‘In Broomhurst Town we want to find
The tallest roof, if you don’t mind.
We’ll sit as quiet as anything,
And ever more your praises sing.’
Higher and higher swung the chair, and as Rosemary repeated the rhyme for the third time, it rose smoothly from the ground, up into the moon-washed air. It spiralled high above Cranshaw Road, then turned sharply in the direction of Broomhurst.
‘Yoicks! Tally ho!’ shouted John, bouncing up and down on the seat. ‘This is simply wonderful!’
Rosemary’s plaits streamed behind with their speed. Below them lay the sleeping town, a huddle of silver roofs. Or were they roofs? The sharp angles of gables and chimneys seemed softened in the moonlight.
‘If I didn’t know they were roofs I should think they were hills and valleys,’ shouted John above the wind.
‘So would I!’ agreed Rosemary. ‘Those moving dots must be cats!’
They were flying high now, following the string of pale green street lights that lit the main road to Broomhurst like a string of precious stones. As if uncertain of its way the chair swooped down, casting uncomfortably this way and that at the edge of the town.
‘That’s the way!’ said John pointing to the left. ‘I can see the lane leading to Figg’s Bottom, and there are the newly built houses! That’s the one I hid in! Good heavens, they’ve built a lot since yesterday! Good old rocking chair!’
The chair had risen sharply again after turning obediently in the direction of John’s pointing finger.
‘What if we can’t find which is the tallest building?’ called John. ‘We can’t measure them!’
Far away, a clock chimed midnight.
‘Oh, do hurry, dear chair!’ said Rosemary, and the chair redoubled its speed.
Fortunately there was no mistaking the tallest building. Until recently, Broomhurst had been a sleepy, old-fashioned little town like Fallowhithe. The coming of new industries had brought new life and new ways. So far, only a small section near the railway station had been modernized. There was a department store and a hospital, as well as flats and office buildings. The old-fashioned roof tops which looked like foothills huddled around the base of the mountainous new buildings, the tallest of which was undoubtedly a block of offices. A breeze had sprung up, and little clouds were scudding across the face of the moon.
‘Bother!’ said Rosemary. ‘Now we can’t see properly!’
‘It’s not a bad thing really,’ said John. ‘It may give us more chance of landing without being spotted. The old chair ought to –’
Rosemary nudged him sharply.
He added hastily, ‘I mean if the dear rocking chair would kindly circle around so we can spot a good landing place, when the moon is covered, we could land without being seen. It’s after twelve, so Mrs Cantrip will have arrived. Even if they have posted cats as sentries, they will be off their guard because they won’t expect anyone else.’
Already the chair was circling the building.
‘That looks like a good place!’ said John. ‘Behind that ventilator shaft. The moon is just going behind a cloud. Now!’
The chair rose sharply, then with a sickening swoop dropped toward the ventilator shaft, which seemed to spin up toward them as they swung down.
‘We will make such a clatter when we land that everyone will hear for miles!’ thought Rosemary desperately, and she closed her eyes, waiting for the shock.
The chair landed fair and square on its rockers, with a jolt that shook the teeth in their heads. Oddly enough, it was a silent landing. The two children climbed out rather shakily. The rocking chair still swayed slightly, as if it were out of breath. The moonlight flooded the sky once more and illuminated the roof top.
‘But these aren’t slates and chimneys!’ said John looking at the soft grass at his feet. ‘I thought this was a ventilator shaft, but it’s nothing of the sort. It’s a tree!’
‘Cat Country!’ said Rosemary softly. ‘That’s what Carbonel called it. Hush! I can hear someone talking!’
12
Conspiracy
John put a restraining hand on Rosemary’s arm.
‘It may be Cat Country, but they are enemy cats. We can’t rush in without spying out the land first!’
Rosemary nodded. Then she turned to the rocking chair.
‘Chair, dear! Thank you for bringing us so splendidly!’ she whispered.
‘Yes, rather!’ said John. ‘Almost as good as a jet.’
‘And much, much more quietly!’ added Rosemary quickly. ‘Wait for us, chair. I don’t think anyone will see you tucked away here. We won’t be long, at least I hope not.’
‘Come on!’ said John. ‘Bother, it’s gone dark again.’
They waited till the trailing wisp of cloud had drifted across the face of the moon and the silver light flooded out. The tree they had thought was a ventilator shaft seemed to have redoubled its size. The trunk was wide and strong and scored with the claw sharpenings of innumerable cats. Crouching on the little bank where the tree grew, they peered through tall grass and catnip which grew thickly along the top. On the other side, the bank sloped steeply down to a little hollow from which a stream bubbled. It chuckled along, winding and weed-fringed, toward a thicket of slender trees, where it disappeared underground, still talking to itself.
‘It doesn’t look like water. It’s white,’ said Rosemary.
But John was not listening. ‘If this is Cat Country, it’s funny there isn’t a cat to be seen!’ he said.
‘There are the voices again!’ whispered Rosemary.
‘Cross voices they sound, too!’ said John. ‘That’s where they come from, that little clump of trees. Come on. We’d better not take any risks, even if we can’t see any cats. Keep your head down and follow me!’
The ground was broken by low patches of undergrowth. Crouching low, they crept down the bank and made their way in a series of little runs from bush to bush. When they reached the last one large enough to hide behind, they were within easy reach of the trees. Rosemary was just going to stretch her cramped back when John pulled her down again.
‘Look at that rock a few feet away!’ he breathed. Rosemary looked. On the top, sitting so still that he might have been part of it, was a cat. His eyes were the merest slits of emerald green. As they looked, the slits disappeared altogether. His eyes were closed. At the same time, a second cat leaped up on to the rock beside him. Instantly the green eyes opened wide.
‘It’s all right, Noggin!’ said the first cat hurriedly. ‘I was only having a little think, and I can always do it better with my eyes closed.’
‘No good sentry thinks,’ growled Noggin. ‘I suppose, like all the others I’ve just inspected, you were thinking there’s no need to keep your eyes open because the Flying Women are here. Well, you’re wrong! There may be two more about, enemy ones, a Flying Boy and a Flying Girl.’ John nudged Rosemary. ‘Her Royal Greyness has just sent word.’
‘I don’t hold with humans in Cat Country,’ said Swabber sulkily. ‘It’s never been done before, and I don’t like it.’
‘No more than I do,’ said Noggin. ‘But orders is orders. And if the next sentry is “thinking”, I’ll just pull his whiskers for him!’
Still grumbling, Noggin slipped silently off the rock and loped away across the moonlit grass.
Swabber waited until he was out of sight, and muttering something about ‘a lot of fuss’, curled up and promptly went to sleep.