Carbonel: The King Of Cats

8

Tussocks

By the time that Rosemary had arrived at Tussocks, Mrs Pendlebury Parker’s house, she had decided that she was not going to think about witches, or broomsticks, or anything magic at all for the whole day. It was really rather a relief. She wondered if the house would be anything like she had imagined it, and what the boy she would have to play with would be like.

The house turned out to be larger even than Rosemary had imagined. It had been built in the reign of Queen Victoria, so her mother said, by Mrs Pendlebury Parker’s grandfather, who had made a lot of money in cotton, and then moved to the south to try to forget how he had made it. The house had towers with blue slate roofs and battlements of stone and very bright red terracotta gargoyles all over the place. Although Mrs Brown said it was ugly, Rosemary thought it was beautiful, and would be a wonderful place to play in. They went to a side door where a cheerful-looking maid in a pink striped dress let them in.

‘You’re to come straight upstairs, Mrs Brown,’ she said. ‘Mrs P’s not up yet. And is this your little girl? Well, if she can keep that young limb out of mischief we shall all be grateful. But when a child is all by himself with nothing to do, it stands to reason there is nothing to do but be naughty.’

Rosemary was far too busy looking about her to listen to the conversation. They walked along several stone-paved passages, up some linoleum-covered stairs, and through a baize door. Here there was no stone or linoleum, but deep red carpet, and the sort of pictures on the walls that Rosemary had only seen in museums. She would like to have stopped to look at them, but she was afraid of being left behind. Presently the maid knocked at one of the doors and when a voice called ‘Come in!’ she opened it.

‘Mrs Brown and the little girl, madam,’ she said.

Rosemary was aware of a very large room with a pale blue carpet and great furry white rugs. In a large four-post bed with an immense blue eiderdown, leaning against a great many pillows, sat a plump woman in a very frilly pink bed-jacket. They walked up to the foot of the bed and Rosemary noticed that the lady was not as young as she had thought at first.

‘So this is Rosemary!’ said Mrs Pendlebury Parker. ‘Come here, child.’ Rosemary went forward, tripping over a pair of slippers that seemed to consist largely of heels and feathers.

‘How do you do?’ she said politely.

‘Not very well this morning… My head, you know. But you look a nice little thing. I knew that your good mother could only have a nice little girl, so I thought it would be quite safe to ask you to play with Lancelot. Lance, dear, come here!’

There was a movement behind the heavy, blue damask curtains and a boy about the same height as Rosemary came towards them from the wide window-seat. He was scowling hideously, and his hands were pushed down to the bottom of his pockets.

‘Now you two are the same age, so you are sure to be friends!’ said Mrs Pendlebury Parker.

The boy scowled more deeply than ever. It was funny, thought Rosemary. Grown-ups took it for granted that children of the same age must always be friends. She found herself thinking that Mrs Pendlebury Parker and Mrs Walker must be about the same age, and yet it was very unlikely that they would be friends.

‘Now run along and play, dears, and do try to be good children!’

The boy looked at Rosemary, and with a nod of his head motioned her to the door and followed her out.

When he got outside he blew out his cheeks as though he was a balloon letting itself down.

‘She knows I hate it, and she will go on doing it.’

‘Who does what?’ asked Rosemary.

‘Aunt Amabel will call me Lancelot. Just because that was what her father was called – my grandfather, you know – I was called after him, to try to make him forgive Mum. But it didn’t, and so I’m branded with an awful name like that for the rest of my life for nothing.’

‘What had your mother done?’ asked Rosemary with interest.

‘Married my father. He was a poor artist. He still is. Daddy says nearly all good artists are poor until they’re dead. And now I’ve got to play with you.’

‘Well, I didn’t ask to play with you!’ said Rosemary. ‘Besides, it isn’t my fault what your aunt calls you, so I don’t see why you should be cross with me.’

The boy looked at her for the first time, and the scowl relaxed. ‘I suppose it isn’t your fault. I say, you don’t look half so bad as I expected. You can call me John – that’s my other name. Nobody knows about Lancelot at school. Come on! Let’s go into the garden.’

They ran off together through the baize door, down the linoleum-covered stairs, and out into the garden.

‘Race you to the end of the terrace!’ said John.

They raced, but it was Rosemary who got there first. There was a semi-circular stone seat at the end with a canopy of pale golden roses growing over it, so they sat down to get their breath back again.

‘You know,’ said John, ‘I thought that any girl that Aunt Amabel produced would be all frills and white shoes, not sandals and a cotton frock like my sister. She’s got measles. My sister, I mean. That’s why I’m here. She had to go and get it the very day before I came home from school.’

‘How sickening for her!’

‘Sickening for her?’ said John indignantly. ‘She’s got all the fun of having spots, and cut-out things in bed, and I’ve only got Aunt Amabel and this ghastly place!’

Rosemary’s eyes grew round.

‘But this is a lovely house!’

‘It would be all right, I suppose, if I was left alone, but it’s “Lance, dear, don’t do that!” and “Lance, dear, do do the other,” and “Keep your feet off the paint,” and “Don’t touch!” The only decent place is the kitchen garden, and that is pretty good. Let’s go and find some goosegogs.’