The Schoolmouse

by Dick King-Smith

  ‘Then we must make plans,’ said Flora. ‘People will be coming into the school before long, and they mustn’t see you.’

  Then she had a thought. Recently she had come upon a natural history book open at a page about camouflage. She did not quite know how to pronounce the word, but she could see what it meant from the pictures. One was of a tiger, its striped coat blending into the jungle background, and one of a drab-coloured bird, almost invisible on its nest among a tangle of grasses.

  ‘If you were to get your coat really dirty,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t be nearly as noticeable.’

  ‘No,’ said Buck. ‘No, Flora, I’m sorry, but I draw the line at that. I have always prided myself on being well turned out. The slightest speck of dirt on my coat upsets me no end. I can’t bear a scruffy mouse.’

  You wouldn’t think much of Father then, thought Flora, as she watched Buck fall once more to grooming himself.

  ‘You’ll have to be hidden then,’ she said, ‘for the whole of the school day. We must find somewhere safe, and quickly too. Let me think.’

  He must go underground, she thought, under the floorboards somewhere, as Mother and Father did in the staffroom. There, perhaps? No, it was too far away, she must have him close. Surely there must be somewhere in this very classroom.

  Flora began to run about, searching, and almost at once luck was with her. In one corner of the Lower Junior classroom stood a sink, where the children washed up their brushes and pots after painting lessons. A hole had been cut in the floor to take the drainpipe that ran down from this sink, and around the edge of this hole there was ample room for a mouse to get down.

  Flora got down, and found that there was a comfortable space beneath, where Buck might be undisturbed save for the occasional gurgle of running water.

  ‘Quick!’ she called. ‘Down here, Buck.’

  ‘Now,’ she said when he had found her, ‘you’ll just have to stay here all day and not make a sound. Have a good sleep, I should. I’ll come and fetch you at the end of school.’

  ‘But, Flora,’ said Buck. ‘Aren’t you going to stay here with me?’

  ‘No,’ said Flora. ‘You must remember, Buck, that I am a schoolmouse. I have an awful lot to learn.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Buck.

  There was a distant noise as the front door of the school was unlocked.

  ‘I can’t explain now,’ said Flora hurriedly. ‘I’ve got to go or I shall miss my lessons.’

  Buck’s eyes glowed red in the darkness under the floorboards.

  ‘I shall miss you,’ he said softly.

  NINE

  In Which Robin Obeys Orders

  Meanwhile back at the stack, the schoolmouse family had settled in. There was plenty of food, for in the straw were a great many grains of barley that the combine harvester had missed, and there was warmth and shelter among the bales. There was no shortage of comfort, but there was also no shortage of enemies.

  Ragged Robin’s wound had healed pretty well, but each night the cry of the tawny owl reminded him of his narrow escape. Other visitors to the stack included foxes and an old tomcat living wild.

  ‘Just stay inside,’ said Hyacinth to the mousekins, ‘and you’ll be safe from cat, fox or owl. They cannot get in among the bales.’

  But someone else could.

  One night a week or so after the meeting of Flora and Buck, the straw stack was as usual a hive of activity. At the cold end of January, it was home to a wide variety of rodents, and in the dozens of runways between the bales lived rats, and voles, fieldmice, harvest-mice, and shrews, together with a good many ordinary housemice, and not forgetting the eleven schoolmice.

  The tawny owl, looking down from its perch in an oak tree, saw a little animal at the base of the stack, scampering along the ground straight-bodied as though it had no legs. In colour it was a reddish brown with a white underside, and it was no more than eight inches in length. For an instant it paused at an entrance hole between two bales, one forefoot lifted, its short tail erect. Then, even as the owl launched itself, the weasel disappeared into the stack.

  The owl circled and flew up again on to its perch and stood with its back against the trunk of the oak, listening. So sharp was its hearing that it clearly heard the sudden panic-stricken scurrying and scuttling within, and then a single terrified squeak that died abruptly away.

  Hyacinth heard it too from the nesting-place she had chosen deep inside the stack. Hastily she called the mousekins to her and took a roll-call. All answered to their names but one. Laburnum was absent.

  Just then Ragged Robin appeared, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

  ‘Oh, Hyce!’ he cried. ‘It nearly got me!’

  ‘What nearly got you?’ said Hyacinth.

  ‘Oh, it was horrible!’ said Robin. ‘I saw it go by and it looked awful and it smelt awful and it was making a horrid hissing noise and I came across an old rat and I said, “What is it?” and he said, “Weasel”, and his teeth were chattering and his hair was standing on end and he was shaking with fright even though he must have been five times the size of the thing and then it must have killed a mouse. I heard it squeak.’

  ‘Laburnum,’ said Hyacinth.

  ‘But, Mum,’ cried the eight remaining mousekins, ‘you said we’d be safe inside the stack, you said nothing could get in, that’s what you said.’

  Before Hyacinth could answer, they all heard the horrid hissing noise of which Robin had spoken, and in a blind panic the schoolmouse family fled in every direction.

  For the bloodthirsty weasel it was a red-letter night. It snaked its way through the straw labyrinth, killing for the sake of killing, and Hyacinth’s mousekins in particular were easy prey.

  By the end of the night it had put paid to three more of them.

  From then on, things went from bad to worse. Fear that the weasel might return led the survivors to risk a search for hiding-places outside the straw stack, and, as time went by, owl, cat and fox accounted for four more. Until by the end of March the only survivors of the family of schoolmice were Hyacinth, Ragged Robin and one remaining daughter, little Love-in-a-mist, who had stuck close to her mother throughout.

  ‘Nineteen children I have born,’ said Hyacinth, ‘and only this poor mite to show for it.’

  ‘You’re forgetting, Hyce,’ said Robin. ‘There’s Flora.’

  ‘Oh yes. That stubborn girl.’

  ‘I wonder how she’s getting on,’ said Robin.

  Hyacinth looked thoughtfully at her mate.

  ‘I think we should find out,’ she said.

  ‘Find out?’ said Robin. ‘How can we find out? She is in the school. We are in the stack.’

  ‘Not for much longer, I hope,’ said Hyacinth. ‘It’s a death-trap.’

  Ragged Robin looked smugly at his wife.

  ‘It was you that brought us here, Hyce,’ he said.

  Hyacinth looked angrily at her scruffy, dog-eared, tail-less husband.

  ‘That’s right, blame me for everything,’ she said.

  ‘Mum,’ said Love-in-a-mist. ‘Why did we leave school?’

  ‘It wasn’t safe there,’ said Hyacinth. ‘There was poison.’

  ‘While out here,’ said Robin tartly, ‘we’ve only got owls and cats and foxes and weasels to worry about.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ snapped Hyacinth. ‘We will go back. Providing Flora has survived. Go on, go and find out.’

  ‘Who, me?’ said Robin.

  ‘Well, you don’t think I meant Love-in-a-mist, do you?’

  ‘It’s quite a step,’ said Robin. ‘Right across the other side of that great field, a long way for an old chap like me, but no distance for her young legs. And she’s got a tail, what’s more.’

  ‘Love-in-a-mist,’ said Hyacinth. ‘Run away and play. I wish to speak seriously to your father.’

  So it was that some hours later a tail-less mouse was to be seen making his nervous way over the field, across the playground,
and towards the school buildings. Ragged Robin was heading for the Infant classroom where he thought to find Flora, when suddenly a voice behind him said, ‘Hey, you!’

  Robin turned to find himself facing a strange mouse, a mouse a good bit larger than himself, a mouse, what’s more, with pink eyes and a coat of gleaming white, who was marching purposefully towards him.

  ‘Hey, you!’ said the white mouse again.

  ‘Who, me?’ said Robin.

  ‘Yes, you, you shabby old bobtailed has-been. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to see Flora.’

  ‘Not on your life!’ cried the white mouse, and with a squeak of anger, he threw himself upon the unfortunate Robin.

  TEN

  In Which Robin Comes Off Worst

  In his younger days Ragged Robin had been a strong fighter, but those times were long past. Youth and the advantage of weight were on Buck’s side, as was the element of surprise in the attack, and Robin fared badly. He was specially handicapped by the lack of a tail, so important to a mouse’s balance, and he gave ground in the face of his attacker’s fury.

  ‘Want to see Flora, do you?’ growled Buck. ‘She’s my Flora, understand? Mine!’

  ‘But she’s my Flora!’ panted Robin, and then he let out a squeal of pain as the white mouse bit him through the foot.

  The noise of the scuffle brought Flora rushing to the scene, a scene that filled her with horror. Outclassed by his young strong opponent, Robin was indeed ragged. Battered and blood-flecked, he still fought on desperately on three legs, but the outcome of the battle was obvious.

  Flora thrust herself between the combatants.

  ‘Stop, Buck! Stop!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Buck. ‘I’m beating up this intruder, nasty scruffy old thing. What’s more, he’s gone and bled all over my clean coat. Said he wanted to see you. What’s he want with a young girl like you – he’s just a dirty old mouse.’

  ‘He’s not!’ said Flora. ‘He’s my father!’

  ‘Your father?’ said Buck in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, and you’ve hurt his poor foot. And you call yourself my boyfriend.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’ said Robin in amazement.

  ‘And oh, oh,’ Flora went on, ‘you’ve bitten his tail off!’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Buck. ‘Did I?’

  ‘No, Flora,’ said Robin. ‘He didn’t do that. But it’s a good job you turned up or he’d have made an end of me.’

  ‘Oh, Father!’ cried Flora. ‘Will you be all right? And where’s Mother? And where are the mousekins? And why are you here?’

  ‘I came to see you, Flora,’ said Robin. ‘Like I told what’s-his-name here.’

  ‘Buck,’ said Flora. ‘He’s called Buck. And he’s got something to say to you.’

  Buck looked up from cleaning the spots of blood off his coat.

  ‘I have?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Flora, and there was an echo of her mother in the tone of her voice and the set of her jaw. ‘You are going to say you are sorry.’

  ‘Shan’t,’ said Buck.

  ‘Very well,’ said Flora. ‘In that case, I shall never squeak to you again,’ and she marched off.

  ‘High-spirited girl,’ said Robin, licking his wounded foot. ‘Takes after her mother.’

  Buck looked curiously at this old wreck of a mouse. Flora’s dad, he thought, who’d have guessed, when she’s so neat and pretty. And angry, he said to himself. Maybe I’d better try to put things right, though I can’t see there’s any need to apologize. He should have said who he was in the first place. He cleared his throat.

  ‘You put up a pretty good scrap,’ he said. ‘For an old ’un, that is.’

  ‘I’ve won a few fights in my time,’ said Robin.

  There was a silence, while Buck cast about for something to say.

  ‘Foot hurt?’ he asked at last.

  ‘Yes,’ said Robin.

  ‘Ah,’ said Buck.

  Another silence ensued. It was light by now, but there was no need for concealment. It was the Easter holidays, and the school was empty.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ said Buck, at length, ‘how did you lose your tail?’

  ‘Owl,’ said Robin.

  ‘Oh,’ said Buck.

  He’s not very talkative, he thought. What can I say to please the old devil? Oh yes, I know.

  ‘Your daughter Flora,’ he said. ‘Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.’

  Robin stopped his licking and looked up into the pink eyes.

  ‘Spitting image of her mother,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Hyacinth is a great beauty.’

  ‘Hyacinth. That’s a nice name. By the way, I don’t know yours.’

  ‘Robin.’

  ‘Robin,’ said Buck. ‘That’s a nice name too.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Definitely. And Flora, of course, is a lovely name.’

  ‘Keen on her, are you?’

  ‘I certainly am, Robin,’ said Buck.

  ‘And she’s . . . um . . . fond of you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a lucky fellow.’

  You’re a handsome fellow, thought Robin, with those pink eyes and that snow-white coat. Not surprised she’s fallen for you.

  ‘I never could understand,’ he said, ‘why Hyacinth picked me. I wasn’t the best-looking of mice then, and I’m certainly not now.’

  Poor old chap, thought Buck, with his busted ear and no tail and now I’ve gone and lamed him. Not surprised Flora blew her top.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Robin.

  ‘I’m sorry I knocked you about, Robin.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Robin. ‘Oh, that’s all right. Decent of you to say so, er, Buck.’

  Flora had heard every word of this conversation. After she had flounced out, she hid and listened, and on hearing Buck’s apology, she came running back.

  ‘Now, Father,’ she said, ‘tell me. How is everybody? And what are you doing here?’

  So Robin related all that had happened since leaving school, while Flora listened with little cries of ‘Oh, no!’ and Buck’s pink eyes bulged with horror at this tale of death and disaster.

  ‘So I came back to see how things were here,’ finished Robin. ‘Or rather your mother sent me. Which reminds me, I must report back to her at the straw stack. She’ll be wondering what’s happened to me, she and little Love-in-a-mist. That is, if something awful hasn’t already happened to them. I must go straight away.’

  ‘You cannot, Father,’ said Flora. ‘You can’t even put that foot to the ground, let alone travel all that way back.’

  ‘But someone must fetch them,’ said Robin.

  ‘Let me,’ said Buck.

  ‘Good of you to offer, my boy,’ said Robin, ‘but it would be suicide for a mouse of your colour. No, no, I must go.’

  ‘You will do nothing of the sort,’ said Flora.

  ‘But, Flora,’ said her father, ‘we cannot simply leave them there, in that death-trap.’

  ‘No,’ said Flora. ‘I shall go and fetch them.’

  ELEVEN

  In Which Flora Takes a Journey

  Before the others could open their mouths to protest, Flora was gone. Her father, she knew, could not follow her, and Buck, she hoped, would not. What with his poor sight and sense of smell much less sharp than that of a wild mouse, she shuddered to think what might befall him out in the open in broad daylight. Or what might befall me for that matter, she said to herself. Nevertheless she pressed bravely on, hoping to sight the straw stack before too long.

  In fact, she could hardly see beyond the end of her nose, so much had the spring grass grown. What she could do though was to hear something. At first it was just a distant rumble, but quickly it grew louder, until it became a roaring, thundering, deafening noise heading straight for her, while the ground beneath her feet shook.

  Flora c
ast a terrified glance behind her, to see a huge red monster approaching. Leaping madly away to get out of its path, she came to a bank at the field’s edge, a bank in which, she saw, there was a large hole. Flora dived headlong into the hole as the monster went lumbering by.

  For a long while she crouched there, too frightened to move. Then at last she heard something approaching her from the inside of the burrow in whose mouth she sat, and before she could decide what to do, a large animal appeared. It was large, that is to say, to Flora’s eyes, and brown in colour, with a furry coat and big liquid eyes and long ears that stuck up.

  ‘What’s up then, mouse?’ said the animal. It had two large front teeth, Flora could see, but something told her that it was not dangerous, and she held her ground.

  ‘Sorry to intrude,’ she said, ‘but I was being chased by a red monster.’

  ‘Red monster!’ said the animal. ‘What be you then – some kind of town mouse?’

  ‘No,’ said Flora. ‘I’m a schoolmouse. And please, what are you?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where you been all your life, mouse?’

  ‘In school.’

  ‘You ain’t learned much then. Never seen a rabbit before?’

  thought Flora. Of course! I remember seeing a picture in that very first book I ever looked at.

  ‘Only in a book,’ she said.

  The rabbit shook his long ears in bewilderment.

  ‘You soft in the head, mouse?’ he said. ‘All this yer stuff about schoolmice and books and red monsters: anyone’d think you ain’t never seen a tractor before neither.’

  thought Flora. Yes, that was in the book too.

  ‘What was it doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Going down along to the stack,’ said the rabbit, ‘to get a trailer-load of straw bales.’

  ‘My mother’s living in the stack,’ Flora said.

  ‘Haven’t you got no daddy?’ the rabbit said.

  ‘He’s in the school.’