Duncton Tales (39 page)

The summer years passed and bit by bit that generation changed and grew apart, the tensions growing subtler, as did the likes and dislikes of one for another, shifting and changing as old passions faded and new passions dawned.

“Did I love Hamble?” Privet asked herself one November day, when she saw him across the sun-filled surface, the moorland rising far beyond. The bullying by others was long since over and the old wounds had healed but left their scars, and she had become what she would always surely be, physically the least significant of her generation, already bound to Library work and scribing, under the influence and control of her disliked mother Shire.

Lime had fallen out with Shire over a male from the East End of Crowden, whom Shire thought beneath her precious elder daughter. But Lime tossed her head and said she would see him anyway and with not a jot of gratitude, left their home burrow never to return.

So Privet was left alone with her mother, having nowhere else to go and no other mole to turn to; nor did she have the nerve to break away as Lime had done. They maintained an uneasy truce helped by living at far ends of the same tunnels, talking mainly in the Library, and seldom in their home. It was a comfort of a sort. Yet a creeping loneliness, whose name she knew not, had come to Privet. An ache to be alone, a restlessness, a failure to be absorbed in the scribing that had, thus far, been her only solace. A longing, an understanding of which she only came near when she saw others of her generation with companions, or her sister Lime, flaunting her male friends. Poor Privet, shy timid Privet, did not know how to talk to other moles, and if they tried to talk to her she shied away, snout low and blushing pink. What a dull mole she seemed, how worthless, and how uninteresting.

“She’ll be like her mother before long!” she heard one mole say to another, and though it hurt she did not know what more to do than grieve. She hated Shire sometimes,
hated
her, and yet knew that sometimes now she herself looked as severe as Shire did, or turned her snout as Shire did, or felt arrogant about her learning, as Shire did. Such experiences felt like a clinging plague upon her, and one she could not get rid of, ever. She felt doomed to loneliness, and yet, each day, turned to the tunnels of the Library once more and felt the comfort of familiar greetings of moles who knew her rounds.

“Nice day, Miss Privet!”

“Yes, it is.”

“Busy are you then?”

“I am.”

“Well, then, see you around.”

“Yes, yes.”

But that November day when she saw Hamble on the surface, she had felt a little wild. The sun was shining, the Library did not appeal, her mother was not around to make her feel guilty if she did not work all day, and so, deviating from her normal route she had surfaced to scent the fresh air. And there was Hamble, looking … well, not quite like himself.

She had not talked to Hamble for molemonths past, and never, as far as she could remember, in any personal way at all. He had simply been there, and her gratitude to him had never been expressed. Seeing him now, stanced by himself in the sun, she felt a surge of affection that took her by surprise. She was diffident about going up to him, and so began to turn away towards the tunnels and the safety of the Library, where in any case she
ought
to be, but fortunately he saw her and called out a greeting.

And then again, “Hello, Privet,” when she drew near.

Yes, she thought, I feel
affection
. She analysed it like a text. Affection, not love. In that was freedom! She dared to look into his eyes and was not afraid. She saw friendliness and disquiet.

“You —”

“Yes, mole?” he said. He was so strong, his fur so good, his presence as good to her as it had always been. She might not feel love, for how can a mole love one who has been almost a brother, but shyness she felt, and curious pride to be talking to him at all. And comfort that she had known him, in a way, so long. And yet …

“Well?” he said persistently. “You always were the quiet one, Privet. You can say what you were thinking, I won’t bite.”

“You … looked sad,” she said. “I was thinking it isn’t like you.”

“No?” he said, a little mournfully.

“No,” she said very firmly, much surprised at her own daring and hoping that her snout was not going pink.

“Have you ever been in love?”

The question was so unexpected, and so apposite, that Privet giggled, which is not something she ever did.

“It’s not funny,” growled Hamble, settling down comfortably. He seemed so open and trusting that she felt her diffidence leave her and an almost daring relaxation overtake her body. She stanced down near him.

“It is funny really,” she said, “because I did once love a mole.”

“Who?” he said.

It was precisely the question she had hoped he would ask, but now he had, her heart beat faster and she was unsure what to say. But the sun was warm, and his presence good, and thinking it was him she had loved she could not but smile. It was a day for smiling, and for being
here
. She felt suddenly so tired.

“You,” she said archly.

He stared at her astonished. “Me? But you never said! And anyway …”

Yes, anyway; she was merely Privet. It felt a long time ago.

“It’s over now,” she said.

He looked relieved and grinned at her and said, “Just as well, really.”

She stayed silent, staring, and suddenly knew whatmole it was he loved.

“It’s Lime!” she said. “Oh dear!”

He nodded sadly and since she was silent he began to talk. Oh, how she knew the passion he described, how fierce such passions are, how very bright they seem.

“Will I get over it?” he said at last, for he had told how Lime had laughed at him when he declared himself and called him ‘clod-hopping’, a term she had learnt from Shire.

“I did, eventually,” said Privet a little unhelpfully. They were silent for a time.

“Hamble …” she began at last. He had the sense to stay silent. “I never dared say before, and I might never be so bold again. Thank you for what you used to do for me. I …”

Her eyes filled with tears and suddenly she felt a fool. She stanced up to escape from him and
this
. Then he did that which once she had so wished that he might do. He reached a paw to hers and said gruffly, “Never did like seeing a mole hurt who couldn’t defend themselves and especially not you, Privet. You’re cleverer than all the rest of us put together and fighting isn’t your way.”

Me? Cleverer? she thought. He had thought
that
? But then clever moles are not loved moles, not by males at least,
that
she knew.

“Never liked the way your sister treated you,” he said.

“But you love her, Hamble.”

“Do I?
Do
I?” He frowned, his paw still on hers while he thought. “I do, I suppose, but that’s because I can’t help myself. It’s different moles than me she wants …” He named two males who lived at the other end of Crowden, whom Lime seemed to think were more worthy of her. Privet listened patiently and sympathetically, nodding her head now and then but rarely commenting, and never once criticizing Lime.

“I like your father Sward,” said Hamble suddenly, changing the subject. “He’s told me all about the Moors and said if he was younger he’d take me up there and show me the routes. You’re lucky having a father like him. I envied you that.”

“But I envied you your parents. I used to wish I could wake up and find Tarn was my father, and Fey my mother, and you …”

“Me?” grinned Hamble.

“Well, not my brother,” said Privet coyly. She marvelled at how easy it was to talk like this. “And my mother?” she said. “What did you think of her?”

He shrugged. “Shire’s Shire, everymole knows that. At least she taught you scribing and that’s a gift to have. You could travel away from here with that. They say there’s other libraries all over moledom.”

They wouldn’t want a scribe from Bleaklow, or be interested in Whernish, I would think,” she said. She meant it, and looked down modestly at her talons. “I
would
like to go and see some of the places I’ve heard about but I suppose I never will.”

“You should!” he said. Her eyes had the far-away look of a mole who had courage only to dream of such things.

“I’m needed here,” she said. “By my mother and others in the Library. There aren’t so many scribes in this new generation.”

“What do you
do
in the Library? I’m not good at that sort of thing. I mean what are texts
for
?” He looked suddenly vulnerable, as if revealing an ignorance he would prefer nomole to know of, but it was something she had seen in other moles, and she understood.

Then, slowly, she told him about texts and scribing and how a mole could get quite lost in it.

“Like thoughts of love?”

“Better than love,” she smiled, “and more dependable.”

So they talked as the day went by, and discovered the surprise of mutual trust and dawning friendship. Both found solace in sharing their disappointments; Hamble for a mole who did not want him, and Privet for the love of a mole who was so far no more substantial than a dream, yet for whose presence she felt a growing ache and longing.

The hours passed by unnoticed as they talked, until the shadows lengthened and Hamble declared with a start that he had to go to a meeting summoned by the elders about renewed threats from the Saddleworth moles; Privet had work to finish in the Library before dark. They went their different ways feeling much the better for having talked, and each looked forward to the next time, for there seemed so much to share.

Chapter Nineteen

A pup’s life begins in darkness at his mother’s teat, and only after moleweeks have gone by does he emerge into light and out into the safe confines of a nesting chamber.

Then he begins to understand that there are pups other than him, and he becomes aware of an entrance to a tunnel, dark and dangerous, of which he is afraid. The moleweeks turn into months, strength comes to his paws, he dares to venture down the tunnel, and the darkness and danger recede to the tunnels and surface beyond.

The pup grows and explores the further tunnels and the surface too, and bit by hard-won bit the darkness and the danger recede still more, and become less palpable. Yet the fear remains, deep, lurking, a profound constraint.

The pup matures, learns to defend himself, comes to realize that the darkness and the dangers, though not imaginary, are controllable. According to his strength and intelligence, and his natural boldness or timidity he ventures far, or only near. He turns in sleep, he learns of other moles, he sees suffering and joy, and new darkness comes, new dangers appear, of mind and spirit now, much less of place. He discovers that others, weaker than him in body, are stronger now in spirit and begin to catch him up in life’s endless journey.

Thus, Hamble, elder son of Tarn, learning of the sufferings of love, grasping something of the joys of friendship, feeling his strengths, yet discovering his weakness. And finding strength and support from Privet, a mole who had only ever seemed weak to him.

Thus Privet: full of fears and self-doubts, born of a mother who made her feel worthless, living with a low snout and no thoughts of venturing far at all until she made a friend of Hamble one September, and began to dare look up.

Yet both were still parochial, both reared to a view that Crowden was the only place there was, the safest place, the best. The place they owed their loyalty to, the place they might, as others did, complain of and yet would never leave. Even warrior moles like Hamble were discouraged from crossing the boundaries of the system until they had lived a full cycle of seasons and were adult. By then their first mating was of greater allure than exploration of a dangerous unknown world, and in this way Crowden secured for itself its succession before its brighter and more enterprising males set forth from their home system to explore, as explore they must.

Not that many went far — just far enough indeed to realize that the Moors were uninviting, the grikes unpleasant, and the only direction worth going in was west. Except that Crowden needed them, and other systems did not. Most came back soon enough, sadder and wiser for their discoveries, and settled to the life they had been reared to, which was to defend Crowden against the Moorish grikes, the infidels.

As for Crowden’s females, most were got with pup that first adult spring and so did not have any desire to journey away at all. In fact, Crowden was the place to which moles
came
to seek sanctuary and, all in all, there could hardly be a better place for a mole to be born, reared, live and to die than there.

Such was the narrow view shared by Privet and Hamble that September when she turned Hamble into a friend, and by October, when they had learnt to trust each other and share what secrets they had, neither had changed it much, though Hamble was beginning to feel a restlessness. Privet meanwhile was all dreams, all wishes, all half-formed desires, all timidity — and restlessness as well. But hers was of a kind different to Hamble’s — it was the aching need of a mole who had no mother-love, nor real father’s care, who longed to be safe and valued, but most of all to be needed, and was beginning to realize that she would never find such satisfactions in her home system.

“
I
need you!” declared Hamble one day when she admitted these things to him.

She smiled her wan smile, and touched him in friendliness, and looked past him to the Moors.

“The trouble is you’re like a brother, Hamble, and that’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said, “because sometimes I feel the same.”

“Will we ever find moles to love, whatever love really is?” she asked.

“We better!” declared Hamble stoutly.

“We might,” replied Privet doubtfully.