A SMALL GIRL'S PLAN
Jinny went out of the room without replying. But the idea had taken root in her mind. During recess on Monday morning she talked to Miss Johnson about the kitten.
Miss Johnson's character made her a certain ally. She had shocked the appointments board by declaring that it was as important to teach children to love animals as to teach them to read and write, and she had made some unheard-of innovations, not all of which were successful. She encouraged the children to keep unusual pets and to bring them into school. Jackdaws, leverets, a ferret, a white rat and a tame fox cub romped and rampaged through the classroom during nature hour - which naturally was the favourite hour of the week with the pupils but not with the school cleaners.
Now she sat listening attentively to Jinny Reece's plea, as she listened to all the problems her children brought her. When Jinny had finished she said, `I should like to adopt it myself, but I can't.'
`Why can't you?'
'My landlady won't allow it. No pets. That's her rule.'
`Not even a budgie?' Jinny was shocked.
`Not even a budgie. Anyway I wouldn't want that. Birds were meant to fly about, not to be shut up in cages.'
`It'd learn to talk and be company for you.'
`I assure you I have to listen to enough silly chatter from human beings, let alone from parakeets.'
'Well, I think it's a daft rule.'
'No, it isn't daft. But even if it were, she has a right to make it. If I choose to live in her house I must keep her rules, just as you must keep mine when you're in school.'
`What can we do about the kitten, Miss Johnson? One of us got to do something or it'll die.'
`I'll think of something. Go into the playground now while I make some phone calls.'
After about twenty minutes Miss Johnson rapped on the window and beckoned Jinny in.
'I tried the pet shop, but they have enough kittens in stock. I tried the cats' home in Mulcaster. They have a case of flu and are refusing admissions. But I think I may have drawn lucky at the police station. The sergeant tells me that a white cat wearing a little collar with a bell was picked up dead in the road last week, outside the supermarket.'
`That's Granny Oddams' cat!'
`Yes, sad to say. They identified it easily. Poor Granny must be grieving and she might be glad to have another cat. I shall go to see her this evening. I owe her a visit anyway.'
Jinny went blithely home that day and told her mother that everything was going to be all right now that Miss Johnson had taken the matter in hand.
True to her promise, the schoolmistress set out that evening for the cottage at the end of the lane opposite the post office. When she had last seen Granny Oddams the old lady was energetically gardening and feeling, as she said, fit as a spring chicken despite her eighty-odd years. But now the garden, once so neat, wore a neglected look. Curtains were drawn over the front windows. Granny had taken to her bed, her neighbours said.
Miss Johnson climbed up to the small stuffy bedroom. One look was enough to convince her that Granny Oddams would never get up again, that she had already forgotten her lost pet and would have no need of another. She stooped and kissed the dry sunken cheek, then she went away.
The kitten, meanwhile, had taken up its daily vigil outside the Mostyns' cottage. It was not seeking food so much as companionship, the friendly sounds and smells of human dwellings. Nor did it yet suffer from cold, for its coat was thick and it caught an occasional fieldmouse to supplement the food put out for it. There was a heavy frost each night, but with the old straw mattress for a bed the cold did not matter.
So long as the rain held off the kitten fared reasonably well, but the fine spell was coming to an end. Mr. Trim's barometer had been falling steadily for twenty-four hours and the elms along the lane had begun to tremble and creak. Starlings stayed close to their roosts. Whirling gusts whipped up the last of the leaves and flung them about. Fowls went early to bed. The cottage women fetched in coal and kindling, sensing the coming storm. Miss Coker made the rounds of her casement windows.
The striped kitten was restless, aware of the need to find shelter but reluctant to leave the campsite. The mattress and the rubbish strewn around it were the last relics of its haven. Also, from this point it could look across the green to the row of cottages and watch their windows light up at twilight. It stood now, in the rising wind, uncertain whether to go or stay. It had learned the futility of seeking shelter at the cottages. There was not a shed, outhouse or privy whose door was left unlocked at night. While the lighted windows shone out in the dusk it stayed, as fascinated as a child by a row of bright beads. But the pleasure was short-lived. When the darkness fell the curtains were drawn and it was only when a door opened to let someone in or out, or a curtain hung askew, that a yellow shaft broke the black dark.
It settled down in the lee of the broken stone wall - a wise choice, for the wind was blowing from the east and the wall gave what shelter was to be had. But during the night the wind veered to the north and increased in force. When dawn came the hills were blotted out behind a sullen grey blanket of rain and sleet. By the time full daylight came the ground was soaked and the kitten also. It got up but could scarcely stand against the wind.
Half trotting, half blown along, it made its way over to the campsite to see if there was anything left to eat in the pie dish. The dish was no longer there, having been whirled into the pond along with the mattress and most of the rubbish.
The kitten crouched on the spot where the pie dish had been and waited hour after hour for Mrs. Reece to appear, until it was almost too stiff to move. Then it began to scratch forlornly among the half-buried tins on what remained of the rubbish heap and found one that held, miraculously, a crust of meat round the rim. After this it wasted no more time but set out on a resolute search for shelter.