A Boy Called MOUSE

by Penny Dolan

  With pen, inkwell and sealing wax to hand, Scrope tried to sound both caring and kind.

  ‘Father, if you would add your name . . .’ His long finger pointed to the space left for the old man’s signature. ‘I can add names of witnesses later. It will be no trouble.’

  ‘Pah!’ With unusual energy, old Epsilon pushed the document away as if it was nothing. He dragged a faded newspaper clipping from his waistcoat pocket and waved it in Scrope’s face, shouting furiously.

  ‘LOST!’ he screeched. ‘Can you not read, Scrope? The ship is missing. Albert is LOST!’

  ‘Father, it has been more than three years since –’

  ‘Do you not understand? They are merely LOST! They are NOT YET FOUND!’ He tore the unsigned will in half and threw it back at Scrope. ‘Leave me, you foolish man!’

  Scrope’s hopes shrivelled away. Though he had stayed where his father wanted him and did what he was asked – almost – even after all this time Epsilon treated him as if he was nothing. Bile surged up in his throat. Unfair, unfair.

  The moment Scrope entered his own room, he thrust the tattered pieces into the fire. As the parchment blazed, he paced up and down, up and down, raging at everything: at Albert, Adeline, Epsilon, the boy. He was trapped by each and every one of them.

  As he strode past a small table, he knocked it so hard that it toppled. A bowl of dried flower heads spilled across the carpet, filling the room with the soft nursery scent of lavender.

  Hah! Nursery! Scrope grimaced. If that nursery maid had not interfered all those years ago, things would have worked out. This was all her fault.

  Now, while he was suffering here, that silly Hanny lived on at the farm, as happy as the day was long. She did not even have to worry about looking after the wretched child, for the boy had been taken away from her. Curse her, curse her! So unfair!

  In fact, Scrope determined, it was about time that things should be made fairer, a lot fairer. That bold Hanny should be punished for what she had done. She should get what she deserved. She should know what bad luck was like. She would!

  Suddenly Scrope felt he had a grasp on things again. He would summon Mr Button and ask him to send some of his special friends to Roseberry Farm. Scrope wanted Hanny to know how angry he was, to make sure Hanny knew how it felt to suffer one’s plans being spoiled.

  Hah! His friend Mr Button was not one to resist that sort of a challenge. Scrope folded his hands across his waistcoat, and savoured a moment of satisfaction.

  By the end of the week, Friend Button had sent four of his men to visit Roseberry Farm. A job worth doing was a job worth doing well.

  .

  CHAPTER 15

  PASSING TIME

  I grew. The clothes Ma had made me fell away to rags. How many other boys had worn the garments that dressed me, I did not know, nor who else had worn the broken shoes on my filthy feet.

  Seasons passed, and passed again, and three or four years had disappeared. Boys arrived, boys went, but Niddle and I were still among those at Murkstone Hall.

  Bulloughby was watching me more and more, his eyes full of a deep resentment, as if I was to blame for something. Often, in the darkest corridors, I glanced over my shoulder to be sure I knew what was behind me.

  Murkstone Hall had patches of happiness too. Every Sunday, if Jarvey was well, he read out lines from the Bible, and long poems about King Arthur and Odysseus and Hercules and other heroes. Those words had far more music and enchantment than Madam Claudine’s dreary fragments of facts.

  Sometimes we learned scenes from plays and spoke the lines aloud.

  ‘Declaim, boys, but don’t let your tongue trip you up. Speak slowly and clearly!’ Jarvey said, trying not to wheeze. ‘A strong voice is a great benefit, and will serve its owner well. Now, let me hear those lines again.’

  When the weather was bad, or if Jarvey was too ill, Niddle and I learned what we could for ourselves. We went to the library on the second floor, where mildewed stacks of books were strewn around like miniature mountain ranges. We discovered stories and legends, though often pages were so glued and furrowed by damp that we had to imagine the missing scenes, or act out fights and adventures without knowing which hero became the victor, or whether the monstrous dragon had perished after all.

  When we played out those stories, in that gloomy library, I sometimes wondered who exactly was real and who was not. Was Merlin real, or Arthur, or were they just an ancient dream? Was I real, or was I just a forgotten story? Was my happy life with Ma no more than a tale I’d dreamed up?

  I decided that my stories should be true, because I needed to believe in them more than I needed to believe in Murkstone Hall. In my stories, I could climb and fly and swoop and dive. No one could stop me, or lay money on me, or judge me. In every tale and telling, I could escape and become free of all that held me down.

  One afternoon, when the weather was particularly foul, Jarvey sent me with a pile of books to his study. Rain had come pouring through the ceiling of the main corridor, leaving the floor awash, so I took the route that passed by the entrance of the school, which was too close to Bulloughby’s parlour for my liking.

  With a gush of wind and water, Mr Button entered the school. Rain ran from the brim of his hat and his umbrella left a trail of puddles as he strode towards our dear headmaster’s door.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I thought, and peered around the piled volumes.

  ‘Mr Button?’ I tried to sound calm, though my knees shook. ‘Is there any news from Roseberry Farm? Any news of my Ma, sir?’

  Button’s eyes gleamed as if he was laughing, and at me. His rosy cheeks bobbed in some silent amusement, making the raindrops jump on the tip of his nose.

  ‘Aha! Of course! It’s dear little Mouse. How you’ve grown! Well, boy, I swear there is no news for you from Roseberry Farm, not any news at all! Your Ma sends you no message, boy. That is how life goes, I fear.’ Briskly Button entered the parlour. I glimpsed Bulloughby’s face as he shrank back from his visitor.

  I felt uneasy, as if something had happened that I should know about.

  .

  CHAPTER 16

  DEBTS AND DOUBTS

  ‘What is the matter?’ Button said, gazing around the Headmaster’s parlour.

  Bulloughby leaned forward, clenching and unclenching his fingers. ‘This is how it is, Button. This Mouse boy. This Vermin. He grows, he eats, he needs learning.’

  Button nodded slowly. ‘So?’

  Bulloughby grew more insistent. ‘But I get almost nothing for my troubles. Is so little still sent for the child?’

  Button pursed up his plump mouth, seeming neither pleased nor displeased, though he was calculating his next action. Had he pushed Bulloughby a little too far? He needed to soothe his disgruntled partner.

  ‘I will mention it,’ Button began hastily, ‘the very next time I visit Epton – ah!’ he broke off, a little rattled to have revealed so much. He recovered his composure, and continued smoothly, ‘The very next time I visit that grand house.’

  ‘Grand house?’ echoed Bulloughby, who had heard the illustrious name.

  ‘Yes.’ Button beamed as brightly as he could. He even patted Bulloughby’s hand. ‘No need to bother yourself. Trust me.’

  Once Button had gone, Bulloughby thought as hard as his head could bear. At last he set off for a room he rarely visited. Struggling up dismal flights of stairs, he entered the neglected library.

  Shuffling along the dusty shelves, he searched here and there until he grasped a stained, broken-backed directory. He thumbed the pages until he came to the index, and ran his eye down the alphabetical properties. Epton?

  Bulloughby would – yes! – he would be heard.

  Far away, within that grand house, Scrope was feeling happier. A run of winnings had
thrown more finance into his hands. As for Albert and Adeline, it stood to reason that his father, growing older, would gradually but surely forget them and the child. Scrope tried to forget about Mouse too, though Button would insist on sending occasional reports.

  Then an envelope arrived, written in an ugly, unfamiliar scribble. Scrope read, frowning. It was a begging letter from Murkstone Hall, the very place where that brat had been sent. The so-called Headmaster Bulloughby was grumbling about the cost of looking after the boy. Ha! A simple thing to deal with, thought Scrope.

  Scrope’s note, when it arrived on Bulloughby’s desk, curled arrogantly across the page.

  ‘How dare you send me your begging letters! The arrangement will not change.’

  The signature was almost unreadable. Sneep? Snip? Scrape? Scrope? Bulloughby scrunched up the grand words from the grand house and kicked them across the room.

  ‘How dare this man tell me this! While he luxuriates in comfort, I keep the wretched child hidden from his sight.’

  The more he dwelled on the matter, the clearer things became. Out in the wide world, boys struggled to exist. Here, under his very own roof, boys lolled about idly. The only person who struggled at Murkstone Hall was he, himself. Headmaster Bulloughby’s rage festered and grew.

  All at once, strewing papers and pens and ornaments, Bulloughby rushed to the mantelpiece. He snatched up the framed portrait of Madam Claudine and held it briefly to his chest. Then he placed her firmly face down in a drawer, under his second-best snuffbox.

  ‘Now you have gone, I am going to do just what I like in this place, Mother, no matter what Button thinks,’ he declared, full of determination. ‘And what I like is that the verminous boy will not cost me a farthing-piece more. If no one else cares for the child, nor do I, and nor will I, for sure!’

  Bulloughby charged along the corridors towards the kitchen. He halted by an ancient arch, from where worn steps curved down to unseen regions. The steps were carpeted with billowing clouds of steam that rose up, condensed and dripped greasily down from the vaulted roof overhead.

  ‘If that devil ever asks, he can have the child back with pleasure. Until then, I am using that young vermin as I choose.’

  He bellowed a name into the swirling mists below.

  .

  CHAPTER 17

  A LADLEFULL OF TROUBLE

  A message came for Jarvey, calling him home. He left without saying a word, as if it was any other day. It was not. It was a day of changes.

  As Niddle and I nibbled hungrily at the grey bread, Bulloughby himself entered the hall. He strode to the raised table at the far end and sat down. Picking up a bottle, he slurped something down, then stuffed both a gobbet of meat and a whole potato into his mouth and chewed noisily. His eyes scoured the room.

  All went quiet. I could hear every boy’s heart beating, even Grindle’s, though he wore a fixed grin.

  Then Bulloughby rose. He put his hands on his hips and stuck his belly out, as his gaze rolled across our heads. Like a maddened bull he shook his head. Though the orange wig moved a little, not one of us dared laugh. We were all waiting. It was someone’s turn, and for what we did not know.

  ‘Boys of Murkstone Hall,’ Bulloughby roared, ‘my heart is broken. For many years I cared for one of you, in hope and in expectation. But now news has come that those expectations are false. They have no substance. No glitter, no gold, no reward at all! I find I have nurtured this creature, fed him, educated him – and all for no advantage. We have an imposter in our midst, boys, and it is time this wretched creature repaid some of what he owes me.’

  Bulloughby thrust out a stubby finger and pointed at me.

  ‘Stop! Yes, you! Vermin!’ he cried. ‘Put down my food. Leave my table. There is only one place fit for you, and that is with the vermin you are named after. Grindle?’ His son rose to his feet, grinning inanely, and loped towards me. ‘Take this despicable child down to the kitchen. For years he has drained the coffers of Murkstone Hall. Now he will get the lowly place he deserves. Grindle, away with him.’

  Niddle started to speak, but I was already tight in Grindle’s armlock. He dragged me down the hall, down the corridors, down to the reeking, steam-filled steps. He thumped and bumped me against every corner, until we reached that arch, that entrance to the world beneath our feet, from which rattles and crashes echoed alarmingly.

  ‘Here you are, Shankbone!’ called Grindle, wary of what lay deep in that vault. Though he tried to scoff, fear shook his voice. ‘Pa’s sent you some help.’

  Grindle shoved me forward and scuttled back up the steps. My life in the classroom was over. I had become a servant, a scullion, a thing that lived beneath the floor.

  I toppled forward and fell on my hands. Slowly, as I stood up, the steam cleared a little. The kitchen was lit by the glowing red fire of an enormous iron oven, where bubbling pots of gruel sucked and gurgled like molten lava. Several skinny cats arched their backs, hissing and waving their long tails.

  Out of the gloom, a huge figure lurched at me. The firelight shone on a large balding head and a misshapen pudding of a face, which contained two fierce smoke-blackened eyes. His rough clothes were layered with grease, and what seemed to be an apron was not much cleaner than a coal sack. He paused, and rubbed one enormous hand across his forehead as if he was trying to work out what I was doing there.

  Some kind of speech grumbled in the man’s chest and rumbled around in his throat. Finally his mouth opened, and a terrible noise rolled out. The sound repeated and repeated, booming out of his thickened mouth.

  ‘Oooaaaaoooo? Ooooaaaaoooo? Ooooaaaaaoooor?’

  Something was wrong with the man’s speech. I listened and listened, and at last I worked out his words. ‘I’m Mouse, Mr Shankbone,’ I squeaked.

  ‘Erk?’ He peered at me suspiciously in case this was a trick. ‘Erk here?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll work,’ I said. Then I rubbed my bruised elbow, pointed to my arm, and knee, and cheek, and said, ‘Grindle!

  He grunted, nodding, and suddenly spat at the steps. Then he cuffed me playfully around the head. ‘Booooaaaaaarrrrrrrby!’ he roared, and laughed aloud, like an ogre in an ancient tale.

  ‘Come!’ He trudged towards a sink in the corner. It was stacked with dishes, encircled by crusted pans, all of them used many weeks before.

  ‘This lot?’ I asked.

  He nodded, giving a broad grin, and held out a large wooden bucket.

  I hauled the bucket to the pump outside, but as I returned to the scullery a large dog dragged itself out from under a broken bench, sharp teeth showing within its open jaws. I stepped back so fast that water slopped over my feet. I stood trembling, still shaken by my new situation, by all that Bulloughby had done, by this creature before me.

  Then I thought of the old half-blind hound that lived at Roseberry Farm. He had been happy to sleep in the sun, but was wary of strangers and toddlers he did not know and could barely see. I pretended I was meeting him again.

  ‘Good dog!’ I walked steadily, keeping well out of the dog’s way as I stepped past, so he knew he would not be kicked or hurt. Though he growled, he did not move from his place.

  I found a greasy crust on one of Bulloughby’s plates and took it out to the dog, dropping it quickly on the ground and backing away. The beast sniffed, as if people had tempted him with bad things in the past, then, with a snatch and a snap, the crust was gone. His tail did not wag, but he licked his chops and yawned.

  ‘Aaaaaaroo?’ Shankbone had shuffled out behind me. He elbowed me cheerily.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right.’

  He pointed at the enormous dog, and groaned again. ‘That’s Dog Bruno!’ he was telling me.

  Dog Bruno looked at me steadily, gave a peaceable snort and went back to sleep. We took one more breath of the fresh air outside the
n turned back to work.

  I did what I could as best I could in that kitchen. Scraping the congealed fat off the dishes was hard and horrid work, and at first the piles seemed to grow greater rather than smaller, as Shankbone found dishes that should have been washed, once upon a time. Then the anxious feeling inside me eased.

  True, filth festered all around, and there was the stench of an ill-kept kitchen, but here I was out of the blast of life above stairs. I was safe, if only for a short while. Shankbone’s low grumblings and Bruno’s sleepy growls reminded me of the sounds of the farm. That night, though I had to huddle close to the fire to keep out the dreadful cold, I was sorry for Niddle left alone upstairs. This kitchen was not so bad as I feared. As I worked, I felt my body and heart growing stronger.

  Why had I never run from this dreadful place? Why hadn’t I escaped? At first I kept a kind of hope alive, though holidays came and went and nothing changed. Button would visit, bringing no news for me, but I always thought next time, next time.

  Next time never came. No message arrived, no word from Ma, no urgent call. Just silence. Maybe I was Not Returnable. Maybe – and that was the fear – they did not want me back.

  Gradually something in me shut down, and there were days when I felt my life at the farm might have been only a fantasy, a dream. I tried not to think about that time in case it had never been true.

  Maybe something has to happen to make someone choose the fear outside over the fear inside. One day it would come, but not today.

  I learned that each day’s work was the same as the last. For breakfast we stirred a ladle around in the vast gruel pot, and for supper we stirred it again. When Shankbone had something to add – a handful of oats, a few old potatoes – he dropped them in. When there was nothing, he added jugs of water, thinning the gruel still further. The only proper meals were for Bulloughby or for Button’s occasional visits. Nothing of any goodness was spared for the boys.

  One cold morning I woke to the yowling of cats fighting over a pair of rabbits dragged in from the grounds. By the time I had chased the cats away, the rabbits were dead and only good for the pot. Shankbone looked at the larder where he kept the food for Bulloughby.