The kids woke to snow drifting past their bedroom window. It was so cold they could see their breath coming out, even inside the house. They bounded out of bed and found their mother already moving round the kitchen in her dressing gown and thick socks. Cigarette smoke curled to the ceiling as she one-handedly lit the gas and put the kettle on for tea, transferring the butt to her mouth before cracking eggs for omelettes.
‘Mum,’ the kids screamed, ‘look at Meanie.’
Meanie, the cat, so named for his habit of pulverising the ducklings that lived in the stream at the bottom of the garden, was sitting on the windowsill with his face pressed against the glass. His ginger fur was radiating like sparklers around his head, spikes of frost forming an icy collar. His tail stood upright, a furry popsicle.
‘Is he breathing?’ yelled the girl, jumping up and down. ‘Of course, he’s breathing. Why wouldn’t he be?’ said their mother, blowing out smoke.
‘Open the window, open the window,’ they demanded.
‘And let the cold air in? Are you crazy? Do you wanna freeze to death? He’s perfectly OK. He’s a cat. Cat’s survive. It’s what they do.’
‘He’s not breathing,’ snivelled the boy.
‘He is so too,’ said their mother and rapped on the window.
‘Bugger off, duckie-killer,’ she shouted.
Meanie swayed like a tenpin about to fall. Then he did fall.
Diane’s homework, 4th June 2007
More of Diane's prose at http://talkingcompetition.blogspot.com/
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