Best Mates. Michael Morpurgo

must have spent an hour or more nursing that cat, and all the time I didn’t say a word to her: I knew she’d cry if I talked to her.

      Mum came in after a bit to wash up. She bent over the basket. “He’ll be all right, dear,” she said. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll see, he’ll be right as rain by the morning. Why don’t you see if he’ll take some warm milk?”

      Linda nodded. I knew she wouldn’t do it herself; she’d have to turn round. She hated showing her face when she was upset. I put the milk on the stove and Mum cleared up. Linda put the saucer down by the basket and Snug went up to it almost immediately. He drank slowly, crouched over the milk, his pink tongue shooting clean into the saucer.

      What happened next, happened so suddenly that none of us had time to react. Mum bent down to put some potato peel in the bin; she lifted it and opened the door to empty it. In a flash Snug was through the door, and we just stood there, the three of us, Mum clutching her bin, me holding the saucepan and Linda, her eyes red with crying.

      Linda rushed after him, calling into the night. We all tried. Even Dad came away from the telly and called. But Snug would not come.

      We tried to convince Linda that he’d be all right. Dad put his arm around her and stroked her hair before we went up to bed. “If he’d been really ill, love, he wouldn’t have taken any milk.” He was a great dad sometimes. “He’ll be back tomorrow, you’ll see.”

      We went off to school as usual the next morning. No one even mentioned Snug at breakfast. Usually we went along the road to school to meet up with Tom, but this morning Linda wanted to go through the fields. We left the house early and went off through the farm buildings where Snug used to hunt. Linda searched round the tractor sheds and calf pens, while I clambered over the straw in the Dutch barn. It was no good: there wasn’t enough time. We had to get to school.

      “It’ll be all right, Lin,” I said. “Don’t worry.” It was the best I could do.

      School went slowly that day. Linda was even quieter than usual: she spent play-time looking over the fence into the orchard behind the playground, and during lessons she kept looking out of the window, and I could see her getting more and more worried.

      Lunch came and went, and it started to rain: by the time we were let out it was pouring down. Linda grabbed her coat and rushed out. There was still no sign of Snug at home. We searched and called until it was dark and Mum came home from work. The time for his meal passed; still no Snug.

      Dad came home a little later than usual. We were in the front room, Linda and I, and we heard him talking quietly to Mum in the kitchen.

      We were mucking about trying to mend my train set on the floor when Dad came in. He didn’t flop down in his armchair but stood there all tall and near the ceiling, and he hadn’t taken his coat off. It was dripping on the carpet.

      “Lin,” he said. “I’m sorry, love, but we’ve found Snug. He’s been killed, run over. Tom’s father found him down by the main road. It must have been quick, he wouldn’t have felt anything. I’m sorry, love.”

      Linda turned away.

      “Are you sure it’s him?” I said. “There’s lots of cats like him about.”

      Linda ran out of the room and upstairs and Mum went up after her.

      “It’s him all right – I’ve got him in the shed outside. I thought we’d bury him tomorrow, if Lin wants us to.” Dad sat down. “It’s him all right, poor old thing.”

      “Can I have a look at him, Dad, just to be sure?” I said. I didn’t feel like crying; somehow I couldn’t feel sad enough. I was interested more than upset. It was strange because I really liked that cat.

      Dad took me over to the shed and switched on the light. There he was, all stretched out in a huge cereal carton. He barely covered the bottom of it. His fur was matted and soaked. There was no blood or anything; he just lay there all still and his eyes closed.

      “Well?” Dad mumbled behind me. “It’s him, isn’t it?” It was him, the same gingerish tummy, and the same tabby markings. He didn’t look quite so big lying in that box.

      “He’s so still, Dad,” I said. “Why isn’t he all broken up after being run over? You’d think he’d be squashed or something.”

      “When you carry him, he doesn’t feel right, but I expect he was thrown clear on impact,” Dad said. “Go on now, you’d better go and see Lin.”

      When I got up to my bedroom, Mum was in with Linda and I could hear a lot of crying. I hate that: I never know what to say to people when they’re like that. I went and lay on my bed and tried to feel sadder than I really was. I was more sorry about Lin than old Snug. He’d had a fairly good run after all, lots of food and warmth and love. What more could a cat want? And for some reason I got to thinking of a party the mice would be holding in the Dutch barn that night to celebrate Snug’s death.

      I was down early in the morning before anyone else. I’d forgotten to feed the goldfish the night before. I was dropping the feed in the tank, when I heard Snug’s voice outside the kitchen door. There was no mistake. It was his usual “purrrrrp … p … p” – a sort of demand for immediate entry. I wasn’t hearing things either. I opened the door and in he came, snaking his way round the doorpost, as happy and contented with himself as ever.

      I screamed upstairs, “He’s here! He’s back! Snug’s back!”

      Well of course they didn’t take long to get down-stairs, and Linda was all weeping over him and examining him as if she couldn’t believe it.

      Dad came back from the shed in his slippers and dressing gown. “Lin, I’m sorry, love, but it’s amazing: that cat’s the spitting image of Snug. Honest he is.”

      Lin wasn’t even listening, and I must admit I felt quite happy myself. It was a Saturday morning, Snug had come back from the dead and I was playing football that afternoon.

      Dad and I buried the other cat after breakfast. We dug a hole in the woods on the other side of the stream and wrapped him in one of Dad’s old gardening jackets.

      When we got back, I saw Dawnie from school in the garden with Linda. Mum met us by the gate. “It was Dawn’s cat,” she said. “It’s been missing for a couple of days and it’s just like Snug. She wants to see where you’ve buried it.”

      

       The silver swan, who living had no note,

       When death approached, unlocked her silent

       throat:

       Leaning her breast against the reedy shore

       Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more.

      Orlando Gibbons

      A swan came to my loch one day, a silver swan. I was fishing for trout in the moonlight. She came flying in above me, her wings singing in the air. She circled the loch twice, and then landed, silver, silver in the moonlight.

      I stood and watched her as she arranged her wings behind her and sailed out over the loch, making it entirely her own. I stayed as late as I could, quite unable to leave her.

      I went down to the loch every day after that, but not to fish for trout, simply to watch my silver swan.

      In those early days I took great care not to frighten her away, keeping myself still and hidden in the shadow of the alders. But even so, she knew I was there – I was sure of it.

      Within a week I would find her cruising along the lochside, waiting for me when I arrived in the early mornings. I took to bringing some bread crusts with me. She would