Барбара Слэй - Carbonel - The King Of Cats

‘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.’

9

John

They spent a happy half-hour among the gooseberry bushes, where the fruit hung like golden lanterns among the dark leaves. They ate until the prospect of bursting even one more on her tongue made Rosemary look at them with distaste. Then they played Cowboys and Indians, and then they tried trawling along the widest gravel path with one of the nets off the gooseberry bushes. But they caught nothing except a couple of man-eating sharks (they were really sticks), so they thought they had better put the nets back before any more holes got torn. Then, feeling rather hot, they came out of the kitchen garden and lay flat on the dusty grass under the cedar tree on the lawn. It was really a very hot day. They could see the main drive from here before it curved round to the front door. Presently a sleek, black car slipped down the drive on the way to the main road.

‘How lovely to have a car like that,’ said Rosemary, sitting up and pouring a handful of dust from one cupped palm to the other.

‘Pooh! That’s nothing,’ said John carelessly. ‘Aunt Amabel has got three, counting the little grey one.’

‘Good gracious!’ said Rosemary, deeply impressed. ‘Have you got three?’

‘As a matter of fact we’ve got four, and a pony, and… and an aeroplane. What have you got?’

Rosemary was surprised. Somehow John did not look like the kind of boy to have a pony or an aeroplane. There was a darn in the seat of his grey flannel shorts, and the rubber was beginning to peel from the toes of his sandals. She did not boast herself as a rule, but it seemed hard not to be able to produce anything at such a challenge, so without bothering about the consequences she said, ‘I’ve got a witch’s broom and a cat that talks.’

‘That’s silly,’ said John. ‘You couldn’t have.’

Rosemary sat up cross-legged and very straight. Her face had gone quite red.

‘I have, so there!’

John rolled over and looked at her.

‘All right, you needn’t get so waxy!’

‘But you don’t believe me, and it’s true!’

‘Bet you can’t prove it!’

‘Right,’ said Rosemary hotly, ‘I will! I know a magic spell that will make the cat come to me, whether he wants to or not.’

‘All right!’ said John, grinning hatefully. ‘Say it!’

Rosemary stood up. Could she remember the Summoning Words? She screwed up her eyes and said a little uncertainly:

By squeak of bat

And brown owl’s hoot ,

By hellebore ,

And mandrake root ,

Come swift and silent

As the tomb ,

Dark minion

Of the twiggy broom .

She opened her eyes again and looked anxiously round. There was no Carbonel.

‘I say, you do do it well!’ said John with a note of real admiration in his voice, which at any other time would have given her great satisfaction. But the way in which he did not even trouble to show that he did not believe her, made her bite her lip with vexation. She looked round desperately for Carbonel once more, and seeing nothing but the sun-baked lawn, to her own surprise burst into tears. John sat up.

‘I say,’ he said awkwardly, ‘whatever is the matter? I didn’t really think you would believe any of that stuff about me having a pony, and an aeroplane. Of course we haven’t. We’ve only an old rattle-trap of a car. It was only a game. You had better have my hankie. I’ve got one today,’ he said with modest pride. Rosemary was feeling for hers in her knicker leg without success.

‘But it is true,’ she sniffed obstinately. ‘I have got a broom-stick that flies, and a witch’s cat…’ And out came the whole story.

John listened with open mouth. She described how she lived with her mother, and how she had gone to Fairfax Market, and all the strange things that had happened since.