The Cat Who Came in Off the Roof

by Annie M. G. Schmidt

“That’s Fluff,” Tibble said. “The scrounger! He’s trying to get the fish bones out of the bin. Even though he’s already had a whole fish. I’d better go have a look, otherwise he’ll tip the whole bin over and I’ll have to clean it all up.”

  Tibble got up and opened the door to the kitchen.

  He was shocked by what he saw.

  It wasn’t Fluff. It was a woman. The young lady from the tree, who was now digging around in his rubbish bin. There was only one way she could have got in—through the window that opened out onto the roof.

  The moment she heard him, she spun around just as she was stuffing a big fish skeleton into her mouth with her paws. No, no… with her hands, Tibble thought immediately, but she looked so much like a wet, timid stray cat that he’d almost gone, “Psssst, scat!” But he didn’t say a word.

  She took the bones back out of her mouth and gave him a friendly smile. Her green eyes were slightly slanted.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just sitting on the roof with your cat Fluff. And it smelt so delicious. That’s why I stepped in through the window for a moment. He’s still out there.”

  She had a very respectable and ladylike way of talking. But she was soaked through. Her red hair was stuck to her head in clumps and her jacket and skirt were sopping and formless.

  And suddenly he felt so sorry for her. She was just like a sad, half-drowned cat. A hungry stray!

  “I’m afraid we ate all the fish,” Tibble said. “But if you like… I could give you a sauc—” He’d almost said a saucer of milk. “… A glass of milk. And a sandwich perhaps? With sardines?”

  “Yes, please,” she said politely, but meanwhile she was dizzy and wild-eyed with hunger.

  “Perhaps you can put that back then,” Tibble said, pointing at the skeleton in her hand.

  She dropped it in the bin. And there she sat, shy and wet on a kitchen chair, watching Tibble open a tin of sardines.

  “May I ask your name?” Tibble said.

  “Minou. Miss Minou.”

  “I’m—”

  “Mr Tibble,” she said. “I know.”

  “Just Tibble. Everyone calls me Tibble.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stick to Mr Tibble.”

  “What were you doing up on the roof?” he asked.

  “I um… I was looking for a job.”

  Tibble looked at her with surprise. “On the roof?”

  But she didn’t answer. The sandwiches were ready. Tibble went to put the plate down on the floor, but changed his mind. She probably eats like a person, he thought. And he was right. She ate her sandwiches very daintily with little bites and nibbles.

  “You have a job at the newspaper,” she said between mouthfuls. “But not for long.”

  “How do you know that?” Tibble cried.

  “It’s what I heard,” she said. “That article didn’t work out. The one about me up the tree. Too bad.”

  “Now, stop right there,” Tibble said. “I’d like very much to know who told you that. I haven’t spoken to anyone about that at all.”

  He waited until her mouth was empty. It was the last bite. She picked up the last crumbs with a finger and licked it clean. Then she half closed her eyes.

  She’s falling asleep, Tibble thought.

  But she didn’t go to sleep. She sat there staring sweetly into space. And now Tibble heard a soft rumbling noise. Minou was purring.

  “I asked you something,” Tibble said.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Well… it’s just something I heard.”

  Tibble sighed. Then he noticed that she was shivering. No wonder, with all those wet clothes.

  “Don’t you have anything dry to put on?”

  “Yes,” she said. “In my case.”

  Only now did Tibble notice that she still had her case with her. It was on the floor under the window.

  “You should have a hot shower,” he said. “And change into something dry. Otherwise you’ll catch your death. The bathroom’s just there.”

  “Thanks very much,” she said. She stepped across the room to pick up her case and when she passed him on the way back she pushed her head up against his arm for a moment, wriggling her shoulders slightly at the same time.

  Tibble jumped back as if a crocodile was trying to bite him. She’s rubbing up against me! he thought.

  Once she’d closed the bathroom door behind her, Tibble sat down in the living room. “This is mad,” he said to himself. “A strange woman comes in through the attic window. Half starved. Then purrs and rubs up against you!”

  Suddenly something terrible occurred to him. Surely she doesn’t… she won’t want to stay with him, will she? She was looking for a job, she’d said. But she was obviously looking for somewhere to live. Like a cat looking for a new home.

  “I don’t want her here,” Tibble said. “I’ve already got a cat. I’m way too happy living alone and doing my own thing. And anyway, I’ve only got one bed. I should never have let her use the shower!”

  Here she was again… coming back into the room.

  See! Tibble said to himself. Just as I thought. She was standing there in her pyjamas with a dressing gown on over the top and slippers on her feet.

  She gestured at the wet two-piece suit she was holding draped over one arm. “Is it all right if I dry this in front of the fire?”

  “Um… yes, go ahead,” Tibble said. “But I want to say straight away that you, um…”

  “What?”

  “Look, Miss Minou, it’s fine for you to sit down for an hour or so until your clothes dry. But you can’t stay here.”

  “No?”

  “No. I’m sorry. That’s absolutely out of the question.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Not even for just one night?”

  “No,” Tibble said. “I don’t have a bed for you.”

  “I don’t need a bed. Back there in the junk room there’s a big box. A cardboard box that used to have tinned soup in it.”

  “A box?” Tibble said. “You want to sleep in a box?”

  “Absolutely. If you put some fresh newspaper in it first.”

  Tibble shook his head stubbornly. “I’ll give you some money for a hotel,” he said. “There’s one just around the corner.”

  He reached for his wallet, but she refused point blank. “Oh, no,” she said. “There’s no need. If it’s really not possible, I’ll just be off. I’ll put my wet clothes back on and leave at once.”

  She stood there looking pitiful. And with such a frightened look on her face. And outside you could hear the wind and the rain. You couldn’t possibly send a poor cat out onto the roof in weather like this.

  “All right, fine, but just one night,” Tibble said.

  “Can I sleep in the box?”

  “If you like. But under one condition. You have to tell me how you knew all those things about me. Who I am and where I work and what kind of article I was trying to write.”

  They heard a small flopping sound in the kitchen. It was Fluff, finally back from his roof walk and coming in with wet, grey fur.

  “He told me,” Minou said, pointing at Fluff. “He told me all about you. And actually I’ve spoken to lots of cats who live around here. They all said you were the nicest.”

  Tibble blushed. He felt strangely flattered. “You… you talk to cats?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  What nonsense, thought Tibble. The woman’s quite mad.

  “And, er… how did you come to be able to talk to cats?”

  “I was one myself,” she said.

  Totally bonkers, thought Tibble.

  Minou had sat down in front of the fire, next to Fluff. They were sitting together on the rug and Tibble could now hear two purring sounds mixed together. It sounded very peaceful. Shall I write that article about her after all? Tibble thought.

  Last night I provided shelter to a purring lady who entered my apartment through the attic window and, on being asked, informed me that she had once been a cat…r />
  I’d be out on my ear the same day, thought Tibble. Now he could hear them talking to each other, the young lady and the cat. They were making little purring, miaowy kind of noises.

  “What’s Fluff saying now?” he asked as a joke.

  “He says your peppermints are in a jam jar on the top shelf of the bookcase. You put them there yourself.”

  Tibble stood up to have a look. She was right.

  “I still don’t believe it,” Tibble said. “You being able to talk to cats. It must be something else. Some kind of mind-reading or something.”

  “Maybe,” Minou said dreamily. She yawned. “It’s time for me to get in my box,” she said. “Can I take this old paper?”

  “Are you sure you don’t need a blanket or a pillow or anything?”

  “No, no, not at all. Fluff likes to sleep on your feet, so I’ve heard. Everyone has their own preference. Good night.”

  “Good night, Miss Minou.”

  At the door she turned round for a moment. “I heard a bit of news while I was out and about,” she said. “On the roofs here in the neighbourhood.”

  “News? What kind of news?”

  “The Tatter Cat is due to have another litter any time now.”

  “Oh,” said Tibble. “It’s a shame, but I’m not allowed to write about cats any more. They say it’s not interesting enough.”

  “Too bad,” said Minou.

  “Did you hear anything else?”

  “Just about Mr Smith being so sad.”

  “Mr Smith? Do you mean the school teacher? I was talking to him today. He’s the one who helped me get you down out of the tree. He didn’t look sad.”

  “He is though.”

  “That doesn’t sound like interesting news either,” Tibble said. “Is he just down in the dumps or is it something in particular?”

  “Next week it will be twenty-five years since he was made head teacher at the school,” Minou said. “He was really hoping there’d be some kind of festivities. An anniversary celebration. But, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nobody knows about it. Everyone’s forgotten. He thought people would remember… but they haven’t.”

  “Can’t he remind them?”

  “He refuses. He’s too proud. That’s what Cross-eyed Simon says.”

  “Cross-eyed Simon? That’s his Siamese.”

  “Exactly. He’s the one I spoke to. And he told me all about it. And now I’m going to get into my box.”

  She said a quick “Mrow” to Fluff. And Fluff said “Mreeow” in reply. That was probably “Sleep tight”.

  Tibble grabbed the phone book. It was much too late at night, but he still dialled Mr Smith’s number.

  “I’m sorry for calling so late,” Tibble blurted, “but I just heard that you’ll be celebrating an anniversary soon. Twenty-five years as head teacher. Is that right?”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then Mr Smith said, “So some people have remembered.”

  “No, cats…” Tibble was about to say, but he stopped himself just in time.

  “Of course they have,” he said instead. “How could anyone forget something like that? You don’t mind me writing an article about it, do you?”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Mr Smith.

  “Could I drop by to talk to you about it? It is rather late… but I would very much like to hand in the article tomorrow morning. Something about your life and about the school…”

  “Come straight over,” said Mr Smith.

  It was three in the morning by the time Tibble got back home again. He had a pad full of notes about Mr Smith’s life and work. He tiptoed through the attic and, before sitting down at the typewriter, peeked into the junk room.

  Minou was curled up in the box asleep.

  She saved me, thought Tibble. I’ve got an article. I just have to write it up.

  When he finally went to bed, he told a sleepy Fluff: “I’ll hand it in tomorrow. It’s a good article. And it’s real news.”

  Fluff lay down on his feet and went back to sleep.

  I’ll thank her in the morning… this strange Miss Minou, Tibble thought, and then he fell asleep too.

  But when he got up the next morning she was gone.

  The box was empty. There was fresh newspaper spread out over the bottom and everything had been left neat and tidy. Her clothes were gone as well and so was her case.

  “Did she say anything, Fluff, before she left?”

  “Mrow…” said Fluff. But Tibble didn’t understand.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m actually quite relieved. I’ve got my attic to myself again.”

  Then he saw the article lying on his desk. “It’s fantastic,” he cried out loud. “I’m going into the office and I’ve got something for the paper. They won’t fire me. At least… not today.” His happiness disappeared. He’d be trudging around town again tonight searching for another story.

  There was a smell of coffee. He went into the kitchen and saw that she’d made some coffee for him. And done the dishes too. That was nice.

  The window was open. She’d left the way she’d come: through the attic window.

  At least the weather’s better, Tibble thought. She won’t have to wander around in the rain. He wondered if she was out talking to cats again? If she’d stayed here… he thought. If I’d let her stay… maybe she’d have brought some news home for me every day. He felt like shouting out through the window, over the rooftops, “Puss, puss, puss… Mi-nou!”

  But he restrained himself. “Bah, how selfish can you get?” he said to himself. “You only want to let her stay because you think there might be something in it for you. What a nasty character trait! Forget about her and find your own news. Don’t be so shy. Anyway, she’s gone for good. She’s probably miles away by now.”

  But at that moment Minou was very close by. She was sitting on the roof of the Social Security Building, the highest roof in the vicinity. She was talking to the Tatter Cat.

  The Tatter Cat was called that because she was battered and tattered. She was always dirty and she usually had muddy paws. Her tail was thin and wispy, there was a chunk out of her left ear and her coat was drab and patchy.

  “Your kittens are due soon,” Minou said.

  “Oh, put a cork in it,” said the Tatter Cat. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s ever going to stop. My whole life’s one stinking litter after the other.”

  “How many children do you have?” Minou asked.

  The Tatter Cat scratched herself at length. “How would I bleedin’ know?” she said. She had a filthy mouth. But living on the street will do that to a cat. “Anyway, let’s not talk about me,” the Tatter Cat said. “This thing with you is much, much worse. How can something like that even exist? What did it?”

  She stared at Minou with fear in her yellow eyes.

  “I wish I knew. And the worst thing is, I’m not even all human. It’s all so half and half.”

  “But you are all human. From head to toe.”

  “I mean inside,” Minou said. “I still have almost all my cattish characteristics. I purr, I hiss, I rub up against people. I wash with a flannel, but otherwise… I wonder if I still like mice. I’ll have to try one.”

  “Do you still know the Great Yawl-Yowl Song?” the Tatter Cat asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Sing a few bars then.”

  Minou opened her mouth and a horrific, raucous caterwauling came out of it, a howling, shrieking, wailing sound.

  The Tatter Cat joined in immediately and together they screeched at the top of their voices. They kept going until someone opened a nearby attic window and hurled a large empty bottle at them. It hit the roof between them and smashed to pieces, driving them apart.

  “All in the game!” the Tatter Cat cried cheerfully. “You know what? It’s only temporary! You’ll get over it. Someone who sings as well as you do, stays cat. Feel your upper lip. You sure you don’t have any whiskers?”
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br />   Minou felt her lip. “No,” she said.

  “And your tail? How’s that?”

  “Gone completely.”

  “Do you feel sometimes to see if it’s growing back?”

  “Of course. But there’s no sign of it. Not even a tiny little bump.”

  “Have you got a house?” the Tatter Cat asked.

  “I thought I did for a while… but I think it’s off.”

  “With the young guy from the paper?”

  “Yes,” said Minou. “I’m still kind of hoping he’ll call me. I left my case over there behind a chimney, in the gutter.”

  “You’re much better off on the streets,” the Tatter Cat said. “The life of a stray. Come with me. I’ll introduce you to tons of my kids. Most of ’em have really made something of themselves. One of my sons is the canteen cat in the factory. And one of my daughters is the Council Cat. She lives in the Town Hall. And then there’s…”

  “Shhh… be quiet for a sec,” Minou said.

  They stopped talking. From across the roofs they heard a voice, “Puss, puss, puss… Mi-nou, Mi-nou, Mi-nou-nou-nou-nou.”

  “There you have it,” Minou said. “He’s calling me.”

  “Stay here,” the Tatter Cat hissed. “Don’t go to him. Don’t give up your freedom. Next thing he’ll be taking you to the vet in a basket… for a jab!”

  Minou hesitated. “I think I’ll go anyway,” she said.

  “You’re mad,” the Tatter Cat said. “Come with me. I know an old caravan at the back of a yard… that’ll be a roof over your head. You can take things easy while you turn back into a cat.”

  “Puss, puss, puss… Mi-nou!”

  “I’m going,” Minou said.

  “No, stay here! Use your brain. If you have a litter, they’ll drown your kittens.”

  “Puss, puss… Miss Minou!” the voice called.

  “I’ll come and visit,” Minou said. “Here on the roof. Bye.”

  She jumped down to a lower level, nimbly climbed a sloping, tiled roof and lowered herself down on the other side. Then she crawled along the gutter on all fours, grabbed her case, stood up and stepped over in front of the kitchen window.

  “Here I am,” she said.

  “Come in,” said Tibble.