by Robin Jarvis
The morning stretched and shook itself. The clouds were few and wispy – it was going to be another blazing June day.
When Audrey woke, her mother handed the note to her. She read it quietly and with dismay. ‘Has he really gone?’ she asked.
‘Yes love,’ said her mother. ‘Arthur has looked everywhere.’
‘Oh, it’s all my fault,’ was all Audrey was able to say.
She ate her breakfast dismally as she thought about Piccadilly. Her heart told her that she was the reason he had gone off without a word. When Arthur came in she avoided his accusing eyes and went to start her packing.
Arthur was unhappy too. He had begun to consider Piccadilly as his best friend and he guessed that Audrey had something to do with his abrupt departure. It was about time she stopped playing games with everyone. Ever since poor old Piccadilly had arrived she had used him, made him feel guilty for surviving the horrors of the rats when their father had not. She had sent him into peril with Oswald, down into the rat-infested sewers to look for her mousebrass and had never really apologised for that. She really was a silly lump. To cheer himself up Arthur went with his mother to see the Chitters.
In the sickroom even the air felt healthier. The sickly smell had gone completely. Oswald was propped up in bed with a great smile on his face as Twit told him funny stories. Mrs Chitter was up and about, chiding and tutting, finding dust where there was none and rearranging all her ornaments. She herded Gwen Brown into the kitchen where she demanded to know all the latest doings of everyone in the Skirtings.
Arthur sat himself on the end of the bed next to Twit and waited for a tale to end. Idly he looked about the room. Something was missing, something which had seemed such a fixture that now it was gone he couldn’t think what it could be. Oswald saw his puzzled expression and laughed.
‘Father’s gone to bed finally,’ he said. ‘It does seem odd without him in here doesn’t it? I wanted to get up today but Mother wouldn’t let me. She says I’ll be here for at least two weeks – or until she’s satisfied with my health.’
‘You’re in bed forever then,’ giggled Twit, holding his feet and rocking backwards.
‘Twit says he’s going home tomorrow and that you and Audrey are going too – I’m so jealous Arthur. I wish I could go too.’
Arthur caught a quick, cautionary glance from the fieldmouse and understood that Oswald had not been told about the Starwife’s bargain.
‘Still . . .’ continued the albino. ‘I suppose my hayfever would have driven me crazy in the country. I can’t wait for you to come back and tell me all your adventures.’
‘I will,’ said Arthur.
‘Of course we shall all miss cousin Twit but he says he might come visiting again. I’m going to be terribly bored all alone here, but I suppose I should count myself lucky really.’
A knock sounded outside and the patter of Mrs Chitter’s feet accompanied by the clucking of her tongue came to them as she went to see who it was. There were some muffled words which the three friends were unable to catch but presently Arthur’s mother popped her head into the sickroom.
‘Arthur dear and Twit, could you step out here for a moment please?’
Soon Oswald was left alone to stare at the table covered in raw onion.
Outside Twit and Arthur found Thomas Triton. He grinned warmly at the fieldmouse and began.
‘I’ve come from the Starwife,’ he said. ‘Plans are slightly changed. You leave tonight – seems the old dame can’t get none of her folk to escort the rat woman down to the river in the daylight so tonight it is.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed ‘Mrs Brown. ‘Arthur, fetch Audrey – she has to hear this.’
‘Wait lad, I already told the lass. I went there first y’see, thinkin’ you’d all be there like,’ the midshipmouse explained. ‘Seems there’s a merchant chappy the Starwife’s persuaded to take you to my young matey’s field.’
‘A merchant mouse?’ asked Twit.
‘Aye lad, he’s a sort of pedlar – sells and trades things. Well, it seems he knows everywhere along the river, stocks up in Greenwich then takes his goods round to out of the way places.’
‘Well, I ain’t never seen him afore in my field,’ said Twit.
Mrs Brown had been frowning deeply. Now she suddenly said, ‘Would this pedlar be Mr Kempe?’
Thomas looked surprised. ‘Why yes ma’am that it is – how do you know of him?’
‘Why, he comes here in the autumn to see Master Oldnose on mousebrass business. Yes, he seems respectable enough . . . I think I’ll feel a lot happier knowing my children are in his paws.’
Thomas agreed. ‘Just so ma’am. Well, as for tonight I shall lead miladdo here and your two children down to Greenwich Pier where Kempe will meet us. There we shall all wait until the rat arrives with those fidgety squirrels.’
‘About what time will this be Mr Triton?’ asked Gwen.
‘Midnight, if it pleases you ma’am.’
‘Oh Mr Triton it does not please me – not at all.
Still there is much to be done. Arthur, come with me. Are you packed yet Twit?’
‘Bless me. I clean forgot about that,’ admitted the fieldmouse.
The rippling river was dark, and cool air drifted lazily up from its shimmering surface. It was a clear, clean night pricked all over by brilliant stars. Greenwich Pier huddled over the lapping water like a tired old lady. Its timbers were creaky, its ironwork rusted and yellow paint flaked and fell from it like tears. Daily trips departed from the pier to see the landmarks of London from the river and in the summer many crowded the benches and ice cream stands. But now it was still and dark, its gates were closed and the visitors had all deserted the pier for gaudier delights.
The only sound was the water breaking gently against the supports and slopping round a broken wooden jetty nearby.
There were no lights on the pier at night, all was dim and grey – a place of alarming shadow.
Audrey held on to her mother’s paw. They had come through the sewers once more, led again by the midshipmouse. She watched Arthur and Twit run ahead to explore the deep pools of darkness and shuddered. She was cold, but her mother had knitted her a yellow shawl and she pulled it tightly over her shoulders.
All the mice were carrying bags, packed with provisions, blankets and personal treasures. Audrey’s arms ached with the weight of hers and she was glad when Thomas said it was not much further. Somewhere, in amongst the folded clothes was a dried hawthorn blossom. Oswald had given it to her when she said goodbye to him that evening it was one of those he had saved from the Spring festival.
Gwen Brown was savouring every moment with her children, storing up the sound of their voices for when she was alone.
Twit and Arthur ran ahead once more, swinging their baggage happily. After some moments they came rushing back, their faces aglow with excitement.
‘Thomas,’ squealed Twit eagerly, ‘there be summat up there. We done heard it.’
‘Yes,’ joined in Arthur. ‘Someone’s singing.’
The little group of mice edged forward cautiously. In the shade ahead nothing could be seen, but gradually a voice floated to them on the night air. It was a merry, hearty sound; first singing, now humming.
Poor Rosie! Poor Rosie!
I’ll tell you of poor Rosie,
The tragedy that was Rosie
And why she died so lonely
Coz for all her looks her armpits stank,
The suitors came, but away they shrank
Far away from Rosie,
With their paws tight on their nosey.
Twit spluttered and laughed helplessly as the song continued. Gwen Brown gave Thomas a doubtful look. The midshipmouse shrugged and hid a smile.
‘Who is it, Mother?’ asked Audrey.
‘That is Mr Kempe,’ Gwen replied dryly.
Thomas coughed and shouted. ‘Ahoy Mr Kempe! Come out so we may see you! And before your verses become too colourful, remember there are te
nder ears here.’
From the shadows a great clanking noise replaced the song, as if some metal monster had been roused from sleep. Audrey waited with wide eyes wondering what this Mr Kempe would be like.
‘Are you the party bound for Fennywolde?’ came the hearty voice. ‘That’s right,’ Twit piped up, ‘that be the name o’ my field.’
‘Why that sounds like a fieldmouse.’
‘I be ’un.’
The clanking drew nearer and into the dim light stepped one of the strangest figures Audrey had ever seen.
There was a mass of bags, pans, straps and buckles mounted on a pair of sturdy legs and somewhere amongst all this madness was a furry round face and two small bead-like eyes. It was friendly and welcoming, and Audrey warmed to Kempe immediately – especially as he said, ‘Bless my goods, two beautiful ladies and I knew nought of it. A curse on my palsied tongue that you should hear it yammering away like that. But ’tis the lot of the lone traveller to sing when he’s on his tod. Forgive my verses dear ladies.’ The clanking began again as he attempted to bow.
Gwen, Brown smiled as she accepted his apology. ‘You just keep your songs tucked away while my daughter travels with you, Mr Kempe,’ she said.
‘Oh please,’ he protested, ‘there’s no “Mister”, plain Kempe I am – no titles, no end pieces! Kempe and that’s all.’
Audrey was staring in fascination at his bags. Poking through the sides there were glimpses of fine silks and silver lace and strung round the handles of his pans and around his own neck were beads of every type and variety. Pear-shaped droplets done in gold, green leaf patterns threaded on a single hair from a pony’s mane, little charms worked in wood and hung on a copper wire and chains of fine links from which dangled tears of blue glass.
‘I’ll trade anything for anything,’ he continued, catching Audrey’s eye. ‘Well, young lady – see anything that tickles you? I see you like fine things, with your ribbon, and all that lace. Why I’ve got such an array of ribbons in here – enough to make rainbows jealous. Take your pick, and all I ask are those wee bells on your tail.’
‘But these bells are silver!’ Audrey exclaimed. ‘They’re worth more than all your ribbons.’
‘Alas for sensible girls,’ he sighed. ‘Still, you can’t blame a mouse for trying.’
Thomas chuckled and introduced everyone to the traveller.
‘What a fine party we’ll be making to be sure, sailing up the river together, leaving the fume of the city behind us. A pity you’ll not be joinin’ us Mrs Brown, but have no fear. I’ll keep one eye on my goods and the other on my charges.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘And you Mr Triton sir, sorry I am not to have your stout company on board, I bet you know many a worthy tale.’
‘That I do,’ replied Thomas, ‘though not all are comfortable to listen to.’
‘Still, I’ll wager we’d not get bored with you on hand.’
‘Oh I don’t think you need worry on that score Kempe my boy,’ smiled Thomas. ‘Have you met your other travelling companion yet?’
‘Why no, that’s the truth of it, but I had word from herself what lives up yon hill – the batty old squirrel.’
‘What did she tell you exactly?’ asked Thomas smiling.
‘To be here tonight, at this hour, to guide certain parties to Fennywolde – they being your own good selves and one other, a special lady.’ He turned to Gwen Brown and confessed, ‘To be honest I thought my luck was in and you were she – alas it seems not.’ He clapped his paws together. ‘So where is this other of our jolly group?’
Thomas considered Kempe for a moment and said, ‘Has the Starwife promised you anything for your services?’
‘Why no sir,’ he seemed surprised. ‘Why ’tis only a simple task and I’ll have the pleasure of it, such fine young fellows a trader never had to journey with! I’d do it for nought . . . but now you mention it, herself made me give my traveller’s oath not to change my mind – ain’t that funny now?’
‘Not really,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘not when you know who this lady is. The Starwife has used you like she has used my daughter – deviously.’
Kempe looked at the mice before him and grew concerned at the expressions on their faces. ‘Why there you go worrying a body – kindly tell me who this lady is.’
But even as he spoke they all heard voices, one loud, the other timid. Madame Akkikuyu strode on to the pier followed by two squirrels. ‘Mouselings!’ cried the rat, dropping her many bags and flinging her arms open.
Kempe’s face sagged and it seemed as if all his goods drooped as well. Audrey ducked quickly behind her mother, avoiding Akkikuyu’s attention.
‘We travel at last,’ the fortune-teller exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Off to sun and rest – together forever.’
‘Why, the batty old she-divil,’ bellowed Kempe, cursing the Starwife and shaking his fist at the two terrified squirrels. ‘My traveller’s oath an’ all – for this, this lump of a rat. I be conned outright.’
One of the squirrels braved a reply. ‘The bargain with you must stand,’ he said, dodging a blow from a pan. ‘If not, all the river will know of your falseness.’
The trader stood still, but his face looked as though it would burst. ‘A traveller depends on his reputation and the good will of others – why, if his traveller’s oath is doubted he goes out of business.’
‘Just so,’ replied the squirrel smartly.
‘A plague on you,’ called Kempe angrily.
Thomas intervened. ‘Now look squire,’ he said to Akkikuyu’s escort. ‘You’ve done your delivery, now tell your mistress it’s all working well for her. Get you gone before this chap cracks you both one.’
The squirrel stroked his tail smugly and glanced casually round for his silent comrade – but he had already run away. That was enough. The squirrel jumped in the air and dashed after him.
‘They sure are watery, Thomas,’ said Twit.
‘So,’ said Kempe sourly, ‘here we are with that baggage to join us. A pretty lot we are, to be sure.’
‘Yes,’ said Thomas briskly. ‘And if I’m going to get some kip tonight I’ve got to take Mrs Brown home first. Make your farewells please – it’s time to go.’
Gwen held Audrey in a desperate embrace. ‘You will come back, Audrey my love – I know it.’
‘I hope so Mother, I wish I was as sure as you.’ She tried not to cry, but her eyes were already raw and swollen from Piccadilly’s departure.
Gwen turned to her son. ‘Now Arthur,’ she said, ‘you look after your sister and come home when you can.’ She hugged and kissed him, much to his embarrassment.
Thomas Triton turned to Twit. ‘Well matey,’ he said awkwardly, ‘there’s no denyin’ I’ll miss your cheerful face round here. Ever since you dropped on my ship we’ve got on famous.’ He fumbled with a flask that was slung over his shoulder and thrust it into the fieldmouse’s paws.
‘What is it, Thomas?’ asked Twit.
‘Just a little something for your journey – and to remember our first meeting by.’
‘Will you come visitin’ one day Thomas?’
The midshipmouse shook his head. ‘No, Woodget – not by water, you know I can’t go that way again.’
‘What did you call me then Thomas? It’s me – Twit, remember.’
The midshipmouse looked flustered and apologised for getting muddled. Twit laughed and said it didn’t matter. ‘I reckon I’ll be poppin’ this way again some time,’ said Twit. ‘I bet there’s a bundle of stories you’ve still to tell me.’
‘Maybe, matey, maybe.’
Then Madame Akkikuyu, who up till then had been gazing earnestly up at the stars, hugged Mrs Brown. Gwen gasped but found nothing to say.’
‘Oh mother of my friend, goodbye,’ Akkikuyu breathed with feeling. ‘And you old salty mouseling, farewell also.’
Thomas cleared his throat and hurriedly waved cheerio before she had a chance to hug him. Then he led Gwen Brown away from the pier.
T
he three young mice sadly watched them go.
‘Well,’ began Kempe, ‘I’ll show you our trusty vessel.’
‘Are we to leave tonight?’ asked Audrey.
‘No missy,’ said Kempe above the jangle of his goods. ‘The boat sets off in the morning but we’ve got to settle down.’
‘I shall be near my mousey friend,’ declared Madame Akkikuyu, stooping to collect her things. Audrey looked at Arthur and grimaced.’
Kempe took them further along the pier to where the river splashed through the planks under their feet. A large tourist cruiser was moored at the edge and it bobbed gently up and down bumping against the pier.
‘There she is,’ said Kempe. ‘Our transport – well one of them anyway. Now up this rope here and we’ll be on deck.’
‘Easy,’ cried Twit and scampered up the mooring rope in a twinkling.
‘Akkikuyu do that also.’ The fortune-teller hauled herself on to the rope bridge and clumsily made her way along with her thick tail flicking behind her.
‘That’s right missus,’ grinned Kempe. ‘Don’t go fallin’ in now – we wouldn’t want to lose you!’
It was Arthur’s turn next; he stared at the rope warily. ‘I’m not usually very good at balancing,’ he admitted. ‘I can climb but . . .’ he looked despondently at the sloshing water below – it seemed green and cold, and he did not want to land in there.
‘Come on now laddie, just don’t look down.’
From the boat Twit watched them and laughed, ‘Come on Arthur. If you spend any time in my field you’ll have to learn to climb stalks. But I suppose you’d have to lose some weight first.’
‘I’m not fat,’ protested Arthur.
‘Course not – you great puddin’.’
That settled it. Arthur virtually ran up the rope and began scuffling with the fieldmouse who was helpless with giggling.
Now it was Audrey’s turn, but she stepped on to the rope nimbly and was soon aboard – straight into the welcoming arms of Akkikuyu.
