The Little Broomstick

  He peered at her now from under the brim.

  Mary, remembering the broken chrysanthemum, approached him a little nervously, holding out the purple flower.

  'Do you know what this is, please?' she asked, hesitating. 'I found it in the wood. I've never seen anything like it before.'

  Zebedee's bright eyes regarded her. He did not seem to be bearing any malice about the broken plant. He chuckled.

  'Aye. It do grow in the wood, surely. Though I've not laid eye to it for many a year. Where did you get it?'

  'Not far from the path. Actually, the cat found it.'

  'The cat?' repeated Zebedee. 'Oh, aye.'

  The little black cat looked at him, aloofly, and began to wash a whisker.

  'What's he called?' asked Mary.

  'The cat? Or the flower?'

  'The–well, both, actually.'

  Old Zebedee began to stir the contents of the bucket again.

  'He don't come to the house much, the cat,' he said. 'He don't rightly belong here; he just came in one day, out of the wood. I calls him Tib.'

  'Tib,' said Mary, experimenting.

  The cat stopped washing for a moment, flicked her a glance, and then went on massaging his ear.

  'Two on 'em, there was,' said Zebedee. 'Black 'un and grey, but the same size, same eyes, and like as two peas. Tib and Gib, I called them.'

  'I haven't seen a grey one.'

  'Likely he's settled in the village.' Zebedee nodded.

  "Tis a way cats have, pick a good home and settle there, and nothing can shift 'em. I seen the pair of 'em last week, side by side on the Vicarage wall in the dark, like a couple o' gillihowlets.'

  'A couple of what?'

  'Church owls, you'd call 'em. Barn owls. I reckon they be twins. Tib and Gib, I calls 'em.'

  Mary glanced at Tib. He had stopped washing and was sitting perfectly still, watching her. His eyes looked greener than ever.

  'I do hope he stays here!' she said. 'Tib, you will stay with me, won't you? They don't belong to the Vicarage, do they, Zebedee? Perhaps if I went and asked–'

  'Cats doesn't belong,' said Zebedee. 'They goes where they wants to. Gib-cat's keeping the Vicar's kitchen warm, I reckon, but this little black 'un been haunting the garden here regular now for days.

  Mebbe he'll settle here now he's got company.'

  'But what about Confucius? Miss Marshbanks says he doesn't like cats.'

  Zebedee gave that wheezy laugh that seemed to whistle through his lungs like wind through faraway trees. 'Never a dog yet that could so much as stare out a cat,' he said. 'And that Tib-cat could stare out a King, I reckon.'

  'Well, if he'll stay, he and I can go and look for Gib tomorrow,' said Mary. 'It'll be something to–I'll enjoy doing that. And he seems pretty good at finding things. Did you say you knew the name of the flower?'

  Zebedee dug in the bucket with his stick. He chuckled again.

  'First time as ye goes into the wood,' he said, 'and ye finds it. I mind my Dad telling me how folks used to come far and wide to gather it in Redmanor woods; years back, that'd be, when chemists and doctors and such wasn't to be found on every bush, and country folks made their own simples.' He peered, nodding at the stem of blossom. 'Aye, that's her, a rare one, surely, and sought for high and low.

  'Tis the only place she grows, they say, and she only flowers once in seven years.'

  Mary stared at him.

  'Only once in seven years?'

  'Aye. A rare one, surely.'

  'What did the–the folk use it for?' asked Mary.

  Old Zebedee shook his head and stirred the pail again. 'Potions and powders–that I couldn't say. But the word went that there was magic in her.'

  'Magic?'

  'It be but a tale, a country tale,' said Zebedee. 'The flower, she be in the books, likely enough, with a grand name as long as your arm, and foreign at that.

  But with her flowering at the seventh year, and at the time when the other flowers is dying–well, superstitious folks called her magic. And 'tis said that in the olden days the witches sought her from the corners of the Black Mountains, and from the place where the old city was and there's now naught but a pool o' water.'

  The words fell queerly in the clean, everyday scullery, with bright packets of soap powder on a shelf, and a rack of aluminium pans above them, and with the late pale shaft of the sun falling across the scrubbed floor.

  Mary stared down at the flowers clustered on the slender stem, and in the small draught from the door the purple heads stirred, and the golden tongues moved in the silver throats.

  'A magic flower…" She touched a pistil gently with a forefinger. 'Look, Zebedee, the gold comes off …What's the flower's name?'

  'I told you,' said the old man. 'I don't know the name in the books, and folks don't hunt her now the way they used to, but when I was a lad she had names a-plenty–dragon-tongue, witch's bells, tibsroot–'

  'Tibsroot!' cried Mary. 'That's the cat! Tib! He found it for me!'

  Zebedee chuckled again. 'Likely he's a witch's cat,' he said indulgently. 'He do look like one, surely. That be why I called him Tib. Likely his name's only Blackie or Smuts or Sooty, after all.'

  'He looks like a Tib,' said Mary stoutly. 'And I'm sure he's a magic cat. Look how he found the magic flower for me–the tibsroot.'

  That's one name for it,' said Zebedee. 'I calls it fly-by-night.'

  'Why?'

  But he would not answer, and when she questioned him, he only stirred his bucket so violently that at last she said, 'What's in the bucket, Zebedee?'

  'Pollard for the hens,' he said shortly. 'Nasty critters. Nasty mean pecking critters, hens. I hates hens.'

  And, picking up his bucket, he stumped out of the scullery.

  Mary watched him go, then turned to look for Tib.

  But the scullery was empty, and when she ran to the back door to peer out into the yard, that was empty, too.

  The little black cat had vanished.

  It was late that night, when Mary had been in bed for some time, and when she should certainly have been asleep, that the queer thing happened.

  She had woken, drowsy and warm from her first sleep, and was just turning over towards the window, when she heard it.

  Distant, over the trees. A swish like the swoop of wind.

  'That's funny,' thought Mary. 'There isn't any wind. There must be a storm coming. What a pity, when I was going with Tib tomorrow–'

  The noise came again, louder, nearer.

  A long shrill rush of wind, with a whistle in it, and all along the wall of the house the Virginia creeper swished as if giant fingers had swept along it, and the windows rattled.

  Mary stiffened, her skin tingling.

  Then, suddenly, the scream.

  A thud, and the scream checked as if the screamer had bitten through his tongue.

  Silence.

  And as Mary, with every inch of her flesh crawling with goose-pimples, sat slowly up in bed, staring at the window, there came a faint scrabbling noise on the sill.

  Rigid with fright, she sat motionless, then slowly, slowly reached out a hand to the switch of the bedside light.

  She found it, took a deep breath, and pressed it.

  The room sprang into light, and the black sky outside the window drew back. But something, black as the night sky, moved upon the windowsill.

  Something tapped and scrabbled at the window. Two eyes glared…

  Mary's breath went out in a great sigh of relief as she flung herself out of bed and towards the window.

  'Tib! Tib! Oh, Tib, what a fright you gave me!'

  She threw open the bottom of the window, and the little black cat leaped into the room. Ignoring Mary, he stalked into the middle of the carpet and stood there, his tail lashing, his fur stiff with fury, his eyes as bright as traffic-lights.

  Mary bent over him.

  Tib, what's the matter? What's happened?'

  Tib took no notice of her. His fur still bristled l
ike a hearth-brush; the green eyes still glared at the window. Mary switched off the light, then went back to the window and stared out into the dark garden.

  The trees were a dim shadowed huddle beyond the lawn. The hanging clouds above them had withdrawn a little, to show, beyond, a faint inlay of silver star-dust. The air was motionless. Two storeys below, on the darkness of the lawn, nothing stirred.

  It had only been a gust of wind, after all.

  And the thud, the scream? Mary closed the window and, picking up Tib, began to smooth his angry fur. A cat-fight, probably. They did scream, terribly, when they fought. Perhaps Gib had come back, and they had had a quarrel. Even twins quarrelled sometimes. Jenny and Jeremy certainly did.

  'We'll find him tomorrow, and then you'll have to make it up,' she told Tib.

  She climbed into bed then, and Tib, purring suddenly, curled warm and soft against her.

  Just as the two of them were settling down to sleep together, Mary thought of something. Tib,' she said, whispering in the dark against the velvet fur, 'Tib. How did you get up there on my window-sill?'

  Tib, settling a purring nose among his curled black paws, did not reply.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One Misty, Moisty Morning…

  The morning, again, was grey. The clouds, which during the night had shifted so beautifully away from the stars, had closed again, and the dahlias hung heavy scarlet heads in the still air.

  Mary could see them from the breakfast-room window, deep red against the cypress hedge. Tib, who had come downstairs with her, was not interested in the dahlias. He had demanded–and received–a saucer of milk, which Mary rather guiltily hoped he would finish before Miss Marjoribanks came down to breakfast. Great-Aunt Charlotte, who never fussed about anything, always breakfasted in her bedroom.

  'Hurry, Tib, please,' whispered Mary.

  But Tib was enjoying his breakfast, and was not going to hurry for anyone. His small pink tongue took up the milk in the daintiest, tiniest laps imaginable, all from the very edge of the saucer. And at least a quarter of every lap–Mary noticed with dismay–was going over on to the floor.

  Miss Marjoribanks' voice sounded briskly from the doorway. 'Good morning, my dear. Have you had your breakfast?'

  Mary jumped and turned. Tib took no notice, except to lap a little more milk on to the floor.

  'Good morning, Miss Marjoribanks. No, not yet.'

  'Marshbanks,' said that lady crisply. 'Well, come along, sit down. We'll have it together.' Apparently she hadn't noticed Tib and his saucer. She moved briskly towards the head of the table. All her movements as a rule were as brisk and decided as her speech, but Mary noticed, as she followed her to the table, that there was a certain air of carefulness this morning in the way Miss Marjoribanks walked which indicated an unusual stiffness of the joints.

  Indeed, Miss Marjoribanks sat down with what could only be called the most extreme caution. Then she poured out tea, and they began breakfast.

  Great-Aunt Charlotte's companion was the very opposite of her friend and employer, both in manner and appearance. She was rather small and thin, but she was alert, decisive, talkative and–it must be admitted–rather managing. She managed the housekeeper, the Bankses, and the tradespeople. She managed Great-Aunt Charlotte, who was fat and placid and easy-going. She even managed the Vicar of Redmanor, though it could not truthfully be said that she managed the Vicar's wife. She did not manage old Zebedee, the gardener, because she never met him; when he saw her coming he faded, like a zebra or a deer or a stick insect, into the landscape.

  And Mary suspected that she would find it difficult to manage Tib, the witch's cat.

  Tib, who had finished his milk now, drew Miss Marjoribanks' attention to it by thanking Mary politely, and then jumping on to the window seat where, with the utmost self-possession, he began to wash his face.

  And Miss Marjoribanks, far from looking cross, was eyeing him uneasily–almost (thought Mary) nervously.

  'That cat,' she said sharply, 'does not belong to the house. How did it get in?'

  Tib looked at Mary. Mary decided to respect his confidence.

  'I had him in my room,' she said truthfully. 'He must have come into the house in the night.'

  Miss Marjoribanks looked at Tib again, and Tib resumed his washing in an odiously detached manner. The expression on his face could only be described as a smirk. Miss Marjoribanks looked away, and moved uneasily in her chair.

  'I'm sure,' she said, 'that your Great-Aunt Charlotte would not like it, dear, your having a cat in your bedroom. But perhaps–'–she paused over her scrambled egg and turned her sharp, pale-blue gaze on Mary–'perhaps you are a little lonely here, with just a lot of old people?'

  Mary began, politely, to protest, but Miss Marjoribanks cut her short.

  'Of course you are! And it's quite understandable, my dear, quite understandable; this is not a house for children. Not for a child on her own, that is–though for & family of you there would no doubt be plenty to do …places to explore, and so on.' She nodded kindly at Mary. 'Such a pity the Vicar is away on holiday now. It would have been splendid for you to have a playmate …such a beautiful garden, too, and goes right down to the river.'

  It seemed a little odd to Mary (remembering the nice, silver-haired old clergyman who had taken matins last Sunday) that even Miss Marjoribanks should consider him a suitable playmate for a ten-year-old, but Miss Marjoribanks obviously knew very little about children, and was just as obviously trying to be kind, so Mary said nothing. Then suddenly she remembered what Zebedee had told her about the two cats on the Vicarage wall. Perhaps Tib and Gib belonged there, and had come wandering over here to find food? Perhaps Gib was still out in the woods, alone and hungry? She glanced at Tib, to see that he had stopped washing, and was watching her attentively, as if he could follow her thoughts.

  'Is the Vicarage empty, then?' she asked.

  'Oh, no,' said Miss Marjoribanks. 'No, indeed.

  Old Mr Spenser–whom you saw on Sunday–is living there while the Vicar and his family are away.

  The poor Vicar can't just go away for a holiday and leave his parish, you know. He has to find someone to take the services for him.'

  'Oh, I see.' Mary fastened on the one thing that mattered. 'There are children, then?'

  'One–a son. Peter. About your age, I think. Such a pity,' said Miss Marjoribanks again, 'that they're away.'

  'When will they be back?'

  'That I cannot say, my dear. But perhaps I can find out today. Which brings me to what I had to tell you.'

  She set down her cup and began to roll up her table napkin. 'Today your great-aunt and I have promised to go and see an old, old friend. An old, old friend,'

  she added, to make this quite clear. 'And it is a longstanding engagement, so I am afraid that you will be left quite alone today.'

  'I shall be all right,' said Mary. 'I'll play with Tib, and help in the garden, and–and things.'

  The companion patted her hand. 'Tomorrow we will think out something for you. We will go somewhere …something …a picnic, perhaps?' Her eye lingered doubtfully on the grey autumn sky.

  But Mary caught at the suggestion with pleasure.

  'Could I? Could I do that today, Miss Marjori–Marshbanks, please? I could go into the woods, and it would be lovely if I had my lunch with me. And even if there's no sun today, it's very warm! Could I, please?'

  Miss Marjoribanks considered for a moment. 'I don't see why not,' she said at length. 'Though September–but so warm, even stuffy–yes, of course you may, dear child. I shall speak to Mrs McLeod and she will give you some sandwiches. As long as you don't go too far and get lost–'

  'I shan't do that,' said Mary. 'But I've been wanting to explore the woods.' She suddenly remembered the purple 'fly-by-night', which was standing in a tooth-glass in her bedroom. Perhaps Miss Marjoribanks knew its real name. 'I found–' she began, but at this moment Great-Aunt Charlotte came in, and the sentence stayed in midair.


  'Dear child,' said Great-Aunt Charlotte comfortably, kissing her. 'How are you this morning?'

  Mary admitted that she was much the same as yesterday.

  'And did you sleep well?' asked Great-Aunt Charlotte, in the calm, flat voice of the very deaf.

  'Very well, thank you, Aunt Charlotte. I woke up once–'

  'What woke you?' asked Miss Marjoribanks sharply. Mary was startled at her tone.

  'Oh, a noise–a cat-fight, I think,' she said, and Miss Marjoribanks sat back, apparently satisfied.

  'And an awful thump,' added Mary.

  'A lump?' said Great-Aunt Charlotte. 'In your bed? Oh dear, that will never do. I wonder if another mattress–'

  'Not a lump, Aunt Charlotte, a thump!' said Mary loudly.

  'Yes dear, I know. Such a pity. There's nothing more annoying than a lumpy bed,' said Great-Aunt Charlotte.

  At this moment further explanations were prevented by the entry into the breakfast-room, wheezing and waddling, of Great-Aunt Charlotte's elderly and–we might as well admit it–rather unpleasant dog, Confucius.

  And–at one and the same moment–Confucius saw Tib, and Tib saw Confucius.

  'Oh dear!' said Great-Aunt Charlotte, making an ineffectual grab for Confucius.

  'Oh dear me!' cried Miss Marjoribanks, starting to rise briskly from her chair, then, with a wince, rising rather slowly.

  'Oh!' cried Mary, who did not care at all for Confucius, but a good deal for Tib.

  But nobody need have worried. Tib, the witch's cat, merely gave the Pekingese what will have to be described as A Look, and Confucius, who had darted forward, slobbering with pleasure and excitement, stopped short, remembered that he had a pressing engagement somewhere quite different, and went out with what was supposed to be careless dignity, but looked like a hasty shuffle.

  Tib smirked, tidied away a whisker, and suggested to Mary that she should open the window to let him take his morning stroll across the lawn.

  So it came about that soon after Great-Aunt Charlotte and her companion had driven away to visit the old, old friend, Mary, with sandwiches in her coat pocket, went out into the garden to look for Tib and Zebedee.

  Tib was nowhere to be seen, but she found Zebedee straight away. He was wheeling a barrow along between the lawn and the side of the house.