The Abandoned (Jennie)

CHAPTER TWENTY: The `Elite' of Cavendish Square

Now that they were at last in Cavendish Square, Peter was all afire to hasten on to the Mews. Here once more were all the familiar sights close to home that he knew so well, the small oval park surrounded by tall green shrubs, planted hedge-like so close together that they formed a palisade barring out all but cats and giving entrance actually only through the iron gate at the north.

Here, likewise inside the little gardens, were the nursemaids knitting by their prams, the children playing, safe from the traffic passing through the streets outside. Around the oval he recognized all the sleepy, dignified-looking houses on three sides of the square, elegant even to the one that had been firebombed and gutted and hid its wounds and empty spaces behind its untouched outer walls, doors and boarded-up windows that all the more gave one the impression that it had shut its eyes and did not wish to be disturbed.

There, standing in front of it too, was Mr. Wiggo, the Police Constable, tall and comforting looking in his round blue helmet, dark blue cape and clean white gloves; Mr. Legg, the Postman, was coming out of No. 29; the delivery wagon from

the Co-op was just turning the corner; it seemed to Peter that any moment he must see Scotch Nanny wearing her crisp, starched, blue-and-white Glengarry bonnet with the dark blue ribbons streaming from it, come marching into the square from the Mews, with perhaps even himself being held by the hand and dragging a bit maybe because he did not like being babied.

There it all was. Only a bit further and he would be seeing the home that he had left what seemed like such a long, long time ago. He said to Jennie, `Hurry, Jennie. Come along. We're almost there.'

But much as she disliked having to do so, Jennie had to caution him and restrain his impatience, for this was after all new territory into which they were coming as strangers, and it behoved them to tread softly, make their manners, get acquainted, and above all answer questions politely and listen to what the residents had to say. Thereafter they would be free to come and go as they pleased provided they were accepted by the important members of the community. But to go rushing pell-mell through a district which obviously housed a large cat population, without pausing for amenities, could only lead them into trouble.

`It will only be a little longer, Peter,' Jennie said. `But everybody would be most upset if we didn't stop and make ourselves known. Remember, we are strangers here. Come, walk quietly with me around the right side of the square and we'll see what they are saying. We'll tune in on them.'

Peter did not wholly understand what Jennie meant by this until they passed the area-way of No. 2A where lived the janitor who was also the caretaker and keeper of the key for the tiny gardens. And there for the first time he encountered the wonders of feline communication by whisker antenna. It was like broadcasting. They thought something, and in a moment you knew what they were saying, or thinking of saying, at any rate, because it came in through your whiskers or the vibrissae or feeler hairs growing out from above your eyes. Then you thought the reply, and it went out to them. It operated only over short distances and one actually had to be close to the cat with whom one was communicating, but work it did.

For while the caretaker was not at home, his cat was, seated behind the window, and Peter was delighted to recognize the big black tom with the white patch on his chest and the enormous green eyes that he had seen so often when he lived near the Square. It was then he realized that the cat behind the window was broadcasting to them, for the window being closed he couldn't hear him, but he knew as plain as day that he had said: `Mr. Black is the name. Blackie, for short. I rather run things around here. Are you strays, or home cats from another neighbourhood visiting?'

Peter felt Jennie reply politely, `Strays, sir.'

'Hm!' The large round eyes were staring at them fixedly through the glass of the window-pane as Mr. Black radioed the next question: `Just passing through, or were you thinking of stopping off?'

Peter could contain himself no longer, and quite forgetting Jennie's early admonition, sent out on his own wavelength `Oh, but I live here. I mean, just north in the Mews. Don't you remember me? I'm Peter Brown from No. 1A…. My father is Colonel Brown, and-'

Mr. Black interrupted. He had a most suspicious look on his face. `Peter Brown, eh? Can't say I've ever seen you before in my life, and I rather know everybody around here. Never knew the Browns to keep a cat. They used to have a small boy, but he's gone away. Look here, my smart friend, if you're trying to crash this neighbourhood under false pretences, let me tell you-'

But here, fortunately, the quick-thinking Jennie intervened with, `Please, sir, it's what my friend imagines. That's his imagining game. He's always playing it.’

'Ah well,' said Mr. Black, 'as long as that's all it is. We're not snobs in this neighbourhood, but we're rather full up on strays at the moment.'

`We're just back from Glasgow,' Jennie commented, rather irrelevantly it seemed to Peter, who had yet to learn how well she knew what she was about and that above all cats must be kept interested.

Mr. Black was interested. `Glasgow. You don't say. I used to know some cats there. How did you come down?'

Peter had recovered from his mistake and felt that he could answer this. Proudly he sent forth: 'We shipped out,' using a phrase he had learned from listening to the sailors aboard the Countess. `Countess of Greenock-Glasgow: London …'

Mr. Black looked impressed. `Well, well,' he said. `Ship's cats. You two probably know your way about, then. I used to belong to a sailor once—well, a kind of a sailor, perhaps more of a deckhand person. He worked on the ferry that runs between Devonport and Torcross. Did you know that that operated on a cable that ran under the water from one shore to the other?'

Jennie indicated politely that she didn't, and that she had never heard of such an amazing thing!

`Well, it did,' insisted Mr. Black. `I don't suppose you would call that sailing, exactly, but it does give us something in common in a way, so I suppose it will be all right for you to stay. The bombed premises at No. 38 is where most everyone live. You tell them I said it was all right for you to be there. And mind you, see that you obey the rules of the neighbourhood, or out you go, both of you. The principal one to remember is no tipping over of dustbins at night. The residents don't like it and complain to Mr. Clegg. He's the man who does for me. He owns the park and the square and everything. And no fighting! That disturbs the residents too. If you must fight, go over to Wigmore Street, or Manchester Square. There's fighting goes on there all the time. We try to keep our neighbourhood quiet and respectable. There are two spinsters who live down at No. 52 who are susceptible and will give you milk occasionally if you ask piteously enough. What did you `say Your names were?'

'Jennie Baldrin,' Jennie replied. `I'm part Scottish, you know, and my friend's name is Peter, and-'

`Right you are,' interrupted Mr. Black. `Carry on then . . and he fell to washing vigorously.

`There now,' Jennie said with quiet satisfaction as they went on slowly. `You see? Now we know we have a place to go, just in case. Greetings to you, my dears. Long life and good health to you both.'

These last two remarks were addressed to the two greys with the ring tails and lyre markings on their heads, who sat sunning in the ground-floor window of No. 5 just as they always had when Peter lived in the neighbourhood, washing, blinking, purring, and with their eyes following the people who came and went.

Their reply to Jennie's polite salutation as it came wafted through the window was soft and sleepy and often it was difficult to tell which one was talking.

`I'm Chin.'

`I'm Chilla.'

`We're twins.'

`We're actually Ukrainian.'

`We're never allowed to go out of the house.' `Have you talked to Mr. Black?'

Since this was the first question addressed to them and seemed to emanate from both, Peter took it upon himself to reply and said, `Yes, we have. He was very kind and said we might stay.'

If a sniff can be broadcast, that was what seemed to come over to Peter's and Jennie's whiskers next. 'Hmph! Well! We always say we don't know what this neighbourhood is coming to. It was different when we moved in. Exclusive.'

`Remember, no tipping over of dustbins …' `Strays!!!'

`Long life and good health to you both!' Jennie murmured once more, politely, as they passed out of sight, and then added-,Stupid snobs …!' From No. 5 came the vibrations of low and angry growling.

`Pedigree indeed,' said Jennie. `I'd like to know how far back they go and what their ancestors looked like when mine were gods in Egypt. And where is the Ukraine, anyway?'

`I think it's in Russia,' said Peter, who was not very sure, 'or maybe Turkey.'

`Russians!' Jennie said indignantly. `And they talk about what the neighbourhood is coming to …'

`Long life, good health and much comfort to you,' Peter said as he had been taught, to the ginger cat with light green eyes, squatted behind the iron rail in front of No. 11, with its tail neatly wrapped around it. This he knew was the cat of Mrs. Bobbit, the caretaker. He had seen it there often and had even stroked it. But now he went up and touched noses.

The ginger said, `Well spoken, youngster. It's nice to find somebody left with manners these days. You've been properly taught. Remember, there's nothing quite like manners to get you on in the world. I've been very cross this morning, and would as soon have knocked you ears over tail as not, until you spoke so softly. Wuzzy is the name. I suppose you've seen Mr. Black?'

Jennie told their names. She was nearly bursting with pride at the praise Peter had earned from the ginger-coloured one.

Wuzzy said to Jennie-'Jennie Baldrin, eh? That's Scottish. But there's more to you from the look of you. Good breeding. Egyptian, probably-from your ears. I'm such a mixture nobody can say where it started. Come back and tell me all about you after you're settled …'

`Now THERE,' said Jennie Baldrin firmly, `is one of the nicest cats I've EVER met. I must have a long talk with her,' and she looked so pleased and gay and cheered that Peter was indeed glad that even for just a little he had managed to take her mind off poor Mr. Grims.

As they went on, they were conscious of a soft call from someone above somewhere, giving them greetings, long life and milk with every meal. They looked up to see a tortoiseshell cat ensconced in the bay window of No. i8.

Do stop a minute,' she pleaded. `I'm so bored. You two look as though you've been places. ("Haven't we just," was Peter's thought to himself.) My name's Hedwig. I've got every thing in the world, and I'm very unhappy. I belong to a childless couple.'

'Oh dear,' Jennie sympathized. `That can be just too bad’.

'It is,' said Hedwig, `believe me. Carry me around all day. On my back in their arms just like a baby. And cluck and coo and make noises that I can't make head or tail out of. I've a basket with a blue ribbon, and pillows and scratching-posts and toys, just drawers full of things. And I'm so sick of them all. I used to be pretty handy in an alley myself before they picked me up. If I can get out for a few minutes later. I'll be over to the bombed house. I'm dying to hear how it is on the road.'

`You see,' Jennie remarked to Peter, as they went on towards the top of the square, `it isn't all cream and chopped liver . . .'

They continued and met a stunning, rose-coloured, pedigreed Persian who talked of nothing but show business and Blue Ribbons; a long-haired grey named Mr. Silver who assured them that there was nothing like belonging to a bachelor for the very best kind of life; and three assorted tabbies who lived with the two spinsters said if you didn't mind too much not being allowed up on things, there really was nothing like living with two old maid sisters because nothing ever changed or happened to frighten or worry one.

And in this manner it was that Peter, accompanied by Jennie Baldrin, went all the way around Cavendish Square and made the acquaintance of the friends and neighbours living there and was accepted by them as one of them, as Jennie had wished it, and having been so, he came at last to the street that led to the Mews.

Now, strangely enough, he was no longer in a hurry as he had been before, but paused for a moment at the entrance to the narrow little pocket or blind alley, as it were, that was the Mews. Yet for all of being a cat, and understanding them better than he had ever before, the thought that soon he would be able to see his mother and father made him very happy. He said to Jennie Baldrin, `We did it, Jennie. Here it is. And just down there is our house …'

Jennie's sadness had returned, for she had grown to love Peter very much. She said, `Yes, Peter. And perhaps just down there a little way is where you and I will have to part.'

'Oh, Jennie!' said Peter. 'Jennie dear! Don't you know that whatever happens, I'll never leave you? Never, never, never!'

But Jennie was a better prophet than she knew. Except that it didn't at all turn out as she thought it would, that which awaited them at the tiny, narrow Mews….