Copycat (15 page)

Pinkie lay in her darkened shelter, listening to other cat voices. She was feeling lonely. That morning her immediate neighbour, a black cat like Monty, had been taken away by some young humans. Later, his pen was filled by a newcomer, a tortoiseshell. The new cat, like herself, had been brought in injured. It had stayed quiet all day, either asleep or too weak to talk. Pinkie wanted company. She prowled around her pen.

‘Are you awake?’ she asked her neighbour. ‘Are you awake yet?’

‘Yes,’ came a faint reply.

Pinkie came to a halt and pressed her face to the side of her cage. ‘Are you in pain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you caught by a patrol?’

‘What’s that?’

‘You know – those humans who round up strays.’

‘I never heard of anything like that. I was injured by some cruel boys. They threw stones at me.’

‘How horrible!’ Pinkie exclaimed. ‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘I think so. I was rescued by an adult human who brought me here.’

‘Are you someone’s pet?’

‘Not me,’ said the strange cat. ‘I lived wild.’

‘So did I,’ said Pinkie. ‘Have you never heard the tramping feet?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. There’s nothing like that round here.’

‘But I’ve heard them,’ Pinkie insisted. ‘Soon after my mate and I reached this area.’

‘You must have heard something else,’ the tortoiseshell said. ‘I can assure you, if there were anything like patrols or round-ups in my neck of the woods, I would know all about it.’

Pinkie’s thoughts raced.
Could
they have been mistaken? Could Sammy’s plan and their separation have been unnecessary all along? If so, what an awful irony that she had ended up in this place, while he was – well, where was he? Still hiding in another cat’s home?

The tortoiseshell sighed.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve tired you,’ Pinkie said.

‘It’s all right. I’ll sleep again in a bit. So you had a mate?’

‘Yes. Sammy – a tabby. But what are you called?’

‘The other cats know me as Shelley. And you?’

‘Pinkie.’

Shelley was amused. ‘Why – do you have pink fur? But tell me about how you lost your mate. Did he die? How did you come here?’

Pinkie said, ‘No, he didn’t die. But he changed so much he became like a stranger. There’s a lot to tell and I don’t want to weary you.’

‘I’d like to hear,’ Shelley said. ‘After all, there’s not much else to do, is there?’

So Pinkie related all the events, from the flight from the park to the day she’d been brought here and put in the pen. And while she was telling her story, Sammy was doing his best to wake the slumbering fox. It was night and he was impatient to be off.

—19—

Across the bridge

The old fox took a lot of waking. His unusually full stomach had sent him into a heavy sleep. Sammy’s efforts to rouse him became quite violent and the tabby ended by giving the fox’s tatty brush a sharp nip.

‘Oh! Oh!’ the fox grunted. ‘What’s that? Yes, I see you. You’re still here then?’

‘Of course I’m still here,’ Sammy hissed angrily. ‘We’re going together, aren’t we?’

‘Going where? I’m only half awake.’

‘Well, make yourself fully awake,’ Sammy growled. ‘We’ve got to cross the bridge.’

‘Oh, the bridge. Yes.’ The fox got to his feet. ‘Good. It’s dark.’ He stretched and looked out at the river. ‘I must have been dreaming,’ he muttered. ‘I thought I’d been washed out and was floating away on the water.’

‘Never mind all that,’ said Sammy. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘Right. Mustn’t keep the rabbit-hunter waiting,’ the fox replied, chuckling to himself. He led Sammy to a flight of narrow steps which they had to climb to get on to the bridge. ‘Up here,’ he indicated.

There was some difficulty in getting to the top. Whereas Sammy sprinted up eagerly, the other animal’s age and infirmity were against him, and when he reached the footway the fox hung his head, gasping for breath.

‘This isn’t a good start,’ Sammy declared. ‘If you’ve worn yourself out already, how are we going to get on? Perhaps I’d better continue alone.’

‘No. No – don’t do that,’ the fox panted. He wasn’t used to companionship and he was beginning to enjoy it. ‘I’ll try not to hold you up. Another couple of’ – gasp – ‘meals like the last one’ – gasp – ‘and I’ll be as fit as you are.’

‘Very well,’ said Sammy. ‘But don’t count on rabbits wherever we go. Now, come on, let’s get across before one of those monsters drives us back down again.’

On the other side of the river another flight of steps took them down to a road. ‘Which way now?’ Sammy asked.

‘How should I know?’ the fox replied. ‘I’ve never been here before either.’

They looked up at some tall buildings fronting the riverside. Next to these was an open space occupied by machinery and building materials. Sammy had an inkling that this couldn’t be the sort of place he was looking for. ‘Let’s go the other way,’ he suggested.

The road ran alongside the river. It was quiet. They passed an occasional house. ‘If we find the boat,’ said the fox, ‘it may give you a clue.’

‘Boat? What boat?’ Sammy queried, puzzled.

‘The one that brought your white cat, like the fox, across the water.’

‘No. Oh no,’ Sammy replied. ‘Pinkie wouldn’t have been carried by boat.’ He knew enough about human behaviour and motor traffic to discount the idea.

Now the fox looked mystified. ‘How else could she have crossed the river? Does she fly?’ It was evident that he didn’t understand much about vehicles and roads.

‘There must be another bridge,’ Sammy said confidently. ‘And when we find it, we’ll be on our way.’

‘Another bridge?
I’ve
never seen one,’ the fox grunted. He paused to lap at a puddle by the kerbside.

Sammy waited for him. ‘If you need a rest, just say so,’ he invited his companion. ‘Your legs aren’t as young as mine.’

‘Huh! No. I sometimes feel I never was young,’ the ancient beast remarked. ‘But I’m game for a few more paces if I don’t expire first.’

‘You’re a droll one,’ Sammy said. ‘Just how old are you?’

‘I’m as old as my limbs and older than my teeth,’ the fox answered jocularly.

Some trees grew along the river bank and, after a while, the fox’s breathing became so hoarse that Sammy flopped down under some alders to give him time to recover.

‘Thank you,’ said the aged creature with an appreciative wag of his tail, and collapsed beside him. ‘This is a nice spot. I might find a better place for my den on this side.’

‘You could hardly have a worse one,’ Sammy commented.

A little later they continued. Sammy’s search for a second bridge was the key to his future progress. If he didn’t find one, he had no way of tracing Pinkie’s journey. He walked slowly for the benefit of the older animal. Eventually Sammy became tired himself, and together they looked for good shelter where they could have a proper sleep.

‘Daylight isn’t far away,’ the fox wheezed. ‘We have to take care.’

And then they saw it – or at least Sammy did. A stone bridge spanned the river ahead as they rounded a bend, and the lights of a car illuminated its length as it crossed from right to left.

‘I knew it!’ Sammy exclaimed. ‘This is wonderful. Now I have something to go on. There will be a road leading from the bridge end and that’s the way I take.’

‘Well, it will be without me,’ the fox told him, ‘if you’re going in daylight. I can’t be seen wandering along human byways. I’m vermin to them.’

‘No question of it,’ Sammy said at once. ‘It’s just as risky for me, only from another aspect. Can you make it to the bridge?’

‘Keep going,’ croaked the fox. ‘I think I must be already asleep, so I probably won’t notice.’

The road they were on ran up to a junction at the foot of the bridge. The two animals, of course, veered away and on to the river bank itself. As dawn broke they lay down under the arch of the bridge, close up to the stonework. It was still dark there and they felt secure enough. The fox wrapped his mangy brush around his muzzle and was soon blissfully asleep. Sammy curled up too and drifted into a doze. At every slight sound he opened his eyes, blinked, and napped again. The fox began to twitch and whimper so that Sammy guessed he was dreaming.

‘Poor beast,’ Sammy murmured. ‘I think his life has been very hard. I wonder if he’ll come with me all the way?’

Traffic noise on the bridge woke them both fully during the morning. A mallard was paddling at the water’s edge. The fox slowly got to his feet and stood watching it, licking his chops.

‘I can’t catch that, I can’t catch that,’ he chanted to himself miserably. ‘But I wish I could.’

Sammy rose. Keeping his head and body still and fixing his eyes on the bird, he stalked slowly towards it. Only his legs moved as he hugged the ground. A few paces, then complete stillness while the duck faced him, then a few paces more . . . The duck was dipping and splashing briskly. The fox was gripped by an unbearable excitement. He trembled like a leaf, willing himself not to dash forward and ruin their chances. Sammy was almost on his quarry when the mallard began to paddle swiftly away. The tabby hesitated. He didn’t like water. The fox, made desperate by a lost opportunity, raced past him and into the river. Now the duck realized the danger it was in and flapped its wings furiously. But it was a little slow to take off and the fox lunged at it, his few teeth managing to take hold of one wing. The mallard struggled valiantly. The fox couldn’t keep hold and Sammy saw he must come to his aid. He stepped into the water, shuddered, then swam out resolutely to his companion. Seizing the duck’s other wing, he steadied the flapping and the two animals paddled to the bank with their prey. Sammy finished the job. His teeth gripped the bird’s throat until it ceased to struggle. The animals shook the water from themselves.

‘What a prize!’ crowed the fox. ‘I could never have brought that off by myself. I’m in your debt. But of course we’ll go shares.’

Sammy didn’t reply. He was conscious that his once glossy coat was completely spoilt. Soaked to the skin by dirty river water he only needed to glance at the fox’s appearance to know what he himself looked like – filthy. He had disparaged Pinkie’s appearance but she had never looked as awful as this. ‘We need to dry out,’ he said finally. How he would have enjoyed Monty’s nice warm room and a soft chair to lie on.

The fox, naturally, cared nothing for looks or for the discomfort of being thoroughly wet. He was already busy wrenching off mouthfuls of plumage from the duck’s body. Some of the feathers wafted away and landed on the surface of the river, drifting downstream like a flotilla of tiny boats with curved prows.

Sammy looked around for a sunny patch of ground. He was content to let the fox deal with the preparation of the meal.

‘This is good meat,’ the old creature said as he tore off his first mouthful.

Sammy slumped down on the bank and made a worthy attempt to clean himself. Later he would eat too, but now he wanted to devote his thoughts to Pinkie and the next stage of his search.

The fox kept well out of sight during the rest of the day, his meagre body pressed to the cold stone under the arch of the bridge. Sammy dried his fur and wandered here and there, only joining the fox in the late afternoon to share his meal.

‘I haven’t felt so strong in an age,’ the ancient beast remarked. ‘The food’s put new heart into me. What do we do next?’

‘When it’s quite dark we’ll follow the road from the bridge. It could be very hazardous. And you’re not used to traffic, are you?’

‘No, I don’t seek out such things,’ the fox replied cheerily, ‘but if we have to meet it, I’ll be ready.’

‘No, no, we don’t meet it, we
mustn’t
meet it, ‘Sammy corrected him. ‘We avoid it at all costs. Otherwise –’

‘We’re dead, eh?’ the fox chipped in. ‘I get it. Well, I’ll be behind you, so you’ll see it first!’

Sammy was impatient for dusk. When at last he was satisfied it was quiet enough to proceed, he set off up the bank. The fox, who had spent most of his life short of food, grabbed the remnants of the mallard which he intended to carry along with him. There would be no waste; he would see to that.

The road was easy to find. There was no pavement. Shrubby plants and the occasional tree grew on either side. Hugging the extreme edge of the road, so that their sides brushed the vegetation, the two animals went forward with extreme wariness. There were no buildings of any kind. The road was quiet for a long time. Then, in the distance, they could see the brilliant light from a car’s headlamps. Sammy calmly made tracks into the thick vegetation. The fox followed him and they simply waited until the road was clear again. Thus they made their way along.

The half-eaten duck carcass was proving to be a burden. The fox’s jaws ached badly with the effort of lugging it around. Every so often he dropped it to give himself a rest and also to try a different grip. He had dropped it for the umpteenth time when Sammy glimpsed the approach of another vehicle. At this point along the road there was an almost impenetrable tangle of bramble and other plants which offered no immediate sanctuary. Sammy ran on quickly to look for a gap.

‘Here, Fox! Run!’ he called as soon as he found one, diving into the foliage himself.

The fox snatched up his prey, juggled with it to get a better hold, and started forward. But, unfamiliar as he was with the startling speed of a motor vehicle, he had lost too much time. The blinding light of the headlamps dazzled him and he lurched sideways. Sammy saw that the fox had put himself in peril. He burrowed through the thickly massed stems, clamped his teeth on the fox’s brush and yanked him backwards with all his might. It wasn’t forceful enough a pull to get the bewildered animal quite clear of the road, but just enough to allow a hair’s breadth of space between him and the car as it sped past. The yank on his tail made the fox squeal with pain so that he dropped the mallard again. It was promptly squashed by the car’s rear wheel.

Stunned and shocked, the fox stumbled into shelter. ‘I . . . I . . .’ he stammered and couldn’t find words to express his feelings.