But knowing how Jeremy felt and being able to do something about it were two entirely different things. Rascal was only a terrier, and rather small and nondescript at that. He had strong forequarters and a very good nose, which were excellent attributes when it came to digging small creatures out of their holes. But he didn’t flatter himself that he might ever wield any significant influence in the wide world of human affairs.
Yes, it would be wonderful indeed if Jeremy could do as he wished and continue with his education. But that would take a miracle. And even Rascal knew that miracles didn’t grow on trees.
11
Ridley Advertises
In the Hill Top attic, the death of Rollo the rat, cruelly and wantonly murdered when he had sallied into the kitchen to fetch a bun, was felt to be a shocking and deeply demoralizing event, all the more because it was so sudden and unexpected. Miss Felicia Frummety had exhibited no interest in policing the place and the incumbent rats were perfectly aware of the Rule that prohibited other cats from poaching. As a result, they had become agreeably accustomed to going wherever and whenever they liked and doing whatever they liked, with the greatest confidence and sang-froid and without a whisker of fear.
The news of Rollo’s death traveled at the speed of lightning through the attic, and was received in varying ways, according to the hearer’s temperament. Some of the rats suddenly found that they were urgently wanted at home—an uncle had died, or a mother had lost her place—and packed their bags to leave. Others stayed, venturing downstairs or out to the barn or the Tower Bank Arms with a considerably heightened caution, warily watching their backs as they went and setting up sentinels with whistles round their necks to keep a lookout while they made free of the cheeses or biscuits or grain. A few of these even armed themselves with cudgels and cleavers, the latter sharpened by a rat from Carlisle who set up his grinding wheel just at the head of the spiral stair, requiring only that the owner of the weapon take a turn at the crank.
It soon became evident, however, that quite a number of the rats were mere unruly ruffians, of that undisciplined and excitable sort of temperament that is stimulated by the prospect of danger. They formed themselves into gangs and held rallies in the Saloon, bold as you please, where they sang war ditties and chanted fight slogans reminiscent of Mr. Churchill’s political campaign and ate quantities of cold beef and drank a great deal of malt ale, vowing that they would rid Hill Top of any cat who had the temerity to threaten one of their race. When they had worked themselves up to a fever pitch of excitement, they would sally down the stairs, clanging and banging and making as much racket as possible, and charge across the kitchen and through the dairy and out to the barns, daring any cat to catch them.
Ridley Rattail, unlike the other rats, felt no sadness when he learned of the murder. He was glad to be rid of Rollo, whose offer to punch him in the nose still rankled. And the death was confirmation of the extraordinary brilliance of his idea: what was needed to rid the Hill Top attic of unwanted rats was a fierce and fearless feline. Several fierce felines, in fact. And Ridley thought he knew just how to find them.
On the day following Rollo’s murder, Ridley shut himself up in his apartment with a quantity of paper, a quill pen made from a magpie’s feather, and a bottle of very sooty ink. Within a few hours, he had fashioned several large advertising posters with the following message:
Experienced Ratters Required
Owing to an alarming increase in the number
of rats of objectionable character residing in the
attic, action must be taken.
Applicants may present themselves to
Miss Potter
Hill Top Farm, Near Sawrey.
(Across the lake, over the bridge, up the hill,
first on the left.)
Room and board provided.
Additional compensation commensurate
with skill & experience.
On the next day (which would be Thursday), Ridley stacked the posters one on top of the other, rolled them up very neatly, and secured the roll with a bit of shoelace. Then he took himself off to the Tower Bank Arms, where he waited for the brewer’s dray, which always stopped just after noon. While the drayman was unloading two kegs of ale and six dozen bottles of beer, Ridley found himself a comfortable place in an empty basket. After two more stops (the spirits shop and the Sawrey Hotel, both in Far Sawrey), the dray arrived at the ferry and boarded at the three o’clock departure, the rat still on board.
Having arrived at Bowness, Ridley posted his advertisements in several places along the road where he thought they were likely to be spotted. He returned to the ferry landing in time to catch the five o’clock departure, and was delighted to find when he boarded that someone had spilt a bag of delicious buttered popcorn—exactly the sort of snack he was hoping for. And then, with the wind in his whiskers, the silver waves dancing and shimmering in an exceedingly pleasant way, and the blown spray just dampening his sleek gray fur, he settled back to enjoy the ride with the consciousness of a job well done.
He might not have been so pleased with himself, however, had he suspected the sort of cat who might be enticed by his advertisement. Ridley Rattail might just have posted his own death warrant.
12
Cats with Plain Names
FRIDAY, 26 APRIL
It was the morning following Ridley’s posting of his advertisement, which of course Miss Potter knew nothing about. She had just finished writing a short letter to Norman’s sister, Millie Warne, reporting on the plague of rats, the unsettling proposal for villas along the Windermere shoreline, and the reception at Raven Hall on Saturday. She added that she hoped to see Millie soon and sent best wishes to Mrs. Warne. Norman was gone, but the Warnes were her family now, and she was bound to them with a strong bond of love and loss. She signed herself “With love yrs aff.,” and folded the letter into an envelope. She was wondering whether she could catch the morning post when she heard a rap at the door.
“Oh, Miss Potter,” Mrs. Jennings said, “couldst tha come to t’ barn and help me give t’ Galway calf her med’cine? Mr. Jennings has gone off to market, and t’ creature’s turned balky—I doan’t think I can manage her alone.”
Willingly, Beatrix traded her felt slippers for the leather clogs she wore outdoors and followed Mrs. Jennings through the farm yard to the barn. The two of them had not hit it off when they first met, but after Mrs. Jennings had been won over by the new living quarters and the more convenient kitchen, the two women had become comfortable together. Mrs. Jennings knew a great deal about farm animals, and Beatrix was eager to learn all she had to teach.
Blossom’s medicine was administered in a drenching horn, a hollow cow’s horn with the tip cut off. While Mrs. Jennings held the unwilling calf, Beatrix filled the horn with the liquid and managed to get most of it down the calf ’s throat. Kitchen, the mother cow, watched with concern, whilst the ducks and chickens gathered around, peering curiously through the fence. There was plenty of noise, with the Berkshires grunting, the rooster crowing, the hens cackling, and Tibbie and Queenie, the Herdwick ewes, bleating in cautionary tones to their lambs in the green meadow beyond.
Beatrix loved these farmyard sounds, which seemed to her as homey and comfortable as the hiss of the kettle steaming on the back of the stove and the cricket singing on the doorstep. As a girl, she and her brother Bertram (younger by almost six years) had collected a great many animals—rabbits, hedgehogs, guinea pigs, mice, lizards, newts, frogs, rats, bats, and even a ring snake named Sally—who enlivened their third-floor nursery and could be coerced into posing for Beatrix’s sketches. After Bertram went away to school, it was the animals who kept her company, allowing her to sketch them, play with them, and invent amusing stories about them. These were the stories that later, with Norman’s encouragement and guidance, had become her “little books,” full of fictional animals: Peter Rabbit, Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Jeremy Frog, Hunca Munca and Tom Thumb, the mice.
Anim
als in books were all well and good, and Beatrix still loved them dearly. But at Hill Top, she was surrounded by real animals, animals of the farmyard and woodlands, animals with lively personalities and sometimes tragically complicated lives. There was Jemima Puddleduck, for instance, a foolish duck who lived in the barn and had the habit of laying her eggs in out-of-the-way corners, where the foxes made a meal of them. Beatrix had already decided that when she had finished her current book (a story about a silly kitten who fell afoul of a pair of scheming rats), she would put Jemima into a book. The story would also include a fox, a handsome, debonair, and clever villain with alluring manners—like the clever wolf in “Little Red Riding Hood,” a tale that Norman’s nieces and nephews never tired of hearing.
While Mrs. Jennings finished with Blossom, Beatrix gathered a bucket of newly laid eggs and they started back to the house. As they walked, Mrs. Jennings remarked, “’Tis t’ oddest thing, Miss Potter. Tha knowst I’ve been wantin’ another cat, to help with t’ rat problem. Well, I looked out t’ window not ten minutes ago, and there was a fierce-lookin’ orange tomcat with green eyes, sittin’ on t’ threshold and lookin’ up at me, sayin’ plain as day, ‘I’ve come to lend a hand with t’ rats, Missus.’ Tha shouldst see his teeth and claws, Miss Potter. Like needles and knives, they are.”
Beatrix chuckled. “It sounds as if he’s eminently qualified. I suppose you told this fierce fellow that the position was open.”
“If you mean, did I keep t’ cat, I did that,” Mrs. Jennings replied firmly, not being a woman who used big words. “Once rats gets settled, they’re t’ verra devil to roust out. I’m hopin’ t’ new tom’ll do t’ job.” She laughed shortly. “Better’n that silly ginger puss, who fancies she’s done a grand thing when she catches a beetle.”
“Poor Felicia,” Beatrix murmured, with some sympathy for the cat who was about to lose her place. “Does the new cat have a name?”
“His name is Fang,” Mrs. Jennings said stoutly. “I doan’t hold with fancy names for cats, as tha knowst. That’s what’s wrong with t’ ginger cat. Gives herself airs ’cause she’s got a fine name.” She harrumphed sharply. “Miss Felicia Frummety. Plain cats with plain names is what we need.”
“Fang it is, then,” Beatrix said, with a little shiver. It was not a name for an amiable cat, although in the circumstance, perhaps amiability was less important than cunning. She paused. “I wonder if we shouldn’t advertise.”
“Advertise? For cats?” Mrs. Jennings snorted. “Tha must be joking, Miss Potter. Cats can’t read.”
“No, I suppose not,” Beatrix murmured regretfully. “Well, I’d best hurry if I’m to catch the post. I have the feeling that Fang might need a co-worker. I’ll keep my eyes open for unemployed cats.”
This remark brought another snort from Mrs. Jennings.
Several other people were aiming to catch the post, as well, and had converged on the post office in Low Green Gate Cottage. Like villagers the world over, the Sawrey villagers took a great deal of interest (a great deal too much interest, some would say) in other people’s private affairs. This morning, the talk was all about the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge.
“Well, I for one doan’t believe she’s a witch, in spite o’ what Lydia Dowling says,” avowed Lucy Skead, the postmistress, who was as round as a Norfolk dumpling and so short that Mr. Skead had built her a wooden box to stand on behind the counter. “There’s no such thing as witches, not in these modern times, with railroads and telegraphs and electric lights. Sixpence for t’ package, Mathilda.”
“That’s all tha knowst, me girl,” said old Dolly Dorking in a scornful tone. “Auld Dolly,” as she was known to the villagers, was Lucy Skead’s mother, a stooped old lady who always wore a black tippet. She lived with the Skeads and spent her days sitting in a corner of the post office, knitting black stockings and exchanging remarks with the customers.
“And what’s railroads an’ telegraphs got to do with witches, anyway?” demanded sharp-nosed Mathilda Crook, who had brought in a package of cookies to mail to her brother’s children in Liverpool. Poor motherless things didn’t have a soul to bake for them, and the good Lord only knew how clean their clothes were. “Just because they doan’t go round callin’ folks’ attention to theyselven doan’t mean there’s none nae more.”
Auld Dolly gave a vigorous nod. “My mother, bless her soul, was born on Ash Wednesday, and knew a witch whenivver she saw one. She allus said red hair is one sure sign.”
“Aye,” Mathilda said, agreeing. “Another is if they go invisible when they drink t’ milk from a black cow.”
“Tha’s both talkin’ blether,” harrumphed Lucy, taking Mathilda’s package. “How’s milk from a black cow any diff’rent than milk from a white cow, I’d like to know.”
Hannah Braithwaite, wife of the village constable, pasted a stamp on a letter she was sending to her mother. “I’ve heard red-headed women have second sight,” she said, in her sweet little voice, soft as a girl’s. “An’ that they’d sooner lie than smile, and’re like to run off with t’ fairies whenivver t’ chance comes.” She paused judiciously. “I woan’t say anything ’gainst Mrs. Kittredge, since I’ve nivver even laid eyes on t’ lady. Still, I worry for our Major Kittredge, who’s had more’n enough sadness, what with losin’ his eye an’ his left arm in t’ war. He doan’t need nae more.”
Mathilda nodded in earnest agreement. “I worry for him, too, poor chap. He may have a deal o’ courage, goin’ up against t’ Boers as he did, but it canna be naen too smart to wed a red-headed woman.” She gave an ironic chuckle. “Mappen it’s t’ Raven Hall Luck, wouldst tha’ say?”
“Nae t’ luck,” said Auld Dolly wisely. “It was t’ dwelves. Remember poor Mrs. Stout, t’ housekeeper, who went mad as a magpie an’ threw all t’ Kittredge silver into the well? T’ dwelves made her do it.”
“Dwelves?” asked Mathilda, raising her eyebrows. “I thought they was fairies.”
“That’s what everybody thinks,” Auld Dolly said. She dropped her knitting into her lap. “But everybody’s wrong. It’s dwelves who live alongside Fern Vale Tarn, not fairies. Half elf, half dwarf. Oak Folk, some call ’em. They’re t’ ones who gave t’ Luck. And they’re t’ ones who wanted t’ silver, which is why they made Mrs. Stout throw it in t’ well, an’ made ’er mad when she wouldn’t.”
“Nae, Mother,” Lucy remonstrated. “Dwelves, fairies, Oak Folk—’tis all nonsense, same as witches. T’ steward made off with t’ silver, and tha knowst what happened to him.”
“Oh!” Hannah said fearfully. “What happened t’ ’im?”
“Ran off to Edinburgh and fell under t’ wheels of a lorry,” Lucy said, with a satisfied air. She gave a gloomy shake to her head. “Bad luck all ’round. Who knows what’s in store for our poor major, marryin’ that actress.”
“Actress!” exclaimed Mathilda and Hannah in unison.
“Tha hastna heard?” Lucy asked, pretending great surprise. “T’ head housemaid at Raven Hall told her sister, and t’ sister told my cousin. He saw her on t’ London stage and married her in a fortnight.” She gave her head a disapproving shake. “Too quick, if tha asks me.”
“My brother knew an actress once,” said Hannah mournfully. “A reet Jezebel, she was.” She shook her head despairingly. “T’ poor, poor major.”
Grace Lythecoe, widow of the former vicar and one of the village’s most solid citizens, had come in just in time to hear the last few comments. “Ladies, really!” she exclaimed heatedly. “It’s unchristian to speak ill of people! What would Major Kittredge say if he heard you?”
“T’wasn’t Mrs. Kittredge we was talkin’ ’bout, necessar’ly,” Mathilda Crook said defensively. “It was red-headed women in gen’ral.”
“An’ actresses,” added Lucy.
“And we was only wishin’ that our poor Major Kittredge would be happy at last,” Hannah Braithwaite said in a pious tone, “which is surely a Christian thing to do. T’ dear man has had a deal of
trouble in his life, in spite of t’ Raven Hall Luck.”
“He has indeed,” said Grace Lythecoe firmly. “And the Raven Hall Luck is only an old glass goblet that’s had silly fairy stories told about it, which are not to be believed. Lucy, I’ll have two stamps. And I should like to pay three shillings into my postal savings account, if you please.”
“Silly fairy stories?” remarked Rascal, sitting on his haunches in the path outside the open door of the post office. “What do you think about that, Max?” he said to a black tail-less cat sitting next to him.
Max the Manx gave Rascal a gloomy look. “I’ve not had much experience with fairies. On the matter of witches, however, I am somewhat of an expert, having served one once, in—” He stopped and cast his eyes upward, reflecting. “In my third lifetime, I think it was. Or perhaps my fourth. I lose track.”
“I’ve always envied you cats,” said the little dog. “I’ve got to make the best of the one life I have. Fancy having nine!”
“I don’t know why you should envy us,” said Max with a heavy sigh. “Frankly, it’s just one long vale of tears after another. In this life, for instance, I am without a home to call my own. No fireside to warm my aching joints, no one to offer me milk or kippers.” Max had formerly lived with the three Crabbe sisters in Castle Cottage, at the top end of the village. After they moved to Bournemouth, he’d stayed on in the Castle Cottage barn, sleeping in the dusty hay and catching the occasional mouse. “But then, most of my lives have been unhappy, I am sad to report. I spent one entire existence in the hold of a fishing ship. I never once saw the light of day and lived exclusively on raw eels. What’s more, I—”
“What was it like to live with that witch?” Rascal interrupted. Once Max got started on a sad story, he’d go on forever. “A rum go, I’ll wager.”
The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood Page 9
