Copycat (9 page)

‘Come on!’ the old fox snapped. ‘You have to catch me when I’m mobile.’ And off he went, half limping, half trotting, through the copse to the riverside. The railway bridge straddled the river a short distance ahead. The fox avoided the towpath, which skirted one of the bridge’s great iron supporting pillars, and continued along the bank itself.

‘Is that your den?’ Pinkie cried, seeing a dark muddy entrance hole under a lump of sandstone.

The fox paused and turned. He had been about to go on past. ‘Yes, that’s home,’ he panted. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ He gave Pinkie a sarcastic grin.

The little white cat almost shuddered. ‘There must be . . . somewhere better than this,’ she whispered.

‘Find it, then!’ was the response.

Pinkie looked back at the black mass of the bridge. Just then a train began to rumble across from the opposite side of the river. The rumble became thunder as it approached. The ground on which the animals stood vibrated. Pinkie thought the earth was going to open up and she raced away.

‘Nothing comforting for a creature around here,’ the fox growled, bowing his bony body against the deafening noise. When the train had passed over he hobbled after the frightened cat. ‘That’ll have scattered the rabbits,’ he muttered, ‘if there ever were any.’

‘How can you live under the path of that . . . that . . . monstrous caterpillar?’ Pinkie demanded.

‘I don’t live,’ the fox grunted. ‘I exist. And barely that.’

‘Do you sleep in that black place?’

‘Sometimes. If the river’s low like it is now. But if it rains heavily I usually steer clear of it.’

‘Where do you go then?’

‘Anywhere. I have no other den. Look around you. Do you see any scope?’

Pinkie had already noticed the dearth of shelter. The ground was bare and open. A drainage ditch ran across it and emptied its contents into the river. The ditch was too wide for the fox to jump and therefore marked the extent of his territory. Away from the river, beyond the open ground, were more buildings comprising a small industrial development.

‘This is where you’ll find rabbits,’ the fox said abruptly as he saw Pinkie’s blank look.

She had almost forgotten them. ‘Where?’

‘By the ditch. They like to nibble the young spring growth alongside. And they use it to drink from when they can. Their homes are in the river bank beyond it.’

‘I don’t see any now.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t. There’s not much for them to eat there at present. Too early in the season. And if there
had
been any, the train would have made them bolt.’ Pinkie was scanning the river bank where the fox had said the timid creatures had their warren. There was no sign of life. Indeed the entire area had a distinctly desolate look about it. She wondered where on earth she would find shelter when she needed it without risking a return to the environment of humans. She wandered to the edge of the ditch and looked across. It would require a mighty big leap to get to the other side. She glanced at the muddy water flowing along the ditch bottom, then turned her back. There would be no rabbit hunting. The image of Monty’s food-bowl seemed to flash across all this emptiness like a beacon. But Pinkie was determined not to give in yet.

‘Does the ditch ever run dry?’ she asked the fox.

‘Maybe, if the rabbits are particularly thirsty,’ the ragged beast quipped. ‘Oh,’ he chuckled, ‘I see your drift. You’re really hooked on this rabbit round-up, aren’t you? Well, I told you.
I
can’t catch them.’

Pinkie’s thoughts took flight as soon as she heard the word ‘round-up’. She was back with Sammy and their poor lost kittens in the park. She heard again the tramp of heavy boots and, in a panic of realization, saw herself as she would be seen now on this barren and muddy piece of land by those fierce, eager humans. She began to tremble as if their nets had already trapped her, as if their hands already grasped her. She remembered Sammy’s gibe. No, of course she didn’t know how to evade capture, except by running . . . She broke there and then into a half-run and only the fox’s croaky voice brought her back to reality.

‘Where are you going now?’

Pinkie came to an abrupt halt. She blinked at the fox dumbly. ‘I – I don’t know. I need shelter,’ she mumbled.

‘Well, you’d better come with me. I’m going to my den. Nothing doing here.’ The fox limped away.

‘Huh! I’m not that desperate for shelter,’ Pinkie whispered with the ghost of a grin. ‘I’d sooner be up a tree.’ However, her sympathies were aroused again as she watched the decrepit fox slink towards the one place in the whole hostile neighbourhood he could call home. ‘Poor creature,’ she mewed. ‘Life
has
treated him badly.’ She recalled that the Pub Cat had known him in the past, and wondered what he had been like when he was young. She crept after him, ready to flee from the slightest sound on the railway bridge.

The fox’s earthy den smelt even more strongly than the animal himself. From this Pinkie guessed that the river water hadn’t recently paid a visit to wash the place clean. She peered under the boulder into the gloom. Inside the den was as dark as night. The fox’s muffled voice reached her.

‘Come inside if you wish. It’s dry enough.’

Pinkie hesitated, her nose a-quiver. In the end her natural inquisitiveness got the better of her and she stepped inside. Her pupils dilated enormously. The place had some kind of lining – dead vegetation, flotsam left by the river’s penetration and now merely damp – which added to the den’s dank scent.

‘Not a particularly fragrant spot, is it?’ the cat commented.

There came a hollow laugh. ‘I don’t worry about smells,’ the fox said. ‘It’s wondering about the taste of things that concerns me.’

‘Like rabbit?’

‘No. I
know
the taste of rabbit.’

‘So you have caught them?’

‘Of course. When I was young and nimble.’

‘You haven’t eaten well for a while, have you?’

The fox gave no answer save for a deep sigh.

‘There must be some way to get at those creatures,’ Pinkie muttered. ‘If only Sammy were here. What a rabbit hunter he used to be!’

The fox was silent. He was dreadfully weary and had fallen asleep. Pinkie left him, full of the idea of enlisting Sammy’s help. However, she wasn’t very confident of success. He had altered so much.

‘I’ll appeal to his hunting instincts,’ she told herself. ‘He can’t have lost all his old dash.’

Outside the musky den Pinkie looked toward the open ground. ‘The copse is the only place for me,’ she decided. ‘I’ll have to sleep in a tree. There’s nothing over there except – what’s that?’ she suddenly hissed. There was movement in several places on the bare, broken ground. Rabbits! There were burrow entrances here which the fox didn’t know about. It hardly seemed possible, but rabbits were popping up and scampering towards the ditch on
this
side.

Pinkie flattened herself. The rabbits were unaware of her presence. She crept forward on her belly. ‘The fox must be blind!’ she whispered. Another rabbit emerged, its back to Pinkie, but almost under her nose. She leapt forward and somehow managed to pin it to the ground, although it wasn’t much smaller than she. Pinkie held on desperately, using her teeth and claws until her prey was exhausted. Then she dragged it, bumping over the uneven ground, until she reached the fox’s den again.

‘Fox! Look! A banquet!’ Pinkie panted triumphantly.

The fox was on his feet. ‘What did you . . .? Where did you . . .?’ he spluttered.

‘Never mind now. Eat.’

The fox tore into the rabbit hide with his front claws; his few teeth were of no use here. ‘There’s more meat on this than
I
can eat,’ he asserted. ‘The spoils should go to the hunter.’

‘I’ll take my share later,’ said Pinkie. ‘Listen, there are more of these for the taking. On
this
side of the ditch. Didn’t you know that?’

The fox was busy with his eating for some while. Eating was a long-winded business for him because it was so difficult to chew. At last he said, ‘My sight’s not so good. It’s failing, like the rest of me. I might see things without realizing it. But you can do well here.’

‘Not on my own,’ Pinkie replied. ‘I was lucky this time. It needs teamwork.’

The fox gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘Teamwork? Then don’t think of
me
. What good would I be?’

Pinkie kept quiet. She had been thinking again of begging Sammy to join her.

After eating a few mouthfuls off the carcass, Pinkie spent the night in the copse, moving restlessly from tree to tree, from branch to branch. There was nowhere very suitable for a cat to sleep. The contrast between her wild existence and Sammy’s adopted one was now so marked that Pinkie was in two minds whether to attempt to approach her one-time mate.

‘I’ll try once more,’ she decided. ‘I’ll appeal to him, as the father of my kittens, not to abandon me altogether. Oh, kittens! Poor Fern, poor Moss. Little Sammy, where are you now? How things have changed. And how I wish we were all still together in that pleasant park.’

—12—

A vain appeal

Meanwhile Sammy’s progress continued. He was eating better than ever. The girl had noticed Monty’s loss of weight and was putting out extra food. She had no desire for the black cat’s owners to accuse her of negligence on their return. The problem was, Monty wasn’t permitted to partake of the extra meat. Sammy made quite sure of that. And so, as Monty grew leaner, Sammy prospered and grew plumper.

The Church Cat approved of the sleeker, glossier tabby. She taught him daintiness, grace and pride in his appearance. Monty marvelled at the new, foppish Sammy, but he wasn’t fooled. Underneath the smooth exterior he knew there was still a tough core.

‘Some of the other cats are mocking you,’ he told Sammy. ‘They laugh at the way you constandy groom your fur, the long periods you spend washing. And I saw one of them mincing along as though copying your walk.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Spike.’

Sammy stretched. ‘Not worth bothering about. They’re merely jealous of my refinement.’

The Church Cat enjoyed her power over the tabby. He would do anything she told him. If Hermione said a certain habit was correct, Sammy adopted it. If she told him something was rough, he avoided it. He practised her drawl, her individual miaow. She was an excellent tutor and was flattered by Sammy’s constant attention.

‘Do you drink milk?’ she asked him.

‘Sometimes. When Monty is given it.’

‘That’s good. You should only drink water when you have to. And always water freshly provided. Anything else is common.’

Sammy thought of some of the muddy puddles he had lapped from in his time and made a grimace.

‘Where do you sleep?’ the Church Cat asked.

‘On the floor.’

‘Oh, you should never sleep on the floor. Think of the fleas, the mites, the
dust
. Your fur can’t possibly keep its shine if you sleep on the floor.’

‘Your coat is magnificent,’ Sammy said. ‘I could never hope –’

‘I know. Of course it’s combed regularly. Is yours combed?’

‘N-no, ‘Sammy answered. ‘There’s no one to comb mine. I told you. I’m in hiding most of the day. I do all my own grooming.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly made a good start. Keeping clean must be your main object. Don’t go out in muddy weather. It really is the
worst
thing for fur.’

Sammy took the Persian’s words to heart. He found a chair to lie on and wouldn’t stir from the house unless it was quite dry outside. There were plenty of other places to hide in when the girl came. The lack of activity made him plumper still and Monty foresaw the day when his own personal little door wouldn’t be wide enough to admit the bulky tabby.

For a couple of days Pinkie kept away from the fox. She guessed the rabbit meat would sustain him for a period, since previously he had survived on the most meagre scraps. She really wanted to rid herself of the taint of the fox and his den before she presented herself at Monty’s door.

‘I’ll have to spruce myself up,’ she told herself, ‘otherwise Sammy might not even talk to me.’ She continued to confine herself to the copse and the riverside, catching a shrew here or a vole there, and once or twice a bird; just enough to keep her going. She didn’t see the Pub Cat in all this time.

There was a very wet morning when she huddled under a holly tree in the copse and felt as miserable and lonely as she had ever done in her whole life. She wanted to see Sammy again so badly that, as soon as the wet spell passed, she waited no longer.

‘My coat’s wet but that’s a good thing in a way,’ she comforted herself. ‘The rain should have washed away those strong smells. Well, I wonder what he’ll think of me?’

As she left the tree line and began to cross the field with the gravestones, she saw the Alsatian with its master in the distance. The dog was running free and, with natural exuberance, was cantering along well ahead of the man.

‘No use
me
playing dead,’ Pinkie muttered. ‘I’d never get away with it.’ She turned to take refuge amongst the trees.

The dog’s eyes picked out her white coat. It was just a blur of movement at such a distance, but the Alsatian at once put on speed to investigate. The dog’s acceleration was tremendous and Pinkie dashed under cover and scaled a hawthorn. Her pursuer soon found her and danced about underneath, barking with frustration and making futile leaps to reach her.

Eventually the man came up too, saw the cowering Pinkie in the thorny canopy and swiftly silenced his dog.

‘What are you doing so far from home?’ the man wondered, mistaking Pinkie for the Pub Cat. ‘You look in a bad way. Are you lost?’

Pinkie stared back unblinkingly at what she thought were two enemies, assessing her chances of escape should she have to move. The dog sat quietly now, even thumping its tail as it listened to the friendly tone of its master’s voice.

‘Perhaps I should try to take you back home,’ the man continued. ‘Fred’ – he turned to his dog – ‘you’ve frightened the poor thing half out of its wits.’ He reached both arms upwards, straining to grasp Pinkie, who backed nervously. ‘Come on, Snowy,’ cooed the man, ‘let’s get the white cat back to the White Cat.’ He leant forward and almost managed to grab Pinkie, who jumped to the ground and shot away with the dog in eager pursuit.