in the crowd. Peter was always such a polite boy. How splendid it was now to spit out these insults.
‘You’ll be birds’ breakfast,’ the black cat warned, and took a step forwards. Peter snatched a deep breath. For old William’s sake he had to win. Even as he was thinking this, the black cat’s paw lashed out at his face. Peter had an old cat’s body, but he had a young boy’s mind. He ducked and felt the paw and its vicious outstretched claws go singing through the air above his ears. He had time to see how the black cat was supported momentarily on only three legs. Immediately he sprang forwards, and with his two front paws pushed the tom hard in the chest. It was not the kind of thing a cat does in a fight and the number one cat was taken by surprise. With a yelp of astonishment, he slipped and tottered backwards, tipped off the wall and fell head first through the roof of the greenhouse below. The icy air was shattered by the crash and musical tinkle of broken glass and the earthier clatter of breaking flowerpots. Then there was silence. The hushed crowd of cats peered down from their wall. They heard a movement, then a groan. Then, just visible in the gloom was the shapeof the black cat hobbling across the lawn. They heard it muttering.
‘It’s not fair. Claws and teeth, yes. But pushing like that. It just isn’t fair.’
‘Next time,’ Peter called down, ‘you ask permission.’
The black cat did not reply, but something about its retreating, limping shape made it clear it had understood.
The next morning, Peter lay on the shelf above the radiator with his head cushioned on one paw, while the other dangled loosely in the rising warmth. All about him was hurry and chaos. Kate could not find her satchel. The porridge was burned. Mr Fortune was in a bad mood because the coffee had run out and he needed three strong cups to start his day. The kitchen was a mess and the mess was covered in porridge smoke. And it was late late late!
Peter curled his tail around his back paws and tried not to purr too loudly. On the far side of the room was his old body with William Cat inside, and that body had to go to school. William Boy was looking confused. He had his coat on and he was ready to leave, but he was wearing only one shoe. The other was nowhere to be found. ‘Mum,’ he kept bleating. ‘Where’s my shoe?’ But Mrs Fortune was in the hallway arguing with someone on the phone.
Peter Cat half closed his eyes. After his victory he was desperately tired. Soon the family would be gone. The house would fall silent. When the radiator had cooled, he would wander upstairs and find the most comfortable of the beds. For old time’s sake he would choose his own.
The day passed just as he had hoped. Dozing, lapping a saucer of milk, dozing again, munching through some tinned cat food that really was not as bad as it smelled – rather like shepherd’s pie without the mashed potato. Then more dozing. Before he knew it, the sky outside was darkening and the children were home from school. William Boy looked worn out from a day of classroom and playground struggle. Boy-cat and cat-boy lay down together in front of the living-room fire. It was most odd, Peter Cat thought, to be stroked by a hand that only the day before had belonged to him. He wondered if William Boy was happy with his new life of school and buses, and having a sister and a mum and dad. But the boy’s face told Peter Cat nothing. It was so hairless, whiskerless and pink, with eyes so round that it was impossible to know what they were saying.
Later that evening, Peter wandered up to Kate’s room. As usual she was talking to her dolls, giving them a lesson in geography. From the fixed expressionon their faces it was clear that they were not much interested in the longest rivers in the world. Peter jumped on to her lap and she began to tickle him absent-mindedly as she talked. If only she could have known that the creature on her lap was her
‘You’ll be birds’ breakfast,’ the black cat warned, and took a step forwards. Peter snatched a deep breath. For old William’s sake he had to win. Even as he was thinking this, the black cat’s paw lashed out at his face. Peter had an old cat’s body, but he had a young boy’s mind. He ducked and felt the paw and its vicious outstretched claws go singing through the air above his ears. He had time to see how the black cat was supported momentarily on only three legs. Immediately he sprang forwards, and with his two front paws pushed the tom hard in the chest. It was not the kind of thing a cat does in a fight and the number one cat was taken by surprise. With a yelp of astonishment, he slipped and tottered backwards, tipped off the wall and fell head first through the roof of the greenhouse below. The icy air was shattered by the crash and musical tinkle of broken glass and the earthier clatter of breaking flowerpots. Then there was silence. The hushed crowd of cats peered down from their wall. They heard a movement, then a groan. Then, just visible in the gloom was the shapeof the black cat hobbling across the lawn. They heard it muttering.
‘It’s not fair. Claws and teeth, yes. But pushing like that. It just isn’t fair.’
‘Next time,’ Peter called down, ‘you ask permission.’
The black cat did not reply, but something about its retreating, limping shape made it clear it had understood.
The next morning, Peter lay on the shelf above the radiator with his head cushioned on one paw, while the other dangled loosely in the rising warmth. All about him was hurry and chaos. Kate could not find her satchel. The porridge was burned. Mr Fortune was in a bad mood because the coffee had run out and he needed three strong cups to start his day. The kitchen was a mess and the mess was covered in porridge smoke. And it was late late late!
Peter curled his tail around his back paws and tried not to purr too loudly. On the far side of the room was his old body with William Cat inside, and that body had to go to school. William Boy was looking confused. He had his coat on and he was ready to leave, but he was wearing only one shoe. The other was nowhere to be found. ‘Mum,’ he kept bleating. ‘Where’s my shoe?’ But Mrs Fortune was in the hallway arguing with someone on the phone.
Peter Cat half closed his eyes. After his victory he was desperately tired. Soon the family would be gone. The house would fall silent. When the radiator had cooled, he would wander upstairs and find the most comfortable of the beds. For old time’s sake he would choose his own.
The day passed just as he had hoped. Dozing, lapping a saucer of milk, dozing again, munching through some tinned cat food that really was not as bad as it smelled – rather like shepherd’s pie without the mashed potato. Then more dozing. Before he knew it, the sky outside was darkening and the children were home from school. William Boy looked worn out from a day of classroom and playground struggle. Boy-cat and cat-boy lay down together in front of the living-room fire. It was most odd, Peter Cat thought, to be stroked by a hand that only the day before had belonged to him. He wondered if William Boy was happy with his new life of school and buses, and having a sister and a mum and dad. But the boy’s face told Peter Cat nothing. It was so hairless, whiskerless and pink, with eyes so round that it was impossible to know what they were saying.
Later that evening, Peter wandered up to Kate’s room. As usual she was talking to her dolls, giving them a lesson in geography. From the fixed expressionon their faces it was clear that they were not much interested in the longest rivers in the world. Peter jumped on to her lap and she began to tickle him absent-mindedly as she talked. If only she could have known that the creature on her lap was her
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