I AM THE CAT

by William Stafford

  “This, um, Dick is to be joining us as an apprentice, Mortis. Take him under your capable wing, would you?”

  The fat man - Mortis - nodded almost imperceptibly. He looked at the Boy as though transmitting some telepathic message. The Boy understood at once and followed the factotum to the door.

  “Don’t forget the blasted cat!” Fitzwarren blustered. Sheepishly, the Boy returned to gather me to his chest. His face was a deeper shade of pink now than when he had scrubbed half the Thames off it. He couldn’t meet the Girl’s gaze and, carrying me with him, stumbled his way from the office, glancing off the doorframe and tripping over his own feet.

  The implacable Mortis waited at the top of the stairs with the air of a man who had seen everything before.

  ***

  “Now this,” the Boy declared, standing in the middle of the shop floor, “this is Cockaigne!

  The portly Mortis paused in his tour-guide spiel to award the Boy an I-beg-your-pardon glare. But I understood. We had come to London, fabled city of plenty, only to find there was plenty: plenty of want and an abundance of poo and a distinct lack of gold lining the streets. And now, he had found it, his Eldorado, here in Fitzwarren’s enormous shop.

  I could see his point. In every direction, aisles stretched, lined with shelves that were crowded with every possible thing you could think of. Foodstuffs, clothing, furniture, knickknacks, ironmongery, agricultural implements, jewellery - items of every description from all over the known world were collected under Fitzwarren’s roof, but not for edification or enlightenment. This was no museum of the modern world for the benefit of mankind and the furthering of knowledge. No; this was a temple to Mammon, a shrine to consumerism.

  In many ways, Ivo Fitzwarren was ahead of his time.

  Mortis rattled off what was what and where as we fairly zoomed through each department. The Boy was briefly introduced to the burly doormen who guarded the entrances. Fitzwarren’s grand emporium was not open to the general public. The doors were kept barred and bolted. Admittance was by appointment only. It was a stronghold, a citadel of capitalism in a city of want and privation.

  At last, we arrived at what was to be the Boy’s work station: a long, low counter edged with a metal ruler. This was at the heart of the fabrics department. The Boy was to assist with the sale of lengths of cloth to the great and the good. Fitzwarren’s reasoning must have stemmed from the Boy’s recent rescue of a waggon of these commodities. That the Boy had neither knowledge nor experience when it came to identifying or handling textiles did not enter into it.

  On reflection, perhaps the wily shopkeeper was setting the Boy up to fail.

  Mortis showed the Boy where the cash drawer was kept and explained to him the system for recording sales. Due to the widespread illiteracy and innumeracy of the workforce, Fitzwarren had hit upon a method that even the least educated could handle. All money coming in, every coin was placed on a piece of parchment and traced around with a stub of charcoal. Similarly, any coin paid out as change was traced around on another page and so the precise amount and nature of the cash in the cash drawer could always be accounted for. And, Mortis warned darkly, the Boy could expect at any moment during the day to be visited by clerks who would remove the cash drawer and the pieces of parchment for impromptu audits. Any discrepancy would result in dismissal and criminal charges.

  The Boy’s eyebrows flew upwards. He seemed affronted to be suspected even indirectly of dipping his fingers in the till.

  Mortis’s expression softened. “Oh, you seem honest enough, and Master Fitzwarren owes you a deal more than he lets on. Just try to keep on the right side of him and you could do well here. And if you don’t know something, for gawd’s sake, ask!”

  “Yes. Yes, I will.” The Boy nodded enthusiastically. Mortis left us then to look around. It was still technically business hours but, after the debacle of the parade, it was unlikely there would be any customers that day. This allowed us time to look around at the racks of cloth, the bolts of fabric, the swatches and the samples. There was a lot to take in.

  It was decided that I would spend the days with him on the shop floor. I could curl up and sleep the day away under the counter, out of everyone’s way. At night, while the Boy slept in the same spot, I would do my duty in the food store, patrolling and doing what I could to keep mice and especially rats out of the grain.

  I had a grudging respect for Fitzwarren’s practices. Having some of his employees spend the night on the shop floor meant he didn’t have to employ night-watchmen or security staff, and neither did he have to provide accommodation for his workers, which would take up floor space that could be better used displaying merchandise.

  The Boy examined a large pair of scissors attached to the counter by a length of string. There was also a slender stick, tipped with metal ferrules that we guessed was a yardstick for measuring out the fabric. There was a box housing chunks of chalk for marking the cloth. The Boy toyed with all of these things and I could tell he was eager to put them to use.

  “Isn’t it exciting, Puss?” he breathed, the familiar wide-eyed look of wonder on his face.

  “If playing at shops is your thing, kiddo,” I yawned.

  The sun was going down. The workers would be leaving the grain store and the rodents would make their move. Time for me to clock on.

  I left the Boy idling with his new toys - sorry, tools of his trade - and made my way across the courtyard at the rear of the shop and to the enormous shed wherein the foodstuffs were stored.

  A night-watchman was stationing himself at the door, stoking a brazier that would keep him warm throughout his shift. Swaddled in ragged shawls, he chewed disconsolately on a dry hunk of bread as he peered into the flames. I got past him without problem. Perhaps the efficient Mortis had forewarned him of my arrival. Perhaps he was too steeped in his private contemplations to register that a cat had turned up for work on time of its own accord.

  I spent the first hour or so exploring my domain. I covered every inch of the floor, rounded every vat and stack of barrels. I surveyed the scene from a range of vantage points, building a mental map of the space. I quickly got to know where things were. The flour, the bran, the oats... I checked for holes in the walls, anywhere a rodent on the rob might get in. These would require constant vigilance. I sprayed them with urine as a marker and a warning.

  It felt good, all this reconnaissance. It made me feel very cat-like. To have a territory of my own at last after all this travel! Wonderful! I determined I would defend and protect it to my utmost ability, not only because I didn’t want to let the Boy down and get him into trouble, but out of a feline sense of belonging. From dusk until dawn, this place belonged to me.

  I split up my patrols of the perimeter with periods of watching and waiting. It’s a feline superpower, you know, just waiting. It conserves energy, for one thing, and I’m all in favour of that.

  At some point just before or just after midnight, I heard the first sounds of scurrying. I was instantly alert, like a switch had been flicked on. My ears twitched and turned to home in on the source of the sound.

  I leapt noiselessly from tub to tub, closing in on the scurrier.

  There was nothing there.

  I left another spray of urine just to make my journey worthwhile. The sound started up again from across the far side of the store.

  I slunk across the floor, weaving between barrels and boxes, preparing myself to pounce at the last minute.

  Again there was nothing.

  For an hour or so, things continued in this manner. I was running out of steam. No prizes for guessing who was toying with me.

  “Show yourself, brother!” I called out into the shadowy recesses of the corners. Low, malevolent laughter sounded in my head.

  Enjoying yourself?

  My brother’s voice seared across my mind like a brand
ing iron in soft flesh. I screwed my face up as though I could squeeze him from my head like bitter juice from a lemon.

  I must say I am, he laughed. I could imagine his smirk. And that parade! What spectacle!

  “Beast!” I snarled. “People could have been killed. And I doubt your army was without casualty. Why can’t you leave us all alone?”

  The laughter came again, louder than ever.

  But it’s so much fun down here, he simpered, this is where all the action is. And I’d be a poor show of a brother if I didn’t see how you are getting on.

  “I’d manage.”

  You’re annoyed with me, brother. I can tell.

  I swore - it is one of the greatest uses of human language. It only served to amuse him.

  Now, now, let us not have cause to add ‘potty mouth’ to your list of crimes.

  My crimes!

  Still protesting your innocence? Come off it, bro. You know and I know what you did to get you exiled to this place and in this form.

  He fell silent, allowing me the chance to reflect. All I felt was a rising sense of injustice. I didn’t deserve this. I had done nothing wrong. I -

  Stop lying to yourself, he said coldly. The sooner you face up to the truth, the better you’ll feel. Ta-tah for now. See you very soon.

  Silence returned to the food store. There was no more scurrying. I resumed my patrolling; it helped me to think things through.

  I am innocent! I had done nothing wrong!

  Well, not much...

  I shook my head to dispel these thoughts. I chose a vantage point in the rafters and waited for the dawn.

  ***

  At first light I returned to the shop. I joined the Boy on his straw pallet beneath the counter and spent a very enjoyable hour snuggled up against him, luxuriating in the heat of his body. Ah, this is how it should always be. This is when I’m happiest.

  Alas, the time came for the Boy to get up. Sunlight was streaming through the high windows, dancing on the merchandise, glinting off the valuables, dappling colours across the floor tiles. Apologetically, he moved me aside as he rose and stretched. He went to a backroom to perform what was necessary and I wonder if he thought, as I did, that only twenty four hours ago, he had been waist-deep in deep waste, shovelling it onto a gong barrow.

  I like to think all that was behind him now. In a manner of speaking.

  I settled down to enjoy a snooze. The mattress retained the Boy’s heat and also his scent. It was so soothing after the disquieting thoughts prompted by my brother’s visit.

  It must have been mid-morning when I stirred again. The Boy’s legs were before me. I gave them a rub with my head. He was standing stiffly behind the counter. I came out to see what was happening.

  “Get down, Puss!” he urged me, sotto voce and barely moving a facial muscle. He looked like one of the manikins in the clothing department - by which I mean the wooden dummies used for display purposes, not the short-arses who worked there.

  Obediently I sprang from the counter and up to a shelf behind the Boy. I perched between jars of bright buttons so I could see what was making him so nervous.

  At the far end of the shop, the wide double-doors had been opened. A woman was sailing through like a galleon coming into harbour. I was amazed her imposing bulk didn’t push the doorposts further apart.

  The Boy’s scent changed. He turned pale and his throat twitched nervously. I doubted this was fear of the woman but rather a keenness to do his job well.

  With a sort of fatal inevitability she made her way through the departments and came to rest in front of the Boy. She peered down a long nose at him as if he was something she had only narrowly avoided stepping in.

  I could actually smell the perspiration breaking out on the Boy’s upper lip and forehead. Beads like dewdrops clung to the down of his first moustache. His complexion appeared to have taken on an altogether greener hue.

  Beneath her cloak and its opulent brooch, the woman’s bodice heaved. She was becoming impatient. Eventually the Boy realised that something was required of him.

  “Y-yes?” he stammered.

  “Where,” sneered the woman in a voice heavy with disdain, “is Fitzwarren?”

  The Boy chewed his lip. He hadn’t a clue.

  “I don’t know,” he confessed. “I’m not from around here.”

  The woman closed eyelids thick with lead paint and shuddered. “The proprietor of this establishment and, presumably, your employer.”

  “Oh! Him!” the Boy cried with no small amount of relief. “Oh, well, he’s not here.”

  “That,” intoned the woman, “is painfully apparent. Where, pray, is his daughter?”

  “Who? Alice?” Mere mention of the Girl brought a silly grin to the Boy’s face. He struggled to regain a more professional demeanour.

  “That, I believe,” said the woman, “is her moniker.”

  “Oh no,” the Boy joked inadvisably, “she’s not Monica; she’s Alice!”

  The woman froze. Even from where I was perched I could make out the sound of her teeth grinding behind her closed lips.

  The Boy cleared his throat. “Miss Fitzwarren is um, unavailable,” he ventured. “Perhaps I may - do you think?”

  The woman’s eyes opened so quickly it was startling. She gave the Boy a swift and stark appraisal and yet seemed to find something to smile about.

  “You’re new,” she accused flatly.

  The Boy nodded rapidly: guilty as charged.

  “Silks,” breathed the woman. “Show me silks. The finest you have.”

  The Boy repeated the word silently. Silks... It was as though it was foreign to him. Oh, come on, kiddo! I wanted to shout. Don’t let this massive female intimidate you!

  “Um - wouldn’t you rather wait for Miss Fitzwarren? I’m sure she -”

  “My boy!” the woman seemed mortally offended. “I have not time to wait around for a mere shop girl to put in an appearance. Show me your silks at once or I shall be obliged to take my considerable custom elsewhere.”

  Oh, yeah? I thought. Like where? Good luck with that!

  “Ah.” The Boy recognised that upsetting so evidently important a customer probably didn’t make good business sense. “The silks. Of course, madam.”

  He sidled around the counter then realised he was heading the wrong way and went around to the other side. “This way, madam.”

  The woman followed him - it was like a boulder coming to life - between rows of merchandise. I cringed, fearing her bulk would demolish the displays but, amazingly, they remained intact. The Boy cast a nervous glance over his shoulder only to flinch when he met her steely gaze.

  They arrived at the rolls of silks of every colour. The woman seemed mightily unimpressed.

  “Here we are,” the Boy said, redundantly.

  The woman shook her head, wearily. “And these are all you have?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Show me the blue. Is that genuine silver thread woven through it?”

  The Boy peeled back the end of the roll in question and shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  The woman considered this unsatisfactory. “Well,” she said in a voice that could have frozen lava, “either it is or it isn’t.”

  “Well, then it is.”

  She eyed the Boy closely then glanced at the fabric. She waved a hand, dismissing it.

  “The red.”

  The Boy clumsily pulled a roll of red silk from the back of the display. The woman felt the cloth between thumb and forefinger.

  “That’s real gold thread in that one,” the Boy offered.

  “I’m not blind!” the woman snapped. The Boy shrank back. Anyone would.

  “Very well.” She released the silk. “Three yards of the blue.”
/>   The Boy hesitated.

  “Now, if you please! I have a tailor on standby.”

  “Er - right.” The Boy replaced the red roll and pulled out the blue. “Here you are.”

  “I said three yards not the whole damnable stock.”

  “Ah.”

  I could see the Boy’s eyes rolling in all directions as he tried to recall what Mortis had told him. The customer had come in. She had selected what she wanted... The Boy’s eyes closed as he realised what came next. He would have to cut off the requested amount. I caught a whiff of his panic at the same instant I caught his eye. He was sure he was going to make a mess of this.

  With the leaden limbs of a condemned man walking to the gallows and indeed, carrying the materials from which he was compelled to construct those gallows, he hauled the hefty roll back to the counter. The yardstick! The scissors! The metal rule along the edge! Could instruments of torture hold more terror?

  The disagreeable woman followed. She cast a shadow over the Boy like the black cloud he felt he was under. And I felt helpless; I could do nothing to help him in this trial.

  For a second I considered going to find the Girl and, like a heroic mutt in popular fiction, somehow communicate to her that the Boy needed her help. I quickly dropped this idea. Leave that sort of thing to the canine sycophants and besides, it wasn’t as if the Boy had fallen down a well.

  I held my breath as the Boy rolled out the fabric on the counter and with chalk and yardstick measured and marked a line. The upper blade of his scissors sailed jerkily through the fabric like the dorsal fin of an inebriated shark.

  The woman’s eyes did not leave the silk once. Sweating, the Boy reached the end; he was almost lying across the counter. His face was a mask of perspiration as he craned his neck and met the woman’s formidable gaze.

  The Boy backed away and straightened up. He and I exhaled in relief simultaneously. Shakily, under the woman’s scrutiny, the Boy folded the cut piece into an untidy square parcel and tied it with string.

  “How much?” The woman had produced a coin purse from the folds of her attire. How vulgar! I sent her a sneer. Paying in cash!