by Pat O'Shea
‘Just say that all who are truly great are touched with madness—he’ll like that,’ he whispered to Pidge in a very confidential and friendly way.
‘Well, Corporal?’
‘All clear, Mon General!’
‘We have heard that all who are truly great are touched with madness,’ Pidge said truthfully and not wishing to hurt his feelings.
The little Napoleon halted and considered this.
‘So be it,’ he said dramatically. ‘If I have to be loony to be great—adieu, sanity; ze cost is but a trifle.’
‘You should have had that medicine I was going to give you; it would have done you the world of good,’ Brigit said reprovingly.
‘Ugh!’ he shuddered with disgust. ‘You were going to give Moi ze cough mixture. Don’t you know they named a brandy after Moi? Better than inspiring a smelly old boot, like Wellington! No wonder ze redcoats tremble when my name is mentioned.’
‘When he says redcoats, he means the red ants, you know,’ the earwig Corporal whispered to Pidge.
‘You’re an ungrateful brat. I was only trying to make you better,’ Brigit said crossly to the little Napoleon.
‘From you—always ze insult. How dare you say I have no gratitude!’ he shouted back indignantly.
From the earwigs who were standing to attention through-out all this, came many loud murmurs, which were meant for him to hear.
‘Tut-tut!’
‘They don’t know our General!’
‘He’s a grand lad.’
‘Gratitude on legs!’
With a dignified bow, he acknowledged these tributes.
‘You can have anything you like,’ he said to Brigit. ‘Would you like to be King of Naples? Say the word! Chicken Marengo? It can be ready in moments. Anything you wish.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and anyway I can’t stand here all day arguing with you. There are these mad dogs following us and I’ve been talking to you long enough.’
‘Dogs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Friends of yours?’
‘They are not!’
‘Mad you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah, Les Rabides. We will fight them for you.’
‘Hear, hear!’ the rest of the earwigs cheered.
‘Oh good,’ Brigit said, delighted. Pidge grinned.
‘Sound ze bugles; beat ze drums. Gather Ma Grande Armée!’
The assembled earwigs were extraordinarily perky at this. Drums were beaten and several bugle notes were heard. Obeying these calls, thousands of earwigs appeared from the cracks and crannies in the tree-trunk. Some wore sashes of green which were made simply from blades of grass, and these were the officers for they shouted out orders. The multitude of earwigs scuttled and scrambled in mad, swarming masses. The orders were clear and insistent, and in obeying them, the crowds were soon standing rank upon rank as a disciplined throng.
There was a command of: ‘Drummer-boy!’ and a small earwig began a low, muffled beat on a little drum made from an acorn cup that had a rose petal stretched tightly across it. Compared with the little drummer-boy who was beating it so well, it looked enormous. The sound seemed to excite and spellbind the army. The earwigs rippled and swayed very slightly, obeying the intoxicating rhythm and seemed ready for anything.
A roll-call was made beginning with: ‘First Brigade Old Guard,’ and when that was done with, they awaited their leader’s words.
‘Mes Braves …..’ he began.
‘Thrimm-thrimm,’ went the drum.
The earwigs cheered with reckless exultation.
‘It is time for Battle. Les Rabides are almost upon us and zere is much work before us. Each Wig will do his duty without question, and we have ze advantage of surprise. Our tactics are simple—Ambush And Cling. Zere will be lupin bonbons for zose who acquit zemselves well. Between life and death—zere is but a moment so—go for ze noses. Courage, Mes Braves and Bon Chance!’
Yet another loud cheer burst from the lines; there seemed to be a deep longing to meet the enemy. A thrilling bugle-call was made through a little empty seed husk.
‘What an army I have,’ the Napoleon earwig said tearfully before crying out:
‘Pour l‘Empereur et la Gloire!’
This cry was returned as:
‘Poor Lumperer Hay Bag War!’ because they didn’t understand very much of what he was saying and didn’t really care, as long as there was going to be a fight.
Orders were shouted by the officers:
‘Present… … . .CLAWS!’
Thousands of pincers jutted up into the air.
‘Slope… … . .CLAWS!’
‘FORWARD… … . .MARCH!’
In trance to the drums, for many more began their tapping, rank after rank followed their leader, who rode astride an extremely large and powerful earwig. They streamed from the tree-trunk onto the ground. It could now be seen, that the drums were strapped to the sides of other suitably large earwigs, and little drummer-boys rode these proudly, as they kept up the hypnotic tapping on the drums that were positioned in front of them.
Many loud cheers, deafening for earwigs, rent the air; and as regiment after regiment passed by, they saluted Brigit and Pidge with an: ‘Eyes Right!’ and a dipping of pincers.
One brigade sang: ‘Pinch The Good Pinch,’ as they marched past and another lot were singing: ‘Oh, We Won’t Go Home Until Morning,’ in a careless, rollicking way. Some, who appeared to be more serious, sang: ‘We Will Pinch With Perfect Pincers,’ very soberly, as if it were some kind of sacred anthem; and individuals cried out from time to time—things like: ‘Go for ze noses, lads!’ and: ‘Poor Lumperer Hay Bag War!’ and: ‘Mind you don’t get sniffed up, Johnny,’ answered by: ‘You mind yourself, Brian, Cocky!’
Pidge and Brigit stood watching until the last line of troops had gone.
‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it—what an actor!’ a voice said close to Pidge’s ear.
It was the earwig Corporal, standing at his full height on Pidge’s shoulder.
‘Oh, I’d forgotten about you,’ Pidge said.
‘Didn’t you want to go with the others?’ asked Brigit.
‘No. I’m finished with that game. Did you see the way they all came under his power; they’re dafter than he is. Talk about mesmerized! Up here, I was on a Higher Plane and it all went wide of the mark with me. Could you give me a lift? I’m going home to me Ma.’
‘Yes. Just mind you hold on tight,’ Pidge warned him.
They resumed their journey, walking, because Brigit said that her foot was tender as that stupid stone had made a sore place in it.
‘Yes,’ continued the Corporal happily, ‘this time, I stood aloof.’
‘You stood on a loof,’ Brigit corrected him with a sideways smirk at Pidge who roared with laughter.
‘What does a loof mean?’ she asked, frowning.
Pidge explained, still laughing.
‘Words!’ she said with disgust. ‘I’ll never learn them all.’
The Corporal told them that his name was Myles and said that they could call him Cluas which was the professional name of the clan. He explained that they only used their first names when there was a lot of them together to save confusion and headaches. He said that they were all very proud of their Clan name as it meant: ‘Ear’: and it couldn’t be known how many gifts they had when it came to ears.
Then he said politely:
‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, but who are these Lay Rabbits you are running from, and why on earth are you running from rabbits of any kind?’
So, as they went along, Pidge told him the whole story and when he had finished Cluas said with regret:
‘I’m sorry now that I didn’t go with the others. If only I’d known! I wish I had helped you.’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Pidge said. ‘There are plenty of them without you.’
They stopped for a moment while Brigit grabbed a handful of
soft moss and pushed it into her sandal under her foot. Just as she finished, there was a series of distant yelps and howls.
‘Can you run now? We’ve got a good chance to get ahead?’ Pidge asked.
Brigit said she could, and warning Cluas to keep a good grip, Pidge took her hand and they ran.
Presently they smelled turf-smoke and saw ahead of them a cottage partly hidden by trees, with a nice sweep of lawn at the front where an apple tree grew. Behind a low hedge, there was a garden strung with washing-lines where a vast amount of washing, blew and billowed like the rigging on a galleon.
‘We must walk now. If we were seen running like this, it might look suspicious; and we don’t want to have to answer a lot of questions,’ Pidge said.
‘Where has Cluas gone?’
‘Isn’t he there on my shoulder?’
‘No.’
‘He must have fallen off. I told him to hold on.’
‘Maybe we were passing his Ma and he jumped; just like anyone would.’
They looked on the ground for him but couldn’t find him anywhere.
Chapter 14
NEARING the cottage, they were surprised to hear loud howls coming from within.
Suddenly, the half-door flew open and a small man, in his shirt-tails only, ran out; his little thin lark’s legs twinkling through the grass almost too fast to be seen.
He was pursued by a big, fat woman—waving her enormous arms threateningly and shouting after him:
‘Oh, the baby-bawler! Oh, the little dhribbler!’
The little man reached the apple tree, was up it in a flash and perched on a branch, looking down at her.
‘Come down, Cornelius!’ she thundered.
‘No, Hannah. Not at the moment,’ the little man said meekly.
‘Come down, ye twelve-sided article!’ she roared.
‘You’ll only bate me agin, Hannah,’ the little man explained.
‘He spat in me dinner, the little divileen,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll break him in pieces when he comes in for his tea.’
‘Ah no, Hannah,’ the little man wheedled.
‘Yes!’ said the fat woman. ‘A puck in the pluck is what you’re asking for, and a puck in the pluck is what you’ll get.’
Having said this, Hannah marched back inside the cottage and slammed the half-door.
‘That wan would clane ye beyond soap and water,’ the little man said to the children. ‘She’s forever scrubbin’ the skin offa me and whippin’ the duds offa me back; and it’s washboards, tubs, bluebags and soapsuds from cockshout ‘till sunset; and her hands looking like old, grey crepe and her arms looking like two red bolsters and the look on her face’d stop a clock! That’s what she done just now. Whipped the britches offa me, and I just going to sit down to me bacon and cabbage.’
‘Did you really spit in her dinner?’ asked Pidge.
‘I did, bedad!’ the little man replied emphatically. ‘I was dhriven to it. In a fair fight, I’m nowhere with her. Ye saw the size of her and the immensity of arms, she has? That’s what I done, all right—I spat in her dinner. I was for leggin’ it then out the door, only she caught me by the tails of me shirt and it was fisticuffs and buffetings to beat the band.’
‘Do you often spit in her dinner?’ Brigit asked admiringly.
‘Nearly every washday,’ the little man replied. He looked thoughtfully at the half-door for a moment and then called out, sweetly:
‘Can I come in for me dinner now, Hannah dear?’
‘Ye can’t! I’m ating it!’ Hannah bawled from inside.
‘There’s me bacon and cabbage gone west—lost it again,’ the little man said with no trace of anger. ‘It’s a pity you came on a washday or I’d have asked you inside. She’s nice enough when she isn’t washing, you know. She’s nearly nice enough, anyway.’
‘Which day is washday?’ Brigit asked.
‘That is something that is never known until it starts. Some kind of fervour grabs hold of her for soap-flakes and down comes the tub.’
‘Well, we’ll have to be moving on,’ Pidge said awkwardly.
‘Where are you off to?’ the little man asked.
‘On a journey of wonder and fear,’ Brigit boasted.
‘We’re just on a journey, that’s all,’ Pidge said quickly and frowned at her with meaning.
‘If I had me britches, I might go a bit of the road with you. I’d like a little dander along the road on a nice day, so I would. Better than swallowing bubbles and steam with every breath I take, anyway.’
‘Can ye get your britches?’ asked Brigit. ‘She’ll break you in pieces if you go in, won’t she?’
‘She will. She’s a woman of her word. But, maybe I can get them without venturing that far into danger.’
He slid down from the tree, picked up a clod of earth and threw it in at the half-door.
‘Hannah! I’m coming in there to get me rights!’ he yelled.
‘If ye come in here, ye’ll get yer rights! You’ll be put in a bottle and corked! If ye come in here—ye’ll have as much chance as a stray pig in a prowling of half-starved wolves. The divil nor Doctor Faustus couldn’t save ye—if ye come in here!’ the fat woman answered in a savage roar.
‘You cross-grained hump of misfortune! I hope me bacon and cabbage chokes ye, so I do!’ the little man shouted back and he reached down and picked up half-a-dozen windfalls and let fly with them, straight into the kitchen where they vanished into the darkness inside.
Hannah retaliated and a flat-iron came sailing out to land with a thud a good ten yards to the rear of the place where they were standing.
‘She’s strong, isn’t she?’ the little man whispered proudly to the children: ‘I’m whispering so that she won’t hear me praising her in any way.’
He picked up a great, big gnarl of dried cow-dung.
‘Missed me, ye nasty, hummocky lump of Glum! Do you know what you are? You’re the greatest Holy Show on earth! You used to have a complexion like milk and roses but now it’s more like rhubarb and custard. You used to have normal legs under you and now you’ve got two portions of telegraph poles inhabiting your stockings! You’re an oul’ monster done up in pink corsets and here’s another present for you an’ I hope you enjoy it!’
With that, the dried dung followed the apples—straight in over the half-door.
There wasn’t a sound from Hannah.
‘It’s like getting feathers off a frog, isn’t it?’ the little man said to the children humorously.
After a few moments there came a roaring like that of a bull having his teeth out against his will, from inside the cottage.
‘I think she was in shock there for a minute but she’s got her wind back now,’ the little man said gleefully.
‘OH, ME LOVELY DINNER! OH, ME LITTLE FLOURY POPS! RUINED AND BE-DUNGED AND SPOILED BEYOND ATING BY THAT LITTLE CROOKED-LEGGED EEJIT, OUTSIDE!’
The little man went into a spasm of giggling.
‘It’s dropped anchor in her potatoes,’ he managed to gasp out, being hardly able to breathe. Controlling himself with an effort as tears of merriment started out of his eyes, he called out to the best of his ability and breath:
‘That’ll teach you not to ate my dinner!’
‘OH, ME TWO LOVELY DINNERS! ONE BE-SPITTLED AND ONE BE-TURDLED! WHAT’S GOT INTO YOU TODAY, CORNY, YE SPARSE LITTLE MORSEL OF NOTHING MUCH?’
‘Mutiny—is what go into me today, Hannah—and that’s the top and bottom of it, so it is,’ he finished as though in some doubt.
‘Mutiny, is it? The top and bottom of it, is it? That’s what you think, my lad!’
From inside the cottage, there was a ferocious commotion of bustling about, punctuated by Hannah bellowing words like: ‘DUNG,’ and: ‘FLOURY POPS,’ and: ‘DESTROYED’.
A succession of objects were flung out of the cottage in rapid flight and with an amazing frequency, all aimed to flatten Corny to the back of beyond. The aim was as direct as the intention; but Corny took to leapin
g and dodging and dancing about, so that he was always two jumps sideways or upwards, ahead of Hannah’s ill-wishes. Fire-irons, pots of geraniums, jars of jam, a pot of cold porridge, three heavy hob-nailed boots, a biscuit tin, a sack of potatoes, a sack of flour, two duck eggs, a wild-eyed screeching cat that landed on its four feet and ran away, and a linen bag full of washing, came flying out the door.
On seeing the washing, Corny gave a cry of exultation and snatched it up. He tipped the contents out on the ground and rummaged through the pile of clothes.
‘Me Sunday britches and dry as a bone! he cried victoriously.
With the slickness of a trout darting for concealment, he vanished behind the tree and pulled them on, bobbing out again almost immediately, now fully dressed.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘before she roars at me to mangle a blanket, for she has a mouth like a bucket and a voice that could be summonsed for assault and battery.’
‘We heard her shouting,’ Brigit reminded him.
‘You didn’t. That was only a hint.’
He led them to the back of the cottage where a broad lane shuttled away from them in a flat twisting ribbon. It went from side to side as though lazily curious about everything of interest in its surroundings.
‘She’s a bit strange, that Hannah,’ Brigit remarked.
‘She is,’ he answered genially. At once he threw a quick look back over his shoulder, to make sure that he was safe: ‘She’s a quare number, all right.’
‘What is she really like?’
Pidge gave her a nudge to behave herself but she shrugged away from him. She felt a curious sort of admiration for this unusual and powerful woman.
‘Didn’t you see her after me?’
‘Only for a few seconds. You can’t see much in a few seconds. She looked a bit big.’
‘A bit big, you say? She is big enough to stagger a yak. She is so big, that I stole her bedsocks the other day while she was out admiring a daisy; and I trawled a lake with one of them and landed eleven pike, twenty-eight trout and half a water-logged tree. I threw that back. With the other one, I covered a rick of straw against the wind whipping it away and I had enough left over to make a new tarred skin for a boat and blankets for four pairs of stepping mares. She is the type of lady that is Anger and Strength in men’s boots; and every washday, she has a burly mind. She is an extremely gorgeous dancer. She dances so fast—that she nearly puts knots in her legs. The steps she uses in her footwork are sure ankle-breakers for anyone at all but herself. It would give you cramps in your stomach to watch her doing her Advanced Slip Jig and everything about her is written on her face, as if it was a headstone.’
