The Secret Cat. Sarah Lean
in the pen, her head drooping.
“What was her old home like?” said Tiger.
“Empty,” he said. “She’s an orphan.”
Tiger leaned over the table. The warthog looked up. Tiny dark eyes glistened and blinked at Tiger. That’s why she looked so sad. She had no family anywhere at all.
“Hello,” said Tiger to the wartie, even though they had already met.
“Are you missing home?” asked May Days that night when Tiger was zipped up in her sleeping bag on her camp bed.
“Yes,” she said. “Do you miss Africa?”
“Terribly,” May Days said. “Makes me feel all out of sorts.”
Tiger whispered, “I know what you mean. Being here feels a bit unusual and skew-whiff in your tummy.”
“We’ll be fine,” said May Days, and they held hands across the tent. “Have you thought of a name for the wartie yet?”
Tiger nodded. “Monday,” she said.
“I like it,” said May Days. “What made you think of that?”
“Because Monday is the beginning of the week, and being here is the beginning of something new,” said Tiger, softly. “And as we are all Days I thought she might like to be part of our family too.”
Tiger was used to the bustling and rumbling of cars, buses and trains in the town where she lived, but there were more unusual sounds at Willowgate.
“What’s that screeching?” Tiger asked.
“A barn owl,” said May Days.
“What’s that plopping?” Tiger asked.
“Squirrels dropping pine cones on the roof.”
“What’s that racket?” Tiger said in the kitchen one day.
“Oh dear,” May Days said as the ceiling shuddered and the pipes grumbled. “The plumbing’s up the spout.”
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