by Roald Dahl
‘What the blazes do you mean, madam?’ shouted Mr Jenkins. ‘My son isn't a mouse!’ His black moustache was jumping up and down like crazy as he spoke. ‘Come on, woman! Where is he? Out with it!’
The family at the table nearest to us had all stopped eating and were staring at Mr Jenkins. My grandmother sat there puffing away calmly at her black cigar. ‘I can well understand your anger, Mr Jenkins,’ she said. ‘Any other English father would be just as cross as you are. But over in Norway where I come from, we are quite used to these sorts of happenings. We have learnt to accept them as part of everyday life.’
‘You must be mad, woman!’ cried Mr Jenkins. ‘Where is Bruno? If you don't tell me at once I shall summon the police!’
‘Bruno is a mouse,’ my grandmother said, calm as ever.
‘He most certainly is not a mouse!’ shouted Mr Jenkins.
‘Oh yes I am!’ Bruno said, poking his head up out of the handbag.
Mr Jenkins leapt about three feet into the air.
‘Hello, Dad,’ Bruno said. He had a silly sort of mousy grin on his face.
Mr Jenkins's mouth dropped open so wide I could see the gold fillings in his back teeth.
‘Don't worry, Dad,’ Bruno went on. ‘It's not as bad as all that. Just so long as the cat doesn't get me.’
‘B-B-Bruno!’ stammered Mr Jenkins.
‘No more school!’ said Bruno, grinning a broad and asinine mouse-grin. ‘No more homework! I shall live in the kitchen cupboard and feast on raisins and honey!’
‘B-b-but B-B-Bruno!’ stammered Mr Jenkins again. ‘H-how did this happen?’ The poor man had no wind left in his sails at all.
‘Witches,’ my grandmother said. ‘The witches did it.’
‘I can't have a mouse for a son!’ shrieked Mr Jenkins.
‘You've got one,’ my grandmother said. ‘Be nice to him, Mr Jenkins.’
‘Mrs Jenkins will go crazy!’ yelled Mr Jenkins. ‘She can't stand the things!’
‘She'll just have to get used to him,’ my grandmother said. ‘I hope you don't keep a cat in the house.’
‘We do! We do!’ cried Mr Jenkins. ‘Topsy is my wife's favourite creature!’
‘Then you'll just have to get rid of Topsy,’ my grandmother said. ‘Your son is more important than your cat.’
‘He certainly is!’ Bruno shouted from inside the handbag. ‘You tell Mum she's got to get rid of Topsy before I go home!’
By now half the Dining-Room was watching our little group. Knives and forks and spoons had been put down and all over the place heads were turning round to stare at Mr Jenkins as he stood there spluttering and shouting. They couldn't see either Bruno or me and they were wondering what all the fuss was about.
‘By the way,’ my grandmother said, ‘would you like to know who did this to him?’ There was a mischievous little smile on her face and I could see that she was about to get Mr Jenkins into trouble.
‘Who?’ he cried. ‘Who did it?’
‘That woman over there,’ my grandmother said. ‘The small one in a black dress at the head of the long table.’
‘She's RSPCC!’ cried Mr Jenkins. ‘She's the Chairwoman!’
‘No, she's not,’ my grandmother said. ‘She's The Grand High Witch Of All The World.’
‘You mean she did it, that skinny little woman over there!’ shouted Mr Jenkins, pointing at her with a long finger. ‘By gad, I'll have my lawyers on to her for this! I'll make her pay through the nose!’
‘I wouldn't do anything rash,’ my grandmother said to him. ‘That woman has magic powers. She might decide to turn you into something even sillier than a mouse. A cockroach perhaps.’
‘Turn me into a cockroach!’ shouted Mr Jenkins, puffing out his chest. ‘I'd like to see her try!’ He swung around and started marching across the Dining-Room towards The Grand High Witch's table. My grandmother and I watched him. Bruno had jumped up on to our table and was also watching his father. Practically everyone in the Dining-Room was watching Mr Jenkins now. I stayed where I was, peeping out of my grandmother's handbag. I thought it might be wiser to stay put.
The Triumph
Mr Jenkins had not gone more than a few paces towards The Grand High Witch's table when a piercing scream rose high above all the other noises in the room, and at the same moment I saw The Grand High Witch go shooting up into the air!
Now she was standing on her chair, still screaming…
Now she was on the table-top, waving her arms…
‘What on earth's happening, Grandmamma?’
‘Wait!’ my grandmother said. ‘Keep quiet and watch.’
Suddenly all the other witches, more than eighty of them, were beginning to scream and jump up out of their seats as though spikes were being stuck into their bottoms. Some were standing on chairs, some were up on the tables and all of them were wiggling about and waving their arms in the most extraordinary manner.
Then, all at once, they became quiet.
Then they stiffened. Every single witch stood there as stiff and silent as a corpse.
The whole room became deathly still.
‘They're shrinking, Grandmamma!’ I said. ‘They're shrinking just like I did!’
‘I know they are,’ my grandmother said.
‘It's the Mouse-Maker!’ I cried. ‘Look! Some of them are growing fur on their faces! Why is it working so quickly, Grandmamma?’
‘I'll tell you why,’ my grandmother said. ‘Because all of them have had massive overdoses, just like you. It's thrown the alarm-clock right out of whack!’
Everyone in the Dining-Room was standing up now to get a better view. People were moving closer. They were beginning to crowd round the two long tables. My grandmother lifted Bruno and me up so that we wouldn't miss any of the fun. In her excitement, she jumped up on to her chair so that she could see over the heads of the crowd.
In another few seconds, all the witches had completely disappeared and the tops of the two long tables were swarming with small brown mice.
All over the Dining-Room women were screaming and strong men were turning white in the face and shouting, ‘It's crazy! This can't happen! Let's get the heck out of here quick!’ Waiters were attacking the mice with chairs and wine-bottles and anything else that came to hand. I saw a chef in a tall white hat rushing out from the kitchen brandishing a frying-pan, and another one just behind him was wielding a carving-knife above his head, and everyone was yelling, ‘Mice! Mice! Mice! We must get rid of the mice!’ Only the children in the room were really enjoying it. They all seemed to know instinctively that something good was going on right there in front of them, and they were clapping and cheering and laughing like mad.
‘It's time to go,’ my grandmother said. ‘Our work is done.’ She got down off her chair and picked up her handbag and slung it over her arm. She had me in her right hand and Bruno in her left. ‘Bruno,’ she said, ‘the time has come to restore you to the famous bosom of your family.’
‘My mum's not very crazy about mice,’ Bruno said.
‘So I noticed,’ my grandmother said. ‘She'll just have to get used to you, won't she?’
It was not difficult to find Mr and Mrs Jenkins. You could hear Mrs Jenkins's shrill voice all over the room. ‘Herbert!’ it was screaming. ‘Herbert, get me out of here! There's mice everywhere! They'll go up my skirts!’ She had her arms high up around her husband and from where I was she seemed to be swinging from his neck.
My grandmother advanced upon them and thrust Bruno into Mr Jenkins's hand. ‘Here's your little boy,’ she said. ‘He needs to go on a diet.’
‘Hi, Dad!’ Bruno said. ‘Hi, Mum!’
Mrs Jenkins screamed even louder. My grandmother, with me in her hand, turned and marched out of the room. She went straight across the hotel lobby and out through the front entrance into the open air.
Outside it was a lovely warm evening and I could hear the waves breaking on the beach just across the road from the hotel.
‘Is there a
taxi here?’ my grandmother said to the tall doorman in his green uniform.
‘Certainly, madam,’ he said, and he put two fingers into his mouth and blew a long shrill whistle. I watched him with envy. For weeks I had been trying to whistle like that but I hadn't succeeded once. Now I never would.
The taxi came. The driver was an oldish man with a thick black drooping moustache. The moustache hung over his mouth like the roots of some plant. ‘Where to, madam?’ he asked. Suddenly, he caught sight of me, a little mouse, nestling in my grandmother's hand. ‘Blimey!’ he said. ‘What's that?’
‘It's my grandson,’ my grandmother said. ‘Drive us to the station, please.’
‘I always liked mice,’ the old taxi-driver said. ‘I used to keep ’undreds of ’em when I was a boy. Mice is the fastest breeders in the world, did you know that, ma'am? So if ’ee's your grandson, then I reckon you'll be having a few great-grandsons to go with ’im in a couple of weeks’ time!’
‘Drive us to the station, please,’ my grandmother said, looking prim.
‘Yes, ma'am,’ he said. ‘Right away.’
My grandmother got into the back of the taxi and sat down and put me on her lap.
‘Are we going home?’ I asked her.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Back to Norway.’
‘Hooray!’ I cried. ‘Oh, hooray, hooray, hooray!’
‘I though you'd like that,’ she said.
‘But what about our luggage?’
‘Who cares about luggage?’ she said.
The taxi was driving through the streets of Bournemouth and this was the time of day when the pavements were crowded with holiday-makers all wandering about aimlessly with nothing to do.
‘How are you feeling, my darling?’ my grandmother said.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Quite marvellous.’
She began stroking the fur on the back of my neck with one finger. ‘We have accomplished great feats today,’ she said.
‘It's been terrific,’ I said. ‘Absolutely terrific.’
The Heart of a Mouse
It was lovely to be back in Norway once again in my grandmother's fine old house. But now that I was so small, everything looked different and it took me quite a while to find my way around. Mine was a world of carpets and table-legs and chair-legs and the little crannies behind large pieces of furniture. A closed door could not be opened and nothing could be reached that was on a table.
But after a few days, my grandmother began to invent gadgets for me in order to make life a bit easier. She got a carpenter to put together a number of slim tall stepladders and she placed one of these against each table in the house so that I could climb up whenever I wanted to. She herself invented a wonderful door-opening device made out of wires and springs and pulleys, with heavy weights dangling on cords, and soon every door in the house had a door-opener on it. All I had to do was to press my front paws on to a tiny wooden platform and hey presto, a spring would stretch and a weight would drop and the door would swing open.
Next, she rigged up an equally ingenious system whereby I could switch on the light whenever I entered a room at night. I cannot explain how it worked because I know nothing about electricity, but there was a little button let into the floor near the door in every room in the house, and when I pressed the button gently with one paw, the light would come on. When I pressed it a second time, the light would go off again.
My grandmother made me a tiny toothbrush, using a matchstick for the handle, and into this she stuck little bits of bristle that she had snipped off one of her hair-brushes. ‘You must not get any holes in your teeth,’ she said. ‘I can't take a mouse to a dentist! He'd think I was crazy!’
‘It's funny,’ I said, ‘but ever since I became a mouse I've hated the taste of sweets and chocolate. So I don't think I'll get any holes.’
‘You are still going to brush your teeth after every meal,’ my grandmother said. And I did.
For a bath-tub she gave me a silver sugar-basin, and I bathed in it every night before going to bed. She allowed no one else into the house, not even a servant or a cook. We kept entirely to ourselves and we were very happy in each other's company.
One evening, as I lay on my grandmother's lap in front of the fire, she said to me, ‘I wonder what happened to that little Bruno.’
‘I wouldn't be surprised if his father gave him to the hall-porter to drown in the fire-bucket,’ I answered.
‘I'm afraid you may be right,’ my grandmother said. ‘The poor little thing.’
We were silent for a few minutes, my grandmother puffing away at her black cigar while I dozed comfortably in the warmth.
‘Can I ask you something, Grandmamma?’ I said.
‘Ask me anything you like, my darling.’
‘How long does a mouse live?’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I've been waiting for you to ask me that.’
There was a silence. She sat there smoking away and gazing at the fire.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘How long do we live, us mice?’
‘I have been reading about mice,’ she said. ‘I have been trying to find out everything I can about them.’
‘Go on then, Grandmamma. Why don't you tell me?’
‘If you really want to know,’ she said, ‘I'm afraid a mouse doesn't live for a very long time.’
‘How long?’ I asked.
‘Well, an ordinary mouse only lives for about three years,’ she said. ‘But you are not an ordinary mouse. You are a mouse-person, and that is a very different matter.’
‘How different?’ I asked. ‘How long does a mouse-person live, Grandmamma?’
‘Longer,’ she said. ‘Much longer.’
‘A mouse-person will almost certainly live for three times as long as an ordinary mouse,’ my grandmother said. ‘About nine years.’
‘Good!’ I cried. ‘That's great! It's the best news I've ever had!’
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Because I would never want to live longer than you,’ I said. ‘I couldn't stand being looked after by anybody else.’
There was a short silence. She had a way of fondling me behind the ears with the tip of one finger. It felt lovely.
‘How old are you, Grandmamma?’ I asked.
‘I'm eighty-six,’ she said.
‘Will you live another eight or nine years?’
‘I might,’ she said. ‘With a bit of luck.’
‘You've got to,’ I said. ‘Because by then I'll be a very old mouse and you'll be a very old grandmother and soon after that we'll both die together.’
‘That would be perfect,’ she said.
I had a little doze after that. I just shut my eyes and thought of nothing and felt at peace with the world.
‘Would you like me to tell you something about yourself that is very interesting?’ my grandmother said.
‘Yes please, Grandmamma,’ I said, without opening my eyes.
‘I couldn't believe it at first, but apparently it's quite true,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘The heart of a mouse,’ she said, ‘and that means your heart, is beating at the rate of five hundred times a minute! Isn't that amazing?’
‘That's not possible,’ I said, opening my eyes wide.
‘It's as true as I'm sitting here,’ she said. ‘It's a sort of a miracle.’
‘That's nearly nine beats every second!’ I cried, working it out in my head.
‘Correct,’ she said. ‘Your heart is going so fast it's impossible to hear the separate beats. All one hears is a soft humming sound.’
She was wearing a lace dress and the lace kept tickling my nose. I had to rest my head on my front paws.
‘Have you ever heard my heart humming away, Grandmamma?’ I asked her.
‘Often,’ she said. ‘I hear it when you are lying very close to me on the pillow at night.’
The two of us remained silent in front of the fire for a long time after that, th
inking about these wonderful things.
‘My darling,’ she said at last, ‘are you sure you don't mind being a mouse for the rest of your life?’
‘I don't mind at all,’ I said. ‘It doesn't matter who you are or what you look like so long as somebody loves you.’
It's Off to Work We Go!
For supper that evening my grandmother had a plain omelette and one slice of bread. I had a piece of that brown Norwegian goats’-milk cheese known as gjetost which I had loved even when I was a boy. We ate in front of the fire, my grandmother in her armchair and me on the table with my cheese on a small plate.
‘Grandmamma,’ I said, ‘now that we have done away with The Grand High Witch, will all the other witches in the world gradually disappear?’
‘I'm quite sure they won't,’ she answered.
I stopped chewing and stared at her. ‘But they must!’ I cried. ‘Surely they must!’
‘I'm afraid not,’ she said.
‘But if she's not there any longer how are they going to get all the money they need? And who is going to give them orders and jazz them up at the Annual Meetings and invent all their magic formulas for them?’
‘When a queen bee dies, there is always another queen in the hive ready to take her place,’ my grandmother said. ‘It's the same with witches. In the great headquarters where The Grand High Witch lives, there is always another Grand High Witch waiting in the wings to take over should anything happen.’
‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘That means everything we did was for nothing! Have I become a mouse for nothing at all?’
‘We saved the children of England,’ she said. ‘I don't call that nothing.’
‘I know, I know!’ I cried. ‘But that's not nearly good enough! I felt sure that all the witches of the world would slowly fade away after we had got rid of their leader! Now you tell me that everything is going to go on just the same as before!’
‘Not exactly as before,’ my grandmother said. ‘For instance, there are no longer any witches in England. That's quite a triumph, isn't it?’
