Paws and Whiskers Read online

  ‘He was seventeen,’ Thomas Fortune said. ‘He had a good innings.’

  ‘He had a good life,’ Viola Fortune said.

  Peter stood up slowly. Two legs did not seem enough.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘He’s gone on another adventure now.’

  The next morning they buried William at the bottom of the garden. Peter made a cross out of sticks, and Kate made a wreath out of laurel leaves and twigs. Even though they were all going to be late for school or work, the whole family went down to the graveside together. The children put on the final shovelfuls of earth. And it was just then that there rose through the ground and hovered in the air a shining ball of pink and purple light.

  ‘Look!’ Peter said, and pointed.

  ‘Look at what?’

  ‘Right there, right in front of you.’

  ‘Peter, what are you talking about?’

  ‘He’s daydreaming again.’

  The light drifted higher until it was level with Peter’s head. It did not speak, of course. That would have been impossible. But Peter heard it all the same.

  ‘Goodbye, Peter,’ it said as it began to fade before his eyes. ‘Goodbye, and thanks again.’

  ICE LOLLY

  by Jean Ure

  I’ve been friends with Jean Ure for many years, so we often send each other our books when they’re newly published. I think my absolute favourite is Ice Lolly. It’s probably not surprising that I’m so fond of Laurel, the main girl in the story, because she loves books and cats more than anything else, and so do I!

  Ice Lolly is quite a sad story, because Laurel’s special mum has died and she has to go and live with her aunt and uncle and their children. With her she takes boxes of her mum’s books, and Mr Pooter, her beloved cat. Auntie Ellen is very houseproud and particular. Nearly all the books are put up in the attic – and poor Mr Pooter is barely tolerated.

  I think you’ll enjoy the following extract, and don’t worry – if you read the whole book you’ll find there’s a wonderful happy ending.

  ICE LOLLY

  Today in the library Mrs Caton gives me a book to read in the holidays. It’s called Three Men in a Boat, and it’s old. I like old books! I like the thought of other people reading them. People from long ago, before I was born. I imagine them turning the pages and chuckling to themselves at bits they find amusing, or maybe going tut if there’s something they don’t approve of, and never dreaming that years later, in another century, someone like me will be turning those same pages and reading the exact same words.

  I put the book to my nose and sniff. I always do this with books; Mum used to do it, too. She used to say that the smell of a book was better than the smell of the most expensive perfume.

  Mrs Caton laughs. ‘Why is it that real book people always do that?’ she says.

  ‘Do what?’ says Jolene, jealously. She likes to think of herself as a book person, in spite of not knowing whether Elinor M. Brent-Dyer goes under B or D. I bet she couldn’t get through Jane Eyre, even though she is in Year Nine. I read it with Mum when I was only ten!

  Now I am being boastful. I have nothing to be boastful about. Yesterday we had the results of our end-of-term maths exam, and I came next to bottom. On the other hand, I came top of English. Mum would have been ever so proud. She would have said, ‘You take after me, Lollipop, you don’t have a mathematical brain. You’re more of a language person.’

  But coming next to bottom is nothing to boast about; even Mum would agree with that. So I have absolutely no right to feel superior to Jolene. She might have come top of her maths exam, for all I know.

  I tell her about books smelling better than perfume, and she does that thing that people are always doing, she looks at me like I’m from outer space.

  ‘Dalek!’ she hisses, as she flounces off across the library.

  ‘What did she call you?’ says Mrs Caton.

  I mutter, ‘Dalek,’ hoping that she won’t hear and will just forget about it. But she’s frowning.

  ‘Why Dalek?’ she says.

  I say that I don’t know.

  ‘It doesn’t seem a very pleasant thing to call someone.’

  I tell her that it’s like a sort of nickname. Nickname makes it sound friendly. Mrs Caton doesn’t look like she’s convinced. She says, ‘Well, anyway, I was going through my bookshelves and I came across Three Men in a Boat and I thought of you immediately. It was written round about the same time as your favourite, Diary of a Nobody. My dad introduced me to it. I used to think it was absolutely hilarious! Mind you, that was when I was about fifteen or sixteen, so I was quite a bit older than you. But you’re such a mature reader . . . I’ll be interested to know how you get on. Give it a go and see what you feel.’

  I promise her that I will.

  ‘You can read it over the summer holiday. Just a little bit at a time.’

  Earnestly, I say that I never read books a little bit at a time. ‘Once I’ve started I can’t stop. I just get greedy and gobble them up!’

  ‘Well, don’t get too greedy,’ says Mrs Caton. ‘You’ve got weeks and weeks ahead of you.’

  The bell rings for the start of afternoon school. Tomorrow is the last day of term. I tell Mrs Caton a big thank you.

  ‘I’ll start reading straight away! And I’ll take really good care of it.’

  ‘I know you will,’ she says. ‘You’re a book person. But don’t forget . . . a little bit at a time. I don’t want you being bored.’

  I couldn’t be bored by a book. I tell her this, and she smiles and says, ‘Different books suit different people . . . and don’t gobble! You’ve got the whole of the summer.’

  I go slowly back to class. I can’t imagine what I’m going to do all through the summer. I can’t imagine not going to the library every day and seeing Mrs Caton. I don’t think, really, that I’m looking forward to all those empty weeks.

  I used to love the holidays when Mum was here. We never went away anywhere, we couldn’t afford it, but we used to go on days out. We used to visit places, all over London. Sometimes out of London, like we’d jump on the train and go to the seaside and buy sticks of rock and paddle and build sandcastles. It was fun! Even if we just packed sandwiches and went to Kensington Gardens to see Peter Pan and feed the ducks. Or like maybe Mum would suddenly say, ‘Let’s go somewhere different! Let’s catch a train and just go off . . . where shall we go to? Tell me which direction! North, east, south, west . . . you choose!’

  So then I’d say, like, ‘North!’ and off we’d go to King’s Cross or Euston. We’d look at the indicator boards and Mum would say, ‘Pick a destination!’ I knew I couldn’t pick anywhere too far away, like Birmingham or Manchester, but it still gave us lots to choose from.

  We didn’t really go places so much after Mum was in her wheelchair, but we still had fun. We’d stay home and play games, like Scrabble, or Trivial Pursuit, or Monopoly. We didn’t have a Monopoly board, but Mum said that needn’t stop us, we’d make one for ourselves. Making the board was almost as much fun as playing the game! We printed out lots of money on the computer and Mum giggled and said, ‘Let’s hope the police don’t break in and catch us at it! They’ll think we’re forgers.’

  I bet if the police had broken in, it would still have been fun. Everything was fun, with Mum. It’s not much fun with Uncle Mark and Auntie Ellen. They never play games, and if I suggested going to the station and choosing a place to visit they’d give me that look, like, How weird is that child?

  They’re going to Wales in August. I suppose I’ll go with them, though I don’t know where I’ll stay. Holly and Michael are staying with their nan, but there isn’t room for anyone else so Uncle Mark and Auntie Ellen are booked into a hotel. I don’t think Auntie Ellen would want to pay for me to be booked in as well, she’s already complaining about how much it costs. So I don’t know quite what will happen. Maybe I could go and stay with Stevie, except that Stevie doesn’t have people to stay. Perhaps I’ll just stay behind, by