by Colin Dann
Sammy picked up his kill and looked for a place of concealment under the trees. He knew it was no good taking it back to the bomb site. The bird was too big to escape the notice of the other cats. But the ground here was too bare to hide anything. Grasping the pigeon firmly in his clenched jaws, Sammy climbed a little way up the holly tree and wedged this future meal in a joint between branch and trunk. As he descended again he thought of his first hesitant climbing of the apple tree in Mrs Lambert’s garden. How long ago that seemed. And how far away!
Now he lost no time in retracing his journey. The afternoon was well on and the allotment beckoned. Sammy was used to ignoring the wet weather. He cared nothing for wet fur. Vagabond cats had not the leisure nor the means to keep themselves dry. He was well ahead of the others and hoped the rain would not keep the rabbits at home. They did not always choose to feed where they knew danger lurked, wet weather or not.
When dusk began to steal over the landscape, Sammy had been lying in wait for an hour or two. It rained intermittently. Sunny and Patch had spotted Sammy and he had seen them. None of the others appeared to be around. Darkness fell softly. Soon Sammy knew there were to be no rabbits that evening. But he still waited. He guessed Sunny and Patch had left. Presently there was a movement close by. Sammy turned his head. The dark body of the limping Scruff was approaching.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ Scruff informed him.
‘There are other animals apart from rabbits that come here,’ Sammy told him.
‘Are there? What are they?’ Scruff sounded eager.
‘I’m not sure. I only hear them. Too dark to see. But if one should stray too close. . . .’
‘Hardly worth hanging around,’ Scruff said grumpily. ‘If they’re hedgehogs we couldn’t deal with them anyway.’
‘Why are you here, then?’
‘You know I always come searching for scraps.’
‘You won’t find any tonight.’
‘No. Won’t be the first time though. And I hear you’ll be doing the same thing from now on.’
‘What have you heard?’ Sammy queried.
‘Brute’s told us all of your survival test,’ Scruff explained. ‘You haven’t a chance.’
‘You’ve made out all right,’ Sammy countered. ‘Scraps keep you alive.’
‘Up till now. I can catch mice too,’ Scruff growled. ‘But what hope have I got if you’re competing with me?’
‘That’s your problem,’ Sammy responded unhelpfully. ‘I don’t mean to starve. And what about the winter?’
‘What d’you mean?’ Scruff sounded more sullen than usual.
‘According to Brute, carrion is the best any of us can hope for in the cold period.’
‘That depends. You have to take your opportunities as they come along. Sometimes you can beg a bit from humans.’
‘What? You go up to the houses?’
‘It’s been known,’ Scruff answered shortly. ‘I’ve never done very well at it. I usually get driven away. I suppose they don’t like my looks.’
Sammy felt a twinge of sympathy despite himself. ‘Well, look, Scruff,’ he said, ‘this test of mine doesn’t last for ever. Don’t be too despondent. I want you to survive too.’
‘You’re a strange animal,’ Scruff declared. ‘You seem to have two minds. What is it to you whether I survive or not? More food all round if I don’t.’
Sammy thought about that. He did not know himself why he cared one way or the other. Perhaps it was just that he did not want to feel he would be to blame for another’s death. ‘We’ll make out,’ he murmured. ‘Both of us.’
Scruff lapsed into silence. After a while Sammy no longer knew if he was around or not. He himself waited on. There was nothing else to do. He was hungry and he thought of the voles and the pigeon. He resisted the temptation to return to them. He did not know how long they might have to last him.
As the night drew on, however, he heard nothing more than the cry of an owl. He left the allotment and returned to his cache of voles. He ate one and then went on the prowl, hoping to disturb more small creatures to add to his stock. By morning he had collected together a couple of shrews and another fieldmouse.
Sammy looked at his little food dump. These tiny animals represented no more than two modest meals for him. The thought of the plump pigeon, safely stowed away elsewhere, was rather comforting to him. The rain had ceased and he fell into a doze.
Brute was making a search of the waste ground and old allotments. He wanted to ascertain that Sammy had departed as he had predicted. Pinkie stepped daintily behind him, but kept well to the rear. She was equally interested. As they covered more and more ground and found no trace of him, Pinkie became increasingly despondent. Sammy had let her down. Brute, on the other hand, was jubilant.
‘Sammy’s got sense,’ he called behind him. ‘He’s back where he belongs.’
‘He belongs here,’ Pinkie muttered beneath her breath. ‘And to me. Oh Sammy. . . .’
The object of their search awoke, sure that he could hear Pinkie’s voice. He edged out of his hiding place warily. He did not want those mice to be noticed. Then he sat down in full view of any of the vagabonds who cared to look. Pinkie cared very much. She gave a mew of pleasure and ran up to him.
‘I knew you wouldn’t go!’ she exulted and rubbed herself affectionately against him, nuzzling him and seeming perfectly heedless that Brute was watching.
Sammy’s father was angry at the display but tried not to show it. He stalked forward very stiffly and growled, ‘You’re on your own from now on, Sammy. I’ll be keeping a constant look-out for you. You know the rules. No hunting. The other cats will report to me if they see the rules broken. It’ll be quite a while before you pull down a rabbit again, or even pounce on a mouse. I alone will decide when.’ Brute went on his way with the same stiff and purposeful gait.
‘Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’ Sammy cried to him cheekily. This was for Pinkie’s benefit. She was purring loudly.
Brute did not answer but he had heard all right. He really was torn between anger and pride in his son. He disappeared, but Pinkie and Sammy were soon joined by Sunny.
‘Don’t try any cleverness,’ the ginger said unpleasantly. ‘If Brute isn’t watching you all the time, I shall be. I want to see you so hungry you’ll eat dirt.’
‘You’re a spiteful creature, aren’t you?’ Sammy returned. ‘No, I shan’t play any tricks, since you’re so concerned. But I may just have a surprise or two in store for you. I don’t intend to be beaten, nor humbled, for your amusement.’
‘Sunny’s jealous of you,’ Pinkie said to Sammy. Then she said to the ginger cat, ‘Sammy will survive to supersede you, never fear. Scruff has lived off scraps for years and here’s Sammy with four good legs.’
‘Accidents sometimes happen,’ the ginger cat sneered. He turned abruptly and left them, his fur in a bristle.
Sammy was not in the least perturbed by the veiled threat. He was strong, fast and resilient. And he had an admirer in Pinkie who made him more eager than ever to prove himself.
‘Listen, Sammy,’ Pinkie said in a low voice, now they were alone. ‘I’m going to help you. My appetite’s not very great. I can eat less. I can still hunt and what I don’t eat—’
‘You’re very generous, Pinkie,’ Sammy said warmly. ‘But I’d rather do this on my own. I’ll find food because I’ll have to. And when I do hunt again the next rabbit I catch will be the biggest you’ve ever seen. You and I will feast together on it as a celebration. I have a feeling Brute’s day is coming to an end. So I’m willing to be tried and tested. I’ll be the stronger for it, and more resourceful than ever.’
‘Brave cat,’ Pinkie whispered. Sammy’s response to her suggestion was all she could have wished. She knew in her bones the time was not far off when Brute and Sammy would meet in that first – and last – great clash. And Sammy’s youth was on his side.
‘My rest was interrupted,’ Sammy said next. ‘I must sleep
for long stretches now and save energy. You’d better return to Brute, at least for the present. We’ll see each other soon and—’ He broke off.
‘And what?’ Pinkie prompted.
‘You look after yourself too.’
‘Of course I will. I’m a vagabond, am I not?’
15
The Test Begins
Sammy’s period in Quartermile Field had sharpened his wits and he had some ideas of his own of how to exploit his opportunities, whilst still sticking to the conditions Brute had laid down. He was allowed carrion only – so be it. Carrion was any dead animal so, although he himself could not hunt, there was nothing to stop him dispossessing another cat of prey it had killed. With this plan of action in his head, Sammy fell asleep near his store of mice and voles.
However, aside from Pinkie, he had other friends amongst the vagabonds. There was Brindle, who certainly meant to be of assistance whenever he could. Brindle had decided that any carrion or scraps he came across must be reserved for Sammy, whereas in the past they would simply have been left for Scruff. He would tell Sammy of anything he found, and his sister Brownie was prepared to do the same. Then there was Patch, who had some sympathy with Sammy’s predicament. The old cat knew very well the test set him was preposterous and designed to defeat him. Patch had been impressed before by Sammy’s readiness to adapt to a life that was quite foreign to him. Now, without actually being able to provide him with food, he would make sure that anything he caught could be won by Sammy, if the young tabby was determined enough. For Patch alone had guessed what Sammy’s tactics would be.
Lastly, and strangest of all, there was Brute himself. Envious he might be, but the King Cat had been surprised at Sammy taking up his challenge. He had not desired this and it had not been his design. Now he could see there was more to Sammy than he had recognized at first. He admired his courage and, as his father, how could he allow him to suffer more than was compatible with the vagabonds’ own sufferings? None of the other cats had been required to pass such a test of endurance. He thought about Stella. Whatever would she think of him if she knew about this? She had asked him to restore Sammy to his comforts, not torment him. So, all in all, Sammy was justified in sleeping peacefully.
When he awoke, the clear autumn light was losing its strength. He ate one of his mice and took stock of his situation. There was no need to move yet. He did not feel hungry. He watched the light fade gradually. He blinked in the glare of the setting sun, as it dipped behind a row of houses. Suddenly he found himself thinking of Molly. When this ordeal was behind him, Sammy decided, he would go back and tell the old dog, his friend, all about it.
In the gathering darkness he tried to imagine what the other cats would be doing. The allotments would be beckoning most of them; the hungry ones anyway. For him they were out of bounds now, except as a thief. And thief he would become. But not yet. He must not strike too early and put them all on their guard. He could afford to wait whilst he still had food. He shivered as a gust of wind whipped through his fur. The dark hours were becoming colder. Sammy needed that shelter. He was certainly not inured to the cold in the way that the other cats were who had been born in the open air. So winter could defeat him even if he should survive this test.
He stirred himself. He wanted to be on the move now for warmth’s sake. He threaded his way through the weedy growths, which were dying back with the onset of autumn. Mottle the tortoiseshell scuttled in front of him in the blackness and ran on without a word. He saw Brownie lapping from a pool of rainwater. She kept her eyes on Sammy as she drank. He felt he had suddenly become an outsider again; an object of curiosity.
He left Quartermile Field and wandered morosely in the direction of the stream. When he got to it he wondered why he had come, for fishing was forbidden him. He trotted along to the wood and singled out the holly tree where he had hidden the pigeon. A quick climb and he was assured it was still there and, as yet, remaining fresh. Sammy scrambled down and went pattering over the first fallen leaves under the trees. He had never explored the entire wood. Now seemed a good time to do so.
The trees rustled and shook in the strong breeze, drowning out other noises. Sammy knew nothing of the habits of nocturnal wild animals, so he had no fear. Half-heartedly he chased a few dry leaves about as they spun in the wind. He came across a hedgehog making a meal of a slug and smacking its lips over it with the greatest enjoyment. Sammy wondered what a slug would taste like. The hedgehog ran away at his approach.
After a while the young tabby tired of the deep darkness of the wood. He ambled unhurriedly towards its perimeter, startling a small animal which raced across his path. Sammy gave chase. The creature easily eluded him and was soon safe in its hole. He left the wood and made his way to the houses where the cats sometimes begged food in the winter. These were unfamiliar buildings to Sammy, but he soon found that they looked very like those near his old mistress. He was quite at home in gardens and went from one to another, investigating everything. Lights shone out from windows but the gardens were empty of life. No chickens here, no dogs and no cats. All safely shut up, he supposed.
A door opened in one house, briefly throwing out a patch of light into the adjoining garden. Sammy heard human voices again for the first time since he had heard his mistress calling him. There was the rattle of a dustbin and then the door closed again. Sammy sat down and meditated. The voices, friendly and cheerful, took him back to his time as a kitten. How he had loved his mistress’s voice: sometimes shrill, sometimes soft, but always so kindly. He even recalled the gardening boy, Edward. Did he miss contact with humans? He thought he must do, otherwise why was he thinking about them now? Supposing he had never heard about Beau and his kind of life, would he have been content to stay where he had been born and brought up? No, no. That was not possible. His father’s influence would still have worked on him. Stella’s authority had waned as he got older, just as his father’s invisible sway had grown. And where was Beau? Would he ever meet him? It was strange they had not encountered each other somewhere. Sammy could not help thinking that, if they should do so some time in the future, he would feel himself to be on a par with his father. He was no longer the naïve domestic pet.
‘Didn’t expect to find you up here so soon,’ a voice behind him spoke abruptly.
Sammy jumped. Lost in his thoughts about Beau, it was as if he had caused his father suddenly to materialize in the darkness. But it was only Scruff.
‘I – er – was just exploring a bit,’ Sammy replied.
‘Found anything?’
‘No. I wasn’t actually looking for food.’
‘Get away.’
‘No, I’ve got a small amount put by for a day or two.’
‘Have you? And here I’ve come,’ Scruff said, ‘because I thought you’d beat me to all the scraps on our patch.’
‘We haven’t come to that just yet,’ said Sammy. ‘I’ll leave the coast clear for you for the present. It’s turning colder, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t talk about it. But this is nothing. You wait till the frost starts to nip at you. Oh, it’s difficult to keep still at night.’
‘Do you find yourself any cover in the winter?’
‘There isn’t much to be had,’ Scruff answered grimly. ‘Paper’s a good thing if you can find any. It gets blown into the area sometimes. There’s always a fight for it. You can guess how I fare. Best I can hope for is to climb in amongst the brambles.’
‘Have you always been lame?’ Sammy asked.
‘Pretty well. Wasn’t born like it though. I got into a fight, of course; got bitten very badly. Never been the same since.’
‘What happened to the other cat?’
‘Cat? It was a dog.’
‘A dog!’
‘Yes. Don’t sound so surprised. Dogs are no friends to us. They chase us and – well, I got caught. But I gave it something to remember. You should have heard it yelp!’
‘Dogs aren’t always like that,’ Sammy said slowly,
thinking naturally of Molly.
‘Aren’t they? Don’t you believe it!’ Scruff rasped.
Sammy could not but be reminded of their different backgrounds.
‘Then there’s the stone-throwing I told you about,’ Scruff went on. ‘That really finished my leg good and proper.’
‘Yes,’ said Sammy. ‘I can see that. Well, I won’t interrupt you. You’ll prefer to be alone, no doubt.’
‘Wouldn’t say that,’ Scruff muttered in his gruff way. ‘You’re not like the others. They haven’t much time for me.’
‘Just as you like then,’ Sammy said brightly. He was glad Scruff had appeared.
‘Shall we see if we can rustle something up?’ the lame black cat offered.
‘All right.’
‘I haven’t eaten well for days,’ he went on. ‘I could do with something tasty. Your human friends are very wasteful. You can sometimes dig a bit of their food out for yourself without needing to beg for it.’
‘Well – lead on then,’ Sammy said. Here was a new experience in store.
Scruff went unevenly across the garden, sniffing carefully. He had an acute sense of smell, and relied on his nose to lead him to food. It was his best asset.
‘I don’t think there’s anything around here,’ he said. ‘Let’s try the next one.’
They got into the neighbouring garden. Sammy was surprised to see that Scruff managed to climb well enough, despite his game leg.
‘Much more promising,’ was the black cat’s verdict. His nose was inhaling with gusto. ‘There’s something about.’
Sammy followed him. Scruff found some discarded rib-bones left over from a barbecue. For the life of him Sammy could not see that they could be eaten. But Scruff did not hesitate. He grabbed one greedily and began to gnaw. Sammy watched him.