Timba Comes Home (8 page)

I slunk across the lawn and under the summerhouse, a dusty, brick-strewn hollow, dimly lit by a rim of sunlight filtering through the foliage. A good hiding place. Or was it? I spied a gigantic
hole in the earth. I sniffed it, and, predictably, my fur started to ruff out with alarm. Hiding there would be bad news. Some kind of creature was asleep deep inside that dark hole. I retreated
with the utmost stealth, and belted back across the lawn to the doorstep. Phew!

I didn’t want to be a kitten any more. I wanted to be a cat. Eat, I thought, and returned to my dish where Angie had left me some tuna. I stuffed and stuffed, and staggered back to the
doorstep just in time to see a scaly pair of legs descending from the sky and two vast blue-grey wings. Shockingly huge. Surely birds couldn’t be that big?

My instinct took over and locked me motionless except for my fur bushing out . . . again. There was safety in stillness. Even a twitch of my ear or a blink of my eye would tell that dragon of a
bird that I was alive and edible. How I wished I’d stayed on the lovely red cushion. I wanted Angie. I wanted Vati. I even wanted Leroy!

The enormous bird didn’t look at me but unfurled its snake-like neck and stood on one leg at the edge of the pond, its eyes scrutinising the water while I imagined exactly what that long
yellow beak could do to a kitten.

At the same time, inside the house, Graham started to ‘sing’. ‘Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, AH.’

It was all too much for me.

This time instinct fired me towards the apple tree. In a terrible panic I fell over myself getting to it. My claws were brilliant. They hooked into the rough bark of the tree trunk. Thrilled to
find myself climbing, I pushed with my back legs, on, up the tree into a flat place between two branches. I paused there, my high-speed heartbeat way out of control, my tail spiky, my eyes staring
at the lofty blue-grey bird. He moved. His wings spread wide and he took off, effortlessly, and flew away towards the woods.

Bursting with pride at my achievement, I decided to make the most of it and stay in the apple tree. To find myself so good at climbing was awesome. I looked up into the tree’s mossy tangle
of branches against the sky. Why not go higher? I thought. The big bird had gone, the garden was quiet, and the sound of Graham’s ‘singing’ was inside the house and muffled.

Higher up, the branches were thinner and there were multiple choices for me. Which way to go? Inexperienced, I didn’t choose carefully, and, in my rush to get to the sky, I soon found the
climbing difficult. The spurs of leaves and clusters of green apples got in my way, and now I was clambering precariously along narrow twigs. My balance wasn’t mature enough to cope.

Climbing up to the sky didn’t seem such a good idea. The blue had gone, and heavy clouds steamed over the sun. A warning breeze chilled my fur and made the branch sway alarmingly. I looked
down at the lawn, and it was too far to fall. Then I discovered that turning round was impossible.

It didn’t help to have a feisty little wren hopping expertly around in the tree. It kept its stubby tail up and its beak open, squawking out dreadful curses and threats. The question of
how to get down became paramount. Even if I did manage a three-point turn, I’d still have to get down the steep trunk.

Jessica would have shown me how, or Vati and I might have figured it out together. Loneliness came over me like one of those clouds overhead. Extra-large raindrops began to fall, harder and
faster, splashing into my fur. Soon I could feel water chilling my skin.

I was in serious trouble.

The meows of a lonely kitten are LOUD, and mine filled the garden and the land beyond, but nobody came. I must have stayed there for hours, soaking wet and scared. Occasionally someone walked
along the lane and paused at the gate to listen. The thick foliage made me invisible.

The rain stopped but the leaves dripped on me and the tree shook in the wind. Graham appeared, and he wasn’t ‘singing’. He was calling me! ‘Timba, Timba.’ He
brought my dish outside, tapping it with a spoon, and it had food in it . . . something deliciously meaty. I wailed and wailed.

‘Where are you?’ Graham put the dish down and picked his way across the wet grass. ‘Surely you’re not up there?’ He peered into the apple tree and we made eye
contact. A blessed moment, but he spoilt it by saying, ‘You silly kitten.’

He walked away and came back with a clanking ladder. ‘Don’t you worry, little one. Good old Graham will rescue you.’ He climbed the ladder and stretched out his hand to me.
‘Come on, baby.’ I managed to move the short distance to his hand and this time it felt warm and comforting. Humans can be awesome.

‘You’re soaking wet. Come on, come to Graham.’ He held me firmly, put me on his massive shoulder, and climbed down to the ground. He took a folded white hanky out of his pocket
and dried me with it. We stared into each other’s eyes. ‘I promise not to sing,’ he said, and I stretched up to touch noses with him to show my appreciation.

‘When I’m a cat,’ I said, sending him the thought, ‘I’ll be your best buddy.’

‘Aw, what a sweet kitten. He’s so fluffy.’

‘Here, you hold him.’ Angie carefully handed me to Laura and I liked her straight away. She smelled strongly of horses, and her brown eyes were happy and kind. I crawled inside her
jacket and listened to her heart while Angie told me who she was. ‘Laura is our neighbour,’ she explained, ‘and she’s got all these lovely horses and ponies. Some of them
are rescue ponies, and they live in the field at the bottom of the garden.’

‘I hope the children will get a look at Timba,’ Laura said, and I came out from inside her jacket and touched noses.

‘Oh they will . . . definitely,’ said Angie, ‘and I’ve invited Leroy to come to our Saturday club, if that’s OK with you, Laura? He really needs a bit of horse
therapy.’

I meowed at the mention of Leroy’s name. I was anxious and Angie picked that up immediately. ‘He treated Timba VERY badly, but only from ignorance, not intention . . . I hope
Timba’s forgiven him . . . have you, Timba?’

I did a yes-meow, which was a skill I’d been developing. I could now do yes-meows, purr-meows, call-meows, and fragmented squeaks which I used in conversation only with humans. Then there
was the extended-meow, a really useful kind of wail to use in emergencies, and beyond that was the amplified extended-meow, strictly for special occasions.

‘You’ll be nice to Leroy, won’t you, Timba?’ Angie asked and I replied with a silent stare. I needed to think about that. What to do if Leroy tried to kidnap me.

By the end of the week I was much more confident. I’d met the horses, and the rabbits who were in wire runs and cages, and the chickens. None of them took much notice of me, but Angie and
Graham gave me lots of attention. Graham persuaded me to get used to his ‘singing’ by humming tunes to me when I was stretched out on his chest. He did it so gently and I quite liked
the vibration . . . maybe it was his way of purring, I reasoned.

One night I became aware that all was not well between him and Angie.

She made him a special meal and put flowers and candles on the table, then rushed upstairs and came down in a slinky dress that sparkled like the night sky. I thought she looked beautiful.

But Graham didn’t arrive. Angie paced between the kitchen and the front window, watching for his car. She got more and more agitated, pulling trays of food in and out of the oven, turning
it on, then off.

‘WHY is his mobile switched off? What is he doing?’ she raged, and hurled the oven gloves across the kitchen. ‘This meal is RUINED!’

I sat quietly in my basket on the red cushion, tired from my evening playtime, but I couldn’t go to sleep while Angie was stressing.

It was dark outside and the candles on her table had gone out when Graham’s car finally swung into the drive.

Angie was waiting for him at the door, a burning spot of colour on each cheek. Her bust and her chin were lifted high with fury. ‘Where have you BEEN?’ she demanded.

Graham looked evasive. ‘Sorry, love, I am a bit late.’

‘A bit late? It’s ten o’clock, and our meal is ruined. It was ready three hours ago. And why was your mobile turned off?’

‘Calm down, and let me get inside.’ Graham held up his hand in a sort of peace gesture.

‘Don’t you tell me to calm down!’ Angie had sparks flying from her aura. She flung her hands in the air. ‘Not only is it our anniversary, but you knew I was cooking a
special meal. I’ve been to endless trouble over it, Graham. It’s an insult to me, it’s discourteous and . . . and . . . ’ She gave a growl of rage. ‘It’s an
insult to the UNIVERSE to waste food and my time.’

He sighed. ‘Don’t go on about the Universe, Angie. I’m really tired.’

‘You’re tired! What do you think I am? I’m absolutely beside myself with FURY, Graham. How dare you treat me like this?’

He stalked past her and flung his coat over a chair. ‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come home at all.’

Angie gave a howl of frustration, her fists clenched in the air. ‘I give up,’ she said in a high-pitched voice. ‘Your dried-up meal is in the oven. Get it yourself. I’m
going to bed. GOODNIGHT.’

‘If you’d just stop being so angry—’ began Graham, but Angie was already halfway up the stairs.

I heard the bedroom door slam and Angie cried, ‘Why is the Universe doing this to me?’

It went quiet, and Graham came over to my basket. ‘Hello, Timba,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been a bad boy.’

‘What is the matter, Timba?’ Angie scooped me out from behind the fridge and tried to stroke my hedgehog fur. ‘Such big black eyes. Why are you so
scared?’

Clinging to her shoulder, I stared out of the window. Sniffing around the garden was a dog, and it wasn’t any old dog. It was Harriet, the dog who had taken my brother and sister.

When I first saw her I don’t think my paws actually touched the ground. I nosedived into the house and fell over the mat. My chin stung from the impact. The sensation of my fur standing up
by itself along my back and tail was like being prickled all over . . . losing control. Not pleasant.

Angie followed my gaze.

‘Oops!’ she said. ‘A dog in the garden. Someone left the gate open . . . probably me. You stay there, Timba. It’s only old Harriet.’

She put me on the windowsill where I sat in draconian pose. What was Angie going to do? I practised growling in case she brought Harriet into the house. I watched stiffly as she went out
there.

‘Hello, DARLING,’ she said . . . to the dog! She had called that dog ‘darling’!

Harriet had the grace to look ashamed; obviously she knew she shouldn’t have been there.

‘Where’s your mum?’ Angie made a fuss of Harriet and took hold of her collar. At the same time an old woman in a funny hat appeared at the gate.

‘Oh there you are. Bad dog! I’m so sorry, Angie,’ she said.

‘No problem, Freda,’ Angie said kindly. ‘It’s my fault for leaving the gate open. Not your fault, is it, Harriet? Lovely girl. Oh I wish we had a dog. Graham hates
them.’

‘But I see you’ve got a kitten . . . there in the window,’ said Freda. ‘A little beauty! Where did he come from?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Angie.

The two women stood in the garden with Harriet firmly clipped to a lead (Phew!). The danger had passed, and it was time for me to wash and smooth my annoying fur. I couldn’t hear much of
the conversation but sparks were popping from both the women’s auras. They were gazing earnestly at each other, and waving their hands around.

‘Where did you say Leroy found the kitten?’

‘Lying in the grass in Frog Lane . . . on a Friday.’

‘Then . . . it has to be the third kitten,’ said Freda. ‘Harriet went back a third time, and she was gone for ages, but came back with nothing.’

‘So what happened to the other two?’

The woman walked over to the gate and leaned on it, talking intently and quietly now. Suddenly Angie gave one of her screams. ‘Oh God, Freda . . . this was meant to be! I’m going
over there right now. Thank you, thank you, thank you!’

Once Freda and Harriet had gone, Angie skipped into the kitchen and grabbed her car keys and handbag. ‘I won’t be long, Timba. You stay there, and I might . . . just MIGHT . . .
bring you a surprise.’

The key turned in the lock, and I watched, puzzled, as Angie’s car drove out faster than normal. Angie didn’t often go out after work. She’d change into jeans and a T-shirt and
play with me, or carry me around. It was our special time before Graham got home.

I went to my dish. She’d forgotten to feed me! Where could Angie be going?

The Spirit Lion came to me at certain times, and in certain places, always when I was alone. On that summer afternoon, I braved the cat flap and headed out into the sunshine.
In the back garden was a circle of stones in the long grass, and it seemed to be a place of mystery. It gave me a buzz to sit there and feel the heat of the sun reflected from the crystalline
stones. A time to be still, and listen, and sense what was coming through the glistening light.

The paws of the Spirit Lion were so stealthy that they appeared silently, one each side of me like pillars of light. I felt him shuffling, shifting himself around me with the utmost care. Then I
saw his cascading white mane, his soft muzzle, his benevolent eyes, and I felt totally safe, and locked into a trance.

The words came slowly from his ancient mind, and this time he called me by my name.

‘Timba, Timba . . .’ The resonance was like Graham’s voice humming through me. ‘Have confidence in the power you have been given. Don’t be afraid. Remember who you
are, Timba . . . the leader, the best kitten.’

I listened, fluffed out with pride.

‘It’s not over with Leroy,’ he said. ‘This child was born to help the White Lions. Do not hide from him. He needs you, Timba. Always go to him. Always welcome him with
your tail up.’

‘But I don’t want to be Leroy’s cat,’ I said. ‘I want to stay with Angie.’

‘You won’t be Leroy’s cat, or Angie’s cat,’ breathed the Spirit Lion. ‘You are your own cat.’