Барбара Слэй - Carbonel - The King Of Cats

‘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.