people who like cats,” she said, “and I like dogs.”
“But it’s a story about a boy called Peter,” I told her. “His mother’s always busy, and his father’s away a lot, and he’s lonely.”
Alison looked more interested. “Does he have adventures?”
“LOADS,” I said. “He gets into fights, and he goes travelling on a ship with an extraordinary crew, and he catches the most enormous rat—”
“YEUCH!”Alison made a face. “Why does he do that?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” I put the book on the table. “He runs after a kitten and gets knocked down by a coal lorry, and when he opens his eyes he discovers he’s a cat … but he doesn’t know how cats behave, so he has to learn. It’s Jennie who teaches him – and they have adventures together.”
Alison picked the book up, and flicked through the pages. “‘When in doubt – any kind of doubt – WASH!’” she read out loud, and laughed. “My brother HATES washing!”
“So did Peter,” I said. “But it’s different for cats. And it tells you why.”
“Is it a teachy book?”Alison looked suspicious. “I mean, does it pretend to be a story, but really it’s so you learn about cats?”
I thought about it. “No,” I said. “It’s much more about a friendship. Sometimes they get things wrong and get cross with each other, but they sort it out. You don’t learn stuff, but you do end up knowing exactly what it’s like being a cat, because of all the detail – like how they stretch and twist and jump, or how they clean themselves, or fight each other. It makes you really and truly feel as if you’ve lived in the world of cats, and understand the way they think. It’s so clever. And it’s funny, too.”
“Who’s your favourite character?”Alison wanted to know.
“Jennie, of course.” I was surprised she’d even asked. “And Captain Sourlies. He’s the captain of the ship they stow away on, and he weighs twenty-two stone, and he hates the sea. And big Angus, with fingers like sausages, who does embroidery. And Mr Grims—”
Alison held up her hand. “Don’t spoil it for me!” Then she turned to the beginning of the book, and started reading … and I never ever got my book back.
I’ve read Jennie lots of times since then (my mum bought me another copy!) and I enjoy it just as much – if not more – each time. These days, I’m sometimes reminded by a phrase or an expression that the book was published in 1950, but the story still grips me. At one point in his life Paul Gallico had twenty-three cats, and he obviously studied them with a real passion; that passion pours into his writing. He was also passionate about people, and the way they interact one with another. Every time I get to the end of the book (even though I’ve read it so often) I have to go and find a hanky. And I know exactly what I’d do if I was a cat, and someone saw me looking just a little bit silly …
I’d wash!
Vivian French
Vivian French is the author of over 200 children’s books, including the hugely popular Tiara Club series. She is also a playwright, storyteller and teacher of creative writing to children and adults.
Poussie, Poussie, Baudrons
“Poussie, poussie, baudrons,
Whaur hae ye been?”
“I’ve been tae London,
Tae see the Queen.”
“Poussie, poussie, baudrons,
Whit gat ye there?”
“I gat a guid fat mousikie,
Rinnin’ up a stair!”
“Poussie, poussie, baudrons,
Whit did ye dae wi’ it?”
“I pit it in ma meal-poke,
Tae eat tae ma breid.”
OLD SCOTTISH NURSERY RHYME
PETER GUESSED THAT he must have been hurt in the accident although he could not remember very much from the time he had left the safety of Scotch Nanny’s side and run out across the street to get to the garden in the square, where the tabby striped kitten was warming herself by the railing and washing in the early spring sunshine.
He had wanted to hold and stroke the kitten. Nanny had screamed and there had been a kind of an awful bump, after which it seemed to have turned from day to night as though the sun were gone and it had become quite dark. He ached and somewhere it hurt him, as it had when he had fallen running after a football near a gravel pile and scraped nearly all the skin from the side of one leg.
He seemed to be in bed now, and Nanny was there peering at him in an odd way, that is, first she would be quite close to him, so close that he could see how white her face was, instead of its usual wrinkled pink colour, and then it would seem to fade and become very small like seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
His father and mother were not there, but this did not surprise Peter. His father was a Colonel in the Army, and his mother was always busy and having to dress up to go out, leaving him with Nanny.
Peter might have resented Nanny if he had not been so fond of her, for he knew that at eight he was much too old to be having a nurse who babied him and wanted always to lead him around by the hand as though he were not capable of looking after himself. But he was used by now to his mother being busy and having no time to look after him, or stay in and sit with him at night until he went to sleep. She had come to rely more and more upon Nanny to take her place, and when his father, Colonel Brown, once suggested that it might perhaps be time for Nanny to be leaving, his mother could not bear to think of sending her away, and so of course she had stayed.
If he was in bed, then perhaps he was sick, and if he was sick, perhaps his mother would be with him more when she came home and found out. Maybe now they would even give him the wish he had had for so long and let him have a cat all of his own to keep in his room and sleep curled up at the foot of his bed, and perhaps even crawl under the covers with him and snuggle in his arms on nights that were cold.
He had wanted a cat ever since he could remember, which was many years ago at the age of four – when he had gone to stay on a farm near Gerrards Cross, and had been taken into the kitchen and shown a basketful of kittens, orange and white balls of fluff, and the ginger-coloured mother who beamed with pride until her face was quite as broad as it was long, and licked them over with her tongue one after the other. He was allowed to put his hand on her. She was soft and warm, and a queer kind of throbbing was going on inside of her, which later he learned was called purring, and meant that she was comfortable and happy.
From then on he dearly wished for a cat of his own.
However, he was not allowed to have one.
They lived in a small flat in a Mews off Cavendish Square. Peter’s father, Colonel Brown, who came home occasionally on leave, did not mind if Peter had a cat, but his mother said that there was enough dust and dirt from the street in a small place, and not enough room to move around without having a cat in, and besides, Scotch Nanny didn’t like cats and was afraid of them. It was important to Peter’s mother that Nanny be humoured in the matter of cats, so that she would stay and look after Peter.
All of these things Peter knew and understood and put up with because that was how it was in his world. However, this did not stop his heart from being heavy, because his mother, who was young and beautiful, never seemed to have much time for him, or prevent him yearning hungrily