The seconds that twirl past are enormous and quivering; the brownish mouse freezes like a drawing, his fingers folded against his chest and his chin lifted to his killer. Thomas pauses for a moment, lifts his forefeet, rears into the sky without making the slightest sound.
In that eternity the whole house becomes a new thing, black and fire-bright together: magic and beautiful as the instant of death or birthing. The brownish mouse comprehends this; the agony and mercy of Mother Owl, and he finds his life bitten away in a fierce kind of joy.
Thomas pounces. His paws, as they strike, are at the same time warm and blanket-soft, sharp as a smashed light bulb. Then the brownish mouse is all over with. The cat lifts his feet slowly and catches the little body up in his teeth, shaking his head, kittenish and pleased.
The other mice creep through the gap, shocked. They are noiseless, and very, very many, and they swarm the hallway in silent crowds. They are in no danger now, for the beast is sated. Thomas barely glances up as he carts his prize away, to skulk with it beneath the kitchen table; the mice all stare after him and then they turn back for the peach. Now there is a little blood amongst the slick of syrup; this is as it should be. They take an age to heave it up the stairs.
No mouse has ever set its toes in the grandmother’s rooms, in the Queendom of Mother Owl. None has ever dared to; yet in his tiny head, every one of them has wondered what kind of place is past that lead-painted door.
Perhaps there is nothing at all. Perhaps the door opens into sky and void, or there again, perhaps the nest of Mother Owl is a little as those of mice are; perhaps she tears up clouds and furry creatures to make the place for her children soft. The grandmother is no more, but Mother Owl is watching them in every small move of their hearts. They shall go to her, then, with their sacrifice of food; they shall show Mother Owl their humility, make their homage. They are Mouse; they are small and humble and low against the ground. They will show her their fear, that she should know they have understood their lesson.
By the time they have reached the attic, the peach is in several pieces and quite filthy. The mice all look at one another sidelong, each one quaking. After a time, one brave soul pushes her shoulders through the door-gap, puts her face into the den of Mother Owl, and the others follow suit.
The skylight is open to the night and the walls are soft with wings of every kind. There are the petrol-spill wings of pigeons, the drab of sparrow and the crow’s utter black. In the draught the feathers ripple and the attic sounds like flying; they overlap each other, leaving no gap of wall at all.
There is no bed like the things the humans slept in, only a huge oval mirror and a bank of shelves, bearing books all bound in delicious leather. Mother Owl is not there, not upon the knotted floorboards, not hiding in the absent light from the naked socket. They gaze about and they sniff, but she is not here. The mice are a little flummoxed, but they stow the peach in the space beneath the bookshelves, where she is bound to find it.
And now the mice should leave, for they have accomplished the thing that they set out to do, but the nature of mouse is impetuous, and curiosity is ever their downfall. There is a scarf hanging from one shelf, a scarf made of silk that almost touches the floor. Now a mouse is a tiny thing, and it barely weighs an ounce or two, so when a pale grey mouse finds herself overcome with madness, she shins right up with hardly a pull at all.
The others stare after her as she is lost from sight. She has discovered a row of glass vials, tiny and bright like a row of milk teeth; she has discovered a great long thing that humans use to make marks on paper. There is a bottle of Quink that stains her curious snout and makes her sneeze. When she polishes at her face, her paws and mouth turn blue.
The mice on the floor cannot bear it, this ignorance, for one of them is exploring and they themselves are not. Mice are made for discovering, and so it is that they forget to be humble and low against the ground, just for a second, and they begin to clamber up the scarf by ones and twos, then ten and twenty, and the tiny weight that a mouse is mounts up and the scarf is pulled right away, along with the ink stained mouse and half a dozen of the glass vials that had rested against it.
The vials hit the ground as the mice do, falling around like a strange kind of hail; as the mice bounce, the glasses burst and spatter shards everywhere. And as they break, small things are released: the high, over-strung songs of little birds, every one living and panicking and suddenly set free. Perhaps they are souls.
The attic is quite mad with them for a second or two, chaotic with the singing that flutters around the mice, the smashing, falling glass, and the scarf that tumbles slowly down like mercury. The mice all scramble for safety; they scat on cut paws, beneath the door, down the stairs. Mice seethe into the parlour with terror gulping at their backs as the birds’ voices all find the window and soar out of it into the sky. And somewhere, way beyond, Mother Owl is laughing.
67
Rent Man
THE SUN WAS not quite above the hedge that clung to the side of the lane to the house. It was unpleasantly bright against the eyes of the rent man, which were rather bloodshot at the best of times. The rent man was a trifle hung-over, which was a little unfair, as he had not consumed all that much the afternoon before.
He rounded the corner to the driveway with unaccustomed ease, as today the rent man had parked his big red car at the bottom of the lane. Today, the rent man did not care to announce his presence; today he was on a secret mission. He smiled at his own fancy, pictured himself as Mr Steed. Inside the rent man’s mind, his paunch turned muscular and his scanty hair Brylcreem-slick, and he turned his head to either side, furtive and wiry as a stoat.
The coast was clear and the house stood there as ever, cracked across its face, the gutters hairy with stalks of grass, the windows cataracts of filth. The rent man hooked his thumbs into his armpits, stood a while and studied everything like a work of art, pleased with the dereliction of it all.
Proper upkeep was a condition of the tenancy; he would have them all slung in the gutter. The rent man lingered over the image of that nasty old woman squatting on the tarmac of the high street, snotty tears coursing down her pinched granny’s face.
Then, with a slight stiffening of his trousers, he imagined the mother gazing up at him, wordless pleading in her eyes. The rent man considered her, and young Marie too, with her little breasts and her delicate face, like an illustration in a book. Perhaps he would offer them clemency, should they prove sufficiently grateful. It might prove to be an interesting day.
The rent man stood back with that thought in his head and suddenly felt remarkably cheerful. Then he put his fingers to his pocket and discovered the master key there. The copper Yale would fit the lock of the front door; he would slide it into its hole very gently, would push at the door and creep in to see what he would see.
The rent man was beginning to sweat as he fished it from his pocket and held it to the sunlight. He undid the door with great tenderness and then began to ease his weight against it, when all of a sudden Thomas, who had been shut inside all night, made a break through the crack, head down low, streaming between the rent man’s very shiny shoes. He hissed a curse and swiped a kick at the cat, felt the toecap connect with its haunch and felt much better. The cat fled.
Then the rent man stood like an Indian hunter, as if by effort of will he might unmake any noise that he had already caused, and slowly he let the moment absorb him again. Perhaps he might find one of them undressed! Finally, trembling with anticipation, he let himself in.
68
Marie
WE SAT IN the perfect light of dawn, the last two girls in the whole wide universe, in our shabby haven. It was not cold; the bath towels were piled in the grate, fizzing and hissing and making the air around us gentle; making the wallpaper glow.
I kept the fire alight always, for it seemed that our way of life was on the wane already, and so it matt
ered not a crumb if my oxblood sandals were eaten by the fire, or that the cookery books were gone. I might never remember how to make a drop-scone now, or mix up batter for pancakes, but there was no milk, nor any gas to light for the stove. And the last match was spent, so if I let the flames die out then I should never get them lit again.
So it was that we basked in our paradise like Eve and Adam, our hearts naked and perfectly pure, even as our earthly flesh was dirty. The child had been in my arms as I woke, nuzzled up against my side, with no trace about her of that squirrel but a dry streak of blood on her cheek.
Yesterday I had been frightened of her, disturbed by her sudden violence, this alien ability to murder a living thing. But of course, she was forced into her shape by the world, forced and distorted. If I never had tin cans to open, perhaps I might have grown into a different sort of creature. Perhaps life would have made me cruel, a killer, or a seer of elves and pixies.
I watched her sleep for a long time, until I understood at last that her hunting was no thing that I should resent; any more than I should hate Thomas for his catching birds, than my mother for her crying, than the mice for tormenting her so.
The nature of creatures came to me then; I think that at last I truly understood my life. It was no triumph after all, and not a bit of comfort. Her jaw muscles moved beneath the pale of her cheek, and her chin was a small sharp triangle, and she had nobody in all creation to keep her safe but me, and I had nobody at all.
Then her eyes flickered and lit against my own and I embraced my sister; after a moment she put out her slim hand and stroked it through my hair. Even though it was a kind of comfort, that touch made my eyes silver with tears.
Every corner was alive with mice, watching or resting, with their backs like greasy pearls in the sunrise. It seemed that we all felt the need to stay together, as if every sort of beast needed the others to assure herself that she was real, to hold to some fool’s notion of strength in numbers. Perhaps we were all just afraid to be alone. The cutlery was a nest of wasps, nervy and buzzing like a light bulb before it blows.
The wall that stood between us and the dining room was thinning like laddering stockings, but without the consolation of the fire I could hardly bear the thought of living. I think I would sooner have had my throat cut than die in the kitchen, of loneliness and cold and the uncaring dark.
I laid the lambskin on the embers, gently, so as not to quash the flames, and then on a strange whim, I pulled my mother’s dress over my head and poured it into the fire too. Behind the sofa I had found an old nightdress that was almost clean, with lacy cuffs and a high tight throat, and when I put it on I felt like an angel. I rummaged in the laundry basket and discovered a little one that had been mine, and the child did not object when I dressed her in it.
Then we sat facing the fire as I sang to her; I combed her hair and sang the only holy song I knew. I sang the lines
‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!’
over and over, because I thought that was the whole song. I discovered that my voice was low and sweet and pure as a dove’s voice, and was surprised, as if I had never sung before in all my life, as if this might be my first and only song. The hair of the child was like broken coal against her nightdress, and I knew that I should never braid it again, for it was meant to cascade exactly as it was. She was beautiful, and I cried and combed it through with my clawed fingers.
The door banged open, so hard it caught the wall and bit a dent in the plaster. The house jumped, cringing like a kicked dog, and I could feel it holding its breath as if braced for something. The mice all skeltered away in a trice. The rent man planted himself in the middle of the floor with his mouth curling, with his hands in his pockets. He said, ‘Hello sweetie,’ as if he had been rehearsing what to say before he came.
I jumped to my feet, and the child hid her body behind mine. With a leer, the rent man nodded his jowls at her and began to snigger. He called me a dirty little mare, and said that he had always known I would be an early developer, that certain things always ran in families, didn’t they. Or maybe, said the rent man, this kid was one of his, as mummy and he had been rather good friends, did I know that? He asked me where my mother was but I only stared, and so he smiled, red in the face.
The rent man’s face turned beatific then, almost paternal, and he tugged at the folds of his trousers just above the knees, and dropped into a crouch. With a brief rummage at his pocket, with the face of a Sunday school teacher, he twiddled his fingers at the child’s face. She shied sideways, as he produced a glossy lollipop from behind her ear. The rent man told her to run along and play. She made no move whatever to take it from his hand. Her flinch seemed to offend him, for then he scowled and stood up, and I heard the crick of his knees.
The rent man jammed his fists into his pockets and began to drone about wear and tear, and a deplorable lack of upkeep. I gazed at his mouth as he moved his lips, dark pink and fleshy like some obscene plant, a flower made of meat. He spat as he talked, flecked his tie with small white dots, and I dredged my brain for words, those noises of mouth and throat that used to come with such ease. I shook my face and tried to understand.
I supposed he meant the house. I had no defence to plead; it was filthy and overrun with the mice, but here I was, doing my best. I tried to convey this to the rent man, but he scraped my excuses aside with a sweep of his square-nailed fingers and announced that a little tart like me deserved nothing better than destitution. He stepped his plastic shoes right up to my own bare toes, and he was shaking as he shoved his face at mine, and the sound of his mind was like a suffocating dog, straining at a choke collar, fit to die.
All this time, the child had crouched behind my back, but as the rent man began to enjoy the sound of his voice, I heard her begin to growl softly. I became aware too, of a scraping crescendo from the dining room. With a sidelong glance at the wall, I glimpsed a streak of silver and jumped. The child had seen it too, and her lips drew right back over her teeth, as she began to snarl, high-pitched and savage.
The rent man’s threats trailed off as his eyes followed mine to the wall. With a nibbling like rats on a water pipe, a part of the plaster and brick went right through. I rushed to the corner for rags and vinegar, ignoring the spluttering of the rent man, who demanded to know the meaning of this, by god. I was forced to actually splash the blade of a carving knife before it zipped backwards with a shriek. My hands were shaking too much for me to put the lid back on the vinegar, and I fumbled with the bottle for ages as the rent man made a sort of gulping motion with his mouth.
I swear to you that I tried to stop him. That is, I would have done, but in the moment I was so horrified that I simply clamped my hand over my mouth and froze like a mouse. With a bullish shake of his head, the rent man had marched from the parlour, and wrenched open the door to the dining room, heaved through the barricade, grazed a semicircle in the carpet. The child slipped out quietly and stood at his back. I think it was she that closed the door behind him.
For several seconds, I heard the insistent clicking of the light switch as the rent man tried to make it work in the gloom. The child wandered back to my side as he uttered an irritable tsk, and seemed to be saying something, although whether I was supposed to hear it or not, I could not say. Then, we heard a short nasal sound, like a very loud sneeze or a shout that was cut off too quickly. I took the child by the hand and led her to the red chair by the fire.
As we gazed at the flames, there was a sort of heavy crumple, like a roll of carpet falling over, and a snipping, snipping, snipping that went on for hours. We heard it as we plugged the hole in the wall. We heard it as we feasted on tinned pineapple and corned beef. We heard it as we stoked the fire and fed its flames with cardigans. We heard it as we leaned together in the warm until we fell slowly asleep. We heard it in our dreams and in the horrified groans of the house.
69
Mice
IN THE VERY dead of night there is no sound but fire and the snipping, the scissor noises of the cutlery as it feeds. Beneath the bay window in the parlour, in a crack behind the skirting board, there is a little nest moused out of dishcloths, all loops and tangles and knots. Amongst its fusty warmth is a brownish mouse like a left-out apple core, and her child, the only crawling thing amongst her six stillborn brothers.
This pup is a female, seventh from a litter of seven, and her tiny heart is wise as an owl’s. Every one of her littermates was dead, grew alongside her in the womb with their pulses flickering but their heads unformed and brainless. She was made to be born alone; before she ever filled her lungs with air, she knew of loss. In the dark night of the uterus, the albino understood the ecstasy, the tragedy of mousehood; she knew herself to be a miracle.
They curl together in their nest like Madonna and Child, gazing into the secret of each other’s eyes. The prophet’s eyes are red as the glass on the sunburst window, red as dusk; the brownish mouse, her mother, is mesmerised and could watch her infant for the rest of her life.
Written in this mouse-child’s eyes is the crumb of hope, the uncertainty of futures. The albino is more poetess than prophet after all, for she is not afraid; she sees the universe as it might be and does not shudder. She does not squeal of doom, not when her face encompasses the universe. The mouse that is brown like an apple core can see her own birth, the flick and twitch of her own small life, the hundred deaths that she might suffer.
Perhaps they shall burn, shall end their days in fire, die as the first poor prophet did when he saw the future. The thought of murder sickens the mouse mother’s soul, for that guilt is a mutation, coiled inside her DNA. There again, perhaps they will be spared, for who can second-guess the will of Mother Owl? In death and hope there is glory, the mouse mother can see it now, and every act of chance is divine beauty.
The Knife Drawer Page 27
