The Adventures of Miss Petitfour Read online

  Well, the sound of the goal was near deafening. Everyone on the village green came to a standstill. All eyes turned to the twangling ball and the mound of birdcages. Other than the panting sound of Miss Petitfour, who was still attached to the coat hangers and catching her breath, the village green was absolutely silent.

  Rummage was everywhere and every which way, dangling from the trees and gently floating over the grass. And then, during that very moment of absolute, complete and utter silence, a bird—a chiffchaff warbler—landed on the toppermost birdcage and began to sing.

  For a minute, nothing else happened. And then, Mrs. Bois-Brioche des Fontana Harridale Quesloe-Brisbane and Mrs. Colonel Adria Slope-Nethertop Ashbridge Terrance Poswensky-By and Mrs. Gustavo-Wentworth Worthington Donquist Torresdale Blindon Perstancion-Withers and Mrs. Randolfo-Blunt Merritonk Goodland Czerny Attenblock Cardsall-Tentwood and everyone else began to giggle. Then everyone began to laugh so hard they had to sit down, and since everyone was now sitting down, they decided to have a picnic, right then and there, amid the jumble. The cakes from the bake sale table were passed around, and the little bird who sang at just the right moment hopped about enjoying the crumbs.

  Sometimes things work out differently than you expect, and sometimes that’s when the best things happen. And sometimes a jumble straightens everything out in the end.

  Soon, the cats felt a shift in the wind through their fur and they leaped back onto the tangled jamboree of twangling wire coat hangers. All were quickly borne aloft. “Homeward-ho!” shouted Miss Petitfour, with Pleasant in hand, and feeling very jolly and only a little sorry that she had not had the chance of selling her peacoat.

  As always after an airborne adventure, Miss Petitfour set out a magnificent feast. There was currant toast squishy with butter, caramel-marshmallow squares, strawberry boats oozing custard, chocolate eclairs that exploded with cream when the cats bit into them with their little white teeth and—a special treat for Pleasant—a pie made from thick slices of Bramley apple, with just the right amount of tangy in the tangy-sweet.

  There was a satisfying silence as all tucked in to the generous tea. Sometimes there was an “mmm” and a “yum” and the tiny sound of whiskers being licked clean, but mostly the only sound was the soothing clicketing of metal coat hangers as the giant ball rolled lazily in the breeze, from one end of the garden to THE END.

  It was a snow-quiet day, with drifts across the windows and blue light through the frosted panes. With all her cats snoozing peacefully around her in a furry pile-up, Miss Petitfour sat at her work table looking through a large velvet binder containing her collection of rare, and not-so-rare, stamps. She had a fine collection that used to belong to her father. She had stamps with pictures of Peruvian llamas, Indian dragonflies and Mongolian yaks. Stamps with pictures of palm trees and waterbirds, airplanes and trains, monarchs and monarchs (insects and kings).

  Sometimes stamp makers make mistakes, and stamps with mistakes are the rarest of all. There’s the Treskilling Yellow, a stamp that was printed the wrong color and of which there is only a single one left in the entire world. Or the Inverted Swan, where the picture was printed upside down so it looks as if the swan is swimming in the sky, or the Mauritius Post Office Error, where the words are wrong. Miss Petitfour didn’t have any of these rarest of rare stamps in her collection, but she did have a stamp that she treasured most of all—her father’s pride and joy: the famous Penny Black. The Penny Black was the very first sticky stamp ever made and has a lovely little picture of Queen Victoria wearing her crown, with her hair pulled back in what looks like a ponytail. Imagine a queen with a ponytail!

  Miss Petitfour loved the little pictures, each in its own serrated frame and each seeming to tell its own little story. On snowy days especially, she liked to spread the collection across her lap and dream of traveling to all the places the stamps were from: Tonga and Tunisia, Gibraltar and Jersey, Belgium and Burma, the Pitcairn and Paracel Islands. Sometimes she gathered the cats, Minky, Misty, Taffy, Purrsia, Pirate, Mustard, Moutarde, Hemdela, Earring, Grigorovitch, Clasby, Captain Captain, Captain Catkin, Captain Clothespin, Your Shyness and Sizzles, and told them stories she made up about these places, stories full of rolling waves and motorcades, damp caves and last-minute saves, musketeers and mountaineers.

  Pirate was especially fond of these snowy, stamp-and-story, slumbery afternoons and liked to doze right on top of the open album, his black-and-white paws hanging over the edge. One afternoon, no one noticed that a stamp had stuck to one of his paws, and when Miss Petitfour closed the velvet binder, the Penny Black—worth a small fortune—was no longer among its pages!

  The black stamp looked, at a glance, just like a little spot of black fur on Pirate’s paw, until Miss Petitfour put on her glasses to read a little poetry before suppertime. Then, while she was memorizing a poem and gazing at her cats lovingly, her eyes caught sight of the stamp sticking to Pirate’s left forepaw. She lunged for the stamp and startled Pirate, who leaped to the top of the bookcase and, in doing so, unstuck the stamp, which flew up and was caught by the breeze at the half-open window. (Miss Petitfour always left the windows open a little on wintry days, as she loved the smell of snow.) Out flew the Penny Black! And up jumped Miss Petitfour, who grabbed her warmest sweater and her fluffiest muff and pulled the frosty white tablecloth off her table. Clutching the corners, she gusted up to follow the stamp that was, by now, floating rather swiftly on the wind toward the village. The cats, who never missed an opportunity to fly, leaped into formation, linking tails and toes, and up drifted the furry cat-rope, dark and wavering against the white winter sky.

  Oh, how the cats loved the ticklish feel of the snowflakes on their fur!

  Some words wait to ambush a story right in the middle; they hide until just the right moment, then leap out of nowhere and scare the story into an entirely different direction. Words like TIDAL WAVE, HURRICANE, VOLCANO and EARTHQUAKE. Then there are other words that save the day, words like FORTUNATELY, THANK GOODNESS and WHATEVER WOULD WE HAVE DONE IF YOU HADN’T REMEMBERED TO BRING THE GLUE. But, FORTUNATELY, there are no natural disasters in this story, and so we can simply continue on. (And yes, in case you are counting them, this is a digression.)

  The Penny Black soared over the houses and fields on its way to town, Miss Petitfour and her cats in close pursuit. The stamp twirled and drifted, ascended and descended, danced and whirled in the snowy gusts. Several times, Miss Petitfour reached out her hand and almost caught it, only to have a fresh gust push the stamp just out of reach.

  By this time, the cat-rope was swinging over Mr. Patel’s Bakery. Just as they were passing over, the stamp shuddered and hovered and then, ever so slowly, so slow it almost seemed to be standing still, the stamp touched down lightly on the corner of the chimney. Miss Petitfour expertly adjusted her tablecloth, and she, along with Minky, Misty, Taffy, Purrsia, Pirate, Mustard, Moutarde, Hemdela, Earring, Grigorovitch, Clasby, Captain Captain, Captain Catkin, Captain Clothespin, Your Shyness and Sizzles, began to descend toward the roof. The moment they landed, in a rather—I’m afraid it must be said—clumsy cat-heap, the corner of the stamp lifted and again the Penny Black floated off. In an instant, Miss Petitfour let out the cloth and once more they took to the breeze, following in mad pursuit and never quite catching up. They raced in circles across the sky like the long black hand of a clock gone berserk. Then, suddenly, the Penny Black halted in midair, wavered, and lilted, and slowly and finally came to rest at the very tip-top of Mr. Clemmo’s flagpole, a shiny silver knob that glinted in the late-afternoon, sparkling, snow-filled light.

  Oh dear, what was Miss Petitfour to do? All the cats held their small cat breaths, not wanting to stir the stamp, which was balancing in the most fluttery sort of way and would surely jump off if they came near.

  THANK GOODNESS Mr. Clemmo noticed Miss Petitfour’s bright white tablecloth puffed up above his shop (which at first he mistook for the full moon), and he rushed to Miss Petitfour’s ai
d. He quickly urged her to land and, once Miss Petitfour and her cats were all safely on the ground, he brought out a heavy wooden bellows from his shop (the kind of bellows used to stoke the engine of a steam train) and heaved and hawed, creaked and wheezed, blew and bellowed, trying to air-blast the little Penny Black from its perch.

  No one in the village had ever heard such shouting and wheezing, caterwauling and hollering. Everyone ran into the street to see what was happening. Children, as we all know, are much quicker than adults to grasp just what to do at a time like this, and immediately they ran back indoors for their butterfly nets. Then they gathered at the bottom of the flagpole, waiting for the moment the Penny Black would be dislodged and float to the ground.

  Meanwhile, Pirate—who felt responsible for all the mayhem—batted, with his little black-and-white paws, ever so slightly, the rope that hung loosely up the flagpole, and that little cat-vibration was just what was needed to urge the Penny Black back into the air. All the commotion came to a standstill, and all heads turned upward to watch as the stamp weaved and wobbled, wafted and wiggled its way lazily down, a little black speck amid the falling snowflakes, straight into the upturned and awaiting butterfly net of Mr. Clemmo’s niece, Clemmie, who deftly retrieved the stamp from the net and placed it in Miss Petitfour’s anxious, outstretched hand.

  The crowd erupted into the loudest hurrahs and shouts of congratulations ever heard in the village. All the children ran about in the snow, and Mrs. Carruther invited everyone over to her shop for free jellybeans.

  The Penny Black was saved!

  And for ever after, on snowy days when Miss Petitfour spreads the velvet album across her lap and tells her cats all the made-up stories about all the places the stamps are from, there is now quite another stamp story to tell—all of it absolutely true, from the very quiet beginning to the very loud END.

  Miss Petitfour’s snow-pawed cat, Minky, loved cheese. She adored cheese, flirted with it, danced with it and brought it lovely presents, like pretty pebbles from the garden, before devouring it with her little Minky teeth. When Miss Petitfour made a fancy salad, Minky watched the way the lettuce leaves bent under the slight weight of the Parmesan; when Miss Petitfour had cheese-toast for tea, Minky noticed how the cheddar melted into every little crevice and crater of the toast. She licked her whiskers greedily when Miss Petitfour lowered her hand to feed her snippets and smidgens, pinches and wedges, slices and crumbs. Minky loved all cheese—Swiss cheese, Edam cheese, Gruyère and Roquefort, Brie cheese and blue cheese, mozzarella and Parmesan, hard cheese, crumbly cheese, creamy cheese, lumpy cheese. Minky even had a cheese calendar that she slept with, which Miss Petitfour had given to her for Christmas. Each month there was a big picture of a different kind of cheese in a mouthwatering pose: blue cheese cavorting with pears, cheddar laughing with apples, Gruyère lounging with grapes, Edam joking with parsley.

  Well, it was Minky’s birthday, and there was no doubt what her present should be: a huge wheel of extra-extra-extra-old cheddar that would take Minky at least a month to eat. Cheese paradise!

  This was a special week, since there was the occasion of Minky’s birthday party to look forward to. But, in fact, every week was fun with Miss Petitfour, who followed a strict schedule of fun and more fun. For example, on Tuesdays, Miss Petitfour and the cats took dance instruction with their young friend Pleasant Patel at the Twirl-About School of Dance (their sign was an enormous tap shoe), where they learned every sort of step ever invented: ballet, tango, waltz, samba, gavotte, Scottish reel, bunny hop, hip hop, foxtrot. Bourrée and bergamask, bossa nova and bolero. Brando, buck-and-wing, conga and cotillion.

  Now, hold on a moment, I know what you’re thinking: why would anyone want to know the steps to all these dances? Well, suppose one day you are sitting next to a billionaire on a bus and he turns to you and says: “If you can name me twenty dances I’ve never heard of, I’ll give you a silver dollar.” Then you’ll be glad you read this long list of dances, won’t you? And Miss Petitfour and Pleasant also thought there might just come a day when all the prancing and twirling would come in handy.

  Where were we? Oh yes: the hula, the hornpipe, the hambo, the fandango and farandole. Limbo, kolo, mambo and mazurka. Minuet, merengue, moresca and polka. Rigadoon, roundel, salterello, strathspey. And Miss Petitfour’s very favorites—the tarantella and the tricotee.

  On Thursdays, Mrs. Collarwaller closed her bookshop early and brought over her Big Book of Ballads, a heavy leather volume with gold embossing, which took both her arms to carry, and also her Pocket Book of Sea Shanties, which was only the size of her hand but was as thick as ten cheese sandwiches. They sat together at Miss Petitfour’s piano, learning old songs—each with twenty-five verses—about girls dressing as boys to stow away on ships, and talking blackbirds, and fish hooks and watery brooks, and spickit and sparkit snakes—that is to say, snakes that are speckled and spotted. They also learned songs full of impossible tasks—oceans emptied using only a soup spoon, and shirts sewn without any thread—and everyone a-sailing and a-roving all over the briny deep. They sang, “heigh-ho laddie-o” and “the waves may roll and the winds may blow” and, afterward, they flopped down on Miss Petitfour’s sofa, exhausted by all their boisterous chorusing and plank-walking and perilous pirate voyages.

  And on Fridays, Miss Petitfour went shopping, an outing all her cats loved, and they would wait patiently in the garden for liftoff. Minky, Misty, Taffy, Purrsia, Pirate, Mustard, Moutarde, Hemdela, Earring, Grigorovitch, Clasby, Captain Captain, Captain Catkin, Captain Clothespin, Your Shyness and Sizzles wrapped themselves one to another and off they went. And on this particular Friday, they were on a special mission to buy Minky’s birthday cheddar and other party favors, and the big paisley tablecloth puffed full, like the cheeks of a birthday girl ready to blow out the candles.

  Some words are like a hailstorm during the middle of a picnic, or a flat tire on a lovely journey, or a fallen tree across a path, and these words stop a story immediately and swivel it off in another direction entirely. Words like BUT, HOWEVER, IF ONLY, SADLY and UNFORTUNATELY.

  UNFORTUNATELY, the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. Instead of taking Miss Petitfour and Minky, Misty, Taffy, Purrsia, Pirate, Mustard, Moutarde, Hemdela, Earring, Grigorovitch, Clasby, Captain Captain, Captain Catkin, Captain Clothespin, Your Shyness and Sizzles in the direction of the Party Whatnot Shop (their sign was a gargantuan party hat)—where Miss Petitfour was hoping to buy all the birthday treats, including balloons and banners and icing sugar and ice cream and of course the great wheel of cheese—the wind blew them in the direction of the river, where, as we all know, there are no handy shops whatsoever. Moreover, the water was terribly cold, as it came directly from the mountaintop, and furthermore, the cats did not like to wet their whiskers, unless of course it was in vats of cream.

  Sizzles’s tail dangled dangerously close to the brisk current. All the cats were scrambling upward, toward Miss Petitfour’s basket, as they all sank lower and lower, barely avoiding plunging into the rapids.

  What was Miss Petitfour to do?

  The wind drew them lower and then just a bit higher again, and lower and higher, as if they were on an invisible swing. Clasby nearly lost his bobble hat in the waves, and Your Shyness’s lace collar got a soaking from some passing spray. On and on, farther and farther down the river, they dipped and rose.

  Some words are like rays of light, white knights or a safety pin at the right moment, and these words are as useful as sticky tape just when the page has ripped, fixing up a story in an instant. Words like UNBELIEVABLY, BY GREAT GOOD FORTUNE and BY CHANCE.

  BY CHANCE and UNBELIEVABLY and BY GREAT GOOD FORTUNE, Mr. Coneybeare happened to be out in his sailboat, enjoying the stiff breeze on the river, with his cloud identification book (identifying clouds was one of his hobbies), when he noticed a shadowy shape hopping low across the water. He could not identify the kind of cloud that could make such a shadow—certainly not a stratus cl
oud or a cirrus or a cumulonimbus. Was it the treacherous waterspout? For a moment, he even thought he had discovered a new kind of cloud and became very excited. Perhaps, he thought, it could be named after its discoverer—the “Coneybeare cloud”! (As we know, the cats had once before been mistaken for a cloud, on the day of the jumble, and so Mr. Coneybeare can be easily forgiven for being confused.)

  MEANWHILE, while Mr. Coneybeare was thinking these cloudy thoughts (which we might almost consider to be a digression), Miss Petitfour and the cats were trying to think of ways to save themselves from a dousing. There were no convenient trees to swing their way to and no handy fishermen with nets to scoop them from danger.

  As you no doubt know, Miss Petitfour was an excellent pilot, and she understood air currents and wind velocity. She deduced that if they worked with the wind, instead of against it, perhaps they could make their escape. Now, do you think it is wise to work with the wind instead of against it? Yes, it is! And, by now, Miss Petitfour had spotted the tiny white speck of Mr. Coneybeare’s sail farther down the river and knew if they all worked together and swung even harder, they might propel themselves as far as his little boat. So, with a brief instruction to her cats, and the captain cats mewing captain-y commands, they began to throw themselves first in one direction then another, wildly swinging like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.