The Willows at Christmas

by William Horwood

  The Parish Clerk appeared suddenly from another door and, to the Mole’s amazement, took what appeared to be the Judge’s seat.

  Thumping a gavel upon the Bench and quite startling poor Mole, he said, “Take the witness box!”

  The Mole did as he was told. “Your reason for being here?”

  “I have come to —”A moment — we must observe the proprieties. Are you willing to take the oath?”

  “Er — which one?”

  “To tell the truth and nothing but.”

  “I normally do,’ said the Mole.

  “Good,” said the Parish Clerk. “Then we can dispense with that. Let me repeat my question in simpler terms so that its meaning is plain to you. Why (which is to say what reason can you give) are (which is of the verb ‘to be’ and refers to your corporeal presence) you (which is to say that which is invested in your body namely your soul) here (which refers not only to place but circumstance, and in that, to the cause of your coming)?”

  “To collect a parcel that was sent to the Post Office, where I read a notice that said —”

  “I know what it said,” said the Parish Clerk testily, since I wrote it myself, from which a witness of normal intelligence might be expected to deduce that I have no need to be told what it said.”

  The Mole stayed silent.

  “Well?” said the Parish Clerk.

  “May I have it, please?” asked the Mole.

  “Is this the item?” came the response.

  Mole’s interrogator produced a package from under the bench which even from the witness box the Mole could see was addressed to himself.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Can you show the court proof of your identity?” asked the Parish Clerk, keeping a firm hold on the package.

  “I — I —” said the Mole, rather taken aback. “This is addressed to Mr Mole of Mole End.”

  “Yes, that’s me,” said the Mole with some satisfaction. “Can you at least demonstrate that you are that Mole, seeing as there may be others?”

  “I have a pocket watch with my name inscribed upon it. It was given to me by my sister the last time I saw her, to mark the occasion when I moved south and took up residence at Mole End.”

  The Mole proffered his pocket watch but the Parish Clerk showed no great interest in it.

  “It might be stolen and used as evidence against you in your trial as a sneak-thief,” he said wearily, “and we do not want that today, because it is the beginning of my annual holiday. A more substantial trial, for arson, let us say, or capital treason, something I might get my teeth into, now that would indeed make my Christmas a jolly and festive one, for I am due for retirement and have never yet been privileged to act as Clerk at such an occasion. Mere sneak-thievery is not worth the candle (which is to say the festive candle). Ha! Ha!”

  The Parish Clerk let out several more of these strange sounds before Mole realised that he was laughing at his own little joke and that it might be as well for him to join in, which he did, much to the Clerk’s pleasure.

  “You seem honest, you sound honest and, what is most convincing of all, you look like a mole. In that respect at least you are not an impostor, which is more than I can say for the last gentleman who stood there.”

  “And who was that?” enquired the Mole with some interest.

  “It was a weasel masquerading as a stoat and attempting to fool us, but failing. I dealt with him severely.”

  The Parish Clerk glanced at those steep steps the Mole had noticed earlier.

  “He was the first person in one hundred and seventy-eight years to be sent up those steps, though in the event he pleaded with me to let him off with a fine, which I did. I shall not be so weak again! I would not want you, Mr Mole of Mole End, to be so condemned, eh?”

  “Er, no,” said the Mole.

  “Therefore, take your parcel and cause no breach of the peace during your sojourn in our Village and no harm will befall you, for in the absence of the Lord of the Manor you are under the surrogate protection of the Clerk to this ancient Parish, which is to say myself, the Parish Clerk.”

  “I am most grateful,” said the Mole, vacating the witness box and approaching the bench, “and if I might be so bold —”

  “Permission is hereby granted,” said the Clerk.

  “I am glad indeed to see that the ancient traditions of law, order and justice are still alive and well in our land.”

  Again the Parish Clerk’s parchment face coloured with pleasure.

  “Quite so, Mr Mole, quite so. And there is another tradition which it is my duty to follow It has long been the custom for myself, as Parish Clerk, and my predecessors right back to Arild the Hornless, who was a Viking, to visit the Public House on the eve of Yule. As my last duty before Christmas has been completed, it would be my pleasure to invite you to be my guest and partake of the Village Chalice, whose depths are plumbed on this sole occasion each year.”

  Mole agreed at once, for he enjoyed history and tradition, and saw that once again one need only look in the right place to find the spirit of Christmas.

  “I imagine you must know the history of this chamber, and this office, better than any man alive.”

  “It may be so,” said the Clerk.

  “You made mention of the Lord of the Manor,” said Mole, as the Parish Clerk, still wearing his official robes, came round the side of the bench. “I was wondering who that might be, since I have never heard of such a position in relation to the Village. Is it perhaps an office that is now defunct, the bloodline of that office being long extinct?”

  The Parish Clerk sighed heavily.

  “He lives, Mr Mole, but no longer in the Parish. Mr Toad Senior was his predecessor and he took his duties seriously, often honouring us with his presence on the Bench. But Mr Groat…”

  The Mole’s ears pricked up. He had heard that name before, and only this very morning. Why, surely, that was Toad’s uncle?

  “… Mr Groat left the Parish rather under a cloud some decades ago and in consequence much, indeed most, which is to say virtually all, affairs of the Village have ground to a halt for lack of his imprimatur. I have done the best I can but it is not enough.”

  “This gentleman, Mr Groat, am I to understand he is the uncle of Mr Toad, of Toad Hall?”

  “You are, though I’d rather you described him as the brother of Mr Toad Senior.”

  “Which is to say Toad’s late father?” said the Mole.

  “You know Mr Toad?” asked the Parish Clerk. “I believe you are too young to have known his father.”

  “Yes, I do know Toad,” said the Mole. “I had tea with him at Toad Hall only a few days ago.

  “You have actually spoken with him?” asked the Clerk in wonderment and with evident respect.

  “He usually speaks to me, actually,” said the Mole. “It tends to be rather difficult to get a word in edgeways when he is in the room.”

  “Then, sir, then —”

  “Yes?” said the Mole, surprised at the animation that had suddenly come to the Parish Clerk’s face.

  “— you are in the position to do me, and the Village as well, a service, a very considerable service.

  “Am I?” said the surprised Mole.

  “You are. But let us first retire to the Village hostelry.”

  They set off across the bridge and then by way of the High Street to the Public House. With its guttering candles, struggling fire and dark shadows, it seemed rather unwelcoming at first.

  The landlord was a man of gloomy expression who gruffly greeted the Parish Clerk with, “Yer’ve come fer yer annual quart, then?”

  “I have,” said the Parish Clerk, “which is to say —

  “Which is to say ‘ere it be,” said the landlord, thumping a great frothing tankard down upon the bar. “And what’ll it be fer yer friend?”

  “The same, please,” said the Mole.

  “Right you are. Nah then, wot abaht yer food?”

  “What’s on the menu?”
asked the Parish Clerk. “Christmas Fare, of course. There’s matured turkey from last year, and some red cabbage wot turned back to green five months ago, and tatties mushed with onions?

  “They’re fresh, are they?” enquired the Mole. “Fresh as the month they was mashed, which is February last,” said the landlord. “And very flavoursome they are too. Proved particularly popular with the passing trade, for they’ve never come back to complain. And the beans is good —”

  “Er, no beans for me, if you don’t mind,” said the Mole hastily, remembering the poulterer’s warning. Nor did he like the sound of anything else he had been offered. “Perhaps I’ll just have this fine tankard of beer.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  The Mole saw that there were a few more gentlemen of varying ages scattered about the parlour, all looking beaten down and miserable.

  “Take a pew,” said the Parish Clerk, indicating what he saw was indeed a pew, judging by its length and shape. “Now, where were we?”

  So it was that the resourceful Mole found himself seated in the Village Public House, surrounded by a group of men who, though nearly as mournful as the landlord, proved willing enough to talk.

  Of the conversation that ensued the Mole never spoke in detail, but it was enough to confirm that festive matters had reached even more parlous a state in the Village than they had along the River Bank.

  Some blamed Mrs Ffleshe directly, while others, like the Parish Clerk, laid the blame at the door of the departed Groat and said dereliction of his duty was at the root of all their woes.

  “How can a ship come to port rudderless?”

  “How can mangels be lifted when the tines ‘ave gone missin’?”

  “Yer can’t ‘spect the cows to come ‘ome with no cowherd to bring ‘em!”

  Mole saw where the problem lay, but could well understand why it might be that since Mrs Ffleshe’s coming the once-festive and sociable Toad had not been in the mood to grace their company.

  “He be barred from coming ‘ere,” explained the coughing man by the fire, a rodent catcher who made the Mole feel decidedly uneasy. “It’s because that woman says ‘e spends too much, which is a rum go, seem’ as ‘e ‘s related to the Lord and Lords is meant to spend, otherwise what’s the point?”

  “The Lord?” queried the Mole, though by now he was getting the gist of things.

  “Of the Manor.”

  “And of Session, or be you wanting to forget that, eh Daniel?” responded another. The others laughed.

  “Daniel here is the last living man to have been arrested and arraigned, imprisoned and tried by the Lord of Session of the Village, which is to say the Court Baron?

  “I was clapped in irons by his great-grandfather,” said Daniel in an aggrieved voice, pointing to the Parish Clerk, “and only pardoned because news of Boney’s defeat was proclaimed that same day. But not before —”

  “You tell the gentleman,” said the others, who seemed to gain pleasure from hearing an old tale repeated.

  “— aye, not before I was put to the rack and stretched a yard at least and then spitted on the fire and so roasted my eyebrows never grew back, and then squashed under a millstone till I was a goner.

  “Tell ‘im what brought you back to the land of the livin’,” one of his companions called out.

  “Blessed Toad Senior it was, he who was nearly sainted for his good works; he who kept the Village free of the riddles when all others in the land ‘ad it; he who’s been on that very pew where you’re sat and turned water into porter with a wave o’ his blessed hand at this very table. Mr Toad Senior! He took one look at me in the coffin — for that’s ‘ow far it got — and said ‘I am the Lord! Rise up, Daniel, and walk to the pub!’ and I ‘eard is voice and though I was comfortable where I was I couldn’t say no. It’s as true as I’m sitting ‘ere now, and seem’ as yer buying I’ll have a treble porter with a dash of mild.”

  The Mole stayed in the company of these agreeable gentlemen a good deal longer than he should, and it was a testimony to his friendly good spirits that the mood in the hostelry became a good deal more festive than it had been. He learnt much, but most of all that they regretted the passing of the old days when the Lord of the Manor took his duties seriously, and made sure that those in the Village who served the Hall through the year, and very many more who did not or were not able, were looked after with free food and drink, and fuel as well, through the harsh winter months.

  “It’s no good hopin’ we’ll ever ‘ear from that Groat,” the Mole afterwards remembered them saying — but who said it he could not quite recall, for his memory of the details was fuzzy — “and as long as he do stay away we’m doomed to be whittled and stoomed till the only thing left o’ us is the stitching of our boots!”

  Nor was the Mole able to remember quite what it was that the Parish Clerk asked him to do as a favour to them all, for by then the Clerk’s voice was unsteady, as he was unused to anything stronger than well water.

  When all but he seemed fast asleep and quite unwakeable, the Mole’s fuddled attention was drawn by the sound of rain against the window. He saw that the afternoon was advancing rapidly towards dusk and so, making his excuses to the sleeping throng, he picked up his package and stepped outside.

  Before he set off on the long journey home, his curiosity drew him back to the bridge, where he paused again to look down at the gloomy gaol below Then he went on to Court House Yard and shook his head in astonishment at the memory of what lay within and at the stories that the Parish Clerk had told him.

  Finally, he walked round to the rear of the building, searching for the dreadful door he had noticed earlier from inside.

  And there it was! A heavy nailed and arched portal set high in the wall with no sign of any way down except vertically, straight into the now-raging waters of the river beneath.

  “O my!” whispered the Mole to himself, suddenly glad that the days of ancient justice were over and more humane methods of trials and punishment now in vogue.

  With this more cheerful thought upon him, the Mole walked back along the High Street and headed for home by way of the muddy road he had come up earlier that day with the poulterer. He reflected to himself that the visit had greatly cheered him, and the friends he had made and the ideas they had unwittingly given him left him much to think about.

  He stopped only once along the way for as his head cleared with the fresh air so his memory came back, and he remembered the favour that the Parish Clerk had asked, and his rash undertaking to try to fulfil it.

  “Yet I wonder if I might!” he exclaimed more than once. “I wonder if I dare?”

  III

  Taken Alive

  Darkness had descended when Mole finally reached the crossroads near Canal Bridge and familiar territory once more. He was now quite close to Otter’s house, and he had not forgotten his intention of calling on him on his way home. In any case, he felt a little tired and in need of some refreshment before the final haul across the bridge and over the fields to Mole End.

  “O, it’s you, Moly!” cried the Otter when he opened his door to Mole’s knock. “Whatever brings you out on such a rough night?”

  Mole was very pleased to find the Otter at home, for his path had taken him perilously close to the Wild Wood. The Mole was never a cowardly animal —just the opposite — but he was always a prudent one, and the various hisses, squeals, roars and wailings that emanated from the depth of the Wood boded ill, so he had hurried along the path as quickly as he could. When he saw that there was no light in Otter’s house he had naturally grown doubly fearful at the prospect of a lonely return along the same route. So when his knock was answered so soon and so cheerfully by the Otter, Mole was greatly relieved.

  “But why are you sitting in the dark, Otter?” asked the Mole.

  “Ah! Yes!” said the Otter as he pressed a warming drink into his friend’s hands. “I fear your unexpected coming may have disturbed a little ruse Ratty and I are just now involved in
to catch out the weasels.”

  “A ruse?” wondered the Mole, who knew little of such things.

  “We have reason to believe that the weasels or the stoats, or possibly both acting together, have been causing damage to the equipment Ratty and I keep along the River Bank for our mutual use — nets, poles, marker buoys and pruning gear. For several nights Portly and I have made a show of staying at Ratty’s, then, each night, under cover of darkness, I have come back here in secret to keep a watch on things. It is as well your knock was clear and distinct, otherwise —”

  Otter produced a fierce-looking boathook, which he had clearly intended to apply to the head and posterior of any weasel or stoat that came by up to no good.

  “O my!” said the startled Mole, rubbing his head as if he himself had been struck by the Otter.

  “We can’t let ‘em get away with it, Mole. What with flooding and ice, the River is a dangerous place in the winter, and only Ratty and I have the knowledge to make things safe.”

  “Quite so,” said the Mole, very much impressed by the Otter’s determination and courage on others’ behalf. “I am sorry if I frightened them off before you could put your theory to the test.”

  “It couldn’t be helped, Moly. But did you hear anything, or better still, see anything?”

  “I heard many strange sounds from the direction of the Wild Wood,” said the Mole with some feeling, “but nothing else, or nearly nothing.”

  “Nearly nothing?” asked the Otter.

  “Well, when I was at the crossroads and was about to turn down to visit you here I am almost certain I heard the sound of running feet from the direction of the Iron Bridge.”

  “Running feet, eh!” cried the Otter, rising. ‘Near the Iron Bridge!

  You should have told me this before. Here, put your coat back on at once, I may need reinforcements. Hurry, Mole, hurry — and you had better carry this as protection!”

  Mole was alarmed to have a fierce-looking cudgel placed in his hands. Not for the first time since he had made the acquaintance of the River Bankers, the quiet and unassuming Mole found himself thrust into a risky venture of a kind he would normally have done his very best to avoid.