by Robin Jarvis
‘Thank ’ee.’ Twit stammered through a yawn and he followed Piccadilly back to the Browns’ home.
Arthur turned to his sister. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tackle Mother, you see to the Chitters. I’ll come and help once Mother’s gone to bed.’ Gingerly he pulled back the curtain.
It was dark beyond: the daylight had been blocked out for Oswald’s sake.
Arabel Chitter’s bric-a-brac was well dusted, her pieces of china ornament, bits of sparkling brooches and neatly folded lace shawls and headscarves had all been seen to by Gwen Brown. Mrs Chitter had always been house-proud and if things were not ‘just so’ she would fret.
Arthur and Audrey slowly made their way to Oswald’s room. Arthur coughed quietly and their mother came out to them.
‘Hello dears,’ she breathed wearily. Dark circles ringed her brown eyes and her tail dragged sadly behind her. ‘No ribbon today Audrey?’ she asked, stroking her daughter’s hair. ‘And you Arthur, have you had breakfast?’
‘Have you Mother?’ He took her paw in his. ‘No, I didn’t think so. Come on, you’re going to get some sleep.’ He would hear no protests and Gwen Brown was too tired to make any.
‘Audrey, promise me you’ll wake me if . . .’ was all she managed.
‘I promise Mother.’
‘Yes, good girl. Now, come Arthur, show me to my bed or I’ll drop down here.’ Audrey watched them leave then breathed deeply and went inside.
Illness has a smell all of its own and it is unmistakable. Sweet and cloying, it lingers in a sickroom, waiting for the patient to recover or fail. Audrey had grown accustomed to this smell by now though it frightened her to enter the room.
It was a small space almost filled by the bed in which Oswald lay. Beside him on a chair was Mr Chitter, his head bent in sleep. He was a meek mouse, devoted to his wife and son, but this had broken him.
Oswald was quite still. His face was gaunt and drained, paler now than ever before. His eyelids were closed lightly over his dim pink eyes. His fair albino hair was stuck close to his head and his whiskers drooped mournfully. The blankets were pulled up under his chin but one of his frail paws was wrapped inside his father’s.
Audrey felt Oswald’s forehead: it was hot and damp. A fever was consuming his last energies, burning away whatever hope there had been for him.
Sorrowfully she picked up a bowl from the floor. It contained clean wafer and a cloth, and with them she began to cool his brow.
Next to Oswald’s bed, on the wall, was a garland of dried hawthorn leaves which he had saved from the spring ceremony and preserved carefully. He had adored the celebrations and was impatient for the following year when he too would come of age and be entitled to enter the mysterious Chambers of Summer and Winter to receive his mousebrass. To Audrey, it seemed long ago that she had taken hers from the very paws of the Green Mouse. She thought of him now, the mystical spirit of life and growing things. How often she had prayed to him to spare Oswald! Now it looked as if nothing could save him.
There was a small table near her and on it were some slices of raw onion. Mrs Chitter believed this would draw out the illness from her son, and out of respect for her wishes Gwen Brown made sure that the onion was fresh every day. Audrey only regarded this superstition as one more addition to the eerie smell of illness.
A movement on the pillow drew her attention back to the patient.
Oswald’s eyes opened slowly. For a while he gazed at the ceiling, then gradually he focused on Audrey. She smiled at him warmly.
‘Good morning, Oswald,’ she said.
The albino raised his eyebrows feebly and tried to speak. It was a low, barely audible whisper and Audrey strained to hear him.
‘What sort . . . of day is it . . . outside?’ His sad eyes pierced her heart and she struggled to remain reassuring when all the time she wanted to run from him sobbing. She could not get over the feeling that it was mainly due to her that Oswald was so ill.
‘It’s beautiful, Oswald,’ she said huskily. ‘You never saw such a morning! The sky is as blue as a forget-me-not and the sun is so bright and lovely.’
A ghost of a smile touched Oswald’s haggard cheeks. He closed his eyes. ‘You never did get your mousebrass back,’ he murmured.
‘Yes I did, for a short while. You were so brave, getting it for me amongst all those horrible rats.’
‘I don’t think I shall ever get my . . . brass now,’ he continued mildly. ‘I wonder what it would . . . have been.’
‘The sign of utmost bravery,’ sobbed Audrey. She held her paw over her face.
‘I’m so sorry’ Oswald,’ she cried. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘No, it had to be done . . . Jupiter had to be destroyed. Not your fault if . . . if I wasn’t up to it.’
‘Don’t, please! Just rest. Would, you like some milk?’ But Oswald had already fallen into a black swoon. Audrey cried silently.
A gentle, polite knock sounded. She dried her eyes and left the sickroom, pausing on the way to the main entrance to look in on Mrs Chitter who lay asleep in another room. Arabel’s silvery head, was old and shrivelled. It was startling to see it against the crisp whiteness of the pillows. But at least she was asleep and not fretting. Audrey crept away and made for the entrance.
‘Oh, it’s young Miss Audrey!’ Sturdy Thomas Triton looked faintly surprised to see her when she drew the curtain back. ‘I was expectin’ your mother, but if you aren’t the very one anyway.’ The midshipmouse pulled off his hat and asked gravely, ‘How’s the lad this morn?’
‘No better, I’m afraid – we don’t think he’ll last much longer. Mother’s resting just now: she and Twit have been up all night.’
‘Aye,’ muttered Thomas grimly, then he furrowed his spiky white brows and considered Audrey steadily with his wise, dark eyes. ‘’Tis a sore thing to bear – losing a friend,’ and an odd far-off expression stole over him, ’specially if you think it’s all your fault. That’s a mighty burden, lass! Don’t take it on yourself – guilt and grief aren’t easy fellows to cart round with yer, believe you me.’
Audrey turned away quickly. Thomas’ insight was too unnerving and she cringed from it. ‘Would you like to see him?’ she managed at last.
Thomas fidgeted with his hat, rolling it over in his strong paws. ‘Lead on, I’ll look on the boy once more.’
When they came to the sickroom he hesitated at the doorway and changed his mind. ‘Nay, I’ll not enter. I’ve glimpsed the lad and that’s enough. I’ve seen too many go down with fever to want to witness it again. He were a brave sort whatever he may have said to the contrary. A loss to us all. I see the father has not moved – is the mother still abed?’ Audrey nodded. ‘That’s bad! A whole family wiped out by sickness and grief. Well, how’s little Twit bearing up?’
‘Oh, you know Twit. He always tries to be bright and jolly. You never know what he’s thinking deep down.’
‘Yes, you’re right there. I like that fieldmouse – reminds me of someone I knew once – best friend I ever had. Twit’s mighty fond of his cousin there – it’ll be a tragic blow to his little heart.’
A soft footfall behind them made them both turn sharply – but it was only Arthur.
‘Hullo Mr Triton,’ he said politely. ‘Audrey, I’ve managed to put Mother to bed and she’s asleep now, but I think Piccadilly’s having trouble with Twit – he needs to rest, but won’t settle. Be can’t stop worrying!’
‘Right, I’ll get him out of that,’ said Thomas firmly and he fixed his hat back on his head. ‘Come with me, miss, and you miladdo, stay here. I’ll see to my young matey.’ The midshipmouse strode from the Chitters’ home with Audrey following.
‘Mr Triton,’ she said, catching up with him. ‘What did you mean before when you saw me and said I was the very one?’
‘It wasn’t just to see poor Oswald that I came,’ he explained as they entered the Brown’s home, ‘but to see you as well.’
‘Me?’ asked Audrey, puzzled. She h
ad not spoken to the midshipmouse very much during the brief times that he had visited the Skirtings and she wondered what he was up to.
‘Aye lass,’ he continued. ‘I’ve a message for you.’ She looked blank as Thomas Triton charged into Arthur and Piccadilly’s bedroom.
The city mouse was trying to get Twit to stay in bed. He had heated him some milk and honey but the fieldmouse would not rest. When Thomas barged in Twit grinned in spite of himself.
‘How do!’ he said.
‘Ahoy there matey,’ Thomas said sternly. ‘What you doin’ lyin’ in yer bunk on a day like this?’ The midshipmouse winked a startled Piccadilly into silence. ‘Get up lad, there’s folk to see!’
‘But he’s only just gone to bed,’ exclaimed Audrey.
Without turning round to look at her, Thomas said, ‘You, miss, had better make yourself presentable. What has happened to your hair?’
‘I . . . I didn’t put my ribbon in,’ stammered Audrey.
‘Then chop chop lass. Go do whatever you do to make a good impression. Someone wants to see you.’
‘Who’s that then Thomas?’ asked Twit, curiosity banishing the weary lines around his eyes.
The midshipmouse feigned astonishment. ‘Why, the Starwife, lad – didn’t I say?’
Twit’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘What? Her that lives in Greenwich under those funny buildings I saw when the bats flew me over?’
‘Aye matey. First thing this morning, when it was still dark, I had a message from herself delivered by one of her younger jumpy squirrels – took me a long time to calm him down. They are a watery lot! Well the gist of the story is,’ Thomas now turned to Audrey, ‘that the Starwife wants to see you, Miss Brown, and she won’t be kept waitin’. I’ve come to fetch you, and miladdo here is welcome to join us.’
For a second Twit’s heart leapt, but when he thought of Oswald it sank down deeper and lower than ever. Sadly he shook his head. ‘I can’t come, Thomas. Oswald won’t see the end of the day – my place is here.’
The midshipmouse put his paw on Twit’s shoulder. ‘Lad, I promise you we’ll be back for that time. If Oswald leaves us, I swear you’ll be at his side.’
Twit blinked. He trusted his seafaring friend so much, yet how could he be so certain? Thomas’ eyes bore into him and under their solemn gaze the little fieldmouse felt sure that he was right.
‘I’ll just go an’ have a quick swill,’ Twit said, running out of the bedroom.
Audrey stared at Thomas and began to say something when a stem command from him sent her dashing off to find her ribbon.
Thomas Triton sighed and smiled at Piccadilly. ‘I’ll not keep them away long. The easiest bit’s been done – I’ve got them to go. Your job’s not as simple. Pray to the Green Mouse that the Chitter lad hangs on till we return!’
2. Starwife
Thomas Triton led a flustered Audrey and Twit across the hall. Through the cellar door they slipped and jumped down the stone steps beyond. Thomas strode through the cellar gloom to the Grille.
Wrought in iron with twirling leaf patterns this had always been an object of fear and dread. And indeed, when Jupiter the terrible God of the Rats had been alive it had possessed strange powers.
Now Audrey shivered as she stood before it, recalling how she had been dragged through the Grille by an evil band of rats. Twit backed away from it slightly. He remembered the horrible effect that the black enchantments had had upon Arthur. Only Thomas dared to touch the Grille.
With a hearty laugh he looked at the others. ‘Jupiter is dead,’ he reminded them. ‘Whatever forces were lurking in or beyond this grating are long gone.’ As if to prove it he banged an iron leaf with his fist. ‘The spells are as cold and lifeless as the mangy moggy who made them.’ The midshipmouse chuckled and squeezed himself through the rusted gap in the Grille.
‘This is the quickest way to Greenwich,’ he said, popping up on the other side. Audrey and Twit still hesitated so Thomas pulled a silly face. It looked so ridiculous that they couldn’t help laughing. Perhaps the Grille was an ordinary metal grating after all. Audrey and Twit crawled through the gap and joined Thomas.
Down into the sewers they went. Although it was a hot summer day in the outside world here it was chill and damp. Audrey had forgotten how bleak it all was. So many ugly memories were kindled by everything around her: the musty, stale smell of the dark running-water, the slippery slime on the ledges and the weird echoes which floated through the old air. Around every corner there was a dark memory.
Thomas sensed her unease and remarked casually, ‘I use the sewers quite a bit now. I never get lost, me. I can find my way home on a black foggy night with no moon and my hat over my eyes.’ Twit chuckled softly and Audrey was grateful to the midshipmouse; he took her mind off things.
‘Now there ain’t no more rats down ’ere,’ Twit piped up, ‘there’s no danger of us gettin’ peeled, is there Thomas?’
‘’Sright matey.’
‘But won’t others arrive and take over where Jupiter’s rats left off?’ Audrey asked, doubtfully looking over her shoulder.
‘No, rats are mostly cowardly,’ answered Thomas. ‘Only the fear of Jupiter gave them a false sort of courage. Ask that city mouse – he’ll tell you how cringey they are in the city. You just have to cuff ’em about the head if they start gettin’ uppity.’
Audrey felt relieved. Like Twit she found the midshipmouse to be a comforting figure. He was so sure of himself that it rubbed off on to everyone he was with. Audrey’s thoughts returned to Oswald lying in his bed. She shook her head to dispel that image and tried to think of something else. ‘Tell me about the Starwife, please Mr Triton,’ she asked.
‘She’m the grand dame of the squirrels,’ put in Twit.
‘Yes, but what can she want of me?’ asked Audrey, baffled. ‘I’d never heard of her before.’
‘Maybe,’ said Thomas, ‘but she’s obviously heard of you. Somehow the name Audrey Brown has reached her ancient ears. Rumours spread quickly she must have heard about Jupiter’s downfall and wants to know all the details of it.’
‘Yes, but you were there as well Mr Triton. You could have told her, surely?’
‘True, I was there on the altar when that old monster was sent to his watery grave – but you did the sendin’ remember, and it was your mousebrass that toppled him.’
‘What shall I tell her then?’ asked Audrey nervously. Thomas whirled round. ‘Why the truth, lass, and nothing but that! Don’t go addin’ bits or leavin’ stuff out, or your ears’ll ring for weeks after. It’s plain speaking in the Starwife’s dreys and chambers – and that only when you’re spoken to.’
‘Have you seen her then Mr Triton?’ pressed Audrey, desperate to know as much as possible about the strange personage she was about to meet.
‘That I have,’ he replied cautiously. ‘When I first came and settled round here I was summoned to meet her.’ Thomas grew grave and added, ‘There were matters which I needed to talk to her about.’ He stroked his white whiskers and cleared his throat. ‘I’ve been hurled around by tempests on angry, foaming seas and nearly got drowned twice, but I don’t mind telling you that I’ve never been so skittish as when I went to her dreys. And I was shakin’ even worse when I came out of them!’
Twit whistled softly. He couldn’t imagine sturdy Thomas being afraid of anything. What a creature this Starwife must be! ‘What did she do to you, Thomas?’ he asked wide-eyed.
‘Well I went in there, knees-a-knockin’. I’d heard many a strange tale of the Greenwich Starwife, and only an idiot would go into her chambers unabashed. Well, down some tunnels I was took and there behind a fancy curtain was the Starwife. Oh, she saw right through me, knew everything about me – what I’d done, what I hoped to do – uncanny that was. I think I made a right tomfool of myself in front of her. She weren’t impressed with her new neighbour at all. Still, I came away feeling better, but I ain’t clapped eyes on her since.’
‘And this morn
ing you got a message from her about me,’ added Audrey.
‘Yes, that surprised me no end.’ Thomas paused and looked at Audrey. ‘In fact, it’s so rare an occurrence that I’d be careful, if I were you, Miss Brown.’
Audrey was worried. She imagined the Starwife to be as bad as the rats. Her thoughts must have showed plainly on her face, for Thomas added, ‘Oh she won’t eat you, but the Starwife has motives of her own. She never does nothing for nothing. Sometimes she can be as subtle as Jupiter himself, and that’s what I’m puzzled about. So I say again just watch yourself.’
‘You don’t encourage me, Mr Triton. I’m not sure if I’m looking forward to this. I’d rather go back to the Skirtings.’
‘Too late for that, miss. Here we are now.’
They had come to the end of the sewer journey and a small passage lay before them, at the end of which bright sunlight streamed through the holes in a grate.
Thomas led them down it and they followed him to the outside world.
The mice stood outside Greenwich Park. Before them the green lawns stretched away up to the Observatory hill. The sweet scent of freshly mown grass tingled their noses.
Twit breathed it in deeply. ‘Oh,’ he sighed, ‘that do lighten me heart.’
The fieldmouse leapt into the mounds of drying grass cuttings. Gurgling with delight he burrowed down into the soft damp darkness where the fragrances tugged at his memories and visions of home swam before him. Snug in the grass cave Twit’s tiny eyes sparkled. The city was no place for him – he belonged to the open fields where corn swayed high above and ripened slowly in the sun until it burned with golden splendour.
The grass rustled above his head and the harsh dazzle of midday broke around him.
‘Come on matey!’ laughed Thomas parting the cuttings. ‘Not far to the Starwife now.’
Twit scrambled out of the mound wiping his forehead with a clump of the sweetest, dampest grass. Audrey smiled at him as he rubbed it into his hair.
‘Luvverly,’ he exclaimed, ‘I feel bright and breezy now.’ She had to agree: the fresh clean scent of the grass cleansed her nose of the smell of the sickroom.
