‘Father!’ called Calidor. ‘I pushed a great, grownup tabby right out of Cat Country, honest I did. But I don’t like getting my paws wet,’ he added plaintively.
The rain was pouring down now. ‘Let’s go and shelter in the bicycle shed!’ said John.
John and Rosemary sat on the rack which in the daytime held the bicycles, and Carbonel perched himself on the saddle of a machine that for some reason someone had forgotten to collect. Calidor strutted around, still full of excitement over his part in the fight, and singing a rather conceited little song. They were joined by Woppit, who had an indignant Pergamond beside her. The old cat had refused to let her join in, and together they had watched from the safety of a distant chimney pot. Merbeck was there, too. He had to be supported by Tudge because he was so exhausted.
The rain drummed on the tin roof above them, but nobody noticed it. Carbonel listened in silence to the long story. His golden eyes moved from one to another as they took up the tale in turn. When the threat to Blandamour and the kittens was told, his ears flattened and his tail lashed angrily. But when Rosemary opened the matchbox on the palm of her hand and the minute white cat stepped delicately out, he did not know whether to growl in fury or purr with pleasure that Blandamour was at least safe. In the end he did neither, and his tiny wife stretched up and licked his nose with a tongue which was no larger than the petal of a scarlet pimpernel, but was none the less loving for that. Carbonel’s eyes were troubled. Even Miss Dibdin, whom John had put down on the paving stones beside him, still inside the potted meat jar in case someone should tread on her, seemed to fill the Cat King with grave concern.
‘There is much to think about in your story,’ said Carbonel. ‘Two things only are clear; first that my family and the cats of my kingdom can never pay the debt we owe to John and Rosemary.’
Rosemary blushed a rosy red and John made embarrassed noises in his throat.
‘Secondly,’ went on Carbonel, ‘Mrs Cantrip must be curbed and the magic undone once and for all. But it has been a long night for all of us. Tomorrow we will meet again.’
‘In the Green Cave after breakfast?’ suggested John. Carbonel nodded.
‘And until then I leave my dear Blandamour in your charge.’
‘I’ve thought of the very place!’ said Rosemary. ‘My old doll’s house, and Miss Dibdin can keep her company!’
31
The Final Magic
When John and Rosemary reached home again, the rain had stopped, and the rising sun gilded the wet streets and roofs of Cranshaw Road as though they were made of beaten gold. They were too sleepy to do anything when they crept indoors except pull Rosemary’s old doll’s house out from the bottom of her wardrobe. She had not played with it for years, as was clear from the jumble of furniture inside. However, she put the bed on its feet again and made it as comfortable as she was able with folded handkerchiefs. Released from the potted meat jar, Miss Dibdin, still in a dazed condition, climbed gratefully in and Blandamour curled up beside her. The two miniature creatures seemed to find comfort in each other’s company.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ yawned John as they latched the front of the little house, ‘but I found it quite difficult to hear Carbonel talking last night. His voice seemed faint and far away.’
‘Just because we’re so tired, I expect,’ said Rosemary. ‘Come on, let’s go to bed.’
They slept late that morning, but they woke as refreshed as if the night’s adventure had been nothing but a dream.
After breakfast Rosemary tidied up the doll’s house. She gave Blandamour a tiny piece of fish and half a thimbleful of milk, and from her own breakfast she saved a piece of bacon the size of a postage stamp for Miss Dibdin, and a crumb of bread and butter. She even made her some tea in a doll’s house teacup with a single tea leaf.
‘Let’s take the whole caboodle down to the Green Cave,’ said John, so they carried it down between them.
Raindrops still glistened like diamonds on the leaves of the currant bushes. Carbonel was already there, sitting on the biscuit tin, and Merbeck with Tudge, who seemed to have taken on himself the job of personal attendant to the old Councillor. Calidor and Pergamond played about among the fallen leaves, with Woppit sitting at a respectful distance. The leaves of the currant bushes were beginning to change to yellow and orange.
Carbonel studied the doll’s house with great interest.
‘A palace for my lovely Queen, and conjured up at a moment’s notice! That is the sort of little attention I appreciate,’ he said.
‘Did all the Broomhurst cats go back?’ asked John.
‘They went,’ said Carbonel grimly. ‘A rain-soaked, shamefaced collection! There will be no more trouble with them. My old friend Castrum, the husband of Grisana, was so deeply ashamed of his wife’s wickedness that he has given up his throne to his son Gracilis. He will make a fine ruler. He is a bachelor, but some day we hope, his father and I, that Pergamond –’
‘Your voice is awfully faint, Carbonel,’ said John. ‘We can hardly hear you speak. What is happening?’
‘The power of the red mixture is wearing off. You can take another spoonful, but not until the power of the first has entirely worn off. You had better bring the bottle with you.’
‘Bring it with us? Where to?’ asked Rosemary.
‘Fairfax Market,’ said Carbonel. ‘We have work to do. Firstly the minuscule magic must be undone. A wife who fits into a matchbox, though in many ways exquisitely beautiful, is a little inconvenient, and I dare say the little human –’
A torrent of tiny twittering came from Miss Dibdin, which they took to mean that she, too, disliked being no larger than a fountain pen.
‘Secondly,’ went on Carbonel, ‘although Mrs Cantrip has no more magic left, she is so set in her wicked ways that she will go on making mischief for someone for the rest of her life unless something is done.’
‘Wait a minute while I get Miss Dibdin’s travelling jar,’ said Rosemary.
There was a further agitated twittering from Miss Dibdin. Rosemary put her head as far as she was able into the doll’s house. By standing on the tiny table, the little creature was just tall enough to reach Rosemary’s ear, and by shouting as loudly as she could, she managed to make herself understood.
‘Not a potted meat jar,’ Miss Dibdin said indignantly. ‘So undignified!’
Rosemary ran back to the flat and returned with a green glass jar with a bow around the neck that had once contained bath salts. Carrying the jar with Miss Dibdin, and the matchbox with Blandamour curled inside, John and Rosemary headed the procession for Fairfax Market.
‘Perhaps it would help if we found something to keep Mrs Cantrip busy,’ said Rosemary. ‘Then she wouldn’t have time for much mischief.’
They had just reached the house as she spoke.
‘It looks as though she’s been pretty busy already,’ said John.
The lace curtains were gone from the window. Over the top, on a board which had been newly nailed, was some wobbly lettering, the paint still wet. It read:
K. CANTRIP, GREENGROCER
By Special Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen.
Displayed below was a box lid full of nettles and another of dandelions, a tray full of clumps of whitish stalks which might have been celery but which Rosemary suspected were hemlock. There were one or two jam jars containing a dark brown substance labelled HENBANE HONEY, and a soup plate full of toadstools of every colour of the rainbow supported a notice which said, ‘Try them with bacon.’