Six Lives of Fankle the Cat (12 page)

“This lady is nothing to you. Stop that whispering. I'll tell your fathers when they come back with the fish at sunset.” The children only came closer.

The river gleamed between the reeds. Far off, fishermen called to hidden fishermen round the river-bend.

The Empress took a purse out of her bag. She said, “This is the happiest day, almost, of my life. I would like to give you something in memory of it, so that you won't be poor again until you die. I remember all your faces, though time has put beautiful traceries on each one.”

The old villagers were quite bewildered by this speech. They had never seen gold coins before; that bewildered them further; what bewildered them most of all was that the stranger, as she laid a large gold coin in each withered palm, murmured gently the name of the recipient: “Green-Fin” ... “Tide-Sparkle” ... “Silver-Scale” ... “Hook-in-the-Gut” ... She was putting an Imperial guinea in the hand of the smiling old man, and trying to remember his name, when he seized her fingers and cried, “Bat-ye! I think of the hand of Bat-ye every day. I would know Bat-ye's hand anywhere! Friends, our Bat-ye has come back to us!”

But what the children chanted, through strands of reed-music, was “Empress!” “Empress!” “Empress!”

“She doesn't
look
like the Empress,” said the smallest boy. “She looks just like the salt merchant's wife, in that grey coat.”

“Bat-ye” ... “Empress” ... “Bat-ye.” The fresh voices and the withered voices mingled under the sun, with notes of music.

“It's a wonderful day,” said another boy, who had been bathing. “A cat has told us a story. The Empress of the four kingdoms has come to visit our village.”

The mouths of the old ones were clustered like bees about the gold-shadowed fingers of the lady who had once plucked river-reeds. Their eyes brimmed with love and wonderment and remembrance.

The girl whose hands were full of blossoms went up to the Empress and threw them over her. Petals clung to her coat, the scent of water lilies drifted about her.

“My dear, dear friends,” said Bat-ye.

The children were still dancing round their guest when the first river boat returned, a lantern in her stern.

On the verge of the river a black cat yearned towards the smell of new-caught fish.

An old lady is busy in her house. She seems to be expecting visitors.

She has been baking. The room is full of good smells. A tray of little cakes – cheese cakes, pancakes, rock cakes – smokes fragrantly on the sideboard.

She has been
very
busy. One or two patches of her flagstone floor are still damp from the washing.

Now she is putting wild roses in a vase in the window where a bluebottle sings and bumps.

Important visitors they must be.

A small airplane flies overhead. The old lady goes to her open door. She looks up, shading her eyes against the sun. She waves her hand, cries a welcome. Her visitors are in the plane.

They have come, three shouting children, two boys and a girl. They come out of the taxi, burdened with cases, duffle bags, coats.

“Grandma!” they shout. “Thanks,” they shout. “We're here!” they shout.

The old lady enfolds them, one after the other. She has many smiles, but no words yet. “I'm Sam. That's Roger.” “And I'm Margaret.”

“Grandma, we've got presents for you.”

After pancakes and rhubarb jam and milk, and such confusions of words that only a little sense emerges, they want to be outside in the sunshine.

There are butterflies and birds and waves, and wild flowers among the green grass.

The children from the city laugh and shout in a distant field. A dog barks.

The grandmother gathers the dishes to the sink. The pancakes have been eaten, every one. The jam pot has been scoured clean. “I keep forgetting how hungry bairns get,” she says.

She gathers the dazed and battered bluebottle from its window-pane prison into a duster and releases it into the wind. “Stupid thing,” she says. “The door was open all the time.”

***

Sound of a sob at the corner of the house, a weary footdrag, a sniffle. (The world is full of pain, from infancy to age.)

Roger stands at the corner of the house, intent on stones. The day has been cruel to Roger.

The grandmother probes, gently, the source of the trouble. Was it Glen, the dog of Smedhurst? “Glen barks, and jumps up, but he likes bairns. Glen's an excitable dog. I'll take you to Smedhurst tomorrow. We'll make friends with Glen.”

Sam and Margaret are a mile away, on the hillside. Their voices come, green and clear, mixed with bleatings of sheep.

“Tell me this, Grandma, were you ever a little girl?”

“Oh yes, I was, a long, long time ago.”

“Where did you stay then, when you were little?”

“I stayed in this very house where we are now.”

“In Inquoy?”

“Yes, indeed, and my own father and grandmother were born and lived here before me.”

“That must be my great-great-grandmother. What was her name?”

“She was called Betsy. I remember her. She had cheeks like apples.”

“Can I have another bit of your toffee, please?”

“Just one more piece. I don't want you to be sick on the first night of your holiday.”

The voices of two children drift up from the shore, remote and blue and cold.

“Are you the oldest lady on the island, Grandma?”

“The second oldest. The oldest is Miss Tweeddale. But she's only three months older than me. Miss Tweeddale lives in that big house there against the sky.”

“Did you have a dog like Glen when you were little?”

“When I was peedie – that means small – there was a dog here at Inquoy called Robbie. He was old and lazy. I had a cat for a whole year.”

“What was the cat's name?”

“He was called Fankle. He was a beautiful cat, black as coal. His eyes were like diamonds.”

“Tell me all about Fankle, Grandma.”

“Oh dear, that would take all night, and you're far too tired. That's twice now you've yawned. Bedtime for you.”

“I didn't yawn. I was just stretching my mouth. I sometimes do that. Tell me about Fankle.”

“I'll tell you a few things. Fankle was found in the back of a grocery van, among sacks of potatoes. Fankle was a kitten. Mr Strynd found him. Mr Strynd was the general merchant in those days, a long time ago. He's dead now.”

“Did Mr Strynd not want to keep Fankle?”

“Oh no. Mr Strynd hated cats.”

“How did you come to own Fankle, Grandma?”

“Mr Strynd said, if I didn't take Fankle, he would drown Fankle in the millpond.”

“That was a terrible thing to say!”

“Wasn't it terrible? So I took Fankle home to Inquoy, that same day.”

“Did Fankle like being in this house?”

“Oh yes, he loved it. Well, most of the time. Sometimes he was in trouble. He couldn't resist fish. He would steal a fish from under your nose.”

“Did you give him a row then?”

“Not me. My mother would give him a row. That's your great-grandma. Fankle was scared whenever she shouted at him. She had a very sharp tongue. Fankle would leap in the air with terror. Fankle would cringe in the corner. Sometimes she would flick him with a dish towel.”

“You must have been very angry with him sometimes when he was bad.”

“Well, he sometimes disappeared for days on end. Then, when he came home at last, I'd give him a piece of my mind.”

“Fankle must have been a rather bad cat.”

“Oh no. Not at all. Certainly not. Most of the time he was good. He was very wise. He was the wisest cat I ever saw.”

“What did the wise cat do all day?”

“Well, he drank three saucers of milk a day. He got a dish with bits of fish on it. Not always fish – sometimes chopped liver, or chicken giblets. He slept a lot of the time in front of the fire. In summer he slept in the sun. He slept under the teacher's desk in the school.”

“Not much fun, just eating and sleeping, Grandma.”

“There's another enormous yawn! Bed for you, my boy.”

“I was stretching my mouth. I don't think I'd like a stupid cat that only ate and slept.”

“Ah but, Roger, you never saw Fankle catching the rat! That was something. A great monster of a grey rat, as big as himself. That rat, it destroyed everything my mother did, one summer. It even ate her knitting. She was so annoyed she got asthma. She didn't know what to do. Fankle saved the day. Fankle hunted the brute down.”

“What else did Fankle hunt?”

“Well, birds, sometimes. Starlings and sparrows. Once he tried to eat Mrs Crag's budgie. That was the wickedest thing he ever attempted. We won't speak about Fankle and the birds.”

“What happened to Fankle in the end?”

“What happens to all of us, he died. He was run over.”

“How was he run over?”

“Fankle was crossing the road one day. Round the corner came Mr Strynd's grocery van. Mr Strynd was in a hurry that day. He had a box of eggs and a box of cheese to put on board the
Thor. Thor
was the name of the steamer that went between the island and the town. Mr Strynd was late that day. The steamer was due to leave in five minutes. Round the corner came that old rusty chariot, in a cloud of dust and fumes. Fankle had no chance. Of course I knew nothing about it. I was at school. I remember, we were reading
Robinson Crusoe
in the school that afternoon. I've never liked
Robinson Crusoe
since that day. Well, I came home, and there was a small black heap on the doorstep, with streaks of grey and red on it. It took me a while to recognize Fankle. I thought at first he'd been hunting in the quarry and was asleep. It took me longer to realize Fankle was dead. When I saw my mother crying at the sink, I knew the thing on the doorstep was Fankle, and that Fankle wouldn't be telling any more stories again.”

“Did you cry, Grandma?”

“Yes, of course I did. I cried all that night. I was still crying in my sleep, my mother said.”

“Poor Grandma.”

“Poor you. If you stretch your mouth any more, you'll crack your face. Off with the shoes first. It's time your brother and sister were in. It's beginning to get dark.”

“I wish I'd known Fankle.”

“I have a photograph of him. I'll show you Fankle's photo in the morning. It's too dark now. He's buried under the cabbage patch, in a shoe box. Now, your jersey.”

“Did you cry for days and weeks, Grandma?”

“No, just that one night. Next morning I realized that Fankle wasn't dead at all.”

“The van went over him. He was put in a shoe box. He was buried under the cabbages.”

“He was. But you see, precious, cats have nine lives. And as far as I could gather, Fankle still had three to go.”

“Where is he now then?”

“I wish I knew. Some amazing place, you may be sure of that. Fankle always went where there was glamour and power and excitement. The thing that amazes me, Roger, is why he ever chose to come to a quiet poor place like this, and live for a year with a plain girl like Jenny ... You won't be getting a bath tonight, you're too tired. Now then, where are those pyjamas?”

The old woman is aware of two young flushed darkling faces at the window. The child sees nothing. He does not hear the twilight and star laughter. He is asleep, in his white pyjamas, curled up in his grandma's strawback chair.

Sam and Margaret come in.

“Who's Jenny, Grandma?” says Margaret. “Did you have trouble with that little wretch? Has he been snivelling for a long time? Little sniveller, frightened of a dog! I heard you saying a girl's name, Grandma – Jenny.”

“Roger has been a very good boy. I'm going to put him to his bed now. There's scones and raspberry jam for your supper.”

“Oh, goody gumdrops,” says Sam. “I'm
starving
.”

“Jenny? Jenny is the name of a girl that used to stay on this island – oh, a long long time ago.”

“We always get a story, Grandma, before we go to sleep. Don't we, Margaret?”

“Your mouth is all red with raspberry jam, glutton.”

“No, but don't we get a story at bedtime?”

“Sometimes.”

“
Always
. We always get a night story, Grandma. Mum tells us a story, or she reads a story. I don't think I could go to sleep if I didn't get a story.”

“It's many a long day since I told a story, child. When I was a girl, like Margaret, my life was all stories. Not now. I'm just an old woman who potters about.”

“Grandma, listen to Roger snoring next door. Give him a row for that in the morning.”

“A story. A story. I demand a story.”

“Well, I may try. I'll light this candle first. Candlelight makes a story sound better. Are you ready? There was this little boy called Lentil-soup and one day when he was out picking blackberries on the hill he saw a small green man standing before him. Lentil-soup knew that the creature was a fairy. The fairy said to Lentil-soup, ‘Give us a few of your blackberries to make a pie.' Lentil-soup answered –”

“Is it going to be a fairy story, Grandma?”

“Of course it is, you idiot. Didn't you hear Grandma mentioning a fairy? Don't interrupt.”

“I don't want fairy stories. What do you think I am, a kid? None of that fairy rubbish for me.”

“What kind of story do you want then, Sam?”

“Pay no attention to him, Grandma. I'm going to write and tell mum about him in the morning. I will.”

“I like science fiction. I like stories about space flight and the stars.”

“Mercy, bairn, what does an old woman know about such things!”

“Just try, Grandma. Then I'll be good and get your messages from the village in the morning.”