The Blue Cat Read online

  ‘Watch out!’ shouted Hilda. ‘Here come the Japanese.’

  Alarmed, I looked up into the sky. But there were only seagulls, caught in the wind, being carried through the clouds.

  CHAPTER III.

  A BOY stood in the playground under the big fig tree.

  ‘He can’t speak English,’ the children whispered.

  The boy was small and very white. He had skin like a doll. His eyes were a soft brown and they moved around constantly. He kept his body still, his arms by his side, although his fingers were fiddling. He nodded and shook his head. He smiled all the time. If he didn’t speak English, what did he speak? We didn’t know, because he never opened his mouth.

  ‘Except to breathe, of course,’ said Hilda.

  The new boy’s name was Ellery. Ellery was from overseas. He was from You-rope. That’s where they speak French, my mother told me. That’s where the Pope lives, Hilda said. That’s where Hitler is, said the headmaster.

  ‘That is why Ellery is here,’ the headmaster explained at assembly, one hand in the air, the other resting on Ellery’s shoulder. ‘He has come on a ship a long, long way. All the way from Europe!’ The headmaster paused and his voice became grave. ‘He has escaped the wickedness of Herr Adolf Hitler. Australia is a refuge, we are free from such evil here, God willing.’

  God willing. But what did God want? I wondered. It was not easy to imagine. Now the headmaster had turned to the flagpole, raising his right hand to his forehead in a salute. We all dutifully recited: ‘I honour my God; I serve my King; I salute the flag.’

  Ellery saluted too, but he kept his mouth shut. Of course, he didn’t know the words. He didn’t speak English.

  ‘Ellery is different to the other boys,’ said our teacher. ‘You must remember that when you see him, and be kind.’

  How was he different? On the outside, he was just like the other boys except that he was so small and white. Our teacher must have meant on the inside. But we couldn’t see inside Ellery.

  ‘If you see Ellery in the playground, or on the street, smile at him, and make him feel at home,’ instructed our teacher.

  We tried to smile at Ellery, but somehow when we saw him, we forgot to. We only stared.

  ‘The ship Ellery came on had a school,’ said our teacher. ‘So he has been learning all this time, all throughout the voyage. Just think of that.’

  School on a ship! The floor would rock and all the books and slates would slide about and you could look out those little round windows and see whales spouting. Or submarines, with their periscopes creeping above the waves…

  Ellery walked to school, hand in hand with a tall man in a suit who moved with an elegant sway. The man had a thin beard that came to a tip like an arrowhead. We watched from the playground as they said goodbye to each other at the gate. They both held their shoulders tight and bowed little bows, nodding their heads.

  ‘That’s his father,’ said Hilda, meaning the man with the beard. ‘He’s only got his father to look after him.’

  ‘What happened to his mother?’ I frowned. ‘Why didn’t she come with them? On the ship?’

  ‘Maybe she couldn’t,’ said Hilda.

  Couldn’t?

  ‘Maybe she’s dead.’

  I did not believe it.

  ‘She can’t be dead,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, she can,’ said Hilda. She paused. ‘Hitler killed her.’

  She couldn’t be dead.

  ‘That’s the story,’ said Hilda.

  ‘How do you know?’

  How did Hilda find things out? Hilda knew things. Some people seem to know everything there is to know, and Hilda was one of them.

  ‘That Hilda,’ commented my mother. ‘She knows it all.’

  ‘Ha!’ said my father. ‘Remember what Socrates said?’

  ‘Quite a few things, I imagine,’ said my mother dryly.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘He claimed to be the wisest man on earth,’ said my father, ‘because he only knew one thing.’

  We waited.

  ‘Nothing!’ said my father.

  My mother was unimpressed.

  ‘Well, Socrates never met Hilda,’ she said. ‘Did he?’

  I didn’t know things, but I noticed a lot. I noticed Ellery. I noticed how neat and clean he was, how white his shirt, how crisp his tie. How did he keep so clean? I was not like that. I was careless and lazy and my clothes were crushed and my shoes covered in dust.

  ‘Who is that refined child?’ said my mother one morning when she had come to the school to hand over the bag of silver bottle tops that everyone was asked to collect for the war effort. They were to be stored in the weather shed until the army came to pick them up.

  ‘That’s Ellery,’ I said. ‘Remember I told you? He’s from You-rope. He came on a boat. They had school on the ship.’

  My mother nodded. She seemed distressed.

  ‘He’s a very careful little thing, isn’t he?’ she said.

  Ellery was careful. He walked in a careful way, he looked about him carefully, he sat down carefully, he stood up carefully. He was careful not to look at anyone for too long, just a quick glance, and then his brown eyes turned down to his shoes.

  ‘He’s very white,’ said my mother, shocked. ‘He looks like a ghost.’

  It wasn’t just his face. His hands were also white, all those white twisting fingers. His straight legs, in the place between his socks and the end of his shorts, were as white as paper.

  ‘I suppose they don’t see much sun over there,’ said my mother. ‘He’ll have to watch out he doesn’t shrivel up out here.’

  One day Ellery’s teacher marched him right through the playground in the middle of school time, all the way to the headmaster’s office.

  ‘He’s crying,’ said Hilda, craning her neck to look out. She had a seat next to the window, which helped her know everything. ‘He must be in trouble.’

  What could Ellery have done? He couldn’t be in trouble. Somebody must have made him cry. One of the boys must have hit him.

  A short while later he came back out into the playground from the headmaster’s office with his teacher. His dark eyes sat calmly in his white face and there was no sign of tears. He went home early, before the bell.

  Ellery had a watch. It hung loose on his wrist. The face was scratched, but it was a watch. Nobody else had a watch. The school bell rang in the morning, at lunch and in the afternoon. That was how we understood the passing hours. That, and hunger, and the slow movement of the sun making shadows across the playground.

  ‘His name’s not Ellery, you know,’ Hilda told us. ‘That’s not his real name.’

  That didn’t make sense. How could a name not be real? A name was a name.

  ‘Ellery’s a pretend name. His real name is German,’ said Hilda. ‘Ellery’s a German.’

  There was a hushed silence.

  ‘He can’t be a German,’ I said at last.

  The Germans were the enemy. Hitler was a German. Ellery couldn’t be a German.

  ‘Is Ellery a German?’ I asked my mother.

  ‘You mustn’t bother him, Columba,’ said my mother. ‘Poor little mite.’

  Ellery did not look like a poor little mite to me. When he smiled, his eyes were so merry. His back was so straight and his skin so smooth. I found myself drawn to him, as though there was something inside him, like a secret treasure deep in a garden. I wanted to reach out and touch his cheek. But the boys and girls never touched each other.

  CHAPTER IV.

  NEXT door to us lived two grown-up sisters, Miss Hazel and Miss Marguerite. Like my father, every day they both took the ferry into town where they worked. Nobody knew what they did, but they worked all day long and came home in the evening and sat on the back verandah on a couple of deckchairs, knitting cardigans. On the weekends they dressed up in white skirts and white shoes and got into their little car and went bowling.

  ‘Life is a mystery,’ my mother would say, staring a
fter the departing car.

  Miss Hazel and Miss Marguerite gave an impression of secrecy. Although what secrets could they have? They were twins and they looked very alike. There were twins in my class, with long red plaits and freckled noses. But Miss Hazel and Miss Marguerite were old. It was funny to see twins who were so old.

  ‘You mustn’t annoy Miss Hazel, Columba,’ reproved my mother, ‘hanging round there all the time.’

  ‘But what if she invites me?’ I objected.

  She often did invite me. She might see me, sitting on the front step or out on the street, and she would hold up her fist like a boxer, which I took to mean come on in! I didn’t like to say no.

  ‘Miss Hazel might invite you,’ said my mother, ‘but what does Miss Marguerite think?’

  It was hard to know what Miss Marguerite thought. She was so very quiet. I had never really heard her speak. When I went visiting, usually she kept herself well out of sight. I might hear her in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and cupboards, as though she was looking for something, or turning the tap on and off.

  Occasionally she would be sitting in the corner of the living room, hidden behind her beautiful golden harp. I would suddenly catch sight of her peeping out through its silvery strings, like a prisoner. She would run her fingers up and down the harp, and plink plink plink the notes sprinkled about the room.

  Miss Hazel told me that Miss Marguerite used to play the harp with an orchestra. ‘A real professional,’ said Miss Hazel, keeping her voice very low. ‘But she couldn’t take it any more. Just couldn’t bear it. You know.’

  In fact I did not know, and what Miss Marguerite couldn’t bear was never discussed. Certainly not by Miss Marguerite. As I said, she scarcely spoke, just the occasional mild ‘hmm’. I was glad when Miss Marguerite was nowhere to be seen. She made me nervous, even when she wasn’t there. Sometimes a string of the harp would break all by itself with a great TWANG.

  ‘Here you are, Columba!’ said Miss Hazel, one afternoon. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  I had just come home from school and was about to go in my own front gate. Miss Hazel, instead of putting her hand into a fist, pointed down to her feet. ‘Just look what the cat brought home,’ she said. ‘If you’ll pardon the expression.’

  ‘Oh!’ I said.

  Next to Miss Hazel on the top step, sat a cat. I knew it wasn’t Miss Hazel’s or Miss Marguerite’s cat. They didn’t have a cat. They didn’t have any animals, not even hens. I dropped my satchel and came up the steps and knelt down next to it. The cat’s eyes were closed but I don’t think it was asleep. It sat very tight. Its fur was the colour of dark shiny metal, like the wheels of a train.

  ‘Followed me home from the ferry last night,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘Although I must say, he didn’t seem lost. Seemed to know his way about.’

  The cat flicked his ears and opened his eyes. They were very green. I put out my hand to touch his smooth head. It felt like a soft fern. But he flinched and looked angry. I took my hand away.

  ‘How do you know it’s a boy?’ I asked, standing up.

  ‘It’s no secret,’ said Miss Hazel.

  The cat blinked. His eyelids moved so quickly it was as though they were invisible.

  ‘What was he doing at the wharf?’ I wondered.

  I had never seen a cat at the wharf. I had seen them perched on walls or high in trees, or asleep on the grass, or running rapidly from sight as you turned a corner. But not down near the water.

  ‘Probably came from one of those ships,’ said Miss Hazel, with a sniff.

  Ships, ships, the harbour was full of ships. Grey machines filled with guns and soldiers. Soon those great grey ships would leave again, back out into the war.

  ‘Sailors like cats. They get rid of the mice,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘Then they probably got sick of him and tossed him overboard at night when nobody was looking.’

  I saw the cat being thrown from the ship by a heartless sailor, fly through the night sky, his legs and tail outstretched like a possum, past the sharp stars and the yellow half-moon, and plop! into the cold Pacific Ocean.

  ‘Wouldn’t he drown?’ I said, appalled.

  ‘Cats can swim if they have to,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘Not like people. It’s automatic. It’s in their bones.’

  Now I saw the cat, sinking down into the salty water, past the seaweed and fish and silent lurking sharks, eyes and ears and nose full of water. Death was coming. But suddenly, he remembered, it was in his bones. His legs began to paddle, pressing hard, up up up to the surface.

  ‘Maybe he dived off the ship by himself,’ I said. ‘Maybe he was seasick.’

  I saw the shadow reaching the shore, padding carefully up the sand. Struggling upwards, crawling, over the rock pools, up into the thickest part of the bush.

  ‘Are you going to give him a name?’ I asked.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘I don’t want him to stay. Marguerite’s mad about him already.’ She shook her head and looked disapproving.

  ‘Why don’t you want him to stay?’

  The cat’s breathing slowed and he became completely still, listening.

  ‘I’ve seen him watching the birds,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘Makes your blood run cold.’

  I remembered then how once when I was little, I was helping my mother hang out the clothes on the line in the backyard, and I heard a bleating from the passage down the side of the house near the fence. It was like a baby crying. I crept down on bare feet to see what it was.

  There was a cat I’d never seen before, half-hidden in the shadow of the wall. It had a brown-bibbed sparrow in its mouth. You could see the cat’s teeth, sunk into the little bird’s breast. I stared, paralysed with horror. The cat stared back. Then it leapt up on the fence with the bird in its mouth and vanished.

  ‘Are you coming in, then?’ said Miss Hazel.

  I jumped in my skin.

  ‘Um,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t just stand there like a sack of potatoes,’ insisted Miss Hazel. ‘Come on in. You can watch me do the dusting.’

  This was not exactly an attraction. But obediently I picked up my satchel and followed Miss Hazel up the steps to her front door.

  CHAPTER V.

  AS MISS HAZEL opened the fly-screen to go inside, the cat slunk ahead of us both, slipping past our legs. He ran straight to the sitting room and posed like a sphinx, paws in front, tail curled, on the small round carpet next to the sofa.

  ‘Now you will find,’ announced Miss Hazel, as if she was addressing a public meeting, raising her feather duster with its long mottled handle and spray of feathers, ‘that most people swear by ostrich. But take my advice, Columba, and stick to emu.’

  Stick to emu, I thought, nodding, although I would not mention this to my mother.

  ‘People are ignorant, that’s the problem,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘They don’t know any better. It’s a sad fact.’

  Miss Hazel told me that the emu feathers for her duster had been sent down to her by her old school friend Mrs Macadam, who lived on a mission in the Northern Territory. I had never been to the Northern Territory – I had never been anywhere – so could only imagine it from what I had read and seen in the monthly School Magazine: pictures of children wandering through vast landscapes under empty skies, deserts, a huge rock, people leading their own mysterious lives.

  Mrs Macadam not only supplied Miss Hazel with feathers for dusting, but last Christmas she also sent her down an empty emu egg. It came in a special box all the way from the Northern Territory, filled with strips of torn-up newspaper to stop it breaking. The box had FRAGILE written all over the outside in red letters. The egg was a lovely large dark-greenish thing. It sat on the mantelpiece, wobbling as you walked past.

  ‘They eat them up there, you know,’ said Miss Hazel, holding the eggshell steady with one hand and dusting it all over. ‘Emus, I mean. Like a great big chicken, I suppose,’ she added thoughtfully.

  I wasn’t so sure. I had only seen
an emu at the zoo and it did not at all remind me of the plump red hens that Hilda’s mother kept in the run in the backyard.

  ‘Touch it,’ commanded Miss Hazel, pointing at the great green egg.

  I touched it. The surface was not smooth like a hen’s egg, but rough and bumpy.

  ‘Like braille,’ said Miss Hazel. ‘You know, for blind people. Ever felt a page of braille, Columba?’

  I had not.

  ‘Neither have I,’ admitted Miss Hazel, ‘but if you ask me, this egg feels as though it’s saying something.’ She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips along its cool curved side. ‘But what? That’s the question.’

  She glanced down at the cat, who was staring at her implacably. She shrugged her shoulders, irritated, and continued dusting.

  I watched as Miss Hazel walked around dusting all her objects – vases, pictures, statuettes, old pennies. Above the fireplace was a head carved out of black wood and decorated with shiny bits of rainbow shell. Miss Hazel dusted it fiercely.

  ‘A gift from the Bishop of the Solomon Islands,’ she said, without further explanation.

  Next to the wooden head was a framed photograph of Miss Hazel’s favourite film star, Thelma Todd.

  ‘Thelma Todd was a beauty,’ said Miss Hazel, with a sigh, ‘but you know what they say.’

  ‘Beauty’s a curse,’ I rejoined, because she had told me this many times before.

  ‘So it is,’ said Miss Hazel, pleased.

  She had finished the dusting. ‘Now,’ she said. She went over to the bookshelf. ‘Come and sit down and have a look at this. I’d like your opinion on something.’

  Dutifully I stepped over the cat who showed no sign at all of noticing me and sat down on the sofa next to Miss Hazel. She had a book open on her lap. It was all about cats. There were pictures and descriptions of the different breeds of cats from around the world. Cats with long fur, short fur, no fur, short tails long tails no tails, black paws, white paws, round eyes, tiny eyes, narrow eyes. Miss Hazel flicked through the pages, which smelled of lemon, and they made a whooshing sound, like wings.