Maskerade

She'd been so certain.

“You'll enjoy it, mother. You really will.”

“ 'Tain't for the likes of us, Henry. I don't see why Mr Morecombe couldn't give you tickets to see Nellie Stamp at the music hall. Now that's what I call music. Proper tunes you can understand.”

“Songs like 'She Sits Among the Cabbages and Leeks' are not very cultural, mother.”

Two figures wandered through the crowds heading for the Opera House. This was their conversation.

“ 'S a good laugh, though. And you don't have to hire suits. Seems daft to me, havin' to wear a special suit just to listen to music.”

“It enhances the experience,” said young Henry, who had read this somewhere.

“I mean, how does the music know?” said his mother. “Now, Nellie Stamp—”

“Come along, mother.”

It was going to be one of those evenings, he knew it.

Henry Lawsy did his best. And, given the starting point, it wasn't a bad best. He was a clerk in the firm of Morecombe, Slant & Honeyplace, a somewhat oldfashioned legal partnership. One reason for its less?than- modern approach was the fact that Messrs Morecombe and Honeyplace were vampires and Mr Slant was a zombie. The three partners were, therefore, technically dead, although this did not prevent them putting in a proper day's work — normally during the night, in the case of Mr Morecombe and Mr Honeyplace.

From Henry's point of view the hours were good and the job was not onerous, but he chafed somewhat about his promotion prospects because clearly dead men's shoes were being fully occupied by dead men. He'd decided that the only way to succeed was to better himself by Improving His Mind, which he tried to do at every opportunity. It is probably a full description of Henry Lawsy's mind that if you had given him a book called How to Improve Your Mind in Five Minutes, he would have read it with a stopwatch. His progress through life was hampered by his tremendous sense of his own ignorance, a disability which affects all too few people.

Mr Morecombe had given him two opera tickets as a reward for sorting out a particularly problematical tort. He'd invited his mother because she represented 100 per cent of all the women he knew.

People tended to shake Henry's hand cautiously, in case it came off.

He'd bought a book about the opera and read it carefully, because he'd heard that it was absolutely unheard?of to go to an opera without knowing what it was about, and the chance of finding out while you were actually watching it was remote. The book's reassuring weight was in his pocket right now. All he needed to complete the evening was a less embarrassing parent.

“Can we get some peanuts before we go in?” said his mother.

“Mother, they don't sell peanuts at the opera.”

“No peanuts? What're you supposed to do if you don't like the songs?”

Greebo's suspicious eyes were two glows in the gloom.

“Poke him with a broom?handle,” suggested Granny.

“No,” said Nanny. “With someone like Greebo you have to use a little bit of kindness.”

Granny closed her eyes and waved a hand.

There was a yowl from under the kitchen's dresser and a sound of frantic scrabbling. Then, his claws scoring tracks in the floor, Greebo came out backwards, fighting all the way.

“Mind you, a lot of cruelty does the trick as well,” Nanny conceded. “You've never been much of a cat person, have you, Esme?”

Greebo would have hissed at Granny, except that even his cat brain was just bright enough to realize this was not the best move he could make.

“Give him his fish eggs,” Granny said. “He might as well have them now as later.”

Greebo inspected the dish. Oh, this was all right, then. They wanted to give him food.

Granny nodded at Nanny Ogg. They held out their hands, palm?up.

Greebo was halfway through the caviar when he felt It happening.

“Wrrroowlllll—” he wailed, and then the voice went deeper as his chest expanded, and rose physically as his back legs lengthened under him.

His ears flattened against his head, and then crept down the sides.

“—llllwwaaaa—”

“The jacket's a forty?four?inch chest,” said Nanny. Granny nodded.

“—aaaaoooo—”

His face flattened. His whiskers spread out. Greebo's nose developed a life of its own.

“—oooooss… sshit!”

“He certainly gets the hang of it quicker these days,” said Nanny.

“You put some clothes on right now, my lad,” said Granny, who had shut her eyes.

Not that this made much difference, she had to admit later. Greebo fully clothed still managed to communicate the nakedness beneath. The insouciant moustache, the long sideburns and the tousled black hair combined with the well?developed muscles to give the impression of the more louche kind of buccaneer or a romantic poet who'd given up on the opium and tried red meat instead. He had a scar running across his face, and a black patch now where it crossed the eye. When he smiled, he exuded an easy air of undistilled, excitingly dangerous lasciviousness. He could swagger while asleep. Greebo could, in fact, commit sexual harassment simply by sitting very quietly in the next room.

Except as far as the witches were concerned. To Granny a cat was a damn' cat whatever shape it was, and Nanny Ogg always thought of him as Mister Fluffy.

She adjusted the bow?tie and stood back critically. “What do you think?” she said.

“He looks like an assassin, but he'll do,” said Granny.

“Oh, what a nasty thing to say!”

Greebo waved his arms experimentally and fumbled with the ebony cane. Fingers took a bit of getting used to, but cat reflexes learned fast.

Nanny waved a finger playfully under his nose. He took a half?hearted swipe at it.

“Now you just stay with Granny and do what she tells you like a good boy,” she said.

“Yess, Nan?ny,” said Greebo reluctantly. He managed to grip the stick properly.

“And no fighting.”

“No, Nan?ny.”

“And no leaving bits of people on the doormat.”

“No, Nan?ny.”

“We'll have no trouble like we did with those robbers last month.”

“No, Nan?ny.”

He looked depressed. Humans had no fun. Incredible complications surrounded the most basic activities.

“And no turning back into a cat again until we say.”

“Yess, Nan?ny.”

“Play your cards right and there could be a kipper in this for you.”

“Yess, Nan?ny.”

“What're we going to call him?” said Granny. “He can't just be Greebo, which I've always said was a damn' silly name for a cat.”

“Well, he looks aristocratic—” Nanny began.

“He looks like a beautiful brainless bully,” Granny corrected her.

“Aristocratic,” repeated Nanny.

“Same thing.”

“We can't call him Greebo, anyway.”

“We'll think of something.”