Carbonel: The King Of Cats

2

Fairfax Market

Rosemary put the money in her pocket and left a note for her mother; then she started off for Fairfax Market. This was held in the old part of the town in the cobbled market square. Because she imagined that two and fivepence three farthings was not very much money with which to buy a broom, she decided not to waste any of it on a bus.

She started resolutely off, only stopping occasionally to look in a shop window. But it was hot and dusty going. The pavements seemed to toast the soles of her feet through the rubber soles of her sandals. To make matters worse, one of the buckles came off. By the time she reached the market a slight drizzle was falling, and the clock on the Market Hall roof was striking four. Instead of the cheerful racket of people shouting their wares, of laughter and bustle, the stall-holders were already packing up. Rosemary went up to a stout woman who was stacking crockery which had been displayed on the cobbles.

‘Please,’ she said anxiously, ‘will you tell me where I can buy a broom?’

‘You can’t,’ snapped the fat woman without looking up. ‘Not now you can’t.’ Then she straightened herself with a grunt and looked at Rosemary’s disappointed face.

‘Never ask a favour of a fat woman when she’s bending,’ she said more kindly. ‘Leastways, not if you want a civil answer. Don’t they teach you that at school?’

Rosie shook her head, and the fat woman went on, ‘The market’s been closing at four on Mondays these last three ’undred years, leastways, so my old father told me. Never mind, cheer up, lovey! ’Ave a fancy milk jug for your ma instead?’

Rosemary shook her head again and went sadly on between the rows of dismantled stalls and piles of goods hidden under tarpaulins, already glistening with rain. The money in her hand was hot and sticky, but there was nothing to buy with it, let alone a broom, so she put it back in her pocket. She inquired again of a young man who was loading bales of brightly coloured material into an ancient car.

‘Please, do you know where I can buy a broom?’

But all he said was ‘’Op it, see!’ So Rosemary ’opped it.

She wandered on among the drifting straw and bits of paper till she came to the end of the market, where the pavement began again. Here she found a little shop that sold newspapers and sweets and odds and ends, so she stopped to look in the window. She wondered whether to buy a toffee-apple or a liquorice bootlace to sustain her on the way home. The toffee-apple would last longer, but on the other hand she could eat a bit of the bootlace and use the rest as a skipping rope and still eat it later. She had just decided on the apple, because you cannot skip comfortably with a buckle off your sandal, when she felt something damp and furry rubbing against her bare legs. She looked down, and saw a huge black cat. Now Rosemary liked cats. If only Mrs Walker had allowed it she would certainly have had one of her own, so she bent down to stroke him. But the cat ran off and then sat down a few yards away and looked at her. Rosemary followed and tried to stroke him again, but the creature darted off for a few feet as before, and sat down to wash its paws. Rosemary laughed.

‘I believe you want me to follow you! All right, I will. I’m coming!’ So they went off in fits and starts, with Rosemary trying to catch the cat, who lolloped away as soon as she was within stroking distance. But although the cat did not laugh as she did, it was perfectly obvious that he was enjoying the joke as much as she was. She was just going to make a successful grab at him when she bumped into someone. It was an old woman.

‘I’m so sorry!’ said Rosemary.

‘And so you should be,’ said the old woman sharply, ‘keeping me waiting like this. Well, it’s yours for two and fivepence, and it’s cheap at the price.’

‘What is?’ asked Rosemary in a puzzled way.

‘The broom, of course! That’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it? If that cat is trying to fool me just because I’m going out of business…’

The cat was patting a drifting piece of orange paper with deep concentration.

‘Oh, but I do want a broom!’ said Rosemary eagerly.

‘I’ve sold my stock and bought myself a new hat,’ went on the old woman unexpectedly. ‘How do you like it?’

Rosemary hoped she would not be asked to give an opinion about any of the rest of the old woman’s clothes. The hat was certainly very fashionable. It was sprinkled with sequins and had a little veil. But perched on the old woman’s wild grey hair it only served to make the hair look wilder and her ragged clothes more disreputable.

‘It’s very pretty,’ said Rosemary. ‘But shall I take off the price label? It’s hanging down behind.’

‘Oh, no you don’t!’ said the old woman fiercely. ‘I paid nineteen and elevenpence for my hat and I’m not giving away any of the trimmings! You can have the broom and the cat, too, if you like, but my trimmings aren’t in the bargain.’

Rosemary felt quite indignant at the turn the conversation was taking and she answered with some spirit.

‘Of course I don’t want the trimmings from your hat! But I wish I could have the cat.’ She looked at the handsome animal who was sitting with his tail neatly curled round his feet, apparently fast asleep.

The old woman chuckled.

‘He’s a deep one, he is!’ She paused, looked sharply at Rosemary and added, ‘He’s worth his weight in… farthings.’

‘But if the broom costs two and fivepence I’ve only got three farthings left, and he must be worth much more than that!’ Surely Mrs Walker could be talked round? Anyway, she knew that her mother would not mind. It was more than likely that the queer old woman was not a very kind mistress. Rosemary had a feeling that the cat was not really asleep, but was listening with all his ears.

‘You can have him for three farthings if that is all you’ve got,’ said the old woman.

‘I’ll have him!’ she answered breathlessly. As she said it, the cat opened his eyes, flashed one golden glance at her, and closed them again.

Rosemary pulled the money out of her pocket and put it into the not too clean hand which the old woman was already greedily holding out for it. She counted eagerly, but it was the farthings that seemed to interest her most. She held them up to her short-sighted eyes, then she bit them and chuckled.

‘I guessed as much. You’re in luck, my boy. Three queens for a prince!’

‘They are my Queen Victoria farthings. That’s why I kept them. They are all I have. Will they do?’

‘Oh, aye, they’ll do better than you know,’ replied the old woman.

The cat was not pretending to sleep now. He was wide awake and staring at Rosemary with his two great golden eyes. ‘You can take him,’ she went on, and prodded him with her foot. ‘And don’t say I never did you a good turn, my boy. Though, mind you, it’s only half undone.’

The Market Hall clock struck five as she spoke.

‘It’s getting awfully late,’ said Rosemary. ‘I think I must be going. Please may I have the broom?’

‘The broom? Oh, aye, here you are.’ And so saying the old woman pushed it into Rosemary’s hand, turned and disappeared down a dark alley at the side of the sweet shop. As she went under the arch she ducked her head as if she was used to a much taller kind of hat.

Rosemary watched her go. Then she looked down at the broom, and her heart sank. It was not what she wanted at all. It was the sort of broom that gardeners use – a rough wooden handle with a bundle of twigs bound on at one end, and only a few dilapidated twigs at that.

‘What a shame!’ said Rosemary. As the full extent of her bad luck dawned on her she could not stop the hot tears from trickling down her face. The broom was useless, at least for her purpose. She had no money left to buy another, and to crown it all she would have to walk all the way home without a buckle on her shoe, with not even the consolation of a toffee-apple. However, she was a brave girl, and in the absence of a handkerchief she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and decided to make the best of it. But just at that moment, quite clearly and distinctly, the cat said:

‘It’s a better bargain than it looks, you know.’

‘Who said that?’ Rosemary could not believe her ears.

‘Me, of course!’ said the cat. ‘Oh, yes, of course I can talk. All animals can, but you can only hear me because you are holding the witch’s broom.’

Rosemary dropped it hurriedly. Then, realizing that she could not hear the cat talk without it, she picked it up again.

‘And I should treat it with respect,’ went on the animal dryly. ‘There’s not much life in the poor thing or she would not have sold it so cheap. Trust her for that! Pity you didn’t hear some of the things I said to her just now!’ he went on with satisfaction. ‘Not names; that is vulgar, but I ticked her up nicely!’ and his tail twitched at the memory.

Rosemary remembered how the queer old woman had known, without being told, exactly how much money she had.

‘But is she really a witch?’ she whispered in an awed voice.

‘Hush!’ said the cat, hurriedly looking over his shoulder. ‘Best not to use that word. She was, right up to the moment when you bought me and the broom. Now she’s retired; says she’s going to turn respectable.’ He added scornfully, ‘A fish might as well say it’s decided not to swim. You haven’t such a thing as a saucer of milk about you?’

Rosemary shook her head. ‘Pity, YOU-KNOW-WHAT have their uses, SHE could always produce a saucer of milk no matter where we were, in the middle of Salisbury Plain or playing catch as catch can with the Northern Lights.’

‘That was kind of her, anyway,’ said Rosemary.

‘Not so very,’ said the cat. ‘If she was in a bad temper, which she generally was, like as not it would be sour.’

‘Well, as soon as we get home you shall have as much milk as you can drink. But I’m afraid we shall have to walk. I haven’t any money for a bus fare. Besides, I don’t know whether they let cats go on buses.’

‘Then go by broom,’ said the cat.

‘By broom?’ said Rosemary, feeling rather puzzled.

‘I wish you wouldn’t keep repeating everything,’ snapped the cat. ‘Mind you, it won’t fly very high. You couldn’t expect it, not in the state the poor old thing is in now. But it will take us there all right. Well, go on, why don’t you mount?’

‘Mount?’ said Rosemary.

‘There you go again! It is quite simple. You just stand astride it and say where you want to go. Best do it in rhyme. It is more polite, and the poor thing is sensitive now it is so old.’

‘There is not much to rhyme with ten Tottenham Grove, top floor,’ said Rosemary doubtfully.

‘Leave it to me,’ said the cat. ‘Tottenham Grove… stove… mauve… I’ve got it. Not very polished, but it will serve. Now then, mount and hold tight!’

He balanced himself delicately on the twiggy part of the broom. ‘Now repeat after me!’…

Through window wide and not the door,

Ten Tottenham Grove, the topmost floor!

As Rosemary repeated it there was a faint quiver in the handle of the broom, and it rose slowly a couple of feet from the ground, wheeled sharply round, so that Rosemary nearly fell off, and went steadily on in the direction of Tottenham Grove. On it went, ignoring traffic lights, skimming zebra crossings, and leaving a train of astonished pedestrians in its wake. At first Rosemary could do nothing but shut her eyes and clutch the handle and pray that she would not fall off. But the motion was smooth and pleasant and she became aware that the cat was telling her something, so she opened her eyes.

‘I… I’m afraid I did not hear what you said.’

‘I was saying,’ said the cat, ‘that you should always point your broom in the direction in which you want to go. I knew a young witch once who was thrown.’

‘Goodness!’ said Rosemary. ‘What did she do?’

‘Nothing. There was not much she could do. It got clean away. Nasty things, runaway brooms, apart from the expense of getting a new one, and the trouble of breaking it in.’

By now Rosemary was beginning to enjoy herself. She knew that cars were not supposed to do more than thirty miles an hour when driving through a town, and as they steadily overtook everything else on the road she said to herself: ‘Perhaps it doesn’t apply to witch’s brooms.’

A policeman outside the Town Hall tried to hold them up before he realized what she was riding. His astonishment when he did realize so staggered him that he quite lost his head, and the traffic jam that resulted gave Rosemary a clear road to the corner of Tottenham Grove.

When they neared number ten she had enough sense to hold on for all she was worth. The broom gathered itself together for a tremendous effort, rose steeply, swooped into her bedroom window, and collapsed exhausted on the floor. Rosemary stood up and rubbed her elbow. Then she picked up the broom again.

‘Best hide it in the wardrobe,’ said the cat.

‘Thank you, Broom!’ she whispered, and stood it in the corner behind her winter coat. She could hear her mother using the sewing machine next door.