?’
‘No.’
‘Are you still hungry?’
‘I’m always hungry.’
‘So am I,’ said Sammy. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much on offer here, but you’re welcome to what you find. I’m going on now.’
‘Oh. Are you?’ She sounded just a mite disappointed.
‘I have to, Phoebe. I’m sorry to leave you behind again.’ Sammy was half hoping she would decide to accompany him but she said nothing. ‘Well, goodbye again. And good luck,’ said Sammy.
‘Good luck to you.’ Phoebe watched his departure and noted his route.
Sammy ambled up Northumberland Avenue towards Trafalgar Square. He kept in the shadows as much as he could. If he had been impressed before by the noise and bustle of London, he was stunned now by the cacophony and dazzled by the lights. How could he calmly walk into the midst of the tumult? He couldn’t. He would have to exercise patience and trust that, later on, things would quieten down. Besides, no bird would be active in the middle of the night. He knew enough about birds’ habits to be aware that they would all be roosting high up in trees or buildings beyond his reach. So he found a sheltered doorway and curled himself up. The air had turned very cold and Sammy wrapped his tail round his nose.
It wasn’t until the early dark hours of the morning that the city seemed to sleep. Sammy stirred, stretched, and continued on his way at a brisk pace, trying to warm himself. The avenue ended and the tabby stood looking at the maze of roads that diverged from all sides and ran round the broad island in their midst. This island indeed appeared to be the only safe haven and Sammy crossed to it as soon as he was sure his way was clear. He had no doubt that he had arrived at the place called Trafalgar Square. He wandered about, looking for signs of life. It was still too dark for any bird to make an appearance.
He sat by the steps at the base of Nelson’s Column and began to think just how ridiculous the whole notion was of a cat trying to talk to a bird. There could be a thousand birds in Trafalgar Square, but none of them would want to get within his reach. How on earth was he to proceed? As he sat contemplating, flakes of snow began to fall softly, melting as they brushed
his fur. Sammy looked up. The sky was lightening and, in the absence of the slightest breeze, the flakes drifted down vertically. He gazed up at the immensely tall column and on it he caught sight of a row of grey huddled bodies, pressed together on a ledge. These were the very pigeons he had come to consult.
Sammy acted promptly. He called up to them, ‘Who can tell me how to find the canal?’
Some of the birds shifted on their perch and peered down at him, ruffling their feathers. None of them could imagine it was they who were being addressed by a cat, and therefore none of them answered.
‘You pigeons!’ Sammy cried. ‘Tell me which way to go and I’ll leave you in peace.’
The birds cooed questioningly to each other. Most of them hadn’t an inkling of what Sammy was talking about and they naturally had no desire to get into conversation with a cat. But one wise pigeon could see it would be advisable to play the animal’s game and get him away from the area as quickly as possible.
‘Canal, did you say?’ it trilled at Sammy. ‘You must go north, go north.’ It did have some notion of the direction.
‘North? Which way is that?’
‘Turn about and face the other way. Yes – that’s right. Now, that’s north. Hold that direction throughout and you will reach your goal.’
Sammy was inclined to be suspicious. It sounded a little too simple. But he was in no position to argue and he accepted the advice for what it was worth. He began to walk away from the column, towards the side of the square where the National Gallery stands. And the minute he did so he had a strange feeling. It felt right to him that he should be taking this direction, as if in a way Pinkie and his destination had suddenly come closer.
And the fact was, he was going the right way. Quite by chance the pigeon had set him on the correct route.
Of course Sammy believed that, some time later that day, he would find the park and the canal before him, and thus his travels would be over. But it wasn’t as easy as that. He had a long way to go through an entirely built-up area; roads to negotiate, people to beware of, traffic to avoid and huge blocks of buildings to skirt.
He ran along a path by the National Gallery but his way was barred almost at once by a row of high buildings. He turned to see how he might pass them. He ran to the corner of the lane where it joined St Martin’s Street, made a right turn at the edge of the block and was once more heading north. Moments later he was in Leicester Square.
The city still slumbered. Snow sifted down, forming a thin glistening carpet over the pavements and roads. The air was icy but crisp and Sammy felt invigorated. He thought constantly of Pinkie and how she must have given him up long ago. He pictured her wonder and excitement when he suddenly appeared, like a returning hero, full of tales of his adventures. He had been through so many changes he had scarcely had time to consider whether he had missed her. But now, when he felt he must be so close to rejoining her, he realized he had missed her a great deal.
Sammy progressed through Leicester Square. The square, usually so throbbing with life, was now all but deserted. He was becoming accustomed to the fact that a solitary cat, ranging through the streets, was of little interest to the handful of the city’s human population who were out and about at that hour. Starlings who had roosted in the tree-tops and buildings of the square were waking and calling to each other. The sky lightened bit by bit but the snow clouds blanketed the sky, veiling the rising sun. The city was astonishingly quiet under the gathering carpet of snow. Sammy progressed north of the square. Diverted by another row of buildings, he reached Wardour Street. An old drunk, sitting against the wall of a narrow passage, called to him, but Sammy slipped past, nimble and silent.
Shaftesbury Avenue was the next obstacle. A taxi passed and then the tabby pattered across and, continuing straight ahead, resumed his path along Wardour Street. It was now light enough for Sammy to consider finding shelter. Odours of food from the litter around the deserted Berwick Street Market attracted him. He allowed his nose to guide him. The decaying vegetable matter from the greengrocery stalls was of no interest. However, he found a rich harvest of discarded takeaway kebab and hamburger cartons. Scraps of meat and ice-cold chips were all grist to the mill of his hunger. Raw meat and fat from a butcher’s premises and a few prawn skins from a fishmonger’s added to the variety. He ate everything that he could find and, for the first time in days, his hunger was satisfied. A puddle that hadn’t completely frozen over quenched his thirst. Then he got under one of the market barrows, hiding behind the covering tarpaulin, with the intention of sleeping through the daylight hours. As London started another day Sammy nodded and slept, dreaming fitfully of Pinkie and their old life in Quartermile Field.
14
Mother love
WHILE SAMMY DREAMED of her, Pinkie, curled up with Moss and Fern in the bamboo stand, was watching the snowflakes falling through her screen of leaves. She longed to know where her other kitten was and to have him restored to her protection.
As she had expected, Toby came looking for her early that morning. She heard his calls rasping persistently in the clear air. Reluctantly she answered him. Toby came running eagerly, his paws leaving a trail of prints in the fresh snow.
‘I bring news for you,’ he said with satisfaction, butting his way through the shrub stems. ‘Your kitten is safe.’
Pinkie looked at him coldly, pressing herself closer against Moss and Fern. ‘Where is he?’ she demanded. ‘Where is Little Sammy?’
‘Don’t alarm yourself, Pinkie. I’m looking after him.’
‘You? How can you be looking after him when you’re here talking to me?’
‘Because I’ve made sure he’s in a safe place.’
‘How dare you carry off one of my little ones? You waited until I was out of the way and then –’
‘Hush, hush, calm down,’ Toby interrupted her. ‘It wasn’t like that at all. I found the little fellow cowering against the wall, completely unprotected. The black dog was loose – you must have heard it – so I didn’t wait to see if you were coming back. I picked the kitten up and got him out of the way before any harm could be done. You should be grateful to me.’
‘I’m grateful he came to no harm,’ Pinkie replied, ‘but that great dog is nothing but a half-starved brute after all. Now, where have you taken Little Sammy?’
Toby looked cunning. ‘Come and see for yourself.’
‘No. I can’t move my other kittens again. The weather’s worsening. We need to stay put. You must bring Little Sammy to me.’
‘I can’t do that,’ said Toby craftily.
‘You can and you must. You’ve no right to keep him from me.’
‘Maybe not, Pinkie, but it’s you who are choosing not to re-unite your little family. I told you before, I wouldn’t live in this park. I prefer my own territory. If I bring Little Sammy here, you and I would be separated for good. I don’t want that. I don’t want that at all.’
‘So you want to use my kitten to keep a hold over me?’
‘That’s not how I see it. If you’d only be sensible, we could all be comfortable together again. What is there here for you? The park is open and exposed, not like the place Little Sammy and I are using. Think about it. What will your precious park be like laden with snow?’
Pinkie didn’t answer this. Instead she asked a question. ‘Are you feeding him? He’s barely weaned.’
‘He eats anything he’s given. He won’t starve. But he wants you to come back.’
‘Does he say so?’
‘The odd word. Mother, Moss, Fern – it’s all he knows, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, you are a tormentor!’ Pinkie cried. ‘How can you torture me like this?’
‘I don’t wish to. Will you come then?’
‘Not while the snow’s falling. It’s not a time to ferry kittens about.’
Toby seized on this. He said slyly, ‘Then how can you expect me to bring Little Sammy through the snow?’
‘Oh, you think you’re very smart
don’t you? Why do you stay here bantering like this? I’d rather you got back to your own favourite lair or whatever you have and watch over my stolen kitten. How do you know he hasn’t wandered off while you’ve been wasting time with me?’
‘He won’t have. He listens to me. I told him not to stray.’
‘Did you?’ Pinkie hissed jealously. ‘You’d like to usurp me, wouldn’t you? I’m his parent, not you!’
‘Of course you are,’ Toby said sweetly, ‘and that’s why I’m surprised you want to stay here without him.’
‘I don’t want to!’ Pinkie screeched. ‘Oh, get away from me, you hateful cat. To think I ever put my faith in you!’
Toby retreated. He had made his point and reckoned it was enough for Pinkie to brood upon. He was certain she’d soon feel so uneasy about Little Sammy that she would be powerless to resist his suggestion. He planned to stay away for a day or two to allow her mother’s conscience to get to work.
However, for the present, Pinkie had other things to think about, the most vital of which was food. Moss and Fern were hungry and she had nothing to give them. She quickly recalled the gifts of food so regularly brought to the park by the young woman, Lizzie Reed. Pinkie had relied on them before, now she would have to do so again. How could she know that these supplies had ceased since her earlier disappearance from the park?
The little white mother cat stirred and stood up. Moss and Fern instantly felt the cruel change in temperature as Pinkie’s warmth was removed from them. They began to protest.
‘Don’t fret, kittens,’ their mother told them. ‘I have to fetch food. We all need to eat.’ She scraped a pile of dry dead leaves around them. It was the best she could do. ‘Burrow into these,’ she said. ‘They’ll help to keep the chill out.’ She left them and trotted into the open. The snow continued to fall. Pinkie enjoyed the soft feel of it underfoot and she tripped along briskly. It was very early and, except for the waterfowl on the partly frozen lake, she felt as if she was the only creature about. She looked in the usual places for the scraps. Of course there weren’t any. Pinkie sat under the shelter of an evergreen shrub and waited. She knew that humans roused themselves later and she watched eagerly for their arrival.
