Snowball

Autumn had arrived.

Not politely.

Not gradually.

It had simply turned up one morning, emptied a bucket of cold air over London, blown leaves across the pavements and informed everyone that summer was no longer available.

The trees had begun changing colour. Leaves were piling up in corners. The mornings were darker, the evenings were arriving earlier and there was a definite chill in the air.

Mr Brand noticed this when he got into the car.

He turned the heater on.

Mrs Brand noticed this when she made her first cup of tea.

She put both hands around the mug and said, “Oh, that’s nice.”

Alfie noticed it when he got dressed for school.

“It’s autumn,” he announced, pulling his vest on.

Barry noticed it when he went outside.

“It’s windy.”

Marmaduke, standing beside him, nodded.

“Very windy.”

Barry’s hair was already pointing in three different directions.

“I don’t like autumn.”

“You liked the leaves yesterday,” said Marmaduke.

“I liked them when they were on the trees.”

“Why?”

“Because they weren’t attacking me.”

Mr Brand laughed.

The boys had been desperate to get their bikes out that afternoon.

With the new school term properly under way, Mr Brand thought it would be a good opportunity to work on their cycling skills.

Alfie was already an excellent cyclist.

He was eight, confident on his bike and took road safety very seriously.

Barry and Marmaduke, on the other hand, were still at the stage where remembering which way to turn was considered an achievement worthy of a certificate.

So after lunch, Mr Brand jogged next to three excited children pushing their bikes towards the local park.

“Are there puddles?” asked Barry.

“Probably.”

“Can we ride through them?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to spend the afternoon cleaning mud off three children.”

Barry considered this.

“What about two?”

“No.”

They arrived at the park a little while later.

The wind had become stronger.

Leaves were blowing across the grass.

A few were tumbling along the paths like tiny, confused tumbleweeds.

Mr Brand unloaded the bikes.

“Okay. We’re going to practise stopping, starting, turning and signalling.”

Alfie nodded.

He was ready.

Barry and Marmaduke looked less convinced.

Mr Brand pointed to Alfie.

“Let’s see your arm signals.”

Alfie sat upright on his bike.

He extended his right arm.

Perfectly straight.

Palm flat.

Elbow locked.

He looked as though he was directing an aircraft onto a runway.

“Excellent,” said Mr Brand.

Alfie changed direction.

Left arm out.

Precise.

Controlled.

He brought it back in.

“Brilliant.”

Barry watched.

“How did you do that?”

“It’s easy.”

Barry tried.

He stuck out his left arm.

His elbow wobbled.

His hand flapped.

His bike veered towards a tree.

“Barry!” called Mr Brand.

Barry corrected himself.

“I’m signalling.”

“You’re supposed to signal where you’re going.”

“I am.”

“Where are you going?”

Barry looked at the tree.

“Apparently there.”

Marmaduke laughed.

Mr Brand shook his head.

“Try again.”

Marmaduke took his turn.

He extended his arm.

Unfortunately, a gust of wind caught his sleeve.

His whole arm swung backwards.

Marmaduke looked at it.

“My arm’s gone.”

“No, it hasn’t,” said Barry.

“It nearly has.”

Mr Brand laughed.

“Just keep it straight.”

Marmaduke tried again.

This time he managed an excellent signal.

Unfortunately, he was signalling left while turning right.

Mr Brand stared.

“Marmaduke.”

“Yes?”

“Which way are you turning?”

“Right.”

“And which way are you signalling?”

“Left.”

There was a pause.

“I got confused.”

“Yes.”

Barry nodded sympathetically.

“It happens.”

Mr Brand looked at both boys.

“Right. Let’s practise slowly.”

They set off around the park.

Alfie was magnificent.

He signalled before every turn.

He looked over his shoulder.

He slowed appropriately.

He stopped neatly.

He started again without wobbling.

His arm signals were so precise that Mr Brand half expected someone to ask him to land a fighter jet.

Barry and Marmaduke were considerably less polished.

The wind pushed them sideways.

Their helmets bobbed.

Their jackets flapped.

Their arms waved about.

Every time Barry tried to signal, the wind seemed to have a different opinion.

“Left!” shouted Barry.

“You’re going right!” shouted Marmaduke.

“I know!”

“Then why are you saying left?”

“I’ve changed my mind!”

Mr Brand called after them.

“Don’t change direction without looking!”

Barry looked over his shoulder.

A leaf hit him in the face.

“Something attacked me!”

“It was a leaf!”

“I know!”

Marmaduke was laughing so hard he nearly wobbled off the path.

Then they reached the pond.

Mr Brand stopped them.

“Okay. Carefully round the pond.”

Alfie went first.

Perfect.

Barry followed.

He was concentrating very hard.

Too hard, possibly.

He looked at the pond.

Then the path.

Then his front wheel.

Then the pond again.

“Don’t go too close,” called Mr Brand.

“I won’t!”

Barry moved slightly left.

The wind pushed him right.

He corrected.

The wind pushed him left.

He corrected again.

Marmaduke came behind him.

“Barry, you’re getting near the hedge.”

“I know!”

“Go right!”

“I am!”

“You’re going left!”

“I KNOW!”

Barry’s front wheel hit a patch of leaves.

The bike wobbled.

Barry tried to steer away from the pond.

Unfortunately, he steered away from the pond rather more enthusiastically than necessary.

Straight towards the hedge.

“Barry!” shouted Mr Brand.

Barry disappeared.

There was a rustling sound.

Then another.

Then silence.

Marmaduke stopped.

Mr Brand closed his eyes.

Alfie turned around.

“Is he in the hedge?”

“Yes,” said Marmaduke.

Mr Brand walked over.

Barry was sitting perfectly safely amongst the leaves and branches.

His bike was beside him.

He looked up.

“I avoided the pond.”

Mr Brand stared at him.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t get wet.”

“No.”

“I did get leaves in my hair.”

“Yes.”

Barry smiled.

“So technically, I won.”

Alfie shook his head.

Then Marmaduke heard something.

“Shhh.”

Everyone stopped.

There was a quiet sound from inside the hedge.

A little meow.

Barry’s face changed immediately.

“What was that?”

Another meow.

Marmaduke crouched down.

“There’s something in here.”

Mr Brand carefully moved some branches aside.

And there she was.

A cat.

A beautiful white cat, although her fur was dirty and marked with blood.

She was tucked into the hedge, frightened but strangely calm.

Barry stopped smiling.

“Oh.”

Marmaduke knelt down.

“She’s hurt.”

The cat looked at them.

Then she slowly crawled forward.

She was very thin.

There was blood around one of her legs and a nasty-looking wound along her side.

When she tried to move, she limped badly.

But she wasn’t aggressive.

Quite the opposite.

She hobbled straight towards Barry.

Barry held out his hand.

The cat sniffed it.

Then she rubbed her head against him.

Barry’s face lit up.

“She likes me.”

Mr Brand crouched down.

“She seems very tame.”

Alfie looked concerned.

“Does she belong to someone?”

“Probably,” said Mr Brand.

The cat purred.

Barry stroked her gently.

“We have to help her.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“Yes. We do.”

They quickly decided the bikes could wait.

Mr Brand carefully wrapped the cat in his jacket and carried her to the car.

She didn’t struggle.

She simply tucked herself into his arms and purred.

Marmaduke climbed into the car.

“What’s her name?”

“We don’t know.”

Barry thought.

“Snowball.”

Alfie sighed. “That’s very original.”

“She is white.”

“So are lots of things.”

“Snowball.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“I like Snowball.”

The nearest veterinary practice wasn’t far away.

Mr Brand carried her inside.

The receptionist looked concerned immediately.

“What happened?”

“We found her injured in the park.”

“Is she yours?”

Mr Brand hesitated.

“No.”

The receptionist nodded.

“Do you know who the owner is?”

“No.”

“Okay. We’ll get her seen by a vet.”

The cat was taken through.

The waiting began.

Barry sat on a chair.

Marmaduke sat beside him.

Alfie looked worried.

Mr Brand stared at the floor.

Eventually, a vet came through.

“She has some significant injuries,” she said. “We’d like to sedate her and take some X-rays.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“Of course.”

“And we need to establish who will be responsible for her treatment.”

Mr Brand looked confused.

“She’s a stray. Does she have a microchip?” 

“No, nothing found on scan. I’ve checked her neck and her body. An X-ray will confirm if there is a chip.”

“So… the rescue charities?”

The receptionist explained.

They had contacted nearby organisations.

Unfortunately, they were all at capacity.

Cats.

Dogs.

Kittens.

Abandoned animals.

Everyone was full.

The vet looked at Mr Brand.

“If no owner can be identified, someone needs to authorise the treatment.”

Mr Brand looked at the cat.

She was sitting quietly on the examination table.

She reached one paw towards him.

He sighed.

“I’ll do it.”

The receptionist looked at him.

“Okay. So you’re the owner?”

Mr Brand paused.

There are moments in life when a sensible adult can see a cliff edge approaching.

They can step backwards.

They can ask for clarification.

They can make a phone call.

Mr Brand, unfortunately, stepped forward.

“I suppose I am now.”

Barry’s eyes widened.

“You’re her daddy!”

Mr Brand closed his eyes.

“Barry…”

The receptionist smiled.

“Okay. We’ll put her details in your name.”

And that was how Mr Brand became the legal owner of a white injured cat approximately twelve minutes after meeting her.

She was microchipped to Mr Brand’s details.

Then she was taken through for X-rays under anaesthesia.

The bill was discussed.

Mr Brand looked at it.

Then at the cat.

Then at the boys.

Then back at the bill.

“Well,” he said.

“What’s that?” asked Barry.

“Money.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

Barry nodded thoughtfully.

“We’re keeping her.”

Mr Brand stared at him.

“I haven’t said that.”

“You’re her daddy.”

“I’ve established that I may have made a paperwork error.”

Marmaduke looked concerned.

“Does Mrs Brand know?”

Mr Brand looked towards the exit.

“No.”

Barry’s eyes became enormous.

“Daddy.”

“Yes?”

“Mummy doesn’t know.”

“I am aware.”

“Should we tell her?”

Mr Brand sighed.

“Yes.”

Barry grinned.

“I’ll tell her.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll tell her.”

Barry looked disappointed.

“Okay.”

They collected the cat once the treatment was complete.

She was groggy but comfortable.

Mr Brand carefully carried her to the car.

Barry followed behind.

He was visibly struggling to contain himself.

“Mummy doesn’t know.”

“I know.”

“Snowball is coming home.”

“We don’t know if she’s staying.”

“She has your microchip.”

“Yes.”

“So she’s ours.”

“Barry…”

Barry exploded.

“MUMMYYYYYY!”

Mr Brand froze.

Alfie covered his face.

Marmaduke burst out laughing.

Barry shouted down the street.

“WE HAVE A CAT!”

Mr Brand looked horrified.

“Barry!”

“HER NAME IS SNOWBALL!”

“Barry!”

“SHE’S WHITE AND SHE’S GOT BLOOD ON HER AND SHE LIKES ME AND DADDY’S HER DADDY!”

A few people walking nearby turned around.

Mr Brand put a hand over his face.

“Please stop shouting.”

Barry couldn’t.

“MUMMY DOESN’T KNOW!”

Marmaduke was now practically doubled over with laughter.

Alfie whispered, “This is going to be interesting.”

Mr Brand looked towards home.

“Oh, yes.”

Very interesting.

Because Mrs Brand was at home.

Marjory was there too.

And both of them had just heard a four-year-old screaming the words “WE HAVE A CAT!” from several hundred metres away.

Mrs Brand looked at Marjory.

Marjory looked at Mrs Brand.

There was a pause.

Then Mrs Brand said:

“Do you think that’s Barry?”

Marjory nodded.

“Definitely.”

Another distant shout floated down the road.

“DADDY BOUGHT A CAT!”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

“He did what?”

Marjory smiled.

“I think we’re about to find out.”

And Mr Brand, standing outside the house with an injured white cat in his arms, a four-year-old announcing his arrival to half the neighbourhood and a veterinary bill in his pocket, realised that explaining the situation to his wife was going to be considerably harder than explaining it to the vet.

He took a deep breath.

Barry looked up at him.

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can Snowball sleep in my bedroom?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because we don’t know if we’re keeping her.”

Barry thought about this.

Then smiled.

“She likes me.”

Mr Brand looked at the cat.

The cat purred.

He looked at Barry.

Then at the front door.

Then at the cat again.

“Yes,” he muttered.

“That is exactly the problem.”

And with that, he opened the front door.

Mrs Brand was waiting.

Marjory was beside her.

Both had their arms folded.

Barry beamed.

“Surprise!”

Mr Brand walked inside.

“Before anyone says anything…”

Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow.

“You have a cat.”

“I can explain.”

Marjory smiled.

“I think we all heard the explanation.”

Barry jumped up and down.

“SNOWBALL!”

The cat gave a quiet, sleepy meow.

Mrs Brand looked at her.

Then at Mr Brand.

Then back at the cat.

Her expression softened.

“Oh, she’s lovely.”

Mr Brand exhaled.

“Yes.”

Mrs Brand crouched down.

The cat slowly stretched out a paw.

Mrs Brand stroked her head.

“She is lovely.”

Barry whispered to Marmaduke.

“We’re keeping her.”

Marmaduke whispered back.

“I think we are.”

Alfie, standing behind them, smiled.

“Dad’s never going to hear the end of this.”

Mr Brand sighed.

“No.”

He looked down at the cat.

“Probably not.”

The cat purred.

Barry grinned.

And somewhere outside, another autumn leaf blew across the pavement.

It had been a perfectly ordinary afternoon.

Until Barry rode into a hedge.

Naturally.