Not that I wished to be anywhere but the Amethyst now, living with the friends who had become so precious to me. As I left the bustle of the harbour, the feeling only intensified, as every new vista pulled me back to some wisp of painful memory that reminded me how lucky I’d been. Not in losing my mother, whose presence I still felt constantly, but to have escaped from the miseries of those last months as a stray, when I’d hunt till my pads were raw, getting drenched and despondent, and sit at the end of the jetty and wonder what kind of better life there might be beyond the bay.
I felt proud that I’d found the courage to go in search of it – well, once the terror had abated, anyway. That I’d allowed myself to be scooped up by dear sweet Ordinary Seaman George Hickinbottom – where was he now, I wondered? – who I missed still. He would never know how grateful I was that he’d given me the opportunity to live a life I could never have imagined. To become the cat I could never have imagined either.
It was a warm morning, the rain that had greeted our arrival having cleared, and as I padded along the familiar tracks and pathways, alternately bright and shady under the tamarinds and banyans, I let the happier memories of that earlier time wash over me.
Memories of the kind old lady who used to live in the big house – which I now hurried past automatically, slightly braced, automatically fearful – the hunting forays (how proud I hoped Mum would now be of me!), the anxious crossings of the murderous road that spilt the island into two, and our little jetty on the far shore. This stood exactly as I’d left it – reaching out from the sand, gnarly plank by gnarly plank, on past the shingle, to hover above the water as if a path to something wonderful, where we’d sit and gaze up at the moon.
There was no moon now. The sky, the same intense butterfly-wing blue I would always remember, was reflected in the gently lapping water, which in turn was sprinkled, as it always was, with shards of dancing sunshine. Almost on an impulse, I jumped down onto the sand and slipped beneath the jetty, aware as I did so how much bigger I’d grown, how much smaller our sometime home seemed. Small and safe, kitten. I could almost hear my mother saying it.
I spent a few moments there, luxuriating in the welcome cool and shade, remembering what I’d left here, idly following the progress of a tiny lizard between the pebbles, but feeling not even the tiniest urge to stretch a paw out and toy with it.
My mother had been right. It had been my safe place and I was glad I’d come back; it felt good to return here and experience it again. But it wasn’t long before I felt the tug of the Amethyst calling me back to her. And, perhaps, floating on the breeze, the sound of Peggy, too – yapping furiously about nothing in particular, as she so often did, and Coxswain Frank, hollering irritably from some corner of the ship or other, ‘Will someone please shut that ruddy dog up!’
I didn’t linger longer. It was time to head back. To my new life, my dear friends, to my quarters – which were admittedly various. And some of them perhaps a little too fine for a working naval seacat. But then, as Jack had pointed out, I was ‘decorated now’, wasn’t I? It still felt slightly unreal, that, and it humbled me to even think about it, but I was reassured that we’d be back at sea soon and all the fuss would die down. (Captain Kerans had reassured me, when all the people had swarmed so alarmingly up the gangway, my ‘fan-club’, whatever that was, definitely couldn’t come with us there.)
As I left the shore, a flock of cockatoos took flight, as if to wish me well. Time to say goodbye to Hong Kong. Time to go home.
Chapter 20
My absence had caused something of a commotion. I wasn’t aware of it at first, because the Amethyst looked exactly as she had when I’d left her, bar the one difference I welcomed – that all the well-wishers seemed to have left. The sun was strong on my back now, and the long walk had left me feeling weary. I realised it was the first time I’d travelled such a distance in over a year, and my hind legs were busy reminding me.
But all was not as I’d left it, clearly, because before I’d so much as placed a paw on the gangway, a shout rang out from high above me, and I looked up to see Jack, waving his arms to someone down on the lower deck, shouting, ‘He’s back! Martin! Paddy! Look! No, not that way – that way! Sid, get down there and grab him! Get him back! Take the herrings!’ upon which there was a scramble to locate the fish they’d obviously found for me, in the hopes – or so I assumed – that I might need some enticement to be coaxed back on board again. As if there was a chance that I might decide not to board the ship again. As if they might need (and at this I was confused and confounded) to persuade me that my life and home was with them.
By the time I’d padded up the gangway, feeling grateful that the ship placed it in shadow – a balm for my much-too-hot paws – Sid and Martin were already crouched at the top of it, waiting, the legs of their shorts flapping and their caps pushed right back, a pair of hopeful grins on their faces. There was no sign of Jack, so I assumed he was still shimmying down to us. Somebody must have seen me leave the ship, I realised.
‘C’mon, Blackie. That’s the boy,’ said Martin, gesturing to the saucer on the deck in front of him. ‘Here you go. Fishy fishy! Some lovely herrings for you – look! Orders of the captain. Opened specially, they were. Just for you.’
I duly went up and sniffed the fish, and Martin began to stroke me. ‘Where’ve you been, little fella?’ he wanted to know. ‘Off to find your sweetheart? You’ve had us at sixes and sevens, you have, Blackie. Caused one almighty hulla-ballo, I can tell you. The boss has been beside himself – it was him saw you leave. Can you imagine the to-do if we sailed back to Blighty and the hero of the hour wasn’t with us?’
I was beginning to feel increasingly humbled by all this, not to mention touched that the captain had spotted me leaving and set up a watch for my return. And guilty for having been the cause of yet another hullaballoo. Guilty too, about being called the ‘hero of the hour’ – as if every man and man-boy aboard the Amethyst, not to mention those who’d been taken from us by the communists, were anything less than heroes themselves. Not forgetting Peggy, who, despite the misfortune of having been a dog (or perhaps because of it) didn’t have a bad bone in her body, as Jack had once told me – well, not unless she’d eaten one, that was.
In any event, I was glad to be back amongst my friends again, and without so much as a whisker of regret in my head that we’d be off to sea again and might never be required to come back.
A whistle sounded, and it was only then that I realised that the ship must be weighing anchor sooner than I’d thought. Either that or the time had passed faster than I’d known. In any event, it made more sense of the panic at my arrival, and it also struck me (with only slightly less panic) that had I stayed longer on the beach I could have been too late. An image formed in my head then, of rounding the quay and seeing only sea and sky and sampans where the Amethyst should be. That’s when it really hit me fully: I could have come back – to my home – and found it no longer there.
‘Not hungry? Well, there’s a first.’ It was Jack, who’d come down and joined us. ‘Been scavenging, have you?’ he asked, squatting down and laughing. ‘Stalking a big old gecko, perhaps? Lost track of the time?’
He was right. I wasn’t hungry, but not for the reasons he thought. It’s not in a cat’s nature to be too over-emotional, but how glad I was that it was never necessary to explain. I wasn’t even sure if I would be able to explain.
And perhaps I didn’t need to. I made a start on the herrings.
It was after we’d sailed before the extent of my ‘celebrity status’, as the captain put it, really began to sink in. Though I had managed to avoid any involvement in anything to do with trunks, leads or collars while on land, it seemed I wasn’t going to be able to escape entirely, as no sooner had we reached the open sea than Captain Kerans managed to collar me and affix the stiff new collar around my neck. He wasn’t content with my just wearing it – I was made to pose with it for a series of photographs, too. ‘You’ll b
e the star of Pathé news!’ he assured me.
Then there was the news report that someone had brought on board just before we’d slipped, and which, during our usual church service a couple of days later, Lieutenant Hett had produced and read out to the crew.
‘Sailors get award,’ he began. ‘That’s “sailors” as in Simon and Peggy here, as opposed to you lot, obviously,’ he added, sweeping his gaze around the deck. ‘Hong Kong: Able Seaman Simon and Guardsman Peggy received campaign ribbons on Saturday with all the modesty of heroes. In their case, it was a purr and a wag of the tail. As members of the crew of the British sloop Amethyst, during the dash down the Yangtse from communist captivity, they were honoured in a ceremony in the British Navy’s Fleet Club, complete with honour guard.
‘Said Petty Officer Griffiths, who officiated at the ceremony, to Peggy the dog: Guardsman Peggy for meritorious service on HMS Amethyst, is hereby awarded the distinguished Amethyst Campaign Ribbon.
‘Simon the cat – Yes, that’s you, Simon. I told you you shouldn’t have missed it – got the same, word for word, and this additional citation: “Let it be known that though recovering from wounds, Simon did single-handed and unarmed hunt down and destroy Mao Tse-tung, a rat guilty of raiding food supplies.
‘Another Mao Tse-tung is the leader of China’s communists.’ He folded the paper and grinned. ‘Like we didn’t know that, eh?’
But the piece in the newspaper was as nothing compared to the surprise that would greet me a few hours later.
With all the routines of heading to sea again taking priority over everything, once the service was over it was all hands to their duties. We were well out of the harbour and on our way to Singapore when Captain Kerans came and found me.
‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, plucking me unceremoniously from his bunk. ‘Something told me I might find you here, you little scallywag. Come on. We’re off to see Frank in the wardroom.’
I had no idea why, but I didn’t mind the interruption. Now we were back at sea I would have plenty of time for napping. It was a good feeling. A good feeling indeed.
We duly went down to the wardroom, Captain Kerans humming to himself as he carried me. It was good to see him so happy too.
But he stopped in the doorway. ‘Goodness me!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at this lot! Good Lord. What a thing, eh?’
As I was still half asleep, I wasn’t quite sure what he was on about. He seemed to be referring to a number of sacks – bulging hemp sacks, of the kind that the post usually came in – that had presumably been brought in by the quartermaster before we’d sailed.
He put me down on the big wardroom table and turned to Frank. ‘This lot is really all for Simon?’
Frank nodded. ‘Aye aye, sir. The lot. All been sorted already. And you’re right. You wouldn’t credit it, would you?’
Yes, I thought, padding across the table for a better look, but what is it? What’s this ‘lot’ that he’s on about? Because I’d missed most of what Frank would probably call the ‘carryings-on’, I had only the vaguest idea what they were talking about. And even less about what might be in the sacks.
Tins of sardines, hopefully. If they had been delivered here for me, there was a chance of that, wasn’t there? I licked my lips. Tins and tins and tins of sardines, if I was lucky. And if I was even more lucky, there might be some cream in there too. For all Captain Kerans kept saying I looked ‘like the cat that got the cream’ lately, I’d seen nothing in the way of cream – precious little in the way of milk, even – since we’d left Shanghai for Nanking all those months ago.
I could already feel my mouth watering at the prospect of my fond imaginings, but no one seemed much inclined to look for any. Instead, Frank pulled a clutch of papers from the top of one of the sacks, and started looking through them with what appeared to be great amusement.
He then pulled out another handful and Captain Kerans joined in too, wrestling out another wodge of them himself. ‘Well, I’ve seen everything now, Coxswain,’ he said, chuckling to himself and then waggling one of my ear tips. ‘I’ve seen a very great deal in my time in the Senior Service but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like this before. Who could ever have imagined it?’ he asked Frank. ‘Fancy. I really have never seen anything quite like it.’
He thrust one of the papers under my nose. I was washing my whiskers – might as well, I thought, while they busied themselves in not finding any sardines – but the paper jiggled in front of me seemed at least worth a sniff. Then I realised what it was: it was post. It was letters. Just like the sacks of them that used to reach the Amethyst via the supply ships and, latterly, while we were marooned up the Yangtse, via the sampan or landing craft that used to bring them sporadically, and which always caused such a great fuss.
Post was important. I knew that. It had always been important. It was one of the things that kept the crew happy and boosted morale – though I was so often privy to it having quite the opposite effect (at least in private) that, for all that my human friends loved to receive it, I didn’t trust the business of post quite as much as I might have.
I sniffed the letter carefully. ‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ Captain Kerans said, looking pleased with himself. ‘That’s you, little feller. Able Seacat Simon, is what it says there.’ He ran his finger along the writing. ‘Care of HMS Amethyst, Hong Kong. As does this,’ he added, flipping through the rest of the pile in his hand. ‘As does this, as does this, as does this. They are all for you.’ He scratched his head again. ‘Honestly, Frank, really. Who’d have thought it? This little fellow here has obviously captured quite a few hearts!’
‘I’ll say so, sir,’ agreed Frank. He was still busy with his own sack and was now pushing his arm halfway down it. I wasn’t altogether sure what the captain meant. Captured hearts? Because, confused though I was, I’d at least worked out one thing: that the contents of the sacks seemed very likely to be related to the masses of people who’d come to greet us at the quayside on the morning we’d docked, and who’d continued appearing right up until we’d left Hong Kong. And related to the collar, and the ceremony I’d been at pains to avoid attending, and to the piece in the newspaper about Mao Tse-tung.
I eyed the sack Frank was still riffling through hopefully.
Perhaps he had found some sardines at last.
Apparently not. Well, at least, I doubted it, because what now appeared in his hand was a strange-looking package, wrapped in brightly patterned paper, and which looked as much like a tin of sardines as I did. ‘Permission to open it, sir?’ he asked the captain.
‘Of course, Frank, go ahead. I’m sure Simon’ll be keen to see what it is, won’t you, feller?’
Which I was, well, a little. I certainly liked the paper, which crackled pleasingly and looked fairly interesting. But no sooner had I worked out that there was unquestionably no fish in it than something flew from Frank’s hand, wheeled high overhead, and landed with a flump on my head.
It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but it was something of a shock so, though I was aware they found it funny, I immediately launched myself at it and (as a cat has to do in such situations, always) held it tight between my front paws, clamped my jaws around what appeared to be its neck, and then proceeded to attack it with my hind legs.
‘Well, that’s apt,’ the captain said, grabbing the other end of it and tugging, which seemed no sort of thing for the captain to be doing and definitely something he had never tried to do with any rat I’d presented him with. So I let the prey go, not least because it didn’t even seem to be wriggling. Was it dead? I felt suspicious. Had it ever been alive?
I pulled back. I sat on my haunches, and took a better, more considered look at it. Until Captain Kerans picked it up and tried to rub it against my nose. I didn’t hiss – that would be rude – but I certainly shuffled back a bit. Whatever this thing was, one thing was very clear now. It definitely wasn’t any kind of food or animal.
Frank laughed. ‘You know what, si
r, thinking about it, I wonder if our Simon has ever even seen a cuddly toy before. I don’t reckon so, do you?’
‘I suspect you might be right,’ the captain said, waggling it in front of me again. ‘It’s a mouse, Simon,’ he said. ‘See? A mouse for you to play with. Squeak squeak!’
Then he shook his head. ‘As if he’s in need of such diversions round here, eh? Still, it’s jolly nice. And it’s the thought that counts, obviously. He’s not going to have much access to rats in quarantine, after all. I tell you what, Frank, we’ll need to put someone in charge of this. If this is the shape of things to come, there’ll be a lot more of the same before we finally make Plymouth. And we must do the decent thing and keep a record. Catalogue what’s received. Get some photographs taken. I’ve a feeling the fourth estate will be interested in this, what with the Dickin thing, don’t you? Tell you what,’ he said, having popped the post he’d pulled out back in the sack. ‘Have a word with Lieutenant Hett; see if he’d like to take charge of this. Just the job for him. Don’t you think? Something to keep him amused on the long journey home.’
I got another bat on the head then, with the thing which was definitely not a mouse. ‘So now you even have your own official Ship’s Cat Officer, Simon! How about that?’ said the captain.
But it was what Frank said next that really floored me. ‘And how about this lot?’ he asked the captain, gesturing to another bulging sack.
‘Er . . . what? You mean there’s more?’
Frank nodded. ‘This lot’s been sent for Peggy. Wasn’t sure what best to do with it all now she’s gone, sir.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Well, let me think. Have it dropped off at Shanghai, perhaps?’ Then he seemed to ponder for a moment. ‘On the other hand, doubt the purse strings will extend to having it shipped back to her in Hong Kong . . . Not given that it was the purse strings that had us leave her there in the first place, eh? No, on balance, we’ll just hang on to it. That would seem to be the best thing. Leave it with Lieutenant Hett. Perhaps the gifts could go to the PDSA.’
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