The Daydreamer (5 page)

‘My advice to you,’ the black cat went on, ‘is to step aside. Or I’ll spread your guts all over the lawn.’

Peter knew he had gone too far now to back down. He extended his claws to take a firm grip of the wall. ‘You bloated rat! This is my wall d’you hear. And you are nothing but the soft turd of a sick dog!’

The black cat gasped. There were titters in the crowd. Peter was always such a polite boy. How splendid it was now to spit out these insults.

‘You’ll be birds’ breakfast,’ the black cat warned, and took a step forwards. Peter snatched a deep breath. For old William’s sake he had to win. Even as he was thinking this, the black cat’s paw lashed out at his face. Peter had an old cat’s body, but he had a young boy’s mind. He ducked and felt the paw and its vicious outstretched claws go singing through the air above his ears. He had time to see how the black cat was supported momentarily on only three legs. Immediately he sprang forwards, and with his two front paws pushed the tom hard in the chest. It was not the kind of thing a cat does in a fight and the number one cat was taken by sur-prise. With a yelp of astonishment, he slipped and tottered backwards, tipped off the wall and fell head first through the roof of the greenhouse below. The icy night air was shattered by the crash and musical tinkle of broken glass and the earth-ier clatter of breaking flowerpots. Then there was silence. The hushed crowd of cats peered down from their wall. They heard a movement, then a groan. Then, just visible in the gloom was the shape of the black cat hobbling across the lawn. They heard it muttering.

‘It’s not fair. Claws and teeth, yes. But pushing like that. It just isn’t fair.’

‘Next time,’ Peter called down, ‘you ask permission.’

The black cat did not reply, but something about its retreating, limping shape made it clear it had understood.

The next morning, Peter lay on the shelf above the radiator with his head cushioned on one paw, while the other dangled loosely in the rising warmth. All about him was hurry and chaos. Kate could not find her satchel. The porridge was burned. Mr Fortune was in a bad mood because the coffee had run out and he needed three strong cups to start his day. The kitchen was a mess and the mess was covered in porridge smoke. And it was late late late!

Peter curled his tail around his back paws and tried not to purr too loudly. On the far side of the room was his old body with William Cat inside, and that body had to go to school. William Boy was looking confused. He had his coat on and he was ready to leave, but he was wearing only one shoe. The other was nowhere to be found. ‘Mum,’ he kept bleating. ‘Where’s my shoe?’ But Mrs Fortune was in the hallway arguing with someone on the phone.

Peter Cat half closed his eyes. After his victory he was des- perately tired. Soon the family would be gone. The house would fall silent. When the radiator had cooled, he would wander upstairs and find the most comfortable of the beds. For old time’s sake he would choose his own.

The day passed just as he had hoped. Dozing, lapping a saucer of milk, dozing again, munching through some tinned cat food that really was not as bad as it smelled – rather like shepherd’s pie without the mashed potato. Then more dozing. Before he knew it, the sky outside was darkening and the children were home from school. William Boy looked worn out from a day of classroom and playground struggle. Boy-cat and cat-boy lay down together in front of the living-room fire. It was most odd, Peter Cat thought, to be stroked by a hand that only the day before had belonged to him. He wondered if William Boy was happy with his new life of school and buses, and having a sister and a mum and dad. But the boy’s face told Peter Cat nothing. It was so hairless, whiskerless and pink, with eyes so round that it was impossible to know what they were saying.

Later that evening, Peter wandered up to Kate’s room. As usual she was talking to her dolls, giving them a lesson in geography. From the fixed expression on their faces it was clear that they were not much interested in the longest rivers in the world. Peter jumped on to her lap and she began to tickle him absent-mindedly as she talked. If only she could have known that the creature on her lap was her brother. Peter lay down and purred. Kate was beginning to list all the capital cities she could think of. It was so exquisitely boring, just what he needed to get him off to sleep again. His eyes were already closed when the door crashed open and William Boy strode in.

‘Hey Peter,’ Kate said. ‘You didn’t knock.’

But her brother-cat paid no attention. He crossed the room, picked up her cat-brother roughly and hurried away with him. Peter disliked being carried. It was undignified for a cat of his age. He tried to struggle, but William Boy only tightened his grip as he rushed down the stairs. ‘Ssh,’ he said. ‘We don’t have much time.’

William carried the cat into the living room and set him down.

‘Keep still,’ the boy whispered. ‘Do what I tell you. Roll on to your back.’

Peter Cat had little choice for the boy had pinned him down with one hand and was searching in his fur with the other. He found the piece of polished bone and pulled down- wards. Peter felt the cool air reach his insides. He stepped out of the cat’s body. The boy was reaching up behind his own neck and unzipping himself. Now the pink and purple light of a true cat slipped out of the boy’s body. For a moment the two spirits, cat and human, faced each other, suspended above the carpet. Below them, their bodies lay still, waiting, like taxis ready to move off with their passengers. There was a sad- ness in the air.

Though the cat spirit did not speak, Peter sensed what it was saying. ‘I must return,’ it said. ‘I have another adventure to begin. Thank you for letting me be a boy. I have learned so many things that will be useful to me in the time to come. But most of all, thank you for fighting my last battle for me.’

Peter was about to speak, but the cat spirit was returning to its own body.

‘There’s very little time,’ it seemed to say, as the pink and purple light folded itself into the fur of the cat. Peter drifted towards his own body, and slipped in round the back, at the top of the spine.

It felt rather odd at first. This body did not really fit him. When he stood up he was shaky on his legs. It was like wear-ing a pair of gumboots four sizes too large. Perhaps his body had grown a little since he had last used it. It felt safer to lie down for the moment. As he did so the cat, William Cat, turned and walked very slowly and stiffly out of the room with- out even a glance at him.

As Peter lay there, trying to get used to his old body, he noticed a curious thing. The fire was still curling round the same elm log. He glanced towards the window. The sky was darkening. It was not evening, it was still late afternoon. From the newspaper lying near a chair, he could see that it was still Tuesday. And here was another curious thing. His sister Kate was running into the room crying. And following her were his parents, looking very grim.

‘Oh Peter,’ his sister cried. ‘Something terrible has happened.’

‘It’s William Cat,’ his mother explained. ‘I’m afraid he’s …’

‘Oh William!’ Kate’s wail drowned her mother’s words.

‘He just walked into the kitchen,’ his father said, ‘and climbed on to his favourite shelf above the radiator, closed his eyes and … died.’

‘He didn’t feel a thing,’ Viola Fortune said reassuringly.

Kate continued to cry. Peter realised that his parents were watching him anxiously, waiting to see how he was going to take the news. Of all the family, he was the one who had been closest to the cat.

‘He was seventeen,’ Thomas Fortune said. ‘He had a good innings.’

‘He had a good life,’ Viola Fortune said.

Peter stood up slowly. Two legs did not seem enough.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘He’s gone on another adventure now.’

The next morning they buried William at the bottom of the garden. Peter made a cross out of sticks, and Kate made a wreath out of laurel leaves and twigs. Even though they were all going to be late for school or work, the whole family went down to the graveside together. The children put on the final shovelfuls of earth. And it was just then that there rose through the ground and hovered in the air a shining ball of pink and purple light.

‘Look!’ Peter said, and pointed.

‘Look at what?’

‘Right there, right in front of you.’

‘Peter, what are you talking about?’

‘He’s daydreaming again.’

The light drifted higher until it was level with Peter’s head. It did not speak, of course. That would have been impossible. But Peter heard it all the same.

‘Goodbye, Peter,’ it said as it began to fade before his eyes. ‘Goodbye, and thanks again.’

Chapter Three
Vanishing Cream

In the big untidy kitchen there was a drawer. Of course, there were many drawers, but when someone said, ‘The string is in the kitchen drawer,’ everyone understood. The chances were the string would not be in the drawer. It was meant to be, along with a dozen other useful things that were never there: screwdrivers, scissors, sticky tape, drawing pins, pencils. If you wanted one of these, you looked in the drawer first, then you looked everywhere else. What
was
in the drawer was hard to define: things that had no natural place, things that had no use but did not deserve to be thrown away, things that might be mended one day. So – batteries that still had a little life, nuts without their bolts, the handle of a precious teapot, a padlock without a key or a combination lock whose secret number was a secret to everyone, the dullest kind of marbles, foreign coins, a torch without a bulb, a single glove from a pair lovingly knitted by Granny before she died, a hot water bottle stopper, a cracked fossil. By some magic reversal, everything spectacularly useless filled the drawer intended for practical tools. What could you
do
with a single piece of jigsaw? But, on the other hand, did you dare throw it away?

Now and then the drawer was cleared out. Viola Fortune tipped the whole rattling ensemble into the dustbin, and restocked with string, tape, scissors … Then, gradually, these precious items left in protest as the junk began to creep back in.

Sometimes, in moments of boredom, Peter opened the drawer hoping the objects would suggest an idea or a game. They never did. Nothing fitted, nothing related. If a million monkeys shook the drawer up for a million years, it was possible the contents might fall together into a radio. But it was certain that the radio would never work, and never get thrown away. And there were other times, like this boring, hot Saturday afternoon, when nothing was going right. Peter wanted to build something, invent something, but he could not find any useful bits and the rest of the family would not help. All they wanted to do was laze around on the grass, pretending to sleep. Peter was fed up with them. The drawer seemed to stand for everything that was wrong with his family. What a mess! No wonder he could not think straight. No wonder he was always daydreaming. If he lived on his own he would know where to find screwdrivers and string. If he were by himself, he would know where his thoughts were too. How was he expected to make the great inventions that would change the world when his sister and his parents threw up these mountains of disorder?

On this particular Saturday afternoon, Peter was reaching deeper towards the back of the drawer. He was looking for a hook, but he knew there was little hope. His hand closed round a greasy little spring that had fallen out of the garden clippers. He let it go. Behind it were packets of seeds – too old to plant, not old enough to throw away. What a family, Peter thought as he shoved his hand right to the back of the drawer. Why aren’t we like other people, with batteries in everything, and toys that work, and jigsaws and card games with all their bits, and every- thing in the proper cupboard? His hand closed round something cold. He drew out a small dark blue jar with a black lid. On a white label was printed, ‘Vanishing Cream’. He stared at these words a long time, trying to grasp their meaning. Inside was a thick white cream whose surface was smooth. It had never been used. He poked the tip of his forefinger in. The substance was cold – not the hard, fiery cold of ice, but a round, silky, creamy cool. He withdrew his finger and yelped in surprise. His finger- tip had gone. Completely vanished. He screwed on the lid and hurried upstairs to his room. He put the jar on a shelf, kicked clothes and toys aside so that he could sit on the floor, with his back against the bed. He needed to think.

First, he examined his forefinger. It was almost as short as his thumb. He felt the space where his missing piece of finger should have been. There was nothing. His fingertip was not simply invisible. It had melted away.

After half an hour of quiet thought, Peter went to his window which overlooked the back garden. The lawn looked like an outdoor version of the kitchen drawer. There were his parents lying face down on blankets, half asleep, soaking up the sunshine. Between them lay Kate who probably thought it looked grown-up to sunbathe. Surrounding the trio was the debris of their wasted Saturday afternoon – teacups, teapot, newspapers, half eaten sandwiches, orange peel, empty yoghurt cartons. He stared at his family resentfully. You could do nothing with these people, but nor could you throw them away. Or rather, well, perhaps … He took a deep breath, put the little blue jar in his pocket and went downstairs.