A Boy Called MOUSE

by Penny Dolan

  ‘I’m Mouse. Mouse.’ My voice rang hollow. I wondered if, like the farm, I no longer existed.

  ‘Don’t take it hard, boy. We don’t know everything in this life.’ He handed me a mug of tea. ‘Sup this.’

  ‘No!’ I yelled, as if I was an infant again. ‘I tell you, Ma was my mother. She said she loved me best!’

  He raised his mug, as if in salute. ‘That good woman loved all her little ones,’ he sighed. ‘She was very kind to wanderers and even to old tramps like me, Wayland. It is a pity she has gone.’

  Gone? Gone? I burned with anger. Had my Ma betrayed me? Maybe she was waiting for me to go, so she could run away. Maybe she was in league with Button Man and Bulloughby all along. Maybe she knew about all that had happened to me at that awful place. Maybe she was the one who burned down the farm so I could not find her. What did I know about my Ma anyway? Maybe, maybe . . .

  I ranted and raved and accused my dear Ma. The lock that had kept my anger shut down so long at Murkstone Hall had snapped. I burned with fury. I raged and stamped about, making the sparks whirl up around old Wayland’s fire. I might even have hit him. I cannot tell you what I said, what I did, only that it was all in anger.

  Eventually I stopped, and wiped my face on my sleeve, so the tears made long sooty smudges on my cheeks.

  ‘Did you mean all that about her, boy?’ Wayland asked.

  I could not speak. I shook my head.

  ‘I thought not.’ He offered me the mug again, and this time I took it and sipped, drop by drop. ‘Want to know what folk say happened?’

  ‘Please,’ I whispered.

  ‘Some say a new gentleman had got the lease of Roseberry Farm.’

  I had always thought the land belonged to Isaac, but now that felt like a silly child’s hope.

  ‘When the next rent day was due, Ma and Isaac were told that they’d have to leave the farm. Some stuff they sold, and some they gave away.’ Wayland’s voice faded, as if he had remembered moments he didn’t want to tell me about. He gazed bleakly ahead. ‘All Ma and Isaac took fitted into their one cart.’

  ‘Were you there?’ I asked, sure he had been nearby, though he was trying to hide it from me.

  ‘Not there in time, Mouse,’ he said, hesitating. ‘A gang of four ruffians were there, seeing them off the farm, and joking as Ma brought out her last bundles. Isaac would have laid a whip on them, but Ma stopped him. “Too late now, my love,” she said, and sat with her head bowed as Isaac shook the reins and let his two horses take them away from the farm.’

  ‘But none of it makes sense,’ I said. ‘Why burn the farm to the ground? Why?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Wayland murmured. ‘It was a cruel act.’

  It was if someone had wanted to wipe Roseberry Farm off the face of the earth. How could someone have hated Ma and Isaac so much, and why? It was impossible, but it had happened.

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Where do people go when they’ve nothing left?’ he sighed. ‘The city, of course.’

  ‘Didn’t you even speak to Ma?’

  ‘I got to the gate as the cart rattled through. The villains were whooping and yelling, but I’m sure Ma Foster called out something about searching for a house.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ Willowherb grew in billows among the broken walls. Was there some clue I couldn’t quite find?

  The tramp pondered, poking his fire. ‘About two years ago, I reckon, just when Michaelmas rent was due. She was a fine woman, and it makes my heart sad to camp here now, Mouse. That’s the truth.’

  Two years? I stamped more paths through the nettles and the weeds. Wasn’t it two years ago when I was shoved into Shankbone’s strange care? And what had Ma said as she was leaving? Had she talked about a house, or a mouse? Was she setting off to search for me? This was too, too much. I stood there shivering with tiredness.

  ‘Rest, boy. Come here. Eat this.’ Old Wayland handed me a lump of bread. ‘Enough is enough, Mouse.’

  As I filled my empty belly, the night darkened around us. I was glad the night had come. I had had enough of everything.

  All the same, the next morning arrived, and the farm was still as burned and broken as before.

  Wayland shook off the night’s sleep and brushed the leaves from his long coat. Dew-starred cobwebs stretched across the stonework, and birds searched for insects in the sooty cracks.

  Roseberry Farm was no longer a place for me. I had nowhere to go, but I wanted to go nowhere else. I crouched there, rocking, as dull as a lump of clay.

  ‘Get up, boy,’ Wayland said.

  ‘No.’

  Wayland ignored my reply. He dragged me to my feet. ‘Walk!’

  I slumped down.

  He lifted me up again. ‘Walk!’

  ‘Why? Where?’

  His voice was harsh. ‘Because I’m telling you. Where don’t matter. Just walk!’ He shoved me ahead of him, along the winding path, making me leave all that I once called home, though it was that no longer.

  ‘As easy to go as to stay,’ insisted Wayland. ‘Move. On!’

  We walked. On and on. Whenever I slowed down, he pushed me forward. Whenever I tried to turn back, he refused and blocked the way, eyes shining hard.

  I cursed. I barely looked where I planted my boots. I tripped over clods and flints and tangled myself in thorns. Whenever I tried to sit, to slump, Wayland hoisted me up and marched me on, mile after mile. At the end of that first day, I crumpled asleep, even though there was bread in my mouth.

  Wayland lifted me up again well before dawn. He pushed me on as the path rose steeply. We passed stone walls and sheep pens and huge boulders. We plodded past ancient rocks standing deep among dark trees. Whenever the way grew steep, he dragged me with him.

  Just after noon, when my breath was scouring my chest, he paused.

  ‘Look you.’

  Ahead, the sky had turned dark as night, and already the wind was rising.

  ‘Storm coming, Mouse.’ Wayland smiled grimly. ‘No sheltering. We walk. We keep walking. This time you’ve got to face it, boy, got to face it down.’

  When the storm hit, it was a fierce one. The wind grew to a gale, water streamed in torrents from the sky, lightning flashed and thunder crashed. Still I was pushed onward by that unrelenting hand.

  ‘Tell me,’ called Wayland. ‘Tell me all about what happened to you. Tell me about wherever you were, Mouse.’

  So I opened my mouth, and the water drizzled between my lips while I thought about the carriage that came, and the Button man. I mumbled something, a word or two.

  ‘Didn’t hear. Louder!’ shouted Wayland.

  I told him about the coach again.

  ‘Louder!’ shouted Wayland. ‘Tell me again, Mouse.’

  Was he deaf on purpose? ‘Listen. Listen, you stupid man! This is how it was! This is what happened!’

  And this time I shouted about that dreadful day, about that dreadful year, about that dreadful time. I shouted and yelled and shrieked about all that had happened, and how, though I tried, Murkstone Hall had been more than I could bear. I trembled with rage and shame and my entirely broken hopes.

  While the rain fell like punches, and streams poured from the rocks, I stumbled among stony crags, telling the wind, the gale and that pushing, tramping Wayland about my desperate life. I almost acted out those scenes and horrors. I shrieked until my words scratched my throat. Wayland kept up his fast pace at my heels, while all I thought about was the step ahead of me and that terrible, cruel place.

  On and on I shouted, louder than the storm around me. I told all the bad times, every one of them, every moment. The climbing that was half pleasure and half agony. I told poor Niddle, and my friend Pyeberry, whom I had never seen again. I told Grindle. And I told the long, long journey
home to Roseberry Farm.

  By the time the storm had passed us, I could only gulp at the air, mouthing single words and odd sounds, and I was tired, so tired.

  I stumbled into a half-walled hollow, and this time Wayland caught me by my shoulders so I did not fall. Carefully he lowered me on to a stack of bracken and wrapped his own cloak around me.

  ‘Well done, Mouse,’ he said gently, and smiled. ‘Well walked, well told. You have thrown your story to the wind now, and it is time to be at peace. Don’t let the bad things in your life keep you imprisoned, child. Live free of them. Understand?’

  He lit a bright new fire and brewed a tea of herbs and honey. I felt empty, gathering up the few good moments, the few good friends, and the sorrow. The rage had passed on and away, and I knew finally, deep in my heart, that Murkstone Hall was not my fault. I had not deserved that life, not at all.

  I dozed, and woke just before dusk to the sound of Wayland’s solitary music filling the calm after the storm. I watched the birds looping in gathering circles around the sky before returning to their nests at last, to rest.

  When I woke again it was to a bright new day. I could not forget all that had happened, but I would travel on, and would find Ma.

  ‘Thank you for looking after me, Wayland.’ I was sorry for my anger.

  ‘Such wild walking has helped me too, Mouse,’ Wayland answered, and I wondered what his own life held that kept him always journeying.

  There was still plenty of hard walking to do. Three more days and nights we travelled along the high ridges, where the ground grew rocks and the air was fresh and clean.

  On the fourth day we crested a gentler hill and I discovered that a valley was spread below our feet. Wayland hesitated, reluctant to leave the high land, but down we went. This new track led into a wood scattered with fallen leaves, then out along the banks of a stream where trout swam like silver shadows within the deep pools.

  ‘A good place,’ said Wayland, setting down his bundle, ‘for tonight’s camp.’

  After we had eaten, and settled for the night, he took out his pipe and played a softer tune.

  ‘Mouse,’ said Wayland, as dawn woke us and set the birds singing in every bush and tree, ‘you still set on following Ma Foster? Whatever you might find?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, after thinking on that awhile.

  ‘Then there’s your road, boy.’ He pointed to a gap in the trees.

  A single track ran through the fields, gradually growing into a wide, well-trodden path. The path became a lane marked by hedges, before, at a crossroads, joining a road that led to a distant highway. Soon the summer’s day would dot that landscape with people and beasts and carts and carriages, all going to or from the far-off city.

  ‘Stay for a bit longer, Mouse,’ said Wayland. Lifting his head, he whistled loud and long into the breeze, five times in all, then paused, as if he was waiting. Eventually he whistled again. Whatever it was he was expecting, nothing happened, not then.

  So we went further down the track, until we reached the lowest edge of the woods.

  Wayland halted again where a narrow plank bridged a brook and pointed out where a kingfisher darted bright blue above the water. He rocked to and fro restlessly, as if he was unwilling to leave his hidden life.

  ‘I can’t come with you, Mouse,’ he said eventually. ‘I am not one for people and their busyness, or their buildings. Folks in towns don’t smile, don’t give you the time of day, and worse, much worse.’

  I straightened up, determined. ‘Wayland, I can go on by myself.’

  ‘Let us wait a bit longer. Let’s see.’ He whistled again, the same as before, but this time we heard a dog barking in the distance, quick and sharp. A broad smile spread across Wayland’s face.

  ‘Ah! My ears have heard our salvation.’ He was full of smiles then, as if he had some happy knowledge.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Patience, Mouse!’ He glanced at me, amused. ‘A visitor is about to arrive.’

  We waited, and eventually a patch-faced terrier shot out of the hedgerow. It scampered across the fields towards us, dashing up to Wayland.

  The tramp greeted the small dog and rubbed its round belly. He murmured, and the dog’s ears pricked up as if he understood all he was being told.

  ‘All is well, Mouse. Toby will take you to an old friend of mine,’ Wayland said sadly, ‘and now it is truly time for us to part.’

  He stretched out his weatherworn palm, and we shook hands very formally. ‘Take care of yourself. If you do find your Ma Foster, I promise she’ll be wanting to see you again, whoever you are to her. Farewell, young friend Mouse. Journey well!’

  Then Wayland turned, and he went back up into the shadows of the trees, towards the higher land. Already his step was lighter, swifter, glad to be returning to his own wilderness.

  Little Dog Toby gave a funny little growl, half a bark and half a grumble, and trotted back along the downward path, so I followed on to whoever and wherever he was leading me.

  .

  CHAPTER 24

  A CHANGE OF PLAN

  ‘Gone?’ snapped Button. ‘Just when the boy’s wanted again?’

  ‘Yes!’ Bulloughby growled. ‘Vermin’s run off!’ He stared back at his neatly suited accuser. ‘Not my fault, Button. You knew the boy was down in the kitchen,’ he added, as he adjusted his ill-kept wig. ‘Scrope said you’d be coming. You shouldn’t have waited so long to collect the brat, should you?’

  ‘Scrope won’t be happy to know the boy’s disappeared.’

  ‘Scrope won’t be happy?’ Bulloughby echoed mockingly. ‘Worried he’ll be cut out of some family fortune if the brat isn’t found? Serves the rascal right.’

  Button ignored Bulloughby and concentrated on what opportunities this new situation offered.

  ‘And not only that –’ began Bulloughby.

  ‘Bulloughby, be quiet, can’t you? Just shut up! I have to work this out.’

  At that moment a boy backed in balancing a pot of stewed brown tea and a dish of four rock-like scones, which he placed before the men. The boy was covered in grease and grime.

  ‘Back to the kitchen, Niddle,’ Bulloughby shouted irritably.

  Button bit into a scone, grimaced and absent-mindedly returned it to the plate. While Mouse was kept alive at Murkstone Hall, he could threaten Scrope by the precious child’s very existence. Now that the child was most definitely Returnable, the boy was more valuable, very much more valuable.

  ‘Decided. I’m going after the boy myself,’ Button said.

  ‘You and me both.’ Bulloughby stood up unexpectedly and dragged a disreputable travelling bag from the top of a cupboard. Hunting for Mouse held far more attractions than Murkstone Hall’s dull gloom. ‘Jarvey can look after this damned place for a while.’

  Button eyed Bulloughby. The stupid fool, even with his red wig set at a jaunty angle, might be useful.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Bulloughby urged, trembling with excitement, then paused. ‘But where will Mouse have gone?’

  ‘Roseberry Farm, I expect,’ Button told him, ‘though much good will it do the boy when he gets there.’ He recalled his thugs’ enthusiastic description of the fire.

  When Niddle returned, somewhat warily, to carry away the tea things, he was interested to find Bulloughby’s parlour empty. Button’s beetle-black carriage had left Murkstone Hall, and the quest had begun.

  Niddle, meanwhile, was glad of the four tough scones. His teeth were young and strong.

  .

  CHAPTER 25

  PUNCHMAN

  Dog Toby took me into the Old Bell Inn, where the bar-room was crammed with jostling customers. Dodging through, he led me out and across a yard where carters haggled about loads and journeys and over to a small grassy
patch where a pair of donkeys grazed under the apple trees.

  A crowd of giggling children were milling about a canvas booth, shrieking at a strange high-pitched squawking noise.

  ‘That’s the way to do it! That’s the way to do it!’ cried Mr Punch, smacking his stick so enthusiastically on the white-painted ghost that its wooden skull rattled.

  A cheer went up as the skeleton disappeared.

  I laughed aloud. I was Mouse out on the road, eager for what good things might come. I was looking for my Ma, and I would be as bold as Mr Punch with his rude, red-nosed face.

  ‘That’s the way to do it!’

  The two puppets raced backwards and forwards, the shrieks mounting, until Punch whopped the ghost one final time. The skull-head was whisked behind the curtain, leaving Punch to parade to and fro, bowing delightedly to one and all.

  ‘Oh, oh, oh! Lookey, lookey, look! Do I spy my dear little Dog Toby down there?’ Punch cried in his strange, buzzing voice. ‘Where have you been, my naughty, naughty boy?’

  Toby darted forward. He bounced up on to his hind legs in front of the booth, and yapped in the friendliest way. With his tongue hanging out, Toby looked as if he was laughing too.

  ‘And how many sausages do you want tonight, my dear little puppy dog?’ asked Mr Punch.

  Dog Toby sat on the ground, and barked as if he was counting.

  ‘One? Two? . . . Eight? Nine? Ten? Ten sausages? Ooooooooh! Greedy, greedy Toby! No sausages at all for you tonight!’

  Toby whined in a wonderful display of sorrow.

  ‘Maybe I’ll give you a sausage now. Come closer, come closer, my little pet. Now close your eyes.’ The puppet’s evil face leaned over. As Toby closed his eyes, the hook-nosed figure raised his cruel stick.

  ‘No, no!’ shrieked some children, unable to bear wicked Mr Punch a moment longer.

  But with a quick, artful jump, Toby skipped back and Mr Punch missed and ended up hanging over the play-board, his little legs swaying. Everyone clapped and laughed. Then Mr Punch righted himself, made friends again with his bold little dog, and the children joined in one last song. All at once, the scarlet curtains closed.