Reserved for the Cat

The voice penetrated the soft, dreamless dark. She tried to bat it away, like an annoying fly, but it persisted.

Wake up. It is time.

It couldn’t possibly be time for anything important.

Four sharp needles pierced her big toe and her slumbers. With a gasp of outrage and pain, she sat straight up in bed, now quite well awake.

“You bit me!” she hissed indignantly at the dark shape at the foot of the bed.

I scarcely broke the skin, the cat replied. You weren’t moving, and we have very little time. Get up.

“Time for what?” she demanded, but the cat wasn’t answering.

Put on that cut-up dress over your best underthings, he told her. And your cloak over all. Don’t bother taking anything else. We’re going out.

In the darkness, she gaped at him. “But—”

When this has all settled you can send someone for your things or come for them yourself. But right now, all you need is that dress and your cloak.

“It’s still raining!” she protested. Outside, the storm had turned into a steady, slow rain without any thunder or lightning, but she had no doubt that it was terribly cold out there—and why was she going out in a gown slashed to ribbons?

I know. I told you I was waiting for something. This was it. The storm. Now come on!

Maybe if she hadn’t been half-muzzy with sleep, or if she wasn’t more than half convinced this was just a surreal dream, she might have protested more. Instead, she did as she was told, and stole down the stairs, letting herself out at the kitchen door, following the silent cat.

Of course, the face full of wind and cold rain that she got woke her up thoroughly, but by then it was too late. And the cat was pushing against her ankles, herding her down into the street.

“What is this all about?” she gasped.

You are about to become the victim of a dreadful shipwreck. Can it be a shipwreck if it is only a yacht? A yacht-wreck doesn’t sound quite right. The cat ran on ahead, pausing in a circle of lamplight to look back at her.

“A what?”

A shipwreck. Remember I told you that we were going to borrow someone else’s reputation? You will be Nina Tchereslavsky, Russian prima donna. She has never performed further west than Berlin. You look enough like her photographs to pass. She speaks French almost exclusively outside of Russia, although she does know some English, and I will arrange for you to learn Russian in the same way I arranged for you to learn English.

“But how does this—”

Let me finish. You—that is, Nina—decided to come to England on holiday, possibly to arrange a tour as well. Possibly to stay. You are certain there is no dancer half so good as you here. A friend with a yacht arranged to bring you. In last night’s storm, the boat was wrecked, your friend is presumably drowned, and you have lost all of your possessions.

“But I cannot see—”

I will arrange the rest. You have only to remember your name and the storm and the wreck and act dazed. Speak French. I will take care of the rest. The cat herded her quickly down the street to the seashore. By that time, her hair was soaked, the rags of her gown and her cloak were soaked, and with her hair straggling into her eyes she was certainly going to present a convincing imitation of a shipwreck victim. As she staggered along the sand, the sky was just starting to lighten in the east, and the piers of the boardwalk loomed darkly above her head. She had not yet been down to the boardwalk, although she gathered that there were all manner of places of amusement built on it. Out of the holiday season though, most of them were fairly desolate.

Here, the cat said, finally. Wait here. Try and keep warm. When you hear me tell you to, lie face-down on the sand. Remember, you are Nina Tchereslavsky. Nothing else is of consequence.

And then the cat whisked away, leaving her at the foot of the piers, shivering, in the dark.

Was this scheme mad enough to actually work? Well she had no choice now.

The automobile chugged and rattled, the headlights doing little to illuminate the cobblestone-paved street ahead. Fortunately the streetlamps were still well lit, extravagant electrical things that they were. Nigel Barrett gripped the steering wheel and was grateful that this was an enclosed auto. And cursed the fact that the storm had chosen last night to break over their heads.

“Why you insisted on dragging us out this early in the morning, Nigel, I do not know.” Since this was roughly the tenth time Nigel Barrett’s traveling companion Wolf had voiced this particular complaint, Nigel did not bother to repeat his answer.

But his other traveling companion, Arthur Gilbert, did so for him. “Because if we are going to get to Manchester in time to see this singer at the matinee, we have to leave now, Wolf. Nigel’s only told you so a dozen times.”

“Nine,” Wolf replied, with immense dignity, from the rear seat of the enclosed motorcar. “And I don’t know why I had to come along.”

“Because you are the one writing the music for this extravaganza,” Nigel replied, carefully negotiating the narrow street in the semi-darkness. Once again, he asked himself why he lived in this part of Blackpool, where every time he wanted to take the motorcar out, he had to negotiate a maze of medieval lanes. “You have the final word on whether I hire her or not.”

“Arthur knows what I like,” Wolf said tartly.

“Arthur is only the conductor of the orchestra,” Arthur himself replied. “And you know your best work comes when you’re inspired by a particular singer or dancer. I can’t possibly tell whether or not you’d be inspired.” He reached around over the seat and gave the wool-shrouded cage a pat. “Don’t worry, we won’t let you get into a draft.”

“I would be much more inspired if you’d let me write an opera,” Wolfgang Amadeus said fretfully. “I am tired of those ridiculous tinkly ballads you like so much. Sweep! Scale! A challenge! That’s what I need!” The African Grey Parrot pulled the wool covering of his cage aside with his beak, and one beady black eye peered out at them accusingly.

“And opera isn’t going to fill the seats, Wolf, you know that,” Nigel responded without taking his eyes off the street. “And with these moving pictures coming on, pretty soon variety won’t either. Don’t worry, you’ll get spectacle and sweep to fill with music. I’ve seen the future of the stage, and its name is The Ziegfield Follies. Shows with a theme, a regular bill of stars you can count on seeing, that’s what will keep the seats full, even when motion pictures take over the music halls.”

“I know you keep saying that, Nigel, but you haven’t really explained yourself.” Arthur Gilbert, a slight, fair- haired man with the build of a whippet and nerves of steel, raised an eyebrow at his employer. “I should think people would get tired of seeing the same thing night after night.”

“Do people get tired of seeing William Gillette as Sherlock Holmes?” Nigel demanded. “Or Henry Irving as Hamlet? Or Ellen Terry as Portia? And what about Maude Adams as Peter Pan?”

“Well . . . but those are plays!” Arthur replied, tucking the woolen blanket in around the cage again. “And that’s in London!”

Wolf snorted. Or made a sound like a snort.

“And that’s the genius of the thing,” Nigel said with enthusiasm. “We take everything that people like best about a play—that is, a nice, light story—we add in the kind of music they like, which is where Wolf comes in, but without turning the damned thing into an opera, because last of all, we fit in the best sorts of acts from music hall. We rehearse it all and open it in the slow season, and that’s when all the locals will come. When they get tired of it, we’ll be in holidays, and the holiday-makers will pack the hall. By the time they leave, the locals will be ready to see it again, and when they’re gone, it will be time for the Christmas pantos. That’s when we put together the next