The Battle of Bubble and Squeak Read online

  All the time, Mrs Pring was advancing into the house.

  Sid came to life. ‘No!’ he cried, realizing that this was not the time for politeness. But he was already too late. Ginger – like most cats – did not like being carried for long. He had begun to wriggle, and Mrs Pring was not one to oppose her cat’s wishes. She allowed Ginger to leap from her arms. He began walking down the hall towards the living room. Sid tried to catch him. Ginger accelerated his pace just enough to escape from under Sid’s hands and into the living room. At that moment, the gerbil already in the cage decided to get out of bed. He rustled through the hay of his bedroom – and Ginger at once froze.

  The gerbil moved into sight at the bars of his cage, and Ginger was crouching lower – lower – like a snake against the ground, still except for the tip of his tail, which flicked to and fro …

  Although Sid knew that the gerbil was protected by its cage, he threw himself upon Ginger before the leap. This time he caught the cat and held him long enough to open the window and fling him out.

  Ginger landed neatly on all four paws, but was displeased – one could see that. He sat down at once and began cleaning himself, as though he had never really meant to go gerbil-hunting. What he had always really intended was to clean himself in the fresh air.

  Sid shut the window again, and had to face Mrs Pring.

  Mrs Pring was even more offended than Ginger. She put the soup down carefully on the kitchen table and then scolded Sid like a very little boy. She said that all children should know about kindness to animals, and Ginger was such a kind cat that he should never have been thrown anywhere, let alone out of a window. He would have caught that horrid rat for Sid, wherever it had hidden itself in the house …

  ‘Yes, Mrs Pring, yes,’ murmured Sid.

  In the end, Mrs Pring went, and Sid drank his soup in the kitchen, and made himself a cheese and pickle sandwich, and ate it as he sat in the hall. He began eating an apple, but found the crunching sound deafening. You couldn’t listen for gerbil-noises through all that row.

  He sat with the doors of the living room and cloakroom open; also all the doors upstairs. He was giving himself the best chance of hearing any unusual sound in the house. He could also see most of the hall, and into the cloakroom and the living room. He could even see the gerbil cage on the table in the living room. He couldn’t see the gerbil inside: it must be having its afternoon nap in its hay bed.

  After a while, from the living room, he heard the gentle little scrabbling-gnawing sound of a gerbil awake and active. In his mind, he set the sound to one side, and went on listening for the special sound of an escaped gerbil. He glanced into the living room: still no sign of the gerbil in the cage.

  Then he woke up to what that might mean.

  He rose from his chair and went softly into the living room and bent over the cage. The gerbil was buried in the hay of its bedroom. It stirred a little, as he looked, but certainly not enough to account for the sound he had heard.

  Besides – there was the sound again, and it didn’t come from the cage at all, but from the other side of the room. He stood absolutely still and listened. Yes, again; and from the far side of the room.

  He went over on tiptoe; but, as soon as he moved, the noise stopped. They had looked behind the furniture here, and found nothing; but perhaps …

  Suddenly, the noise again. He found that his gaze had fixed itself upon the edge of the carpet, where it met the wall. Only it wasn’t exactly an edge there. Years ago Mrs Sparrow had bought the carpet second hand. It was rather too long for the living room, but she had not liked to cut it to size. So one end of it had been folded under. The fold of the carpet where it reached the wall made the longest, darkest, most tempting tunnel that either Bubble or Squeak could have wished for, outside Mongolia.

  Sid knew in his bones that the escaped gerbil was in the carpet-tunnel.

  His impulse was to rush forward, flap the carpet back, and catch the gerbil. Catch the gerbil? He found that he was trembling: he was terribly afraid that he would somehow mess it all up, and the gerbil would escape again, and get more and more panicky, and he would get more and more excited, and he would never catch his gerbil …

  He decided what to do. He got two of the largest pieces of coal from the scuttle, and weighed down either end of the carpet-tunnel. He checked that the two exits were really closed. Of course, any gerbil worth his salt could gnaw his way through a wall of carpet, but that would take a little time. Meanwhile, Sid dashed upstairs to the bathroom and brought down the empty laundry box. It was really just a deep box, standing on four legs, with a hinged lid. At each side, near the top, was a hand-hole, so that one could carry the box easily. These hand-holes would ventilate the box, when the lid was down. Here was a very simple gerbil container. He felt sure that, if only he could catch the gerbil, he could drop it into this box. If he tried to get it through the narrow cage door straight into the cage – well, he didn’t trust himself. The other gerbil might be trying to get out, or he might drop this one. Or anything might happen.

  It was extraordinary how nervous he felt.

  He padded the bottom of the laundry box with a scarlet cushion, and left the lid up. He drew the box as near to the carpet-fold as possible. He removed the lump of coal from one end of the tunnel.

  He was ready.

  But there was no sound at all now from inside the tunnel. He realized that there had been no sound since he had come back from the bathroom with the box. Perhaps the gerbil had already escaped from the carpet-fold. He was almost sure that must be so. Yes, he was convinced of it. On an impulse of despair, he seized the corner of the carpet and flapped back the fold.

  There was the gerbil.

  Forgetting all about the wisdom of picking up a gerbil by its tail, he clapped his hands over it quickly, roughly. The gerbil bit him, but he hardly noticed.

  Down into the laundry box, and slam the lid!

  He had his gerbil. He had them both – Bubble and Squeak.

  He laughed aloud. The thought of school never occurred to him – and indeed it was much too late for that, anyway. He began to dance, like a teetotum. Faster and faster, round and round, laughing. He stopped only when he found himself staggering about the room, giddy. He stopped, and fell crazily on the couch. His head was rocking. He lay with closed eyes. His mind became delightfully muddled.

  He slept.

  When the others came home, they found him asleep on the couch, and the gerbil – it was Squeak, Peggy said – safe in the laundry box. It had gnawed a hole in the scarlet cushion cover and down into the stuffing of the cushion. That was all.

  Everyone was pleased at the happy end of the story. Sid hardly scolded Amy. Even Mrs Sparrow, looking at the gnawed cushion cover, only said: ‘Well, you can’t have too many dusters.’

  But that wasn’t really the end of the story.

  By now it was quite dark outside, so that no one in the house noticed someone outside, peering in: Ginger. The house held a fascination for him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  So suddenly does disaster strike.

  That evening Bill Sparrow had gone to get more coal for the fire.

  ‘Shut the back door – the draught’s killing!’ called Mrs Sparrow. But, as usual, Bill did not shut the door – it would be so much easier to find it open when he came back, laden with coal. He pulled the back door to, but did not click it shut. It opened a little behind him as he turned away. He went off with the scuttle towards the coal bunker.

  Behind him a ginger ghost slipped up to the back door, and through it, into the house.

  Ginger went through the kitchen and across the hall into the living room. Bill Sparrow had left all those doors ajar for his return.

  Once inside the living room, Ginger melted into the shadows. The whole family were watching television. Everyone was staring, silent, in one direction. The electric light had been switched off. The fire had burnt low, but there was a cold glow from the television screen. In the light Gi
nger’s eyes shone large, but no one saw them.

  He had not chosen his time particularly well. The gerbils might so easily have been at exercise on the living-room table; but they were safely in their cage.

  So at first Ginger saw nothing of particular interest. The television screen did not interest him, nor the sounds that proceeded from the set. There were gunshots, screams, alarm bells and sirens: Ginger paid no attention.

  But then there was another sound: a little scuffling and scratching, and a subdued Creak! … Creak! … Creak! Nobody looking at the television screen even turned a head: they were used to the fidgetings of Bubble and Squeak by now.

  But the ginger ghost in the shadows began to move. From shadow to shadow he slipped, round the back of the chairs and the couch, until he was close to the table.

  From inside their cage on the table the gerbils saw him. They froze.

  Ginger saw them and leapt …

  The television viewers were aware of something that hurtled through the air, and an impact like an explosion. That was Ginger reaching the cage. Suddenly everyone was shouting or shrieking. The cage skidded off the table and on to the floor with a crash. The whole of the barred side and roof flew off in one piece. The two gerbils leapt for their lives.

  Peggy saw one gerbil and dived for it and caught it.

  Ginger saw the other gerbil – Bubble – and dived for it and caught it.

  Peggy was screaming because, holding one gerbil, she could do nothing about the other one. Sid was yelling because he was trying to frighten Ginger into dropping his prey. Amy was screaming, anyway. But Mrs Sparrow was not screaming. She was the only one within reach of Ginger and Bubble, and she was inspired. She flung herself forward on to Ginger’s tail, gripped it, held it with both hands, hauled on it.

  Ginger turned on Mrs Sparrow. He scratched her viciously: she still held on. Suddenly what was happening to him was too much to be borne – Ginger was no hero. He wanted to yowl, and he opened his mouth and yowled. A sad little bundle of fur, brindled and white, fell from his jaws. Sid saw it, darted in and picked it up.

  Mrs Sparrow let go of Ginger’s tail. Ginger sprang for the door – out, and across the hall and kitchen and out through the back door just as Bill Sparrow was coming in with the coal. As only a cat can, Ginger slipped between Bill’s legs so that he tottered and fell, with a scuttleful of coal and a great deal of swearing.

  Coal all over the kitchen floor.

  Mrs Sparrow scratched quite badly.

  Amy almost in hysterics.

  And Bubble – ‘Is he all right?’ whispered Peggy.

  ‘Just,’ said Sid.

  Bill Sparrow had left coal all over the kitchen floor and come in to see what on earth had been happening. He made his wife sit down. He switched off the television set. He reassembled the gerbil cage so that Peggy could put Squeak back. He took Amy into his arms. Then he looked at Bubble, held cupped in Sid’s hands. He looked long, and then he cleared his throat. ‘I had a white mouse. A cat mauled it. The mouse had to be put out of its misery. It was kinder. It had to be destroyed …’

  From her chair, Mrs Sparrow, hearing him, groaned.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sid maintained that Bubble was hardly hurt at all. He was suffering only from shock, Sid said. He had had a terrifying experience, in the very jaws of a cat, and he had been shocked by it. No worse than that. Back in the cage with Squeak, Bubble had behaved almost normally. He had even drunk a good deal of water.

  But, the next day, Bubble was ill. And the day after that he was worse. He hunched up small, hardly moving. When he did move, he turned distractedly in circles.

  Bill Sparrow said grimly: ‘Sid, you’re being cruel.’

  At that, Peggy wept. Dawn Mudd had no consolation to offer.

  Mrs Sparrow took Amy with her to the shops.

  And Sid said: ‘I’m going to take him to the vet.’ Peggy would go too.

  The Christmas holidays had begun, so there was no problem of time. They prepared a vehicle for Bubble: an old biscuit tin with holes in the top for ventilation, and plenty of old newspaper at the bottom, and hay. They put in some toilet-roll tubes, but Bubble was past caring to gnaw anything – or to eat anything. Perhaps past caring to live.

  They travelled to the vet by bus, sitting side by side. They did not often do things together: Sid had his friends, Peggy had hers. Peggy thought: ‘Perhaps when I’m old, I shall remember this bus ride.’ Then she thought that, when she was old, Bubble would be long dead, anyway. Tears of hopelessness rolled down her cheeks.

  Sid had been watching the passengers reflected in the glass of the bus window. He watched Peggy. He did not turn his head towards her, but his hand picked up her hand and gripped it.

  They had never been in a vet’s surgery before – they had never had a pet before. In the waiting room a number of people sat around in silence with their pets, who all seemed enormous to Peggy and Sid. Everyone stared at their tin with holes in the top; no one spoke to them. There were two cats in cat baskets but they both stayed asleep. A scruffy little black dog, wearing a red plastic bucket like a bonnet, to keep it from scratching a bad eye, came bustling up to them. But ‘Flora!’ said a stern voice, and she went away again.

  They were called into the surgery itself, and opened their box, and told their story. The vet picked up poor Bubble, hardly struggling, by his tail. He turned him round and round, parted his fur here and there with a finger. He asked when the attack had happened.

  ‘The day before yesterday,’ said Sid. ‘We thought he might just get better. But he hasn’t.’

  ‘He’s got much worse,’ said Peggy.

  The vet put Bubble down on his black-topped table and watched him. He stirred him gently, and Bubble began his distracted circling.

  ‘Please don’t worry him,’ said Peggy. The tears rolled down her cheeks.

  The vet did not answer.

  Then he said: ‘I think his wounds are only puncture wounds, from the cat’s teeth holding him. But there’s infection. Bad, very bad.’

  He looked at them both, especially Peggy, crying. He said gently: ‘Would you like to leave him with me?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ cried Peggy joyfully, not understanding.

  But Sid, seeing that the vet had more to say, but hesitated to say it, asked: ‘For how long?’

  ‘For good.’ The vet cleared his throat, as Bill Sparrow had done. ‘You see –’ But Peggy had already begun to sob.

  ‘Is there nothing we can do?’ Sid asked.

  ‘It’s probably too late; but I suppose you could try an antibiotic. It would be touch and go; and very tricky for you. Very tricky.’

  ‘We’ll try the antibiotic.’

  The vet gave them a little plastic syringe; also some white powder in a sealed envelope. He explained how they must dissolve a pinch of the powder in a measure of water, fill the syringe with it, and then pump three or four drops of the solution into Bubble’s mouth. This had to be done three times a day.

  ‘The tricky part will be getting him to take it,’ said the vet. He showed them what to do. It needed two people. One held the gerbil by his tail on the table, and had the filled syringe ready. The other had to hold the gerbil’s head steady and up. That meant gripping it by the skin at the back of the head. The vet showed them. It seemed quite easy when he showed them.

  Then they shut Bubble into his travelling box, and they paid the vet – they had been given money by Bill Sparrow. To Mrs Sparrow it would have seemed a great deal of money for a creature not a human being, and a very small creature at that.

  As they were leaving the surgery, Sid asked: ‘How long will the treatment take?’

  ‘Give it a week. Try it.’ And then: ‘I’m afraid his chances of survival are poor. Very poor.’

  At home that evening the first dose had to be given. Sid and Peggy were to do it on the living-room table. They waited until Amy had been put to bed. Then Mrs Sparrow deliberately busied herself in the kitchen. Bill Sparrow del
iberately busied himself with the evening paper. It was going to be tricky, the vet had said.

  Squeak watched through the bars of his cage with bulging eyes.

  Sid brought Bubble out by his tail and set him on the table. He hardly moved of his own accord, and was so thin that he seemed to have shrunk to half Squeak’s size. You could see the tiny knobbles of his backbone through his fur.

  Sid held Bubble’s tail by his left hand; in his right he had the filled syringe. ‘Ready?’ he asked Peggy.

  ‘Yes.’ With index finger and thumb she took up a pinch of skin just at the back of the gerbil’s head. This seemed to be as the vet had instructed, but her grip slipped at once. The gerbil’s head went down and sideways, and he was feebly attempting to escape.

  ‘Try again,’ said Sid.

  Again, this time so carefully that she missed her grip altogether.

  ‘Again,’ said Sid grimly. He was determined to get some drops in from the syringe if there were any chance at all. He held the syringe close to Bubble’s jaws.

  Peggy’s finger and thumb came down again. The gerbil gave a tiny, weak sound like a gerbil scream. She had him, but not by the skin of his head – much lower. Sid tried to get the nozzle of the syringe between his teeth, but it was hopeless. The tiny head moved frantically. The health-giving drops seemed to go everywhere but into the gerbil’s mouth.

  Peggy let Bubble go and burst into tears. Sid lifted him by his tail and put him back into his hay. Then he sat down at the table again. He was trembling.

  Mrs Sparrow came in from the kitchen. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘No,’ said Bill Sparrow.

  Peggy wept and wept. ‘I can’t – I can’t!’

  Sid said stonily, ‘He’ll die if you don’t. But he’ll probably die, anyway.’

  Bill said: ‘I’d have a go, but –’ He spread out the fingers of his hand. They were so much too big for any job like that.

  Peggy sobbed: ‘I’ll go and fetch Dawn.’