The Willows at Christmas

by William Horwood

  This much decided, the Mole closed his eyes and fell into sleep, though it was for a long time troubled and restless. But when dawn came the furrows on his brow began to smooth, and a slight smile came to his face, as if he were dreaming of joyous Christmases past, and all the possibilities of happy Yuletides yet to come.

  V

  Below Stairs

  Just as the Mole was the last to go to sleep, so he was the first to awaken, and he did so with a jolt. It was as if a long-unheard but dearly remembered voice had spoken to him, saying, “Prepare in advance and you’ll enjoy your guests’ coming; prepare too late and you’ll be more glad to see their going?’

  It was his sister’s voice he heard, she who had taught him this dictum, and so drilled it into him that he heard it now as if from her own mouth.

  He rose stiffly from the depths of the Badger’s armchair and decided to complete his ablutions at home rather than disturb his sleeping friends. But he did not leave before he had quietly re-set and lit the fire, and hung a kettle over it, so that they might more easily enjoy a fresh pot of tea when they awoke.

  Then, though he had to stand on a chair to reach the uppermost bolt on the Badger’s front door, he did so without making too much noise and was off with the rising sun.

  When he crossed the Canal Bridge, and then walked back over the Iron Bridge, he saw that the River had calmed down a little, even though its colour was stained by mud and it seemed to have risen further still. He paused for a moment, thinking of all the many things he must do, and heard the unmistakable and ominous sound of the distant Weir.

  “Things will get worse and more treacherous before they get better,” he said aloud, repeating a phrase that the Rat was fond of using when the River was in change.

  But the bright winter sunshine cheered the Mole, as did his memory of the conversation at the Badger’s fireside the night before, and the ready affirmation by his friends that he was after all a part of their community. So much so that they had all been willing to change their habits and come to Mole End for a party on the morning of Christmas Day.

  “Well, there is no point in waiting around here all day’ the Mole told himself, “there’s a lot of work to be done…

  Back in the comforting surroundings of Mole End, Mole busied himself with plans for his party, filled with new hope. As always, he had a good supply of food already prepared and safely stored in his larder. It would be nothing more than a morning’s work to add the finishing touches, and that he would do tomorrow In the meantime, there were invitations to write, so he made a pot of tea and sat by his fire with a pen in his hand, enjoying this pleasant task.

  He decided to deliver Toad’s invitation to Toad Hall that very day. At the same time, he would take along the chestnut and prune compote he had promised to Miss Bugle, and perhaps take the opportunity to ask her help and advice concerning Toad, which would surely be invaluable, if only she could be persuaded to give it.

  Finally, when all was ready, the Mole put Toad’s invitation in his pocket and the gift for Miss Bugle in a bag and set forth once more for Toad Hall, feeling even more cheerful than before.

  Not wishing to cause his friend Toad any unnecessary embarrassment, he took the liberty of knocking at the tradesman’s door he had used before. In this way, he also hoped that he would find Miss Bugle without having to engage with Mrs Fleshe or Toad.

  He was extremely surprised, therefore, when the door was answered by none other than Toad himself, dressed in an apron and carrying a knife in one hand and a half-peeled potato in the other.

  “Toad! Whatever are you doing?” said the Mole in blank astonishment.

  Toad looked greatly relieved to see him and, grabbing him by his lapel, pulled him abruptly into the nearby pantry and shut the back door.

  “Mole, O dear, dear Mole!” he cried in a piteous voice. “You should not be here, but now you are, now you are…

  But Toad could say no more.

  The knife fell from one hand and the potato from the other and he slumped at the Mole’s feet, weeping loudly and crying out, “I cannot stand it another moment. Mrs Fleshe has given Miss Bugle the morning off and made me work here in the kitchen in her place! I can’t return upstairs till I have peeled these twelve pounds of potatoes to her satisfaction. She is coming to inspect my work at noon and it is taking so long, so long…”

  Toad’s tears got the better of him once more and he could only sit at the Mole’s feet and weep.

  “But, Toad,” cried the concerned Mole, picking up the knife and half-peeled potato. “Are you not master of this establishment and able to decide who does the kitchen work?”

  “I am, and yet I am not!” whispered Toad. “For fifty weeks of the year I am, and for two weeks I most definitely am not.”

  “Why don’t we talk about it while I help you?” said the sensible and generous Mole, donning an apron that hung from a nearby hook and taking up a second kitchen knife. “After all, twelve pounds of potatoes is not much really. It will take no time at all.”

  “Not much?” cried Toad, his face brightening.

  He rose to his feet and watched admiringly as the Mole began to peel the potatoes with a speed and expertise that came from long practice.

  “My word, Mole,” cried Toad, taking off his apron and bringing forward a kitchen chair so that he might sit and watch, “you certainly know what you’re doing, don’t you? But then I suppose that I, Toad of Toad Hall, am accustomed to thinking on a higher plane than vegetables, and with my time and energies so much occupied with the complex affairs of the estate, I cannot seriously be expected to do such work… Goodness me, you really are an expert!”

  “It’s very kind of you to say so, Toad,” said the Mole with pleasure, working even harder at Toad’s task and unaware of the look of indolent satisfaction that had overtaken Toad’s so recently grief-stricken face. “But it wouldn’t take me a moment to show you how potatoes should be peeled.”

  A look of alarm overtook his friend’s face.

  “No, no!” he spluttered. “Don’t let me slow you down, old chap. You’ve got a good head of steam up, if I may say so, and after all, twelve pounds of potatoes is nothing very much at all. Instead, let me busy myself with the more humble task of finding us both a glass of sherry to keep us busy at our work.”

  Toad disappeared, leaving the Mole working hard. He tripped gaily down the scullery passage and thence to his wine cellar where he spent not a little time tasting the many fine sherries, finally choosing an excellent fino, which he judged just right to keep the Mole at his kitchen work.

  By the time he returned, the Mole had as good as finished peeling the potatoes.

  “Now,” said Toad rather unconvincingly, “you were saying that you might teach me.”

  “I was indeed,” said the Mole, “and I have kept by these last few so that I can show you —”The last few?” said Toad, making no move to help his friend Mole. “Won’t it be so much quicker if you finish them off yourself and teach me potato peeling another time?”

  As the Mole did so, Toad supped his sherry with evident pleasure and continued to bemoan his fate. Then, when the Mole had finished the potatoes, put them in a large pan and covered them with water, Toad suddenly burst into tears once more.

  “O, Mole, I am so very wretched and miserable.”

  “But, Toad,” said the perplexed Mole. “Your task is done and it is nowhere near twelve o’clock.”

  “That is true,” whispered Toad brokenly, “but Mrs Ffleshe never does things by halves. I’m afraid I have more vegetables than just a few potatoes to prepare by noon if she is not to confine me to my room for the rest of Christmas.”

  “Confine you to your room!” cried the Mole, outraged.

  “I fear so,” said Toad, snivelling mournfully between sips of his sherry. “But you see, Mole, before the force of her indomitable person I am as nothing and I must bend to her will.”

  “Well, I think you should stand up to her said the Mole stoutl
y.

  “I might, indeed I might, and I shall,” said Toad, very unconvincingly. “But only after I have dealt with these Brussels sprouts, which must be made ready for boiling — I suppose it is too much to ask… No, I cannot and will not ask such a thing! I am sure I can do these fiddly sprouts if I must, red raw though my fingers are from my earlier work.”

  Toad made a pathetic show of putting his apron back on.

  “My dear friend,” said the gullible Mole, “let me at least begin them for you while we decide how to deal with Mrs Fleshe, for this sort of thing surely cannot be allowed to continue.”

  “Would you?” said the Toad, brightening once more. “And these carrots, too, which I believe need washing before they are peeled — use that sink over there, old fellow, if you don’t mind — after which all we have to do is to clean the floor and hang out the washing and then — but look how the time is rushing by! Hurry up, Mole, don’t dawdle, or else I’ll be late!”

  Before he knew it, Mole found himself doing the work of several scullery maids whilst Toad, glass in hand, warmed himself by the range, stirring occasionally to give further commands to his too-willing friend.

  “Come on, Moly!” he cried as the minute hand of the kitchen clock neared twelve. “She’ll be down to make her inspection in a moment. Here, you’ve forgotten to slice up these cabbages, and be sure to do it neatly, she likes straight lines to her vegetables — no, straighter than that, Mole! I mean to say, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I suppose I do,” said the Mole, his patience beginning to wear thin, “but I hope you won’t mind if I give Mrs Ffleshe a piece of my mind when she appears.

  “A piece of your mind!” cried Toad in alarm. “No, no, no, please do not even think of such a thing. If you spoke out of turn she would punish me all the more.” Just then they heard the ominous sound of someone coming down the stairs from the main house. The steps they heard were heavy and purposeful, with that sharp, jabbing, remorseless quality of a dominant woman on the prowl.

  “She’s coming’ gasped Toad.

  “Well, if you won’t stand up to her I will!” said the Mole with determination, taking off his apron.

  “Toooad! Come here at once!” came the sharp command, in that same harsh voice the Mole had heard a day or two before in the company of Mr Baltry.

  Mole frowned arid said, “Let me go first and I’ll tell her—”

  “No!” cried Toad in a desperate voice, lunging suddenly at the Mole, grasping him by the shoulder, and frog-marching him backwards. Then, before he could protest, Toad shoved him bodily through the coal-cellar door and shot the bolt.

  “Toad, let me out at once!” cried the Mole.

  “My life won’t be worth living, Moly, if you admonish her!” whispered Toad wildly through the keyhole. “So please keep quiet, there’s a good chap!”

  “Toad, where have you gone?” boomed Mrs Ffleshe as she reached the bottom stair.

  Mole was rather inclined to hammer at the door and make a fuss but his natural courtesy forbade it, and anyway, having already briefly met Mrs Ffleshe, he could understand Toad’s dilemma. It would do no good embarrassing him before his ghastly guest.

  He heard Toad call out, “Here — I’m here, Mrs Ffleshe, here doing my work.” Then in an abject and humble way Toad continued, “And I am so honoured that you have descended below stairs to grace me with your presence, because —”

  “Never mind that, Toad,” barked Mrs Ffleshe, “the only question is, have you done your work or not? Because if not then I will have no choice but to —”But of course I’ve done my work, Mrs Ffleshe,” said Toad obsequiously, adding in a sweet, winning voice, “and I have done it happily, reflecting on the errors of my ways, for which you have so rightly chastised me.”

  Mole applied his eye to the keyhole and watched the proceedings. He saw Toad bow and scrape before the not inconsiderable figure of Mrs Ffleshe, who was arrayed in silks of purple and green, her bosom like the prow of an enemy battleship.

  Her face and gaze were severe as she looked down upon Toad. “I wish to examine your work,” said she.

  Toad pointed smugly at the potatoes that Mole had peeled, the sprouts that Mole had prepared, the carrots that Mole had cleaned and chopped and the cabbage that he had so neatly sliced.

  “All done with my own hands,” said the brazen Toad, “which are sore and bleeding from the task, but I don’t mind, for I deserved it!”

  She looked at the vegetables with evident surprise, and then picked up one or two to examine them more closely.

  “Hmm, I must say, Toad,” said Mrs Fleshe in a gentler voice, “these are well done, and all the peelings and dirty water cleared away.

  “Though I say it myself, Mrs Ffleshe, I am a dab hand at such things,” said Toad, who could not resist gilding the lily, “for my Pater, bless him, thought it good for the education of one who would grow up to be a country gentleman that he should learn how the other half lives and works. See how I have been careful to sweep the floor, and dust the range as well.”

  Mrs Ffleshe nodded her approval and said, “I certainly do see, Toad, and I am glad you have learnt your lesson. Now come on back upstairs and try to be a good Toad for the rest of the day”

  “I will, I will,” cried Toad almost gaily. “Ladies first, Mrs Ffleshe, ladies first.”

  With that, and without a backward glance, the ungrateful Toad disappeared up the stairs and out of sight, leaving the Mole immured in the dark, dank, dingy coal cellar.

  For twenty minutes, the Mole waited in silence before he began to realise that Toad was not going to come back down again.

  Mole was not easily given to ire, but ireful he now felt. He began to bang on the door, calling out for somebody to let him out, but no one came. Then he tried to reach up to the circular cast-iron cover above his head, climbing on the coal itself to do so, but he could not quite reach it.

  It was perhaps an hour later, his voice by now grown hoarse from shouting, his feet two blocks of ice and his teeth chattering, that he heard the sound of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels above his head. He just had time to pull himself upright and look up before the coal-hole cover was removed, and a shaft of daylight nearly blinded him.

  “H-h-help!” he called through chattering teeth. “It’s Mr Mole of Mole End, and I —”

  These words were barely out before the hole above his head darkened and a spatter of coal dust fell on to his face and into his mouth, the only warning he had before half a hundredweight of coal was poured down on top of him.

  Mole only saved himself from injury by leaping back against the door, as with a thunderous roar the next load of coal came down, and with it a choking black dust thicker than any he had ever known.

  As he began to cough and gasp, light reappeared and he just had time to croak, “Please, no more — I am down here — I —” when the rumbling darkness returned, and another load tumbled down, roaring like an avalanche towards where Mole cowered against the door.

  The coal was like a living, growing thing and the Mole soon had to climb and scrabble up to keep himself from being submerged.

  “Help!” he croaked as light briefly reappeared.

  But the cover was swiftly slid back over the hole and the coalman and his cart soon gone. The Mole supposed that this was a small mercy, for at least no more coal would come down. Now he could only cough and gulp and splutter as he turned to the door and tapped pitifully at its black and gritty surface.

  When it finally opened, the poor, suffering Mole tumbled straight out and lay gasping, barely conscious, at the feet of the astonished Miss Bugle, who was brandishing a poker.

  “But — but —” she said, “I thought it was mice!”

  “Water!” gasped the Mole, who felt he was dying of thirst. “Water!”

  “I’d better get help at once.

  “No’ he cried, “no, please do not. Toad will get into trouble, don’t you see?”

&
nbsp; “But, Mr Mole, I absolutely insist,” said Miss Bugle. “And I absolutely insist you do not,” said the Mole very firmly “Please, if you could just bring me a glass of water and let me warm myself by the range.

  Miss Bugle stared at him for a moment and realised that his mind was quite made up.

  “Very well, Mr Mole’ she said reluctantly, “but as housekeeper of this establishment I should like to know how you got into this predicament. Look at you, you’re quite black with coal dust! At least permit me to dust you down.”

  The glass of water came, and then another, and the solicitous Miss Bugle put the kettle on the range to brew Mole a pot of tea. Then she took him outside into the back courtyard — a precaution he himself insisted on — and began to dust him down with a feather duster.

  A great cloud of coal dust flew up in the air, but much of it flew down again — back on to Mole.

  “It’s not making much impression, I’m afraid,” said the Mole. “Don’t you have a carpet beater?”

  “We have, sir’ said she, “but I really think —”

  Then the light of realisation came into her eye.

  “Goodness, I quite forgot! Some weeks ago, before Mrs Ffleshe arrived, Mr Toad ordered a new cleaning gadget from London. It has not been out of its bag yet, but if I may say so, Mr Mole, in your present state you are the perfect object upon which to try it out!”

  Ever afterwards, the Mole preferred to draw a veil over the events of the next hour or so. Suffice it to say that with the brand-new Dustaw Rotary Windsor vacuum cleaner that Toad had so thoughtfully acquired for his housekeeper, and using its finest bristle upholstery brush — and with the Mole lying on the floor and turning the handle himself to create the suction, since Miss Bugle found she could not do both actions at once — that obliging lady successfully managed to vacuum-clean the Mole so that in less than an hour of intensive labour he was, once more, nearly as spick and span as when he first arrived.