Learn To Speak Cat by Anthony Smith

The nights were more bearable now.

His dreams were still vivid, but peopled with his father and his companions, whom Ralph now felt he knew so well.

When school was over for the day, he took to his heels, mile after mile along the cross-country track, more often than not shadowed by Jones, who turned out to be a decent runner, to Ralph’s surprise.

At first, it had amused him to sprint away, leaving the younger boy far behind him, but as the days passed, he felt Jones gaining on him and soon the pair of them were running together, each lost in their own thoughts.

The end of term loomed. Ralph hadn’t given any consideration to what he would do about the pen during the holidays, until the last day of term when Mr Richardson had handed it over as usual.

“This is turning into quite a story, Cawthorne,” Mr Richardson said. “I hope it’s not distracting you from the race this afternoon.

“We’re all expecting you to win. Although I hear Jones may give you a run for your money!”

Ralph frowned. Mr Richardson, misinterpreted.

“Come now, Cawthorne, competition is healthy. ”

“No, sir,” Ralph said quickly, “it’s not the race, it’s not Jones. I was just wondering if I might borrow –”

Crash!

A cricket ball thundered through the classroom window. Shouts of alarm, and some merriment, came from the boys on the field.

Mr Richardson picked his way over the broken glass to the window.

“Giggs! To the Head’s office, now!” he roared, to universal amazement, and hurried out of the classroom.

Ralph banged the desk in frustration. Then he picked up the pen and tried to write.

Today, the pen sat unmoving on the page. Ralph grasped it tighter, willing the words to come.

The page remained stubbornly empty.

Then, awkwardly, erratically, it began to move. Not in its usual fluid manner, but jerkily, snagging on the paper, dropping blots of ink.

“At last,” it wrote with painful slowness, “We’re going in. God help us all.”

The pen hovered, spidering across the page.

“Give us courage, keep us strong.”

Ralph waited, his heart thudding. Then, at last: “God bless my darling wife and son.”

The pen fell from his hand. It rolled off the desk.

When he bent down to pick it up, he found another hand there before him.

Mr Richardson straightened up, the pen in his hand, his features drawn and heavy.

“Kit on, Cawthorne,” he said abruptly, putting the pen away.

“But, sir . . . ”

“The race, Cawthorne, is in ten minutes. You ought to know, we’ve just heard. Jones’s father’s missing in action. The boy is aware but he insists on running.”

The huddle of boys round the starting line was strangely subdued.

Ralph supposed the news had got around.

The small boy, looking younger and more vulnerable than ever, stood apart from the others, staring into the distance, thin arms hugging his body.

Ralph wanted to go over and say something to him.

Suddenly, they were under starter’s orders and streaming away across the field.

Ralph fell into his usual pace, streaking away from the others, his feet sure and confident on the track.

He was not surprised to hear the thud of another pair of feet in their familiar rhythm close behind him.

He turned to see Jones’s white face set with grim determination, his eyes glinting with unshed tears.

The younger boy refused to meet his eyes and, in a sudden move, flashed past Ralph, disappearing into the gloom of the woods.

Recovering, Ralph plunged after him, weaving round trees, dodging overhanging branches, and they matched one another stride for stride.

A vivid image burst into Ralph’s head as he ran.

The men of his father’s company, moving through similar but far hotter terrain, each watching out for the other, each man holding the other’s life in his hands.

Smithy, Granger and the rest – Ralph knew them like brothers and, with a certainty that he could not explain, knew that his father’s survival depended on them.

They would not let each other down.

Whether or not Mr Richardson’s strange pen ever wrote for him again, Ralph was certain that he would see his father again. Jones ran on.

Poor little terrier, Ralph thought, running his heart out for a father he might never see again. He had guts, that was for sure.

Ralph watched the blur of his rival’s fragile legs, and sensed his exhaustion setting in.

As they pulled into the final stretch of the race, and the track widened out, Ralph put on a spurt and drew level with Jones.

The boy’s eyes were dark in his bloodless face, his hair wet with sweat.

In the distance, they could see everyone assembled to welcome home the winner, their cries and exhortations urging them on.

Jones was stumbling, snatching for air.

With a hundred yards to go, and the yells of the crowd ringing in his ears, Ralph only needed to step out to clinch the cup.

He thought of his father, of all those men, frightened, desperate, but sustained by comradeship and trust.

He broke his stride to keep pace with Jones.

Together, they crossed the finishing line.

The End.