Carbonel: The King Of Cats

15

Where is the Cauldron?

It was two days later before they were actually able to set out together on their own. They each had an extra shilling and a packet of sandwiches which the cook at Tussocks had made up for them. Rosemary carried the broom, and Carbonel trotted in front with his tail erect.

‘We’ve got hours and hours!’ said John happily. ‘How glorious! All the same, don’t let’s waste time by walking to the Market. Let’s go by bus.’

Business people had already gone to their offices, and only a few shopping ladies were out so early, so they had the front seat and the top of the bus to themselves. They swayed and rocked through the narrow streets, as John said, like a galleon in a stormy sea. They were so busy sailing the Spanish Main with sailors dying of scurvy like flies round them, that they reached the terminus before they knew where they were. They had agreed that the best thing to do was to go and find the friendly old man who had seen Mrs Cantrip selling her things, and ask him if he remembered who had bought the cauldron. But as they had told Mrs Pendlebury Parker that they would go and see the Museum, it seemed wisest to go there first and ‘get it over’, as John said, rather as if it was a visit to the dentist.

The Museum was a large house which overlooked the Market. It was very old, and full of unexpected corners, and the floors ran up and down in a pleasantly disconcerting way. Although she did not like to say so for fear of sounding priggish, Rosemary rather liked looking at museums. But in spite of himself, John found he was getting really interested. There were suits of armour, and swords and halberds and ancient pistols with beautifully inlaid handles. There was a sedan chair with a window that let up and down like a window in a railway carriage, there was a very large glove that had belonged to Queen Elizabeth I which was embroidered all over with flowers and animals, and some early Victorian dresses that Rosemary would have loved to dress up in, and a case of battered dolls that bore all the marks of having been well and truly played with.

‘I always think that things that were meant to be used look rather sad all shut up in a museum, just to be looked at,’ said Rosemary.

They were passing through a long room that had been built on at the back to house the Wilkinson Collection of china, which the attendant told them was one of the finest in the country. ‘Just look at all these teasets! It must be horrid for them never to be poured out of for people to have nice cosy tea-parties.’

‘Pooh! Dull, old grown-up talk!’ said John. ‘I think we have seen most of the museum now, so let’s go to the Market.’

Rosemary would like to have stayed longer, but she followed John out into the sunshine with a feeling of relief that they need no longer talk in whispers. Carbonel was sunning himself on the steps outside with the broom propped up in a corner beside him. Rosie led the way to the friendly old man. When they reached the stall, a fat woman was haggling over some linoleum. When she had gone off with a large roll of it under her arm, the old man noticed Rosemary.

‘Hallo, Susie,’ he said. ‘Them fairy wands still ain’t come in. I’m expecting a couple of gross any day now!’ And he laughed wheezily at his own joke.

Rosemary laughed politely, too. If she could get him to go on treating it as a joke she could go straight to the point.

‘It’s not a fairy wand I want this time. It’s a witch’s cauldron.’

‘A cauldron, eh? Well, you could cook up a tidy spell in that fish-kettle over there!’ And he went off into a fit of wheezing that quite alarmed Rosemary.

‘Oh, but it must be one of those black things with a handle over the top. That’s what witches always use.’

‘There’s not much call for them these days,’ said the old man, dropping into his professional manner once more, ‘not since people ’ave begun to go in for these new-fangled grates, and gas and electricity. The only coal-scuttles they want are the kind you just tip the coals on with so as not to dirty yer ’ands. Now where did I see one of those things lately? Now wasn’t it you I was telling about the old party that set up next to me and sold ’er ’at? Well, believe it or not, she’d got one of them old coal-scuttles, too.’

‘Did she sell it?’ asked Rosemary cautiously.

‘Must ’ave,’ said the old man. ‘I don’t think I saw ’oo to, because I was busy with a customer over ’alf a dozen spoons. Stop a bit, though… I remember, now, seeing a stout party walking away with it.’

‘I remember you saying you could read people’s clothes like a book, being in the trade, you said.’

The old man’s eye lit up.

‘A regular Sherlock ’Olmes, that’s me! Artistic that one was. I remember I says to myself, “’andwoven, good but baggy, skirt and jacket twenty-five bob.” She’d got grey ’air done in them buns that flap over ’er ears. It’s a funny thing, I’ve got it into my ’ead she said she kept a shop. Must ’ave said something about it, I reckon, but I can’t recall what.’

‘What could she have wanted the cauldron for?’ asked John.

‘You never know with that sort,’ said the old man darkly. ‘Not without it was for coal.’ And he turned his attention to a sad-looking young man who wanted to buy some gramophone records.

The children wandered off and sat down on an old packing case.

‘Now the thing is,’ said John, ‘what kind of shop would an artistic sort of grey-haired lady run?’

‘There are quite a lot of shops near the Cathedral that sell hand-made things and souvenirs,’ said Rosemary. ‘They are mostly kept by people like that.’

‘I believe you are right,’ said Carbonel. ‘The Cathedral is not far.’

‘I vote we eat our sandwiches in the grassy part round it, then we shouldn’t have to lug them about with us,’ said John. ‘Isn’t it funny how food seems to stop being heavy once it’s inside you? I suppose it’s something to do with balance.’

They walked to the Cathedral and sat on a seat outside with the sun casting the shadow of the great golden-grey building across the green grass, and the rooks cawing and circling overhead. The Cathedral clock over the west door struck eleven. It was a fascinating clock, with two fat little angels standing on either side with hammers, with which they beat the hours and the quarters on a bell. By the time the angels had struck the half-hour John and Rosemary had eaten their sausage rolls and scrambled egg sandwiches. Carbonel had one filled with anchovy paste which Rosemary had brought specially for him. By the time the angels had struck twelve the children had finished their pieces of cake and a bag of fat red gooseberries. Carbonel was pacing impatiently up and down, to the annoyance of the sparrows, who watched with eager eyes the crumbs that Rosemary shook from her lap.

‘What a fuss humans have to make over everything,’ the cat said scornfully as they collected the sandwich papers and turned to look for a rubbish basket. ‘We don’t go picking up our fishbones when we’ve eaten the fish. We just eat the bones as well. Tidy and economical.’

‘Well, I’m blowed if I’m going to eat all this grease-proof paper,’ said John. ‘Come on, let’s try all the artistic-looking shops at the top of the High Street in turn.’

They walked to the Cathedral and sat on a seat.

There certainly were at least six likely shops which had arisen like cream to the top of the highway, where it widened in front of the Cathedral.

‘Now wait a minute,’ said John. ‘What are we going to say when we get inside? We can’t go blinding in and just demand to see their coal scuttles.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Rosemary. ‘Let’s take it in turns to engage the people in conversation, like they do in books, and find out what sort of fires they have. You don’t want coal scuttles if you have gas or electric fires.’

‘You are not an unintelligent child,’ said Carbonel. Rosemary blushed with pleasure. He went on, ‘I will listen carefully, and if they say “Coal”, go on engaging them in conversation and I will slip round the counter and see if I can spot the cauldron anywhere about.’

‘All right,’ said Rosemary. ‘Bags I the first shop, because I thought of it!’

The shop at the end of the little terrace which faced the Cathedral was called ‘The Bijouterie’. The window was full of brooches made of fishbones, and boxes and ash-trays ornamented with barbola. There was a big pot of dried poppy heads enamelled red and blue. Rosemary went inside before she had really thought how you ‘engage people in conversation’. Characters in books never explain how this is done – they seem to be born knowing how to do it. The woman behind the counter said briskly, ‘Yes, dear, what do you want?’

She was a thin person in an embroidered peasant blouse, with her hair cut in a fringe. Rosemary’s mind went quite blank. She stood stupidly just looking, while she thought of something to say. Only at a hissed ‘Go on!’ from John, who was standing by the doorway with the broom, did she rouse herself. Pointing to a tray of postcards she gulped, ‘Please may I look at these?’

‘Sixpence each,’ said the woman. ‘They are done by a local artist. So much nicer than a photo, I always think.’

Rosemary looked at them doubtfully. Sixpence seemed a lot of money to pay for a postcard, and the pictures were so fuzzy that it was difficult to tell what they were about. She looked at them in rather desperate silence. Finally she chose one that she did recognize as the Market Cross, and regretfully handed over sixpence. Carbonel rubbed himself against her bare legs. He could not talk to her, because she had not got the broom, but she knew quite well what he meant. Rosemary took a deep breath and said:

‘What lovely weather! Not… not at all the sort of day for sitting by the fire!’

The woman looked a little surprised but agreed politely, adding – as if she knew what they wanted to discover – ‘Leastways, not with gas the price it is. Though I must say I like a bit of fire in the evenings.’

Rosemary took the card and ran out of the shop, where John was waiting.

‘Gas!’ she said triumphantly, and showed John the postcard.

‘I thought we could send it to your sister. It’s not that way up, silly! It cost sixpence.’

‘Well, the artist shouldn’t have done it on a day when there was such a thick fog. I say, you did look funny when you just stood there gawping.’

‘Well, I found out, anyway. It’s your turn now.’

There was a great number of brass ornaments in the next shop – door knockers and nut crackers and ash trays and little bells made like ladies with crinoline skirts, and proverbs like ‘Every cloud has a silver lining’ done in poker work. John handed the broom over to Rosemary and marched in. A tall thin man was flicking a shelf full of china ornaments with a feather duster.

‘Can you tell me the price of those brass toasting forks, please?’ said John.

‘Ten and six,’ said the man, turning from his dusting.

‘Oh,’ said John. ‘The thing is that the uncle I have in mind is rather fussy about his toast. He might not like it made with a brass toasting fork. He always insists on a coal fire to make it by, because he says it tastes so much better.’

‘Well, I swear by electric,’ said the man. ‘We’ve got one of those things that shoots the toast out when it’s done.’

‘Don’t you ever make it by a coal fire?’

‘We haven’t got one in the house. My wife says they’re dirty. Though I must say they are more homey.’

‘Just what I think,’ said John. ‘Do you know, on the whole I think perhaps my uncle wouldn’t like his toast made with brass, so I won’t get the toasting fork. But thank you all the same,’ and John left the shop.

‘You see, it’s quite easy, really,’ he said cockily, ‘and I didn’t spend any money.’

‘Well, I don’t think you ought to have made up all that stuff about your uncle,’ said Rosemary.

‘I didn’t,’ said John virtuously. ‘I have got an uncle who is fussy about his toast. Go on. You had better do that embroidery shop at the corner, and if you must buy something, get photographs of the cathedral, they’re cheaper.’

But here they drew a blank. The woman in charge had several customers and refused to be engaged in conversation. The children persevered, going from one shop to another with varying success, and wherever they found someone who owned to having a coal fire Carbonel padded silently behind the counter. Once or twice he was shooed ignominiously out. Working their way down the High Street, they passed the Town Hall and the Cottage Hospital, right down to the railway station, where there were only offices and a few little shops that sold newspapers and tobacco. By this time they had inquired at eleven shops. It was well into the afternoon, and they felt tired, hot, and discouraged. Not a trace of the cauldron had they found.

‘I can’t go another step!’ said Rosemary. ‘It feels hours since we had our sandwiches. I tell you what. We passed a tea shop a little farther back where p’raps we could sit down and have ices. I’ve got sixpence of my shilling left, and threepence of my pocket money.’

John was only too willing, so they retraced their steps and went into the tea shop. It was called the Copper Kettle, and there was a beautifully polished kettle in the window flanked by plates of homemade cakes. Lunch had been cleared away, and a young woman in a chintz overall was laying tables for tea. The walls were panelled with what looked like oak, and it was cool and pleasant inside. The large strawberry ices slid like nectar down their thirsty throats. The children found that by putting the broom on the floor underneath the table, and slipping off a sandal each, so that their bare feet rested on the handle, they could both hear what Carbonel had to say at the same time. He sat under the table to be as inconspicuous as possible.

‘I’ve just thought of something awful!’ said Rosemary. ‘Suppose the artistic lady didn’t want to use the cauldron as a coal-scuttle at all? Then it doesn’t matter what sort of fires all those people have, and our whole day has been wasted.’

‘Golly!’ said John, so appalled by this idea that he stopped with a spoon full of ice-cream half-way to his mouth. ‘You mean that they may be using the cauldron for… well, standing ferns… or bathing the baby?’

‘Not in the shops we went to,’ said Carbonel from under the table. ‘Most of them had a cat of some kind, and I took the precaution of getting into conversation in most places. Quite civil most of them were. One of ’em even gave me her saucer of milk which, considering that strawberry ice-cream doesn’t seem to be coming my way, is just as well.’ And if a cat could sniff, that is what Carbonel would have done.

‘But Carbonel, darling! Would you like ice-cream?’ asked Rosemary in distress.

‘Not a bit. But I should like to be asked,’ he said in an injured voice.

Rosemary held a dab of ice-cream under the table on her finger. Carbonel licked it off, but it made him sneeze.

‘We seem to have spent an awful lot of money,’ said John.

‘I didn’t seem able to engage people in conversation unless I bought something,’ said Rosemary. ‘Do you think your sister will like nine photographs of the cathedral?’ she asked anxiously.

‘The postage would cost one and sixpence, so I shall do them up in brown paper and send them for tuppence ha’-penny. She will probably think I’ve gone potty,’ he added gloomily, scraping the last drops of runny ice-cream from the edges of the dish. ‘Well, what on earth do we do now?’