Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 It was a cold and miserable morning- the kind where the damp air chills you to the bone- as the gang congregated at Euston Station ready for their journey to Scotland. The cats had been able to get away for the week, as their human mamma and papa had just had a baby, so were a bit distracted. While the cats were still very much doted on, the new arrival was in Silver's words a little 'grabby'. So, in many ways the week away couldn't have come at a better time.

The gang had packed light with just small knapsacks, apart from Catface, of course. The stylish cat-rat was dressed in a green tweed blazer and a blue-and-green- tartan kilt, with a sporran, long socks and brogues, all topped off with a traditional Balmoral bonnet. And he had a huge trunk in tow. 'I have to admit, I am quite looking forward to this: the bracing clean air in our lungs, a spot of fishing on the loch, cosy peat fires in the evening. I might even call in on my cousin. I think I'll have to write to old Fluffypaws and thank him!' Catface said with a chuckle. 'Catface mate, where do you think we're going?' Socks asked, looking baffled. 'What exactly do you think Glenview is?' 'And what is that?' Silver pointed to the small pouch hanging from Catface's hips. 'That, my young Italian friend, is a sporran- sort of

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like a pocket for a kilt. I am dressed in my old family tartan; my mother's side of the family is Scottish. And I'm well aware of where we are going: a charming place called Glenview... which I assume is some kind of animal finishing school? I attended one in Switzerland many years ago, so I imagine we'll be learning deportment, etiquette and so on. Should be a breeze. Socks put his paw to his head and let out a groan. 'Catface, IT'S A CORRECTIONAL CAMP RUN BY THE MILITARY. Loads of my mates from Battersea have been sent up there- it's got a terrible reputation. This week is going to be brutal!' 'Well, we'll see about that! I say, my dear man, can you help me with my luggage and direct me to the restaurant car?' Catface called over to a stern-looking bulldog dressed in regimental khakis and a peaked cap worn low over his eyes, who was studying a clipboard and was obviously in a position of authority.

He slowly looked Catface up and down and smiled, then said in a heavy Scottish accent, 'WHY, OF COURSE, YOUR MAJESTY, FOLLOW ME. OOH, ALLOW ME TO TAKE YOUR CASE, IT LOOKS AWFULLY HEAVY.' Catface followed on behind. 'See,' he beamed at his friends. 'A little bit of politeness goes a long wa—' He was interrupted by the bulldog grabbing the lapel of his blazer and hauling him towards the train. 'Name?' he barked. 'Err, FatCace, I mean, Rattinoff... the Thirty-third... Alexandre,' he spluttered. The bulldog looked down at his list and ticked off Catface's name. 'You three boys are the jokers who sank the Right Honourable Sir Fluffypaws' boat. Got ourselves some troublemakers, have we?' 'I wouldn't quite say that. It was a rather terrible accide—'

'Silence!' the bulldog screamed at Catface. 'You speak only when you are spoken to!' 'Strictly speaking, you were speaking to us... Oh never mind,' Catface muttered under his breath. 'My name is Sergeant Major Gordon. For this next miserable week of your lives you will address me as Sergeant. I am here to somehow turn this train of unruly, useless GOOD-FOR-NOTHINGS into something approximating a lean, disciplined outfit, capable of taking orders. I'm going to be taking personal interest in making sure you three pass with flying colours and return to London as obedient, dutiful animals. Make no mistake, this will be the TOUGHEST WEEK of your lives. Now, get on board and, in answer to your question, the dining car is at the back of the train. They serve porridge, porridge and more porridge, which is all you'll be eating this whole long, painful week. That's how an army wins a