I AM THE CAT

William Stafford

Description

Dick Whittington is familiar from history, folklore and pantomime but never before has his story been told like this: by that faithful companion, his cat! Join the pair on a journey that takes them across medieval England to London, and from London to exotic climes and back again in this humorous take on a well-known tale - with a few additional twists and surprises along the way.

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 14 mars 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781782342953
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Title Page
I AM THE CAT
Dick Whittington’s Companion Tells His Side Of The Story
By
William Stafford



Publisher Information
I Am The Cat Published in 2012 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of William Stafford to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2012 William Stafford
All the characters and events in this book are fictitious, any resemblance to actual events or characters is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.



Dedication
For Wincey,
Best Dick in the business



On the Road
“A talking cat!” the Boy exclaimed - well, he would. Anyone would. He was staring too, which I imagine would also be a typical response. I cursed my carelessness and occupied myself with licking my front paw, avoiding eye contact and taking myself out of the conversation. Anyone happening along that uneven and rutted road would assume he was railing at some other cat.
He got to his feet and came over to where I was performing my ablutions. He knelt before me, trying to catch my eye. Please! A little privacy! I might want to lick my personal bits.
“Say it again!” he urged me. “Say something else! Say my name!”
I continued to ignore him. I didn’t say his name although I was thinking it all right.
Dick.
I turned around and gave him the one-eyed stare. Let him talk to that ’cause my face ain’t listening.
- I realise I am getting ahead of myself. I am new to this storytelling business. Come to that, I am new to this cat business too. Perhaps I ought to explain.
First of all, I am older than I look. I don’t know how cats’ ages are calculated. I know dogs have some seven-year thing going on but that’s beside the point.
You see, I’m not really a cat. You probably already had your doubts; cats don’t usually recount their life stories - well, not in any way humans can decipher. You might say a picture paints a thousand words but we prefer - or rather, they prefer - Oh, I’m confused! - cats prefer to tell their stories through the medium of stink. They - but again, I’m getting ahead of myself. I think I better start at the beginning, which is what I should have done in the first place.
I have too many thoughts, you see, crowding my consciousness from all directions. You humans have it easy, with your linear experiences of time. I have seen things - such things! - that won’t take place until after you are all gone. I witnessed your beginnings too. I knew you when you were little more than mudskippers lurching around at the water’s edge.
I must try to keep focussed on the story I have to tell. I ask for your patience, crave your indulgence; I take a deep breath (breathing! There’s a thing!) and start again.
Ahem.
The Boy found me in a barn. He was pleased to see me. I just wanted to be left alone. I wasn’t used to my new body, my new form, and I wanted time to stretch my legs and get the feel of it before anything else could happen.
Fat chance.
Cooing and clucking, the Boy gathered me in his arms and pressed me to his chest. I wriggled and struggled, bending my new back in a bid to get away. Then I realised I was now in possession of a set of needles at the end of my extremities. I sank my claws into the rough fabric of his shirt. The Boy yowled and dropped me but did not run away. He was lucky I didn’t take a swipe at his face.
He dropped to his knees and put that as yet unscratched face close to mine. What was he, an idiot? I shrank from him, my mind racing. I tried to think, from all my aeons of observation, what a cat would do in such a situation. I froze. I became a reasonable impersonation of a cat statue, a tribute to a much-loved pet. That was right, wasn’t it? Or am I thinking of rabbits in headlights?
Either way, the Boy persisted with his attempts to make friends. His voice was soft and low. He instructed me not to be afraid and to go towards him. I didn’t move. Even though my face was fixed in a decidedly un-feline grin, I thought it best not to move. The Boy didn’t notice or he knew little of the ways of cats - as little as I did at that point - and he twitched his fingers as though that would draw me to him.
I know it’s only your fingers, I wanted to tell him in my most disdainful tone. I know it’s not a (flying thing) bird or (squeaking thing) mouse. But I had enough presence of mind to keep my mouth shut and my tongue still - even if I was grinning like a bloody fool - like the cat in that story, you know it, the one that disappears leaving nothing behind but his grin. How I wished I could disappear! But I couldn’t. For the first time in my existence, I had lost that ability. I was stuck. Stuck as a cat, a stupid mortal cat in a barn with an idiot of a human boy giving me the come-on.
Idiot. As if I’d approach a stranger with no treats to offer.
I waited until he glanced away and finally let the grin drop from my aching face. He was responding to the sound of human voices. The way he perked up at the word being barked repeatedly from outside the barn led me to conclude this was his name.
“Dick!” cried the voice. It was like the squawk of a tropical bird. It grew louder as the squawker approached. The doorway was soon filled by the figure of a human female, older than the Boy, and reeking of cooked things, of fat and flour. The warmth emanating from her body was at odds with the stern expression brutalising her face and the dun colours of her attire. This was no macaw. And she was blocking the way out.
“Mother!” said the Boy, standing up.
“What are you doing, footling around in here for?” the woman griped. “Useless waste of space.”
“Look, Mother!” The Boy sounded cheerful, as though he was attempting to distract the woman from her aggressive mood. His face fell when he saw the empty space where I had been. I watched him from behind some hay bales.
“Idiot,” muttered the woman. I felt affronted. If anyone was to call the Boy an idiot, it was going to be me. I saw him first.
Well, that’s not true. These two humans were obviously well acquainted. He was her offspring, her spawn or whatever it is they call them. Kitten? No, that’s not it. Child.
The cuff she awarded the back of his head didn’t strike me (well, it struck him, obviously) as particularly or demonstrably maternal.
“Get back to the kitchen with you!” she scolded him. He flinched lest her raised arm deliver another blow. “Useless, idle creature.”
“But he was there, Mother! A cat!” He continued to point at my vacated space. The woman’s face scrunched up. The Boy flinched again, but the woman was already leaving.
“I don’t care if it’s the bloody man in the moon,” she squawked. “You have chores to do and errands to run. Yon cat can shift for himself. Now, come on!”
The Boy gave the interior of the barn one last wistful glance. I hunkered down even though he couldn’t see me. The poor lad actually looked sad.
“Dick!” the woman barked from outside. He started and scurried out. I heard him say something about a cat being useful at keeping the rats off the grain. There was the sound of a door slamming and a head being smacked and that was that.
What a good idea!
It was the last voice I wanted to hear. I wailed inwardly. Of all the barns on all the worlds, he had to materialise in this one.
I’ve never had a brother. We don’t go in for that sort of thing but this particular being has plagued my existence since Day One (literally, Day One) so I suppose he’s the closest thing to a brother I would ever have. An evil twin.
A beam of sunlight from a high window was illuminating a square of the floor. Dust motes dancing in this spotlight began to swirl and move with more organisation than is usual. A shape coalesced from the dust and within seconds my evil twin brother was leering at me in physical form. He moved his front paws up and down to model his new shape.
“What do you think?”
“You bum looks big,” I jeered from behind my hay bales. He twisted his head backwards to check the veracity of my declaration. He flicked his scaly pink tail dismissively.
“Well, I like it. I think it suits me.”
“It’s definitely you,” I agreed. “Of all the creatures on this planet, the rat sums you up perfectly.”
“Intelligent and adaptable,” he spoke like he was on a shopping channel. “Survival skills second only to the cockroach.”
“Just go!” I told him, although I might have used stronger language. “Leave me alone.”
He laughed. His black bead eyes flashed in the sunbeam and his buck teeth, yellow and sinister, moved liked blades.
“Oh, no,” and he used our word that approximates ‘brother’. “I can’t leave you to your - exile all on your own.”
I bristled at the word. Exile! It was his bloody fault! Why, I ought to -
Then it struck me that I could.
“I’m glad you’ve chosen such a form,” I called out, before leaping onto the top of the hay bale. “I’m going to enjoy tearing you apart.”
I pounced but landed on nothing but the sunlit square. My eyes darted around the barn. Where had he skittered off to?
He hadn’t skittered anywhere. In a puff of straw, he materialised on top of the hay bale.
“You forget, brother,” he shook his head as though sad, “I am not bound to this physical realm, whereas