‘All right, I suppose we had better.’ She turned to Mrs Cantrip. ‘But we shall come back for the Silent Magic, make no mistake about that!’
Mrs Cantrip poured her tea into the saucer and drank it noisily, but still she said nothing. The children found a side door that opened on to an alley which led back to the Market Square.
‘Well, I do think she might have said “Thank you”, considering it cost us every penny we’ve got!’ said Rosemary indignantly. ‘And I think it was awfully brave of you to face all those angry people like that. All the same, I wish we hadn’t got to walk back.’
‘Oh well, things might be a good deal worse,’ said John.
‘Look here, I’ve got something to show you. Where can we go that’s quiet and private?’
‘What about the Cathedral where we had our sandwiches the other day?’
‘Good idea,’ said John.
20
The Book
They set off for the Cathedral, John humming a tune to himself. Rosemary looked at him suspiciously. He seemed to mind remarkably little that they had no money left and had failed in their attempts to get Mrs Cantrip to tell them the Silent Magic.
‘You look awfully fat!’ she said. ‘What have you got inside your coat?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ said John in an irritating voice.
‘Not particularly!’ said Rosemary untruthfully.
They walked in silence to the top of the High Street. It was a strain for Rosemary because it was rather a long way and she was bursting with curiosity. The rooks were cawing noisily in the tops of the swaying elm trees, and the fat little angels on either side of the clock were striking three o’clock as they made their way to the same seat as before.
‘Now then, do you want to see?’ said John. Luckily Carbonel said ‘Of course we do!’ which relieved Rosemary of the problem of how to say she did, and yet keep her dignity.
‘Well,’ said John. ‘When I had locked the door behind the nice woman, I was just going to follow you when I remembered that before you got Mrs Cantrip to go out of the room, she ran to the end of the counter, as though she was going to do something, and then thought better of it and turned back again. Well, Sherlock Holmes says that in any emergency women always rush to the thing that they value most. It’s a first class story, that, it’s the one where…’
‘Oh, never mind about Sherlock Holmes!’ interrupted Rosemary, her dignity forgotten. ‘Do go on!’
‘Well,’ said John again. He was evidently enjoying himself. ‘I went to the end of the counter, and all I could see were three little drawers underneath. One was empty except for a candle-end and a piece of string, the middle one was full of bills, and the third…’
‘Yes?’ breathed Rosemary.
John was unbuttoning his jacket. From inside he took out a battered, ancient-looking book. Only one of its powdery leather covers was there, and that hung by a single strand of thread. The pages were thick and yellow, and covered with cramped writing and curious diagrams in red and black ink.
Carbonel was standing with his front paws on John’s knee, with his ears pricked and his great eyes intent on the writing.
‘Oh, wise young human!’ he said. ‘Oh, Prince among Boys! Through your wisdom and perspicacity we have found the book of spells with the Silent Magic!’
For one pardonable minute Rosemary wrestled with a feeling of the unfairness of things. After all that she had done for Carbonel the highest praise she had been given was that she ‘knew how to stroke’. But it was only for a minute. Even if she had known about Sherlock Holmes she had to admit that she would never have thought of applying what she had read to Mrs Cantrip.
‘I think you are the cleverest boy I know!’ she said, and she really meant it. John went quite pink at all this praise.
‘It wasn’t so bad,’ he said modestly. But Carbonel was oblivious of everything but the book. He was trying to turn the pages with his paw.
‘Every witch has a book like this. They’re handed down from one to another, and each one adds what new spells she has discovered.’
‘Like cookery recipes,’ said Rosemary.
‘This is the right book, sure enough. I’d know it anywhere, though of course SHE would never let me look inside it. Search about half-way through.’
John flipped over the pages at random.
‘What is this… “To ensure the blight on a neighbouring garden. Increase ingredients according to distance away required!”… hm. That’s not it. What’s this? “An infallible love potion…” Oh, who cares about love potions? Here, what is this? “A Silent Magic for the Use of…” Hi, Carbonel, look what you’ve done!’
As John began to read this last title the cat had said ‘Hush!’ and in a desperate effort to cover the words with his paws had knocked the precious book off John’s knees on to the pavement.
‘Whatever did you do that for?’ asked John crossly.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Carbonel. ‘It is a Silent Magic, and if you say it aloud it is broken and spoilt!’
They picked up the book and dusted it carefully. It seemed none the worse. But nobody noticed that something had fallen from between the pages. They found the place again with some difficulty, and craning over John’s shoulder this is what Rosemary read:
‘SHE WHO WOULD UNDO A BINDING MAGIC must take the plait of Binding Plants which was twisted when the Magic was first made. This will probably be Dry as Tinder but no matter. Fill the Cauldron with Seven Pipkins of Puddle Water. When the water comes to the boil she must drop in the Plait of Weeds without delay and ride widdershins seven times round the Boiling Pot. This done, she must take the Binding Plants from the cauldron (these will now be found green and lush), and must untwist the Plait, being sure that she make no sound or complaint, though they tear her fingers. With the unbinding of the weeds the One bound will for ever be made free. The following words must be said Silently as the Plait is Unwound…’
‘Yes, but look here,’ said John. ‘Where on earth is this wretched plait?’
The three looked at each other blankly. For a minute they none of them said anything, but their thoughts were very much the same. It was too bad when the final piece of the puzzle seemed to be falling into place to find that, after all, they were as far as ever from completing it.
At last Rosemary spoke. ‘We don’t seem to be any nearer the end than before,’ she said gloomily.
They sat in a row on the seat staring before them at the brilliant green of the grass, at the flagged path with here and there a fallen leaf, and at the sparrows that hopped with maddening cheerfulness round their feet. But they were none of them aware of what they were looking at. Rosemary, with her mind intent on where to find a seven-year-old plait of withered creepers, idly watched an old man in a green apron sweeping up the leaves and bits of paper that untidy people had dropped on the path. Somewhere near he had a bonfire; she could tell by the smell. He swept the rubbish into a little pile by the seat, and just as he bent down to load it into his wheelbarrow by scooping it up with two bits of board, she jumped up and pounced on the pile.
‘Oh, please don’t sweep it up!’ she said desperately. ‘You have got something valuable of ours here. I’m sure I saw you sweep it up!’
To the astonishment of John, Carbonel, and the old man, she began scrabbling frantically among the leaves and bits of paper and bus tickets. Suddenly she made a pounce.
‘I’ve got it!’ she said, and rose triumphantly to her feet. John was staring at her with his mouth open, and even Carbonel looked surprised.
‘Is she all right in the head?’ asked the gardener.
‘Of course I am!’ said Rosemary indignantly. ‘I say, I am awfully sorry I have messed up your path again, but I will sweep it up for you if you will lend me your broom.’
But, muttering that ‘he didn’t know what children were coming to!’ the old man collected the rubbish together once more and trundled it away in his barrow, still muttering darkly to himself. Rosemary was too exci
ted to notice what he did.
‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’ she said. ‘I remember that something fell out of the book when we dropped it. I thought vaguely it was a piece of paper, but I was so anxious to see the spell I never thought any more about it; and just as I was watching the rubbish being swept up, I suddenly thought what it must have been. Why, in a minute or two it would have been on the bonfire! Look here!’
In the palm of her hand lay a coil of roughly plaited twigs, dry and brittle as tinder. There was still a withered leaf attached to one of the strands, which might once have been ivy.
‘Mrs Cantrip must have pressed it in her magic book, like Mummy pressed a sweet pea from her wedding bouquet in her Bible…’ They turned over the thick pages of the book, and sure enough, between two plain pages at the end was a depression into which the plait exactly fitted.
‘You’re a wonder!’ said John. But Carbonel’s heart was so full that all he could do was to rub himself against Rosemary’s legs and purr and purr and purr. There was no need to say anything. It was her turn to go pink with pleasure.
‘There is only the hat to get now,’ said Rosemary, ‘and that will be easy’
‘I left the Players’ handbill in my other jacket pocket, but I’ll look it up the minute we get home,’ said John.
‘In two days’ time the moon will be full, and that will mean the next Lawgiving,’ said Carbonel. ‘If only I could be free by then, what bloodshed could I spare my people!’
‘Well, we’ll have a good try to get the hat tomorrow somehow,’ said John. ‘But look here, my jolly boys, as I used up every halfpenny we had between us on that ungrateful old Cantrip, we shall have to hoof it home.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Rosemary. ‘I feel I could hoof it much better with some tea inside me. Let’s go and see Miss Maggie at the Copper Kettle.’
‘Far be it from me to deny you your simple pleasures,’ said Carbonel, ‘but my mind is on higher matters than cream buns and lemonade. I have other things to do. Guard the book well!’ And with tail erect and head held high he padded purposefully away.
21
More Plans
John and Rosemary ate an enormous tea. I shall not bother you with details of what they had because if you think of all the things to eat that you like best you will know all about it without being told. Miss Maggie and her sister were delighted to see them. It was rather a relief to talk about ordinary things, such as the difficulty of finding someone really reliable to wash up, and how many of the Women’s Instituters had come again and brought their friends, and how their brother had been so deeply impressed by the numbers of their customers. It was only when Miss Maggie said that she would so much like to write a little note of thanks to the kind person who had lent them all the beautiful china that Rosemary jumped up hurriedly.
‘Goodness! It’s half past five, and we promised to be home by six! We simply must go. Thank you for the wonderful tea!’
With the book safely buttoned inside John’s coat, and a good tea inside them, the children hardly noticed the walk home. The car was standing outside number ten when they reached Tottenham Grove. They ran upstairs, still discussing plans for getting the hat next day. Jeffries was drinking a cup of tea.
‘Hallo, dears!’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Had a happy day?’
‘Lovely!’ said both John and Rosemary.
‘I’m so glad. You know, Mrs Pendlebury Parker really is extremely kind. What do you think? There is a Garden Fête tomorrow at Walsingham Court, and you two are to go, and as Mrs Parker has a committee that afternoon, she has asked me if I would mind taking you instead. The sewing is nearly done. You would like to go, wouldn’t you?’
Rosemary pulled herself valiantly together. At any other time she would have loved it.
‘I expect I shall enjoy it no end… when I get there. And it’s lovely that you are going to have a day off. It’s only that John and me had planned something else.’
John made no attempt to hide his disgust. ‘It will mean clean nails and a tie!’ he said tragically. But Jeffries broke into his lamentations.
‘I’ll stand you a go at the coconut shy, but not if you don’t look slippy now. We must be pushing off, ma’am. Thank you for the tea.’
Rosemary watched the car as it drove away, and then she went slowly upstairs. What a lot had happened since the day school had broken up and she had bounced her satchel up the stairs. Full moon in two days! If only they could have got out of going to the fête next day! But she could think of no way that would not seem both rude and ungrateful. It was really very kind of Mrs Pendlebury Parker, and her mother, she knew, would thoroughly enjoy the change from sides to middling. There was clearly nothing to be done, except to enjoy the fête as much as possible, she thought guiltily.
Half-way through supper they heard the faint tinkle of the telephone that stood in the hall, and Mrs Walker came half-way up the stairs and called up.
‘It’s for Rosie!’ she said sourly. ‘As if I haven’t enough to do, and my feet are killing me.’
Rosemary ran downstairs.
‘It’s me, John,’ said the small tinny voice the other end. ‘It’s all right. What do you think? The Netherley Players are acting at the fête! Jeffries is coming to fetch you and your mother at 2.30, so bring the Broom and the Cauldron and Carbonel with you.’
‘Yes, but John…’
‘Can’t stop now. See you tomorrow.’ And Rosemary found herself protesting to a dead receiver.
After supper she discussed it with Carbonel. He had just come upstairs from the basement.
‘Phoo! You do smell of bloaters!’ said Rosemary.
‘Bloaters? So that is what they were,’ said the cat, licking his shirt front complacently. ‘Delicious. Now, you say that these play actors with the hat will be at this place tomorrow? It seems to me it will be next to impossible to get them to give you the Hat, but they might be persuaded to lend it to you for half an hour. John is quite right. The obvious thing for you to do is to take Cauldron, Broom, and me with you.’
‘That’s all very well!’ said Rosemary, ‘but Mummy and Jeffries will never let me. If they see me taking cats and coal-scuttles to a garden fête they’ll think I’ve gone mad!’
‘Well, don’t let them see you. Really, Rosemary, you have no ingenuity.’
A number of rather angry replies came into Rosemary’s mind at this, but she remembered Napoleon and Charles the Second and swallowed the retorts that came to her lips.
‘You can surely smuggle us into the back of the car somehow,’ said Carbonel coolly.
‘After all,’ thought Rosemary, ‘it isn’t being naughty, only odd, to take them with me.’ And she went on aloud: ‘All right, but you will have to go inside the cauldron. Either that or I shall have to leave you behind and say the Summoning Words when we get there.’
Carbonel opened his mouth to say something indignant, but when she pointed out what a long way it was, he changed his mind.
‘Very well,’ he said with dignity. ‘I will travel in the cauldron, but have the goodness to clean out the remains of the Rainbow Magic. Even SHE used to wash up properly afterwards.’
It was no use, thought Rosemary. He always had the last word.
‘Dear Carbonel!’ She laughed and, greatly daring, kissed him on the top of his sleek black head. He did not seem displeased.
Mrs Brown did not have to go to Tussocks next morning, and during a delightfully leisurely lunch Rosemary said:
‘Mummy, wouldn’t it be a good idea to take the old rug off the foot of my bed this afternoon, so that we could sit on the grass even if it is damp? We don’t want to catch cold, do we?’ she added virtuously. Her mother laughed.
‘I’ve never known you bother about whether the grass is damp or not before. But it would be a good idea, all the same.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t do to use Mrs Parker’s beautiful fur car rug, would it?’ said Rosemary.
Rosemary was ready a good hour before the car was d
ue to fetch them. She was wearing her best summer frock with blue smocking on the front and two blue hair ribbons. She had cleaned out the cauldron. The remains of the wishing spell did smell rather nasty, and she had black-leaded its sides and polished the copper band. She felt that it ought to be looking its best, as this was its final magic, and somehow she knew that the battered old thing was grateful. She even contemplated tying a red hair ribbon on the handle of the broom, but decided against it because John would undoubtedly laugh at her. Finally she oiled the handles of the cauldron so that they should make as little noise as possible when she smuggled everything down. Even Carbonel had to admit that she had made a good job of it.
When at last it was time to expect Jeffries with the car, everything was ready. Just as she heard the distant ring of the front doorbell her mother called out:
‘What are you doing, Rosie?’
‘I’ve just made a cup of tea for you and Jeffries, a sort of stirrup cup,’ she said. And without waiting for a reply she ran downstairs with Carbonel in the cauldron covered with the old rug, and the broom under her arm. She did not run far, because it was so heavy, but she got safely to the hall at last. She placed the precious things so that when she opened the door they would be out of sight behind it, and then she flung the door back. There was John on the doorstep – an unfamiliar John with neatly brushed hair, socks, and a long-sleeved shirt with a tie.
‘What an age you have been,’ he said. ‘I thought you were never coming. What are you pulling faces for?’ he began. Rosemary interrupted hurriedly.
‘I promised Mrs Walker that I would open the door because of her poor feet, you know.’ And turning to Jeffries she said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made one for you.’
‘But we’ve only just finished dinner,’ said John, who seemed determined to make things as difficult as possible.
‘Not you, silly! Mr Jeffries. It’s all ready upstairs.’
‘Very kind of you, I’m sure,’ said the chauffeur. ‘I can always do with a cuppa.’
Carbonel: The King of Cats Page 11