by Angela Huth
‘What you must never underrate,’ Ratty was saying, ‘is the intelligence of the rat. In my opinion, there are many more intelligent rats than there are human beings. But that’s only my opinion, you understand.’ His small joke was rewarded by another smile from the holy one. The floozie was fiddling with her hair ribbon. The other one, hands in her pockets as if she was cold, looked interested. ‘So what you have to do is outwit them. It’s a slow process. It could be said it’s not a fast process. But it’s interesting and it’s a challenge. That’s what it is. It’s an interesting challenge. The rat has skills we don’t have. For instance, he can camouflage himself by hiding behind his own shadow. The glint in his eye is the only thing that betrays him. You have to look for that glint, that tiny speck of light. You have to look for clues: tail trails running over heaps of grain, empty husks on the ground, tunnels through ricks or piles of loose hay or straw – that sort of thing.’
In her right pocket Stella’s hand lay flat against the new, unopened letter from Philip. There was a picture in her mind that had been building in detail for the last few days: a grand Edwardian hotel by the harbour in Plymouth, crimson carpets of soft deep pile, chandeliers. The bedroom would be so large they could dance. They could order up a gramophone, put on some Glenn Miller, draw the curtains, turn out most of the lights. They would recapture the way they had danced at the party. But there would be no siren to interrupt them, this time. God willing, they could dance until they fell exhausted on to the huge bed, carry on where they left off … to the end. In the morning there would be the cry of gulls outside their window. No reason to get up until they felt like a soak in the deep marble bath, tons of hot water – breaking all rules of economy just for once – and back to bed, smelling of pre-war lavender soap from the small collection Stella had brought to Hallows Farm and husbanded so carefully … Ratty caught her eye. She struggled to put aside her thoughts of Plymouth.
‘First day, we lay the bait. We lay bits of bait all over the place – here in the barn, the sheds, the yard. But don’t expect a rush of rats. They’ll take their time. They’ll have their suspicions. They won’t go near it the first day. Second day, much the same. Note where it is, they will, but leave it. Third day, we lay fresh bait. Temptation becomes stronger than caution, now. The word goes round. There’s definite interest. But still some instinct holds them back. As I said, a rat hunter must be patient.’
Ratty stopped to shift his weight on to the leg that had been shaking. It now felt surprisingly firm. He tapped his stick on the ground a few times, no longer feeling the need to lean on it for support. In explaining the nature of a rat-hunt he had almost forgotten the girls were listening. When he saw their eyes intent upon him, the warmth of encouragement flowed through him, He would have been quite happy to carry on a long time, now he’d got going – he had a hundred theories about the ways of the rat. But it would be foolish to presume upon the depth of their interest. He must come to an end in a moment or so.
He would have made an excellent Professor of Ratting, thought Ag, entranced by his lecture as she had been by the Professor at Cambridge. She alone of the girls admired his timing, the rhythms of his West Country voice – above all, his ability to convey enthusiasm for the subject he had studied most of his life. So few are blessed with that gift. She wondered if she had it herself. Could she inspire others with her own love of literature? Could she ever convey it to Joe? There he was, crossing the yard again … Or is a love of poetry as impossible to describe as a love of music? One day, she would like to try. It would take courage. It would take Ratty’s kind of courage. Here he was, by nature a taciturn man, talking to three almost strange girls about a subject in which he was an expert, a subject he loved. His own enthusiasm was contagious. Stella hadn’t moved, Prue had stopped fiddling with her hair. Ag herself would have liked him to go on and on.
But she could see he was bracing himself for the end. He straightened his bent shoulders, wiped his moustache with a huge handkerchief. On his fine, battered old face, pebbled with small shadows beneath jutting cheekbones and deep-set eyes, there was a look of confidence, enjoyment. He may never have fought a war, been in command. But something of a natural soldier in him seemed to be taking over. Rallying his troops for the fight, or hunt, came to him with almost Churchillian inspiration.
‘On the fifth day,’ he said, the whole length of his handkerchief having been stuffed back into his pocket, ‘we put down fresh bait again. But this time it’s poisoned fresh bait.’ He paused, while the seriousness of the fact resounded. ‘By this time, the little devils are impatient. Out they come, eager.’ He broke off again, glanced up at a pigeon side-stepping along a rafter, cooing in time to its own movements. ‘And here it wouldn’t be honest, girls, if I didn’t tell you the next part is not very agreeable. The poor buggers come snucking out of tunnels half dead, gasping for air. The effects are horrible, but no one can afford a farm overrun by rats. They have to be finished off …’ He noticed a jerk of the holy one’s head. She’d gone very pale. ‘But don’t worry. We won’t ask you to take care of that. That’s a man’s job. Joe and Mr Lawrence and me will deal with that side of things. Now, no more talking. Sorry if I’ve kept you too long. I’m not much used to this sort of thing, explaining. Would one of you care to help Mr Lawrence lay the bait? The others can collect the orchestration, I call it, from the kitchen. A good percussion is what we want – banging saucepan lids together, spoons in pans, anything to frighten the buggers out of their hiding places. I wish you good luck.’
When the girls had gone, Ratty lowered himself on to the place vacated by Ag. The hay was warm through his breeches. He clasped his stick with both hands, leaned his chin on his knuckles. He was exhausted, drained, astounded, elated. He had done it. It was over. It seemed to have gone down with the girls better than he could ever have expected. They hadn’t laughed or sneered or shown lack of interest. It was extraordinary … Edith would never believe it, not that there was any point in telling her. Matter of fact, he could scarcely believe it himself.
‘You all right, Ratty?’ Joe was beside him, smiling.
‘Never strung together so many words in my life. I’m all right, just need a few moments to recover.’
‘Ag said you were terrific.’
‘Did she, now?’
‘Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?’
‘That I don’t. Soon as my knees have brightened up I’ll be out to show them some of the clues. There’s a good tail mark in the grain in the stable.’
When Joe had gone, Ratty felt tears in his eyes. He reached for his handkerchief again. What was such snivelling all about, he wondered. Perhaps something to do with a private victory. But no matter. It was time he returned to his duties – marshal the troops, alert the rats, get on with the day.
Out of sight of the others, Ag banged her saucepan lids with little enthusiasm. Despite her enjoyment of Ratty’s talk, the last thing she wanted to do was to encounter a rat, especially on her own. To keep out of the way – Stella and Prue were enjoying themselves making a terrible din in the milking shed and yard –Ag went to an old stable, now used as a grain store. She opened the door, let herself in. If anyone found her taking a rest from clashing these cymbals, she would say she was looking for clues. Ratty had said nothing about having to make a noise while you were looking for clues.
She stood quite still, eyes travelling up and down the piles of grain. On one of them, she saw, there was a curved indentation that ran from the floor halfway up, then stopped in an untidy swirl of grain, as if the rat had changed its mind about going to the top, and jumped down. Was that what Ratty had meant by the trail of a tail? Had she found the first clue?
Heart beating fast, she backed her way quickly to the stable door, put a hand on its lower half for support. Then, on the ground between two piles of grain, she saw it – the glint of an eye Ratty had described. A moment later another speck of light joined the first one: Ag could now clearly see two red eyes, pink-ri
mmed. The ears lay flat back on the head, making the animal’s face seem longer and meaner. Whiskers twitched. The whole body – large and oddly flabby – was poised to flee, or to attack. Ag held her breath, too scared to move. The rat, lifting its head, took a few steps to one side. In the silence Ag could hear the high-pitched scraping of its claws on the floor. With horror she watched the obscene way in which the small toes parted, revealing the slithers of pink flesh lining between them, as the claws gripped. The terror of her childhood nights returned. She screamed. Black moments later, she opened her eyes. The rat had gone. Ag edged herself from the door to the limewashed wall so that she could lean her whole body against it: she feared she might faint. Then she heard the thud of hurrying boots, and turned to see Joe leaning over the door.
‘You must have seen a rat!’ He was in cheerful mood.
‘I did! I did!’
‘First one?’
Ag nodded. Her head was beginning to clear. She could see Joe was smiling.
‘Everyone screams when they see their first rat,’ he said, and came in.
Ag turned to face him. ‘So silly of me,’ she said, unable to control the quaver in her voice.
‘Ratty should’ve told you not to come in here. It’s one of their favourite places.’
‘He couldn’t have known I didn’t want to see one.’
‘Are you all right? You look a bit shaken.’
‘I’m … fine. It’s just that I’ve always had this silly sort of thing, this phobia, about scurrying things. Rats, mice – hamsters, even.’
Joe nodded.
‘When I was a child they used to make a terrible noise in the attic above my room at night. Even now, when I go home, I don’t like it. Funny how long it takes to overcome such silly fears. I thought it might have gone for my throat.’
‘That’s an old belief, I know. Can’t say I’ve heard of a single case where it’s actually happened. Tell you what, I’ve just said to Dad I need some help unloading the mangolds for the cows if he wants me to see to the tractor before this afternoon. He said I could ask one of you. Not much of an offer, but perhaps better than ratting. How about it?’
Their eyes met: his anxious, hers relieved.
‘Do you think anyone else heard me scream?’ Ag asked.
‘No one, I’m sure.’
Joe took the saucepan lids from her and put them under his arm. His gentle concern was not lost upon her.
On the Saturday afternoon of the dance, Mrs Lawrence sat at the kitchen table polishing the silver handle of the salt and pepper holder. It did not need a polish: she had rubbed it up not long ago. But for once, free time on her hands, she was at a loss what to do. From upstairs came the squeals and giggles of the girls preparing themselves. The sound of their high spirits did nothing to ease her own feelings of melancholy.
She had agreed to their taking their half-day today, to give themselves time for all the beautifying Prue had been planning for the last few days. At first, Ag had said she had no wish to go to the dance. For a moment, Mrs Lawrence had envisaged a quiet evening in conversation with this calm, agreeable girl. But Prue had been persuasive. Ag gave in, albeit reluctantly. She even agreed to let Prue do something to her hair. Stella, too, had shown no particular enthusiasm to go, but had agreed to for Prue’s sake. But then Stella was so in love with her absent sailor that she never minded what she did. The intensity of her love protected her completely from the ups and downs of reality, that was clear. Mrs Lawrence could remember such feelings herself.
Polishing finished, she stood up, restless. No task appealed to her. What she would like was to see the girls, join in a little of their fun. She might be needed, she thought: a placket to be done up, a necklace fastened. Surely they wouldn’t mind her asking if they wanted any help …
Climbing the stairs, she heard music coming from Joe’s room. The song, on his old gramophone, was scratchy, shaky. But it did something to her limbs, her head.
Gee, it’s great
After sitting up late
To be walking my baby back home …
Mrs Lawrence caught herself half smiling. Joe’s door was ajar. She could see him grimacing into the small mirror on the wall, struggling with a tie.
‘You look smart, son,’ she said.
‘Mustn’t let them down,’ he said.
He had not complained at all about his job as chauffeur. Mrs Lawrence privately thought he was rather looking forward to the evening. Well, he didn’t get out much, deserved the occasional break. And this dance caused no worries. Joe may have been quite the ladies’ man in his time, but with three girls to chaperone him there was no danger. Prue, the wicked little flirt, had done nothing but talk about some RAF lad she had seen in the tea-shop – her sights were clearly not on Joe tonight. It was only a pity Janet wasn’t here.
She stood in the shadow of the girls’ doorway, unnoticed for a while. The attic room was hilariously untidy, unrecognizable from the neat and spotless place it had become after days of scrubbing and painting before the girls had arrived. Now, it was like a communal dressing-room in a theatre, ravaged by a series of quick changes. Clothes were flung everywhere – signs of several dresses being tried on and rejected, Mrs Lawrence guessed. Coloured shoes and shiny stockings were strewn over the floor. Lipsticks clustered on the top of the chest of drawers, and every surface was sprinkled with a fine dust shaken from a box of Pond’s powder decorated with its comforting design of floating puffs. The war seemed to have made no difference to the extravagance of youth, thought Mrs Lawrence. She remembered the meagreness of her own wardrobe even when she was young.
Ag sat on a chair under the central light, feet together, hands folded primly on her lap. Prue twittered round her, dabbing and pulling at Ag’s transformed hair – a mass of scatty curls and waves that twinkled in the light from the low-watt bulb.
‘We’re getting somewhere at last,’ assured Prue, tottering on her high-heeled black suede sandals, their ankle straps fastened with ruby buckles. ‘You won’t know yourself. No, you can’t look till I’ve finished.’ Ag gave a trusting smile. She touched a thin gold chain round her neck, from which hung a small gold heart. ‘That doesn’t do much for you,’ said Prue. ‘Haven’t you anything sparklier?’
‘No,’ said Ag. ‘I like this. It was my mother’s.’
‘Very well.’ Prue gave the small sigh of one who knows best but is forced to agree to less sure taste for tactical reasons. ‘Tell you what, then: I’ll lend you my chiffon leopard scarf – cheer your shoulders up a bit.’ She tweaked the dark green stuff of Ag’s quiet dress.
‘Thanks,’ said Ag. Prue passed her a hand mirror. Ag studied herself in silence before handing it back. ‘Good heavens, what have you done to me?’
‘One more thing,’ said Prue, ‘and the transformation’ll be complete.’ She moved to the chest of drawers, picked up an open lipstick. ‘Fire and Ice,’ she threatened, holding it dagger-like towards Ag’s mouth.
‘No.’
‘Cherries in the Snow, then?’
‘No! Prue, please. I’m not going to wear lipstick. I never do.’
‘Spoilsport! It’s yourself you’ll be letting down. No hope of wowing the RAF without a bit of lipstick.’ Prue pouted. Her own mouth was a squealing pink, designed to seduce an entire squadron, thought Mrs Lawrence, smiling. ‘How about a touch of Vaseline, then?’
‘Just for you,’ agreed Ag.
Prue giggled, rummaged through a tangle of scarves in an open drawer. Ag stood, saw Mrs Lawrence at the door. She was immediately embarrassed.
‘Mrs Lawrence! Goodness knows what I look like …’
Mrs Lawrence came further into the room. Prue leapt at her.
‘What d’you think of my handiwork, Mrs Lawrence? God, do I need a fag. Shine on, shine on harvest moon,’ she shrilled a tuneless snatch of song. ‘There.’ She knotted a wisp of chiffon round Ag’s neck, searched her dressing-gown pocket for a packet of cigarettes. ‘And what about Stella, here?’
Stella, sitting on the edge of her bed, concentrated on putting on her own lipstick. A red spotted skirt was drawn up over a pair of sharp little knees, pressed together as if for comfort. Her legs splayed out like two sides of a triangle: the feet, in pink slippers, turned in, ankles bent. There was something childlike in the pose, thought Mrs Lawrence, as if Stella had no interest in trying for sophistication when Philip was away at sea. Stella looked up, blotted her lips, smiled.
‘You all look very nice,’ said Mrs Lawrence. In this scene of frivolity she felt herself a symbol of dourness, awkward. She did not know where to put her hands, wished she had taken off her apron. ‘I wondered if there was anything I could do to help …’
‘Please, Mrs Lawrence.’
Prue flung off her dressing-gown, which sank into a foam of blue on the floor behind her. With a shimmy of her wiry little body, she defied them all not to observe the breasts that swelled above the peach petticoat, the lean hips to which the bias cut of the satin skirt clung. She stepped out of the foam, ankles jigging in their straps, waved a thin arm above her head.
‘Who would believe this very arm has spread ten acres of muck, milked five hundred cows, fought a pig, frightened a rat? Land girl, you’re barmy,’ she sang.
The others laughed. Encouraged, Prue stubbed out her half-smoked Woodbine, and stepped into her dress with a single fluid movement whose natural grace Mrs Lawrence could not but admire.
‘Please, Mrs Lawrence.’ She presented her back. Faced with a plummet line of small gold buttons, Mrs Lawrence raised her hands, wondering at the sudden clumsiness of her fingers.
‘All this just for the RAF,’ said Stella. She looked admiringly at Prue. ‘Now, if it had been the Navy …’
‘I’m not fussy,’ said Prue, bending about, impatient.
