Deirdre nodded. “But we’re going this afternoon, first. To Cuckoo Brow Wood, to find the best places to look. Jeremy Crosfield is going with us.”
“Oh, well, then, that’s all right,” Beatrix said, feeling relieved. “I’m sure he can show you just the right places.” She had met Jeremy in difficult circumstances, when he was accused by the previous head teacher at Sawrey School of stealing the School Roof Fund. Jeremy was her favorite amongst the village boys, in part because they shared an interest in drawing woodland creatures. Jeremy had shown her a place on Cunsey Beck where there were a great many frogs, and they had often gone there together when she was making the drawings for her frog book.
Deirdre looked down at the bunch of herbs and flowers in her hand. She hesitated, frowning, started to say something, and then stopped. At last she took a deep breath and blurted out, “Do you s’pose you could go with us on May Eve? You know all about fairies. We might have better luck if you’re with us.” She pursed her lips and frowned darkly. “But o’ course, you’ll have to cross your heart an’ promise not to tell a single soul.”
Beatrix felt, rightfully, that she had been paid an enormous compliment. She didn’t want to impose herself on the children, but if they intended to tramp through the wilderness of Cuckoo Brow Wood at twilight, it would certainly be sensible if an adult went along—just in case. In case of what, she wasn’t sure, but it did seem a good idea.
“Let’s agree to this, shall we, Deirdre?” she said. “When you see Caroline and Jeremy today, ask them whether they would like me to come. If all three of you say yes—without reservation, mind—I should be glad to join your party.”
“I’ll ask ’em,” Deirdre said with satisfaction. She bobbed a quick, old-fashioned curtsey. “Thank you, Miss Potter,” she said, and was gone.
Beatrix, smiling to herself, was on her way back to the farmhouse when she caught a glimpse of a very large black cat, perched on the lowest limb of the ash tree. At first she thought it was Max, but knew immediately that couldn’t be right. This black cat was twice the size of Max. His black fur was shaggy and unkempt and he had a long, rumpled black tail, where Max had no tail at all.
“Good morning, miss,” said the cat. He stood up to stretch his forelegs and arch his back.
Beatrix stared. This was no ordinary cat. He was so large and so black that she almost thought he must be a panther, escaped from a traveling circus.
“My goodness gracious,” she said, and discovered that she was holding her breath. She let it out. “Who are you?”
“I am the Cat Who Walks by Himself,” said the cat, who had once lived with a Yorkshire schoolmaster who enjoyed reading Kipling’s Just So Stories aloud to the children. The cat (previously called by the undistinguished name of Puss) was deeply impressed by the last two sentences of Mr. Kipling’s story about a cat: “When the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone.” The cat liked this so much that he memorized it and whispered it over and over to himself. And then he adopted the Cat’s name, feeling that it conferred upon him a great distinction and individuality.
After the schoolmaster died, the Cat (who had forgotten that he was ever called Puss) took to the open road, traveling here and there and everywhere but never lingering for very long, for all places were alike to him. That’s what Mr. Kipling’s Cat had said, and that’s what the Cat said, whenever he thought of it: I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. He had happened on Ridley Rattail’s advertisement as he came along the road, and thought he would just take the ferry across the lake to Hill Top Farm and make an application for Miss Potter’s position. All places were alike to him, it was true, but he had never visited Sawrey, and places with rats held a special attraction.
“As an exceedingly large fellow,” he went on, with ill-concealed pride, “I am able to accommodate any number of exceedingly large rats. If you are Miss Potter, I am pleased to offer you my services.” He lifted up one forepaw and extended his claws, flexing them expertly. “I am accustomed to making my living with these.” He bared his needle-sharp teeth. “And these.” He grinned in a good-natured, ingratiating way. “You will not find a more efficient ratter than myself anywhere in the Land between the Lakes. Or anywhere in the wide, wild, wicked world beyond, for that matter.” His grin widened and became rather more ominous. “I have, you see, an insatiable appetite for rats. I am not ashamed to own that I take a very great pleasure in killing as many as possible.” And at the thought of rats, he began to purr, a deep, rumbling purr that rattled the twigs on the tree.
Beatrix was reminded of Alice’s Cheshire cat and half expected the animal to begin disappearing, leaving his toothy grin behind. To forestall this, she spoke out loud.
“Since you are here, you might as well make yourself at home.” She pointed. “The barn is that direction. I’m sure you’ll find the situation to your liking. We presently have five other cats, but there are more than enough rats to go around.”
“Thank you,” said the cat, and leapt gracefully out of the tree, landing as lightly as a feather in the green grass beneath. But he didn’t go to the barn. Instead, he followed Beatrix right up to Hill Top’s front door.
She turned. “And just where do you think you’re going?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and standing in front of the door. “I don’t want a housecat. I am not a cat person. The barn is down the hill. You’ll catch all the rats you want there.”
“But I am not a barn cat,” said the cat firmly. “I am the Cat Who Walks by Himself, and barns do not appeal to me. Your advertisement says that your rats live in your attic. If I am to exterminate the brutes—exterminate ALL of them—I must work in the attic, too. And that’s all there is to say about that.” He pushed past Beatrix and through the door, brushing her skirt with his long black tail.
“What cheek!” Beatrix exclaimed, reaching in vexation for the broom. “To the barn, puss!”
The cat turned, amused. “There, there, Miss Potter,” he said in a soothing tone. “Just sit down and enjoy a nice cup of tea, and allow me to take care of those ugly rats for you.” He leapt up the stairs to the landing, where he paused and added, over his shoulder, “I prefer a saucer of fresh cream for breakfast, if you don’t mind, and perhaps a bit of cooked vegetable, egg, and cake. A cat cannot live on rats alone.” And then he leapt up the second flight, taking the stairs two at a time—obviously an athletic creature.
“I dislike unbiddable cats,” Beatrix muttered, now feeling very vexed. But she could already hear the heavy tread on the floor above, and regardless of how she felt about having a cat in the house, especially a very large cat who refused to take instructions, it was indisputably true that there were rats in the house. Perhaps one large cat in the attic would do the work faster than several cats in the barn.
But just one cat in the attic, she promised herself firmly, as she went upstairs to get ready for the afternoon reception at Raven Hall. Only one. And anyway, she reflected, as she took out her best blouse and brushed her best hat, with that gigantic beast prowling around up there, there wouldn’t be room for another.
16
Evicted!
Whilst Miss Potter was in the garden discussing fairies with Deirdre, Ridley Rattail was handed an ultimatum.
His Saturday morning had begun like any other since the explosion of the rat population in the Hill Top attic. He had appeared at the crowded breakfast table only long enough to pour a cup of coffee, snatch a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs from the sideboard, and say a dark and decisive “No!” when asked to join the others in morning games. He turned his back on the company and retreated with his meal to his room, shaking his head and muttering severely, “Too many rats. Too many rats!” As was his habit following his breakfast, he read the newspaper from back to front, then (being a co
mpulsively tidy fellow) swept his floor, made his bed, and straightened his bureau drawers, all the while trying to ignore the noise of rats running up and down the hallway outside his door.
Ridley was wondering whether his shoes needed a polish or whether the task could be put off for another day when suddenly his door flew open and there was Rosabelle, her broom and dustpan in her paws, her whiskers all a-twitter.
“Oh, Ridley!” she cried. “There has been another horror! Another horror!”
“Oh, dear,” murmured Ridley, and sat down on his bed with a shoe in each hand. He did not, after all, think a polish was required today. He bent over to put them on, with difficulty, for he had grown very stout.
“Six rats were cornered in the corn bin, Ridley! It was a massacre.” Rosabelle dropped her broom and used the tip of her long white tail to wipe her eyes. “The killers were two yellow cats—mercenaries, disgraceful-looking creatures, with torn ears and scruffy fur. They killed all six, every one, and then they cut off the tails and nailed them to the barn door! Oh, horrible, horrible!”
Ridley straightened up. “Quite,” he agreed, pleasurably imagining the six rat tails nailed to the barn door. The cats did not sound like village cats. They must have come in response to his advertisement. “And which rats were these?” he asked hopefully.
“They were Hawkshead rats, friends of Rollo. Ridley, you must do something!”
“What would you have me do, Rosabelle?” Ridley asked, managing not to smile. “To be quite blunt about it, there are far too many rats in this attic, and most of them are rats of the worse sort. The loss of a few—or a many—is hardly to be mourned.” He rose and went to brush his whiskers, admiring his reflection in the scrap of a mirror that hung over his bureau.
“But they are our guests, Ridley!” Rosabelle protested, with a despairing wail. “Like them or not, surely you can’t stand idly by and see them massacred! Why, when word of this gets out, Hill Top’s reputation for hospitality will be ruined! I shall never be able to hold up my head in rat society again!”
“I think, Rosabelle,” Ridley said severely, “that you had far better worry about Hill Top’s reputation as a place of comfort and high moral tone. Have you visited the east end of the attic lately? Why, it is nothing but a den of corruption! A cesspool of licentious-ness and depravity! Gambling, dancing, billiards, bawdy song, and beer—all out in plain sight for the youngsters to see and emulate. And all on account of your sister’s husband, who was the first to invite these ruffians and rowdies into our quiet attic.”
“You leave Bluebell out of this,” Rosabelle said, stamping her foot angrily. “It’s not her fault. You are the one to blame, Ridley. You should have stopped Rollo from inviting all those horrid creatures. You should be doing something now!”
“As to that,” Ridley replied loftily, “I am doing something. I am doing something right this very minute.” He took his pocket watch from the bowl on top of the bureau, wound it, held it to his ear to make sure it was ticking, and put it into his watch pocket. “I am advertising.”
Rosabelle stared at him, uncomprehending. “You are . . . advertising?”
“Exactly.” Ridley looped his watch fob across his waistcoat. “I have posted several advertisements on the east side of the lake. For cats.”
“For CATS!” Rosabelle shrilled hysterically. “Ridley Rattail, have you lost your mind? Oh, I cannot believe it. I simply cannot believe it. What were you THINKING?” And with that, she grabbed her ears and began running in mad circles, shrieking.
Ridley, who fancied himself a reasonable man and a philosopher, ignored her histrionics. “I have advertised for cats to rid us of these rats,” he said calmly. “What’s more, I imagine that the cats who killed the rats in the corn bin came to Hill Top in response to my advertisement. If that is the case, I am glad to take the credit.”
“But what’s to keep the cats from killing US?” Rosabelle cried. “You and me, Ridley. And my sister and her children? Her four little innocent children. Have you thought of that, Ridley? Have you thought of THAT?”
“Of course I have,” Ridley said in a reassuring tone. “I have thought it all out, every step of the way. I shall simply explain that you and I are the original occupants of this attic, and that we—and our personally invited guests, Bluebell and her children—are to be let strictly alone.”
“Oh, you shall, shall you?” Rosabelle replied with a mocking scorn. “And whatever makes you think they will listen? Ridley, you are a fool. A half-wit, a dunce, a dolt, a NINCOMPOOP.” The more names she thought of to call him, the angrier she became. “An imbecile, a simpleton, an IGNORAMUS!” By the time she reached this point in her tirade, she had worked herself into such a remarkable passion that she began to beat poor Ridley about the head with her broom and dustpan. “A dimwit, a BLOCKHEAD, a BOOBY!”
Ridley put up his arms to fend off her blows, but she managed to land one so squarely on his nose that he saw stars and was required to sit down on the floor. He was trying to find the words to tell her that she was being appallingly unkind and ungenerous, when she suddenly uttered the most unkind, most ungenerous words she could have said.
“And what’s more, Ridley Rattail, you are no longer welcome here. I want you packed up and out within the hour.”
Ridley stared at her, uncomprehending. “Packed? Out? You can’t be serious, Rosabelle!”
“Oh, can’t I?” Rosabelle asked in a steely voice, narrowing her eyes to ratty slits. “I have reached the end of my patience. Ridley, you are evicted.”
Ridley’s heart plummeted down to his toes. “Evicted! But I have nowhere to go!”
“That is really too bad,” Rosabelle replied unfeelingly. “But it makes no difference to me. You are a comfortable fellow in many respects, Ridley, but you have lately become so surly and selfish that no one can bear to be around you. I have defended you to the others over and over, but now I have reached the end of my rope. Advertising for cats is the last straw, the very last. I shall thank you to leave. Within the hour, do you hear?”
And with that, she aimed one more thwack with her broom at Ridley and marched out, slamming the door so hard that the picture of Ridley’s mother fell off the wall and smashed onto the floor with the sound of breaking glass.
For a long time, Ridley sat staring blankly into space, his brain in a fog, his thoughts in a complete muddle. And then, as he gradually began to comprehend the awfulness of his situation—no more warm, cozy bed, no comfortable apartment nor cheering meals, no companionable conversations with Rosabelle—he began to feel very sorry for himself. Rosabelle had no idea how hard he had worked to rid the attic of their unruly guests. She didn’t appreciate—but how could she? for she was merely a female—how extraordinarily difficult it was to be a male rat. She didn’t comprehend the burdens he had borne on her behalf, the terrible travail, the enormous effort.
And then, thinking how put-upon he was, and how little appreciated and loved—he, the most mannerly and affable and wittiest of rats—Ridley began to sniffle, and then to whimper and sob, until finally he fell prostrate on the floor and wept for a long time.
But at last he stood, wiped his eyes, and took out his watch. Within the hour, Rosabelle had said, and Ridley was nothing if not punctual. Sadly, his shoulders bowed and his head bent, he shuffled to the closet, hauled out a portmanteau, and began to empty his bureau drawers of their contents. When he had done, he picked up the picture of his mother, brushed off the broken glass, and put it on top of his shirts. He looked disconsolately around the room, with its comfortable furnishings: his loyal bed, his devoted chair, his willing footstool beside the fender, his smiling and friendly fire. The two of them—he and this dear little room—had been happy together, but that was all over now. He took out his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. Over now, forever.
Ridley’s portmanteau, fully packed, was so large and so heavy that he had to drag it down the stairs. Once in the kitchen, he saw a toy wheelbarrow filled with tiny
seashells, sitting beside the geraniums on Miss Potter’s kitchen windowsill—just the thing to manage his heavy load. He dumped the shells on the sill, heaved his portmanteau into the barrow, and wheeled it out the door. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea where in the world he was going. He pushed the stolen barrow under the lilac bush, sat down beside it, and tried to think.
Should he move to the Tower Bank Arms, just down the hill, where there was always a great deal of food, but where (it was rumored) the proprietor set wicked traps to catch unwary rats?
Or to Buckle Yeat Cottage, which had a delightful garden but a dark, cramped attic and a miserly pantry that was locked up every night?
Or to Farmer Potatoes’ barn, which was roomy and dry and within easy walking distance of Miss Barwick’s Anvil Cottage Bakery?
He had just decided on Farmer Potatoes’ barn and was getting up to push the barrow in that direction, when he heard Miss Potter, speaking in an unusually sharp, scolding tone. He made himself as small as he could amongst the leaves, then peeped out to see what was going on. As he did so, a black cat walked past.
Ridley’s eyes widened in astonished horror, for he had never seen such an ugly beast. The cat was the size of a dog—no, the size of a tiger!—with muscular shoulders, sinewy legs, sharp yellow fangs, and scimitar-like claws. He was informing Miss Potter, in a very firm tone, that he was not a barn cat.
“I am the Cat Who Walks by Himself,” said the cat, “and barns do not appeal to me. Your advertisement says that your rats live in your attic. If I am to exterminate the brutes—exterminate ALL of them—I must work in the attic, too. And that’s all there is to say about that.” And then he pushed past Miss Potter and into the house.
Panic, like a snake, wrapped its chill, scaly self around Ridley’s neck, clutching him so hard that he felt he would suffocate. His advertisement had summoned a monstrosity, a monster, a brute, a basilisk! And what was just as bad as the gorgon’s size and ugliness was his obstinate, unbiddable nature, for Ridley himself had just heard, with his very own ears, the insolent Cat refuse to take orders—and from Miss Potter. Miss Potter herself!
The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood Page 12
