She started resolutely off, only stopping occasionally to look in a shop window. But it was hot and dusty going. The pavements seemed to toast the soles of her feet through the rubber soles of her sandals. To make matters worse, one of the buckles came off. By the time she reached the market a slight drizzle was falling, and the clock on the Market Hall roof was striking four. Instead of the cheerful racket of people shouting their wares, of laughter and bustle, the stallholders were already packing up. Rosemary went up to a stout woman who was stacking crockery which had been displayed on the cobbles.
‘Please,’ she said anxiously, ‘will you tell me where I can buy a broom?’
‘You can’t,’ snapped the fat woman without looking up. ‘Not now you can’t.’ Then she straightened herself with a grunt and looked at Rosemary’s disappointed face.
‘Never ask a favour of a fat woman when she’s bending,’ she said more kindly. ‘Leastways, not if you want a civil answer. Don’t they teach you that at school?’
Rosie shook her head, and the fat woman went on,‘The market’s been closing at four on Mondays these last three ’undred years, leastways, so my old father told me. Never mind, cheer up, lovey! ’Ave a fancy milk jug for your ma instead?’
Rosemary shook her head again and went sadly on between the rows of dismantled stalls and piles of goods hidden under tarpaulins, already glistening with rain. The money in her hand was hot and sticky, but there was nothing to buy with it, let alone a broom, so she put it back in her pocket. She inquired again of a young man who was loading bales of brightly coloured material into an ancient car.
‘Please, do you know where I can buy a broom?’
But all he said was‘’Op it, see!’ So Rosemary ’opped it.
She wandered on among the drifting straw and bits of paper till she came to the end of the market, where the pavement began again. Here she found a little shop that sold newspapers and sweets and odds and ends, so she stopped to look in the window. She wondered whether to buy a toffee-apple or a liquorice bootlace to sustain her on the way home. The toffee-apple would last longer, but on the other hand she could eat a bit of the bootlace and use the rest as a skipping rope and still eat it later. She had just decided on the apple, because you cannot skip comfortably with a buckle off your sandal, when she felt something damp and furry rubbing against her bare legs. She looked down, and saw a huge black cat. Now Rosemary liked cats. If only Mrs Walker had allowed it she would certainly have had one of her own, so she bent down to stroke him. But the cat ran off and then sat down a few yards away and looked at her. Rosemary followed and tried to stroke him again, but the creature darted off for a few feet as before, and sat down to wash its paws. Rosemary laughed.
‘I believe you want me to follow you! All right, I will. I’m coming!’ So they went off in fits and starts, with Rosemary trying to catch the cat, who lolloped away as soon as she was within stroking distance. But although the cat did not laugh as she did, it was perfectly obvious that he was enjoying the joke as much as she was. She was just going to make a successful grab at him when she bumped into someone. It was an old woman.
‘I’m so sorry!’ said Rosemary.
‘And so you should be,’ said the old woman sharply, ‘keeping me waiting like this. Well, it’s yours for two and fivepence, and it’s cheap at the price.’
‘What is?’ asked Rosemary in a puzzled way.
‘The broom, of course! That’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it? If that cat is trying to fool me just because I’m going out of business…’
The cat was patting a drifting piece of orange paper with deep concentration.
‘Oh, but I do want a broom!’ said Rosemary eagerly.
‘I’ve sold my stock and bought myself a new hat,’ went on the old woman unexpectedly. ‘How do you like it?’
Rosemary hoped she would not be asked to give an opinion about any of the rest of the old woman’s clothes. The hat was certainly very fashionable. It was sprinkled with sequins and had a little veil. But perched on the old woman’s wild grey hair it only served to make the hair look wilder and her ragged clothes more disreputable.
‘It’s very pretty,’ said Rosemary. ‘But shall I take off the price label? It’s hanging down behind.’
‘Oh, no you don’t!’ said the old woman fiercely. ‘I paid nineteen and elevenpence for my hat and I’m not giving away any of the trimmings! You can have the broom and the cat, too, if you like, but my trimmings aren’t in the bargain.’
Rosemary felt quite indignant at the turn the conversation was taking and she answered with some spirit.
‘Of course I don’t want the trimmings from your hat! But I wish I could have the cat.’ She looked at the handsome animal who was sitting with his tail neatly curled round his feet, apparently fast asleep.
The old woman chuckled.
‘He’s a deep one, he is!’ She paused, looked sharply at Rosemary and added, ‘He’s worth his weight in… farthings.’
‘But if the broom costs two and fivepence I’ve only got three farthings left, and he must be worth much more than that!’ Surely Mrs Walker could be talked round? Anyway, she knew that her mother would not mind. It was more than likely that the queer old woman was not a very kind mistress. Rosemary had a feeling that the cat was not really asleep, but was listening with all his ears.
‘You can have him for three farthings if that is all you’ve got,’ said the old woman.
‘I’ll have him!’ she answered breathlessly. As she said it, the cat opened his eyes, flashed one golden glance at her, and closed them again.
Rosemary pulled the money out of her pocket and put it into the not too clean hand which the old woman was already greedily holding out for it. She counted eagerly, but it was the farthings that seemed to interest her most. She held them up to her short-sighted eyes, then she bit them and chuckled.
‘I guessed as much. You’re in luck, my boy. Three queens for a prince!’
‘They are my Queen Victoria farthings. That’s why I kept them. They are all I have. Will they do?’
‘Oh, aye, they’ll do better than you know,’ replied the old woman.
The cat was not pretending to sleep now. He was wide awake and staring at Rosemary with his two great golden eyes.‘You can take him,’ she went on, and prodded him with her foot. ‘And don’t say I never did you a good turn, my boy. Though, mind you, it’s only half undone.’
The Market Hall clock struck five as she spoke.
‘It’s getting awfully late,’ said Rosemary. ‘I think I must be going. Please may I have the broom?’
‘The broom? Oh, aye, here you are.’ And so saying the old woman pushed it into Rosemary’s hand, turned and disappeared down a dark alley at the side of the sweet shop. As she went under the arch she ducked her head as if she was used to a much taller kind of hat.
Rosemary watched her go. Then she looked down at the broom, and her heart sank. It was not what she wanted at all. It was the sort of broom that gardeners use– a rough wooden handle with a bundle of twigs bound on at one end, and only a few dilapidated twigs at that.
‘What a shame!’ said Rosemary. As the full extent of her bad luck dawned on her she could not stop the hot tears from trickling down her face. The broom was useless, at least for her purpose. She had no money left to buy another, and to crown it all she would have to walk all the way home without a buckle on her shoe, with not even the consolation of a toffee-apple. However, she was a brave girl, and in the absence of a handkerchief she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and decided to make the best of it. But just at that moment, quite clearly and distinctly, the cat said:
‘It’s a better bargain than it looks, you know.’