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Authors: Catriona McPherson
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carrying a plate of buns which could easily have been brought by one of the others, but I could hardly blame them.
Mrs Cooke poured herself a cup and gave Bobbo one of the buns from which he did, sure enough, begin to pick out raisins. I was mesmerised for a minute or two, watching him crouched on the arm of my sofa with his long toes curled over it, daintily transferring the little morsels to his mouth.
‘Well, my beauty, what happened was this: when he’d got Princess Zanzi trained up and in the ring with the other two tigresses – and it took no time at all, for my pa worked a charm on every cat he met and she wurr a quick one to catch on – the very first show, first whip crack, she leapt off her tub and went for his throat.’
‘Did he survive?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Cooke, ‘he turned away in time and she got him in the shoulder there, but he lost his arm and near half his blood and spent the rest of the season in the hospital with doctors coming from all over to look at him, and then how many acts din’t up and leave us, with the boss laid out and my mother struggling. We had a hard winter that year.’ She took a swig of tea. ‘Well, there’s what comes of not sticking to your family way, but he’d learned his lesson. When he came home at last the first thing he did wurr get a lion tamer in and himself went back to his horses.’
‘And what happened to Zanzi?’ I asked. ‘Was she shot?’
‘No, none of that,’ said Mrs Cooke. ‘Beast couldn’t help her nature, could she? She wurr put in the menagerie and drew a fair crowd there. My ma painted up the sides of her wagon with scenes of the fight, called her Zanzi the Mankiller. Flatties couldn’t get enough of her after that. And do you know, Pa ended up with a set of liberty horses as good as Tam’s is now even with his one arm, so all was well and ended well there.’
I had the feeling familiar from the day before that Mrs Cooke’s story had gone awry somewhere. Certainly, I could not see the moral of it.
‘So,’ I began, ‘are you saying that lightning did strike twice in this case? That you have the gift for big cats like your father?’
‘Me?’ said Mrs Cooke, astonished. ‘Not me. I love the beasts but I’m a Cooke through and through, horses all the way. Not but what my ma wurr pure Ilchenko and like as she had no bones the tumbles she could do. No, I’ve no way with the big cats much as I love them. Never even thought myself to try.’ She now looked at me with as piercing a stare as two such round brown eyes could muster. ‘No, it’s the sight I have,’ she said. ‘Even from a babby. I knew trouble was coming from that Zanzi. And’ – she leaned forward – ‘I know trouble’s coming now. I’m not a maid any more and I don’t scream and shout, I play clever. But I knew it, I know it and I’m not wrong.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ I breathed. One could take or leave the second sight and one could not help thinking that the history of Zanzi and her old pa was a bit of a shunt up a narrative siding, but if Mrs Cooke had hard facts with her as well as memories, I wanted to hear them.
‘Topsy,’ she said and then bit her lip. ‘It goes against my nap to be telling a … someone who’s from the outside, begging your pardon. But I need help there and no other way round it. Topsy has lost her swing. Topsy Turvy, our little tumbler, my niece, more or less. Her swing what she has for the trapeze is gone.’
I had been sitting forward with my breath held, waiting, and at that I must admit I let it go and slumped back a bit again.
‘And you need help to search for it?’ I said. Mrs Cooke gave a short laugh, which made me blush and made Bobbo the monkey look up at us both for a moment. ‘Or you need help to find out who took it?’ I said; a slightly more sensible suggestion.
‘I think I know who took it,’ said Ma. ‘I only wish I din’t.’
‘So,’ I said slowly, but not slowly enough for what I should
Mrs Cooke poured herself a cup and gave Bobbo one of the buns from which he did, sure enough, begin to pick out raisins. I was mesmerised for a minute or two, watching him crouched on the arm of my sofa with his long toes curled over it, daintily transferring the little morsels to his mouth.
‘Well, my beauty, what happened was this: when he’d got Princess Zanzi trained up and in the ring with the other two tigresses – and it took no time at all, for my pa worked a charm on every cat he met and she wurr a quick one to catch on – the very first show, first whip crack, she leapt off her tub and went for his throat.’
‘Did he survive?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Cooke, ‘he turned away in time and she got him in the shoulder there, but he lost his arm and near half his blood and spent the rest of the season in the hospital with doctors coming from all over to look at him, and then how many acts din’t up and leave us, with the boss laid out and my mother struggling. We had a hard winter that year.’ She took a swig of tea. ‘Well, there’s what comes of not sticking to your family way, but he’d learned his lesson. When he came home at last the first thing he did wurr get a lion tamer in and himself went back to his horses.’
‘And what happened to Zanzi?’ I asked. ‘Was she shot?’
‘No, none of that,’ said Mrs Cooke. ‘Beast couldn’t help her nature, could she? She wurr put in the menagerie and drew a fair crowd there. My ma painted up the sides of her wagon with scenes of the fight, called her Zanzi the Mankiller. Flatties couldn’t get enough of her after that. And do you know, Pa ended up with a set of liberty horses as good as Tam’s is now even with his one arm, so all was well and ended well there.’
I had the feeling familiar from the day before that Mrs Cooke’s story had gone awry somewhere. Certainly, I could not see the moral of it.
‘So,’ I began, ‘are you saying that lightning did strike twice in this case? That you have the gift for big cats like your father?’
‘Me?’ said Mrs Cooke, astonished. ‘Not me. I love the beasts but I’m a Cooke through and through, horses all the way. Not but what my ma wurr pure Ilchenko and like as she had no bones the tumbles she could do. No, I’ve no way with the big cats much as I love them. Never even thought myself to try.’ She now looked at me with as piercing a stare as two such round brown eyes could muster. ‘No, it’s the sight I have,’ she said. ‘Even from a babby. I knew trouble was coming from that Zanzi. And’ – she leaned forward – ‘I know trouble’s coming now. I’m not a maid any more and I don’t scream and shout, I play clever. But I knew it, I know it and I’m not wrong.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ I breathed. One could take or leave the second sight and one could not help thinking that the history of Zanzi and her old pa was a bit of a shunt up a narrative siding, but if Mrs Cooke had hard facts with her as well as memories, I wanted to hear them.
‘Topsy,’ she said and then bit her lip. ‘It goes against my nap to be telling a … someone who’s from the outside, begging your pardon. But I need help there and no other way round it. Topsy has lost her swing. Topsy Turvy, our little tumbler, my niece, more or less. Her swing what she has for the trapeze is gone.’
I had been sitting forward with my breath held, waiting, and at that I must admit I let it go and slumped back a bit again.
‘And you need help to search for it?’ I said. Mrs Cooke gave a short laugh, which made me blush and made Bobbo the monkey look up at us both for a moment. ‘Or you need help to find out who took it?’ I said; a slightly more sensible suggestion.
‘I think I know who took it,’ said Ma. ‘I only wish I din’t.’
‘So,’ I said slowly, but not slowly enough for what I should
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