Kitty’s mum shouted from the larder. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘What?’ asked Dad.
He knew what the answer would be. For several weeks now, he had been sweeping the larder with a small dustpan and brush whenever he found half-chewed bits of paper, crumbs or mouse droppings. He did so because he was lazy and didn’t want all the trouble which would follow when Alex, Kitty’s mum, discovered they had mice in the larder. The last time this had happened, they’d had to remove from the shelves every cardboard cereal carton, every packet of biscuits, every box of pasta – in short, anything through which the mice could nibble with their sharp little teeth.
‘There are mouse droppings everywhere,’ called Kitty’s mum. ‘Oh, no! And they’ve eaten through the bottom of –’
Kitty and her dad heard Mum’s reaction as she lifted a packet of Rice Crispies and found that mice had chewed a hole in the bottom. Rice Crispies were pouring out on to the larder floor.
Kitty said, ‘I told you it might be mice that had knocked over Chum’s food bag last week.’
‘And there we were,’ said Dad, ‘blaming you for spilling food on the floor.’
Mum, who had by now finished sweeping up Rice Crispies and mouse droppings, came into the kitchen.
‘I can’t bear it,’ she said. ‘It took such ages to get rid of them last time.’
‘I just don’t know how they could get in,’ said Dad. ‘Do you suppose they live outside the house and come in when it’s raining?’
‘Mum, is it all right if I take a bit of carrot from the fridge and give it to Chum?’ interrupted Kitty.
She was eleven and lived alone with her houseproud mother and father. Except Dad wasn’t quite as tidy as Kitty and her mum. Being neat is a gift – and they had it.
‘We must be especially careful,’ said Mum, ‘not to leave out any food which might attract them.’
‘They couldn’t get into Chum’s cage, could they?’ asked Kitty.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Dad.
‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Mum, ‘and they’ve just come in from the garden to escape last night’s rain. Maybe they won’t come again.’
Kitty’s dad was silent, concealing the fact that for weeks he had seen the telltale signs of mice.
‘It’s funny in a way,’ said Mum. ‘We keep one little rodent as a pet, and then spend so much energy driving away these other little rodents.’
Kitty put on her ‘Chum’ voice and pretended to speak for her hamster.
‘Allie – I am not one little rodent.’
‘Yes, you are,’ said Mum, whose name was Alex, leaning over Chum’s cage and looking into her curranty little eyes. When Kitty pretended to be Chum, Mum was Allie and Dad was ‘Mister Peter’.
‘I am not just a little rodent,’ squeaked Kitty in her Chum voice. ‘I’m not, I’m not.’
‘Oh, look, it’s rather sweet,’ said Dad, ‘Chum’s sitting up and doing her impression of a meerkat.’
Chum was the second hamster they had bought. The first, a much slower and in some ways statelier fellow, had been called Murphy. When, after something over a year, he died, Kitty and Mum had decided to replace him at once. They had returned from the pet shop with the tiny, hyper-energetic, fudge-and-white coloured Chum only days after Murphy’s sad funeral in the garden. All three of them had quickly grown to like, and then actually to love, the tiny Chum.
As well as being a fast runner, Chum had a bright sunny outlook on life. When not asleep inside the cashmere sock which Dad provided for her bedding, she was eagerly looking out at the world. When out of her cage, she sometimes became what Kitty called ‘hyper’, running round and round the room. Kitty and her mum believed that Chum both needed, and enjoyed, this form of exercise. Dad, more timorous, was everlastingly afraid that she would get lost or run away.