‘Good!’ he said absently, when Rosemary told him that she thought the rocking chair would take them.
It was almost cosy in the greenhouse, with the raindrops plopping on the glass roof. They worked away in friendly silence. Rosemary was sewing ‘R.C.’ for Rocking Chair in green chain stitch on the nightdress case. She looked up and bit off her thread. ‘Can you really put it together again?’
John looked with a puzzled frown at the bits of lock which he had laid out on the floor.
‘If two screws hadn’t vanished into thin air, I could,’ he snapped. ‘You might try to find them instead of sitting there doing nothing.’
‘I’ve been working twice as hard as you!’ said Rosemary. ‘I’ve been making up a flying rhyme for tonight all the time I’ve been sewing!’ But she put down her work and looked for the screws. ‘They can’t have vanished,’ she said. ‘Have you seen them, kittens?’
Pergamond and Calidor were staring with deep interest at a curled-up wood louse. They looked up, to the wood louse’s relief.
‘Screws?’ asked Calidor. ‘What’s screws?’
‘Do they roll?’ asked Pergamond.
Rosemary nodded.
‘Then they’re down there,’ said Calidor, peering through the pierced pattern of the iron grille covering the pipes under the floor which once had warmed the greenhouse.
‘We were pretending they were mice,’ said Pergamond, ‘so they had to go down a hole.’
Both kittens peered down into the darkness. They could see the hot water pipes, but not the screws.
‘Come on, Rosie, help me pull up the grille!’ said John. They pulled and pulled, but it would not budge.
‘Rusted in, I suppose,’ said John disgustedly. ‘Of all the stupid interfering animals!’
The kittens hung their heads. Rosemary scooped them up and put one on each shoulder. They were so very soft and light! She listened to the quick beating of their hearts.
‘Don’t be cross with them,’ she said, and two small rough tongues rasped her hands gratefully as she lifted them into her lap. ‘They didn’t mean to be a nuisance. I’ll hold them here and keep them out of mischief while you finish.’ The kittens quarrelled drowsily in the hollow of her skirt. John put the lock together again and screwed it to the door. The key turned silently in the newly-oiled works.
‘It looks splendid to me!’ said Rosemary hopefully.
‘My good girl, a lock on the door is not much use without the plate on the doorpost for it to fit into!’
They looked up as footsteps scrunched toward them on the gravel path. It was Mr Featherstone.
‘Hello! I thought I would find you here. Well, this makes a very snug little kitten garden. I’ve been suggesting to your mother that, as it’s wet, we might all four of us go to the pictures this afternoon. There’s a very funny film at the Parthenon, I’m told. What do you say?’
Of course they both said yes.
‘Good. Can’t stop now, see you later,’ said Mr Featherstone, who went whistling down the path. Both John and Rosemary were glad for something to fill in the time before their perilous adventure that night. It seemed to grow more perilous the more they thought about it.
‘We can buy a couple more screws on our way home,’ said John.
‘Come on, it’s time we got cleaned up,’ said Rosemary, looking at his oily hands. ‘We can wedge the door shut till this evening.’
The film was so funny that they saw it twice, quite forgetting about the screws, and when they came blinking out into the daylight with their cheeks still creased with laughter, the shops had closed.
‘Well, the door will just have to stay wedged until tomorrow,’ said John. ‘I expect it’ll be all right.’
‘I hope so,’ said Rosemary anxiously. ‘Don’t forget, eleven thirty sharp in my bedroom.’
Rosemary decided to undress as usual that evening. When Mrs Brown came to say good night, she would notice if her daughter’s clothes were not folded at the foot of the bed.
‘Mother, I do like Mr Featherstone, don’t you?’ asked Rosemary, as her mother tucked her in. ‘It was nice this afternoon when we all had tea together.’
Mrs Brown smoothed the bedspread with unusual care. She laughed, but she did not answer.
‘Go to sleep now, poppet,’ was all she said as she bent to kiss her daughter good night.
Rosemary was determined to do nothing of the sort. Both she and John had decided that, rather than take the risk of oversleeping, it would be wiser to stay awake. But one minute she was going over the rhyme that she had made up for the flying spell, and the next, John was shaking her by the shoulder.
‘Wake up, you owl! It’s twenty to twelve!’ he whispered.
Rosemary shot up from the bedclothes. ‘Why ever didn’t you wake me sooner?’
‘I couldn’t,’ said John. ‘Your mother was pottering about in the sitting room for ages, so I couldn’t get through. And then I had to wait till I was pretty certain she was asleep. You haven’t time to dress. Come on, you’ll just have to put on your dressing gown.’
Rosemary tied the cord of her old red dressing gown around her waist and pushed her toes into her shoes. Then she picked up the newly embroidered antimacassar.
‘Let’s go!’ she whispered.
The house was full of small night noises as they crept out. Boards creaked and the curtains stirred in a little breeze. Once John fell over a stool, but Mrs Brown did not seem to wake. They tiptoed down the stairs and out into the moonlit garden.
It was strangely transformed by the pale light, with a magic that had nothing to do with Mrs Cantrip and her kind. The familiar back of the house had become a mysterious palace, with gleaming, moon-touched windows. The blues and purples of the garden had disappeared. Only the pale flowers gleamed silver in the strange light. The tobacco plants raised their white trumpets to the sky and, together with the clumps of white stock, filled the air with a heavy perfume. Jasmine starred the shadowy porch, and the Mermaid rose dropped slow, pale petals on the weedy path. A moth fluttered by, sighing something that Rosemary could not quite hear.
‘John!’ she said. ‘Anything could happen on a night like this!’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what will happen if we don’t hurry up,’ said John. ‘We won’t get to that roof-top place until the meeting is over. We should look pretty silly turning up there when they’ve all gone home again.’
He seized Rosemary’s hand, and together they ran down the path, in and out of light and shadow.
‘It’s us, chair! John and me!’ called Rosemary softly when they reached the Green Cave.
They dived into the moon-chequered darkness under the currant bushes.
‘I’ve brought it. I promised I would! The antimacassar, I mean,’ said Rosemary. ‘I embroidered your initials on it specially,’ she said proudly, as she tied it on to the back of the chair with two hair ribbons. The chair seemed to give a pleased little jump as Rosemary fluffed out the bows.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ said John impatiently. ‘I bet that rocking chair is a female the way it carries on about its appearance,’ he growled. ‘No male chair would be so soppy!’
‘Hush,’ said Rosemary quickly. The chair had stopped rocking abruptly. ‘I hope you haven’t hurt its feelings.’
John was not listening.
‘You sit on the seat,’ he said, as they carried it from the shelter of the bushes and stood it on the garden path. ‘I’ll stand on the rockers behind and hold on to the back.’
Rosemary opened her mouth to say something, but John said, ‘Do hurry! There’s no time to argue.’
She sat cautiously in the chair and held firmly on to the arms. It was lucky she did. Neither of them knew quite how it happened, but no sooner had John balanced on the rockers behind her than the chair gave a lurch and overbalanced. Rosemary had not far to fall, but John picked himself up ruefully with a grazed knee.
‘I thought you’d offended it!’ said Rosemary. ‘Do say you’re sorry a
nd then we can get on. It must be growing awfully late.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ growled John. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!’
The chair bridled slightly. John dabbed at his knee with a handkerchief, which even in the moonlight looked grubby. Then, very gingerly, he squashed into the seat beside Rosemary. They could just manage it.
‘Now then, we must rock with our feet and hope for the best!’ said Rosemary. ‘Together! One! Two!’ The chair rocked, reluctantly at first, then, as Rosemary repeated the rhyme she had prepared, settled into a steady, swinging motion.
‘In Broomhurst Town we want to find
The tallest roof, if you don’t mind.
We’ll sit as quiet as anything,
And ever more your praises sing.’
Higher and higher swung the chair, and as Rosemary repeated the rhyme for the third time, it rose smoothly from the ground, up into the moon-washed air. It spiralled high above Cranshaw Road, then turned sharply in the direction of Broomhurst.
‘Yoicks! Tally ho!’ shouted John, bouncing up and down on the seat. ‘This is simply wonderful!’
Rosemary’s plaits streamed behind with their speed. Below them lay the sleeping town, a huddle of silver roofs. Or were they roofs? The sharp angles of gables and chimneys seemed softened in the moonlight.
‘If I didn’t know they were roofs I should think they were hills and valleys,’ shouted John above the wind.
‘So would I!’ agreed Rosemary. ‘Those moving dots must be cats!’
They were flying high now, following the string of pale green street lights that lit the main road to Broomhurst like a string of precious stones. As if uncertain of its way the chair swooped down, casting uncomfortably this way and that at the edge of the town.
‘That’s the way!’ said John pointing to the left. ‘I can see the lane leading to Figg’s Bottom, and there are the newly built houses! That’s the one I hid in! Good heavens, they’ve built a lot since yesterday! Good old rocking chair!’
The chair had risen sharply again after turning obediently in the direction of John’s pointing finger.
‘What if we can’t find which is the tallest building?’ called John. ‘We can’t measure them!’
Far away, a clock chimed midnight.
‘Oh, do hurry, dear chair!’ said Rosemary, and the chair redoubled its speed.
Fortunately there was no mistaking the tallest building. Until recently, Broomhurst had been a sleepy, old-fashioned little town like Fallowhithe. The coming of new industries had brought new life and new ways. So far, only a small section near the railway station had been modernized. There was a department store and a hospital, as well as flats and office buildings. The old-fashioned roof tops which looked like foothills huddled around the base of the mountainous new buildings, the tallest of which was undoubtedly a block of offices. A breeze had sprung up, and little clouds were scudding across the face of the moon.
‘Bother!’ said Rosemary. ‘Now we can’t see properly!’
‘It’s not a bad thing really,’ said John. ‘It may give us more chance of landing without being spotted. The old chair ought to –’
Rosemary nudged him sharply.
He added hastily, ‘I mean if the dear rocking chair would kindly circle around so we can spot a good landing place, when the moon is covered, we could land without being seen. It’s after twelve, so Mrs Cantrip will have arrived. Even if they have posted cats as sentries, they will be off their guard because they won’t expect anyone else.’
Already the chair was circling the building.
‘That looks like a good place!’ said John. ‘Behind that ventilator shaft. The moon is just going behind a cloud. Now!’
The chair rose sharply, then with a sickening swoop dropped toward the ventilator shaft, which seemed to spin up toward them as they swung down.
‘We will make such a clatter when we land that everyone will hear for miles!’ thought Rosemary desperately, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the shock.
The chair landed fair and square on its rockers, with a jolt that shook the teeth in their heads. Oddly enough, it was a silent landing. The two children climbed out rather shakily. The rocking chair still swayed slightly, as if it were out of breath. The moonlight flooded the sky once more and illuminated the roof top.
‘But these aren’t slates and chimneys!’ said John looking at the soft grass at his feet. ‘I thought this was a ventilator shaft, but it’s nothing of the sort. It’s a tree!’
‘Cat Country!’ said Rosemary softly. ‘That’s what Carbonel called it. Hush! I can hear someone talking!’
12
Conspiracy
John put a restraining hand on Rosemary’s arm.
‘It may be Cat Country, but they are enemy cats. We can’t rush in without spying out the land first!’
Rosemary nodded. Then she turned to the rocking chair.
‘Chair, dear! Thank you for bringing us so splendidly!’ she whispered.
‘Yes, rather!’ said John. ‘Almost as good as a jet.’
‘And much, much more quietly!’ added Rosemary quickly. ‘Wait for us, chair. I don’t think anyone will see you tucked away here. We won’t be long, at least I hope not.’
‘Come on!’ said John. ‘Bother, it’s gone dark again.’
They waited till the trailing wisp of cloud had drifted across the face of the moon and the silver light flooded out. The tree they had thought was a ventilator shaft seemed to have redoubled its size. The trunk was wide and strong and scored with the claw sharpenings of innumerable cats. Crouching on the little bank where the tree grew, they peered through tall grass and catnip which grew thickly along the top. On the other side, the bank sloped steeply down to a little hollow from which a stream bubbled. It chuckled along, winding and weed-fringed, toward a thicket of slender trees, where it disappeared underground, still talking to itself.
‘It doesn’t look like water. It’s white,’ said Rosemary.
But John was not listening. ‘If this is Cat Country, it’s funny there isn’t a cat to be seen!’ he said.
‘There are the voices again!’ whispered Rosemary.
‘Cross voices they sound, too!’ said John. ‘That’s where they come from, that little clump of trees. Come on. We’d better not take any risks, even if we can’t see any cats. Keep your head down and follow me!’
The ground was broken by low patches of undergrowth. Crouching low, they crept down the bank and made their way in a series of little runs from bush to bush. When they reached the last one large enough to hide behind, they were within easy reach of the trees. Rosemary was just going to stretch her cramped back when John pulled her down again.
‘Look at that rock a few feet away!’ he breathed. Rosemary looked. On the top, sitting so still that he might have been part of it, was a cat. His eyes were the merest slits of emerald green. As they looked, the slits disappeared altogether. His eyes were closed. At the same time, a second cat leaped up on to the rock beside him. Instantly the green eyes opened wide.
‘It’s all right, Noggin!’ said the first cat hurriedly. ‘I was only having a little think, and I can always do it better with my eyes closed.’
‘No good sentry thinks,’ growled Noggin. ‘I suppose, like all the others I’ve just inspected, you were thinking there’s no need to keep your eyes open because the Flying Women are here. Well, you’re wrong! There may be two more about, enemy ones, a Flying Boy and a Flying Girl.’ John nudged Rosemary. ‘Her Royal Greyness has just sent word.’
‘I don’t hold with humans in Cat Country,’ said Swabber sulkily. ‘It’s never been done before, and I don’t like it.’
‘No more than I do,’ said Noggin. ‘But orders is orders. And if the next sentry is “thinking”, I’ll just pull his whiskers for him!’
Still grumbling, Noggin slipped silently off the rock and loped away across the moonlit grass.
Swabber waited until he was out of sight, and muttering somethi
ng about ‘a lot of fuss’, curled up and promptly went to sleep.
‘Now!’ whispered John with his mouth so close to Rosemary’s ear that it tickled.
They crept from the shadow of the bush, thankful for the covering noise of the little stream, and once around the rock they ran to the shelter of the thicket. Just as they reached it, Rosemary stumbled.
‘Ow!’ she exclaimed.
‘Shut up!’ hissed John.
‘It’s all very well!’ whispered Rosemary indignantly, hopping up and down and holding her shin. ‘I stepped on something crackly, and it bit me!’
They looked down. There on the grass was a broom. It was made from a bundle of twigs bound on to a handle, the sort that is used by gardeners – and witches. It was tethered to one of the little trees.
‘It must be the new broom Miss Dibdin made, and they must have both ridden on it after all!’ said Rosemary.
The voices sounded very close now. John and Rosemary crept from tree to tree, hardly daring to breathe, until John put out a warning hand. Looking over his shoulder, Rosemary saw a small open space in the middle of the thicket. In the centre was a tree stump, and on it sat what was clearly Her Royal Greyness. She was a beautiful, grey Persian cat with brilliant green eyes. There were several other animals grouped around her, sitting among the plants which grew thickly in the little clearing. The green eyes turned restlessly from one to the other of the two women seated on a low rock in front of her.
Mrs Cantrip and Miss Dibdin, quite undisturbed by their royal company, were arguing hotly. Mrs Cantrip had lost a shoe again, and her lank hair had escaped from the very large pins which usually kept it fairly tidy, but she seemed quite unruffled. Miss Dibdin, on the other hand, was clearly in a bad temper. Her hat was crooked and her trim suit was rumpled and untidy. While the children watched, she took off her hat and tried to readjust her bun.
‘If you didn’t enjoy it, it’s your own fault,’ Mrs Cantrip was saying. ‘You would come, though I warned you, and you made the broom yourself, so I don’t see you’ve anything to grumble about. As I told you, it takes years to train a broomstick to fly smooth and obedient with only one person up, let alone two!’
The Kingdom of Carbonel Page 7
