The hillside position, too, was enviable. The houses commanded wide views over agricultural land, the gardens were large and, with unusual forethought, the council had provided a row of garages for their tenants, so that unsightly, old shabby cars were screened from
view. Those lucky enough to get a Tupps Hill house were envied by their brethren.
If only Stephen could get in unobserved! Mrs Berry stirred restlessly, considering her visitor’s chances of escaping detection. Poor little mouse! Poor little Christmas mouse! Dear God, please let him creep into his home safely!
And then she froze. Somewhere, in the darkness close at hand, something rustled.
Her first instinct was to snatch the eiderdown from the bed, and bolt. She would fly downstairs again to the safety of the armchair, and there await the dawn and Mary’s coming to her rescue.
But several things kept her quaking in the warm bed. Extreme tiredness was one. Her fear that she would rouse the sleeping household was another. The day ahead would be a busy one, and Mary needed all the rest she could get. This was something she must face alone.
Mrs Berry tried to pinpoint the position of the rustling. A faint squeaking noise made her flesh prickle. What could it be? It did not sound like the squeak of a mouse. The noise came from the right, by the window. Could the wretched creature be on the windowsill? Could it be scrabbling, with its tiny claws, on the glass of the windowpane, in its efforts to escape?
Mrs Berry shuddered at the very thought of confronting it, of seeing its dreadful stringy tail, its beady eyes, and its more than likely darting to cover into some inaccessible spot in the bedroom.
All her old terrors came flying back, like a flock of evil black birds, to harass her. There was that ghastly dead
mouse in her aunt’s flour keg, the next one with all those pink hairless babies in her father’s toolbox, the one that the boys killed in the school lobby, the pair that set up home once under the kitchen sink, and all those numberless little horrors that Pepe the cat used to bring in, alive and dead, to scare her out of her wits.
But somehow, there had always been someone to cope with them. Dear Stanley, or Bertie, or brave Mary, or some good neighbour would come to her aid. Now, in the darkness, she must manage alone.
She took a deep breath and cautiously edged her tired old legs out of the bed. She must switch on the bedside lamp again, and risk the fact that it might stampede the mouse into flight.
Her fingers shook as she groped for the switch. Once more, rosy light bathed the room. Sitting on the side of the bed, Mrs Berry turned round to face the direction of the rustling, fear drying her throat.
There was no sound now. Even the wind seemed to have dropped. Silence engulfed the room. Could she have been mistaken? Could the squeaking noise have been caused by the thorns of the rosebush growing against the wall? Hope rose. Immediately it fell again.
For there, crouched in a corner of the windowsill, was a tiny furry ball.
Old Mrs Berry put a shaking hand over her mouth to quell any scream that might escape her unawares. Motionless, she gazed at the mouse. Motionless, the mouse gazed back. Thus transfixed, they remained. Only the old lady’s heavy breathing broke the silence that engulfed them.
After some minutes, the mouse lifted its head and
snuffed the air. Mrs Berry caught her breath. It was so like Stephen Amonetti, as he had sprawled in the armchair, head back, with his pointed pink nose in the air. She watched the mouse, fascinated. It seemed oblivious of danger and sat up on its haunches to wash its face.
Its bright eyes, as dark and lustrous as Stephen’s, moved restlessly as it went about its toilet. Its minute pink paws reminded Mrs Berry of the tiny pink shells she had treasured as a child after a Sunday-school outing to the sea. It was incredible to think that something so small could lead such a full busy life, foraging, making a home, keeping itself and its family fed and cleaned.
And that was the life it must return to, thought Mrs Berry firmly. It must go back, as surely as Stephen had, to resume its proper existence. Strange that two creatures, so alike in looks, should flee their homes and take refuge on the same night, uninvited, under her roof!
The best way to send this little scrap on its homeward journey would be to open the window and hope that it would negotiate the frail stairway of the rosebush trained against the wall, and so return to earth. But the thought of reaching over the mouse to struggle with the window catch needed all the courage that the old lady could muster, and she sat on the bed summoning her strength.
The longer she watched, the less frightened she became. It was almost like watching Stephen Amonetti all over again – a fugitive, defenceless, young, and infinitely pathetic. They both needed help and guidance to get them home.
She took a deep breath and stood up. The bed springs squeaked, but the mouse did not take flight. It stopped
washing its whiskers and gazed warily about it. Mrs Berry, gritting her teeth, approached slowly.
The mouse shrank down into a little furry ball, reminding Mrs Berry of a fur button on a jacket of her mother’s. Quietly, she leaned over the sill and lifted the window catch. The mouse remained motionless.
The cold air blew in, stirring the curtain and bringing a breath of rain-washed leaves and damp earth.
Mrs Berry retreated to the bed again to watch developments. She sat there for a full minute before her captive made a move.
It raised its quivering pink nose and then, in one bound, darted over the window frame, dragging its pink tail behind it. As it vanished, Mrs Berry hurried to the window to watch its departure.
It was light enough to see its tiny shape undulating down the crisscross of thorny rose stems. But when it finally reached the bare earth, it was invisible to the old lady’s eyes.
She closed the window carefully, sighed with relief and exhaustion, and clambered, once more, into bed.
Her two unbidden visitors – her Christmas mice – had gone! Now, at long last, she could rest.
Behind the row of wallflower plants, close to the bricks of the cottage, scurried the mouse, nose twitching. It ran across the garden path, dived under the cotoneaster bush, scrambled up the mossy step by the disused well, turned sharp right through the jungle of dried grass beside the garden shed, and streaked, unerringly, to the third hawthorn bush in the hedge.
There, at the foot, screened by ground ivy, was its hole.
It dived down into the loose sandy earth, snuffling the dear frowsty smell of mouse family and mouse food.
Home at last!
At much the same time, Stephen Amonetti lowered himself carefully through the pantry window.
The house was as silent as the grave, and dark inside, after the pallid glimmer of the moon’s rays.
With infinite caution he undid the pantry door, and closed it behind him. For greater quietness, he removed his wet shoes and, carrying them in one hand, he ascended the staircase.
The smells of home were all about him. There was a faint whiff of the mince pies Mrs Rose had made on Christmas Eve mingled, from the open door of the bathroom, with the sharp clean smell of Lifebuoy soap.
Noiselessly, he turned the handle of the bedroom door. Now there was a stronger scent – of the liniment that Jim used after football, boasting, as he rubbed, of his swelling muscles. The older boy lay curled on his side of the bed, dead to the world. It would take more than Stephen’s entry into the room to wake him.
Peeling off his clothes, Stephen longed for bed, for sleep, for forgetfulness. Within three minutes, he was lying beside the sleeping boy, his head a jumble of cake tins, fierce old ladies, stormy weather, sore feet.
And somewhere, beyond the muddle, a hazy remembrance of a promise to keep.
I
t was light when Mrs Berry awoke. She lay inert in the warm bed, relishing its comfort, as her bemused mind struggled with memories of the night.
The mouse and Stephen! What a double visitation, to be sure! No wonder she was tired this morning and had slept late. It must be almost eight o’clock – Christmas morning too! Where were the children? Where was Mary? The house was uncommonly quiet. She must get up and investigate.
At that moment, she heard footsteps outside in the road, and the sound of people greeting each other. Simultaneously, the church bell began to ring. Yes, it must be nearly eight o’clock, and those good parishioners were off to early service!
Well, thought Mrs Berry philosophically, she would not be among the congregation. She rarely missed the eight o’clock service, but after such a night she would be thankful to go later, at eleven, taking the two little girls with her.
She struggled up in bed and gazed at the sky. It was a glory of grey and gold: streamers of ragged clouds, gilded at their edges, filled the world with a luminous radiance, against which the bare twigs of the plum tree spread their black lace.
She opened the window, remembering with a shudder the last time she had done so. Now the air, fresh and cool, lifted her hair. The bells sounded clearly,
as the neighbours’ footsteps died away into the distance.
‘Awake then?’ said Mary, opening the door. ‘Happy Christmas!’
She bore a cup of tea, the steam blowing towards her in the draught from the window.
‘You spoil me,’ said Mrs Berry. ‘I ought to be up. Proper old sleepyhead I am today. Where are the children?’
‘Downstairs, having breakfast. Not that they want much. They’ve been stuffing sweets and the tangerine from their stockings since six!’
She put the cup on the bedside table and closed the window.
‘They wanted to burst in here, but I persuaded them to let you sleep on. What happened to the mouse? Is it still about? I see the trap’s sprung.’
‘I let it out of the window,’ said Mrs Berry. She could not keep a touch of pride from her voice.
‘You never! You brave old dear! Where was it then?’
‘On the sill. I got so tired by about three, I risked it and came up. I don’t mind admitting I fair hated reaching over the little creature to get at the latch, but it made off in no time, so that was all right.’
‘That took some pluck,’ said Mary, her voice warm with admiration. ‘Can I let those rascals come up now, to show you their presents?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Mrs Berry, reaching for her cup. ‘Then I’ll get up, and give you a hand.’
Mary called down the staircase, and there was a thumping of feet and squeals and shouts as the two excited children struggled upstairs with their loot.
‘Look, Grandma,’ shouted Frances, ‘I’ve put on my slippers!’
‘Look, Grandma,’ shouted Jane, ‘Father Christmas brought me a dear little doll!’
They flung themselves upon the bed, Mary watching them with amusement.
‘Mind Gran’s tea,’ she warned.
‘Leave them be,’ said her mother lovingly. ‘This is how Christmas morning should begin!’
Smiling, Mary left the three of them and went downstairs.
On the door mat lay an envelope. Mary’s heart sank, as she bent to pick it up. Not another person they’d forgotten to send to? Not another case of Mrs Burton all over again? Anyway, it was too late now to run about returning Christmas cards. Whoever had sent it must just be thanked when they met.
She took it into the living room and stood with her back to the fire, studying the face of the envelope with some bewilderment. Most of the cards were addressed to ‘Mrs Berry and Family,’ or to ‘Mrs Berry and Mrs Fuller,’ but this was to ‘Mrs Bertie Fuller’ alone, and written in a firm hand.
Wonderingly, Mary drew out the card. It was a fine reproduction of ‘The Nativity’ by G. van Honthorst, and inside, beneath the printed Christmas greetings, was the signature of Ray Bullen. A small piece of writing paper fluttered to the floor, as Mary, flushing with pleasure, studied the card.
She stooped to retrieve it. The message it contained was simple and to the point.
I have two tickets for the New Year’s Eve concert at the Corn Exchange. Can you come with me? Do hope so!
R
AY
Mary sat down with a thud on the chair recently vacated by young Jane. Automatically, she began stacking the girls’ bowls sticky with cornflakes and milk. Her hands were shaking, she noticed, and she felt shame mingling with her happiness.
‘Like some stupid girl,’ she scolded herself, ‘instead of a widow with two girls.’
She left the crockery alone, and took up the note again. It was kind of him – typical of his thoughtfulness. Somehow, he had managed to write the card after seeing her yesterday, and had found someone in the village who would drop it through her letterbox on the way to early service. It must have taken some organizing, thought Mary, much touched. He was a good sort of man. Bertie had always said so, and this proved it.
As for the invitation, that was a wonderful thing to have. She would love to go and knew that her mother would willingly look after the children. But would she approve? Would she think she was being disloyal to Bertie’s memory to accept an invitation from another man?
Fiddlesticks! thought Mary robustly, dismissing such mawkish sentiments. Here was an old friend offering to take her to a concert – that was all. It was a kindness that would be churlish to rebuff. Of course she would go, and it would be a rare treat too!
Calmer, she rose and began to take the dishes into the kitchen, her mind fluttering about the age-old problem of
what to wear on such a momentous occasion. There was her black, but it was too funereal, too widowlike. Suddenly she wanted to look gay, young, happy – to show that she appreciated the invitation, she told herself hastily.
There was the yellow frock she had bought impulsively one summer day, excusing her extravagance by persuading herself that it was just the thing for the Women’s Institute outing to the theatre. But when the evening had arrived she had begun to have doubts. Was it, perhaps, too gay for a widow? Would the tongues wag? Would they say she was ‘after’ someone? Mutton dressed as lamb?
She had put it back in the cupboard, and dressed herself in the black one. Better be on the safe side, she had told herself dejectedly, and had felt miserable the whole evening.