Michael Morpurgo - The Nine Lives of Montezuma

‘Finished both fields on the other side of the brook, headlands as well. But ’tis still divilish wet out there.’ His father sounded content and satisfied with his day, and the boy decided that this was the time to make his case.

‘Dad,’ he said, wondering how best to begin. ‘Dad I found a kitten in the old granary this afternoon.’

‘Did you clear it out like I said?’ His father bent over the sink to scrub his hands.

‘Yes, Dad. It’s all done.’

‘And the milking? Are you sure that Iris hasn’t got mastitis? She felt hard enough to me last night, in the two front quarters. You sure she’s all right?’

‘Quite sure, Dad.’

‘And what about Emma? She looked as if she might calve early. Any sign?’

‘No, Dad. Dad, about the kitten ...’

‘Is there a cup of tea in the pot?’ His father wiped his hands and turned around to face the oven. ‘Gad, what the divil’s that in the oven?’ He stooped for a closer look, hands on his knees. ‘It’s a perishing kitten. What the divil’s a perishing kitten doing in here? Will someone tell me what the divil he’s doing in that oven?’

‘Dad, I’ve been trying to tell you. That’s the kitten I found in the granary. He’s been deserted by that Kitty.’

‘But I drowned her last lot.’

‘Not all of them, Dad. You must have missed this one, and I found him all starved and nearly dead. Mum and me, we’ve been feeding him up; and Dad, I wanted to ask you if . . .’

‘Gad,’ said his father, and he reached in the oven and pulled the kitten out, holding him up by the scruff of the neck.

‘Too old to drown now, dear,’ said the boy’s mother. ‘What’ll we do with him?’

‘What’ll we do with him? You can’t just throw him out, wouldn’t be right. You’ll have to keep him, won’t you? Just take care you keep him out of the sitting room, that’s all.’ He looked the kitten straight in the face, nose to nose. ‘Never in the sitting room, you hear me?’ And he handed the kitten to the boy.

‘All yours, Matthew,’ he said. ‘What’ll you call him?’

‘Monty,’ said Matthew. ‘Short for Montezuma.’

‘Divilish silly name, but there you are, Matthew’s not much better. Monty meet Matthew, Matthew meet Monty.’

‘D’you mean I can keep him here, Dad? He can stay?’

‘Nothing else to be done, is there? Now what were you going to ask me, Matthew? You said there was something . . .’

‘Nothing, Dad, it was nothing. Can’t have been important. I’ve forgotten.’

‘Where’s my tea then? Gad, can’t a man have a cup of tea when he gets back home at night. What are you both staring at?’

And so Montezuma came to live in the farm-house. After a few days he was moved away from the oven and into a box on the far side of the kitchen under the ironing board. But that was a long way from the stove, and he very soon found a corner of the stove by the wall where he could sleep warm and undisturbed whilst he grew slowly into adolescence.

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