Холли Вебб: A Cat Called Penguin

“Oh, Alfie…” His mother folded her arms and stared down at him, shaking her head as if she thought he was just having a silly tantrum.

Alfie stamped his feet, and his throat felt rough, as if the words were tearing out of him. He glared at Mum and Dad. “You don’t love me or Penguin, Mum! You said he was a something nuisance, and that’s a word you told me I was never, ever, ever, ever allowed to say.”

Dad made a strange sort of snorting noise. He was laughing! Alfie felt like he was about to burst – it wasn’t funny!

His mother rolled her eyes. “Alfie, he had just torn a pigeon to pieces in my bathroom!” she hissed. “I think I’m allowed to be annoyed!”

Alfie was never quite sure how Penguin had managed that. He must have dragged the pigeon into the house through the cat flap, hauled it up the stairs, and then played with it rather messily all over the bathroom. It was a large pigeon too. It had been a bit of a shock for Mum walking in on it.

“You’re glad he’s gone to Grace’s!” Alfie snarled. “I hate you!”

“Go to your room!” Mum finally snapped, and Alfie stomped heavily out of the kitchen, kicking the door on the way, because he knew it would really annoy her.

“Just because he gets hairs on your black trousers!” he yelled as he hurled himself up the stairs. “You care more about trousers than you do about me!”

Penguin didn’t come back to Alfie’s that night either – which Alfie couldn’t help feeling was ungrateful, when Alfie had bothered to get sent to bed defending his honour.

But then he was back at Alfie’s house for the rest of the week, and things were just as they had always been. Penguin even played football with him on Saturday morning. Alfie had an important match on Sunday, and he was practising in the garden. Penguin was sitting on the bench looking miffed – no birds were going to be on the feeder with Alfie kicking a ball around. His whiskers trembled with irritation, until Alfie came and sat down beside him, panting. “Sorry, Penguin. I’ve got to practise. We can’t let Purlham beat us again, and I’m in goal since Max broke his leg.”

Penguin butted his arm lovingly, yawned, and jumped off the bench, looking expectantly back at Alfie. He nosed the ball, then jumped on it, rolling over and over like a kitten going mad with a ball of paper. Alfie laughed. Penguin hadn’t done that in ages. “Handball, Penguin! Or pawball… Although I suppose actually you’ve got four feet. Maybe you’re allowed.” He chased after Penguin and the ball, and they dodged and weaved all over the garden. Penguin was particularly good at a sort of four-paw sliding tackle.

They had such a good time that Alfie was starting to hope that Penguin had just been nosing at Grace’s house. Maybe now the excitement had worn off.

Then Penguin disappeared that night, and didn’t come back.

It ruined Alfie’s weekend. Sunday afternoon’s football match was a disaster. Alfie’s team were playing Purlham All Stars, who’d beaten them last year, and everyone was desperate for revenge.

But Alfie let in three goals, and Sam Kelly’s mum said very loudly, right in front of half the rest of the team – who all told Alfie about it – that Alfie was a disgrace and shouldn’t be allowed to play.

The only good bit of the day was Mum telling Mrs Kelly that when Sam stopped scoring own goals maybe she’d have a right to be rude about everybody else. Dad had to hurry her away before Mrs Kelly managed to work through her shock and think of anything else to say.

Alfie arrived at school on Monday hoping for something fun to happen to take his mind off the football disaster. He still had a horrible feeling people might be pointing and sniggering, but Oliver told him to stop being dim. “We’ll beat them next year. And anyway, my dad said their striker looked as though he was about thirteen; there’s no way he should have been in the under-tens league.”

Alfie nodded gratefully. He supposed it didn’t really matter that much. Hopefully he’d never have to be in goal again…

They went into class to be greeted by Mrs Cartwright announcing a Project. They’d only had Mrs Cartwright for about three weeks, but she was known for her Projects. Year Three were learning about the Romans, and Mrs Cartwright was so excited she was practically frothing at the mouth. Gladiators! Feasts! Dormice! Big forks! Alfie blinked wearily as it all rolled over his head. He liked the sound of Romans – although he didn’t quite get where the dormice fitted in – but he hadn’t slept very well the previous night. He kept reliving the disastrous football match, and then worrying about Penguin.

He zoned in again when he heard his name mentioned. It was a survival tactic that he’d learned in Year Two. He looked up, wide-eyed, trying to seem innocent. What? Was he being told off?

“…and Grace … Lily and Maddie-Mae. Robin and Elsie…”

Oh. Only a list of people to work with then. Alfie stopped worrying, and then realized what Mrs Cartwright had said. He had to work with Grace.

He glanced over at her. She looked blank, and ducked her eyes when she saw him looking at her. Probably she felt guilty about Penguin being at her house right now, Alfie thought, folding his arms and glaring.

Mrs Cartwright put a film about Romans on the whiteboard after that, so there was no working with Grace to be done before lunch time. But when they came back in from the playground, she told them to sit with their new partners.

Alfie scowled stubbornly at Grace. He wasn’t moving from his place. She’d just have to come and sit next to him. He saw her wrinkle her nose thoughtfully, and perhaps decide it wasn’t worth a fight in front of Mrs Cartwright. She grabbed her pencil case and sat down next to him – but she moved the chair further away first, as though he smelled.

Mrs Cartwright handed out a worksheet about Roman gladiators and beast fights, and Alfie enjoyed himself filling in the answers from that bit of the film, imagining Grace as a criminal thrown to the wild beasts. Penguin would enjoy being a ferocious panther, he thought.

The second side of the sheet had to be done with a partner. Alfie sighed and glanced up to see if Grace was ready, and found she was staring at him, looking equally unkeen.

“We have to write a play,” he muttered.

“Mmm.”

“You any good at writing?”

She shrugged. “We can have two characters. Then I’ll write one and you do one.”

Alfie nodded. It seemed the easiest way. “I’m going to be one of those ones with a net and the thing like a garden fork,” he added quickly.

Grace shrugged. “OK, but you’ll lose. I’ll be the one with the helmet and all the armour.”

Alfie nibbled his pencil, wondering if she was right. “All that armour’s heavy,” he pointed out. “You won’t be able to catch me. It’s weird that they knew each other, isn’t it? They probably had breakfast and talked about who was going to win.”

Grace nodded, looking interested. “Maybe that’s what we should do – our gladiators could be friends having breakfast at the gladiator training camp, and then they find out they have to fight each other.”

“What did Romans eat for breakfast?” Alfie asked.

“Just bread, Alfie,” Mrs Cartwright said over his shoulder. “Sounds like you two are doing really well. Keep going!”

Alfie blinked, surprised to find that he was actually enjoying himself. “We could finish it off after school if you want,” he suggested hesitantly to Grace, when Mrs Cartwright told them it was time to stop.