Dad, please don’t take her away! sobbed my youngest daughter, Emily, her freckled English nose red and blotchy from crying. You can’t just give away Poppy, she’s ours!
Your Poppy, I snapped, jerking the steering wheel, does her business everywhere. In the hallway, by the hearth, and yesterday she left a pile in my shoes. She refuses to use her litter. What am I meant to do with her?
Dad, please
Enough! I barked.
I started up my battered old Ford Escort a faded white relic with rust nibbling the fenders. On the backseat, Poppy whimpered from inside a cramped cardboard box.
Dad, dont take her! Emily pleaded again from the garden gate, gripping the wooden bars so tightly her knuckles turned white, her little plaited hair dancing in the autumn wind. But the Ford coughed away down the lane, over the potholes, and was gone round the bend.
Autumn here in our bit of Kent was always raw and grey, low clouds hanging like a sopping blanket over the cottages, the wind picking at dresses and petticoats. I heard my wifes voice through the kitchen window.
Emily, come inside! Youll catch your death! Why are you standing there like a statue?
But Emily stayed put, hot tears running down her cold cheeks.
Poppy Her Poppy. The ginger cat with white socks and a fluffy chest. Each evening shed curl up in Emilys lap, purring quietly by the fire. Not anymore.
The house smelled of stewed cabbage and rising bread my wife Sarah was shaping pasties at the table. The older children, Tom (thirteen), Alice (eleven), and Jack (nine), sat over their exercise books or pretended to. Tom was scribbling mindlessly, eyes far away; Alice hid behind her book, her eyes rimmed red. Even usually noisy Jack sat silently, gnawing his pencil.
Its always the same, Tom slammed his pen down suddenly. Dad decides and thats that! Doesnt even ask anyone first.
Keep your voice down! Sarah scolded, kneading dough with a will. Your father knows best. Weve got three cats already. Millie and Basil use their trays, like they should. But this one your Poppy
She just needed time! Alice protested, tears threatening again. We could have taught her!
Taught her? And who was going to do that, eh? Me? Ive more work than I can manage cows, pigs, the garden, you lot and now a cat who thinks shes Queen Victoria.
Wed have done it! Alice pressed. Wed have tried!
Too late, Sarah replied grimly.
Emily slipped in quietly, settling herself on the window seat, staring out at the fine curtain of rain. The village looked bleak grey cottages, blackened garden remnants.
Mum do you think shell come home? Emily’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Sarah simply sighed.
I dont know, love. I really dont know
***
Half an hour later, I returned. I shook off my sodden jacket and hung it up without a word, heading straight for the kitchen. I didnt meet the eyes of any of my children.
Well? Sarah asked.
Dropped her off in the next village. Left her with the Turners. They said theyd look after her.
How fars the next village? Jack asked.
Three maybe four miles, I muttered.
She wont come back, Alice whispered.
Good, I replied sharply. Thats enough, now. Put the kettle on, Im freezing.
Sarah set a mug of tea and a plateful of bangers and mash in front of me. I ate in silence, shoveling the food in with a sort of weary anger, the children all silent too, pushing their food around, barely touching it.
***
That night, after the house had gone quiet and all the others were asleep, Emily lay restless beside Alice, wide-eyed, listening to the tap of rain, the creaks of the old beams, and the far-off bark of the pub dog at the crossroads.
Alice, you awake? she whispered.
Yes.
Poppyll come back. She will. Shell find her way home.
Dont be daft. Shes only little. How should she ever find the way? Dad drove miles!
But shes clever! She knows her way!
Alice just turned to the wall. Emily squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried to pray, the way her gran had taught her: Please, God, watch out for Poppy, help her find the way home. Please
***
Meanwhile, in the Turners cottage, Poppy crouched under the hot-water boiler, a little ginger ball of misery. The old couple were kind, they left her a saucer of cream and stroked her, but she only shrank further away, feeling utterly lost.
Where was her home? Where were Emily, Alice, Jack and Tom? Where was Sarah, who used to sneak her bits of ham? Where was the scent of her own hearth, the old garden, the fields beyond?
Here everything smelled wrong. The Turners had a burly grey tom, who hissed menacingly if Poppy went near the food.
She waited for morning. And when Mrs. Turner opened the door to feed the hens, Poppy streaked out and was gone, through the garden, under the fence, out onto the open road.
Oh! Where are you off to? the old lady called, but Poppy didnt look back. She ran, trembling, into the wet fields.
The rain barely paused. It came down in steady, hard English droplets. Her ginger fur clung to her body, her paws slick with mud, claws caked dark.
She didnt know which way was home. But something deep inside her insisted, onward onward dont give up.
The day wore on. She hid shivering under a hayrick, stomach rumbling. She tried to hunt a mouse but it vanished down a hole. She lapped grimy water from a puddle, nose twitching at the earthy taste.
Next morning she found the road. Asphalt full of ruts, the odd car hissing by, spraying mucky water at her. Poppy limped along the verge, staggering, steadying herself again and again.
That night she found an old shed. Rotten beams, a thick mousey scent. She caught one barely chewed before swallowing. For a while it eased the pangs in her belly.
On the third day, icy sleet fell the first of the year. Her ginger fur stood out in blotches against the pale, dusting ground. The pads of her paws were raw and cracked, but she pressed on.
Because up ahead, somewhere, was home. There were the children, the warmth of the hearth, and Sarah, who complained but always slipped her titbits.
On the fourth day, she caught sight of the birch copse the very one where, in summer, the children picked blackberries and Emily had made daisy-chains. Hope soared in her battered feline heart.
Fifth day she came to the little river, narrow but biting cold. She slogged through, forcing herself to the other bank.
Six days now a cough started. Something dripped from her nose; her breath came in sharp, ragged pants. Still she crawled forward.
Then, dawn of the seventh day. Poppy arrived at the old iron gate. She gave a feeble meow, nothing but a whisper. Then again, louder.
And suddenly: Emily, wild-haired, barefoot in her nightie, burst from the front door.
Poppy! she shrieked, threw open the gate and swept the cat into her arms. Mum! Dad! Everyone come, shes back! She came home!
Tom, Alice and Jack were right behind, calling out in amazement. Sarah came too, drying her hands on her old apron and leaning close to see.
Oh my days shes all skin and bone and her nose is running. Shes caught a chill, poor thing.
Mum, we have to help her! Alice cried.
Help her? Have you ever seen anyone call the vet just for a cat? Vets are for cows and pigs round these parts. But all right, dont whinge warm up some milk for her, and fetch a rag to clean her up. Well see if she pulls through
I appeared in the doorway as everyone bustled around. I looked down at the bedraggled ginger creature in Emilys arms.
So youve found your way, have you I muttered.
Dad, she came all that way! Three, maybe four miles! Can you imagine? Tom said, his voice fierce with pride.
I didnt answer, just turned away and stepped back inside.
***
We carried Poppy into the warmth, laid her near the wood stove. Emily placed a steaming bowl of milk by her side, and Poppy lapped hungrily, getting it all over her whiskers. Alice wiped her carefully with an old towel, gentle as she could be.
Her paws are bleeding Alice whispered.
Sarah knelt beside the cat and studied her battered feet.
You poor love all right, Jack, run and fetch the antiseptic. Alice, grab a bandage. Well fix her up.
What about her running nose? Emily asked.
Hmm. Well try some of Grans old chamomile trick. The main thing is warmth and feeding her up proper. The restwell, well see.
From then on, the children cared for Poppy as if she were the youngest of the lot. Emily never left her side, stroking and whispering soft encouragement. Alice made her chicken broth. Jack found an old blanket for her nest. Tom, with quiet determination, went to work with spare wood and nails.
What are you building? Alice asked.
A litter box, Tom replied. Shell learn, youll see.
Do you really think she can?
Well teach her.
Poppy lay sick for a weeksneezing, shivering, eyes streaming. But the children soldiered on: dabbing chamomile ointment, feeding her warm milk, wrapping her close.
Gradually, Poppy rallied. The sneezes faded, her eyes grew bright, her fur returned to its thick, fiery state.
Then began the litter training. Tom had built a box and filled it with sand. Each time Poppy looked for a spot, the children lifted her in gently.
Here, Poppy, in here, Emily would plead, again and again.
Poppy sometimes grumbled and tried to escape, but the kids were relentless. One day, at last a miracle Poppy walked herself over, dug in the sand, and did everything as she ought.
She did it! Emily yelled. Mum! Dad! She did it herself!
Sarah smiled for the first time in days.
Well then. So it could be done, after all.
I sat at the table with my newspaper, looking over at the proud ginger cat, preening herself by her new box.
Persistent little thing, arent you stubborn as a mule. Walked miles, did you?
Dad, you wont send her away again, will you? Emilys voice was tentative.
I paused, counting the cost of each word, then said simply:
No. If she came all this way herself, this is where she belongs. With us.
Emily hugged me so fiercely I thought shed never let go.
Thank you, Dad! Thank you!
Oh, enough of that, I grumbled, but I wasnt really cross.
***
Poppy lived with us many more years after that. Never a single mistake again, always used her box, purred by the fire in the evenings, and caught mice as well as Millie and Basil ever couldand the children were proud of her most of all.
Often Id watch her and shake my head.
Shes got spirit, she does, Id say. Real heart. Knows where home is. And no stretch of road will keep her away.
The children always agreed, for it was true. Poppy knew herself where she belonged. And she came home, through rain and mud and pain, for one reason: because we were here, waiting.
And where youre loved, thats where you live. Thats the heart of it. And so, life, somehow, goes on.
