Carbonel and Calidor

by Barbara Sleigh

  ‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she said. ‘I’d done all the cooking, and polished most of the furniture for the Sale tomorrow, and then I thought I’d just wash your jeans through, seeing as you’ve only got one spare pair, before I had a nice sit-down. Tired, I was, with all I’d done. Well, I’d collected one or two things. You know how it is once you start, but not worth getting out the washing machine. I’d got my hands in the suds, and my back was aching, and the thinking of all that spring-cleaning wash I’d put off till you kids had gone. I remember saying to pussy here something about wishing all the dirty things were ready washed and on the line ... And next thing, I looked out of the window — and they were! On the line, I mean. Stretching all the way down the garden and back. Loose covers, cushions, blankets, bedspreads ... The lot! And me still with my hands in the suds, and not remembering a thing about it: not taking down the curtains even, which means getting out the step-ladder, nor hanging it all on the line or anything. It seemed done in a flash, like. A sort of fit I must have had, not remembering!’ Distractedly she waved the fork she was still holding.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ said Rosemary soothingly. ‘I don’t suppose it will happen again.’

  ‘And then of course, I had to turn to and iron the blooming lot! And air the blankets so we don’t catch our deaths tonight. I’ve been at it ever since. I’m about done in.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said John.

  ‘But I expect you are glad it’s all finished,’ went on Rosemary.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Bodkin. ‘The things is as clean as anyone could wish, I’ll say that. But doing all that great enormous wash, and not remembering anything about it, I must be going queer in the head.’

  ‘Well, you seem as right as rain now,’ said John. ‘But the ring. Could we have it?’

  ‘Now, what did I do with it?’ said Mrs Bodkin. ‘Oh, I remember. It slipped off my finger in the soapy water and I put it on the window-sill. That’s funny, it isn’t there now!’

  ‘I expect it’s fallen out on to the path outside,’ said John. But search as they would, they could not find it.

  ‘I suppose no one could have taken it?’ said John. ‘Has anyone been to the back door?’

  ‘Only that Mrs Whatshername. Lives in the big house down Sheepshank Lane. Widdlespoon is it? You should have seen her hat! Enough to make a cat laugh.’

  Dumpsie drew herself up in an offended way.

  ‘Said she couldn’t make anyone hear at the front. She wanted to know if there was one of those big black coalscuttles in the Sale. Like an old-fashioned cooking pot with a handle over the top. Well of course I don’t know. Very hoity-toity she was.’

  ‘We must find the ring,’ said John. ‘It’s valuable.’

  Mrs Bodkin looked at him curiously. ‘What’s a lad like you doing with a valuable ring?’

  ‘It’s only valuable to us,’ said Rosemary hastily. ‘It came out of a cracker.’

  ‘A lady like that would never bother about a trumpery cracker ring,’ said Mrs Bodkin, rising to her feet. ‘But I must get on. Sausages and a bit of fried potato it’ll have to be for your supper. And do me a favour. Don’t tell your uncle. About my funny turn, I mean. He’ll start talking again about getting someone in to help. As if I can’t manage! Now be good children, and lay the table. I’m feeling worn out, with all that work and the worry of being took bad. I’ll slip down to the doctor first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘The beastly ring, it’s done it again!’ said John, as they laid knives and forks on the spotless, newly washed and ironed table-cloth. ‘That’s the third mess it’s got us into.’

  ‘And how on earth are we going to get it back from Mrs Witherspoon? I bet she’s “the wrong hands”. She may wish something simply frightful with it.’

  15. Tucket Towers

  ‘WE must settle on some plan of action,’ said John, as he walked with Rosemary up the weedy drive of Tucket Towers early next morning. ‘We keep talking about it, and not deciding anything.’

  ‘Well, first we hand over the letter to Mrs Witherspoon. ... That ought to give us a chance to see if she is wearing the Golden Gew-Gaw,’ said Rosemary ... ‘And then what? That’s where we always get stuck. Last Christmas,’ she went on thoughtfully, ‘I went carol singing with Sally Simson in aid of Orphan Children’s Homes. Sometimes people asked us inside.’

  ‘We can’t go carol singing in April, you owl!’ said John.

  ‘Not carols, of course,’ said Rosemary. ‘But couldn’t we say we are collecting for Orphan Children’s Homes? And ... I know! Has she any odd jobs we could do?’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea!’ said John. ‘And if we did get any money we really would give it to the Orphan Children.’

  ‘But what do we do next when we get inside?’ said Rosemary.

  ‘That depends on the job she gives us. Let’s wait and see. We’re nearly there.’

  ‘I know,’ said Rosemary. ‘I’m beginning to get a funny feeling in my inside.’

  ‘Me too,’ said John.

  ‘Don’t let’s stop for a single second, or I shan’t be brave enough to go on again.’

  ‘We’d better be quick and get it over,’ said John. ‘One, two, three ... Go!’

  At a brisk trot they crossed the weedy carriage sweep in front of the house, and ran up the steps to the front door. John tugged at the wrought-iron bell-pull. It was stiff and rusty, as though it was not used very often. Somewhere in the distance, they heard the clanging of the bell. After a long pause, during which they nearly turned tail and ran, a key grated in the lock, and the door swung open.

  ‘Yes? What do you want?’ said Mrs Witherspoon sharply.

  ‘We’ve brought a letter ...’

  ‘Mr Sprules asked us ...’

  They both started to speak at the same time and then stopped. Rosemary giggled nervously.

  ‘Come along! Come along!’ said Mrs Witherspoon crossly.

  ‘Mr Sprules asked us if we would bring you this,’ said John. ‘It’s one of the missing pages of the book you bought the other day.’

  ‘Aha!’ said Mrs Witherspoon, in quite a different voice. ‘That is another matter. Give it to me!’

  She almost snatched the envelope from John, tore it open impatiently and pulled out the yellowing page. Ignoring both children, she stood framed in the doorway as she studied the cramped print. Very upright she was, in a long black skirt and high-necked blouse. Her pale face, ringed and wrinkled like a cauliflower, was surrounded by straggling white hair. They had plenty of time to examine her fingers. She wore two plain gold rings, one was wide and the other narrow: but there was no sign of the glowing stone of the Golden Gew-Gaw.

  Presently she looked up, and now she was smiling, but not at them. It was a sly, secret sort of smile.

  ‘This is what I’ve been waiting for!’ she said, more to herself than to John and Rosemary. ‘Thank you. That will be all, children!’

  ‘Oh please,’ said Rosemary. ‘We’re collecting for Orphan Children’s Homes, and we wondered if you had any odd jobs we could do?’

  ‘We don’t mind what it is!’ added John.

  ‘You mean you want to be paid for it?’ said Mrs Witherspoon. All trace of a smile disappeared. ‘I’m not made of money, you know!’

  ‘Oh, only what you feel like giving us,’ said John.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said after a thoughtful pause. ‘Perhaps there is something you could do. You may come inside. Wipe your feet!’

  John and Rosemary could scarcely control their grins of triumph as they followed the tall gaunt figure into the hall.

  ‘Follow me to the kitchen,’ she said over her shoulder.

  The hall looked even more dusty and shabby than it had done when they peered at it from outside. Cobwebs hung thickly from the deer’s antlers that hung over every door, and the ragged carpet nearly tripped up Rosemary as she stared about her. There was no broomstick in the umbrella stand this time.

  At the end of the hall th
ey went through a swing door covered with moth-eaten green baize. It closed behind them with a ‘whoosh’. The kitchen was down a short passage on the other side. John and Rosemary just had time to notice a huge old-fashioned range, with a very small fire burning in it, and two cats sitting on the hearth-rug in front.

  ‘Come along! Don’t loiter!’ said Mrs Witherspoon sharply. ‘The scullery is through here.’

  As she spoke she opened the door into a smaller room, leading from the kitchen. The first thing they saw when they went inside was a large earthenware sink, loaded with tottering piles of unwashed dishes, and dirty saucepans.

  ‘I have got a leetle bit behind with the washing-up,’ said Mrs Witherspoon. ‘There’s your job for you. When it is all done you shall have a whole penny each. You will find an apron hanging over there, behind the door into the garden. I have to go and pick some herbs.’ She glanced at the printed page Mr Sprules had sent her, and smiled the same secret smile again. ‘For there is an important experiment I have to make. But I shall be back shortly to see that you’ve done your work properly.’

  She opened the door, locked it behind her, and went out into the garden. There was a window over the draining board, and they watched her peering about in the overgrown flower beds.

  John stood with his hands on his hips, and glowered at the pile of dirty dishes. ‘Just a leetle bit behind with the washing-up!’ he mimicked. ‘She can’t have done any for weeks! I didn’t bargain for this. And one penny each. The Orphan Children won’t get very fat on that!’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Rosemary. ‘At least it has got us inside.’ She held her hand hopefully under a running tap. ‘No hot water either. Come on. Do stop glaring and help me move these saucepans from the sink. Put them on the floor, or anywhere out of the way. If only we’d got the ring we might have learned something from those two cats in the kitchen.’

  Everyone knows that the longer washing-up is left, the harder it is to do. Some of the saucepans had clearly been left for a very long time indeed. With a good deal of clattering they cleared the sink.

  ‘What on earth are you staring at that little enamel thing for?’ asked John.

  ‘Do you think it’s an egg saucepan?’ asked Rosemary.

  ‘For goodness’ sake! Have we got to guess what’s been cooked in each one?’ said John.

  ‘Do stop being cross. There’s some bright purple runny stuff at the bottom,’ went on Rosemary. ‘Don’t you remember Mrs Witherspoon saying that she cooked her Hearing Mixture in the egg saucepan, and it was purple? Quick, get a teaspoon and pour a drop into each of my ears. That’s what she said she did, and then she could hear all cats talking.’

  ‘But suppose it’s just the remains of some pudding or other? Or ... or even worse, some different kind of magic? It might turn you into something — well, creepy crawly!’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Rosemary uneasily. ‘But we shall have to risk it. Don’t you see? Without the ring we can’t talk to Carbonel or Calidor, or any of the other cats, and we are stuck unless we do. Hurry! Mrs Witherspoon may be back any minute.’

  She rinsed a teaspoon under the tap and pushed it into John’s reluctant hand, put her head on one side and held her hair back. ‘Go on,’ she said, and took a deep breath.

  Very gingerly John took the saucepan, scooped up a little of the liquid, and poured a drop into each of her ears. Rosemary raised her head. She was looking rather pale.

  ‘Rosie ... are you all right?’ asked John anxiously. At first she did not answer; instead she lifted her hand as if to silence him. Then she ran to the kitchen door and opened it carefully, the merest crack, and stood listening. Her face broke into a smile. ‘It has worked! I can hear those two cats next door,’ she whispered. ‘But I can’t make out all they are saying. Something about a clever plan ... I think.’ Then her eyes widened. ‘Help! It’s Grisana and Melissa! I recognize their voices. What on earth are they doing here?’

  ‘I bet they’re up to no good, whatever it is,’ said John. ‘Quick, there’s just about enough purple stuff to pour down my ears too, if you scrape the saucepan, then let’s go and talk to them.’ When Rosemary had done as he asked he went on: ‘Better make friends with them first, before we let on that we can understand them.’

  Together they walked into the kitchen and up to the hearth-rug and held out their hands to the small fire. ‘Beastly cold,’ said John in a loud voice. ‘Isn’t it, pussy?’ he went on, dropping on his knees and stroking the nearest cat on the head. It happened to be Melissa.

  ‘You’ve got a nice warm place!’ said Rosemary to the other cat, who of course was Grisana. Grisana looked up and gave them a conceited stare.

  ‘Shall I scratch them, mama?’ said Melissa in a voice with a hiss behind it. ‘If there is anything I hate it is being addressed as “pussy”, as though I am a common or garden cat!’

  ‘They aren’t worth scratching,’ said Grisana languidly.

  ‘But suppose they are the two children Splodger told you about? The ones who guessed that the cat Mrs Witherspoon has imprisoned is Carbonel?’ John and Rosemary exchanged glances.

  ‘It doesn’t matter if they are,’ said Grisana. ‘I have already looked at their hands, and they are neither of them wearing the ring that makes them understand us. Splodger explained about that too, so I can go on telling you about the arrangement I have made with Mrs Witherspoon, and they won’t have any idea what we are talking about.’ John and Rosemary suppressed their smiles, and redoubled their stroking.

  ‘Do go on, you clever mama!’ said Melissa. ‘I must say this boy strokes rather well. I can’t help purring.’

  ‘Mrs Witherspoon has been keeping Carbonel prisoner’ because he refuses to be her witch’s cat, and she grows impatient. She has promised me that if he will not do as she wishes by moonrise tonight, and of course he won’t, she will let him go. She will turn him out of the front door of Tucket Towers, and then ...’ Grisana’s purring was loud and deep.

  ‘And then, mama?’

  ‘He is mine to do with as I please!’

  ‘And what will you please?’ said Melissa in her sly voice.

  ‘When he thinks he is free, and steps out of the hall door of Tucket Towers, he shall be pounced upon by a picked troop of Broomhurst cats, who will take him prisoner in triumph back to Broomhurst, where he will be well and truly ... scrodged!’ There was no trace of a purr about Grisana’s voice now, and she kneaded the hearth-rug with rhythmic claws as she hissed the last word. ‘But you look sulky, daughter? Does this not please you?’

  ‘I don’t care a sardine tail what happens to Carbonel. It is Calidor I want humbled,’ growled Melissa.

  ‘Dear child,’ purred Grisana. ‘Calidor shall be humbled. That is the whole point of my plan! As soon as Calidor hears that his father has been captured and taken to Broomhurst — and we shall make quite sure that he hears at once — he will come racing to his rescue, straight into the trap I have prepared for him! We shall be waiting with a picked company, claws raised, to seize him! And then they can both be scrodged together! But come, there is a great deal to do. I must decide where sentries are to be posted tonight. Come, Melissa.’

  The two cats hurried from the kitchen into the scullery, jumped up on to the draining board, smashing a dirty cup as they went, and leapt out of the window which swung backwards and forwards because the latch was broken. John and Rosemary watched them go.

  ‘Phew!’ said John. ‘What a wicked pair! Come on, we’ve got an awful lot to do too!’

  ‘Yes, but what?’ said Rosemary. ‘How can we stop this beastly plan?’

  ‘We must get word to Calidor about the moonrise business, somehow. But first we must search Tucket Towers until we find Carbonel. Now’s our chance while Mrs Witherspoon is in the garden. Come on!’

  They hurried down the passage and through the baize door, and looked cautiously round the hall. There was no one there. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock. Small swirls of dusty
motes danced in the early morning sunshine, which slanted through the windows on either side of the front door.

  ‘Let’s start with the first room on the right, and go through every one in turn,’ said John. ‘Shall we separate? You do downstairs, and I’ll go upstairs?’

  ‘No fear!’ said Rosemary. ‘I’m coming with you!’ She ducked to avoid a swinging spider as she followed him through the first door.

  They tiptoed cautiously from one room to another. Some were quite empty. Only the less faded patches of wallpaper showed where pictures and furniture had once been. In others, what furniture there was was shrouded in dust sheets.

  ‘How creepy armchairs and sofas look, all muffled up in white!’ whispered Rosemary. ‘As though they’re ... sort of crouching!’

  ‘Holding out their arms to pounce,’ said John, and they moved a little nearer to one another.

  But uneasy though they were, they searched thoroughly, opening every door, and looking inside every cupboard, even examining the back stairs, and wherever they went they found moth-eaten carpets, and faded hangings ... but no Carbonel.

  ‘We’d better try upstairs,’ said John when they had searched the last room.

  Here the rooms all led off the gallery which ran round three sides of the hall ... but they proved as empty and uninhabited as the others. The sun had gone in, and the silence seemed even heavier here than below, broken only by the occasional scutter of a mouse, or the faint buzz of an imprisoned fly as it bumbled against a window-pane.

  One room showed signs of having been recently used. The bed was made, and a scatter of large hair-pins lay on the dressing-table. In the wardrobe was a tall, pointed black hat.

  ‘Miss Dibdin’s bed-sitter!’ said John. ‘That’s one of the road-mender’s cones.’

  Another large room, with an unmade four-post bed, they decided belonged to Mrs Witherspoon. They searched in bedrooms, bathrooms, airing cupboards and clothes closets.

  ‘Not a sign of Carbonel!’ said Rosemary sadly, when they had closed the door.

  ‘I can’t think of anywhere else to look,’ said John.