“Then —”
“Yes, Ratty, I think Badger hopes that in some way we can say a last goodbye for him, by journeying where he felt unable to, so that he might have a second chance through us.”
Soon after this, and in a solemn frame of mind, for now they felt they were retracing the distant steps of one whom the Badger had once loved, the two companions found themselves in a wider, flatter area of open fields, and saw a small town ahead, and beyond it for the first time hills and distant mountains, and their hearts lifted, for here was evidence that the vision of Beyond they each had had in different ways was not so very far from the truth.
The furthest peaks they saw were too far off for an expedition such as theirs, but that rough forested ground they saw ahead might be within their reach, though taking their boats up might be difficult indeed.
“Forget the Pike,” said the Rat; ,,just look at the gradient. It’s going to be difficult, but we can only see how far we can get, eh Mole?”
“Come on,” cried the Mole, much excited to have reached civilization once again. “Let’s see if this is the Lathbury of which we’ve heard so much. Perhaps we can find that Tavern.”
The River skirted the town in a wide meander, but such houses, gardens and roads as they could see seemed mostly uninhabited.
“It must be Sunday” said the Mole, putting the best complexion on things.
“Humph!” muttered the Rat, moving their weapons a little closer, for the more he looked at Lathbury the grubbier, the more unkempt, and the more run down it seemed. A place that time, and modernity, seemed to have quite passed by.
“Look! There’s someone there,” the Mole called out, pointing towards an old crumbling wall near the river bank.
But the person, darkly and closely dressed as if it was winter and not summer, simply stood and stared, and ignored their greetings. Then another peered at them round the corner of a house, and a third, pulling aside a curtain at a half-open cottage window, and not even answering their friendly wave.
They proceeded thus quite slowly and made the firm decision not to leave their boat and go exploring, for the locals seemed unfriendly if not yet quite hostile.
“Best to get through and beyond this place,” said the Rat, “and find somewhere to camp for the night which we can defend easily. We had better be careful not to get split up, for there’s safety in numbers when there’s hostility about.”
They had first sighted Lathbury in mid-afternoon, but so indirect was the meander, and so cautious was their passage that it was gone six o’clock before the River turned north away from what seemed the last house and they began to feel easy once again. Lathbury or this side of it, did not seem to be a place to visit on a day such as this.
Soon they spied an old stone bridge, to the Lathbury side of which stood an old dwelling, dirty and ruinous, yet apparently occupied, from the sooty smoke that wound upwards from its chimneys. On drawing closer to it they saw it had a jetty along the river bank, and a peeling sign which read “THE HAT AND BOOT” and another reading “TRADITIONAL ALES AND SPIRITS”. However, beneath these words was a less traditional greeting for weary travellers in need of board and lodging for the night: “Boatmen and their dependants not welcome now or ever.”
Nor was the inn sign quite traditional either, for it eschewed the bright warm colours of the kind in which sign painters normally depict their subjects to welcome potential customers. Instead, in medieval fashion, nailed upon the board which read The Hat and Boot was an ancient hat, and a bedraggled boot.
“We shall call in here and see what we can learn about this Lathbury Pike,” said the Rat, which is what the Mole feared he might say. If it had been up to him, the Mole would have given the evil-looking place a wide berth and proceeded on his way.
“I shall take my cudgel,” said the Mole, “for I do not like the look of this hostelry one bit —”
“No need for that, Mole, we do not wish to cause offence, or provoke those who live here,” said the Rat, before adding sensibly “but we’ll moor the boats on the far side of the bridge out of harm’s way where we can easily keep an eye on them, and get back to them in a hurry if we must.”
The Tavern’s old door creaked open at their push to reveal a small dark vestibule off which three doors led. Upon the one straight ahead was a notice written in a rough hand which read, “STRIKTLY PRIVATE, SO STAY OUT”; a second, to their left, had another notice which read “NOT THIS WAY”; so they took the third.
It opened onto a large stone-flagged room, dark and chillsome, in which a good many figures were gathered together, some morosely lounging against a long bar, tankard in hand, others huddled together on benches at rough tables, drinking beer and eating a mess of bread and pottage, and talking in low voices.
At their entrance all conversation ceased — and a silence fell upon the company as they turned and stared at the two intruders. They saw that each member of this unfriendly company was a very rough-looking representative of one of two species of animal that the Rat and the Mole did not much like: weasels and stoats. The weasels being, in the main, the solitary loungers; and the stoats, for the most part, the huddled eaters. Some were big, some small, some fat and some thin: not one displayed anything other than unpleasant curiosity.
“Food’s off,” growled a voice behind the bar, and they turned to see a tall cadaverous gentleman who was evidently the landlord.
“‘Cept fer ‘taters,” screeched his wife’s voice from somewhere upstairs and within. “So sell ‘em yesterday’s.”
“Well —” began the Mole.
The landlord chose to take the Mole’s hesitation for a firm order and, peering up some stairs, shouted, “Twice double portions, ducks.”
Then he turned to them and put a restless hand upon a mahogany pump handle, not unlike a policeman’s truncheon, and said, “Nah, fer drinks. Wot yer want?”
“I was thinking,” said the Rat speaking as low as he could, for the silence of the Tavern had continued and all were listening to their every syllable, “of a traditional ale of the kind advertised outside.”
“Were yer now?” said the landlord, studying them with seeming distaste.
“What kind of ale would that be?” persisted the Rat.
“There’s three,” said the landlord, “and they’re all brewed on the premises. There’s Policeman’s Punch, if yer wanna few There’s Bishop’s Blasphemy if yer like that kind of thing. And the strongest we got is Judge and Jury but more ‘n a pint and yer’ll need help getting home.”
“Well then,” said the Rat, anxious to get the transaction over as quickly as possible, “we’ll have a pint each of Policeman’s Punch.”
They took their brimming tankards to a table where three stoats reluctantly made room for them, and in a few moments a plate of potatoes each was duly served. Interest in the strangers began to wane and conversation to resume.
“How much will that be?” asked the Mole, for the landlord was hovering.
“Depends if yer comin’ or goin’,” he replied.
“I am not sure I understand,” said the Rat.
“Seems plain enough to me,” said the landlord. “Comin’ is downaways and goin’ is upaways.”
“You mean down-river or up-river.”
“That’s what ‘e said,” said a stoat sitting near them.
“And there’s a difference in price, is there?” said the Mole, sensing some more duping on the way.
“If yer comin’, which means yer goin’ back into Lathbury Town, that’ll be tuppence three farthings each for the ‘taters, and a penny a pint for the beer, or give us ‘alf a crahn and call it quits.”
The stoats winked at each other, and another general silence fell to see if the visitors would yield to this extortion or argue the point.
“And if we’re going on upstream?” said the Rat.
“If yer were, which yer’d be advised not to, then by rights yer get as much of the Blasphemy as yer can drink at one go free, and a ‘
elpin’ more of the tatties to take with yer.”
“Free?” said the Mole.
“Yeh, but yer not.”
“But we are,” said the Mole very firmly. “We are journeying up-river. That’s what you call ‘going’, isn’t it?”
For the first time in their conversation the landlord appeared lost for words, and the room fell into a deeper silence, but one now more curious and astonished than hostile.
“Well, I wouldn’t.”
“But we shall,” said the Rat, “so charge us a fair price for the food and drink and we’ll be on our way.”
“Well, yer mad. The food and drinks are free, but I’ll charge yer two groat for the conversation.”
This the Rat duly paid and honour seemed satisfied all round. The potatoes were good, but the beer was lethal, so they only sipped at it.
“Yer not really goin’ upstream, are yer?” said one of the stoats with a good deal more respect in his voice than before.
“We are,” said the Mole firmly. “Is there a reason why not?”
The stoats laughed, and soon the whole room joined in. But when they saw that the Mole and the Rat did not laugh and were quite serious in their intent, one of the stoats said, “Don’t yer know, mate?”
“Know what?”
“The reason yer shouldn’t be goin’ upstream is the Pike, the Lathbury Pike.”
“What of it?” said the Mole boldly. In such circumstances the Rat could not but admire his normally timid friend for his bold front.
“Don’t tell us yer not heard of it?”
“We have heard but little of it down our way” said the Rat carefully. “Perhaps you could tell us more?”
The stoat needed no second invitation and, egged on by his friends who crowded round, and a few of the weasels who came over and joined them, he gave a detailed and bloody account of the Pike’s ferocity (it thought nothing of sinking boats) and diet (it especially liked babies, young lambs and piglets if it could get them) .
“Once upon a time the farmers of the pastures up top — that was afore the ‘igh Judge acquired the land and turned ‘em off for good — walked their cattle across the River upstream to get to Lathbury market quicker, but that were no good, no good at all. Too many taken, you see?”
“Whole cows eaten by the Pike?” exclaimed the Mole. “Two at a time when she were nurturing a brood,” said one of the weasels almost cheerfully. “That’s why they built the bridge, ‘cos farmers wouldn’t risk it by river no more. No farmers now, any road.”
“Has anyone ever seen the Pike?” asked the Rat, dubious about these claims.
“She’s too cunning and too quick to be seen, but for the vast shadow of ‘er across the pool, but they’ve ‘eard ‘er many a time and seen sign of ‘er.”
“Heard her?” said the Mole, his eyes wide. “Seen signs?”
“Aye, ‘eard ‘er wooshing in the water at dusk, when they say she exercises ‘er tail so’s she can swim faster, and that sets up the waves they seen.”
“So what do river travellers do if they want to go past where the Lathbury Pike lives?” asked the Rat, reasonably enough.
“Not many wants to go on up there,” said their informant darkly. “No roads up there now worth the name, and no one in their right minds living there neither. They’m lost souls live up there now, driven daft by the Pike, don’t you see? If you’ve a mind to go on then the only thing to do is to ‘ave your craft taken out of the River downstream and transported by road, especially in the months o’ June and July.”
“You mean now?” said the Mole.
The stoat nodded slowly eyes narrowing, seeming almost to revel in his tale.
“Bred by now; be raising a brood by now”
“Hasn’t anyone ever tried to kill the Lathbury Pike?” said the Rat stoutly. “Anyway she must be very old by now”
“O, don’t make that mistake, sir,” (they were beginning to treat the Mole and the Rat with considerable respect by now) “really you mun’t. Many’s said the same and after a few years of quiet they’ve taken their boats up the creek where she lives and all that’s ever seen of them again is their boats, and their ‘ats and boots. She don’t eat ‘ats and she don’t eat boots.”
“Aye,” said the landlord, putting in his pennyworth, “why do you think it’s called the Hat and Boot Tavern?”
“Surely not — ?” began the Mole, now seriously concerned.
“It’s surely so,” said another. “Off they go out of this door, their bellies full of free drink —”
“Why do you serve it free?” said the Rat, interrupting.
“Ancient statute,” said the landlord. “In the old days it gave young bloods the courage to go and kill the Pike, but we live in modern times now, eh lads?”
“That’s right!”
“But we keeps up the tradition.”
“And the hat and boot that’s hanging up outside now,” asked the Mole; “that’s just for show, isn’t it?”
“That’s no show,” said the landlord. “Old Tom’ll tell you ‘cos ‘e was ‘ere when the last damn fool — beggin’ yer pardon, gents — went up-river.”
“Aye,” said Tom, who came over and joined them, “it was a cold and chilly night when ‘e come, and I remember it like it was —”
“Make it snappy Tom, don’t give ‘em the whole works; they’ll be dead in their seats afore you finish.”
“It was a badger,” said the landlord, “a very big badger, weren’t it, Tom?”
“Aye, so it was, fine and young he was. That was afore you came, afore many of the lads ‘ere was even born. Came here and sat right where you’re sittin’ now, sir,” he said, pointing at the Rat’s seat.
The Water Rat felt very uncomfortable at this and shifted slightly in his seat.
“‘E was warned, but he weren’t listening, like badgers often don’t. He upped and went and three days later down they came — ‘is hat and boot. That was all was left, yer see. So we ‘ung ‘em up out of respect, and as a warning.”
“So now you know,” said the landlord; “and that’s why I say yer won’t be going —”
“O, but we are,” said the Mole, standing up with sudden resolution, “and right now! Come on, Ratty, we’ll not listen to any more of this talk or we’ll never get going!”
The landlord and his clients followed them out, tankards in hand, blinking in the bright sunshine and chattering like women at a public execution. There were last-minute directions and advice, and a few final warnings and appeals against their journey before the Rat told the Mole to cast off the painter.
The Tavern, and its clients, slowly disappeared downstream behind them.
· VIII ·
In Pursuit of Love
Toad’s journey up-river towards the Town had a very different flavour from when the Rat and the Mole had taken the same route some weeks before, as different as chalk and cheese.
They had gone slowly and gently in harmony with nature generally and the River in particular, their spirits and their days attuned to the rising of the dawn and the setting of the sun. For them it was the simple pleasures that mattered — listening to the lapping of the water along the banks, enjoying the rustle of the summer breeze through rush and sedge, and the shimmering of birch leaves in the wind across the fields. If a mallard led a squeaking busy brood across their path, the Rat and the Mole paused to let them safely by; if a pair of swans glided upstream of them and silently turned and drifted sideways to the current, they stopped awhile to admire the grand spectacle.
But then came Toad, and not for him such sentimental nonsense!
The rustling breeze?
Toad could not hear it at all because of the noise his loud and shuddering engine made.
The shimmering birch leaves?
Toad could not see any trees and leaves because of the spray the bows of his racing launch threw up.
Dabbling ducks?
“Out of my way!” cried Toad.
Elegant swans?<
br />
“Horrid things, stop hogging the River!” yelled Toad. The roar of his craft, the thwack! thwack! of its prow as it hit the water, and not least the sight of Toad himself, steering with one hand and gesticulating with the other that all other users of the River, be they flesh, fish or fowl, get out of his way caused a general evacuation of all living things along his route.
Cows and sheep turned and fled across fields at his loud approach; horses bolted in alarm, leaping gates to get away; rooks flocked up from trees and headed to all points of the compass in their eagerness to escape. As for those fish unfortunate enough to be harmlessly grubbing about amongst the weed and mud beneath the water, such as roach and perch, silver dace and stickleback, the shock of Toad’s passage caused general panic and disarray.
While those skulking creatures, the treacherous and cowardly weasels and stoats, hid from him as he sped by and for half an hour afterwards.
Naturally Toad was oblivious of all this and the effect he was having on those about him, just as he always had been. In any case, he had more important things to think about, for his motor-launch offered challenges he had not met and conquered before.
At first he could not quite master the art of steering around bends, and would weave desperately from one side of the River to the other, scattering mud and broken vegetation in his efforts to avoid its banks. Twice he failed in this endeavour and the craft was brought to a grinding halt prow-first in the gravel and mud of the bank. It would have been better for all concerned if matters had ended there and then. But so powerful were the engines of the launch, so easy and effective its reverse controls, and so determined was the lovelorn swain to catch up with his lady love once more, that he did not let these mishaps delay him long. Toad was an enthusiastic if impatient learner.
Toad Triumphant Page 11
