by Nina Bawden
‘I brought him to be made better. Not to be murdered!
‘Well. Yes. I understand that,’ the vet said. He sounded uncomfortable. ‘It’s just that sometimes it’s kinder …’
He wasn’t looking at Mary now. He was feeling Noakes very carefully and gently and his eyes were half closed, as if he were trying to concentrate on the message his fingers were sending him.
Mary drew a deep breath. She wanted him to help Noakes, so it was no good losing her temper.
‘He’s awfully strong, really. Honestly, I know he looks bad now, but he’s got a very strong constitution.’
The vet didn’t answer.
Mary said, ‘You wouldn’t kill someone you knew, would you? Not a person. I mean, he’s just a cat to you, but he’s Noakes to me.’
To stop herself crying, she thought of her mother, going away on holiday and leaving Noakes to starve.
She thought—If Noakes dies, I’ll never speak to her again!
She said passionately, If you don’t know how to make him better, then just say so! I’ll take him away and find someone who can!’
The vet looked up, startled, and at the same moment Noakes whipped his head round and bit the side of his thumb. The vet swore and then, unexpectedly, grinned.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘He’s got a bit of fight in him yet. But I’ll have to take that stump off. It’s not doing him any good. Just a source of infection. I can’t promise he’ll live, mind. But it’ll give him a chance, as long as he’s looked after. He’s been rather neglected up to now, hasn’t he?’
Mary nodded. She could have explained that it wasn’t her fault, but it didn’t seem important. Her chest felt tight and sore and her eyes were burning. ‘I’ll look after him from now on,’ she whispered, ‘I promise.’
*
She sat in the waiting room, on a hard-backed chair, hugging her arms round her chest and gabbling under her breath. Please God, if you let Noakes get better, I’ll be good for the rest of my life. I mean, I’ll try to be good. Let him get better. Please …
There was a clock on the wall. It had a big, red, second hand that seemed to crawl round. A minute on that clock was more like an hour, Mary thought.
She watched the clock and continued to chant in a low voice. Please God, let Noakes get well, let him get well and I’ll try to be good …
She felt that if she stopped for so much as a second, Noakes might die now, under the anaesthetic.
Let Noakes get better, let Noakes get better …
When the vet opened the door, he saw her moving lips and coughed, to warn her he was there. She slid off the chair and stood facing him, ramrod straight, like a soldier on parade.
He said, ‘All over now. It wasn’t as bad a job as I thought. He’ll be all right, I think.’
Mary followed him into the surgery. There was a sweetish smell in the air. Noakes was lying in his basket and there was a bandage where his leg had been.
The vet said, ‘Now. He’ll just sleep it off. No need to feed him until tomorrow, unless he’ll take a little milk. But then you must feed him regularly. Something light to begin with—a raw egg, beaten up in milk with perhaps a drop of brandy. You don’t have to touch the wound. The bandage’ll drop off when it’s healed.’
Mary said, ‘How much do I owe you?’
She knew she ought to say thank you, but she felt too stiff and awkward.
The vet didn’t seem to mind. He smiled. ‘Ten and six be all right?’
Mary hesitated. Ten and six was what they charged just for a consultation. She was sure it should be more than that. She said, ‘I’ve got a pound. You can have my pound, if you like.’
‘I think ten and six is quite enough,’ the vet said.
*
All the way home, she held the basket on her lap, steadying it against the joggling of the train. There was no one else in the carriage and she talked to Noakes softly, in case he should wake up and wonder where he was.
‘It’s all right, Noakes. I’m here. I’m looking after you. It’s all right, Noakes …’
Once she opened the lid of the basket. He was still unconscious—or asleep—but when she touched his hard, wedge-shaped head, he flicked his ear against her finger.
Simon was waiting at the station. She could see him dodging about behind some other people on the far side of the barrier. He pounced on her as soon as she was through. ‘You’ve been ages, I’ve met two trains already,’ he accused her. ‘Did you find him?’
Mary’s mind was full of Noakes. She said happily, ‘I’ve got him with me, in the basket. Oh Simon …’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry I’m late, but I had to take him to the vet.’
‘The vet?’ he repeated, and stared at her as if she had suddenly gone mad.
She realised that he was talking about Krishna’s Uncle, and began to laugh at the thought of taking an Indian gentleman to the vet and bringing him home in a basket! She laughed so much that water came into her eyes. ‘I mean my cat. My cat, Noakes. I couldn’t find Uncle Patel. He wasn’t there. You were right about that!’
She was so happy at this moment that she didn’t mind admitting this.
‘Oh God,’ Simon said bleakly. He turned on his heel and walked fast out of the station yard, hands in pockets, head down.
Mary ran after him. She thought—What an impossible boy! First he said there was no point in her going to London, and now, when he was proved right, he was sulking about it!
She said, ‘You didn’t expect me to find him, did you? I mean, you said it was just a wild goose chase.’
He nodded briefly, looking pale and harassed. ‘I just hoped …’ he said, and then his voice trailed away, as if he were too miserable to say any more.
She said, ‘What’s the matter with you? All right—so I couldn’t find his Uncle! It’s not the end of the world, is it? We’ll just have to look after him a bit longer, that’s all. Until …’
‘Until what? Simon said. His eyes had gone dark.
She couldn’t think, so she tossed her head. ‘Well, until something happens, that’s all …’
She thought she was glad she hadn’t found Uncle Patel. If she had, he would have come and taken Krishna away. And then everything would be as it had been before—dreadfully boring and dull.
Simon said slowly, ‘Something has happened. That’s the trouble. My Uncle Horace is coming home tomorrow. Mum had a letter this morning.’
NINE
The Flight to the Island
‘WE’VE GOT TO think of somewhere to hide him,’ Mary said, for the twentieth time in an hour. ‘We’ve just got to!’
‘Oh don’t keep on,’ Simon said. ‘What d’you think I’m trying to do?’
His indignation sounded put-on. Mary looked at him, puzzled, but he avoided her eyes and slumped into a crouched, defeated position, arms dangling, head sunk forward.
Krishna had been sitting on the floor watching Noakes, who was beginning to stir awake in his basket. Now he looked at this picture of gloom and said, sadly and politely, ‘I am sorry. I am a great worry for Simon.’
It’s not your fault, ‘Mary said crossly.’ It’s him. It’s the way he’s made. Silly old worry-guts Simon.’
She thought he was really unbearably stupid! So dull — turning what should be fun and excitement into trouble and fuss, as if he were a boring grown-up instead of a boy! Why, they were lucky to have an adventure like this! Krishna was a refugee from a stupid, silly law. You didn’t find a real, live refugee to rescue every day. Simon ought to be glad of the chance …
‘Feeble spasticated twit,’ she said, and jabbed him in the ribs, so that he toppled over.
He said furiously, ‘I suppose you think there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Not as much as you make out.’
Krishna said, ‘I can go to London myself, to look for my Uncle. Then I will be no more trouble to you.’
The stupidity of this remark drew Mary and Simon together. The
y looked at each other with resigned expressions. Krishna seemed to have no idea of the danger he was in! When they tried to explain, he just yawned and looked bored. It was difficult to know what he thought—if, indeed, he thought anything! Perhaps the truth was he had had such a frightening time since he left Africa that his mind had gone numb—frozen over, Mary thought, so that everything they told him just skated over the surface, leaving no mark.
‘You can’t go to London,’ she said. ‘We told you. Your Uncle doesn’t live where you said, so there’s no way to find him. And you can’t just go wandering round London, looking. You’d be caught and put in prison.’
Krishna didn’t answer. From the look of him, Mary thought, he was un-focusing his eyes, the way she did when someone said something she didn’t want to listen to. Then he turned away and stretched out his hand towards Noakes.
‘I shouldn’t touch him,’ Mary warned, but she was too late. He was already tickling the cat, behind his good ear.
Noakes stretched, arching his back. Then he began to purr, like an engine.
Mary felt jealous. ‘He wouldn’t have let you do that, if he was well.’
‘He looks awful,’ Simon said. ‘Moth-eaten. Are you sure your Aunt’ll let you keep him? I mean, if she’s so beastly, won’t she just say what the vet did? That he ought to be put down?’
Mary said helplessly, ‘I don’t know …’ Then she thought that even the real Aunt Alice might react just as the vet had done. Not because she was wicked, but because she was kind. The vet had said Sometimes it’s kinder in the long run …
She said, ‘He’ll get better. I know he will.’
‘He could stay here with me,’ Krishna said. ‘I have never had a cat for a pet. At home we have only dogs—and ostriches in our Zoo in the garden.’
‘And lions and tigers too, no doubt,’ Mary said, and grinned at Simon.
Krishna looked surprised. ‘No, it is only a small, private Zoo. And there are no tigers in Africa, didn’t you know that? But we have a leopard cub and some chameleons and the ostriches. Please let Noakes stay. It is so lonely at night, on my own.’
Mary hesitated. She had made up her mind, but didn’t want to give in too easily. ‘Oh all right,’ she said grudgingly, and was rewarded by Krishna’s smile, so broad and white that it seemed to split his face in two. She went on, ‘But only for tonight, mind. We’ll have to see about tomorrow.’
Tomorrow … the word plopped between them like a stone in a pond, and spread ripples. Mary looked at Simon who stared into space.
Krishna said, ‘Where will I go tomorrow, Simon? When your Uncle Horace comes?’
He sounded interested, not anxious at all. Simon looked at his trusting face and sighed, a long, deep sigh. Then he said, ‘Somewhere you’ll be good and safe. I’ll take you first thing in the morning.’
He spoke so calmly and casually, that it took Mary’s breath away for a minute. When she had recovered she said, ‘You’ve known where to go all along, haven’t you? Why didn’t you say?’
Simon looked at his feet. One big toe was poking through a hole in his canvas shoe. He wiggled it up and down, keeping his eyes fixed on it, as if a wiggling toe was the most fascinating sight in the world. ‘I thought I might think of somewhere else. You see, this place I mean is private.’
‘D’you mean, Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted?’
How like Simon, Mary thought, to worry about a little thing like that!
Understanding her, he flushed darkly. ‘Well, of course it’s that too. But what I meant was, private to me. No one else knows about it. And I sort of wanted to keep it …’
‘Is it a nice place, Simon?’ Krishna asked.
Simon watched his wiggling toe. ‘It is the most beautiful place in the world,’ he said in a hoarse voice.
Then he blinked rapidly and nervously as if he had been caught out in something shameful, clapped his hands on his knees and jumped up. ‘Quarter to nine tomorrow,’ he said to Mary. ‘Bus stop by the pier. And bring all the food you can carry.’
*
Mary got up very early the next morning, to raid the larder. She took a few tins, a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs and some brandy for Noakes, taken from Grandfather’s private supply and poured into an empty Schweppes Tonic Water bottle with a screw lid. She filled a carrier bag and put it ready in the bushes by the front gate.
When Aunt Alice came down, Mary asked if she could have a picnic, like yesterday.
Aunt Alice took half a cold chicken out of the larder and got out the carving knife.
‘I could eat all of that,’ Mary said.
Aunt Alice looked at her, knife poised. ‘There’s quite a lot of meat on it, dear. Waste not, want not, you know.’
She gave one of her loud, merry laughs to show that she didn’t really grudge Mary the chicken, if she wanted it.
‘I shan’t waste it,’ Mary said.
So she got the chicken and some beetroot sandwiches, two apples, three bananas, a box of Garibaldi biscuits, a bottle of milk and a fat wedge of pale, cheddar cheese.
‘Somebody’s eye is bigger than her stomach,’ Aunt Alice said.
‘Well, there’s my friend,’ Mary said. ‘His mother might not give him enough.’
She had discovered long ago that it was best to tell people a little of the truth: it stopped them being suspicious. ‘His name’s Simon Trumpet,’ she said. ‘He’s an awfully nice boy.’
‘Trumpet, Trumpet … Aunt Alice said.’ Now where have I heard that name before?’
‘His father’s a policeman,’ Mary said, thinking this sounded very respectable. And his Uncle’s got a shop in the town. Horace Trumpet. Antiques.’
‘I know. A fat man with a beard. But it wasn’t him I was thinking about.’ Aunt Alice pursed her lips, trying to remember. Then she gave up and said, ‘I hope you’re not going to carry that picnic too far, dear. You’ll strain your stomach.’
‘It’s not heavy,’ Mary said, setting down the duffel bag in which she had been packing the food, and smiling at her Aunt.
*
The duffel bag might not be heavy, but the carrier bag with the tins was a different matter. By the time Mary had got to the pier and lugged her burdens on to the top deck of the bus, she was hot and sweating. Simon and Krishna were already there; a bulky rucksack and Noakes’s basket parked on the seat in front of them.
‘Noakes slept on my chest all night,’ Krishna said proudly. ‘I think he likes me. And he is much better. When Simon came this morning, we gave him some milk and he drank every bit.’
‘Did anyone see you leave the shop?’ Mary whispered, but Simon frowned at her. The conductor had followed Mary up the stairs and was standing just behind her, waiting for their fares.
Mary’s heart thumped, but the conductor barely glanced at Krishna who looked, in fact, quite ordinary in Mary’s sweater and some old jeans of Simon’s.
All the same, as the bus filled up, it seemed best to keep quiet. Only Krishna spoke, once, when they had left the town and were jolting inland. He said, ‘My Uncle told me England was very green.’
They got off on a busy, main road. Cars rushed past them and huge lorries, spraying sand and ballast. There was a high stone wall on their right, grim and forbidding with broken glass on the top. Simon led them along a little way to a rusty, iron gate. Creepers had tangled over it, and the silky weed called old man’s beard, almost hiding a faded notice that was tied to the bars with wire, PRIVATE ESTATE. KEEP OUT.
The gate was padlocked and chained, but uselessly: its hinges were broken. Simon gave one expert heave, and the gate fell back, leaving a space big enough for them to squeeze through. Then he closed it behind them.
Once inside, the noisy road might not have existed. A few yards from the gate, they were in a different world; a hushed, green jungle. Trees, crowded together and grown tall and spindly, met overhead and shut out the sky. The ground was a tangle of spiky brambles that tore at their clothes.
‘This way,’ Simo
n said, and set off confidently, though there seemed no obvious path. Krishna and Mary stumbled after him, Krishna carrying the cat basket, and Mary the two bags of food. Invisible cobwebs brushed their faces. Simon was going too fast for them, but they had no breath to complain.
After what seemed ages, he stopped in a small clearing, shafted with smoky sunlight and whirring with crickets.
‘My leg,’ Krishna said, and bent to unravel a bramble that had snaked up under his jeans. As he pulled out the thorns, a row of blood dots appeared, like small beads.
‘There aren’t many more brambles,’ Simon said. ‘That’s the worst bit, ‘cept for the nettles. Give me one of those bags, Mary, you’ll need a free hand.’
When he led the way out of the clearing, she saw what he meant. There was a path now, though very narrow and overgrown. It went down, along the side of a steep hill; the earth was damp and squidgy underfoot, and nettles, tall as they were, whipped at their faces. It was so quiet, they could hear themselves breathing.
‘Watch out, there’s a bit of a tree fallen,’ Simon said. ‘Look, that’s where it came from.’
They looked up and saw the tree high above them, a white scar down the side where the great branch had torn away. It was slimy with moss, and dangerous. Simon crossed first, and then turned to take the cat basket, for safety’s sake. There was no sound from inside.
‘I suppose he’s all right,’ Mary said. ‘Ought we to look?’
‘He’s just sleeping sound,’ Simon said. ‘We’ll let him out when we get to the island.’
‘What island?’ Mary said, and, as if in answer, the trees on the right thinned out and they could see water beyond, covered in bright green weed, like a curly mat.
‘It’s an artificial lake,’ Simon explained. ‘There used to be a big house on the other side, but it burned down ages ago, and the people went away and never came back …’
The path came down to the lake, and was easier walking now. They turned a bend and saw the island, so thick with trees and huge, sprawling rhododendrons that it looked as if it would be impossible to land there. There was no weed on this part of the lake; a humped, wooden bridge spanned a stretch of brown, glinting water.
