Carbonel: The King of Cats

by Barbara Sleigh

  ‘Who’s going to sleep? Do you imagine that every time a cat closes its eyes that it is sleeping? That’s when we think our deepest thoughts. Besides, how else can I concentrate, with you jigging up and down like a bobbin on a string? I think I can remember the Words all right. Now where can we do it? We can’t do even the most elementary magic in the middle of the High Street in comfort.’

  ‘When I was in the kitchen, I think I saw a sort of wash house place across the yard outside the window. Would that do?’ asked Rosemary. ‘I expect this passage leads into the yard.’

  They went to look, and sure enough, there were some neglected-looking out-buildings.

  ‘I’ll go and get the cauldron,’ said John. ‘I hope to goodness no one sees me. Lucky thing it’s just by the door. Rosie, you had better go and buy the rainbow things. I don’t think I should be much good at that. We must keep our fares home, but you had better take the rest of my money.’

  ‘What colours must I get?’ asked Rosemary.

  ‘The colours of the rainbow, of course,’ said Carbonel. ‘Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Meet us in the wash house as soon as you can.’ And he and John hurried down the passage.

  They found that the wash house was a derelict building, with the sky showing through the slates here and there. There was a broken chair and some odd pots and pans and a copper in one corner. Beneath the small-paned window was an old sink with a tap and, better still, on the draining board was an ancient gas ring attached to a snake-like pipe.

  ‘We’re in luck, my boy!’ said Carbonel. ‘Every modern convenience. The thing is, have you got any matches?’

  John went rather red, because he was not supposed to carry matches about, and he had to admit that he had one of those cardboard books. It had a portrait of a famous cricketer on the flap. He had meant to tear off the portrait and leave the matches behind, but somehow he had not.

  ‘See if the tap works!’ said Carbonel.

  It worked all right. In fact, water spurted out of all sorts of unexpected places when it was turned on. They stood the gas ring on the sink, among the dust and bits of plaster, and put the half-filled cauldron over it. Then they lit the gas. It made an alarming ‘pop’, but by the time a breathless Rosemary had returned with a large paper bag the water was beginning to boil.

  ‘I’ve got them!’ she said triumphantly. ‘I hope they will do!’ and she tipped the things out into the sink. ‘I’ve got lemonade powder for yellow, a packet of orange dye, a blue bag, a little bottle of green setting lotion (I got that cheap because the cap is cracked), some methylated spirits, and a bottle of indigo ink. I couldn’t get all packets of dye because I hadn’t enough money. Oh, and the woman in the shop let me have a pennyworth of hundreds and thousands. I thought we could add those as a sort of “thank you” to the cauldron.’

  ‘That is just the sort of attention it will appreciate,’ said Carbonel as he counted over the colours. ‘Wait a minute, though. You have not got anything red.’

  Rosemary’s face fell. ‘Oh dear! I’ve only got three ha’-pence left and it’s getting so late! What shall I do?’

  ‘I know,’ said John. ‘Nip into the kitchen and warn Miss Maggie about the china coming, and see if there is anything red there. It isn’t stealing, really, because it’s for them.’

  Rosemary hurried to the kitchen where Miss Maggie was arranging the half-dozen tea sets that were left. She was still sniffing slightly.

  ‘It’s all right, please cheer up! Because I think we can find you some china, as a lend, you know, for the afternoon. And then you will be able to make a lot of money with all the Women’s Instituters, and your brother will be frightfully impressed!’

  Miss Maggie gave a wan smile. ‘You are a kind little thing, but whoever would lend us enough china? And besides, it is half past three already!’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Rosemary, ‘we must hurry up. But I am almost sure we can do it, so do have a whole lot of cakes ready!’

  Miss Maggie shook her head despondently, but as she turned to lift a tin from its shelf, Rosemary snatched something from the table and dashed back to the wash house with her pigtails flapping excitedly.

  ‘I’ve got it, something red! A bottle of cochineal!’

  The other things were already in the cauldron which Carbonel was stirring with a rung from the broken chair.

  ‘It’s making a lovely magic sort of smell already,’ said John, peering gingerly into the cauldron. ‘I suppose it’s the setting lotion and the methylated spirits.’

  Carbonel stopped stirring, and the swirling mixture subsided into a slow simmer which made a rhythmical ‘plopping’ noise. ‘It’s about ready. Now the minute that you pour in the last thing, that’s the red stuff, repeat what I say and then add what your wish is… in rhyme if you can do it, and mind you say exactly what you mean this time!’

  Rosemary nodded, breathing rather hard. She had already thought out a rhyme. This time she was determined there should be no mistake. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m ready. Shall I pour in the cochineal?’

  Carbonel nodded. Silently they watched while she tipped the little bottle until it was quite empty, and as the last drop fell the cauldron began to bubble furiously, seething and frothing, until a pile of rainbow-coloured bubbles rose up from the mouth.

  ‘Say after me!’ whispered Carbonel:

  Prism,

  Schism,

  Solecism.

  Spectrum,

  Plectrum,

  Bright electrum.

  Knelling,

  Belling,

  Wishing spelling!

  And as Rosemary repeated the last word the bubbles subsided, and an urgent boiling took their place.

  ‘Now!’ hissed Carbonel. ‘Say your wish!’

  Rosemary stood up very straight and said:

  Listen to my wishing rhyme,

  Please bring here till closing time,

  All the china you can find,

  Of every sort and shape and kind

  From the Wilkinson Bequest,

  And John and I will do the rest!

  With a hiss and a cloud of steam that seemed to fill the wash house, the cauldron boiled over and put out the gas. For a moment they could see nothing but a fog of steam, but as it cleared they realized that something had happened.

  ‘Good old cauldron, it’s done it!’ said John. And it had. The sink, the floor, the draining board, the window ledge, every shelf and corner was covered with china, rare and exquisite china, Spode china, Rockingham china, Dresden china, Chelsea china, dinner sets, banqueting sets, tea sets, jugs, ornaments, statuettes, vases. In fact it was exactly what Rosemary had asked for – all the china from the Wilkinson Bequest out of the Fairfax Museum.

  ‘Gosh!’ said John. ‘You’ve overdone it a bit, haven’t you? I mean to say, all these banqueting sets…?’

  ‘I have a bit,’ said Rosemary as she rescued a priceless Georgian footbath from slipping off the broken chair. ‘I really meant tea-sets, but if it all goes back at closing time it won’t really matter,’ and she darted off to the kitchen.

  ‘Miss Maggie, Miss Maggie!’ she called. ‘Do come! We’ve done it! Heaps and heaps of china in the wash house, do come and see!’ and she took the astonished Miss Maggie by the hand and ran with her across the yard. The china was still there. John was already sorting out the tea-sets from the rest. Miss Maggie’s eyes were like saucers.

  ‘But where did it come from? I did not hear it arrive. Why, it is exquisite, beautiful china! It’s far too good.’

  ‘Oh, never mind!’ said Rosemary, who was jumping up and down with impatience. ‘It is yours until closing time. Do think of your brother’s good money after bad and the Women’s Instituters. They’ll be here any minute now!’

  Miss Maggie took a deep breath. Then she said in an entirely different voice, ‘Florrie, go and fetch all the trays you can lay hands on, and put all the kettles on to boil, and then run round to Osbornes and buy up all the buns and scon
es they’ve got. We shall be able to pay them this evening!’

  They collected all the china they could and staggered into the kitchen. The meeting at the Temperance Hall was clearly over. In the tea shop there was not an empty seat.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Miss Florrie. ‘They are getting impatient. I know all the signs.’

  ‘Never mind, we’ll help all we can,’ said John, ‘if you will tell us what to do.’

  ‘Will you put all the tea pots on the rack above the stove to warm, and the little girl could arrange the tea trays on the big table, and I will go and take some orders.’

  Goodness, how they worked! First they carried trays in, and then they collected dirty china and brought it back to wash up, and as fast as one customer got up to go another would take her place. And the Women’s Institute ladies ate cream buns and crumpets off plates of priceless porcelain, and they drank thick, tea-shop tea from tea pots made for a Chinese Emperor when our ancestors were running about in woad.

  John and Rosemary stood over the sink washing-up until they thought their backs would break.

  ‘We’ve jolly well earned that old cauldron!’ said John, wiping his crimson face. ‘Did you see that when the brother came there was a queue outside the shop waiting to come in?’

  ‘I know,’ said Rosemary, ‘isn’t it splendid! He said that as they were so busy he would come back and talk to them after six.’

  She stood up and pushed back her plaits for the fiftieth time.

  ‘Talking of closing time,’ said John, ‘if we are not back in Tottenham Grove by six when Jeffries comes to fetch me, Aunt Amabel will be cross, and then she may not let us go off on our own again.’

  Miss Maggie came in with a loaded tray which she put down on the table.

  ‘Whew!’ she said. ‘It is slackening off now. I’ve never known such a day!’

  ‘Isn’t it splendid!’ said Rosemary. ‘But John and I think we ought to be going home now.’

  ‘My dear child, I simply don’t know how to thank you both. Goodness knows why you have done all you have. Where shall I return all this beautiful china? I should so like to thank the kind owner who lent it so generously. He must be rather an eccentric person.’

  ‘You really can’t thank him… it is… I mean he is very shy and retiring. And don’t bother about returning the china. It will… I mean, transport has been arranged!’

  ‘And it is quite easy to repay us,’ said John, who felt that in her efforts to explain things truthfully Rosemary was rather losing sight of their real object.

  ‘My dears, anything I can do, you have only to say what you want!’

  ‘Then would you let us have the cauldron that you use as an umbrella stand? As… as a sort of keepsake?’

  ‘Why, you funny little things, if that is really what you want! What an odd choice! I only paid five shillings for it in the market. Such an odd old woman I bought it from. And, of course, if you ever want tea or an ice-cream you will always be welcome at the Copper Kettle!’

  John and Rosemary took off their aprons, fetched the broom and the cauldron, and said ‘Goodbye’. They had had no time for any tea, so Miss Florrie put a large bag of cakes in the cauldron for them to eat in the bus.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Maggie. Just put the china together… and it will be collected. Goodbye, Miss Florrie!’ and with yet another wave from the two sisters they set off down the High Street to the bus terminus, carrying the cauldron between them, and with Carbonel behind.

  Rosemary gave a great sigh. ‘Well, we’ve done it!’

  ‘So we have, but I never want to see a tea towel again!’ said John. ‘You got off pretty lightly!’ he said to the cat.

  ‘I did what I could,’ said Carbonel with dignity. ‘I washed up milk jugs until I was too full to lick so much as a teaspoon of cream.’

  ‘What an odd thing!’ said Mrs Brown that evening. She and Rosemary had finished their supper and she was reading a copy of the evening paper which she had bought on the way home. ‘Just listen to this!’

  MUSEUM MYSTERY

  While going on his usual rounds of the Fairfax Museum in the normal course of his duties, at 3.45 this afternoon, the attendant, Mr Arthur Pettigrew, discovered that the whole of the valuable Wilkinson Bequest China Collection had apparently been stolen. On being questioned, Mr Pettigrew said that when he left the room at 3.30 with a party of visitors everything was in its place. The police were at once informed. The theft was at first put down to a gang of thieves who have been at work in this neighbourhood, but the mystery deepened when it was discovered that all the glass cases were still locked, the keys never having left the possession of Mr Jones, the Curator. But on glancing into the room at closing time, Mr Pettigrew found that all the china had been returned, each piece being back in its right place. The theory that it was not a theft but a practical joke is strengthened by the fact that on several plates were signs of jam, and crumbs of cake and bread and butter, and that several teapots contained tea that was still quite warm.

  ‘Did you see the Wilkinson China when you and John were at the Museum this morning?’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘It was all there when we went to see it,’ she said quite truthfully.

  18

  Where is She?

  On the way home from the Copper Kettle, John and Rosemary had discussed their next move. They had got together the broom and the cauldron, and the hat, they felt, was theirs for the asking. The next thing to do was to find Mrs Cantrip and persuade her to tell them what was the Silent Magic which would free Carbonel finally and completely. It was not until three days later that they felt they could ask to go off on their own again; three days spent pleasantly enough playing in the garden at Tussocks. It was Carbonel who urged them to hurry. He grew daily more restless and, truth to tell, more cantankerous. Rosemary would sit at her window in the evenings and watch with renewed interest the cat world that trotted so purposefully along the garden walls and over the leads and slates beyond. She would stare at the chimneys and roofs, some sloping steeply, some with a gradual incline, with here and there a tower or steeple standing above them, until in the half light the harsh lines of slate and brick seemed to soften and undulate, like living hills and valleys. The evening smoke from the chimney-pots wreathed itself mysteriously round them. Carbonel would sit beside her on the window-ledge making strange cat noises in his throat until Rosemary went to bed, when he would slip silently away into the twilight on his own affairs.

  On the fourth day after the adventure with the Wishing Magic, John came to fetch Rosemary and they set off with their sandwiches.

  ‘You know,’ said Rosemary as they made their way to the bus stop, ‘I have not bothered very much about the cat side of all this before. I have only been thinking of freeing Carbonel because he is such a darling.’

  ‘A pretty crotchety darling, if you ask me!’ said John.

  ‘But don’t you see, that is because he is so worried about everything? It must be dreadful for him to see his poor subjects being so badly treated. I shouldn’t be surprised if all great exiles were pretty snappy, people like Napoleon and Charles II, I mean; only that is not the sort of thing that gets into history books.’

  Carbonel looked round. He had been stalking on ahead. Rosemary had thought him too far away to hear the conversation, but she was mistaken. However, he seemed not displeased at being compared to Napoleon and Charles II.

  ‘I suppose we are wise to go to the market again?’ asked Rosemary.

  ‘Well, it does seem to be the sort of place where things happen, doesn’t it?’ said John.

  ‘I believe we shall find HER there,’ said Garbonel. They had brought the broom with them so that he could talk to them. ‘As like as not she didn’t sell her broom until she had found the place where she wanted to settle. It stands to reason. Besides, catch her wasting money on shoe leather, when the broom would take her for nothing.’

  They were later in setting off than before, and the streets were full of busy people. The e
xpedition began badly. The sky was cold and grey so that they had had some difficulty in persuading Mrs Pendlebury Parker to let them go off for the day. There was a queue at the bus stop, and the conductor had a headache. Not that he told anyone about it, but it made him cross, so that when he saw Carbonel slipping up the stairs after the children, he called out:

  ‘Now then, no cats upstairs! What do you think this is, a blinking Noah’s Ark?’ and to the children’s indignation he picked up the outraged Carbonel by the scruff of his neck and dumped him on the pavement. There was no time for John and Rosemary to get off too, and as the bus gathered speed they saw the cat, looking the soul of indignation, left standing on the pavement.

  There seemed nothing to do about it, but go on as they had arranged.

  ‘But without Carbonel I almost hope we don’t find Mrs Cantrip,’ said Rosemary uneasily.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t seem very likely that we shall, anyway, so I shouldn’t worry’ said John cheerfully. ‘We have absolutely no clue to go on. Besides, she is only an ordinary old woman now. You said she’d retired from being a witch.’

  Rosemary said nothing. John was a matter-of-fact person and it was hard to describe anything so intangible as feelings to him.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said John when they had got off the bus, ‘why not say the Summoning Words? After all, it was Carbonel who wanted us to get on with things, so he couldn’t mind.’

  ‘I suppose I could. It is serious this time, not showing off.’

  ‘Of course it is serious. Besides, you are his mistress, after all.’

  They found a quiet corner between two cars in the parking places beside the market, and Rosemary shut her eyes and said the Summoning Words: