I had seen this kind of thing countless times before. Primitive theatre touring the provinces. It was all pretty shabby and unsophisticated but, like I would if I ever got near a saucer of cream, the people lapped it up. They were starved of entertainment, you see. You could get away with any old rubbish.
The imp - evidently played by a child or adult of restricted growth - was trying to jump up the other demon in an attempt to snatch me for himself. This was the funniest thing this hamlet had ever seen.
“Oh, put me down, you silly buggers!” I cried out.
Oops.
The crowd gasped in wonder and held its collective breath.
“What did you say?” the demon gave me a little shake. Behind his mask, I could see his eyes were wide.
“I said, put him down!” It was the Boy, stepping forward.
“No, you didn’t,” said the demon. “He said it. The moggy said it.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” said the Boy, holding his hands out for me. I tried to jump into them. “Whoever heard of a talking cat?”
The crowd laughed at this.
The demon looked from me to the Boy then back to me again. Reluctantly, he handed me over. The audience cheered and whistled. While I snuggled against his chest, the Boy dipped forwards in a curt little bow.
“Do it again,” the demon urged, sotto voce.
“I beg yours?” said the Boy.
“Make him speak! The people seem to like it.”
“I didn’t-“
“You have a talent; use it!”
The feathered claws tried to pull me away. I dug my claws into the Boy’s chest. The Boy winced. I turned around and slashed at the demon.
“Take your stinking paws off me, you goddamn dirty ape!” I snarled. I’d picked that line up somewhere or other but it did the trick. The demon backed away with his hands up in surrender. The crowd whistled and generally went wild.
Beneath his mask, the demon winked at the Boy and invited him to take another bow.
“Again! Again!” The chant began in the front row but was soon taken up by the whole assembly. I just wanted to get away.
I hate improv.
The bloke up the ladder evidently shared my view. He bellowed out his next line a couple of times, keen to get back to the script.
“Tremble, ye demons and devils of the dark!” he boomed. My tormentors were startled. It was as if they had forgotten he was there. They approached the ladder and began to shake it. The chap in white clung to a rung and persisted. “I conjure you from this place,” he boomed and made some kind of gesture in the air above their heads. The demons froze then began to jerk and convulse as though poisoned. An invisible force dragged them into the hell mouth. There was a final explosion and smoke billowed out, black and bitter. The audience clapped and cheered through their choking and coughing.
When the air cleared, the bloke in white came down the ladder with a serene expression. He took centre stage and recited some doggerel about leading good lives lest we face the same fate. It was the most hackneyed drivel. Some members of the audience mouthed the lines along with him. The show was back on its well worn track. The drama was brought to its satisfying and comforting conclusion and the crowd clamoured its appreciation vociferously and tumultuously.
The fellow in white sidled over to the Boy. Between bows he spoke from the side of his mouth, thrusting an object made of cloth into the Boy’s hand.
“Time to reap the rewards,” the actor whispered. “Go on; pass this around. You’ll get a fair shake.”
The object was a velvet pouch into which the appreciative audience was invited to deposit coins. The actor’s instincts proved correct. As the Boy moved among the spectators, they were delighted for the chance to stroke, prod and tickle me, the impromptu special guest star of the show. I tolerated this as much as I could, which wasn’t very much. I opted to remain as motionless as possible, like an effigy of a cat, stirring only to lash out when a punter became too familiar. Several went away with my teeth marks in their impudent fingers, I can tell you.
The actors were watching from the waggon, nudging each other and muttering with the air of conspirators. A decision was reached. Heads nodded in agreement as devils and angel formed a compact.
“Here you are,” the Boy said brightly as he handed over the now-bulging purse. The actor in white weighed it in his hands, clearly impressed. He reached in and rummaged around. He withdrew a five-groat piece and presented it to the Boy.
“For your unscheduled contribution,” he announced as though bestowing a knighthood.
“Bloody Nora,” grumbled the imp. He removed his mask, revealing himself to be a craggy-faced, grey-haired curmudgeon. “Five?”
Clearly, he deemed this remuneration to be overly generous but his taller confederates dismissed his concerns with gestures.
“Thank you!” the Boy enthused, turning the coin over and over. There was a light in his eye I hadn’t seen before but then, he had never seen so much money before. Looking back, I can say that was the first indication of the Man he was to become. Something was switched on inside him. It was the start of the rest of his life.
But I must try to keep things chronological, for clarity’s sake.
The taller of the demons nudged the angel who cleared his throat to interrupt the Boy’s admiration of the coin.
“We have a proposition to put to you, my boy,” the angel spoke in that off-stage voice that actors have, as if still playing to the gallery. “You would be foolish to turn it down.”
“Um, no thank you,” said the Boy, backing away.
“That’s quite a talent you have there,” the angel continued. The Boy frowned and held me closer to him. “’Twould be a pity to let it go to waste.”
I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, like a cook with cat-burgers on the menu. The Boy shared my misgivings.
“What mean you, sire?” he stammered.
“Leave it, Johan,” the imp advised. “He’s not interested.”
The taller demon gave him a sharp swipe to the back of the head.
The angel - this ‘Johan’ - persisted with his pitch. He explained that they had never had such a successful collection, never had a purse so full. He attributed this good fortune to the Boy’s interjection and what he called the Boy’s uncanny voice-throwing ability.
Throughout this the Boy’s eyebrows remained in the dipped position. I could almost hear his brain processing this information like clockwork immersed in porridge.
What clinched it was not the promise of a fair cut of the takings - although the Boy’s interest was clearly pricked by the prospect of more coins like the one growing steadily hotter in his palm - or the renown and acclaim that his extraordinary aptitude would engender - No; what got the Boy nodding his head and shaking their hands and agreeing to join these travelling troubadours was the itinerary of their touring production.
Within a week the show would open in London. That’s what hooked the Boy in. That’s what made him become a performer.
The taller demon clapped the Boy on the shoulder but thought twice about scratching me under the chin. The dwarf was less welcoming.
“Don’t even know the bugger’s name,” he grumbled.
“That is easily remedied,” said Johan, pulling off his blond wig and revealing a hairless pate like a freshly laid egg. “What’s your name, lad?”
“It’s Dick,” said the Boy.
“Welcome, Dick!” said Johan, shaking the Boy’s hand yet again.
“That figures,” murmured the imp.
***
The mouth of Hell collapsed in an ingenious fashion on the back of the waggon. Within minutes the properties, costumes and other scenic elements of the play were all packed away, and covered over with heavy cloth. This ancie
nt tarpaulin was patchy with faded paint, pictures of bygone productions, flaky and cracked like a chronic skin disease. I questioned its waterproof properties; a glance at the darkening sky told me they would soon be put to the test.
The waggon was pulled out of the settlement by a horse only one move away from a gluepot - the locals, happy to be entertained by the travellers and to pay for the privilege, were not so keen on having the vagabonds spend the night in their midst.
A mile or so from the hamlet, Johan pulled on the reins and the horse, slow on the uptake, plodded on for a few steps before coming to a halt. Carac - for that was the imp’s name - leapt from the waggon like a suicidal sack of flour and immediately set to making a fire. We were dining al fresco and though we would be spending the night at the roadside at least we would be sleeping under canvas.
The third member of the troupe, he who had portrayed the taller demon, went by the name of Brom. He was taciturn and self-effacing out of costume. You would hardly know he was there were it not for the growing number of emptied wine bladders accumulating around the campfire. By eavesdropping on Johan’s conversation with the Boy, I was able to garner information about the three of them, while pretending to doze in front of the flames. (That I may have genuinely nodded off at intervals is neither here nor there.)
I say ‘conversation’ when really it was more of a monologue or one-man show. Johan clearly relished the chance to regale the Boy with their history. The other two, of course, were already apprised of the facts and only rarely did Carac pause in his sausage-cooking to interject, correct or clarify some detail or other.
The company had been on the road for eighty years. Not with the current members, I hardly need add. Actors, acrobats, jugglers and other tricksters had come and gone. At one glorious point in its history, the troupe had boasted an entire caravan of waggons. Latterly, it had fallen upon hard times and had been reduced to its present contingent of three.
Johan attributed this to the guilds. The guilds, he said, had taken it upon themselves to stage the miracle and mystery plays that were the staple of the company’s repertoire.
Amateurs, he grimaced bitterly, trying to outdo each other with showiness and empty spectacle. Where’s the passion in their passion plays? Johan complained. Surface without substance! Gong but no dinner!
“Takes it too serious,” Carac sniffed. He examined the banger currently impaled on his twig. It was black one side and raw pink on the other. He deemed this fit for consumption and poked the twig towards the Boy.
“It is serious!” Johan snapped. He pressed his hand to his chest. “We show people to themselves. We are the looking-glass of all mankind. “
Carac made no overt response to this pretentious remark but the way in which he skewered the next sausage with his twig spoke volumes. The Boy, in a politely surreptitious manner, broke pieces off his banger and dropped them near my feet. I was spared the effort of hunting my own dinner; I doubt I could identify let alone catch and subdue whatever creatures had ended up in that skin.
The imp - I cannot stop thinking of him in that guise - became more sociable once his cooking duties were done and he was able to sit on a blanket and drink, literally, a skinful of wine. He and Johan swapped stories, hilarious and scurrilous anecdotes of previous productions and tours and former colleagues and comrades. There was a sense that this was more to soothe the air between them, reaffirming social bonds in the same way that primates and monkeys will groom each other’s fur (or indeed cats will rub their scent on their nearest and dearest). That the Boy was there to attend these tales was incidental and Brom - well, he continued to watch the flames. Those flames became embers and those embers turned to ash before the actors decided it was bedtime at last. The fire was doused and the Boy was instructed to sleep not on the waggon but beneath it.
“The glamour!” Johan gasped, tossing the Boy a blanket. “I could almost envy you.”
He did not offer his place on the waggon though.
The Boy seemed happy enough. I think he was glad to be among humans again. As if my company were not enough! He was soon asleep, his mind at peace, having successfully negotiated transport to London.
The deal was he and, more crucially, I would participate in performances. Special scenes were to be interpolated to show off the Boy’s ‘talent’ at voice-throwing. Johan had bridled at this “messing about” with the Text but the others, (well, Carac) had dismissed these concerns at once. As well as transport, the Boy would also receive a small cut of the takings and he and I would be fed and watered along the way.
It seemed too good to be true.
It was.
***
Our first engagement was the next afternoon and so, after an early start and a brief (too brief, according to Johan) rehearsal period, we arrived at a sleepy market town and set up stage in the square. I say “we” but you know and I know that I did bugger all to assist.
The first show was a rehash of that impromptu debut appearance with a few adjustments: The demons seize the Boy’s beloved pet (Yours Truly) and threaten to cast it into the inferno unless the Boy relinquishes his own soul in order to redeem the precious puss. Only the intervention of the angelic Johan saves Boy and moggy alike - at the price of the Boy’s eternal allegiance to what is Good and Right and Proper and yadda yadda yadda.
As a drama it lacked credibility - among other things. Do humans really swallow this stuff? At least as a cat I am not required to contemplate such matters. There are so many more important things to consider. Like where my next meal is coming from. And keeping my coat clean is a constant worry.
I missed my cue. Instead of pleading for liberty, I just hung in the air in Brom’s hands. The demon gave me a shake, which I deemed altogether unnecessary and, frankly, rude. For a second my mind was blank. What on Earth was my first line?
Perhaps I should have paid more attention during rehearsal. The Boy had gone through the motions of learning the lines - well, they believed he was the one who would actually say them - while I had tracked the progress of a shrew or some other wee, sleekit, timorous beastie through the long grass.
Carac performed a back flip that took him closer to the Boy who was planted in the crowd. He snarled the line in a loud and urgent whisper. The Boy looked helpless. He must have thought the cat was up and the jig was out of the bag. Fortunately, my superior hearing caught the line and I was able to declaim, in true Johan fashion, my wish to be released from the demon’s evil clutches.
The effect on the crowd was electrifying. People were astonished to hear a cat speak. Deep down they knew it must be some kind of trick but the more superstitious among them made the sign of the cross and then clasped their hands in prayer.
But everyone was watching, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. We had them!
I must confess I too felt a frisson of excitement. Perhaps it wasn’t cat-like to be the centre of attention but the sensation of power felt in the blood coursing through my body, blood laced with adrenalin, was intoxicating. For an instant I could see where Johan was coming from and I gained a little more understanding of human nature.
The scene was played out and yet again the Boy and I were prevailed upon to conduct the collection. Again, the purse was bulging with coins. Even Carac was impressed. My professional debut - for which the Boy got all the credit - was deemed a roaring success.
The next few days followed the same pattern. Rehearsal time was spent building up my part with new ‘business’ and dialogue. At one point I was instructed to leap onto Carac’s masked face, causing him to stumble blindly into the crowd and make the children scream in happy terror. Come the fourth day and it was mooted, by Johan, that it was the Boy who should be in jeopardy and the cat who should step forth to save him. Carac treated this proposal with scorn and derision.
“Everyone knows you can’t train a cat,” he scoffed. “Damned flea-bitten thing h
as to be passed from hand to hand as it is. It’s no better than a puppet. Well, it’s worse than a puppet. Puppets don’t scratch or have the potential to run away at any second. Say he runs away at the crucial moment? Then where will we be? Left with egg on our faces, that’s where. I say we keep things how they are and then, when we get to London, we won’t have so many amendments to make to get the show back to how it was before - before all this.”
It was agreed that this was a sensible idea but no one, except me of course because I notice everything, marked the lowering of Brom’s brows. He had other ideas, it seemed. It wasn’t long before it became apparent what those ideas were.
***
A week after we joined the company of actors, the Boy began to sense something was up. We were keeping up our end of the bargain, pleasing the crowds at every town, village and hamlet we came to but there was no indication that we were getting any closer to London. He questioned Johan about this very matter one night when Brom and Carac were passed out from drink in the back of the waggon.
A sheen of sweat broke out on the thin man’s bald pate and he avoided eye contact with the Boy. He looked directly at me instead affording me the perfect opportunity to read his expression. As a liar, he was a bad actor.
He murmured and said something about London being just around the corner and having patience and besides, what did we want to go there for when there was talk of the plague...
The Boy sat patiently through all of this and when Johan finally ran out of steam and looked entirely embarrassed and uncomfortable, said, “Now, kindly tell me what’s really going on.”
Johan held his breath. He cast a glance towards the back of the waggon in which his colleagues were snoring like pigs with bronchial problems.
“It’s Brom,” he whispered. “Got it in his head we should go north.”
“Why, what’s north?”
Another wary glance waggonwards. “It’s the Passion. Up in Coventry. Brom wants another shot at it. Ever since - ever since - well, you don’t need to know any of that, dear boy.”
I AM THE CAT Page 6