Барбара Слэй - Carbonel - The King Of Cats

‘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.

3

Carbonel

‘Hallo, darling!’ said Mrs Brown. ‘How late you are. I didn’t hear you come upstairs.’

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ burst out Rosemary, ‘but Mummy, I’ve bought a cat in the Market. Please may I keep him?’

Mrs Brown rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand in the way she had when she was tired and worried.

‘A cat? Oh dear! Of course I don’t mind. But Mrs Walker isn’t very pleased with us at the moment.’

‘Because of the toffee?’ said Rosemary, rather crestfallen. ‘I’d forgotten about that. Besides, that was three weeks ago, and I never meant to let it boil over. This isn’t an ordinary cat, he talks! Don’t you, my Pussums?’

The black cat yawned disdainfully, jumped on to the window sill, and gazed abstractedly out.

‘I forgot. You can only hear him talk if you are holding the witch’s broom-stick.’

Her mother was smiling in a grown-up ‘Bless-your-little-fancies’ way. Then she laughed.

‘He might really have been showing you that he doesn’t approve of being called Pussums. Poor creature, he is terribly thin. You had better give him that bit of fish in the meat-safe. I was going to make some fish-cakes, for supper, but we can open a tin of something instead.’

Rosemary beamed. She knew that if her mother began to take an interest in the cat she would never have the heart to turn him away – at least, not without a struggle. The cat ate the fish and drank a saucer of milk and then, purring deeply, turned his attention to his appearance. He washed his paws and whiskers very thoroughly while Rosemary, curled up on the horsehair sofa, ate the tea her mother had kept for her. There was a mug of milk, some jam sandwiches, and a piece of Swiss roll.

‘He is really a very handsome animal,’ went on her mother. ‘You know, Mrs Pendlebury Parker never found her ginger cat again, although she offered a reward for him. It must be four months now since she lost him.’

‘The one she called Popsey Dinkums?’ asked Rosemary. She was busy unwinding her Swiss roll, a fascinating occupation which was only allowed at picnic sort of meals.

‘Mrs Parker thought the world of that animal,’ went on her mother. ‘I’ve seen it eating meals I would willingly have had for our supper. Oh dear, why does the shuttle always have to give out just a few inches from the end of the seam? I must finish this dressing-gown for Miss Withers before I start working for Mrs Pendlebury Parker.’

‘And that means tonight. Poor Mummy!’

Mrs Brown sighed. ‘Never mind. You had better get to bed early, Rosie. You are yawning your head off! We will talk to Mrs Walker in the morning about the cat, but don’t be too hopeful, darling.’

‘I am rather tired. I expect it was all that walking this afternoon. But Mummy, can I have him to sleep in my room? I’m sure he’ll be good, won’t you, Pussums? And if he wants to go out there is always the little flat roof outside my window.’

‘Well, really,’ said her mother, ‘he might be trying to get round me!’ She bent down to stroke the cat, who was rubbing himself against her legs and purring loudly. ‘Very well, dear, he can sleep with you if you like.’

Later that evening, when she had kissed her mother good night and put on her nightdress, Rosemary fetched the broom from her wardrobe, jumped on to her bed, and patted the quilt beside her.

‘Come on, Pussums! Now we can have a long talk.’

‘Not if you call me by that revolting name. Pussums indeed! As if I were a common or garden, mousing, sit-by-the-fire cat.’

‘I’m very sorry, Pu… I mean, what shall I call you, then?’

‘You may call me Carbonel. That is my name.’

The cat had jumped up beside her and was kneading the quilt with his front paws, before settling in the hollow she had made in the bedclothes. He turned round three times and then sat neatly down with his front paws tucked under him.

‘Rosemary, you have a great deal to learn, but you have a kind heart and the right sort of hands.’

She was rubbing him under his chin and feeling the soft vibration of the beginnings of a purr. Rosemary stroked him in silence for a few minutes, and then she said:

‘If I’ve got a lot to learn, please don’t go to sleep now, but begin teaching me. What shall we do if Mrs Walker says we mayn’t keep you?’

‘That’s neither here nor there. In any case I can’t stay, at least, not very long.’

‘Can’t stay?’ said Rosemary in dismay. ‘But why? You’re mine! I bought you with my own money!’

‘For which, believe me, I shall be always grateful. But you are only fulfilling the prophecy’

‘What prophecy? Oh, do explain!’ said Rosie, bouncing with impatience so that the bed creaked. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’

‘I said you had a lot to learn,’ said Carbonel coolly. ‘Sit still and I will try to explain. In the first place you thought you had bought a common witch’s cat. Mind you, I’m not blaming you. A very natural mistake. You were not to know that I am a Royal Cat.’

‘Gracious!’ said Rosemary in a voice that squeaked with excitement. ‘But how did you…?’

‘Don’t interrupt,’ said Carbonel, ‘I’m telling you. I was stolen from my cradle when I was a mere kitten. There was a prophecy among my people that something like that would happen one day. SHE stole me. Always ambitious, she was, and nothing would satisfy her but a Royal Cat to run her errands and sit on her broom. Oh, she was a proud one in those days. Handsome they say she was once, too, though you wouldn’t think so now.’

‘How horrid of her to steal a kitten!’ breathed Rosemary indignantly.

‘Yes,’ said the cat, gazing out of the window with his great amber eyes, not as if he was looking at the roofs and chimneys, but as though he was seeing something quite different. ‘I was so young that my eyes were still blue, and my tail no longer than your little finger. But I knew the Royal Rules. I learnt ’em as soon as my eyes were open. I can just remember my mother, a beautiful, smoke grey Persian she was, saying to me: “My son,” she used to say, “my little son, never forget you are a Prince. Behave like one, even if you do not feel like one or look like one.” I never forgot her words, so I never lost my self respect. Many’s the time when I’ve been too hungry to sleep I’ve repeated the Rules over and over to myself, till at last I dropped off.’