Dad, please dont take her away! sobbed the youngest daughter, Katie, seven years old, with a nose raw from crying. You cant give up Darcy, shes ours!
Your Darcy, her father snapped, yanking the steering wheel, makes a mess everywhere! In the hallway, by the fireplace, yesterday she even left a pile in my shoes. And she refuses to use the tray we gave her. What am I meant to do?
But Dad
Enough! he barked.
Thats how it happened. Michael Stone started up the battered old white Ford rusty with orange spots on the wings. In the cramped cardboard box on the back seat, Darcy voiced a thin, pitiful cry.
Dad, please dont take her away! Katie begged again, clutching the garden gate, fingers clenched so tightly the knuckles blanched, watching as the weathered car disappeared round the lanes bend.
It was a damp, miserable autumn. Heavy, grey clouds hung low over the village. The wind tugged at Katies plaits and caught the hem of her cotton dress.
Katie, come in! Youll catch your death! called her mother, Helen Stone, from the kitchen window. Why are you standing there like a statue?
The girl didnt move. Salty, burning tears ran down her cheeks.
Darcy their Darcy. Ginger, with white socks and a fluffy chest. Evenings, shed purr on Katies lap, curl up by the fireplace. And now
The house smelled of stewed cabbage and yeast Helen was making pasties. The older children Peter (thirteen), Lizzie (eleven), and Ian (nine) sat with exercise books.
Or at least pretended to. Peter scowled, scrawling lines without looking. Lizzie hid behind her textbook, her red eyes a giveaway. Ian, normally the noisiest, chewed his pencil in silence.
Its always the same, Peter suddenly snapped, dropping his pen. Dad decides everything! Never asks if we care!
Hush now, scolded Helen, kneading dough. He knows what hes doing. We already have three cats. Misty and Socks use the litter properly. But your Darcy
She just needed more time! Lizzie cried, fighting tears. We couldve taught her!
Taught her? And who wouldve taught her? Me? Ive got enough to do: cows, pigs, a garden, the lot of you not to mention a cat who fancies herself the queen.
We could have done it! Lizzie protested. We would have!
Too late, Helen replied firmly.
Quietly, Katie slipped in, sitting by the rain-streaked window. The village looked bleak rows of grey houses, gardens full of sodden, blackened stalks.
Mum will she come home? the girl whispered.
Helen sighed heavily. I dont know, love. I just dont know
Half an hour later, Michael Stone returned. He tossed his wet coat on a hook and went quietly to the kitchen, not looking at the children.
Well? asked Helen.
Took her to the next village. Left her at the Turners, said theyd look after her.
How far is their village? Ian asked.
About three miles, maybe more, Michael muttered.
She wont come back, Lizzie whispered.
She shouldnt, he answered coldly. Enough. Pour some tea, Im frozen.
Helen put a mug of tea and a plate of stewed pasta before him. Michael ate with an odd, angry weariness. The children sat quietly, staring at their plates as though weighed down by something heavy and hard to swallow.
That night, when the house had settled into silence, Katie twisted and turned in bed. She shared a big mattress with Lizzie, listening to the steady patter of rain, the occasional creek of old walls, the distant bark of a village dog.
Lizzie, are you asleep? she whispered.
No, Lizzie replied as quietly.
Darcy will come back. Im sure. Shell find her way home.
Dont be silly, Katie. How would she? Dad left her miles away. Three miles for a little cat thats like another world.
But shes clever! She loves us. Shell find us
Lizzie didnt reply, just turned to face the wall. Katie lay awake, eyes wide open, and silently mouthed the prayer Granny had taught her: Lord, please look after Darcy. Help her find her way home. Please
Meanwhile, Darcy was huddled under the Turners hearth, in the next village. The old couple were kind they gave her a dish of milk and a little food, even a gentle pat. But Darcy didnt purr, didnt rub against their hands. She was just a stranger in a strange house, curled up in a ball of longing.
Where was her home? Where were the children Katie, Lizzie, Ian, Peter? Where was Helen, who sometimes slipped her scraps under the table? Where were the scents she knew fireplace, hay, milk?
Here, everything smelt different. The voices were unfamiliar. A grumpy old tomcat, enormous and grey, hissed at her whenever she approached the bowl.
Darcy waited. She waited through the night. And as soon as the lady opened the back door to see to the hens, Darcy shot out like lightning.
Oh! Back you come! called Mrs Turner.
But the cat was gone, darting through gardens, through fences, and out to the country lane. She didnt stop until she was out of the village, alone in a wet autumn field.
The rain hadnt stopped all day cold and unrelenting. Ginger fur stuck to her skin, paws slipped in the mud, claws digging in to keep steady.
Darcy didnt truly know the way. But deep inside her burned a tiny, stubborn memory. Some ancient part of her whispered, That way onwards dont give in.
A day passed. She curled up under an old, crooked haystack, shivering. Her stomach cramped with hunger. She tried to catch a mouse, but it darted away. Instead, she drank brackish rainwater from a puddle, stained with earth and cold.
The next day brought her to the main road cracked tarmac, scattered puddles, the rare car splashing past. Darcy stumbled along the verge, sometimes collapsing, but always getting up.
At night, she found an abandoned shed. Rotting wood, sharp with the smell of mice. She caught one and gulped it down, easing the ache for a moment.
On the third day, snow fell the years first. Wet, sticking to her ginger coat, as she left dark prints in the whitening field. The pads of her paws were raw and bleeding, but she pressed on.
For at home somewhere far ahead was her house. Children. A warm corner. And Helen, who might scold but always petted her when no one was looking.
On the fourth day the birch woods came into view. Darcys heart leapt. She hurried, half-running. Yes! These were the same woods where the children picked mushrooms in summer, where Katie made daisy chains.
On the fifth day she reached the river narrow, icy. Wading through, she emerged shivering, shook out her wet fur, and continued.
By the sixth day she was coughing, nose running, her breath ragged. Still, she fought on.
And then, at dawn on the seventh day, Darcy finally saw her garden gate. She sat, mewed a weak, croaky sound. No one heard. She mewed again, louder.
The door opened. Katie ran out barefoot, in her nightgown.
Daaaarcy! the girl cried, flinging open the gate and sweeping the cat into her arms. Mum! Dad! Come quickly! She made it! Shes come home!
Lizzie, Ian, and Peter followed, spilling onto the step. Helen, wiping her hands on her apron, came closer, bending down to peer at the sorry creature.
Dear me shes skin and bones her nose is running seems shes caught a cold, she said softly.
Mum, we have to help her! pleaded Lizzie.
Help? Have you ever seen anyone call the vet for a cat? The vets for cows and pigs around here cats just have to manage
But, Mum!
Oh, fine, she sighed, waving a hand. Warm her some milk. And fetch an old towel, shell need wiping down. Well see
Michael Stone appeared on the doorstep, pausing as he saw the ginger cat in his youngests arms.
So, she found her way back, did she? he muttered.
Dad, she managed three, maybe four miles! Can you believe it? Peter said, awestruck.
Michael didnt answer. He simply turned inside.
They carried Darcy to the warmth and laid her by the fireplace. Katie brought a bowl of hot fresh milk, which Darcy lapped up urgently. Lizzie gently dried her with an old towel, careful not to hurt her more.
Her paws are bleeding Lizzie whispered. Mum, come look
Helen knelt and carefully examined the cat.
You poor thing she sighed. Right. Ian, fetch the antiseptic. Lizzie, bring a bandage. Lets see what we can do.
What about her cold? asked Katie.
Well maybe a bit of chamomile. Ill ask old Mrs Green she always knows what to do. Most important, keep her warm and fed. After that, its in Gods hands.
From that moment, the children nursed Darcy like a baby. Katie hardly left her side, stroking her and murmuring softly. Lizzie made chicken broth. Ian found an old blanket and spread it near the fire. Peter, with a determined frown, started hammering planks together.
What are you making? Lizzie wondered.
A litter tray, Peter grunted. Shell use it this time. Well teach her.
You think itll work?
It has to.
For nearly a week Darcy was ill sneezing, snuffling, eyes streaming. But the children persisted, giving chamomile drops, feeding her warm milk, wrapping her up cosy.
Gradually, the cat improved. The cold faded, her eyes brightened, her fur became fluffy and rich once more.
Then came the litter tray lessons. Peter had filled a box with sand. Every time Darcy began sniffing for a corner, they gently placed her there.
Here, Darcy, here, Katie would repeat, patiently.
Darcy grumbled, tried to escape, but the children were determined. And then, one day a miracle the cat went herself, scratched in the sand, and used the tray.
She did it! Katie squealed. Mum, Dad! She went all by herself!
Helen smiled for the first time in days. Well, there you go. Id never have believed it.
Michael Stone looked up from his paper. Watching the cat grooming herself beside her new tray, he said quietly, Persistent, arent you? It takes some grit walking for miles like that
Dad, you wont send her away again, will you? Katie asked shyly.
He paused, weighing his words, and finally said, No. If shes come all this way on her own, then she belongs here. With us.
Katie threw her arms round him, hugging tight, as if afraid hed change his mind.
Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!
He grunted, but it was clear he wasnt angry any more.
Darcy stayed with them for many years after. She never made a mess again, always used her box. Each evening she purred by the fire, tucked into a warm ball. She caught mice as well as any of them, and the children were so proud.
Sometimes Michael Stone would watch her and shake his head.
Shes got real spirit, hed say. She knows where her home is. No distance could keep her away.
The children always agreed. Because it was true: Darcy knew she belonged. She fought her way back through rain, cold, hunger, and pain, because her family was waiting.
After all, where someone waits for you, thats where you truly live. And so life carried on.
