Carbonel and Calidor (New York Review Children's Collection)

by Barbara Sleigh

  ‘But Miss Dibdin,’ began Rosemary. ‘Do listen! When I went up to your room in Fairfax Market ... Ow!’ she went on, looking reproachfully at John who had dug his elbow sharply into her ribs. ‘That hurt!’

  ‘Shut up!’ he whispered.

  Miss Dibdin didn’t seem to have noticed. She sat gazing into the fire, wrapped in her own thoughts, and mumbling to herself. But Crumpet was watching, with eyes that never wavered. John cleared his throat loudly, and Miss Dibdin roused herself.

  ‘But what do you want six witches’ hats for?’ he asked.

  She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then she said sulkily: ‘I only meant to take one at first. Then when I found it didn’t fit very well, I thought it might blow off when I was flying high. So I took the others as spares.’

  ‘You mean when you fly on your broomstick?’ said Rosemary. ‘Can you fly very high?’

  ‘I can’t fly at all yet. Didn’t I tell you I had to come to Highdown by bus?’ said Miss Dibdin crossly. ‘But I shall! Make no mistake! When my parcel comes ... What is it, John?’ she broke off irritably. He had made several attempts to say something.

  ‘But Miss Dibdin, that hole in the road where you pinched the cones. Aren’t you afraid someone will fall into it if there is nothing there to warn them?’

  Miss Dibdin flushed with anger. ‘Pinched them, did you say? Pinched them? I should not dream of doing anything so vulgar! Borrowed, you mean. I told you, I shall put them back when my parcel comes. Besides,’ she went on sulkily, ‘I don’t believe in mollycoddling. People should look where they’re going!’

  ‘But isn’t stealing the cones breaking the law?’ persisted John.

  ‘Talking of breaking the law,’ said Miss Dibdin, drawing herself up, ‘what about you, pray?’

  ‘Me?’ said John in surprise. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Well, what are you, a boy, doing in a Ladies’ Waiting Room? Go along with you, shoo! Shoo!’

  She advanced on John, flapping her black mackintosh at him, and shushed him out of the door. Rosemary was only too glad to sidle out after him. A shrill voice followed them as they scuttled down the platform. They paused for a moment to listen, before crawling through the hole in the hedge.

  ‘Don’t forget!’ called Miss Dibdin. ‘You promised not to tell! Not a human soul!’

  is ears.

  7. The Scrabbles

  ‘WHEW!’ said John when they had scrambled out on to the road side of the hedge. ‘So Miss Dibdin really does want to be a witch!’

  ‘All the same,’ said Rosemary, as she picked bits of twig out of her hair, ‘we ought to have told her about the purple cracker. Why did you make me shut up?’

  ‘Oh grow up, Rosie!’ said John. ‘Do you really think that if that queer old thing got hold of the Golden Gew-Gaw it would be in “the right hands”? I’m sure it was the ring she meant when she talked about something that would give her all that power.’

  ‘ “More precious than the Bank of England”?’ went on Rosemary. ‘I suppose you’re right. What’s the matter?’

  John had suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘We’ve left the satchel with the leaflets behind — on the bench where we began to have lunch. And the rest of the sandwiches. We’d only eaten half of them. We shall have to go back and get them.’

  ‘Must we?’ said Rosemary, remembering how very strange Miss Dibdin had been.

  ‘We must,’ said John. ‘I’ll go by myself if you’re scared.’

  ‘If you’re going, of course I’m coming too,’ said Rosemary.

  John was peering cautiously over the hedge. ‘Hold on a minute ... I think it’s all right! Yes, look over there!’

  Rosemary looked.

  It had stopped raining, and a shaft of pale, watery sunshine had broken through the clouds. Pinpricks of light sparkled on the raindrops still hanging from the bare hawthorn hedge. Two fields distant, on the other side of the railway, a figure in a flapping black mackintosh was bobbing its way through the wet grass.

  ‘Miss Dibdin,’ said Rosemary. ‘She must be going back to Tucket Towers by that short cut she told us about.’

  ‘You can see the tower sticking up behind that clump of trees,’ said John.

  The path sloped downhill, and they watched Miss Dibdin’s dumpy figure grow smaller and smaller, until she seemed to merge into the mist, which still lay on the low ground. Finally, she disappeared among the dark shadows of the trees.

  ‘Come on!’ said John. ‘We don’t want to be caught in the station if she decides to come back again.’

  They wriggled their way once more through the hole in the hedge, and hurried up the ramp which led to the platform. Then they stopped. Sitting on the bench on which they had eaten the sandwiches, licking his paws, was Crumpet.

  ‘Quick!’ whispered Rosemary. ‘The Golden Gew-Gaw! Let’s see if he will talk to us. You promised!’

  John nodded, and felt in his pocket for the tin of Special Things. Then, each with a finger looped through the golden band, they advanced on tip-toe.

  ‘Hallo, Calidor!’ said John suddenly.

  The cat started, turning quickly, and looked furtively to left and right, muttering to himself: ‘No tact, humans haven’t. How in the world do they know what my real name is? Crumpet I’m called hereabouts.’

  He looked suspiciously up at the children, with flattened ears.

  ‘We know quite a lot about you,’ said Rosemary. ‘About Carbonel, and you not caring a herring bone who becomes King of the Cats after him. But we’ll call you Crumpet if you’d rather.’

  The cat rose slowly, his legs with their white paws splayed, so that he could balance on the slats of the station seat. He stared up at them with wide green eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked at last. ‘And how is it you can hear me talk? Even She can’t do that.’ He nodded towards the Ladies’ Waiting Room.

  Once again John nudged Rosemary as she was about to speak.

  ‘Oh, we just — happen to be able to hear — a lot of things,’ he said airily.

  Crumpet was squinting up at them now through half-closed eyes.

  ‘Fairfax Market!’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you before.’

  Rosemary nodded. ‘We met Carbonel on the way home afterwards,’ she said. ‘We told him we were going to Highdown, and that Miss Dibdin was bringing you here too.’

  ‘You told him that?’ said Crumpet angrily. ‘Just when I thought I’d escaped! It’s “Calidor, do this”, and “Calidor, do that”, “Royal cats do this”, and “Royal cats don’t do the other”, morning, noon and night. Sick of it, I am! It’s not as though I am a kitten any longer. Why, I’m not even allowed to choose my own friends!’

  ‘Carbonel did say something about you getting into bad company,’ began John.

  ‘Bad company?’ interrupted Calidor. ‘Is that what he calls her? The prettiest little tabby that ever lapped a saucer! And as nice manners as any stuck-up royal kitten, and honest too. None of your sly-paws like the other one they’ve planned I shall marry.’

  ‘But why don’t you want anyone to know your real name?’ asked John.

  ‘For two reasons,’ replied Crumpet. ‘This is not my father Carbonel’s kingdom. It is enemy country. It belongs to Grisana, Queen of the Broomhurst cats.’

  ‘But I don’t understand,’ said Rosemary. ‘Why should Grisana mind you being here?’

  ‘Because she hates me for refusing to marry her daughter, Melissa,’ said Crumpet.

  ‘The one you meant by “sly-paws”?’ asked Rosemary.

  Calidor nodded. ‘It was all arranged when we were kittens. At first my parents thought that if my sister Pergamond were to marry Grisana’s son Gracilis, it might end the feud between Broomhurst and Fallowhithe cats. But they decided he was too feeble; like his father King Castrum, to be of any importance. Instead they approached Grisana, and it was arranged that when we were both grown up I should marry her daughter Melissa. But the only cat I mean
to marry is my one and only dear little Dumpsie! Turned spiteful, Grisana has, because of it. Says I’ve insulted the royal house of Castrum. If she finds out I am in her kingdom, she’d do anything to get her own back. As Crumpet, she need never know who I am.’

  ‘But if you’re in danger here, why do you stay?’ said R‘Come closer, and I’ll tell you,’ said Crumpet. He looked cautiously round while John and Rosemary knelt down beside the seat. Then he lifted his chin and said proudly: ‘I want to make my own way. Show the world I can stand on my own paws. Not because I’m Carbonel’s son and a royal cat, but because I’m me, Calidor or Crumpet. Call me what you like. I have decided to become a witch’s cat.’ He dropped his voice again. ‘She is learning to be a witch.’ He nodded sideways towards the Ladies’ Waiting Room. ‘So we can both learn together.’

  ‘I don’t think I should like to belong to Miss Dibdin,’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Who said anything about “belonging”?’ replied Calidor indignantly. ‘Mattins and I have our plans, I tell you. He has decided to be witch’s cat to the other one at Tucket Towers. He knows nothing of my royal blood, of course. But keep out of this, Hearing Humans, for your own good! I must go. I have important things to see to.’

  As he spoke, Calidor jumped down from the seat, slipped over the edge of the platform and crossed the weedy track below. When he reached the tangle of grass and cow-parsley the other side, he turned.

  ‘Keep out of this!’ he called, and with a flick of his tail he disappeared. Without thinking, Rosemary slipped the ring into her pocket. When they could no longer follow Calidor’s progress through the field by the waving of the long grass, John said crossly: ‘What cheek, telling us what we ought to do! He’s as bad as Carbonel!’

  As he spoke, there was a clatter behind them. They turned quickly. Someone or something had upset the two milk bottles.

  ‘Look!’ said John. ‘That grey cat streaking down the platform!’

  ‘It must be Mattins!’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Hi, Mattins!’ called John. ‘Mattins!’ But either the grey cat did not hear, or didn’t want to hear. He disappeared round the corner of the station.

  ‘Oh well,’ said John. ‘I suppose we ought to go and take that leaflet to Tucket Towers.’

  ‘Do we have to?’ said Rosemary uneasily. ‘I don’t think I want to meet this Mrs Witherspoon much. One witch is quite enough for today!’

  ‘I know,’ said John. ‘But we promised Uncle Zack we would. We could go by Miss Dibdin’s short cut.’

  ‘Don’t let’s!’ said Rosemary. ‘We might meet her coming back.’

  ‘All right,’ said John. ‘I shouldn’t much like that either. We can go by the road, drop the leaflet through the letterbox, and run.’

  They set off the way they had come, eating the remains of the sandwiches and the rock cakes as they went. When they reached the crossroads, the road-man had gone home to his tea. Four lamps, already lit, stood at the corners of the hole. Instead of taking the road back to the village they turned to the left towards Tucket Towers and crossed the bridge that spanned the old railway line.

  The brief burst of sunshine was gone. The clouds were even darker than before. A chill little breeze had sprung up, and Rosemary pushed her cold hands deep into her pockets. The sky was so overcast that a car coming over the hump of the bridge had its lights on. They stood back as it passed.

  ‘Did you see how it made the cat’s eyes in the road light up?’ said John.

  Rosemary nodded, and poked one of the small rubbery squares with the toe of her shoe. The glass ‘eyes’ which had shone so brightly as the car approached were dull now, and lifeless.

  ‘It’s a super idea!’ said John, looking at the row of studs marking the middle of the road stretching ahead of them. ‘I mean having “eyes” back and front to reflect the light when a car comes either way.’

  ‘Yes, but what for?’ said Rosemary.

  ‘To show where the middle of the road is when it’s dark, of course,’ said John. ‘Didn’t you know? Really Rosie, you are a prize ass sometimes!’

  Rosemary flushed. ‘Well anyway, I don’t think they ought to be called cat’s eyes,’ she said. ‘They look more like a row of little crabs squatting down in the road.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said John. ‘Crab’s eyes don’t light up in the dark like cat’s eyes.’

  ‘But they only light up for a second when a car passes,’ said Rosemary. ‘All the rest of the time they sit in their holes in the roads looking like little square crabs.’

  ‘Cats!’ said John.

  ‘Crabs!’ said Rosemary.

  ‘Cats!’ said John with an infuriating grin, and quite suddenly Rosemary completely lost her temper.

  ‘Stop it!’ she burst out. ‘Stop it! You’re always being a know-all!’ She stamped her feet in rage. ‘You don’t like Carbonel and Crumpet bossing you. Well, I don’t like you always bossing me! You go on making me shut up when I’m going to say something. I’m quite sore where you keep poking me with your bony great elbow. I say they’re like crabs!’

  ‘All right. Keep your hair on!’ began John. But Rosemary was thoroughly roused, and she swept on.

  ‘I wish they’d come alive. I do! I do! I do!’ And each time she said ‘I do’ she stamped her foot. ‘I wish they’d come alive, and that would just show you!’

  She stopped suddenly, interrupted by a loud ‘pop’! It seemed to come from somewhere between her feet. She stepped back hurriedly.

  ‘Look at the stud,’ said John. ‘It’s moving!’

  Rosemary looked.

  It was the one she had poked with her foot. It had come loose from the metal rim which kept it in its place, and was moving up and down, of its own accord, in a jerky sort of way. Then, to Rosemary’s astonishment, it tilted so that the glass ‘eyes’ in front were looking up at her, and at the same time, two rather bandy legs unfolded themselves from the two front corners, waved wildly in the air, scrabbled for a second on the metal rim, then, helped by two more legs growing from the corners at the back, heaved the stud clean out of its square hole. For a minute it stood flexing its legs as though to get the stiffness out of them. Then it scuttled towards Rosemary, bouncing up and down at her feet and making little squeaks of what seemed like pleasure.

  All this took much less time than it takes to describe, and before the little creature had reached her there was a second ‘pop’!

  ‘Crikey, there’s another! And another! And another!’ said John. ‘It’s like a machine-gun going off “Pop! Pop! Pop!” ’ One by one the line of studs running away down the middle of the road rose from their holes and scuttled up to Rosemary, till she was surrounded by a bouncing horde of them: their glass ‘eyes’ glinting back and front as they all jumped up and down, as a dog does when it is pleased to see you, and all of them twittering, like a cage full of sparrows.

  ‘You see,’ said Rosemary with lifted chin. ‘It proves I’m right. They aren’t like cats!’

  ‘Or much like crabs either,’ said John shortly.

  ‘I don’t see why they have to be like anything,’ went on Rosemary. ‘I think they are just themselves. I shall call them ...’ She stopped and looked thoughtfully at the swarming mass at her feet. ‘I know. I shall call them the Scrabbles ... because they are a bit like crabs, and they ... sort of scrabble with their paws.’

  ‘All right. Call them what you like,’ said John in an exasperated voice. ‘They hop about so, I can’t count them, but there must be dozens of the things! I suppose you’ve made your point. P’raps they do look more like crabs than cats. But what are we going to do with them now?’

  The first flush of Rosemary’s triumph at having proved John wrong for once had begun to ebb away.

  ‘It’s going to be a bit awkward if they are prancing about all over the place when it gets dark,’ went on John. ‘How are cars to know where the middle of the road is? Can’t you make them go back again?’

  ‘I suppose I can try,’ replied Rosemary do
ubtfully. She thought for a moment, and then she said to the Scrabbles in her best polite voice: ‘Of course we are both very pleased to have met you, but hadn’t you better be going home now? I mean back to your holes?’ She made flapping go-away movements with her hands. The Scrabbles stopped bouncing, and shuffled together in a tight little group, and their twittering dropped to a sad little moan. Then, as if they had come to a decision among themselves, they sat firmly down where they were, their front eyes glinting up at Rosemary, and their back eyes, on which of course they were sitting, protected from the dust and dirt of the road by their back paws which they folded underneath them.

  ‘Well, that hasn’t worked,’ said John.

  ‘Could we pick them up one by one and put them back in their holes?’ said Rosemary doubtfully. But she made no move to do it.

  Reluctantly John stooped down, and gingerly stretched out his hand to the nearest Scrabble. Just as he was about to pick it up, quick as lightning, it turned and nipped him on the thumb.

  ‘Ow! That hurt!’ he said.

  The creatures were silent now, but very watchful.

  ‘Well,’ said John. ‘I don’t see what else we can do. Maybe they’ll go back of their own accord if we leave them to it. Let’s go home,’ he went on. ‘I vote we put off going to Tucket Towers till tomorrow. It must be getting frightfully late.’

  Rosemary agreed. They turned to go back to Highdown with a feeling of relief. But the relief was short lived. They had only gone a few yards before there was a shrill, excited twittering, and the Scrabbles came streaming after them, their feet pattering on the hard road with a sound like the keys of forty typewriters all typing together.

  ‘That’s torn it!’ said John. ‘If they want to follow I don’t see how we can stop them.’

  ‘But if they come home with us, what shall we do with them? And what on earth will Uncle Zack and Mrs Bodkin say?’ said Rosemary. ‘If we tell them they are road studs come alive, they’ll have a fit. Isn’t there somewhere we can hide them till we can think of some plan?’