A Cat Called Penguin

by Holly Webb

  Alfie had a horrible suspicion he knew where Penguin was. It had been two days since he’d caught Grace feeding him cat treats, and since then he’d been watching Penguin every moment he could. But cats aren’t easy to guard, and Penguin had slipped out when Mum insisted on Alfie having a bath.

  “He’s probably out in the garden. Go and call him.”

  Alfie sighed. Mum wasn’t paying attention – she was trying to get Jess to go down, and Jess wasn’t, which meant Mum had at most half an ear on anything Alfie was trying to say.

  “Mum! I have called him! I’ve called and called. I’ve looked everywhere. What do you think I was doing in the cupboard?”

  Mum shrugged, smiling. “Last time you went in that cupboard you told me you were a prehistoric caveman and it was your cave. Penguin was a sabre-toothed tiger. How was I supposed to know, Alfie?”

  Alfie huffed. That had been weeks ago. “I’ve called him, and I’ve shaken the box of cat treats for ages in the garden. He always comes when I do that. I’m really worried about him, Mum.”

  There was another wail from upstairs, and Mum flinched. “Alfie, cats like to wander. Especially at night. Penguin will be back soon, I’m sure. Go and brush your teeth, sweetheart.”

  She already had her foot on the first step of the stairs, and Alfie knew she was too worried about Jess to listen properly. He slipped back into the kitchen, peering out of the window into the darkening garden and hoping to hear the clatter of the cat flap as Penguin squeezed himself back inside.

  Alfie was pretty sure that Grace had Penguin with her next door now. She worked fast.

  He trailed up the stairs, past the still-wailing Jess, and crawled under his duvet.

  He wondered if Penguin was asleep on Grace’s bed.

  The next morning, Alfie woke up, and realized happily that it was Saturday. Although there was something not good happening. He couldn’t yet remember what. It was the feeling he usually got about spelling tests, but since it was the weekend, that obviously wasn’t it.

  He reached out to stroke Penguin, stretched down the side of the bed like he always was – Dad always said that Penguin was trying to beat the record for the world’s longest cat.

  Penguin wasn’t there.

  Alfie swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling sour. Of course. For just a minute he’d forgotten that Penguin had never come home.

  What if it wasn’t Grace? What if Penguin had been run over? It had happened to a cat who lived down the road. Penguin didn’t usually go out at the front of the house – but then he didn’t usually stay away overnight, either. Alfie shook his head briskly. It was easier to be angry and believe it was Grace.

  It was eight o’clock. Too early to go next door and demand his cat back. Alfie decided to do it anyway.

  Mum and Dad were still asleep, or at any rate he couldn’t hear any noise from their room. Alfie padded swiftly downstairs, unlocked the front door and marched the few steps along the pavement to Mrs Barratt’s house. There were net curtains across the living-room window, but Alfie was pretty sure he saw someone dart across the room as he came up to the front door. It opened before he could ring the bell, and Grace was standing there in pink shorts and a T-shirt – or that’s what it looked like. She’d opened the door the tiniest crack, only wide enough for him to see one eye.

  “Go away!”

  “Where’s Penguin?” Alfie pushed the door angrily. If she wasn’t hiding anything, why wouldn’t she open the door properly?

  “You’re going to disturb my gran!” Grace tried to push the door closed again, but Alfie barged it with his shoulder.

  “You’ve got him – you stole him!” he said. “Give him back!”

  “Ssshh! Shut up!” The door opened properly at last, and a skinny hand grabbed his sleeve and hauled him inside. Alfie was so shocked he half fell over, and Penguin jumped on him, purring happily.

  Grace yanked him upright and hurried him into the little front room he’d seen her in through the nets. Penguin trotted after them, waving his tail.

  “You’re not to shout, don’t you get it? My gran’s not very well; we’re not supposed to wake her up. And my mum’s still asleep too.”

  “Oh.” Alfie nodded. “Sorry.” Then he shook his head, feeling as though good manners had just spoiled his attack. “Don’t tell me not to shout anyway!” he retorted, but in a sort of hoarse whisper. “I’m allowed to shout, you stole my cat.”

  “I did not.” Grace sat down on an armchair by the window, and stroked Penguin, who was washing carelessly, close to her feet. “He came in the garden. I suppose he’s used to being in there, because you trespassed so much.”

  Alfie flushed, his cheeks suddenly burning. She was so right he couldn’t even argue.

  “You made him come in the house,” he muttered. He wasn’t entirely sure about this, but he didn’t think Penguin would have gone in on his own.

  She shook her head virtuously, and he was almost certain she was lying. Her eyes changed, and she didn’t look at him, quite. “He followed me.” Then she looked up, shrugging. “You have to let him do what he wants. You can’t train a cat.” She looked down at Penguin, who bumped his head against her sandal affectionately. “I can’t help it that he likes me, can I? He wanted to explore, that’s all. It’s like the call of the wild.”

  “No, it isn’t!” Alfie leaned over quickly and grabbed the shiny foil packet that he’d just spotted half-hidden by the cushions behind. “More like the call of the cat treats! You saw we had this kind at our house, and you went and bought some so you could bribe him into coming over here!”

  Grace snatched them back, stuffing them down behind the cushions again, and Penguin stopped licking his paws and watched the progress of the foil packet with interest. He knew exactly what was in there.

  “Those are mine,” Grace muttered.

  “Oh, you eat them, do you? Tuna’s your favourite, then?”

  “If Penguin wants to come over here, you can’t stop him,” Grace said fiercely. “He isn’t even yours. He was a stray. Your mum said so. He just turned up at your house. Well, now he’s turned up at mine, hasn’t he? Maybe he likes our house better.”

  Alfie shook his head and looked down at Penguin, who’d given up on the hope of treats and was washing again. He couldn’t, could he? He wouldn’t abandon Alfie, who’d looked after him for two whole years? “Penguin,” he whispered. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

  Penguin glanced up at him but didn’t move.

  “Penguin,” Alfie tried again, his voice rising to a frightened half-squeak. “Home. Let’s go.”

  “He doesn’t have to go with you unless he wants to,” Grace started smugly, and Alfie stepped back towards the door, knowing he was about to cry and not wanting her to see. But Penguin got up and followed him, overtaking and trotting ahead out into the hallway. Alfie ran after him, his heart thudding and skipping in relief, and wrestled with the door catch.

  He looked back as he flung it open and saw Grace standing in the door of the front room, clutching the cat treats and looking as miserable as he’d felt a minute before.

  Alfie felt quite guilty – for about ten seconds. Then he decided it was all her own fault.

  But Alfie’s relief didn’t last. He told himself it was only because of the cat treats, but Penguin kept popping round to Grace’s house. He was starting to look even plumper than he had before, and he actually turned down breakfast once, which left even Mum looking shocked.

  “Goodness, he must be getting food from somewhere else!” she commented, looking at the full bowl, and Penguin wedging himself into the cat flap. He really had to heave to get through now.

  “Mum! I told you! Grace keeps feeding him treats. She’s trying to steal him.”

  “Don’t be silly, Alfie.”

  “It isn’t silly! She really is, Mum. She kept him at her house overnigh
t last weekend. She wants him to be hers. She even said so! She said he wasn’t really ours because he was a stray.”

  “Alfie…”

  Alfie knew that tone. It was his mum’s sensible voice, and it meant she didn’t believe a word he said.

  “Why don’t you ever believe me?” he yelled, all his worry about Penguin and his anger with Grace coming out in one furious shout. “You don’t love Penguin; you never have. You didn’t even want me to have him. You wouldn’t care if he went and lived at Grace’s house, even if it did make me miserable. You don’t even love me!”

  “Alfie!” Dad walked in from the living room, where he’d been reading to Jess. He looked really annoyed. “Don’t talk to your mum like that!”

  “Oh, Alfie…” His mother folded her arms and stared down at him, shaking her head as if she thought he was just having a silly tantrum.

  Alfie stamped his feet, and his throat felt rough, as if the words were tearing out of him. He glared at Mum and Dad. “You don’t love me or Penguin, Mum! You said he was a something nuisance, and that’s a word you told me I was never, ever, ever, ever allowed to say.”

  Dad made a strange sort of snorting noise. He was laughing! Alfie felt like he was about to burst – it wasn’t funny!

  His mother rolled her eyes. “Alfie, he had just torn a pigeon to pieces in my bathroom!” she hissed. “I think I’m allowed to be annoyed!”

  Alfie was never quite sure how Penguin had managed that. He must have dragged the pigeon into the house through the cat flap, hauled it up the stairs, and then played with it rather messily all over the bathroom. It was a large pigeon too. It had been a bit of a shock for Mum walking in on it.

  “You’re glad he’s gone to Grace’s!” Alfie snarled. “I hate you!”

  “Go to your room!” Mum finally snapped, and Alfie stomped heavily out of the kitchen, kicking the door on the way, because he knew it would really annoy her.

  “Just because he gets hairs on your black trousers!” he yelled as he hurled himself up the stairs. “You care more about trousers than you do about me!”

  Penguin didn’t come back to Alfie’s that night either – which Alfie couldn’t help feeling was ungrateful, when Alfie had bothered to get sent to bed defending his honour.

  But then he was back at Alfie’s house for the rest of the week, and things were just as they had always been. Penguin even played football with him on Saturday morning. Alfie had an important match on Sunday, and he was practising in the garden. Penguin was sitting on the bench looking miffed – no birds were going to be on the feeder with Alfie kicking a ball around. His whiskers trembled with irritation, until Alfie came and sat down beside him, panting. “Sorry, Penguin. I’ve got to practise. We can’t let Purlham beat us again, and I’m in goal since Max broke his leg.”

  Penguin butted his arm lovingly, yawned, and jumped off the bench, looking expectantly back at Alfie. He nosed the ball, then jumped on it, rolling over and over like a kitten going mad with a ball of paper. Alfie laughed. Penguin hadn’t done that in ages. “Handball, Penguin! Or pawball… Although I suppose actually you’ve got four feet. Maybe you’re allowed.” He chased after Penguin and the ball, and they dodged and weaved all over the garden. Penguin was particularly good at a sort of four-paw sliding tackle.

  They had such a good time that Alfie was starting to hope that Penguin had just been nosing at Grace’s house. Maybe now the excitement had worn off.

  Then Penguin disappeared that night, and didn’t come back.

  It ruined Alfie’s weekend. Sunday afternoon’s football match was a disaster. Alfie’s team were playing Purlham All Stars, who’d beaten them last year, and everyone was desperate for revenge.

  But Alfie let in three goals, and Sam Kelly’s mum said very loudly, right in front of half the rest of the team – who all told Alfie about it – that Alfie was a disgrace and shouldn’t be allowed to play.

  The only good bit of the day was Mum telling Mrs Kelly that when Sam stopped scoring own goals maybe she’d have a right to be rude about everybody else. Dad had to hurry her away before Mrs Kelly managed to work through her shock and think of anything else to say.

  Alfie arrived at school on Monday hoping for something fun to happen to take his mind off the football disaster. He still had a horrible feeling people might be pointing and sniggering, but Oliver told him to stop being dim. “We’ll beat them next year. And anyway, my dad said their striker looked as though he was about thirteen; there’s no way he should have been in the under-tens league.”

  Alfie nodded gratefully. He supposed it didn’t really matter that much. Hopefully he’d never have to be in goal again…

  They went into class to be greeted by Mrs Cartwright announcing a Project. They’d only had Mrs Cartwright for about three weeks, but she was known for her Projects. Year Three were learning about the Romans, and Mrs Cartwright was so excited she was practically frothing at the mouth. Gladiators! Feasts! Dormice! Big forks! Alfie blinked wearily as it all rolled over his head. He liked the sound of Romans – although he didn’t quite get where the dormice fitted in – but he hadn’t slept very well the previous night. He kept reliving the disastrous football match, and then worrying about Penguin.

  He zoned in again when he heard his name mentioned. It was a survival tactic that he’d learned in Year Two. He looked up, wide-eyed, trying to seem innocent. What? Was he being told off?

  “…and Grace … Lily and Maddie-Mae. Robin and Elsie…”

  Oh. Only a list of people to work with then. Alfie stopped worrying, and then realized what Mrs Cartwright had said. He had to work with Grace.

  He glanced over at her. She looked blank, and ducked her eyes when she saw him looking at her. Probably she felt guilty about Penguin being at her house right now, Alfie thought, folding his arms and glaring.

  Mrs Cartwright put a film about Romans on the whiteboard after that, so there was no working with Grace to be done before lunch time. But when they came back in from the playground, she told them to sit with their new partners.

  Alfie scowled stubbornly at Grace. He wasn’t moving from his place. She’d just have to come and sit next to him. He saw her wrinkle her nose thoughtfully, and perhaps decide it wasn’t worth a fight in front of Mrs Cartwright. She grabbed her pencil case and sat down next to him – but she moved the chair further away first, as though he smelled.

  Mrs Cartwright handed out a worksheet about Roman gladiators and beast fights, and Alfie enjoyed himself filling in the answers from that bit of the film, imagining Grace as a criminal thrown to the wild beasts. Penguin would enjoy being a ferocious panther, he thought.

  The second side of the sheet had to be done with a partner. Alfie sighed and glanced up to see if Grace was ready, and found she was staring at him, looking equally unkeen.

  “We have to write a play,” he muttered.

  “Mmm.”

  “You any good at writing?”

  She shrugged. “We can have two characters. Then I’ll write one and you do one.”

  Alfie nodded. It seemed the easiest way. “I’m going to be one of those ones with a net and the thing like a garden fork,” he added quickly.

  Grace shrugged. “OK, but you’ll lose. I’ll be the one with the helmet and all the armour.”

  Alfie nibbled his pencil, wondering if she was right. “All that armour’s heavy,” he pointed out. “You won’t be able to catch me. It’s weird that they knew each other, isn’t it? They probably had breakfast and talked about who was going to win.”

  Grace nodded, looking interested. “Maybe that’s what we should do – our gladiators could be friends having breakfast at the gladiator training camp, and then they find out they have to fight each other.”

  “What did Romans eat for breakfast?” Alfie asked.

  “Just bread, Alfie,” Mrs Cartwright said over his shoulder. “Sounds lik
e you two are doing really well. Keep going!”

  Alfie blinked, surprised to find that he was actually enjoying himself. “We could finish it off after school if you want,” he suggested hesitantly to Grace, when Mrs Cartwright told them it was time to stop.

  Grace smiled, a real smile, not the sort of horrible smirk he thought of her making. “Can I come to yours? Penguin would come and sit with us, wouldn’t he?”

  Alfie stared at her. “Isn’t he at your house?”

  Grace shook her head. “Not for ages. Days and days.”

  Alfie frowned. He didn’t understand. Penguin was at Grace’s house, Alfie knew he was. Because he certainly wasn’t at Alfie’s. “I haven’t seen him since Saturday afternoon.” He dropped his voice to a whisper – it felt like some terrible secret. “I thought he’d gone back to yours! He has to be there…”

  Grace looked worried. “He only ever stayed that one night. Then he popped in every so often. And then he had the last of the bag of cat treats, and I don’t think toast crusts were good enough. He gave me a sort of look when I offered him one.”

  “He only likes them with Marmite on,” Alfie murmured. “But if he’s not at yours, where’s he gone?”

  Grace was frowning. “He couldn’t have another house, could he?”

  “I don’t think so.” Alfie looked doubtful. “Not unless he was only there when I was at school. He never went anywhere else until you turned up,” he added. All those thoughts about run-over cats he’d had when Penguin disappeared the previous weekend were flooding back. “What if he’s been hit by a car?” he muttered shakily, quite forgetting to blame Grace.

  “Someone would have told you. He’s got a tag on his collar, hasn’t he?” Grace pointed out.

  “I suppose.” Alfie nodded, suddenly grateful for the collar. “But – where is he then?”

  “Maybe he’s got shut in somewhere. Look, I’ll ask my mum, she’s picking me up. We can go and look for him together.”