‘“Don’t go, Tom!” hisses my friend suddenly, “Let’s go back!”
“‘No way,” I answered, “come on Woodget lad! Don’t stand there frettin’! Ain’t no such thing as ghosties.”
‘I climbed up to the loft and looked about me. The wind was gettin’ in somewhere an’ rustlin’ the old rotten heaps of hay. It was black as tar up there an’ I was glad when Woodget put his paw in mine. “Come on,” I said, “let’s scout round a bit.” Through the smelly old straw we went, a-fearin’ what was round the next corner or what might pop out at us. But apart from the rustlin’ all you could hear were two mice breathin’ – him an’ me. We walked all round that loft an’ not one ghost did we see. I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed so we returned to the loft entrance an’ I let go of Woodget’s paw to climb down the ladder.
‘“What a waste of time,” I said exasperated. “I told you there were no such thing as ghosties, Woodget!’
Here Thomas stopped his tale and his eyes bulged as he raised his eyebrows. ‘Then,’ he continued in a wavering voice, ‘to my horror I hear my little friend a callin’ up to me from the barn floor shoutin’, ‘You comin’ down now Tom? I’m gettin’ scared down here on my own.’ My fur stood on end and for a moment I was frozen to the spot. I dare not look to right or left and the silence – you could have cut it with a knife. I don’t know how long I was frozen there, maybe only a second, but it felt like a lifetime. Then Woodget twitched his tail and rustled the straw below, breaking the ghostly spell.’
The audience gasped and cooed, ‘But whose paw were you holding, Mr Triton?’ piped up one of the youngsters.
‘That I don’t know lad,’ Thomas replied, ‘an’ I didn’t stay to find out. Woodget an’ me were out of that barn faster than anything.’
A shiver of excitement rippled through the assembled mice. They liked Thomas’s stories – he had been to so many places and they loved to hear of his adventures.
‘Tell us another,’ they pleaded.
The midshipmouse laughed but shook his head. ‘No,’ he refused gently, ‘I’ve worn the hat too long and you know your rules. One yarn per wear – let someone else have a turn.’ He removed the faded velvet hat from his head and passed it on to Master Oldnose who had been waiting close by for some time. He used to be the main storyteller and he spent many evenings making up new stories especially for the Yule Festival. He did not like Thomas’s popularity and he took the hat from him stiffly. Several young mice groaned rudely and wandered away from the fire as Master Oldnose began ‘The story of Bohart and the friendly moon spirits’.
Thomas stretched himself and left the circle winking at his admirers. A young albino mouse came running up to him excitedly.
‘Oh Mr Triton,’ he said, twisting the ends of a green scarf together in his paws with enthusiasm, ‘that was smashing! How on earth did you manage to sleep after that?’
‘None too well, young Oswald,’ the midshipmouse replied with an amused twinkle.
The albino blinked his bright pink eyes and nodded. ‘It was the best ghost story we’ve had here for years and it was true as well – it actually happened to you – gosh!’
‘That’s right lad, but don’t you start goin’ off again on dangerous journeys like the last one. You know how terrible they can be and what they can lead to.’
Oswald nodded. Earlier in the year he had ventured down into the sewers. He returned suffering from such a dreadful cold that nobody thought he would survive. Now he hugged himself and sucked his teeth. ‘What happened to your friend Woodget, Mr Triton?’ he asked. ‘Did he go to sea with you or did he stay at the farmhouse?’
The change in Thomas’s mood was startling. His expression altered dramatically and pain registered in his face. ‘By Neptune I wish he had stayed there,’ he said thickly before excusing himself and walking briskly away.
‘Oh dear,’ stammered Oswald, staring after the midshipmouse. ‘I do hope I didn’t say anything wrong.’
A plump mouse stole silently up behind the albino with a huge grin on his face, ‘BOO!’ he yelled suddenly.
Poor Oswald jumped in the air and wailed. When he saw who it was he said crossly, ‘Oh Arthur, you frightened the life out of me – especially after all those ghost stories.’ Arthur began nibbling a chestnut which he had been carrying and beamed wickedly, ‘Yeth,’ he mumbled with his mouth full, ‘old Triton’s tales are good aren’t they? He comes to visit us quite often and we nearly always get a story from him.’
‘You are lucky,’ sighed Oswald enviously, ‘you get to go to cousin Twit’s home and have adventures there. And to top it all Mr Triton comes and visits you.’
Arthur licked his lips thoughtfully. He did not like to say that in his opinion the midshipmouse’s visits were not just for him and his sister. He had come to the conclusion that it was really their mother whom Thomas came to see.
Arthur and his sister Audrey had been back in the Skirtings for two months now after their adventures in the country. On their return home Arthur and Audrey found that Thomas had been looking after their mother while they had been away and had taken to calling her ‘Gwen’ – an unsettling thing for them to hear. She had been obviously embarrassed when he said it in front of the children. Gwen Brown still addressed the midshipmouse as ‘Mr Triton’ but she said it with a growing warmth that Arthur and Audrey had not heard since their father had died.
‘Where is Audrey?’ Oswald was staring at everyone gathered around the fire and looking beyond at the groups of husbands sipping the mulled berrybrew. Their jolly wives were fussing and gossiping in a corner and his own mother, Mrs Chitter, was there leading the tittle-tattle, but there was no sign of Audrey.
Arthur shrugged. ‘In her room, I suppose. She said she’d come but you know what she’s like. Since we’ve been back she’s got worse – won’t join in anything and hardly eats. Mother worries about her.’
‘Do you think she misses Twit?’ ventured Oswald.
Arthur shook his head. ‘No, I told you it wasn’t like that. Twit only married Audrey to save her from getting hanged – there was nothing else in it.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Oswald. ‘You know, I still haven’t got used to calling her Mrs Scuttle – it doesn’t fit somehow.’
Arthur agreed and turned to watch the group round the fire. Master Oldnose had finished his tale – much to the relief of everybody except the Raddle sisters who clapped very loudly and praised him no end. The hat was held up for the next mouse ready to tell a story and up stepped Algy Coltfoot.
‘This should be good,’ said Arthur, ‘Algy’s stories are always funny.’ The two friends wandered over and sat down in the dancing firelight.
* * *
Alone in her room Audrey fiddled with the ribbon in her paws. She had not yet tied it in her hair and was staring down at it dumbly. After the terrors of Fennywolde she had found life in the Skirtings very dull and the nosiness of several mice had irritated her no end. They all wanted to know just why Twit married her. Mrs Chitter had even inquired if she ought to start knitting little bonnets and booties. Audrey had made it very clear then that nothing of that kind would be necessary – indeed she had put quite a few noses out of joint and at the moment she was not the most popular person in the house.
The sound of a whisker fiddle filtered into the room and gradually brought Audrey round. She decided it was time to join the festivities, so tied the ribbon in her hair, slipped her last remaining bell onto her tail then jumped off the bed.
In the Hall the fire was still crackling merrily and Audrey emerged to find a crowd of mice still laughing over Algy’s story. The hat had been passed on to Arthur and Algy had wandered into a corner to practise on his fiddle with Mr Cockle accompanying him on the bark drum. On the far side of the Hall she saw her mother talking to Thomas Triton. Audrey made her way over, passing chattering wives whose gossip suddenly ceased as she drew close enough to hear them. Some of them nudged their friends and whispered to each other once she had gone by, then the chatter began again.
‘There you are Audrey,’ smiled Gwen Brown. ‘Have you had anything to eat yet?’ The girl shook her head and moved close to her mother’s side. Gwen put her arms around her daughter. ‘Audrey love, you haven’t eaten properly since you came back from Fennywolde – do have something. There’s a big bowl of lovely soup over there.’
Audrey took a biscuit and nibbled it as she watched everyone enjoying themselves. Her mind went back to earlier in the year when Oswald was healed by the magic of the Starwife. There had been celebrations then too. At that time the young grey mouse from the city – Piccadilly – had been staying with the Browns; Audrey missed him.
Algy and Mr Cockle struck up a dancing jig and as nobody had taken the hat after Arthur there were many eager to join in. The mice formed a great ring and began to dance round the fire. Thomas dragged Gwen and Audrey into the dance and soon everyone was out of breath. Nearby, the Raddle sisters watched and tittered behind fluttering paws – it was too cold for them to sit in their usual place on the stairs. Arthur did not like dancing and it looked too boisterous for Oswald, so both of them stood to one side, forming some plan.
‘But Arthur,’ protested Oswald, ‘Mother’s sure to hear if I get up in the middle of the night.’
‘Not if you’re careful,’ Arthur said, ‘but if you’re too scared . . .’
‘Oh it’s not that,’ Oswald put in hastily. ‘It’s just that I don’t see why we have to go there! Why don’t’ we just take some of the food here?’
‘Because that would be too easy. Look Oswald, do you want a secret feast tonight or don’t you?’ The albino fidgeted with his scarf then nodded. ‘So long as you don’t jump out at me again.’
‘Promise, just meet me in the great kitchen when everyone’s asleep.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Oswald meekly.
Audrey abandoned the dancing. It was surprising how nimble Thomas Triton was. His white, wispy hair glowed like fine gold before the fire and those same flames picked out the vibrant chestnut glint in the hair of her mother. Audrey was astonished to find herself admiring them as a couple. She wondered if her mother would marry the midshipmouse: Both were lonely and Audrey felt that her late father would approve.
The night continued, the fire burned lower and some young rascals decided to put whole chestnuts into the heart of the flames. After some minutes there was a series of loud cracks and explosions as the chestnuts flew apart. Mice ran squeaking in all directions amid the confusion, but when they discovered what had happened the culprits were packed off to bed with smarting bottoms.
The music gradually slowed and the fire became a mound of glowing embers. Mr Cockle swayed unsteadily on his feet and his wife looked sternly at the empty bowl of berrybrew at his side.
‘Get you home, you silly old mouse,’ she hissed at him. ‘Every time you do it, don’t you? Oh the shame of it.’
‘Ah, but you’re beautiful darlin’,’ he slurred whilst puckering his lips. Biddy Cockle shooed her husband out of the Hall and the other mice decided to go to bed as well.
‘I’ll be off to my ship,’ said Thomas as he took leave of Gwen. He pulled on his blue woollen hat and went down into the cellar where he passed through the Grille and took the short cut to Greenwich via the sewers. Gwen smiled and went into the Skirtings. She popped her head into Audrey’s room, but her daughter was already sleeping soundly. Arthur was busy making up his bed in their small kitchen. He used to share the room with Audrey but now she was married it did not seem right somehow.
‘Goodnight Arthur,’ Gwen said affectionately.
‘Goodnight Mum,’ he replied pulling the blankets up under his chin. She extinguished the kitchen candle and went to her own room.
Arthur stayed awake for an hour until he was certain that his mother had fallen asleep, then he got out of bed and tiptoed out of the Skirtings. The Hall was lit with the ruddy light of the fire’s dying embers, and eerie shadows flitted over the walls. Arthur swallowed nervously. Ghost stories were all very well if you went straight to bed afterwards. There you could pull the bed clothes over your head if the dark frightened you, but to embark on a midnight quest for food was – well, alarming, especially as his imagination was beginning to make sinister shapes in those shadows. Grim demons seemed to be hiding in the darkness ready to pounce on him with sharp fangs. Arthur took a deep breath and ventured down the gloomy Hall
In the kitchen it was very dark. Arthur jumped down the single step and felt the smooth lino beneath his feet. A chill draught ruffled his fur. It came from the passage which led to the outside – It had been unblocked that morning to bring in the evergreen sprigs that decorated the Hall Obviously someone had forgotten to seal it up again. The draught made him shiver and he began to wonder if a secret feast was really worth all this.
‘Psst! Arthur!’ A tall shadowy form beckoned to him from the deep darkness ahead. Oswald had been there for ten minutes and he did not like it one bit. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘All right, I’m here now aren’t I?’ Arthur replied. ‘You ready then?’
Oswald nodded quickly. ‘Let’s hurry Arthur, I’m freezing.’
Arthur felt his way to the far wall, jumped onto an old wooden box and scrambled up a pipe. ‘You should have put on those things your mum made for you,’ he called down to the albino.
‘I have,’ said Oswald awkwardly. Recently Mrs Chitter had knitted her son a woollen hat and a pair of mittens to match his scarf but up till now he had been too embarrassed to wear them. ‘I don’t want to catch another cold,’ he wheezed as he laboured clumsily onto the box and heaved himself up the pipe.
Arthur put a finger to his lips, ‘Ssshh – whispers only from now on,’ he warned. ‘Come on.’
Through crumbling plaster and dry, flaking timber they went, then they hopped along the wall cavity.
‘Here it is,’ Arthur said, coming to a break in the brickwork. The two mice squeezed through and emerged in a large, echoing space.
‘This is the Larder,’ Arthur whispered, greatly pleased with himself. He rubbed his tummy expectantly. ‘This is the vegetable shelf, we don’t want to bother with anything here. There’s another one above with all sorts of gorgeous things on. We can climb onto it just over here.’ Arthur moved over to the wall where a vertical row of half hammered in nails acted as a ladder.
Oswald looked puzzled and put a mittened paw to his mouth. ‘But Arthur,’ he began slowly, ‘there are no vegetables on this shelf, there’s nothing here at all.’
A loud disappointed groan came down from above. ‘Oh Oswald,’ moaned Arthur glumly, ‘this shelf’s empty too, not a crumb or a blob of cream not anything.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Oswald, no secret feast for us then.’
But it’s far more serious than that,’ said Arthur fearfully, ‘don’t you see? The Larder has never ever been empty! There was always something here for us – oh Lord, what are we all going to do? We rely on this place for our food! We must go back and tell the others. We shall have to save what’s left of the Yule feast and live off that till we find more food.’