“So you could have…?”
“No, no. I’ve been away. On business. Only just got back.”
“Well, can you help me find Drusilla and Cuthbert? I’ve asked a number of different animals—a sheep, a cow, a pig, a duck—but none of them had anything sensible to say.”
“You’re asking the wrong creatures, my boy,” said Pug. “If you want to find a mouse, ask another mouse. Go and catch one and ask it, that’s my advice. I’ll lend you a paw if you like. In fact, you’d better let me do the catching, it’ll be quicker.”
“But what if the mouse doesn’t know where Drusilla is?”
“I’ll eat it,” said Pug simply. “Stay here. I won’t be long.”
And sure enough he was back in ten minutes with a mouse in his mouth. He dropped it in front of Martin, keeping one paw firmly on its tail to anchor it.
“Here’s a young one for starters,” said Pug. “Ask it.”
“Don’t be frightened,” said Martin in a kindly voice to the terrified mouse. “We only want to ask you a simple question. Do you know where Drusilla lives?”
“Yes,” whispered the young mouse.
“Where?”
“In a bathtub in the loft over the cart-shed.”
“Wrong answer,” said Pug. “You’re out of date. And you’re out of luck too.”
“Wait, Dad, wait!” cried Martin, and to the mouse he said, “Why, you must be one of Drusilla’s cubs, one of the eight that I released.”
“I am, Uncle Martin, I am!” squeaked the young mouse desperately. “The smallest one, that said good-bye to you when you let me go, don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do, kid!” said Martin excitedly. “I recognize you now. How you’ve grown! What are you, a buck or a doe?”
“A doe.”
“How nice to see you again! How’s life?”
“Almost at an end,” said Pug.
“What are you called?” said Martin. “I forget.”
“Eight,” said the mouse. “Mother gave us all numbers, remember?”
“Come in, Number Eight,” said Pug. “Your time is up.” And he opened his mouth wide.
“No, Dad!” said Martin. “Please, this is one of my mice. You mustn’t eat her. She may be the very one to help me find her mother. You will, won’t you, Eight?”
“Yes, Uncle Martin, oh, yes!” cried Eight.
“Promise?”
“Yes, yes, cross my heart!”
“And hope to die,” said Pug dryly, “if you break your word.” And he lifted his paw. “You’re too soft, Martin lad,” he said, as they watched Eight skipping thankfully away over the grass. “We’ll never see her again.”
But he was wrong.
12
Promises, promises
That very evening Martin was sitting outside the back door of the farmhouse, tidying himself up after a meal of fish-flavored Happipuss, when he heard a little voice say, “Pssst!”
He looked about him and saw Eight peeping around the edge of a trash can.
Martin had the sense to say nothing, for Dulcie Maude and Robin and Lark were all nearby. Instead he walked slowly away, hoping that Eight would follow. He made for the Dutch barn, thinking that if they should be interrupted, the little mouse could hide among the straw.
Martin lay down upon a bale at the foot of the stack and waited, and before long there was a rustling and Eight appeared beside him.
“I’ve found Mother, Uncle Martin,” she said.
“Good kid!” said Martin. “And Cuthbert?”
“Who’s Cuthbert?”
“Her husband. A dark handsome fellow.”
“Oh, is that what he’s called?” said Eight. “Yes, he was there. Mother just said to me, ‘Eight, this is your stepfather.’ He seemed very nervous.”
“He is rather highly strung,” said Martin. “But they were both well, I trust?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And the new babies? She had the babies all right?”
“Yes. Twelve.”
“Twelve!” said Martin. “Goodness me, she’s got them numbered up to twenty now then?”
“No,” said Eight. “These are all called after the months of the year. It worked out nicely, Mother said, because they’re mostly bucks. Only three does—April, May, and June.”
“How charming!” said Martin. “I can’t wait to see them!”
“Well, that’s just it, Uncle Martin,” said Eight nervously. “You can’t.”
“Why not? You’ve only got to tell me where they are.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“She made me swear not to tell you. She said you’d only put them all back in the bathtub.”
“I wouldn’t, honest, I wouldn’t!” cried Martin. “You must take me to her, Eight, so that I can tell her so myself. You promised you’d help me find her.”
“I know,” said Eight unhappily, “but now I’ve had to promise Mother I won’t. I know you’ll be angry with me, Uncle Martin, but what am I to do?”
“I shan’t be angry, Eight,” said Martin, “but I’ll tell you who will be if he finds out.”
“Your father?”
“Yes,” said Martin. “He’ll kill you for sure.”
At that moment they heard the smallest of sounds somewhere high above them on top of the stack of bales, and a corn stalk floated down and landed beside them. Eight jumped in fright, but Martin said, “Don’t be scared. It’s only a straw in the wind. Probably a bird messing around. Now listen, Eight. I understand the fix you’re in, but I want you to do one more thing for me. Go back to Drusilla and tell her I won’t put them all back in the tub. Tell her I promise not to. Say that I just want to see her again, and Cuthbert, and the babies. Say I miss her very much. And then come back and tell me what she says. Will you do that for me?”
Eight looked doubtful.
“But you’ll see where I’m going, Uncle Martin,” she said, “and then you’ll follow me and then you’ll find them and then Mother will never forgive me.”
“Look,” said Martin, “I won’t follow you. I’ll go right down to the other end of the farmyard, and I’ll shut my eyes and count to a hundred.”
“Promise?” said Eight.
“I promise,” said Martin. “And you’ll come back and find me and tell me what Drusilla said?”
“All right.”
“Promise?” said Martin.
“I promise,” said Eight.
So off went Martin in one direction, and after a while, off went Eight in another.
“Promises, promises!” growled a deep voice on top of the stack of bales, and off went Pug. After Eight.
13
You must be joking!
All that night Martin wandered around the farmyard, calling every now and then in the hope that Eight would hear his voice and run to him with news. But she did not appear.
Instead, his mother came upon him as he sat on the wall of the pigsties, mewing, and scolded him for making so much noise.
“Stop that caterwauling at once, Martin!” she hissed. “How on earth do you expect to catch mice if you advertise your presence like that? Quite apart from the fact that you’ll spoil the night’s hunting for the rest of us—for me and for Robin and Lark.”
“And Dad,” said Martin.
“Your father?” said Dulcie Maude. “When did you last see your father?”
“Yesterday.”
“Hm,” said Dulcie Maude. “I did not know that you were acquainted with him.”
“Oh, yes. Actually he’s only just got back. He’s been away. On business.”
“Pah!” spat Dulcie Maude angrily, and she stalked off, lashing her tail.
“Typical,” said a voice behind Martin, a voice that was familiar yet strangely muffled.
Martin looked around to see Pug with a small mouse in his mouth. It was Eight!
“Dad!” he cried. “You haven’t…?”
Pug put Eight carefully down on the ground
.
“Keep your hair on, Martin, lad,” he said.
Eight squeaked, “It’s all right, Uncle Martin, Mr. Pug was kindly giving me a lift.”
“Good job I did, young lady,” growled Pug, “or you’d have walked straight down Dulcie Maude’s throat.”
“Heard you talking in the Dutch barn, you see,” he said to Martin. “So I followed her. Just in case she didn’t come back to tell you what your precious Drusilla said.”
“I would have done, I would have done, Mr. Pug!” cried Eight. “I promised!”
“Yes, yes, all right,” said Pug. “No need to sound so hurt. You haven’t been.”
“But what did Drusilla say?” said Martin.
“Mother doesn’t want to see you again, Uncle Martin,” said Eight. “She says she’s sure you mean well, but she’s not taking any chances. ‘Once a pet-keeper, always a pet-keeper,’ she said. ‘I feel bad about it,’ she said, ‘because I owe my life to Martin, but I can’t risk it. Maybe he wouldn’t put us back in the tub,’ she said, ‘but he might get some other crazy idea for keeping us, and I value my freedom too much.’ ” Eight paused for breath.
“Oh,” said Martin.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Martin,” said Eight.
“Didn’t she even send a message?” asked Martin miserably.
“She sent her best regards.”
“Oh,” said Martin. “Well, that’s nice, I suppose.”
“You run along home now, young Eight,” said Pug. “And mind how you go.”
“Yes, Mr. Pug,” said Eight, “and thanks for the lift.” And she scuttled away into the darkness.
“But, Dad,” said Martin, “you must know where Drusilla and her family are. You followed Eight there, so you must know.”
“I do, Martin, lad,” said his father, “but I’m not telling you. I’ve gone along with you so far, but now I think it’s high time you forgot all about this silly business of keeping mice as pets. You heard what Drusilla said—it’s her freedom that she values. It’s all very well humans keeping tame animals as pets, like those rabbits, which have never known any other sort of life. But to keep a wild animal like a mouse shut up—it’s wrong, you know. Just think how lucky you are, to be free to go where you like and do what you want.”
“But I’m not wild, Dad.”
“All cats are wild at heart, my son. Many are lucky, especially farm cats like us, but some town cats are nothing better than prisoners, kept indoors all the time. Well treated, maybe, well fed and fussed over, but just as much prisoners as those rabbits. You don’t know how lucky you are. What if some humans came out here from the town one day to buy some free-range eggs?”
“Well?”
“What if they bought a free-range tabby kitten as well?” said Pug. “And took it away with them to a new home? Just imagine,” he said, warming to his work, “this tabby kitten, who’s been used to going where he likes and doing what he wants out in the fresh air of the countryside, suddenly becomes a town cat. He’s shut up all day in a house—no, an apartment, more likely—yes, a shabby little apartment right up at the top of a high-rise, miles from the ground.
“He’s not a free-range tabby kitten any longer. Not free to walk in the woods and the fields. Not even free to dig a nice hole in the flower bed to make himself comfortable—all he’ll have is a box full of cat litter. He’s just a pet“—Pug spat the word—”an imprisoned pet, probably belonging to some ghastly little girl who’ll be forever picking him up and cuddling him and kissing him with her horrible slobbery mouth. And to crown it all, she’ll very likely tie a big blue silk bow around the wretched creature’s neck!”
“Oh, Dad!” said Martin. “You must be joking!”
14
Escape
This is no joke, thought Martin, as he tried unsuccessfully with one hind foot to scratch off the big silk bow that was tied around his neck. It was a yellow bow, to be sure—not a blue one—put there not by a little girl but by a large lady, but otherwise most of what Pug had said had actually happened.
A number of people had come out to the farm, as they did at weekends to buy fresh milk and new-laid eggs, and Martin (I should have had more sense! he thought now angrily) had wandered among them, daydreaming about his precious Drusilla, his father’s warning entirely forgotten.
Suddenly a hand had scooped him up, and he found himself pressed to the large bosom of a large lady.
“Oh, what a sweet little kitty!” she cried, and to the farmer’s wife she said, “I don’t suppose you’d consider selling her, would you? She’s so pretty, I’ve fallen in love with her, love at first sight!”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the farmer’s wife. “I’ll have to ask my husband.”
“It’s a he anyway, not a she,” said the farmer’s daughter in the scornful tone that countryfolk use to townspeople who can’t tell the difference between a bull and a cow.
“And a proper little mouser he is too,” said the farmer. “Saw him only the other day with a big one in his mouth.”
“Oh, goodness me, we don’t have mice,” said the large lady in the scornful tone that townspeople use to countryfolk who can’t keep vermin out of their houses. “I just want him for a pet.”
Of course, none of this conversation meant anything to Martin. All he knew was that the large lady produced some cash and the farmer’s wife produced a box and popped him into it and closed the lid.
—
I should have had more sense, thought Martin once more, as he scrabbled at the yellow ribbon. “I told you so”—that’s what Dad would say. He stared out of the fourth-floor window at the street far below and the view of houses and yet more houses, and mewed with misery at the thought that he would never see his father again. Or his mother. Even seeing Robin and Lark would be a pleasure.
He looked around the room. Though much more luxurious, it was as much a prison as the tub had been for Drusilla. He looked at the comfortable chairs whose cushions he must not knead and whose covers he must not scratch (he had learned), at the heavy curtains at which he must not bite (he had learned), and at the thick pale wall-to-wall carpeting, which to dirty in any way would be unthinkable (this he had not needed to learn, being clean by nature). The box full of cat litter stood in a corner, just as Pug had said it would. He looked at the closed door. Once or twice he had slipped through it, but it only led to other rooms with other doors. And the window was closed and latched.
There was no escape.
Escape now occupied all Martin’s thoughts. It wasn’t that the large lady treated him unkindly. On the contrary, she spoiled him rotten. She bought him a beautiful wickerwork satin-lined cat bed, and she fed him royally. Ordinary cat food was not good enough for her precious pet; he must have steak and chicken breast and Gold Top milk to drink. And she was forever cooing and gooing over him and stroking and smoothing his coat, to which Martin made no objection but purred automatically at these attentions.
But all the time he was thinking of the farm, of his family, of Drusilla, of freedom.
For a human prisoner to escape from confinement, a lot of planning is usually needed: a file, for example, must be smuggled in for cutting through the bars of a window, an impression secretly taken of a key and a duplicate made, a tunnel dug, or a ladder built.
But sometimes there are moments when the prisoner has made no plan at all but simply seizes an unexpected opportunity when it occurs: a working crew, for instance, is out on the moors when suddenly a blanket of mist descends upon convicts and warders alike, and a man who minutes before had not imagined doing any such thing slips away into the murk.
So it befell with Martin.
—
It was a hot morning, and the person who came to clean the large lady’s apartment put down her duster and said to Martin, “Phew! It’s stuffy in here, isn’t it, puss? Let’s have a bit of fresh air.” And she opened the window before going on with her dusting.
Martin jumped up onto the windowsill. Now that he
could look straight down, he saw that the ground was a very long way away, so far that any cat foolish enough to try to reach it would without doubt use up all its nine lives in one go. But he also noticed something else, something that he had not properly appreciated when staring through the glass of the closed window. There was a tree below too.
It was quite a large tree, its crown almost as high as the third floor of the high-rise, so that a really desperate kitten (which he was not) just might with a wild leap be able to launch itself outward into the leafy top and survive. But there was one branch, Martin could now see, which stuck out at such an angle that a really brave kitten (which he was) could—if he judged it correctly—drop from the windowsill onto it.
If he miscalculated, if his aim was even the slightest bit wrong, that would be dead wrong.
“Right!” said the cleaner. “That’s the dusting done, puss. I’ll fetch the Hoover.”
Martin tensed himself.
Then he let himself fall from the sill, legs spread wide, paws opened wide, claws unsheathed, tail whipping madly around, eyes fixed upon the branch below.
15
Alec Smart
Now there occurred a nightmare procession of close shaves for Martin.
First, because the tree was swaying a little in the breeze, he failed to make a perfect landing on the branch, but half slid off it, scrambling madly to keep his balance; as he did so, one end of the yellow silk around his throat caught on a projecting twig, and at the same time Martin lost his grip and fell.
For an awful moment he hung by his neck, swinging to and fro and choking for breath. Then, because it was a bow, the knot undid itself, and he dropped the rest of the way to the ground.
No sooner had he landed, dazed and gasping, than he heard a loud barking, and a large hairy dog came rushing toward him.
Wildly Martin dashed across the road, almost under the wheels of a passing car, and in through the nearest gateway he could see. He ran along a path by the side of a house and found himself in a garden, at the bottom end of which was a shed. Under the shed was a space, and into this Martin crept and lay panting.
Martin's Mice Page 5
