The Classic Morpurgo Collection

I took all the precautions I could, asking her to always check behind her before she climbed the stairs to our corridor, and I made it an absolute rule that she spoke in whispers whenever she came to see us. Those, it seemed, were the kind of rules she was quite happy with. Lizziebeth liked anything, I discovered, that involved some kind of conspiracy. It was during these long whispered conversations in my room that I got to know so much more about her. Actually, to begin with they weren’t conversations at all, not as such. They were more like monologues. Once Lizziebeth started one of her stories, there was no stopping her. “Do you know…” she’d begin, and on she’d go, on and on. She’d sit there cross-legged on the floor of my room with Kaspar on her lap and just talk and talk. And I’d be happy to listen, because she told me of a world I’d never seen inside before. For over a year now, ever since I’d left the orphanage, I’d served people like her at the Savoy; fetched and carried for them, polished their boots, brushed their coats, opened doors for them, bowed and scraped, as bell-boys have to do. But until now not one of them had ever really talked to me, unless they were snapping their fingers at me, or ordering me to do something.

It’s true that I wasn’t sure sometimes whether Lizziebeth was talking to me or to Kaspar. It didn’t much matter either way. Both of us would listen as entranced as the other, Kaspar gazing up into her eyes all the while, purring with pleasure, and me hanging on her every word.

Once she told us about the great ship she’d come over on from America, about the icebergs she’d seen, as tall as the skyscrapers in New York, which was where she lived, how one day when they were at sea she’d wandered off on her own to find somewhere to hide, and found herself right down below in the engine room. There was quite a kerfuffle, she said, because everyone thought she’d fallen overboard. When at last she was found and brought back to their cabin her mother had cried and cried, and called her “my little angel”, but her father had told her she was “the naughtiest girl in the whole world”. So she wasn’t sure what she was.

Afterwards they had taken her to the Captain of the ship who had a great, fat face and sad eyes, like a walrus she said, and they’d made her apologise for causing so much trouble to the crew who had been searching for her all over the ship for two hours before she was found, and to the Captain who’d had to stop the ship in mid-ocean, and had lookouts scanning the ocean with binoculars looking for her. She had to promise faithfully in front of the Captain never to go off on her own while they were on the ship. She promised with her fingers crossed behind her, she said, so it didn’t count. So when it got rough a day or two later and they were being tossed about in the biggest, greenest waves she’d ever seen, and everyone was as sick as dogs, she decided she’d do what one of the sailors had told her to do if it ever got rough, to go down to the very bottom of the ship where the boat doesn’t roll so much, and just lie down. The very bottom of the ship, she discovered, was full of cows and calves. So she lay down beside them in the straw, and that was where they found her, fast asleep, when the storm was over. This time they were both “mad” with her. So she was locked in the cabin as a punishment. She shrugged. “I didn’t care,” she told me. “Who gives a fig, anyway?”

Back at home in New York her governess was always sending her up to her room to make her do her writing all over again, or because her spelling wasn’t good enough. She was always being sent to her room by her mother too, for running around the house when she should walk, or making a noise when her father was working in his study. “I didn’t mind,” she said, with a shrug and a little laugh. “I didn’t give a fig, anyway.” In the holidays the family would sail up the coast to Maine in their three-masted yacht, which was called the Abe Lincoln, and they’d live in this big house on an island where there was no other house but theirs, and no one there except them, their guests and the servants. One day she decided to be a pirate, so she tied a spotted pirate’s scarf around her head and went off with a spade to look for buried treasure. And when they came calling for her she hid away in a cave, and she only came out when she was good and ready. She knew they’d be mad at her, but she really didn’t like anyone calling for her “like I was some kind of a dog”. So when she strolled back into the house that evening, she was sent straight up to bed without any dinner. “I didn’t want any dinner anyway,” she said, “so I didn’t give a fig, anyway, did I?”

Bit by bit, through these stories and dozens of others, I pieced together something of the lives of Lizziebeth and her family. I looked at them now with very different eyes whenever they walked by me on their way into breakfast, whenever I opened the door for them or wished them good morning. Lizziebeth would give me a great beaming smile whenever she saw me in the lobby, and Mr Freddie would wink at me from the front door, and sometimes he’d miaow softly as he passed me by. Such moments were enough to lift my spirits all day long. Life was suddenly good, and fun too. Kaspar was well again, we had both found a new friend, and our secret was safe. Everything was fine, or so I thought.

Running Wild (#ulink_cacdfcf7-d7e1-5a6d-9071-bd617d1725f6)

Everything after that seemed to happen suddenly, and in very quick succession. It was a quiet weekend at the hotel, with fewer guests around. There were no big dressy dinners, no grand balls, no smart parties. All of us who worked there preferred it like this, even if the days could drag a bit. Everyone was more relaxed. I liked the weekends anyway, because Kaspar and I usually saw more of Lizziebeth then. She’d be bored out of her mind downstairs, and would often sneak up to see Kaspar, sometimes three or four times a day, leaving me a note each time. I finished work earlier on a Sunday, so usually she’d be up there in my room with Kaspar, waiting for me when I got back. Sometimes she’d steal away some scones and cake, hiding them away in a napkin – she was always saying I was too thin and needed feeding up – and since I was always more than a little hungry after work, I didn’t argue with her.

We were sitting there one Sunday evening tucking into some delicious fruit cake, when I heard a voice in the corridor outside. Skullface! It was Skullface! She was talking to Mary O’Connell, and she was not in a good mood.

“That idiot boy, Johnny Trott, is he in?”

“I haven’t seen him, Mrs Blaise,” Mary told her. “Honest.”

The footsteps came closer and closer, the bunch of keys rattling louder with every step.

Skullface was ranting now. “Do you know what that he’s gone and done? Well, I’ll tell you, shall I? He’s only used a black brush on Lord Macauley’s best brown boots. There’s black all over them. And who gets the blame? Me. Well. I’ll have his guts for garters, I will. Where is he?”

“I don’t know, Mrs Blaise, honest to God I don’t.” Mary was doing her best for me.

The footsteps were right outside my door now, and there I was with Lizziebeth in my room, and Kaspar cleaning himself on her lap. All she had to do was to open the door and I’d get the sack for sure. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. I was praying that somehow, anyhow, Mary would prevent her from opening that door. It was this very moment that Kaspar chose to stop washing his paws and spring out of Lizziebeth’s lap, yowling in his fury. It wasn’t his gentle miaow, this was his wailing war cry, and it was shrill and loud, horribly loud. For a moment or two there was silence outside the door. Then, “A cat! As I live and breathe, a cat!” cried Skullface. “Johnny Trott’s got a cat in his room! How dare he? How dare he? It’s against the rules, my rules!”

I looked aghast at Lizziebeth. Without a moment’s hesitation she picked up Kaspar, and dumped him unceremoniously in my arms. “In the wardrobe,” she whispered. “Get in the wardrobe. Quick!”

Once in there I crouched down, stroking Kaspar frantically to calm him down, to stop him from yowling again. Then I heard something I simply couldn’t believe. Kaspar was yowling again, from outside the wardrobe, from my room. Yet he couldn’t be, because he was with me, inside the wardrobe, in my arms and he definitely wasn’t yowling. Yet he was yowling – I could hear him! In my panic and confusion it took several moments before I realised what was going on: Lizziebeth was out there in my room and mimicking Kaspar pitch perfectly.

Mary told me afterwards – she told everyone afterwards – exactly what had happened. Apparently Lizziebeth opened the door to Skullface yowling and wailing at her just like Kaspar. Skullface just stood there, gaping at Lizziebeth. She could not believe her eyes. It was a while before she could speak at all. Her mouth opened and shut like a goldfish, Mary said. Then Skullface gathered herself a little. “What on earth, young lady…” she said at last. “What on earth do you think you are doing up here in the servants’ quarters, young lady? It’s strictly out of bounds.”

Lizziebeth yowled back at her. “I’m a cat,” she said quite calmly, in between yowls. “I was chasing a mouse, and he ran in here. So I ran in after him and I caught him. I’m very good at catching mice, you know. I gobbled him up, just like that. One gulp. I’ve got to tell you, he tasted just wonderful. Best mouse I ever ate. Byeee!” With that, she yowled at the astonished Skullface, and skipped off down the corridor, still yowling as she went, past Skullface, past Mary and the others, all of whom by now had come out into the corridor to see what all the fuss was about.

Skullface, it seems, then stuck her head round my door, took one quick look into the room, slammed the door furiously behind her, and stormed off down the corridor, fulminating as she went. “Children, wretched children!” she fumed. “If I had my way they wouldn’t be allowed in the Savoy at all. Nothing but a nuisance, a perfect nuisance. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a spoilt child. And an American spoilt child is the worst of all, the work of the devil himself! Running wild like that all over my hotel. How dare she?” She stopped and turned round, wagging her finger at everyone. “And you tell that Johnny Trott when you see him that he will apologise to Lord Macauley, and polish his boots again. This time I want them nutty brown and shining, not a trace of black, and he’s to come and show them to me before he returns them to his lordship. At once, at once. You tell him.”

How we laughed in the corridor when she’d gone. We were doubled up and aching with it. Lizziebeth, who was already a great favourite with everyone up there, had now become a matchless heroine to us all. Her quick thinking, her brazenness and her fearlessness had saved the day, probably saved my job too, and most certainly saved Kaspar from being taken away.

But it was only the next day that this same fearlessness very nearly cost her her life, and mine too, come to that. It was from Kaspar that I first learned something was wrong. He was always happy to see me when I came upstairs after work. He’d be lying there on the bed, his legs in the air, his tail swishing, willing me to tickle his tummy. I came back to my room to see him at about eleven o’clock, my usual time, my first work-break of the morning. I was hoping Lizziebeth might be there with him. But this morning she wasn’t. And neither was Kaspar lying on my bed. Instead he was pacing the room and yowling. He was in a very agitated state, leaping up and down and off the windowsill. I’d seen him do this before if there was a pigeon strutting up and cooing at him from the parapet outside the window. But there was no pigeon. I tried feeding Kaspar – I thought it might calm him down – but he wasn’t interested. Clearly nothing mattered to him except whatever was going on outside that window. So I climbed up, and opened the window wide enough for me to crane my neck, so I could see all the way along the narrow gully in both directions. No pigeons there either.

That was when I spotted Lizziebeth. I could see at once what she was trying to do. She was on her hands and knees and climbing out of the gully up on to the roof tiles. Ahead of her was a pigeon, hopping ever upwards on one leg towards the ridge of the roof. Its other leg hung useless. Lizziebeth was following it, cooing as she climbed, stopping from time to time to throw it some crumbs, trying all she could to entice it down. She seemed quite unaware of the danger she was in.

My first instinct was to shout to her, to warn her, but something told me that to alarm her at that moment was the worst thing I could do. Instead, I climbed out of the window, closing it behind me so that Kaspar couldn’t follow me, and crept along the gully trying not to look down over the parapet and down into the street, eight storeys below. Lizziebeth had almost reached the ridge above me, but by now the pigeon was hopping away from her along the ridge towards the chimney stack. I climbed up after her. Only when I was right below her did I venture to call out to her, and then only as softly as I could.

“Lizziebeth,” I said. “It’s me. It’s Johnny. I’m right below you. You mustn’t go any higher. You mustn’t.”

She didn’t look down at first. She just kept climbing.

“It’s the pigeon,” she told me. “He’s awful hurt. Looks like he’s broke his leg or something.”

That was the moment she looked down. Only then did she realise just how high she was. All her fearlessness left her in an instant. She slipped at once and clung there, frozen with terror. The ridge was only a short distance above her, but I could see that she wasn’t going to be able to get up there on her own, not now, and that there was no possible way she could come down either.

“Stay right where you are, Lizziebeth,” I told her. “Don’t move, I’m coming up.”

All I could think of was that somehow I had to get her up on to that ridge. We’d just sit there until we were seen and rescue came. But between me and her was a steep, tiled roof, acres of tiles, it seemed, and with no foothold, nothing to hold on to. One slip, one loose tile, and I’d be slipping and sliding back down the roof and probably over the parapet. It didn’t bear thinking about. So I tried not to. That was why I talked to her all the way up as I climbed. I wasn’t only trying to calm her fears, I was desperately trying to calm my own.

“Just hang on, Lizziebeth. Look up at the pigeon. Whatever you do, don’t look down. I’m coming. I’ll be right there. Promise.”

I climbed as fast as my shaking legs would allow. I went sideways across the tiles like a crab, zigzagging up the roof. It was longer, but it made it easier, safer, less steep. I just fixed my mind on reaching that ridge, and climbed. More than once I dislodged a tile and sent it crashing down into the gulley below. Then at last I was up there and sitting astride the ridge. Now I was able to reach down, grasp Lizziebeth by the wrist and haul her up. We sat there facing one another, safe for the moment, but both of us breathless with fear. The pigeon was quite oblivious to all that had been done to help him. He hopped one-legged back down the roof, along the gully, and then up on to the parapet, pecking away at the crumbs as he went. He flew off quite happily.

Someone must have been watching all this drama unfold, because the Fire Brigade came soon enough. There were bells clanging in the street below, and firemen in shiny helmets began to appear all along the gully below, one of them talking to us all the while, telling us again and again not to move. The truth is that neither of us could have moved even if we’d wanted to. They ran ladders up to us and lifted us down, Lizziebeth first. When at last I was carried in through the big window at the end of our corridor, I saw it was crowded with people. The hotel manager was there, Skullface, Mary, Luke, Mr Freddie, everyone. As I walked by they all began to clap me on the back. It was only then that I really understood what I’d done. The manager pumped my hand, and told me I was a proper little hero. But Skullface wasn’t clapping. She wasn’t smiling either. She knew something wasn’t quite as it should be, but I could tell she didn’t know what it was. I smiled at her though, defiantly, triumphantly. I think I enjoyed that moment more than all the backslapping and handshaking. Although that was fun too.

They laid on a celebratory supper for me down in the kitchens that night, and sat me at the head of the table. They sang For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow over and over again. We had quite a night of it. After a while the manager came to fetch me away. He was taking me up to the Stantons’ rooms, he told me, because the family wanted to thank me personally. When I was ushered in, I found the three of them lined up in the sitting room to greet me, Lizziebeth in her dressing gown. It was all very formal and proper. I stood before them, trying all I could not to catch Lizziebeth’s eye. I knew that just one look between us could give everything away.

“Young man,” Mr Stanton began. “Mrs Stanton and I, but most of all Elizabeth of course, owe you a very great debt of gratitude.”

Suddenly I saw, and I could not have been more surprised, that there were tears in his eyes, and his voice broke. I had never imagined that men such as this could ever cry.

“Elizabeth is our only child,” he went on, his voice charged with emotion. “She is very precious to us, and today you saved her life. We shall not forget this.”

He stepped forward, shook my hand, and presented me with a large white envelope. “No money could ever be enough of course, young man, but this is just a token of our deep appreciation for what you did, for your extraordinary courage.”

I took the envelope from him, and opened it. In it were five ten pound notes. I had never in my life seen so much money. Before I could say thank you, or indeed say anything at all, Lizziebeth was standing there in front of me, holding out a large piece of paper. I was looking down at a picture of Kaspar.

“I drew it for you,” she said. She was speaking to me as if we hardly knew one another. She was an amazing actress. “I like drawing pictures. It’s a cat. I hope you like it. I did it for you because I especially like black cats. And on the other side, you can see…” She turned the paper over for me. “On the other side I’ve done a picture of the ship we’re sailing home on next week. It’s got four big funnels, and Papa says it’s the biggest, fastest ship in the whole wide world. It’s true, isn’t it, Papa?”

“She’s called the Titanic,” Mrs Stanton added. “It’ll be her maiden voyage, you know. Isn’t she the most magnificent ship you ever saw?”

Stowaway (#ulink_34869d7d-5037-5b77-92ea-6dede8af5c7e)

I should have taken more notice of Lizziebeth’s drawings, appreciated them more when she gave them to me, and afterwards, but the truth was I’d never in my life seen so much money. Sitting on my bed late that night, I kept counting it to make sure I wasn’t dreaming it. Everyone on the corridor came in. They had to see it with their own eyes. Mary O’Connell held each note up to the light, I remember, to check it wasn’t a forgery. “Well, you never know, do you? Not with these rich folk,” she said. I told Mary something I hadn’t spoken about with the others, how I’d been thinking about it and was beginning to feel very uncomfortable about taking the money. Mary was always good about right and wrong, she understood these things.

“I didn’t do it for the money, Mary.” I told her, “I did it because it was Lizziebeth up there.”

“I know that, Johnny,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it, does it? This money is your ticket out of here. It’s a God-given fortune, so it is. There’s two years wages here. For God’s sakes, you could go anywhere, do anything. Wouldn’t any one of us like to do that! You don’t want to be having to shine shoes for the rest of your life, do you?”

I lay awake most of that night talking it all through with Kaspar – he was a good listener. By morning I felt that despite everything Mary had said, I might have to give the money back. Lizziebeth’s drawings were a thank you, and that was fine; but I couldn’t help thinking that the money was in some way a kind of pay-off; reward money for a bell-boy. No, I didn’t like being treated like a bell-boy, and I didn’t want a reward. I’d give the money back. But then by morning I’d almost changed my mind again. Maybe Mary had been right after all. I’d keep the money. Why shouldn’t I?

I was still lying there propped up on my pillows, with Kaspar curled up at the end of the bed, looking at Lizziebeth’s picture of the great ship with the four funnels steaming through the ocean, gulls flying overhead, when the door suddenly flew open. Skullface stood there. “I thought so. I thought as much!” she said. “First that girl was in here miaowing like a cat, and that was odd enough. Then a day later she was up here again, wasn’t she? But this time up on the roof, just outside your window. Strange that. Strange sort of coincidence, I thought. D’you know something, Johnny Trott, I don’t believe in coincidences. And now you’re quite the little hero, aren’t you? Well, I weren’t born yesterday. I’m no one’s fool, Johnny Trott. I knew something fishy was going on. But now I can see, it weren’t fishy at all, it were catty, more like.”

She came into the room, shutting the door behind her, and stood over me, a nasty vindictive grin on her face. Kaspar had leaped on to the window-sill, and was hissing and wailing at her furiously. “Well now,” she went on. “I hear you’ve come into the money, Johnny Trott, is that right?” I nodded.

“Here’s the deal then,” she went on. “Either you pack your bags, hand in your uniform and you’re out in the streets within the hour, or you hand over the money. It’s that simple. Hand over the money and you can stay. I’ll even let you keep your horrible cat up here, for a while anyway. There, I can’t be more generous than that, can I now?”

A few moments later as she walked out of my room, tucking the envelope into her pocket, I was almost grateful to her. After all she’d made my decision for me. I sat down on my bed where Kaspar soon joined me for some petting and reassurance. I was thinking things through. I was no poorer than I had been before it all happened. And now at least I had her word, for what it was worth, that Kaspar would be safe, for a while anyway. I still had my job. I felt a great sense of relief, but that was very soon overwhelmed by a wave of sadness. All too soon now Lizziebeth would be leaving and sailing back to America. “I’m going to miss her. We’re both going to miss her, Kaspar,” I said aloud. “We won’t miss the money – we never really had it, did we – but we will miss Lizziebeth. What are we going to do without her?”