Catcall

by Linda Newbery

  Floss started flicking through the pages, looking at all the things I’d collected–pictures, articles I’d cut-and-pasted from the internet, facts and figures and stories and legends, photos of Mister the Magnificent and of Splodge. The way she gazed at my book, you’d have thought it was something special, something from a museum or a work of art.

  ‘Wow!’ she kept saying. Every time she turned a page, Mike went, ‘Hey, look at that!’ and Mum made surprised mmming noises. I felt like crawling into the cupboard under the sink, but they really were impressed, no messing, and I started to get a glowing feeling inside. It was a long time since I’d looked through the whole book.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Floss.

  I shrugged. ‘I like facts. I collect them, that’s all.’

  ‘But these aren’t just facts.’ Floss turned another page. ‘All this about myths and superstitions.’

  ‘If you worked like this at school, Josh, you’d get A-star for everything,’ Mike joked.

  Then Floss came to the ‘Tiger’ poem. ‘I nearly forgot!’ she said, and dug into her rucksack for a folded piece of paper. ‘I copied this out for you. Mum and I read it at home a while back. You can have it for your book, if you like.’

  It was called ‘The Jaguar’, by Ted Hughes. I read it quickly and didn’t get all of it, but it was about a jaguar in a cage at the zoo, and people staring.

  ‘That’s really kind of you, Floss,’ Mum said. ‘Isn’t it, Josh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, and put the poem in my pocket to read properly later. I gave a defiant look at Kevin.

  Floss was still turning the pages of my book when Dad and Jamie came back from the park. Jamie was teary-eyed and snivelly, but no one said anything about it. Of course Dad and Floss had to be introduced, and soon they were chatting, even though Jamie went silent at the sight of Floss. Then one thing led to another–without anyone even asking me, Floss was invited to stay for the bonfire and the supper. While she phoned home to tell her mum, I went a bit huffy. I mean, if I’d been told I could have a friend round, I’d have asked Noori. Instead, I was lumbered with Floss, as well as Kevin. What would people at school say if they got to hear about this? Knowing Floss, she’d come straight out with it on Monday. ‘When I was at Josh’s house––’ That kind of thing. How’d I explain that? About her coming round to give me a poem? Still, the good thing was that Floss could talk to Kevin, so I didn’t have to.

  It was starting to get dark now, so we all put on our coats and went out. Mike showed Jamie how to light a fire–paper first, then the kindling, the dried leaves and small twiggy bits we’d collected. The twigs would catch and hold the flame, then the heat would start to work at the bigger chunks of wood that would burn more slowly. Kevin joined in, too. Soon the flames were leaping, and flakes of charred paper drifted up into the dark. It wasn’t the clear, frosty night I wanted, with the sky full of stars–instead, there was a cold wind snatching at us, and wispy bits of cloud covering the moon. You could still see stars, though–I picked out the Plough, and Orion the hunter, and Venus, which Dad said was the Evening Star. Our shadows fell ragged on the grass behind us, joined or separate–my shadow, Jamie’s, Dad’s, Kevin’s.

  Floss seemed quite at home. She told us about campfires on safari and how you could hear animals howling across the veldt.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Dad. ‘What an experience. You’ll remember that your whole life.’

  ‘I know,’ said Floss. ‘I do.’

  I remembered standing out here when I was searching for Splodge, how mysterious it had felt, alone in the darkness. What if this was all we had for safety, this fire, and our supply of sticks? What if there was no bright kitchen window behind me, no central heating, no food in the fridge? What if these flames were the only barrier between us and the waiting lions? What if we had to go out and kill or be killed?

  I looked at Jamie, wondering if he remembered what I’d told him, and whether it made any sense at all. He was crouching as close to the fire as he could, so that his face was lit up golden and flickering. I saw the whites of his eyes, and how young and little he was. The cold crept round behind me, whispering into my ears and down the back of my neck, while my front and face roasted. Mike was wearing Jennie in a sling, taking care she didn’t get too hot, his big hand held up to protect her head.

  I squatted next to Jamie. ‘Remember,’ I whispered to him. ‘Lions are frightened of fire. We’re not, and that means we can control them.’

  He looked into the heart of the bonfire. I poked the burning papers with a stick, so that the flames flared up.

  ‘The sausages must be nearly ready,’ Mum told us.

  Jennie started to whimper. I looked at her, and saw her little body straining in the sling, her mouth going square, ready to cry. I’d held her myself and knew how strong she was already, how she could kick and struggle and push. But how helpless, too. I thought of the dream–Jamie’s dream, my dream–of Jennie in the lion’s jaws, and I closed my eyes tight to make it go away. It was too horrible. The grown-ups would see, and would know–

  Only it wasn’t me, was it? It was Jamie. It was his dream, not mine.

  Jennie began to wail. Out here, under the sky, her voice sounded as thin and frail as a fledgling’s. On her own, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

  ‘Shush, shush!’ Mike went. ‘I think I’ll take her in. Turn the oven off and put the beans on.’

  I went across to stand by Dad. He put a hand on my shoulder and we stood like that for a few moments. I wanted to talk to him, like he’d said, only how could I, with Floss and Kevin here and the sausages nearly ready?

  Mum had put glasses and cutlery on the table, but everyone wanted to eat by the fire. We wrapped the hot sausages in squares of kitchen towel and licked tomato sauce off our fingers, and we spooned the baked beans out of mugs.

  ‘I don’t know why, but food always tastes better outside,’ Dad said.

  Our meal was finished off with Mike’s clementine cake, and hot chocolate. Soon Floss said she ought to be getting home. Dad offered to give her a lift, but Floss said it was only five minutes’ walk.

  ‘I’ve had a great time,’ she said. ‘Thanks so much!’

  ‘We’ve enjoyed having you,’ Mum told her. ‘Come again.’

  Although Floss said she was quite OK walking home on her own, Dad wasn’t having it. He and I went with her. Her house was bigger than ours, with its own drive and a big 4x4 parked there. Floss’s mum was tall and friendly, with blonde hair like Floss’s only cut very short, and the same loud, confident voice. ‘So you’re Josh! I’ve heard lots about you.’ She must have wanted the whole street to hear. ‘Come round after school one day. Any time.’

  Dad and I said goodbye and turned for home.

  ‘It’s good you’ve made a new friend,’ Dad said.

  It seemed too late now to say that Floss wasn’t exactly my friend. Maybe she was. Better than Brody, anyway. Brody and I had been friends since I’d first started at St Luke’s–Noori had joined the class later–and yesterday’s argument lurked unhappily in my mind. But that was his fault, not mine.

  ‘Dad,’ I began, not sure what to say next. ‘You know about Jamie? All this weird stuff?’

  Jamie had begged me not to tell, not to tell anyone. If I didn’t mention the lion dream, though, the nightmare, I’d have kept my promise.

  ‘Mm?’ Dad was listening, waiting.

  ‘Jamie’s jealous of the baby. Jealous of Jennie.’

  There, it was out now. Dad would know what to do. I looked at him sideways. He said nothing at all while we walked past the newsagent’s, the fish-and-chip shop, the Indian restaurant with its waft of music and spices and chatter. Then he said, ‘Do you remember when Splodge was a tiny kitten, eight weeks old? When we first brought him home?’

  ‘Yes, course,’ I said. ‘I’ve got photos.’ What was he on about?

  ‘Do you remember Mister? How he behaved? He’d been an only cat up till then–now suddenly there was this
little stranger in the house, Splodge. And we were all making a great fuss of the kitten.’

  Yes, I remembered. ‘Mister had a huge sulk! He stayed out at night and wouldn’t come when we called him. He only came in for meals and went out again as soon as he’d eaten. He used to give us such a look. And Splodge used to leap and pounce on him, and Mister hissed and growled and got really fed up with him.’

  ‘It was so difficult for a while,’ Dad said, ‘that I wondered whether we’d made a mistake getting Splodge, because it didn’t seem fair to Mister. I mean, we couldn’t explain to Mister that we still loved him just as much. Of course we did. And before long they were the best of friends. Remember how they’d lie in front of the fire together, licking each other’s fur? How they used to curl up and sleep? How they played together with their ping-pong ball?’

  I nodded. ‘And when Mister had to be put to sleep, Splodge was upset for days. He kept looking for Mister all over the house and all over the garden. Kept miaowing for him.’

  ‘Change,’ said Dad. ‘That’s what’s difficult.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Lots of people don’t like change,’ he said. ‘Grown-ups as well as children. Animals as well as humans. We like what we know, and it upsets us when we have to get used to something different, especially if we haven’t chosen it. You and Jamie have had to face a lot of changes, haven’t you? The Kim and Kevin situation, as well. Perhaps it’s all been a bit too much.’

  Kevin? I ignored that, and said, ‘Will Jamie be all right, then?’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Dad said. ‘It may take time, but I’m sure he will. D’you know who’s going to be the biggest help to him?’

  I shrugged. ‘The psychologist?’

  Dad put his arm round my shoulders and pulled me close. ‘You are. His big brother. I know how much you’re helping him through this. I’m proud of you. And so’s Mum, because you’re being such a good big brother to Jennie as well.’

  I felt funny and squirmy, the way I always do when Dad talks like that. Besides, it wasn’t true. But it made me decide that I’d try to be a better brother, to both of them.

  We were nearly home now. ‘I wonder if that bonfire’s still burning?’ Dad said. ‘And if there’s any of that cake left?’

  22

  ASHES

  It’s always like this, every time I decide I’m going to be better, or nicer, or try harder at school, or whatever. Something always turns up to make me fail. P’raps it’s a kind of test–OK, let’s see how you handle this. Let’s see how you shape up.

  Well, if this was a test, I failed big time. Mind you, only a saint could have passed, and then only on a good day.

  I don’t know what Dad said to Jamie when they went to the park, or what Jamie said back. Jamie seemed excited, out by the bonfire, and when we were eating–happier than I’d seen him for ages. But later, after Dad and Kevin had gone, he went quiet again. Sunday morning, I couldn’t get a word out of him. He’s often like this after we’ve seen Dad.

  I woke up early, and read for about half an hour before Jamie even moved. Then I noticed that he was lying in bed with his eyes open.

  ‘Hi, Jame,’ I said.

  He wouldn’t even look at me. Slowly he rubbed his eyes and propped himself up.

  ‘Open the curtains if you want,’ I said.

  Nothing.

  I got out of bed, and opened the curtains myself. Jamie just lay there, staring at nothing. The bonfire, Dad coming, the private talk–none of it might have happened, for all the difference in Jamie.

  I didn’t feel like going back to bed. Mike quite often works on Saturdays, so Sunday’s his only chance of a liein. Usually Jennie wakes up early, but Mum feeds her and Mike goes down to make tea, and sometimes they go back to sleep again, unless Jennie won’t settle. If Jamie or I get up early, we’re supposed to be quiet till at least eight o’clock.

  While I was getting dressed, I felt the crackle of paper in my jeans pocket and took out a folded page. It was that poem Floss had given me, the one about the jaguar. I read it properly now, and liked it. It had this really good bit about the jaguar prowling up and down in his cage, with his eyes boring into the dark like drills. I could see that, and I already had just the right picture of a jaguar, so I decided to copy and print the poem and stick it in my Book of Cats.

  When I’d done the print-out, I looked round for my book. It was usually on the desk, but the computer and printer now took up nearly all the space. Not there. Course, I took it downstairs last night, when Mum and Mike made me show it to Floss. Hadn’t I brought it back up? No, can’t have. I went down to the kitchen, but the table had been cleared. Checked the worktop–not there either. Looked in the lounge.

  Jamie was still asleep, hunched away from me, when I went back to our room. I looked everywhere–under the desk, in all the drawers, under both beds, even in the wardrobe. No sign. Down again to double-check all the places I’d already searched. I began to think Floss must have stolen it, put it in her rucksack, and taken it home. I didn’t really think Floss would do that, but couldn’t come up with anything better.

  I was working myself up into a real fume, ready to march straight round to her house and demand my book back. Then I remembered something.

  Last night, when Dad was ready to go home, he called for Jamie to say goodbye. Mum and Mike thought Jamie was upstairs in our room, but he wasn’t. I was the one who noticed the back door wasn’t quite closed. When I opened it wide and looked out, there was Jamie, by himself, standing by the remains of the fire–no coat on, no hat or gloves.

  ‘What you doing?’ I called. ‘Come on in–Dad’s going now.’

  He must have heard me, but he didn’t answer, or turn round.

  ‘Jamie?’ I called, starting to shiver. ‘Come on–I’m not standing here all night!’

  He came in then, and Mike said, ‘Jamie? What were you doing?’

  And Jamie peered at him like someone groping through a fog, and said, ‘Just making sure.’

  ‘Making sure the fire’s safe? Don’t worry,’ said Mike, ‘I was going to do that, when I lock up.’

  Dad kissed and hugged us both, and said he’d be back on Monday, and Jamie and I went up to bed.

  No!

  He wouldn’t–he couldn’t have…

  My hands were shaking so much I could hardly unlock the back door. I went across the wet grass in my slippers to the blackened patch where the bonfire had been. It was just a pile of ashes and crumbly twigs, with charred bits of paper the flames had missed. I poked at the ashes with a stick, turned over a curl of paper, and saw something startling, something familiar–

  An eye, a single amber lion eye, wise and unblinking, stared up from a triangle of torn black paper.

  An eye from the cover of my Book of Cats.

  Something had got inside my chest, pushing against my ribs, pressing up to my throat. I could hardly breathe. I poked and twisted, saw fragments of my own handwriting, a corner of a photo, bits of printing. I lifted a handful of ashes and let them filter through my fingers, leaving me with scraps and tatters of paper, brown and flaky-thin. There was still a little warmth left at the heart of the fire.

  The whole book, not just the cover.

  Gone.

  Destroyed.

  That’s what Jamie had been doing, out here on his own last night.

  A choking sound burst out of me. He couldn’t have–not all of it, every page! I looked in the dustbin, just in case he’d chucked some of it in there. Inside, I saw the back cover, made of thick card, with its spiral binding twanging away from it, bent and spoiled when the pages had been ripped out. The only bit that wouldn’t burn. For some reason that made me even more furious. He’d planned this, thought about it!

  I ran inside, startling Splodge, who was waiting by his food bowl in the kitchen. I thundered up the stairs, not caring if I woke the whole house.

  ‘Jamie!’ I yelled. ‘JAMIE!’

  He was still in bed, curled up like
a dormouse. I bounded across the room and hauled the duvet off him.

  ‘Why?’ I shouted. ‘Why did you do it?’

  If he’d been asleep, he was certainly wide awake now. He wriggled back against the headboard, making himself as small as he could. His eyes, bright and worried, made me think of a frightened little animal. A squirrel or a shrew, quivering with fright.

  I was too angry to care. I wanted to hit him, hurt him, make him pay. ‘Why? Come on–I know you did it!’ I was kneeling on his bed, pushing my face close to his. I saw tears well up in his eyes, then spill over, big and splashy.

  ‘That’s right, start blubbing! Go all pathetic! You did it, didn’t you? Last night. I know you did, you burned my book–come on, tell me WHY!’

  He started to snivel. ‘You told me! You told me to!’

  ‘I did not! Don’t try to blame me!’

  ‘You did!’ he whimpered. ‘And I tore up Leo as well and threw the pieces on the fire–’

  ‘What, your pathetic paper mask? You think that makes it OK?’ I bunched the duvet in my hands, gripped and twisted it. ‘I hate you, Jamie, I swear I do––’

  Suddenly Mum was in the room in a flurry of blue dressing-gown. ‘What on earth’s going on? What’s the matter?’

  ‘He’s the matter! He–he––’ Tears blurred my eyes, my voice gave way, a big sob pushed at my throat. ‘He burned my Book of Cats! Tore it up and chucked it on the fire! Like it was–like it was rubbish––’

  ‘No! Jamie wouldn’t do that––’

  ‘He did! Go and see for yourself if you don’t believe me! I’ll never forgive him for that, ever!’ I swiped at my eyes with the back of my hand and stood up, turning my face to the window. All I could think of was my book, my beautiful book. My work of art, Mum had called it last night. My book that I loved. My project, just for me. My special book that I’d worked at for months–the pictures I’d cut out and collected, cuttings from newspapers and magazines, the photos of Mister and Splodge, things that could never be replaced.