The Classic Morpurgo Collection. Michael Morpurgo
that’s what I did, and that’s when I began to notice how sad Kaspar had become. That’s when I noticed something else too. Every time I went in to be with Kaspar it was as if the Countess was there in the room with me. Sometimes I thought I even smelled her perfume. Sometimes I was sure I heard her humming and singing. More than once, late in the evening, I heard that lullaby playing on the piano. And time and again I thought I caught sight of her in the mirror, but when I turned round she wasn’t there. I knew she had been, though. I was certain of it. I wasn’t frightened, not exactly. But it troubled me, and made me feel uncomfortable every time I went into her room.
It was obvious to me that Kaspar sensed her presence too. He was not himself at all. He was nervous, restless, anxious. He didn’t purr anymore. He’d stopped washing himself, and so far as I could see, he hardly slept. He’d spend hours searching the rooms for the Countess, yowling piteously. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t drink. He was clearly pining for her. I decided that maybe if I took him out more often, for walks in the park, it might help him. He drank from the puddles then, which was something.
I tried to reassure him all I could. I told him over and over that everything would be all right. Sitting there on our bench one day I promised him faithfully that I’d look after him. But I could see he wasn’t listening. More and more he just didn’t seem to care. More and more he just didn’t seem to want to go on living. I tried feeding him by hand, but he would only sniff at it and turn away. I tried calves liver from the kitchen. I tried best beef, finely chopped. Nothing worked. Kaspar was losing weight all the time, losing his sleekness. His coat was beginning to stare. He was already the ghost of his former self. There seemed to be nothing I could do to halt his decline. I knew if he went on like this, it could only end one way. Now I would lie awake at night, not grieving for the Countess any more, but trying desperately to think of some way of saving Kaspar’s life.
It was during one of these long and sleepless nights that I had an idea. It occurred to me that it was only in the Countess’ rooms that I had felt her presence, that I’d caught my fleeting glimpses of her. Maybe it was the same for Kaspar. Maybe that was what was troubling him. If I got him out of those rooms somehow, and away from her, then he might possibly be able to forget her.
I had it in my head that the only thing to do was to bring Kaspar up to my little attic room and look after him there. That way I could also be with him more often. But I knew from the start there would be problems. Sooner or later, as Mr Freddie had said, the Countess’ relations would be coming to collect her belongings, and no one knew when that would be. One thing was for sure: they’d be coming for Kaspar too, and they’d expect to find him in her rooms. And if he wasn’t there, they’d be bound to ask me where he was. Just about everyone who worked in the hotel knew by now that I had been looking after Kaspar. I couldn’t say I was keeping him in my room because we were absolutely forbidden to keep pets in our rooms. The house rules were very strict. No birds in cages, no goldfish, no cats, no dogs, no mice. In fact no friends of any kind were allowed up in the servants’ rooms, animal or human. Breaking any of the house rules would lead to instant dismissal – Skullface never showed any mercy. I told Mr Freddie my plans because I knew he’d understand. He said it was far too dangerous to take Kaspar up there, that I’d be out of a job and on the streets just like that if Skullface ever found out about it.
“You don’t want to risk everything for a cat, Johnny,” he said. “Not even for Kaspar.”
It was good advice. I thought about it long and hard, but in the end I knew I had no choice. I could think of no other way of saving Kaspar. I told everyone on the servants’ corridor what I was doing – there was no way I could keep a cat up there in my room and keep it a secret from them. One thing was certain: none of them would snitch on me to Skullface, we all hated her far too much. Besides, they all realised by now just how ill Kaspar was, and they all wanted to help. He’d become quite a favourite.
Late one evening we all crowded into my room where Mary O’Connell, one of the scullery maids, made us all join hands and make a secret pact not to tell a living soul. Mary was an Irish girl from County Galway. She was a powerful character and had a persuasive way with words. She was very religious-minded, and she made us all swear on her bible never to say a word. Luke Tandy, a waiter in the Riverside Restaurant, said he wouldn’t swear on the bible because he didn’t believe in all that “religious malarkey”.
“Well you’d better believe something else then, Luke,” Mary told him, wagging her finger at him. “You say a word to a soul, and I’ll beat the living daylights out of you, so I will.”
All I had to worry about now was Skullface herself. She hardly ever made an appearance on our corridor but we all knew she could come up there any time. We had to keep an eye out for her, but most of all we had to get lucky.
That same night I crept downstairs, let myself into the Countess’ room, and carried Kaspar up into his new home in my little attic room. As soon as I got him there I sat him on the bed beside me and gave him a good talking to. “None of your yowling, Kaspar. If Skullface finds you up here, we’re done for, me and you both. And you’ve got to eat. You’ve got to get better, you hear me?” He didn’t yowl, but he didn’t eat either. He just lay there curled up on my bed sleeping, and hardly moved. When I left him to go on duty downstairs in the lobby he took very little notice of me. And he took very little notice of me when I came back either. Mary O’Connell tried to feed him, tried to talk him into it, but he wasn’t interested. Almost everyone on the corridor had a go. We tried chicken, salmon, even caviar once – anything Mary could filch from the kitchens without being noticed. All of it went uneaten. He wouldn’t touch anything, not even his milk.
Just in case the Countess’ relatives turned up, I’d put it about everywhere – we all had – that Kaspar had escaped from the Countess’ rooms and could not be found. I made a great song and dance about organising a search of the whole hotel, pretended to be beside myself with worry, and I asked everyone to keep an eye out for him. Mr Freddie knew what I was up to of course, but besides Mary and Luke and all the gang on our corridor, no one else did. So now I could only take Kaspar for his walk at night time, when hardly anyone would be about. I’d hurry out the back way, through the tradesmen’s entrance, with Kaspar hidden under my coat. While we were out there in the park he seemed to perk up for a while, but it never lasted. Back in my room he would curl up again, and close his eyes. Often I would hear him sighing deeply, almost as if he wished every breath to be his last. It broke my heart to see him like this. I felt so utterly helpless.
Meanwhile the Countess’ brother and sister came to take away all her things. They asked after Kaspar, and I told them, as I’d told everyone else, that he’d disappeared. In the Countess’ sitting room they stood by the piano for a while and cried on one anothers shoulders. I found myself looking again in the mirror, where I had so often caught a ghostly glimpse of the Countess. I did not see her this time but I felt her presence. I made her a silent promise then and there that I wouldn’t let Kaspar die.
As it turned out Kaspar didn’t die. He was saved. But I have to say that it had nothing whatsoever to do with me. In the end, Kaspar was saved by happenchance, by pure happy circumstance.
I had seen the Stanton family about in the hotel, but to begin with had paid them little enough attention. They seemed a lot like other rich families that came to stay for a month or two in the hotel. They were American; father, mother, and a little girl. Both the parents seemed rather stiff and prim and proper, even a bit standoffish, which in my experience was not at all like most of the Americans guests I’d met in the hotel. The little girl was different though. She was about seven or eight, I guessed, and was always in trouble, always being ticked off by her mother. She was for ever wandering off on her own and getting herself lost. As I