Manxmouse (Essential Modern Classic)

by Paul Gallico

  As Sprigg sounded the long note of Going Home, General Hound shrugged and said, “There’s just no pleasing some people. Personally I’m pretty proud of myself and you boys, and you’re all promoted in memory of this day – me to Field Marshal.” To Manxmouse he said, “Well, goodbye, old chap and happy to have made your acquaintance. You’ve given us some dashed fine sport and behaved most admirably. If you see Joe Reynard, give him our respects and say we hope he’ll be feeling better shortly. All right, Sergeant, give the orders.”

  The Sergeant barked, “Attention! Close ranks! About face! At the jog, march!” And following Mr Sprigg the Huntsman, the from now on famous, mouse-hunting Bumbleton pack loped off.

  Nor did Manxmouse have any difficulty in locating Joe Reynard, for the fox was still lying on his back under the hedge with his arms wrapped about himself, so that in alarm he ran over and said, “Oh, Mr Reynard, are you all right? Have you a cramp?”

  “Cramp!” shrieked the fox. “My sides ache! I’ve never laughed so much in my life. The Bumbleton pack and the whole caboosh trailing up and down that ploughed field! I thought I’d die! Pal, you were brilliant, marvellous, fab! Put it there!” Sitting up, grinning from ear to ear, he extended his paw which Manxmouse shook solemnly.

  “You’re sure you’re not feeling too ill?” Manxmouse said anxiously. “You know, you said you weren’t well.”

  “Never felt better in my life!” said the fox. “There’s no cure like laughter. I’d ask you up to the house to meet the missus and the kids, but we’re just redecorating at the moment and everything’s full of paint. But I’ll never forget you, chum. The next field mouse I catch, I’ll let go, dedicated to you. Thanks again.” And with this he went trotting off under the hedge until he came to the edge of the woods, into which he disappeared with a final farewell flirt of his red brush.

  The most interesting things do seem to happen to me, thought Manxmouse and continued on his way.

  Chapter Six

  THE STORY OF NERVOUS NELLY

  AFTER WALKING SOME distance, Manxmouse sat down to rest again by the side of the road. Ahead of him lay the brow of a hill. The country now was rather more like a park with huge spreading trees and large estates, with somewhat grand houses.

  At that moment, two fellows on bicycles approached one another. They were workmen dressed in rough clothes and one appeared over the skyline of the hill coasting down, while the other was climbing. When they met right opposite where Manxmouse was sitting by the trunk of a beech tree, they stopped. The one going uphill said to the one descending, “’Ullo mate, what’s up?”

  The other replied, “No use your going on, we’re laid off.”

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “Nelly.”

  “What, again?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s got into ’er this time?”

  “Nerves. When they went to fetch ’er for the scene, she was lying down and wouldn’t get up.”

  “Bloomin’ nuisance, that’s what I call ’er. ’Ad to call off shootin’ for the day.”

  “Coo, you wouldn’t see me take on a primmy-donny like that. Wastin’ a lot of money and me time, too.”

  The downhill man said, “What d’you care? We get pyde whether she works or not.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing. ’Oldin’ everything and everybody up because she’s a bloomin’ hysteric. Where were they at now?”

  “The picnic scene where she’s supposed to come barging in and bust it up. Stage Four. She wouldn’t budge. The Producer’s ’aving a fit; the Director’s tearing ’is ’air and it’s the rest of the day off with pay for everybody on the set.”

  Uphill said, “If it was me, I’d take a stick to ’er.”

  Downhill laughed, “That you wouldn’t! You ain’t seen Nelly when she gets it into ’er ’ead to be narky. What about a pint and a game of darts at The Sword and Feather?”

  “Right you are, mate!” Uphill turned his bicycle around and the two men rode off together, leaving Manxmouse to wonder what it was all about.

  Who was Nelly? Why was she nervous? Whose time and money were being wasted? What could it all mean? And then he remembered that Captain Hawk had said there was a film studio near by. And now something else that the downhill cyclist had mentioned came into Manxmouse’s head, namely that they had been about to film a scene of a picnic in which this Nelly was to appear. So Nelly, then, must be a movie star. At picnics there were usually good things to eat; there might still be some food about and Manxmouse was hungry again. There is nothing like flying and excitement to stir up one’s appetite. And anyway, what lay ahead seemed much more interesting than the other direction.

  So Manxmouse went over the hill and into the broad valley on the other side, where he came to a large collection of buildings and a gate over which was the name: ‘FLICKER STUDIOS. No Admittance.’

  There was a gatekeeper stopping cars going in, inquiring into people’s business and asking them to show passes and what-not. But this was no problem to Manxmouse who simply ran around behind a fancy Rolls Royce which was receiving a particularly ceremonious salute, nipped through the gates and on down a street lined on both sides with cavernous buildings.

  It was really a most interesting place and Manxmouse would have stopped longer to see, for there were actors and actresses walking about, made up and wearing all sorts of costumes. Some were dressed up as pirates, others as gentlemen in powdered wigs, knee-breeches and long-tailed coats. There were cowboys, generals, Africans, sailors, anything and everything one could imagine. But Manxmouse was more interested in finding Stage Four.

  This was actually not too difficult. All Manxmouse had to do was to keep out from underfoot of actors, property men, clapperboard boys, script girls, producers, directors and proceed along the sides of buildings marked one, two and three until he came to number four.

  He went inside. There he had to climb over a great tangle of cables, ropes and wires laid out on the floor. Standing by a camera, a tall man in spectacles was having a row with a short, fat man with a brownish skin who had something like a towel wrapped around his head. And, of course, the subject was Nelly.

  The tall man said, “If you don’t have her on the set here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, you’re both sacked!”

  Manxmouse felt very sorry for Nelly. But by this time he had had a whiff of something rather good, and following the cables, he came upon the picnic set which fortunately had not been dismantled.

  It was astonishing how lifelike it was, how much it resembled the real country. There was a knoll and a spreading oak tree and bushes and flowers and rocks. Only everything was artificial and made of plaster or lath, cloth, rubber or papier-maché, except for the picnic spread out on a white cloth beneath the oak. This was absolutely real. With no one paying any attention, since the set was wholly deserted, Manxmouse had a good tuck in.

  He had some hard-boiled egg, a bit of brown bread and butter, a portion of excellent Wensleydale cheese and there were some tasty sweet biscuits and delicious chocolate layer cake.

  Whatever the reason for the attack of nerves on Nelly, Manxmouse was most grateful and, having eaten all that he could hold, he went off searching for a spot where he could rest.

  By now all the lights had been put out and it was dark inside the building. He had to feel his way along until he came to a place where there was straw a foot deep on the floor, perfect for hiding and snoozing. Into this he crawled and contentedly went to sleep.

  When he awoke the next morning Manxmouse, peering up through the straw, was aware that there was something quite odd going on. In the first place he could see a most enormous grey shape with legs like the pillars that hold up buildings. Then he saw a nose that started like a nose but grew longer and longer and narrower and narrower, until at the end it looked like a piece of garden hose.

  Equally strange was the fact that sitting cross-legged in the straw in the corner of the enclosure was the fat brown man whom Manxmou
se had seen before. In his lap he was holding and plucking a sitar, which is an Indian musical instrument not unlike an electric guitar in shape, and he was singing to the enormous beast: “Pearl of my heart, jewel of my soul, thou art more beautiful than the dawn, more clever than the great God Siva,” and then stopping his plucking, he asked plaintively, “Why won’t you work?”

  “Because I don’t want to,” replied the beast, talking through the end of its nose which it used rather like a speaking trumpet. “They ask me to do such silly things. Besides which, I’m nervous and frightened with all those lights and people shouting and those glass eyes staring at me.”

  The brown man plunked his sitar again and sang, “Moon of my existence, Sun of my life, Queen of the night, Empress of the day, hearken to one who loves you.” And once more he coaxed, “Won’t you please work? There’s nothing to be afraid of and besides, if you don’t we’ll be discharged and then neither of us will be able to eat.”

  “That’s your look-out,” replied the beast. “I didn’t ask to come here. I told you all those people frighten me and I’m going to stay frightened. And I wish you’d go and play that thing somewhere else, for it’s beginning to give me a headache.”

  The fat brown man did one more plunk, singing, “Scent of lotus flower, spices of sandalwood, breath of my nostrils, you are bringing great sadness to my stomach.” But he rose and, tucking his instrument under his arm, said, “Very well then, I shall go and leave you to reflect upon the unhappiness you are inflicting upon me.” With that he left the enclosure and, as he went, Manxmouse heard the beast mutter something that sounded like, “Good riddance! Now perhaps we can have a little peace around here.”

  At that moment Manxmouse, no longer able to contain his curiosity, popped right up out of the straw.

  The beast who towered above him looked down at him out of one eye that gleamed behind long, curling lashes and said, “Hello! Who are you?”

  “I’m Manxmouse.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Manxmouse, sir.”

  “Not sir, if you don’t mind. Madam!” And then she added, “You mean you’re a real mouse?”

  “Oh, yes indeed, I promise you I am,” Manxmouse replied and then quickly added, “Madam,” not only for politeness, but for safety’s sake, for he had never seen such an enormous what-ever-it-was.

  “There’s something very wrong here.”

  “Oh,” said Manxmouse, “I hope I haven’t done anything…”

  “Not yet, you haven’t. But you say you’re a mouse?” the beast said. “Come a bit closer, so I can have a better look at you. I simply can’t believe it.”

  Manxmouse did as he was asked, sitting on top of the straw to come under the glare of the eye looking down upon him. “I know,” he said, to get it in before he should have to hear it again, “wrong colour – I’m blue and I haven’t a tail. I’m a funny shape; my feet aren’t quite right and my ears are certainly all wrong. But nevertheless, I am a mouse.”

  “Well, you may knock me over with a palm leaf!” said the animal. “Do you know the story about us?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Which one?”

  “About us being terrified of mice? Well, it’s true. Or at least I am, and always have been. Now I’m going to ask you a question.”

  “Yes, Madam, please do,” said Manxmouse.

  “Why am I not afraid of you?”

  Manxmouse replied, “I’m sure I don’t know, except that no one ought to be afraid of me. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I couldn’t.”

  “It isn’t to be believed,” said the animal. “There you are down there and here I am up here, and I’m not even shivering, not the teeniest sign of a quake. See here, you wouldn’t run up into my trunk, would you – ever?”

  So that long nose was called a trunk. Manxmouse could think of nothing he cared to do less than run up it, for now he saw that there were two small holes at the end of it. If it was anything like a garden hose, it was a double one. “Oh, no, never!”

  “Or crawl over my feet and tickle them?”

  Then those tremendous pillars were actually legs and surely one wouldn’t want to tickle a foot and be stamped upon and squashed flat. “Certainly not!”

  “Or make rustles in the straw? I can’t bear little noises!”

  “I’d try not to. I’d be as quiet as a—”

  “Mouse!” concluded the thing. “There! I’ve said the word looking at you, and I’m still not shivering, shaking, quaking or trembling. Something marvellous is happening to me! I hereby invite you to stay with me for ever to prove to one and all that I’m the only Nellyphant in captivity who isn’t afraid of a mouse. Come a little closer and let me touch you with the tip of my trunk. Ha! Not so much as a shudder. That’s the bravest thing I ever did in my life. There, it’s true! You see? I’m simply not the least bit scared.”

  “What did you say you were?” Manxmouse inquired. The touch of the tip of the animal’s trunk had been cool, gentle and soft and not at all unpleasant.

  “A Nellyphant,” she replied. “At least that’s what they call me. Nelly for short. You may call me Nelly and I shall call you Manxmouse, or perhaps just Mouse.”

  “Oh, I’d like that very much indeed,” said Manxmouse. “For it would make me feel – well – more like I ought to be.”

  Nelly said, “How would you like to get up on to my back?”

  “You mean climb up your leg?” Manxmouse asked.

  Nelly suddenly shifted one of her feet nervously. Brave she was, but this was the most astonishing and never-before-encountered situation and she still was not absolutely certain that she was prepared to let a real mouse climb up her leg, at least not yet. “Well, not exactly,” she said, “but hold still and I’ll put you there.”

  Nelly picked him up with the utmost delicacy with the tip of her trunk. She curled it around his body, and set him upon her back, or rather just behind her head in between her two large ears, which to Manxmouse seemed about the size of tablecloths.

  Nelly gave a tremendous gurgle of delight and began to shuffle both her forefeet in a kind of dance of celebration, lifting one after the other and singing, “Oh, joy! Oh, happiness! I have a mouse sitting on my back and I’m not afraid. I’m the bravest Nellyphant in the world! Oh, rapture! Oh, gladness! I wish they could see me back in India now. Oh, bliss! Oh, ecstasy!”

  Manxmouse too, felt pleased and thrilled because he was the sort of mouse who liked to be loved and who enjoyed giving happiness. It was rather exciting as well to find oneself on a Nellyphant’s back and while the view was not as broad as when he had been up with Hawk, still he could see a great deal more than from beneath the straw.

  He saw that they were down at one end of Stage Four, where a kind of pen had been built. There Nellyphant was chained to a stake by one hind leg. The chain was jingling merrily as she danced and sang.

  The little fat, brown man suddenly appeared from around a corner without his sitar and saw to his surprise the change that had come over Nelly. He cried to her, “Star of the universe! Light of the ages! Have you reflected?”

  “Yes, yes,” Nelly replied. “I shall work, for I am no longer afraid. I’m the bravest Nellyphant that ever was.”

  The brown man, too, gave a cry of delight and began to dance and clap his hands. “My beauty! My love! My wise one! My gift of heaven! You have made me the happiest of men and the most fortunate to be the possessor of such a gem set in the purest of gold.” And then, loosening the chain around the Nellyphant’s hind foot, he clapped his hands and shouted, “Ho, everyone! Return! All is well! We shall work. Nelly has just informed me that she is nervous no longer and will carry out your commands.”

  At this there was a great rush and trampling of feet throughout the echoing confines of Stage Four as they all came running back to take their places on the set: the electricians, the plumbers, the carpenters, the property men, script girls, directors, producers, actors, actresses, clapper boys, light men, sound-and cameramen. Ne
lly was led forth by her owner, still gurgling joyously.

  Manxmouse said, “But what shall I do? Where shall I go?”

  Nelly curled her trunk back over her head so that she could telephone to Manxmouse, “Stay where you are. If you get down just behind my left ear, nobody will ever see you. But I’ll know you’re there, my new-found friend and mouse.”

  And thereafter everything went absolutely swimmingly with the scene. The actors and actresses took their places. No one noticed that there was one hard-boiled egg, a slice of brown bread and butter, a wedge of Wensleydale cheese, a biscuit and a piece of chocolate cake missing from the picnic. The Director took up his position. Cameramen hunched and gazed through their eyepieces.

  The Director said, “Now, you all know what you’re to do. Tom, you’re handing Angela a lettuce-and-tomato sandwich when the elephant barges in. Let’s run through it once.”

  They did so and it was so perfect that the Director said, “That’s fine. We’ll shoot it.”

  The big arc lights sputtered, hissed and blazed. A boy stepped in front of the camera with a clapperboard slate on which was written:

  SCENE 57

  TAKE ONE

  Then he gave the top of the board, which was hinged, a smart slap and retired, after which the Director shouted, “Quiet, please, everyone!” and then, “Roll ’em!”

  The actors and actresses made believe to be enjoying their picnic. At a signal, Nelly came charging into the scene, being careful not to step on anyone, and the picnickers scattered, with the exception of Tom and Angela who were pretending to be so in love that they didn’t notice an elephant. This was supposed to be a kind of a joke.

  “Cut!” cried the Director and then said, “That was fine.”