Lionboy (16 page)

“Yes, I know, I’m very unusual, sorry,” said Charlie. “But please. Just for a moment, then we can drop you on the bank and you can regain your own boat later when it comes up. Please, come now, please.”

The tabby gave him a very baleful stare, but her curiosity overcame her (cats are very curious, as you may know), and she was not too proud to leap from the roof to one of the circusship’s fenders, which she caught with her claws before easing herself elegantly over the side, with a grace that suggested it had been no effort whatsoever, and whoever thought it had been was simply rude.

“And your point is?” she said.

Charlie, with great courtesy and some charming compliments (because he had read somewhere that French people are gallant) explained that he desperately needed to hear if there was any talk or gossip on the canal about a pair of English humans, one black, one white, one male, one female, who had been stolen away and taken to Paris, in a submarine.

“You look like a lady who would know everything that was worth knowing, mademoiselle,” he said suavely.

“I look like a monsieur,” she replied. “You said so yourself.”

“I was momentarily blinded,” he replied, which was a phrase he had heard his father use once when he mistook a cardinal in his fine scarlet robes for a beautiful lady in a red dress. “Confused by your glamour.” He seriously hoped that it was all right to say this sort of thing to a French canal cat. It had gone down fine with the cardinal, but you never can tell how those people you don’t know are going to take things.

The cat laughed. (A cat’s laugh is quite something—especially a French one.)

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I do know everything. Are you the boy?”

Charlie looked around. “I’m
a
boy,” he agreed cautiously.

“But are you
the
boy?” the tabby asked again.

“In what sense?” asked Charlie. He really didn’t know if he was
the
boy, from the cat’s point of view, and he didn’t want to claim to be some boy that he wasn’t.

“The boy who has lost his parents and is following in search of them.”

Ah.
That
boy.

“Yes,” said Charlie, “I think I must be. I mean, I have lost my parents and I am following in search of them.”

The cat looked at him with sympathy.

“They are way ahead. They’ll be there tomorrow morning easily, I heard.”

“Tomorrow morning!” Charlie wanted to swear, but he remembered his father telling him that one reason you shouldn’t swear is because then when you
really
needed a strong word to express a strong feeling, you would have none strong enough left. But tomorrow morning! If they were that far ahead, how could he ever find them in Paris? He was days behind them! Would the cats there know to keep track of them? How would he get any more news?

Charlie was a brave boy and quite a tough one, tougher than he thought he was, but when he heard this bad news he sat down on a coil of rope and tears sprang to his eyes. In this moment of disappointment, thoughts that so far he had managed to keep away from himself began to sneak into his mind. Thoughts like “How are they feeling?” And “Are they worrying about me?” And “How could anyone ever have overpowered my great strong dad in the first place?” And “When will I see them again?” And even—“
Will
I see them again?”

The deck was quiet because most people had gone in to eat, but even so he was not, not,
not
going to cry anywhere anyone might see him. He jumped up to rush into the ropelocker, but as he did so Mademoiselle Cat, in a sudden burst of pity, said: “Don’t worry—everybody is looking for them. Everybody will help you. Everyone knows the story.”

Charlie looked up, blinking. “What story?” he asked.

Mademoiselle Cat twitched her whiskers and said, “The story of your parents. Who they are.”

“What is their story?” said Charlie. He had a sudden very strong feeling that this story might fill in the gaps for him—why they had been taken, by whom, maybe even where to. “Tell me,” he said urgently. “Tell me!”

“If you don’t know,” said Mademoiselle Cat, “then maybe you are not the boy . . .” She looked doubtful rather than suspicious, but even so Charlie was now filled with a burning need to hear this story immediately. How could he find and rescue them if he didn’t know everything there was to know?

“Tell me,” he said furiously. “I have to know. They’re my parents. What’s the story?”

“I can’t say,” she said, quietly. “Just because . . . in case . . . but if you are you, don’t be afraid.” Before Charlie could stop her, she leaped swiftly from the deck of the circusship into the water.

“Come back!” shouted Charlie, not caring now who saw him yelling in Cat from the deck. “Come back! Cats don’t swim! Come back!”

But she didn’t. Charlie stared furiously after her, then furiously kicked a pile of coiled ropes, knocking them over and earning himself an earful from the sailor who had just coiled them up. Charlie didn’t even hear him. He was livid.

If you’re you, don’t be afraid.

Well, of course he was he, and of course he was afraid: He’d just been told his parents would be in Paris long before him and he’d probably lose them, and there was some great mystery going on, about
his
mum and dad, which he, apparently, was the only person not to know, and now some blooming cat was suggesting that he wasn’t even himself.

“Rats!” he shouted—which gave the cross sailor a shock, and sent him scurrying off, saying: “Where? Where? I’ll get my gun; I must tell the cook . . .”

Charlie leaned over the side, scratching his head—it seemed ages ago that his mum had cut his hair, and his beautiful crocodiles were growing out already—and staring out over France. Gradually his anger slipped away, leaving only one question in his mind: Should he try to leave the circusboat and get to Paris quicker by some other means?

It didn’t take long to realize that this idea was not a keeper. For a start, what other means? Unless he was intending to ride a tall silvery tree into Paris, he’d be walking, because the floating circus was the fastest craft on the canal, and there was nobody using the path at all—let alone anybody in a nice quick gas-powered car. And then—he had promised the lions, and he didn’t break promises, and even if he were the kind of person who did, he didn’t think breaking promises to lions could ever be a good idea. No, he’d just have to bite his lip and continue gliding up this wide and windy river.

Charlie knew that worrying about something you can’t change is pointless, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was miserable about his parents. He didn’t think he could bear this delay.

All the next few days, as he fetched and carried, swept and yanked, tipped out drugged water and filled it up with clean, he pondered the two questions: Lion Escape and Parental Mystery. Lion Escape was easier to think about, because it had some answers, and it didn’t make him want to cry. So he chatted innocently to everyone about the Show, and who would be where, and what happened when; and he wandered the ship, looking for ways on and off, for gangplanks and hatches that would give easy access to the shore.

The public gangplank was on the starboard side of the ship: It was broad and open and led to the grand staircase down to the foyer and the big top. Could they make it along the public gangplank? Perhaps, if they ran during the show—say after the lions did their act but before the show was over—because nobody would be there. Perhaps they should go in the dead of night—but with Maccomo sleeping in the lionchamber, Charlie didn’t like their chances. No, it seemed to Charlie that the time to run away was
after
the show, when there would be a lot of people to-ing and fro-ing and everyone would be excited about how well it had gone, and nobody—except Maccomo—would notice that the lions weren’t there. Perhaps he could persuade Maccomo to let him put the lions to bed after the show. Perhaps if someone were to invite Maccomo out after the show, then Charlie would be left in charge, and they would have some hours before they’d be missed. But whom would Maccomo want to go out with in Paris?

Charlie thought and thought and thought and thought, and gradually his plan started to fall into shape—but he needed help.

Then at Andresy, when Maccomo went out to the Moroccan restaurant, a mangy, travel-stained, bald-bottomed black cat came aboard the
Circe
, carrying a chewed and grubby bit of paper in his yellow teeth, and Charlie was knocked sideways with happiness.

CHAPTER 13

T
he mangy cat leaped onto the arm of the beautiful figurehead, stalked straight down the deck, not caring who saw him, twitching his nose and following the smell of the lions. When he reached the lionchamber he lay down in the shade and waited for Charlie.

When Charlie saw the mangled piece of paper between his teeth, his heart skipped.

The cat opened one eye, and then opened his mouth hugely. His breath was horrible. Charlie delicately took the piece of paper, unskewering it from a sharp little cat tooth. He stared at the cat, and then they quietly slipped behind the lionchamber.

He unfolded the paper.

He read it.

His eyes filled with tears and his heart filled with joy. They were alive, they were okay, they were being fed, they had a clever cat looking out for them. They’d received his message. They’d understood his code, they knew he was looking for them, they didn’t think he should have done it, but they accepted it, they were going to keep in touch with him.

Charlie stood up, his face almost breaking from the strength of his smile. His face was all twisted with joy, his eyes like diamonds stuck in. There behind the lionchamber he did a little dance, clenching his fists and jumping from foot to foot with joy, trying not to make any noise, bursting with happiness.

The mangy black cat was gazing at him patiently.

Charlie stopped jumping for a moment.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. You have done the kindest thing anybody has ever done for me.”

“Good,” said the cat. “So do I get a refreshing beverage as a demonstration of yer appreciation then, or what?”

“Oh—oh yes!” cried Charlie, and he tucked the letter into his pocket and raced to the galley to scrounge milk, fish, and a small piece of cake—on principle, because cake was a treat, though he didn’t know if the cat would like it.

The cat wolfed down the cake, and a tin of anchovies, then looked up.

“Do you—do you want some more?” asked Charlie.

“Yeah,” said the cat. Charlie fetched him more.

Then he said: “Can you wait? Can you take a reply? Can you find them in Paris?”

“No,” said the cat.

“Oh,” said Charlie, his face fallen. “Oh—I . . .” He couldn’t think what to say. It was like being shown a bicycle on Christmas Day and then being told, “Oh, no, it’s not for
you
.”

The cat looked up.

“Well, maybe I could,” he said. “I wasn’t planning it. But if it’s entirely necessary for your intellectual and emotional peace of mind, I suppose I could. Seeing as it’s you. And them.” The cat was, to be honest, thinking about all the restaurants in Paris, all the fish heads and half-eaten lobster shells and bags full of bits of deliciousness that would be waiting for him in the compost heaps behind those restaurants.

“If you insist,” he said. “If you twist my forelimb. I don’t suppose I’ve much choice.” His mouth was watering already.

“Fantastic,” said Charlie. “Fantastic. Because I’ll need to know where they are, and where they’re heading, and if you can take messages between us . . . then have you seen my mum and dad?”

“No,” said the cat. “I got the message off some bliddy posh girl at Le Havre, and she got it off a marmalade.” Charlie smiled. That would be the one they mentioned. It seemed to bring his parents closer: This cat knew a cat who knew a cat who’d been with his parents.

“But, yeah, I’m acquainted with the history of who they are, yeah, and you being their appendage. ’Course I am,” the cat was saying.

Charlie jerked his head up. He was about to say “Who are they, then?” when he remembered how he had scared off the French canal-boat cat, who had become worried that he might not be himself. Take it easy, Charlie, he told himself.

“I was wondering,” he said casually, “why they seem to be so famous here. Of course at home everybody knows them, but I didn’t realize cats in France would know them too . . .”

“Because what they’ve done, they’ve done for all cats,” said the cat, dropping his slightly sneery, half-joking tone, and becoming suddenly quite serious. Charlie was genuinely surprised, because this cat was so mangy and bald-bottomed, and had so far shown no manners to speak of. “They’re not proud. They’re not saying this kind of cat’s better than that kind. Ever since the Allergenies started apparating, your parents have been on their side an’ all. What they’ve done, their work, has been the best thing any humans have ever done for us. Obviously they’ve not succeeded yet, but their professional enterprises—well, it could be the saving of us. All of us. We don’t want humans to hate us. Your parents are single-handedly—
mono-digitally
—saving the whole relationship between cats and humans. And between cats and Allergenies, if it goes right. Of course cats all over the world know about ’em. And honor ’em. Plus there’s you, of course.”