The Cat Who Came in Off the Roof

by Annie M. G. Schmidt

  “Sit down, Tibble,” the Editor said.

  Tibble sat down. It had been exactly one week since he had last sat on this chair, blinking in the light. It had been a very unpleasant conversation, but things were different now.

  “I don’t know what’s got into you, Tibble,” his boss said. “But you’ve changed a lot. Last week I almost kicked you out, you know that? I was going to fire you, I’d made up my mind. I guess it was pretty clear. Then I said I’d give you one last chance. And lo and behold! In this one week you’ve come up with all kinds of interesting news. You were the first to know about Mr Smith and his anniversary. And you were the first to know about the new swimming pool. That was secret. But you still found out about it… I can’t help but wonder, how did you find out about that?”

  “Well…” Tibble said. “I talked to some people here and there.”

  “Some people here and there” was just Minou. And Minou had heard it from the Council Cat, who always sat in on the closed council meetings at the Town Hall.

  “And that article about the hoard they found next to the church,” his boss said. “A pot full of old coins buried in the churchyard! You didn’t waste any time with that one either. You were the first on the scene yet again.”

  Tibble smiled modestly. One of the Tatter Cat’s daughters had provided that bit of news. It had been the Church Cat, Ecumenica. And she herself had found the pot of old coins while scratching in the churchyard for simple toiletry reasons. Tibble had gone straight to the verger and told him. And then he’d written an article about it.

  “Keep it up, Tibble,” his boss said. “You don’t seem to be shy at all any more.”

  Tibble blushed. It wasn’t true… unfortunately. He was still as shy as ever. The news all came from the cats and he only needed to write it up. Although… he did often need to check that the things he’d heard were actually true. But usually a single phone call was enough to take care of that. “Excuse me, Mr Whatever, I heard that so-and-so did this or that, is that true?” Up till now it had always been true. The cats hadn’t told him any fibs.

  And there were so many cats in Killenthorn. Every building had at least one. Now, at this very moment, there was one sitting on the window sill in the Editor’s office.

  It was the Editorial Cat. He blinked at Tibble.

  That cat listens to everything, Tibble thought. I hope he doesn’t tell nasty stories about me.

  “And so,” the Editor continued, “I’ve been thinking of increasing your salary at the end of the month.”

  “Thank you, sir, great,” Tibble said. He snuck a glance at the Editorial Cat and felt himself blushing again. There was a hint of cold contempt in the cat’s eyes. He probably thought Tibble was grovelling.

  A little later, out on the street, where the sun was shining, Tibble felt a tremendous urge to run and skip; he was that relieved.

  And when he saw someone he knew, he shouted out “Hello” at the top of his voice.

  It was Bibi, a little girl who lived nearby and sometimes visited him in his attic.

  “Would you like an ice cream?” Tibble asked. “Come on, I’ll buy you an extra-large one.”

  Bibi was in Mr Smith’s class at school and told Tibble that they were having a drawing competition. She was going to do a really big picture.

  “What are you going to draw?” Tibble asked.

  “A cat,” Bibi said.

  “Do you like cats?”

  “I love all animals.” She licked her big pink ice cream.

  “When you’ve finished your drawing, come and show it to me,” Tibble said and went home.

  Minou had been living in his attic for a week now and all things considered it wasn’t too bad. What it actually came down to was that he now had two cats instead of just one.

  Minou slept in the box. And she did most of her sleeping in the daytime. At night she’d go out through the kitchen window, then wander over the rooftops and through the back gardens, talking to the many cats in the surrounding area and not coming home to her box until early in the morning.

  The most important thing was that she provided him with news. The first few days it had been Fluff who had busied himself searching for the latest stories. But Fluff wasn’t a real news cat.

  He mostly came back with gossip about cat fights, or boasting about a rat he’d smelt near the docks or a fish head he’d found somewhere. He wasn’t really interested in human rumours.

  No, the great source of news was the Tatter Cat. She knew everything.

  That was mainly because she was a stray who swiped her meat scraps from all layers of society. And because she had an extensive family.

  The Tatter Cat had children and grandchildren all over town.

  Minou met her at night on the roof of the Social Security Building and always took a small bag of fish for her.

  “Thanks,” the Tatter Cat would say. “My daughter, the Council Cat, is waiting for you at the Town Hall. She’s sitting on one of the marble lions out the front and she’s got some news for you…”

  Or “The Butcher’s Cat wanted to tell you something. He’s in the third garden on the left after the chestnut…”

  That same night Minou went down the Social Security fire escape, slunk over a courtyard and slipped through a rear gate into an alley. And from there to the prearranged spot where some cat or other would be waiting.

  “Soon we’ll have to change our meeting spot,” the Tatter Cat said. “My kids are going to be born in a few days, I can feel it, and then I’ll have to stay close to the little monsters and won’t be able to come up on the rooftops. But that won’t matter, the message service will still work. All the cats have been informed. They know your human is waiting for news and they’re watching out for it. They’re keeping their eyes peeled and their ears open. They’ll pass it on.”

  “Where are you going to have your kittens?” Minou asked. “Have you found a good spot?”

  “Not yet,” the Tatter Cat said. “But I will.”

  ‘Can’t you move in with us? In the attic?”

  “Never!” the Tatter Cat cried. “I’ll never give up my freedom! And stop nagging.”

  “My human’s very nice,” Minou said.

  “I know. He’s a good human, as far as that goes… But I just don’t like the species. They’re not too bad until they grow up… some of them at least. Do you know Bibi?”

  “No.”

  “She’s drawing me,” the Tatter Cat said. “In detail! And she likes the way I look, even now, with this big gut. She thinks I’m beautiful! Can you believe it? Anyway, I’ll let you know where I am when the time comes. Somewhere in town, close to a radio.”

  “Why close to a radio?”

  “I like a bit of background music when I’m having kittens,” the Tatter Cat said. “It makes it easier. And more cheerful. Remember that, if it ever happens to you.”

  When Minou came home with some news story or other and told Tibble how she’d got it, he cried, “It’s all so organized! One cat passes it on to the next… it’s a kind of cat press agency.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” Minou said hesitantly. “A cat press… it makes me think of a garlic press. Squished cat.”

  “Not a cat-press agency,” Tibble said, “a cat press agency”.

  The arrangement had saved him and as far as he was concerned things were going excellently.

  Sometimes, when he came in, he’d find Minou in a corner of the room. She’d be crouched down on the floor, dead still and staring at a hole in the skirting board.

  “Miss Minou! That’s one more habit you have to break! Lying in wait at a mouse hole! That’s not the kind of thing a lady does!”

  She stood up and tried to get back into his good books by rubbing her head against his shoulder.

  “That’s not right either,” Tibble sighed. “Real ladies don’t rub up against people. At most they rub them up the wrong way. I wish you’d stop doing all these catty things.”

&nb
sp; “Catty is not the correct word,” Minou said. “It’s called cattish.”

  “Fine, cattish. But I feel like you’re getting more and more cattish. It would be much better if you had more to do with people. Instead of just seeing cats all the time. You should go out on the rooftops less often and down on the street more—in the daytime.”

  “I don’t dare, Mr Tibble. I’m scared of people.”

  “Nonsense, people aren’t scary at all!”

  She looked at him for a moment with her slanting eyes, then turned away shyly.

  How can I say something like that? he thought. When I’m so shy and scared myself? When I prefer the company of cats?

  But he decided to stick to his guns.

  “What’s that I see!” he cried.

  Minou was washing herself. She’d licked her wrist and was rubbing behind her ear with the wet spot.

  “That takes the cake! Yuck!”

  “It’s just…” Minou stammered, “I was hoping it would make it go faster.”

  “Make what faster? Washing?”

  “No, that’s faster in the shower. I mean, turning into a cat. I still haven’t given up hope that… I’d just prefer to be a cat again.”

  Tibble slumped down on the couch.

  “Listen,” he said. “I wish you’d stop all this nonsense. You never were a cat. It’s all in your imagination. You dreamt it.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Honestly,” Tibble went on. “Absolute nonsense.”

  Minou yawned and stood up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to get in my box,” she said.

  Fluff curled around her legs and, together with the grey cat, she made her way over to the corner of the attic where she kept her box.

  Tibble called after her in an angry voice, “If you were a cat… whose cat were you?”

  No answer came. He heard a quiet, purring miaow. A conversation in Cattish. Two cats talking behind the partition.

  One afternoon when Tibble was climbing the stairs to his attic, he heard a furious screeching coming from his flat; it sounded like two cats fighting.

  He raced up the rest of the staircase three steps at a time and stormed into his living room.

  He had a visitor. But it wasn’t exactly a tea party.

  Crouched on the floor was the little girl, Bibi. Minou was across from her, also on the floor. There was an empty box next to them and they both had a hand on something. They were yelling at each other at the top of their lungs.

  “What is it? What have you got there?” Tibble cried.

  “Let go!” Bibi screamed.

  “What’s under your hands?” Tibble asked again. “Miss Minou! Will you please let go immediately!”

  Minou looked up at him with an expression that was more cattish than ever.

  There was a vicious, murderous glint in her eyes and she refused to let go. She closed the hand with the small, sharp nails even tighter around whatever it was she was holding.

  “Let go, I said!” Tibble smacked her hand, hard. She slid back and hissed furiously, but she did let go. In almost the same instant, though, she lashed out, clawing him painfully on the nose.

  And now Tibble saw what it was: a white mouse. Still unharmed.

  Gently Bibi picked up the mouse and put it back in its box, but she was crying from fright and indignation.

  “It’s my mouse,” she sobbed. “I only got it out to show her and then she jumped on it. I’m leaving. And I’m never coming back.”

  “Wait, Bibi, please,” Tibble said. “Don’t rush off. Listen. This is Miss Minou. She’s, um… she’s…” He thought for a moment. “She’s my secretary and she doesn’t mean any harm. Not at all. In fact, she really loves mice.”

  Minou was on her feet now and staring down at the closed box. You could tell she loved mice, but not the way Tibble meant.

  “Isn’t that right, Miss Minou?” Tibble asked. “You didn’t want to hurt the poor mouse, did you?”

  Minou leant over to rub her head against his shoulder, but he took a step to one side.

  “What else have you got there, Bibi?” Tibble asked, pointing at a large collecting tin.

  “I’m going round with the tin,” Bibi said. “Collecting money. It’s for the present. The present for Mr Smith’s anniversary. And you’ve got blood on your nose.”

  Tibble wiped his nose with his hand. There was blood all over it.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’ll put some money in your tin.”

  “And I’ve come to show you my drawing,” Bibi said. She unrolled a big sheet of paper and Tibble and Minou shouted out together, “That’s the Tatter Cat! It looks just like her.”

  “It’s for the drawing competition at school,” Bibi said. “I just came by to show you.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Tibble said and felt yet another drop of blood running down his face.

  “If I go and look for a plaster in the bathroom,” he said gruffly, “I hope that you, Miss Minou, will be able to control yourself for a moment.” He put the mouse box on his desk, gave Minou a menacing look and backed out of the room.

  I’ve got a secretary, he thought. That sounds excellent, very posh. But she happens to be a secretary who wouldn’t hesitate to gobble up a little girl’s white mouse if she got a chance.

  He hurried back into the living room with a crooked plaster on his nose and was surprised to discover that Minou and Bibi had become great friends in the meantime. The mouse box was still safe on his desk.

  “Can I see the attic?” Bibi asked. “The whole attic?”

  “Sure,” Tibble said. “Look around. I’ve actually got two ca—I mean… I have a cat too. As well as a secretary. Um… he’s called Fluff, but he’s out on the roof. Miss Minou, would you show Bibi the rest of the attic? Then I’ll get to work.”

  Sitting at his desk, he heard the two of them whispering in the junk room behind the partition. He was very glad that Minou had found a friend and when Bibi finally left he said, “Drop in again, if you like.”

  “That’d be fun,” Bibi said.

  “Don’t forget your tin. I put something in it.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Bibi said.

  “And don’t forget your drawing either.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And don’t forget your box with the, um… you-know-what in it.” He was too scared to say the word “mouse” in front of his secretary.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And I hope you win first prize!” Tibble called after her.

  Downstairs, in the house the attic belonged to, lived Mrs Van Dam.

  Fortunately Tibble had his own front door and his own staircase, so he didn’t have to go through her house to come in or go out.

  That afternoon, Mrs Van Dam said to her husband: “Put that newspaper down for a second. I need to talk to you.”

  “What about?” her husband asked.

  “About that upstairs neighbour of ours.”

  “Oh, you mean that young fellow? Tibble? What about him?”

  “I don’t think he’s alone up there.”

  “What do you mean ‘he’s not alone’?”

  “I think he has a woman living with him.”

  “Oh,” said Mr Van Dam, “that must be nice for him.” And he picked his newspaper up again.

  “Yes, but I think it’s a very strange young woman,” his wife said again.

  “Either way, it’s none of our business,” he said.

  It was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “She spends all her time up on the roof.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman upstairs. At night time she goes out on the roof.”

  “How do you know?” Mr Van Dam asked. “Do you go up on the roof at night to have a look?”

  “No, but the lady across the road looks out of her attic window sometimes and she always sees her sitting there. With cats on both sides of her.”

  “You know I don’t like gossip,” Mr Van
Dam said irritably. He carried on reading while his wife went to the front door, because someone had rung the doorbell.

  It was Bibi with her collecting tin.

  “Would you like to make a donation for Mr Smith’s present?” she asked.

  “I’d love to,” said Mrs Van Dam. “Come in and sit down for a moment.”

  Bibi sat on a chair with her legs dangling and the tin on her knee, the drawing under one arm and the mouse box next to her.

  “Tell us, have you been upstairs yet? To the attic flat?” Mrs Van Dam asked casually.

  “Yes,” Bibi said. “To Mr Tibble and Miss Minou’s.”

  “Miss Minou?” Mrs Van Dam asked sweetly, putting a coin in the tin. “Who’s that?”

  “His secretary.”

  “Goodness.”

  “She sleeps in a box,” said Bibi.

  Now Mr Van Dam looked up over his reading glasses. “In a box?”

  “Yes, in a big cardboard box. She just fits. Curled up. And she always goes out through the window, onto the roof. And she talks to cats.”

  “Oh,” said Mr Van Dam.

  “She can talk to all the cats,” Bibi explained, “because she used to be one herself.”

  “Who says so?”

  “She does. And now I have to go.”

  “Don’t forget your tin,” said Mrs Van Dam. “And here, don’t forget this roll of paper. And your box.”

  Once Bibi was gone, she said, “There. What did I tell you? Do we have a strange woman living upstairs or don’t we?”

  “She does sound a little odd,” said Mr Van Dam. “But I still think it’s no concern of ours.”

  “Listen,” she said. “When it comes down to it, it’s our attic. Tibble rents the attic from us. And I have a right to know what’s going on under my roof.”

  “What are you doing?” her husband asked.

  “I’m going up there.”

  “Just like that? What are you going to say?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

  Even though it was a warm spring day and she only had to take two steps out on the street, Mrs Van Dam put on her fur coat.

  She was going to ring the doorbell, but Bibi had left the front door open, so it wasn’t necessary and she went straight up the stairs. It was a tall, steep staircase and she was puffing in her thick fur coat.