I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  I headed for the preferred spot of the river where he would sluice off the night before but before I got there I was intercepted by a man-sized mountain of muck coming right at me. As I tried to dodge, it mirrored my movements, blocking my path. After a minute or so of this awkward courtly dance, the heap stood still and held out two upper limbs, dripping with slop.

  “It’s me, Puss!” a voice came from where I estimated a mouth might be.

  “Kid!” I gasped and instantly regretted the sudden intake of air. He’d never smelled this bad before. “You should get down to the river and get that stuff off you.”

  “I’ve just come from there.” The walking pile of dung and detritus seemed to slump with sadness. “Oh, Puss! Is everyone a liar and a cheat? Is there no honour anywhere?”

  “What’s happened, kid?” I took a step towards him. It was as near as I dared approach.

  He dropped down to a seated position. Clumps of you-know-what dropped from him and rolled away. “You remember they let me go with them on the waggon?”

  “I remember.”

  The Boy recounted his experience. I had been correct in thinking they had gone in the wrong direction. They had fully intended on taking that route. It transpired that these gong farmers were not entirely honest. Instead of taking their load out beyond the city walls for safe disposal in the middle of nowhere, they were merely taking it upstream and dumping it in the Thames.

  The Boy, being him, had voiced his confusion and then his objections to this breach of established practice. Gerald had apparently tried to soothe him with talk of the pressure put upon gong farmers by the city aldermen. They couldn’t possibly meet their targets and stick to the letter of the law. The extra-mural trips had become too frequent and took too long. They hadn’t the manpower. They hadn’t the horsepower. As the population of the city grew, so did the demands made on the gong farmers.

  “He had a point, I suppose,” the Boy sighed. “But then things turned nasty.”

  I thought it politic not to mention that everything about his job had been nasty from the start.

  When it became clear that the Boy wasn’t going to be swayed by the hard-done-by workers approach, Gerald and the driver had threatened their young co-worker in no uncertain terms. He would keep his trap shut or he would find himself at the bottom of the river, buried in muck and in pieces like a barrowful of butcher’s offal.

  To impress upon him the seriousness of their threat, they had stripped him, thrown him into the back of the waggon and left him to crawl his way out before the load was dumped, illegally, in the water.

  It was clear to me, that worse than the ignominy and unpleasantness of such treatment, what distressed the Boy most was the revelation that these men were dishonest. Big friendly Gerald, a crook!

  “You need to get cleaned up,” I said, gently, wishing I could bring myself to nuzzle against him. “Get yourself some clean clothes and -”

  “That’s another thing!” the Boy’s eyes shone sorrowfully through the slurry, diamonds in a dunghill. “They’ve taken my money. I am destitute.”

  And I knew it wasn’t the money that was hurting him. The loss of it meant the end of his plan to impress Fitzwarren’s daughter. There was no goal in his life anymore - apart from the day-to-day struggle for survival, that is; but what I know of humans tells me this is never enough. It’s never enough to seek food and shelter. Humans seem to need more to keep them going, something to strive for.

  “It’s only a setback, kiddo,” I told him. “Come on; follow me.”

  It was still early enough for the streets to be clear - well, of people if not the evidence of people. The Boy seemed reluctant at first, preferring to sit there wallowing in filth and self-pity.

  “Come on, kiddo. Shift it - before you get shovelled up by one of your colleagues.”

  “Former colleagues,” he murmured, getting to his feet. “I quit.”

  “Hurrah! Now, come on!”

  I led him to Tower Hill. Those people we encountered performed the usual trick of avoiding him without directly registering his presence. Perhaps acknowledging him would bring to light their part in the proliferation of muck in the streets where they live. Anyway, whatever the reason behind it, our passage to the Tower was unimpeded. I left the Boy at the moat, with instructions to clean himself off and assurances that I would return as quickly as I could.

  It was time to work the old puppy-dog eyes on the cook. Not an easy feat for a cat.

  ***

  The woman was of course busy. Her pre-breakfast preparations were a military operation. Years in the job had honed her timings to perfection. And there was I, to put a spanner in the works or - more literally - a cat among the pigeons.

  “Shoo, cat!” she brandished her rolling pin at me. “Get down from there.”

  I was preventing her from rolling the pastry for her pigeon pies. Don’t question me; I didn’t write the menu.

  Swearing like a soldier, she called to the turnspit to come and sort me out. The boy, still rubbing his eyes, rose from his bed in the hearth and stumbled over. His red hands, calloused from turning the spit hour after hour, reached for me clumsily, only to close on thin air.

  “Here boy, here, Tommy!” he cooed after me as I sprang away, leaving neat paw-prints in the pastry.

  “Don’t know what’s got into him this morning,” the cook shook her head. “He’s been fed once already”

  The boy chased me around the long table. I did my best to knock as many things over as I could. As more staff turned in to work they were recruited to try to catch the crazy cat. Soon the whole kitchen was in chaos. Clouds of flour rose in my wake. Swearwords familiar and new to me followed my every move. Finally, when the entire team was ready to kill me and bake me in a pie, I performed the coup de grace. I threw myself at the cook’s ample chest and dug my claws into her clothes. Try as she might she could not shake or pull me off. None of the others would dare throw anything at this formidable female. In the kitchen, she was Queen.

  Stillness descended on the kitchen, as the flour began to settle and the pots, pans and their lids, hurled at me, rolled themselves to silence.

  I looked into the cook’s angry face. It was redder than it had ever been.

  “Mew,” I said, in a plaintive, high-pitched tone.

  The effect was instant. She melted like an icicle on a bonfire.

  “Aww, there, there, Tommy,” she risked a stroke of my back. I instantly set to purring.

  “Aww,” echoed the entire assembly.

  “What was all that about then, eh?” she murmured in a condescending tone. Humans certainly can be soppy when it comes to animals - some animals. I’m sure the headless pigeons on the tabletop would beg to differ.

  I stretched my neck and nuzzled her flabby jaw line. And then, quick as a flash, I unsheathed a claw and pressed it against the vein in her neck. I whispered into her ear.

  “Carry me outside,” I said, “and not a word to anyone or I’ll pop this vein like a balloon.”

  Sweat broke out across her face. Her entire scent changed at once.

  “What’s a balloon?” she asked, from the side of her mouth.

  “A child’s toy, like a bladder! Don’t question me! Just carry me slowly, to the moat. There’s someone out there who needs your help.”

  The turnspit was trying to reach for me but the cook smacked his hands away with a wooden spoon. “It’s all right,” she told him. “I’m just taking Tommy outside. I think we could both do with a breath of fresh air.”

  She made her way through the kitchen. The staff parted and made way for her as if she had been a smelly gong farmer.

  As soon as we were outside, I sheathed my claw.

  “Well done,” I murmured.

  “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening,” she repeate
d as she carried me out of the gate.

  “Morning, Sarah!” one of the sentry men called out in mock salute.

  “Morning!” I answered in a terrible imitation of her squawky voice.

  We reached the moat.

  “Don’t ask me to jump in, o demon,” she pleaded.

  “Relax,” I raised my voice. “In fact I’d like you to reduce the number of people in the moat.”

  At that point she spotted Dick in the water. Spotted dick! Haha! That works on a number of levels. It’s his name, he was naked, and she’s a cook... Oh, never mind.

  I dropped to the ground. She gave me a dirty look but then was suddenly possessed - not by a demon - but by concern for the Boy. She dashed to the water’s edge in a flap of sleeves and aprons.

  “Are you stuck, love?” she asked. “Should I get the guards?”

  “No!” the Boy cried. “I just need something to wear.”

  “Hmm.” This stumped her momentarily. I thought I was going to have to speak out again but she was suddenly taken by the idea to offer him her mob cap and her uppermost apron.

  The Boy reached out to take these items. The cook reached towards him. The inevitable happened. She entered the water with an almighty splash. She flapped about, squawking and swearing in such a manner she could not fail to draw attention to us all.

  The sentry men rushed over to assist. Using their pikestaffs, they helped the cook and the Boy from the moat and onto the bank. The Boy swiftly draped the apron around his waist while the cook spat out water and removed an errant lily pad from her head.

  “Early morning dip, Sarah?” laughed one of the sentry men. This earned him a dark look. The cook’s hand twitched around a rolling pin she didn’t have. I caught her eye. A casual flex of my claws changed her expression. There was no way she was going to mention her momentary bout of demonic possession. She didn’t want to be burned at the stake.

  “Thank you,” the Boy got to his feet. He shook the sentries by the hand and patted the still-seated Sarah on the shoulder.

  “Who’s this then, your young fancy man?”

  “He’s um, he’s um,” she risked another glance in my direction. “My nephew. Just arrived. Been set upon by robbers, poor love. Hasn’t a stitch to wear.”

  The Boy and I exchanged a glance of surprise. How quickly lies and deception sprang to her lips! Perhaps the Boy was right: everyone is dishonest.

  The sentries clucked their sympathies and their condemnation of the decline of civilisation. “Best get him inside then and find him something,” they advised. “Parade’ll be coming this way soon. Don’t want to upstage the Lord Mayor, do we?”

  The cook stomped her way back indoors. I followed and, after a beckoning nod of the head from me, the Boy followed. The apron only covered his front so he pulled the mob cap down to conceal his face. It’s one way to deal with the embarrassment of being naked in a public place, I suppose.

  ***

  The kitchen staff halted their cleaning up as soon as we came in. Under the cook’s direction, they fussed around the Boy. A stool was fetched so he could sit and get warm by the fire. Food and drink were thrust at him. Clean, hot water was presented so he could wash away that musty, moat smell. (They didn’t know the half of it!) Clothes were fetched, elegant tailored garments in plush fabrics - it was mentioned they once belonged to Edward, the Black Prince - and several outfits were held up and discarded until a deep blue velvet suit was selected as being the right size for a boy of Dick’s proportions.

  Any questions were soon glared down by the cook. Her only concern was to see the Boy was tended to and then to get rid of us as soon as possible. She kept giving me wary glances. I watched her intently but I wasn’t concerned she would mention I had spoken to her.

  The turnspit was another matter. He snatched me up and buried his sooty face into my fur.

  “Clever Tommy!” he declared. “He knew there was someone a-drownin’ so he kicked up a fuss. Clever, clever Tommy!”

  The Boy caught my eye.

  “’Tommy’?” he laughed. I sent him a warning glare. Don’t even -

  The cook was already supervising the clean-up and a return to normal activities. The King’s breakfast was sent up, because the King should always be first fed, and within minutes, she was looking at the Boy impatiently, a carving knife clutched in her hand, just in case.

  I gestured towards the exit. The Boy, scrubbed, washed and in his new clothes, got to his feet with some reluctance and headed for the door. He thanked the cook, the turnspit, the bottle-washer and all the rest of them as he passed. When it became clear that I was leaving with the foundling in the moat, the turnspit flung himself at the door.

  “Not Tommy too!” he protested, his arms spread wide and his back against the wood.

  “Yes!” bellowed the cook. “Tommy too!” She added a few choice epithets for extra spice.

  “But - but -” the child spluttered. Then he bubbled over into tears and wracking sobs. I was aghast. It struck me that I was the only creature to show this wretched boy any affection. The misery of his existence, sleeping in the fireplace, forever turning the handle so the King’s meat - meat he himself would never taste - would not burn; never going out, never playing with his peers... And now I was about to break his heart.

  I felt terrible.

  What else could I do?

  I jumped at his face. Before he could clamp his arms around me in one of his overly-enthusiastic hugs, I gave his dirty cheek a scratch. He cried out in shock and pain, his eyes widened in surprise and betrayal. He ran from the door. My departure wouldn’t make him so sad after all.

  I ran from the kitchen before events could conspire to make me feel even worse. The Boy followed, walking tall in his new boots and their protective wooden pattens.

  Out in the open air, he was practically gleaming in the sunshine. The colour of his new garments suited his dark hair. His hat bore a long feather and the peak came to a jaunty point several inches in front of his face. The tunic hugged his torso and the hose clung to his legs, rippling as he walked. Trimmings of lace and flashes of bright silk caught the eye. It was as though the cloth had been cut to fit him, and the colours selected to highlight his best features.

  “How do I look?” he laughed, twirling on the spot. The short cape that hung over his shoulder rose and fell like a wing in flight.

  “Like a prince,” I said. “Now let’s get a move on if we’re going to see the parade.”

  ***

  The streets were full of people. This was nothing new but in this case no one was moving. Crowds lined the streets. Those who could afford to had rented window space in the upper floors above shops, thereby getting a better view of the proceedings and escaping the evils of mingling with the hoi polloi at street level. Banners and bunting hung between the uppermost storeys - the city’s crest and the cross of Saint George were popular motifs. London had taken on a festive air. I was reminded of the saying that goes, “You can’t polish a turd but you can roll it in glitter.” Or, in this case, stick a flag in it.

  The Boy sought out a spot - a bit like hunting for a parking space in any of your modern cities. In his new garb, people bowed their heads in deference. A couple of them held out their hands for coins but the Boy could only hold up his empty hands and grimace apologetically. Beneath the finery, he was as skint as they were.

  I rode on his shoulder. He kept one hand raised to steady me which, frankly, was an insult to my feline sense of balance, but I was glad of the contact and the opportunity to share my scent with him so I said nothing.

  We found a spot opposite Saint Olave’s church, a place that afforded us a view of the Tower and along the road running parallel to the Thames. We were just in time. A fanfare sounded somewhere in the distance and a hush of expectation fell across the crowd. Another bugle, closer this
time, took up the clarion call, then a third and a fourth, and so on, in relay, until a trumpeter on the ramparts of the Tower sounded the fanfare, adding, I suspect a few flourishes and decorations of his own - you don’t become Royal Bugler for nothing, you know.

  The relay of bugling was sounding back along the route, signalling the way was clear; the procession could begin. Humans love their pageantry, don’t they?

  We heard it before we saw anything. The crowd further along the route let out a roar like a distant lion. The noise travelled ahead of the spectacle and hit us like a wave before the first float came into view.

  The people around us, like all the others, erupted into a sustained and ecstatic outpouring of noise. The Boy watched with wide-mouthed wonder. I didn’t get it myself. Why was everyone so excited about seeing others on the back of a cart?

  First came a representation of the Black Prince - some bloke in gleaming armour jokingly thrust a wooden sword at a few faux Frenchmen who died and resurrected themselves every few yards down the road.

  There was a young woman on a mound of turnips, waving diligently and smiling as though her face was painted on while her minions, dressed as cherubim, handed root vegetables to the eagerly grasping hands of a lucky few on the front row of spectators.

  A tall, robed and hooded figure bearing a scythe was next. Behind him lay a pile of stuffed manikins, representing the victims of the most recent outbreak of plague. The crowd dipped their noise and their heads appropriately as a sign of remembrance and respect but, maybe I’m wrong, I don’t think the spectre of Death should have been waving in so vigorous and cheerful a manner as he passed. He picked out random members of the crowd and pointed a bony finger at them as though to say You’re Next. This elicited an uneasy blend of terror and amusement; I found the entire thing peculiar and distasteful.

  Then came the aldermen, those two dozen or so worthies who oversaw and managed the running of the city. Most of these looked dignified, I suppose. They didn’t wave. They nodded their heads and kept their faces straight. We are serious, they seemed to say. We are not wasting your taxes on frippery and foppishness. They were as dignified as they could manage, crowded together as they were on one sparsely decorated waggon, like animals en route to slaughter. Or so many felons on their way to Tyburn.