The old man’s eye lit up.
‘A regular Sherlock ’Olmes, that’s me! Artistic that one was. I remember I says to myself, “’andwoven, good but baggy, skirt and jacket twenty-five bob.” She’d got grey ’air done in them buns that flap over ’er ears. It’s a funny thing, I’ve got it into my ’ead she said she kept a shop. Must ’ave said something about it, I reckon, but I can’t recall what.’
‘What could she have wanted the cauldron for?’ asked John.
‘You never know with that sort,’ said the old man darkly. ‘Not without it was for coal.’ And he turned his attention to a sad-looking young man who wanted to buy some gramophone records.
The children wandered off and sat down on an old packing case.
‘Now the thing is,’ said John, ‘what kind of shop would an artistic sort of grey-haired lady run?’
‘There are quite a lot of shops near the Cathedral that sell hand-made things and souvenirs,’ said Rosemary. ‘They are mostly kept by people like that.’
‘I believe you are right,’ said Carbonel. ‘The Cathedral is not far.’
‘I vote we eat our sandwiches in the grassy part round it, then we shouldn’t have to lug them about with us,’ said John. ‘Isn’t it funny how food seems to stop being heavy once it’s inside you? I suppose it’s something to do with balance.’
They walked to the Cathedral and sat on a seat outside with the sun casting the shadow of the great golden-grey building across the green grass, and the rooks cawing and circling overhead. The Cathedral clock over the west door struck eleven. It was a fascinating clock, with two fat little angels standing on either side with hammers, with which they beat the hours and the quarters on a bell. By the time the angels had struck the half-hour John and Rosemary had eaten their sausage rolls and scrambled egg sandwiches. Carbonel had one filled with anchovy paste which Rosemary had brought specially for him. By the time the angels had struck twelve the children had finished their pieces of cake and a bag of fat red gooseberries. Carbonel was pacing impatiently up and down, to the annoyance of the sparrows, who watched with eager eyes the crumbs that Rosemary shook from her lap.
‘What a fuss humans have to make over everything,’ the cat said scornfully as they collected the sandwich papers and turned to look for a rubbish basket. ‘We don’t go picking up our fishbones when we’ve eaten the fish. We just eat the bones as well. Tidy and economical.’
‘Well, I’m blowed if I’m going to eat all this grease-proof paper,’ said John. ‘Come on, let’s try all the artistic-looking shops at the top of the High Street in turn.’
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They walked to the Cathedral and sat on a seat.
There certainly were at least six likely shops which had arisen like cream to the top of the highway, where it widened in front of the Cathedral.
‘Now wait a minute,’ said John. ‘What are we going to say when we get inside? We can’t go blinding in and just demand to see their coal scuttles.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Rosemary. ‘Let’s take it in turns to engage the people in conversation, like they do in books, and find out what sort of fires they have. You don’t want coal scuttles if you have gas or electric fires.’
‘You are not an unintelligent child,’ said Carbonel. Rosemary blushed with pleasure. He went on, ‘I will listen carefully, and if they say “Coal”, go on engaging them in conversation and I will slip round the counter and see if I can spot the cauldron anywhere about.’
‘All right,’ said Rosemary. ‘Bags I the first shop, because I thought of it!’
The shop at the end of the little terrace which faced the Cathedral was called‘The Bijouterie’. The window was full of brooches made of fishbones, and boxes and ash-trays ornamented with barbola. There was a big pot of dried poppy heads enamelled red and blue. Rosemary went inside before she had really thought how you ‘engage people in conversation’. Characters in books never explain how this is done – they seem to be born knowing how to do it. The woman behind the counter said briskly, ‘Yes, dear, what do you want?’
She was a thin person in an embroidered peasant blouse, with her hair cut in a fringe. Rosemary’s mind went quite blank. She stood stupidly just looking, while she thought of something to say. Only at a hissed ‘Go on!’ from John, who was standing by the doorway with the broom, did she rouse herself. Pointing to a tray of postcards she gulped, ‘Please may I look at these?’
‘Sixpence each,’ said the woman. ‘They are done by a local artist. So much nicer than a photo, I always think.’
Rosemary looked at them doubtfully. Sixpence seemed a lot of money to pay for a postcard, and the pictures were so fuzzy that it was difficult to tell what they were about. She looked at them in rather desperate silence. Finally she chose one that she did recognize as the Market Cross, and regretfully handed over sixpence. Carbonel rubbed himself against her bare legs. He could not talk to her, because she had not got the broom, but she knew quite well what he meant. Rosemary took a deep breath and said:
‘What lovely weather! Not… not at all the sort of day for sitting by the fire!’
The woman looked a little surprised but agreed politely, adding– as if she knew what they wanted to discover – ‘Leastways, not with gas the price it is. Though I must say I like a bit of fire in the evenings.’
Rosemary took the card and ran out of the shop, where John was waiting.
‘Gas!’ she said triumphantly, and showed John the postcard.
‘I thought we could send it to your sister. It’s not that way up, silly! It cost sixpence.’
‘Well, the artist shouldn’t have done it on a day when there was such a thick fog. I say, you did look funny when you just stood there gawping.’
‘Well, I found out, anyway. It’s your turn now.’
There was a great number of brass ornaments in the next shop– door knockers and nut crackers and ash trays and little bells made like ladies with crinoline skirts, and proverbs like ‘Every cloud has a silver lining’ done in poker work. John handed the broom over to Rosemary and marched in. A tall thin man was flicking a shelf full of china ornaments with a feather duster.
‘Can you tell me the price of those brass toasting forks, please?’ said John.
‘Ten and six,’ said the man, turning from his dusting.
‘Oh,’ said John. ‘The thing is that the uncle I have in mind is rather fussy about his toast. He might not like it made with a brass toasting fork. He always insists on a coal fire to make it by, because he says it tastes so much better.’
‘Well, I swear by electric,’ said the man. ‘We’ve got one of those things that shoots the toast out when it’s done.’
‘Don’t you ever make it by a coal fire?’
‘We haven’t got one in the house. My wife says they’re dirty. Though I must say they are more homey.’
‘Just what I think,’ said John. ‘Do you know, on the whole I think perhaps my uncle wouldn’t like his toast made with brass, so I won’t get the toasting fork. But thank you all the same,’ and John left the shop.
‘You see, it’s quite easy, really,’ he said cockily, ‘and I didn’t spend any money.’
‘Well, I don’t think you ought to have made up all that stuff about your uncle,’ said Rosemary.
‘I didn’t,’ said John virtuously. ‘I have got an uncle who is fussy about his toast. Go on. You had better do that embroidery shop at the corner, and if you must buy something, get photographs of the cathedral, they’re cheaper.’
But here they drew a blank. The woman in charge had several customers and refused to be engaged in conversation. The children persevered, going from one shop to another with varying success, and wherever they found someone who owned to having a coal fire Carbonel padded silently behind the counter. Once or twice he was shooed ignominiously out. Working their way down the High Street, they passed the Town Hall and the Cottage Hospital, right down to the railway station, where there were only offices and a few little shops that sold newspapers and tobacco. By this time they had inquired at eleven shops. It was well into the afternoon, and they felt tired, hot, and discouraged. Not a trace of the cauldron had they found.