The Christmas Mouse (6 page)

‘No, Mary, you’ve done more than enough, and tomorrow’s a busy day. I’ll be all right here in the armchair. ’Tisn’t the first time I’ve slept downstairs, and the storm don’t trouble me.’

Mary looked doubtfully at the old lady but could see that her mind was made up.

‘All right then, Mum. I’ll go and fetch your eiderdown and pillow, and see you’ve got enough firing handy.’

Yet again she mounted the stairs, while Mrs Berry made up the fire and bravely went to have a quick look at the towel by the back door. No more water had seeped in, so presumably the defenses were doing their work satisfactorily. She returned to the snug living room to find Mary plumping up the pillow.

‘Now, you’re sure you’re all right?’ she asked anxiously. ‘If I hear that trap go off before I get to sleep, shall I call you?’

‘No, my dear. You’ll be asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow tonight. I can see that. I shall settle here and be perfectly happy.’

Mary retrieved the pillowcases, kissed her mother’s
forehead, and went to the staircase for the last time that night.

‘Sleep well,’ she said, smiling at her mother, who by now was wrapped in the eiderdown. ‘You look as snug as a bug in a rug, as the children say.’

‘Good night, Mary. You’re a good girl,’ said her mother, watching the door close behind her daughter.

Nearly half-past eleven, thought Mrs Berry. What a time to go to bed! Ten o’clock was considered quite late enough for the early risers of Shepherds Cross.

She struggled from her wrappings to turn off the light and to put a little small coal on the back of the fire. The room was very pretty and cosy by the flickering firelight. There was no sound from upstairs. All three of them, thought Mrs Berry, would be asleep by now, and that wretched mouse still making free in her own bedroom, no doubt.

Ah well, she was safe enough down here, and there was something very companionable about a fire in the room when you were settling down for the night.

She turned her head into the feather-filled pillow. Outside the storm still raged and she could hear the rain drumming relentlessly upon the roof and the road. It made her own comfort doubly satisfying.

God pity all poor travellers on a night like this, thought Mrs Berry, pulling up the eiderdown. ‘There’s one thing: I shan’t be awake long, storm or no storm.’

She sighed contentedly and composed herself for slumber.

B
ut tired though she was, Mrs Berry could not get to sleep. Perhaps it was the horrid shock of the mouse, or the unusual bustle of Christmas that had overtired her. Whatever the reason, the old lady found herself gazing at the rosy reflection of the fire on the ceiling, her mind drifting from one inconsequential subject to the next.

The bubbling of rain forcing its way through the crack of the window reminded her of the more ominous threat at the back door. Well, she told herself, that towel was standing up to the onslaught when she looked a short while ago. It must just take its chance. In weather like this, usual precautions were not enough. Stanley would have known what to do. A rolled-up towel wouldn’t have been good enough for him! Some sturdy carpentry would have made sure that the back door was completely weather-proof.

Mrs Berry sighed and thought wistfully of their manless state. Two good husbands gone, and no sons growing up to take their place in the household! It seemed hard, but the ways of God were inscrutable and who was to say why He had taken them first?

She thought of her first meeting with Stanley, when she was nineteen and he two years older. She had been in service then at the vicarage. Her employer was a predecessor of Mr Partridge’s, a bachelor who held the living of Fairacre for many years. He was a vague, saintly man, a great Hebrew scholar who had written a number of
learned commentaries on the minor prophets of the Old Testament. His parishioners were proud of his scholarship but, between themselves, admitted that he was ‘only ninepence in the shilling’ when it came to practical affairs.

Nevertheless, the vicarage was well run by a motherly old body who had once been nurse to a large family living in a castle in the next county. This training stood her in good stead when she took over the post of housekeeper to the vicar of Fairacre. She was methodical, energetic and abundantly kind. When a vacancy occurred for a young maid at the vicarage, Mrs Berry’s parents thought she would be extremely lucky to start work in such pleasant surroundings. They applied for the post for their daughter, then aged thirteen.

Despite her lonely upbringing in the gamekeeper’s cottage, Amelia Scott, as she was then, was a friendly child, anxious to help and blessed with plenty of common sense. The housekeeper realized her worth, and trained her well, letting her help in the kitchen as well as learning the secrets of keeping the rest of the establishment sweet and clean.

She thrived under the old lady’s tuition, and learned by her example to respect the sterling qualities of her employer. He was always ready to help his neighbours, putting aside his papers to assist anyone in trouble, and welcoming all – even the malodorous vagrants who ‘took advantage of him’, according to the housekeeper – into his study to give them refreshment of body and spirit.

One bright June morning, when the dew sparkled on the roses, Amelia heard the chinking of metal on stone,
and leaned out of the bedroom window to see two men at work on one of the buttresses of St Patrick’s church. The noise continued all the morning, and as the sun rose in the blue arc of a cloudless sky, she wondered if the master would send her across with a jug of cider to wash down the men’s dinners, as he often did. Then she remembered that he was out visiting at the other end of the parish. The housekeeper too was out on an errand. She was choosing the two plumpest young fowls, now running about in a neighbour’s chicken run, for the Sunday meal.

Amelia was helping Bertha, the senior housemaid, to clean out the attics when they heard the ringing of the back-door bell.

‘You run and see to that,’ said Bertha, her arms full of derelict pillows. ‘I’ll carry on here.’

Amelia sped downstairs through the shadows and sunlight that streaked the faded blue carpet, and opened the back door.

A young man, with thick brown hair and very bright dark eyes, smiled at her apologetically.

He held his left hand, which was heavily swathed in a red spotted handkerchief, in his right one, and dark stains showed that he was bleeding profusely.

‘Been a bit clumsy,’ he said. ‘My tool slipped.’

‘Come in,’ said Amelia, very conscious that she was alone to cope with this emergency. She led the way to the scullery and directed the young man to the shallow slate sink.

‘Put your hand in that bowl,’ she told him, ‘and I’ll pump some water. It’s very pure. We’ve got one of the deepest wells in the parish.’

It was certainly a nasty gash, and the pure water, so warmly recommended by Amelia, was soon cloudy with blood.

‘Keep swilling it around,’ directed Amelia, quite enjoying her command of the situation, ‘while I get a bit of rag to bandage it.’

‘There’s no need miss,’ protested the young man. ‘It’s stopping. Look!’

He held out the finger, but even as he did so, the blood began to well again. Amelia took one look and went to the bandage drawer in the kitchen dresser. Here, old pieces of linen sheeting were kept for just such an emergency, and the housekeeper’s pot of homemade salve stood permanently on the shelf above.

No one quite knew what the ingredients of this cure-all were, for the recipe’s secret was jealously guarded, but goose grease played a large part in it, along with certain herbs that the old lady gathered from the hedgerows. During the few years of Amelia’s residence at the vicarage she had seen this salve used for a variety of ailments, from chilblains to the vicar’s shaving rash, and always with good results.

She returned now with the linen and the pot of ointment. The young man still smiled, and Amelia smiled back.

‘Let me wrap it up,’ she said. ‘Let’s put some of this stuff on first.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘Nothin’ to hurt you.’ Amelia assured him. ‘It’s good for everything. Cured some spots I had on my chin quicker ’n lightning.’

‘I don’t believe you ever had spots,’ said the young man gallantly. He held out the wounded finger, and Amelia twisted the strip round and round deftly, cutting the end in two to make a neat bow.

‘There,’ she said with pride, ‘now you’ll be more comfortable.’

‘Thank you, miss. You’ve been very kind.’

He picked up the bloodied handkerchief.

‘Leave that there,’ said Amelia, ‘and I’ll wash it for you.’

‘No call to trouble you with that,’ said the young man. ‘My ma will wash it when I get back.’

‘Blood stains need soaking in cold water,’ Amelia told him, ‘and the sooner the better. I’ll put it to soak now, then wash it out.’

‘Well, thank you. We’re working on the church for the rest of the week. Can I call in tomorrow to get it?’

Amelia felt a glow of pleasure at the thought of seeing him again, so soon. She liked his thick hair, his quick eyes, and his well-tanned skin – a proper nut-brown man, and polite too. Amelia looked at him with approval.

‘I’ll be here,’ she promised.

‘My name’s Berry,’ said the young man. ‘Stanley Berry. What’s yours?’

‘Amelia Scott.’

‘Well, thank you, Amelia, for a real good job. I must be getting back to work or I’ll get sacked.’

She watched him cross the garden in the shimmering heat, the white bandage vivid against the brown background of his skin and clothes. He paused in the gateway leading to the churchyard, waving to her.

Delighted, she waved back.

‘You’ve taken your time,’ grumbled Bertha, when she returned to the attic. She looked at Amelia’s radiant face shrewdly. ‘Who’d you see down there? Prince Charming?’

Amelia forbore to answer, but thought that Bertha seemed to have guessed correctly.

The next morning the young man called to collect his handkerchief. Amelia had washed and ironed it with extreme care, and had put it carefully on the corner of the dresser to await its owner.

He carried a bunch of pink roses, and at the sight of them Amelia felt suddenly shy.

‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ she began, but the young man hastily put her at ease.

‘My ma sent them, to thank you for what you did, and for washing the handkerchief. She said you’re quite right. She’d have had the devil’s own job to get out the stain if I’d left it till evening.’

Amelia took the bunch and smelled them rapturously.

‘Please do thank her for them. They’re lovely. I’ll put them in my room.’

Stanley gave her a devastating smile again.

‘I picked them,’ he said gently.

‘Then, thank you too,’ said Amelia, handing over the handkerchief.

They stood in silence for a moment, gazing at each other, loath to break the spell of this magic moment.

‘Best be going,’ said Stanley, at length. He gave a gusty sigh, which raised Amelia’s spirits considerably, and set off, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket. He had not gone more than a few steps when he halted and turned.

‘Can I come again, Amelia?’

‘
Please
,’ said Amelia, with rather more fervour than a well-bred young lady should have shown. But then Amelia always spoke her mind.

There was no looking back, no hesitation, no lovers’ quarrels. From that first meeting they trod a smooth, blissfully happy path of courtship. They were both even-tempered, considerate people, having much the same background and, most important of all, the same sense of fun. There were no family difficulties, and the wedding took place on a spring day as sunny as that on which they had first met.

They lived for the first few years at Beech Green, in a small cottage thatched by Dolly Clare’s father, who was
one of their neighbours. The first two girls were born there, and then the house at Shepherds Cross was advertised to let. It was considerably bigger than their first house, and although it meant a longer cycle ride for Stanley, this did not deter him.

Here Mary was born. They had hoped for a boy this time, but the baby was so pretty and good that the accident of her sex was speedily forgotten.