Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
The Cat Mummy
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
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Epub ISBN: 9781407045337
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THE CAT MUMMY
A CORGI YEARLING BOOK 978 0 440 86857 6
Doubleday edition published 2001
Corgi Yearling edition first published 2002
This edition published 2009
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Text copyright © Jacqueline Wilson, 2001
Illustrations copyright © Nick Sharratt, 2001
The right of Jacqueline Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
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About the Book
I get lots of letters from lovely children who like reading my books. They tell me all sorts of things about themselves. They chat about their mum and dad, and they often say they love them a lot. They mention their brothers and sisters, and they never say they love them, though I’m sure deep down they do. They always go on about their mean, bossy older sister or their incredibly irritating little brother who scribbles all over their books!
They also mention pets in these letters, usually in the very first paragraph. Some children can’t have any pets, because their parents don’t like the mess, or there’s not enough room in a small flat, or because someone is allergic to fur. They tell me this mournfully, and frequently make up pretend dogs or cats to compensate.
The children who are lucky enough to have a real all their heart. I get told their pets’ names and special tricks and habits and there are frequent little drawings of Jason the Dog and Jumper the Cat and Gertie the Goldfish. The saddest letters of all are when a very special pet sickens and dies. The letters are often tear-stained, with big wobbly printing, and I often feel sad when I write back.
I realised that for many children the death of a pet is the first real sad time in their lives, so I decided to write about this in my book The Cat Mummy. It is a sad story and might make you cry a little bit, but there are lots of funny parts too, and I promise it has a happy ending.
I re-read it after my own dear cat Whisky died, and felt comforted!
To Nancy (who loves cats)
CHAPTER ONE
Mabel
Do you have any pets? My best friend Sophie had got four kittens called Sporty, Scary, Baby and Posh. My second-best friend Laura has a golden Labrador dog called Dustbin. My sort-of-boyfriend Aaron has got a dog too, a black mongrel called Liquorice Allsorts, though he gets called Licky for short. My worst enemy Moyra has got a boa constrictor snake called Crusher. Well, she says she has. I’ve never been to her house so I don’t know if she’s telling fibs.
I think Sophie is ever so lucky. I love going round to her house to play with her kittens. They’re so sweet, the way they scamper around everywhere. Sophie’s mum gets cross sometimes because they knock things over and they’ve pulled off all the curtain cords but the kittens don’t care a bit when she wags her finger at them. The only thing they’re the slightest bit frightened of is a little clockwork frog. They used to run away from it but now Scary is getting quite bold and dares stretch out a paw to try to catch it. I could play with Sophie’s kittens all day long.
I’ve been to tea at Laura’s house too and made friends with Dustbin. He’s a cream dog with big dark shiny eyes and if you hold out your hand he’ll shake paws with you. I know exactly why he’s called Dustbin. He eats all the time! He’s meant to be on a diet as he’s getting very plump but he’s forever on the scrounge. He especially likes crisps. He even licks out the bag.
Aaron’s dog Licky is great at licking too. Aaron takes Licky up to the park after school. My gran and Aaron’s mum sit on the bench and have a good gossip and play with Aaron’s little sister Aimee and we take Licky for a run.
Then we go on the roundabout and Licky sits on Aaron’s lap and barks like crazy because he’s having so much fun. Then sometimes if we nag and plead enough my gran or Aaron’s mum will buy us a whippy ice-cream from the van at the park gate. Aaron always shares his ice-cream with Licky. It’s not really fair on Aaron so I tried sharing my cone with Licky too, but Gran stopped me. She whispered that I mustn’t, because of dog germs. My gran has a bit of a germ fixation. She’s not very keen on pets. Apart from Mabel.
I don’t know what she’d make of Moyra’s pet snake, Crusher. I don’t know what I’d make of Crusher either. I’m not that keen on snakes actually. Moyra sits behind me at school and today she leant forwards and shot out her arm and wrapped it right round my neck and whispered, ‘Watch out, Verity, here comes Crusher!’
I knew it was only Moyra, and I’m pretty certain Crusher doesn’t even exist – but I still screamed. Everyone giggled. Moyra practically wet herself she laughed so much. Miss Smith didn’t tell me off for screaming. She didn’t tell Moyra off either. She just raised her lovely black eyebrows and said, ‘Settle down, girls’.
I love Miss Smith. She’s a new teacher, the nicest we’ve ever had. I hate Moyra. If there really is a Crusher I hope he wakes up one morning and takes a good look at Moyra’s beady eyes and twitchy nose, mistakes her for a giant mouse, and GOBBLES HER UP.
I certainly wouldn’t want a snake for a pet, but at least it would be something exciting to boast about.
I have a pet. She is a tabby cat called Mabel. I love her dearly. But she is very, very, very boring. She doesn’t do anything. She just sleeps. Sometimes I leave her curled up on my bed when I go to school and when I come home there she still is, in exactly the same position. She doesn’t go out at night and run round having wild encounters with big bad tom cats. Not my Mabel.
She stays indoors, dozes all evening, and then sleeps all night, back on my bed. She likes to lie on my feet like a live hot-water bottle.
She’s about as playful as a hot-water bottle too. I can’t believe she was ever a cute little kitten like Sporty, Scary, Baby and Posh. You could run a clockwork frog right over Mabel and she wouldn’t budg
e. She’s never stalked or killed anything in her life. She doesn’t know that’s the way cats are supposed to hunt food. She is happy to amble into the kitchen and wait for Gran to open her tin of Whiskas. It’s the only exercise she takes all day.
Gran says I’ve got to remember Mabel is very, very old. Mabel has been very, very old ever since I can remember. She was my mum’s cat.
I haven’t got a mum. She died the day I was born. That’s almost all I know. Gran still can’t talk about Mum without her eyes going watery. Even Grandad cries. So I don’t talk about my mum because I don’t want to upset them.
I’ve got a dad but I don’t see him all that often because he’s left for work before I get up and he’s nearly always still at work when I go to bed. I once heard Gran say my dad is married to his job. Just so long as he doesn’t marry a real lady. I definitely don’t want a stepmother.
I’ve read all about stepmothers in fairy stories. They don’t have a good image. Laura’s got a stepdad and she certainly doesn’t think much of him. He’s the one who put poor Dustbin on a diet. He even suggested Laura’s mum should go on a diet and made her upset about having a big bottom – which she can’t help.
Thank goodness Dad doesn’t seem interested in any ladies, with big or little bottoms. He hardly ever talks about Mum but he once said she was the loveliest woman in the whole world and no-one could ever replace her. This was a great relief.
I love my dad. He sometimes takes me out for treats on Saturdays, just him and me. For my last birthday he took me all the way on the train to Paris and Disneyland, which was fantastic – and he bought me a giant Minnie Mouse doll. I have her in my bed every night. It gets a bit crowded with Mabel as well.
People are sometimes sorry for me because I haven’t got a mum. Sophie once put her arms round me and said it must be so awful. I was bad then and made myself look so sad that Sophie would be specially sweet to me, but I really don’t mind a bit not having a mum. I don’t miss her because I never knew her. The only time I get upset is when we go to visit my mum’s grave. It’s very pretty, with a white headstone, and the words Beloved Wife and Daughter in curly writing. Gran always arranges freesias in a little vase. They’re my mum’s favourite flowers. I can’t help thinking about my poor mum underneath the pink and yellow flowers and the white headstone in the dark, dirty earth. There are worms. I hate thinking about my mum being buried.
I try to imagine her alive instead. I’ll tell you a very private secret. I sometimes talk about my mum to Mabel, because Mabel doesn’t ever get upset.
I talk and talk and talk about my mum. Mabel listens. When she’s not asleep.
CHAPTER TWO
Where’s Mabel?
When I got home from school I ran into the hall and stepped straight into this little mess of cat sick.
‘Y-u-c-k!’
I was wearing open-toed sandals, which made it a lot worse. I hopped around going, ‘Yuck Yuck Yuck’ and Gran sighed and hurried me into the kitchen and got a bowl of water and a cloth and some disinfectant.
Mabel was dithering at the end of the hall, hanging her head.
‘Honestly, Mabel! Why do you have to throw up right where I’m going to walk in it? What have you been eating, you naughty cat? You’re disgusting!’
Mabel drooped and slunk away.
‘Yes, you jolly well should be ashamed,’ I said.
‘Don’t be too hard on Mabel, Verity,’ said Gran. ‘I don’t think she’s very well. That’s the second time she’s been sick – and she’s had a little accident too.’
‘Mabel’s always having little accidents,’ I said.
She’s so lazy she doesn’t amble over to her litter tray in time.
‘Mabel isn’t getting any younger, you know,’ said Gran.
‘You’re not getting any younger, Gran, but you don’t sick up your food or do little wees all over the place,’ I said, giggling.
‘You cheeky baggage,’ said Gran, pretending to give me a smack on the bottom.
She laughed, but she still looked a bit worried. My tummy clenched.
‘Gran, there’s nothing seriously wrong with Mabel, is there?’ I asked. ‘She has just got a little tummy upset, hasn’t she?’
Gran hesitated. ‘I hope so. I think she’s just getting older, dear, like I said.’
‘Maybe we should take her to the vet’s?’
‘I’m not sure there’s much they can do for her.’
My tummy clenched tighter.
‘But she will be all right, won’t she, Gran?’ I said. ‘I mean . .. she’s not going to die or anything?’
I felt myself blushing as if I’d said a really rude word. We hardly ever say words like ‘die’ or ‘death’ in my family.
‘Well . . .’ said Gran, swallowing. ‘We’ve all got to pass away at some time.’
‘But not for ages and ages. Mabel isn’t going to die soon, is she?’
Gran didn’t answer properly. She just wriggled her shoulders. ‘Shall I make some of my special home-made lemonade? And then maybe you’d like to watch television?’
Gran only makes her lemonade on special days and she usually nags me not to watch television. She likes me to read a book or draw a picture or play in the garden.
I started to feel panicky. Gran seemed to think that Mabel might be going to die soon. It sounds so silly but I’d never ever thought about Mabel dying. I knew she was old but I sort of assumed she’d stagger on for ever on her soft spreading paws.
I was starting to feel really, really mean for scolding poor Mabel. I wanted to give her a big cuddle and say sorry.
‘Back in a minute, Gran,’ I said, and I went charging upstairs to my bedroom, Mabel’s usual lurking spot.
My bed was empty. Well, Minnie Mouse was lying there with her yellow heels sticking up at an angle – but no Mabel.
‘Where’s Mabel?’ I said, tossing Minnie onto the floor.
I looked underneath my bed. Mabel might be really embarrassed about being sick on the hall carpet. She’d hidden underneath my bed in the past. But she wasn’t there now.
‘Mabel?’ I called. ‘Where are you, Mabel?’
I looked all round my bedroom. I searched through the toys and clothes on the carpet. I looked on the windowsill behind the curtain. There was no sign of her anywhere.
I went to look in Gran and Grandad’s bedroom. Though Gran always kept their door shut to stop Mabel exploring, Mabel had long ago learnt the knack of nudging it sharply with her hip so that the catch sprang open. I looked on the bed, the rug, the rocking chair, even under the dressing table.
I looked in the bathroom although Mabel detests water and shrieks if I splash her when she noses in and I’m having a bath.
I went charging downstairs and into the kitchen. Gran was stirring her lemonade.
‘Gran, I can’t find Mabel!’
‘She’s not on your bed? Though I must say it’s not a very hygienic habit, especially if Mabel’s poorly. We don’t want her being sick on your bed now, do we?’
I wanted Mabel so badly I wouldn’t have cared.
‘Where is she, Gran?’
‘What about the living room?’
One of Mabel’s favourite snoozing places is the rug in front of the fire. The fire isn’t on during the summer but Mabel doesn’t seem to notice. She lies there as if she’s toasting herself, first lying on one side, then after a little yawn and stretch, settling down to give the other side a turn. I sometimes sit on the chair by the fire and gently rest my bare feet on Mabel’s back. She feels like my big furry slipper.
But she wasn’t on the rug, though there were cat hairs in a Mabel shape to show she’d had a little lie-down since Gran vacuumed this morning. Mabel wasn’t in the chairs or on the sofa or under the table. She wasn’t anywhere at all.
‘Gran, I can’t find her!’
‘Mabel?’ Gran called. ‘Puss puss puss! Come on, old lady. Ma-bel!’
Mabel didn’t come.
‘I wonder if she’s in th
e garden?’ said Gran. ‘Here’s your lemonade anyway, Verity. And a chockie bickie.’
Gran is the loveliest gran ever, but like all grans she often treats me like a baby. Chockie bickie! That’s the way you talk to really little kids.
I ate the chocolate biscuit in two bites, drained the lemonade in the glass, and then dashed off to search the garden for Mabel.
She can get out from her cat flap in the back door, but recently she’s stayed indoors. She had a worrying encounter with another cat who pounced on her. It was the big ginger tom from up the road. He didn’t really do her any harm and I managed to chase him away, but Mabel went all quivery for ages afterwards.
She hasn’t set one paw in the garden since.
I still searched it high and low. Grandad searched it too when he came home. Then he said he’d have a look round all the streets for her.
‘I want to go with you, Grandad,’ I said.
Gran and Grandad didn’t think this a good idea. They wouldn’t say why at first. I pestered them.
‘Something sad might have happened to Mabel, darling,’ Gran said eventually. ‘We wouldn’t want you to see and be upset.’
‘What sort of something?’ I asked – though I knew.
‘Mabel might have been run over, dear. She’s getting very old and slow, and I don’t think she can see too well,’ said Gran.
‘But I need to help Grandad look for her! What if she has been hurt? I can’t stand thinking of Mabel in pain, all lost and frightened.’
‘Grandad will do his best to find her, Verity,’ said Gran.
But Grandad came back home shaking his head. There was still no sign of Mabel anywhere.
‘I want her so much!’ I said, and I started to cry.
This time I was glad Gran treats me like a baby. She sat me on her lap and rocked me and Grandad read me a story. I stopped crying – but it didn’t stop me aching for Mabel.