Fat Lawrence Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Dick King-Smith served in the Grenadier Guards during the Second World War, and afterwards spent twenty years as a farmer in Gloucestershire, the county of his birth. Many of his stories are inspired by his farming experiences. Later he taught at a village primary school. His first book, The Fox Busters, was published in 1978. He wrote a great number of children’s books, including The Sheep-Pig (winner of the Guardian Award and filmed as Babe), Harry’s Mad, Noah’s Brother, The Queen’s Nose, Martin’s Mice, Ace, The Cuckoo Child and Harriet’s Hare (winner of the Children’s Book Award in 1995). At the British Book Awards in 1991 he was voted Children’s Author of the Year. In 2009 he was made an OBE for services to children’s literature. Dick King-Smith died in 2011 at the age of eighty-eight.

  Discover more about Dick King-Smith at:

  dickkingsmith.com

  Some other books by Dick King-Smith

  BLESSU

  DINOSAUR SCHOOL

  DINOSAUR TROUBLE

  DUMPLING

  FAT LAWRENCE

  THE FOX BUSTERS

  GEORGE SPEAKS

  THE GOLDEN GOOSE

  HARRY’S MAD

  THE HODGEHEG

  THE JENIUS

  JUST BINNIE

  LADY DAISY

  THE MAGIC CARPET SLIPPERS

  MAGNUS POWERMOUSE

  MARTIN’S MICE

  THE MOUSE FAMILY ROBINSON

  POPPET

  THE QUEEN’S NOSE

  THE SCHOOLMOUSE

  THE SHEEP-PIG

  SMASHER

  THE SWOOSE

  UNDER THE MISHMASH TREES

  THE WATER HORSE

  Chapter One

  Cats come in roughly three sizes – skinny, middling or fat. There is a fourth size – very fat.

  But seldom do you see such a one as Lawrence Higgins. Lawrence was a cat of a fifth size – very, very fat indeed. He was black, and so big and heavy that his owner, Mrs Higgins of Rosevale, Forest Street, Morchester, could not lift him even an inch from the ground.

  “Oh, Lawrence Higgins!” she would say (she had named the cat after her late husband, even though he had actually been quite small and thin).

  “Oh, Lawrence Higgins! Why are you so fat? It isn’t as though I overfeed you. You only get one meal a day.”

  And this was true. At around eight o’clock in the morning Lawrence would come into Rosevale through the cat flap, from wherever he’d been since the previous day, to receive his breakfast.

  Then, when he had eaten the bowl of cat-meat that Mrs Higgins put before him, he would hoist his black bulk into an armchair and sleep till midday. Then out he would go again, where to Mrs Higgins never knew. She had become used to the fact that her cat only ever spent the mornings at Rosevale.

  Five doors further down Forest Street, at Hillview, Mr and Mrs Norman also had a cat, a black cat, the fattest black cat you ever saw.

  “Oh, Lawrence Norman!” Mrs Norman would say (they knew his name was Lawrence, they’d read it on a disc attached to his collar, that day, months ago now, when he had suddenly appeared on their window sill, mewing – at lunchtime, it was). “Oh, Lawrence Norman! Why are you so fat?”

  ‘It isn’t as though you overfeed him,” said Mr Norman.

  “No,” said his wife. “He only gets one meal a day.”

  And this was true. At lunchtime Mrs Norman would hear Lawrence mewing and let him in and give him a bowl of cat-meat.

  Then, when he had eaten it, he would heave his black bulk on to the sofa and sleep till teatime. Then off he would go again, the Normans never knew where. They’d become accustomed to the fact that their cat only spent the afternoon at Hillview.

  Chapter Two

  Round the corner, in the next street, Woodland Way, there lived at Number 33 an old man called Mr Mason, alone save for his enormously fat black cat. It had slipped in through his back door one day months ago – at teatime it was – and he had read its name on its collar.

  “Oh, Lawrence Mason!” he would say as, hearing that scratch on the back door, he let the black cat in, and put down a bowl of cat-meat. “Oh, Lawrence Mason! Why are you so fat? It isn’t as if I overfeed you. I only give you this one meal a day and that’s the truth.”

  When Lawrence Mason had emptied the bowl, he would stretch his black bulk out on the hearth rug and sleep till suppertime. Then out he would go again, where to old Mr Mason did not know. All he knew was that his cat only spent the evening at Number 33.

  In front of Woodland Way was the Park, and on the other side of the Park the houses were larger and posher. In one of them, The Gables, Pevensey Place, lived Colonel and Mrs Barclay-Lloyd and their cat, who had arrived one evening at suppertime, months ago now, wearing a collar with his name on it.

  Mrs Barclay-Lloyd had opened the front door of The Gables, and there, sitting at the top of the flight of steps that led up from the street, was this enormously fat black cat.

  Each evening now at suppertime the Barclay-Lloyds would set before Lawrence a dish of chicken nuggets and a saucer of Gold Top milk.

  “Lawrence Barclay-Lloyd!” the Colonel would say. “I cannot understand why you are so fat.”

  “To look at him,” his wife would say, “anyone would think he was getting four meals a day instead of just the one that we give him.”

  When Lawrence had eaten his chicken and drunk his milk, he would hump his black bulk up the stairs, and clamber on to the foot of the Barclay-Lloyds’ four-poster bed, and fall fast asleep.

  The Colonel and his wife took to going to bed early too, knowing that at around seven o’clock next morning they would be woken by their cat mewing loudly to be let out of The Gables. They never knew where he went, only that they would not see him again until the following evening.

  Chapter Three

  For a long while Lawrence was not only the fattest but also the happiest cat you can imagine. Assured of comfortable places to sleep and the certainty of four good square meals a day, he had not a care in the world.

  But gradually, as time went on and he grew, would you believe it, even fatter, he began to feel that all this travelling – from Rosevale to Hillview, from Hillview to Number 33, from Number 33 to The Gables, and then back from The Gables all the way to Rosevale – was too much of a good thing. All that walking, now that his black bulk was so vast, was tiring. In addition, he suffered from indigestion.

  One summer evening while making his way from Woodland Way to Pevensey Place for supper, he stopped at the edge of a small boating-lake in the middle of the Park.

  As he bent his head to lap, he caught sight of his reflection in the water.

  “Lawrence, my boy,” he said. “You are carrying too much weight. You’d better do something about it. But what? I’ll see what the boys say.”

  The “boys” were Lawrence’s four particular friends. Each lived near one of his addresses.

  Opposite Rosevale, on the other side of Forest Street, Fernmount was the home of a ginger tom called Bert, who of course knew the black cat as Lawrence Higgins. Next day after breakfast, Lawrence paid a call on him.

  “Bert,” he said. “D’you think I’m carrying too much weight?”

  “If you carry much more, Higgins, old pal,” said Bert, “you’ll break your blooming back. Mrs Higgins must feed you well.”

  “She only gives me one meal a day,” Lawrence said.

  After lunch, he visited the second of the boys, who also lived in Forest Street, at Restholm, a couple of doors beyond Hil
lview. He was a tabby tom named Fred, who of course knew the black cat as Lawrence Norman.

  “Fred,” said Lawrence. “Tell me straight, tom to tom. Would you call me fat?”

  “Norman, old chum,” said Fred. “You are as fat as a pig. The Normans must shovel food into you.”

  “They only give me one meal a day,” said Lawrence.

  After tea he waddled round the corner into Woodland Way, where at Number 35 there lived a white tom called Percy. He of course knew the black cat as Lawrence Mason.

  “Percy,” said Lawrence. “Give me some advice …”

  Percy, like many white cats, was rather deaf.

  “Give you some of my mice?” he said. “Not likely, Mason, old mate, you don’t need any extra food, anyone can see that. You eat too much already.”

  “Do you think I should go on a diet?’ asked Lawrence.

  “Do I think you’re going to die of it?” said Percy. “Yes, probably. Old Mason must be stuffing food into you.”

  “He only gives me one meal a day,” said Lawrence loudly.

  Percy heard this.

  “One meal a week, Mason,” he said. “That’s all you need.”

  Chapter Four

  Later, Lawrence plodded across the Park (being careful not to look at his reflection in the boating-lake), and in Pevensey Place he called in at The Cedars, which was opposite The Gables. Here lived the fourth of the boys, a Blue Persian tom by the name of Darius.

  Darius was not only extremely handsome, with his small wide-set ears and his big round eyes and his snub nose and his long flowing blue coat. He was also much more intelligent than Bert or Fred or Percy.

  “What’s up, Barclay-Lloyd, old boy?” he said when he saw Lawrence. “You’re puffing and blowing like a grampus. You’re going to have to do something about yourself, you know.”

  “The Colonel and his wife only feed me once a day,” said Lawrence.

  “I dare say,” replied Darius. “But look here, Barclay-Lloyd, old boy, I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. You’re getting more than one meal a day, aren’t you now?”

  “Yes,” said Lawrence.

  “How many?”

  “Four altogether.”

  “So at three other houses besides The Gables?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bad show, Barclay-Lloyd,” said Darius. “You’ll have to cut down. If you don’t, then in my opinion you’re going to eat yourself to death. Just think how much better you’ll feel if you lose some of that weight. You won’t get so puffed, you’ll be leaner and fitter, and your girlfriend will find you much more attractive.”

  “I haven’t got a girlfriend, Darius,” said Lawrence sadly.

  “And why is that, Barclay-Lloyd, old boy?” said Darius. “Ask yourself why.”

  “Because I’m too fat?’

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “A figure of fun, would you say?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Actually, girls do tend to giggle at me.”

  “Not surprised.”

  Lawrence took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do it, Darius. I’ll go on a diet.”

  “Good show, Barclay-Lloyd,” said Darius.

  “I’ll cut down to three meals a day,” said Lawrence.

  “One.”

  “Two?”

  “One,” said Darius firmly. “One good meal a day is all any cat needs.”

  Chapter Five

  For a little while Lawrence sat, thinking.

  Then he said, “But if I’m only to have one meal a day, I only need to go to one house.”

  “What’s wrong with The Gables?” said Darius.

  “Nothing,” said Lawrence. “They give me chicken nuggets and Gold Top milk.”

  “What!” said Darius. “Well, you can cut the milk out, for a start. Water for you from now on, old boy.”

  “But if I just stay here,” said Lawrence, “the other people will be worried. They’ll wonder where I’ve got to – Mrs Higgins and the Normans and old Mr Mason. And I shan’t see the other boys – Bert and Fred and Percy.”

  For a little while Darius sat, thinking.

  Then he said, “There are two ways to play this, Barclay-Lloyd. One is – you continue to make the rounds of your houses, but in each you only eat a quarter of what they put before you. Then that’ll add up to one meal a day. Are you strong-minded enough to leave three-quarters of a bowlful at each meal?”

  “No,” said Lawrence.

  “Then,” said Darius, “the only thing to do is for you to spend the whole day at each house, in turn. And if you take my advice, you’ll cut out breakfast, lunch and tea. Stick to supper. Which reminds me, it’s time for mine. Cheerio, Barclay-Lloyd, old boy, and the best of luck with your diet.”

  Chapter Six

  To the surprise of the Colonel and his wife, that Sunday evening Lawrence didn’t touch his milk. He ate the chicken, certainly, greedily in fact, as though it was his last meal for some time, and he went to sleep on the foot of the four-poster as usual. But the next morning no mewing roused the Barclay-Lloyds, and when they did wake, it was to find Lawrence still with them and apparently in no hurry to move.

  On Monday, breakfast time came and went with no sign of Lawrence Higgins at Rosevale.

  Lunchtime in Hillview passed without Lawrence Norman.

  At Number 33 Lawrence Mason did not appear for tea.

  Old Mr Mason was worried about his black cat, as were the Normans. So was Mrs Higgins, but her worry ceased as Lawrence popped in through the cat flap at Rosevale that evening.

  “Lawrence Higgins!” she cried. “Where have you been? You must be starving.”

  Lawrence would have agreed, could he have understood her words, and he polished off the bowl of cat-meat that was put before him and hoisted his black bulk into the armchair, and, much to Mrs Higgins’ surprise, spent the night there.

  On Tuesday evening Lawrence Norman appeared for supper at Hillview.

  On Wednesday evening Lawrence Mason ate at Number 33.

  Not until the Thursday evening did Lawrence Barclay-Lloyd reappear for supper at The Gables, much to the relief of the Colonel and his wife, who of course had not set eyes on their black cat since Monday.

  Chapter Seven

  Gradually everyone grew used to this strange new state of affairs – that their black cat now only turned up every four days.

  And gradually, as the weeks passed, Lawrence grew thinner.

  The boys noticed this (though only one of them knew why).

  “You on a diet, Higgins, old pal?” asked Bert.

  “Sort of,” said Lawrence.

  “You’re looking a lot fitter, Norman, old chum,” said Fred.

  “I feel it,” said Lawrence.

  To Percy he said, “I’ve lost some weight.”

  “What’s that, Mason, old mate?” said Percy.

  “I’ve lost some weight.”

  “Lost your plate?” said Percy.

  “No, weight.”

  “Eh?”

  “Weight!” shouted Lawrence.

  “Why should I?” said Percy. “What am I meant to be waiting for?”

  As for Darius, he was delighted that his plan for his friend was working so well.

  After months of dieting, Lawrence was positively slim.

  “Jolly good show, Barclay-Lloyd, old boy,” purred the Persian. “The girls will never be able to resist you.”

  “I don’t know any.”

  “Well, between you and me and the gatepost,” said Darius, “there’s a little cracker living down at the other end of Pevensey Place. Tortoiseshell-and-white, she is. Dream of a figure. Amazing orange eyes. You’d make a grand pair.”

  Chapter Eight

  So next morning Lawrence woke the Barclay-Lloyds early, left The Gables and made his way down Pevensey Place. I don’t expect I shall like her, he thought, Darius was probably exaggerating. But when he caught sight of her, lying in the sunshine on her front lawn, his heart leaped withi
n his so much less bulky body.

  “Hullo,” he said in a voice made gruff by embarrassment.

  “Hullo,” she replied in a voice like honey, and she opened wide her amazing orange eyes.

  “I haven’t seen you around before,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Lawrence,” muttered Lawrence.

  “I’m Bella,” she said.

  Bella, thought Lawrence. What a beautiful name! And what a beautiful cat! It’s love at first sight! It’s now or never!

  “Bella,” he said. “Could we be … friends?’

  Bella stood up and stretched her elegant tortoiseshell-and-white body.

  “Friends, yes, I dare say,” she replied. “But nothing more.”

  “Oh,” said Lawrence. “You don’t fancy me?”

  “Frankly, Lawrence, no,” said Bella. “I like the sound of you – you’re nice, I’m sure – but you’re much too slender for my taste, I’ve never cared for slim boys. I go for really well-covered types. As a matter of fact there’s a black cat further up Pevensey Place – I haven’t seen him about lately – but I really had a crush on him. Talk about fat, he was enormous! I do love a very, very fat cat, and he was the fattest!”

  She sighed.

  “If only I could meet him again one day,” she said.

  You will! thought Lawrence. You will, and before very long too. And he padded away across the Park to be in time for breakfast at Rosevale, followed by lunch at Hillview, tea at Number 33, and then back for supper at The Gables, including a saucer of Gold Top and perhaps, if he could persuade the Barclay-Lloyds, second helpings. Oh, Bella, he thought as he hurried along. You just wait!