by Penny Dolan
No, this clever mouse ran straight across the loft floor and out along the great oak beam that stretched from one side of the barn over to the other. Its tiny pink feet pattered earnestly along the huge beam, high above the threshing floor. I watched, astonished, as it went busily across. At last, the creature reached the floor of the loft opposite and disappeared among the bales of hay.
‘Mouse?’ I murmured, excited, for that was the name they called me. ‘Mouse!’
I had never imagined anything crossing from one side of the barn to the other in that way. If an ordinary mouse could manage it, I thought, surely someone called Mouse could cross along that high beam too. So I set out to do just that.
I moved one foot, then another, balancing very, very carefully, high above the cart and the hay rakes and the pitchforks. The air below swam with hay dust, but I edged forward, bit by bit, further and further.
Just as I reached the midway point, Isaac shambled in. I giggled, and he looked up and saw me there, balanced on that oak beam high above his reach.
Isaac paused, like a strangely surprised statue. Then he smiled at me. ‘You be going well there, my boy. Don’t you go rushing just cos I’m here. Take your time, Mouse.’ That was all he said.
Soon I had reached the other side. I clambered down, proud of my adventure.
‘Once is enough, boy,’ said Isaac as he hugged me. ‘Understand?’ He was trying to put me off my new trick.
His words did not work. I became bolder. Whether Isaac was there or not, I would balance my way across the wide oak beam, if only to see the golden sunlight make a patchwork on the floor far below me.
All was well until the day Ma came into the barn and saw me high above her head. It was the only time I saw her in a raging fury.
‘What do you think you are doing with him?’ she shouted at Isaac.
I stopped halfway across and grew anxious. I started to wobble. ‘Ma?’ I squeaked, my voice high and nervous.
At once Ma was beaming widely too, as if she felt just like Isaac after all. ‘Keep going, Mouse. Get to the end, my pet,’ she urged. ‘Clever boy.’
‘You be a brave old boy, little Mouse,’ Isaac said. ‘Go careful like. Look ahead.’
So, one proud step at a time, I crossed that beam, and I didn’t look down, because I knew their eyes were watching, admiring my bravery.
When I got back to the floor, Ma snatched me up and hugged me. Her cheeks were wet. ‘Whatever would I tell them, Isaac?’ she said.
Isaac hung his head. ‘It was what the child needed to do,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t come to any hurt.’
Ma sighed. ‘You must take more care of him, Isaac. One day they will come asking.’
‘Asking what?’ I said, my head still full of my own cleverness.
‘Asking if you are a good boy, pet,’ she answered.
That night I heard Ma and Isaac talking, but did not understand what they were saying.
‘Yes, my love, I wish he could stay here for ever too,’ Ma said, ‘but who knows what they will want. Maybe . . .’
But then I fell asleep.
From then on, Isaac would not let me climb too high or too hard, especially if Ma was around in the yard, but he had a tough task of it. This climbing up things had got into my soul, and I was always scampering off up trees, or on top of the hay carts, wanting to be Isaac and Ma’s brave boy and the king of the castle.
Stop! Enough! I want to pause in this story now. I want to hold on to that picture for a moment. Roseberry Farm! Thoughts of that place shine in the cold of this night’s kitchen. In my mind, Isaac is smiling and Ma is smiling. They had good, happy smiles. But the smile on the face of the man who came to Roseberry Farm was as full of poison as an adder’s bite.
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CHAPTER 5
AN EDUCATION IS ARRANGED
Scrope sprawled on his sofa, one arm flung wearily above his head and his long face sunken into sullen folds. The five years that had passed had not been kind to him.
Scrope had hoped that once Mouse was out of the house, old Epsilon would forget the boy for ever. After all, he had ignored the child well enough before. However, lately the old man had started murmuring the child’s name in his sleep, muttering it over and over.
Had Epsilon ever murmured Scrope’s name? No! No matter what Scrope did to appear dutiful, Epsilon showed him less regard than before. Scrope squirmed uncomfortably and got restlessly to his feet. How would things stand if Epsilon knew how bad his debts had become, or how much Scrope was in need of some ready funds?
‘Button?’ Scrope said.
‘Sir?’ The small man fingered the edge of his notebook, all attention and reassuring smiles.
‘Any news on that boy?’
‘Only that all is well. He thrives.’
Farmyards seemed to be safer places than Scrope had imagined. ‘Maybe it is time to find somewhere . . . somewhere . . . somewhere a little less healthy?’ he asked at last.
‘A place where a child might be toughened up a little?’ Button suggested, amusement glinting in his eyes.
Scrope bit his lip. ‘Just so.’
‘A school? A distant school? A discreet school? By chance, I know of such a place.’
Scrope imagined Epsilon’s guineas wasting away needlessly. ‘Won’t an education cost?’ he asked quickly. It was hard to avoid reminding Button about his own particular debts. ‘Especially,’ he added ‘if it is a boarding establishment.’
‘I have a small interest in this school,’ said Button. ‘It is a kind of charitable enterprise, run by an old acquaintance. See here?’ Opening his notebook, Button underlined a name. ‘Remember a time when this fellow haunted the Golden Cockatoo?’
‘A most unlucky player?’ Scrope was swiftly amused.
‘Unlucky? Who can say? He is certainly someone fonder of cards than of children. All the same, he did not refuse when I asked him to be headmaster of Murkstone Hall. Cost? Very little. The school is run on economical lines.’
‘Economical?’
‘Extremely economical. The boys live a very simple life.’ Button gave his most helpful smile, and then, because he liked to keep all dealings with Murkstone Hall in his own hands, he added, ‘Do you want me to approach the school? There is no need for you to be troubled by such matters.’
How could Scrope refuse? ‘I must speak to Epsilon first,’ he said, but they both knew a choice had already been made.
That evening Scrope leaned over the back of his father’s armchair. He had to speak quickly before the clouds of melancholy returned.
‘Father, I have been thinking. The woman has had the boy long enough. He needs somewhere better for his schooling than a farmyard. May I arrange his education?’
For a second Epsilon’s hooded eyes oozed with self-pity, then he raised his wrinkled hand dismissively. ‘As ever, Scrope,’ the old man croaked, ‘just do whatever is best. Go!’
That was it. That was all. He had been sent away as if he was a servant. Scrope strode to his own room in a torrent of anger. Why had his brother Albert been so loved, and he not? He despised himself for caring about such matters.
‘Do whatever is best.’ If Scrope was bolder, he would definitely not do his best. He would do his worst. He would do more than merely dream of that child’s destruction. His hands curled into fists and his knucklebones whitened.
Then he thought of the little boy’s face, and murmured a name. Oh, Adeline!
Scrope cannot forget that haughty girl, now plunged down to her doom in the ocean, her child left behind her. If he had truly loved her, or if she had loved him, or even if she had ever asked him, he would have cared for the boy, or so he told himself.
So thank heaven – or another place – for Button’s steady determination.
‘I shall do
what must be done, Father,’ Scrope promised softly. ‘Trust me.’
The scheme was settled.
‘What will the boy be told?’ asked Scrope.
‘Nothing,’ Button pulled on a pair of neat travelling gloves, ‘just as he has been told nothing about where he comes from. I made Hanny – that silly woman! – promise she would say not a word.’ He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘The boy called Mouse lives in utter ignorance.’
In a distant county hail fell, rattling like bad dice against the cracked window glass of Murkstone Hall. The wind forced smoke back down the chimney, so that it filled the private parlour where Headmaster Bulloughby was reading a letter.
It brought him no pleasure and suddenly he scrunched the paper into a ball.
‘Button,’ he groaned, pushing back his thick orange wig and revealing a scalp marbled with strands of greasy hair. He scratched his head furiously and then slid the wig back into position. ‘Wretched Mr Button!’
Despair settled across his blotched features. Taking a small rectangular box from his desk, he sprinkled a large pinch of snuff on one stained cuff, raised the cuff to his nostrils and inhaled the dark dust – as if the chimney smoke was not enough – then, bleary eyes swivelling upwards, sneezed and spluttered explosively.
These small detonations at an end, he unfolded the letter and reread the contents.
‘Friend Bulloughby . . .’
Friend? He knew only too well what it was to be a friend of Button’s. He cursed the debts that kept him in Button’s grip, the mistakes that had brought him and his nearest and dearest to this thankless situation. He cursed too the pitiful amount that the boy would bring him, arranged as such sums were by the smiling Mr Button.
Bulloughby followed the message to its end: ‘. . . I will bring the boy to you myself.’
He let the letter fall to the threadbare carpet and kicked at one of the table legs.
‘A dead weight! A useless brat! A wretched burden! What’s the point of edication if it ain’t to make a profit for some?’ said Bulloughby mournfully. ‘The boys I do get something for are enough trouble, and there’s almost nothing for my pains with this one!’ He nuzzled at his musky cuff, sneezed again and stared bleakly into the fire. ‘Life’s cards are stacked against me right enough.’
Life was always against Bulloughby. It had tricked him in those gaming houses, and tricked him into being tied to Mr Button and stuck in this establishment so horribly infested with brats. Lately he had felt he would never be free of Button’s hold.
And now Button was about to deliver a farthing brat, a child that brought no profit at all. Bulloughby did not even care enough to wonder who the child was.
Far away, Button rubbed his palms together contentedly, thinking of the difference between the rich music of the fees that jingled into his money chest and the few coins needed to drop on Bulloughby’s table. Farthings for a fool and guineas for a genius!
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CHAPTER 6
A CARRIAGE ARRIVES
Roseberry Farm was at the end of a long lane, away from the busy highways. Sometimes a shuttered coach came, bringing or taking one of Ma’s small babies, but the passers-by were mostly local folk.
Each summer the old men, all whiskers and wrinkles, wandered over from nearby farms. They leaned on our gate, sucking on grass stalks. Each winter big Isaac trudged through the snow to visit their small cottages, carrying gifts of food or fodder for their beasts.
Spring and autumn were the seasons when the dealers came, wanting to buy livestock or grain, and the hagglers and pedlars arrived with wagons or packs laden with goods. Ma bought what was needed.
‘Too many lives get troubled and torn by lack of money, young Mouse,’ she told me, ‘and some by too much of it as well.’
Every now and again, a tall wayfaring man would stop and make his camp close by Roseberry Farm. I liked to see his lean figure arrive, his hair and beard blowing about him, for he was as tattered and worn by the wind as any scarey-crow or vagabond minstrel.
While Ma found him food, or some old clothes of Isaac’s, the tramp sat by the horse trough playing tunes on his penny whistle. I sat beside him and sang along, and then I’d show him how well I could walk on my hands. The tramp said little back to me, but his eyes were bright and kind.
Ma would bring out a full supper bowl and then shoo me away so the man could eat in peace. ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am,’ he’d say.
I envied that tramp, with his long coats and his cloak. He slept among our hay bales that night and was off and away on his travels the next morning, as if he was always following some mysterious trail of his own making. Once the tramp was gone, all he left behind him was a patch of flattened straw, and the tunes haunting my mind.
Then one day – a day I will never forget – the dreadful carriage came. It clattered into the yard and waited like a large lacquered stag beetle. My mouth hung open at the sight of the two black horses, their coats shining glossily in the sun.
Then the door swung open and a small man dropped down. His cheeks were as rosy red as Snow White’s apple, and his eyes were hard and round and bright. Standing there in his tight black suit, amidst the muddle and roughness of the farmyard, the man looked as if he had been polished all over.
As Ma opened the door, her face went pale as watered milk.
‘Isaac! Isaac!’ she cried, her arms held rigid against her sides, though I knew by her face she wanted to run over and grab hold of me. The man only smiled more brightly.
Ma bobbed a quick curtsy. ‘Come in, sir,’ she said, and led the man into the farmhouse. She gave one long, long look at me as I stood in the yard. Then she closed the door.
So I went back to floating straws in the horse trough and wondering if I could sneak away to a very good climbing tree I’d found at the end of the meadow.
I have often wondered why I didn’t run in and find out what the visitor wanted, but I didn’t. Now I would go. I would watch and listen. I’d listen to every gasp and cough and whisper and word that passed between the man and Ma. I’d write things down, if I could, so I knew what happened. But back then, and barely six, nothing bad had happened to me, not anything that I knew about.
Besides, the only alphabet I knew was the letters Ma made me scratch into the hearth dust each morning. The only words I’d read were the names carved above the horses’ stalls, or some verses in Isaac’s Bible. I traced carelessly over the odd unknown words I found on the farm bills and on any scraps of paper that blew along the lanes, slowly saying what words I could. But back then I did not know the power of words.
After a while the farm door opened again. Isaac came towards me, and something was clearly wrong, because he walked as if he was hurting inside. Taking me by the hand, he led me into the comfy gloom of the farmhouse.
I scuffed my feet across the rag rug by the fire, fidgeting because I wanted to get back to the horse trough, not to meet the beetle-coated stranger, despite his smart carriage.
‘This man is Mr Button,’ Isaac said, ‘and he has come for an important purpose. You must listen to him, Mouse.’
I pouted, and glanced at the table to see if there was anything good to eat, but it was empty except for a letter. The scrawled ink curled across the page. I moved closer, trying to study the strangely inked patterns. The signed name was like a splattered spider.
‘Do you like what you see? You could learn to write like this, child,’ said Mr Button. A fat finger stabbed at the letter.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ I said, for Ma had taught me to be a polite child. ‘But you can leave us a bottle of ink and some paper, if you please, sir.’
Ma took a deep, deep breath. Then she began to speak, but her mouth was not like her kindly, everyday mouth. She seemed to be holding another set of words inside, the words she really wanted to speak, word
s full of sadness.
What Ma said was this: ‘Mr Button has come to tell us that it is time for you to go to school, Mouse.’
‘Well, I don’t want to, thank you!’ Even then, I knew school was not a good idea.
Isaac shook his head, and his blue eyes flooded with tears. ‘You must, my boy,’ he said. ‘This gentleman has come to take you away.’
I stared hard then at the hateful letter, and at the words that had tangled themselves up into a scribble of loops and tails. The man picked the letter up, reading it so crisply that the words were sharp as tacks. I heard only fragments, but the words were not like farm talk.
‘No wish to see him . . . Nevertheless, a fitting education . . . A suitable place has now been chosen.’
Though the words made no sense to me, they did to Ma. She was overawed by whatever the letter told her.
At that moment I promised myself that I would never again let any unknown writing have power over me. Babyish words scratched in cold ashes had no power against ink and paper.
Ma was fighting back tears too. ‘Please, sir, we’ve had no warning. Can’t you come back in a month?’ she said. ‘Let us have a little more time together, please.’
‘You have had the child long enough. I must take him now.’
Isaac gave one loud sob.
‘Let me have a word with the boy alone,’ Ma said, ‘for pity’s sake, Mr Button.’
‘A moment. That is all. Hurry.’
Ma took me through to the back room, where there was the wooden bed I had slept in for as long as I could remember. Then came a shock, a surprise. From under the bed Ma tugged out a sturdy trunk. It was full of garments: shirts and socks, and two sets of breeches and waistcoats and jackets.
‘These may be a little big for you, Mouse, because I did not think the request would come so soon. But you will grow into them,’ she told me.