by Paul Gallico
Nelly whispered to Manxmouse, “Isn’t this fun?” and “How did I look? How did I do?”
Manxmouse whispered back, and it was no problem since he was right behind Nelly’s ear, “I think you were wonderful! I’m sure I would be frightened to do that in front of all those people.”
“Well, I’m not,” said Nelly, “and won’t ever be again. At least not as long as you’re with me to remind me how brave I am.”
After that they did another take just for luck, and then got down to the business of close-ups and different angles, which took up a lot of time and patience but Nelly didn’t mind at all. When the day’s work was over, the Director patted Nelly, praised her and gave her a large bun, a part of which she managed to slip to Manxmouse without anyone seeing or suspecting. To the brown man the Director said, “What’s got into her? She was sensational today – absolutely sensational!”
“I played my sitar to her and sang sweetly. She loves me and will do anything I ask.”
This caused Nelly fairly to shake with laughter.
The Director said, “You must have hit a couple of sour notes yesterday and the day before. But never mind, if she keeps on like this, we’ll catch up and might even go ahead of schedule.”
And so it would seem it was about to happen, for no elephant ever behaved better in a film the next three days, or obeyed commands with more patience. Nobody ever guessed that there was a Manx Mouse hidden behind her left ear, whispering to her and reminding her that she was the one Nellyphant in the world that wasn’t frightened of a mouse and hence not afraid of anything else either.
At night, when her owner, who was an Indian by the name of Abdul Rahim Lal Popadur Mohammed Ali Khayyam but who was called Lalipop for short, went home leaving Nelly chained up, fed and watered, she would tenderly lift Manxmouse down from behind her ear and share her supper with him. In addition to her hay and because everyone was so pleased with her, she received all kinds of titbits which included apples, carrots, popcorn, lumps of molasses and brown sugar.
It was strange that for all their tremendous difference in size, they should both like the same kind of food and sweets, but there it was. It would have done one’s heart good to have been there in the dark, listening to the suckings and chewings and gurglings and gnawings and yummings with occasional whispers of, “Have a bit more of this, it’s delicious”, and, “No thank you, I don’t believe I could, I’m simply full up. But do try this candied peanut cluster, it’s absolutely super.”
Finally, stuffed and drowsy, their chat about the events of the day died away and they went to sleep, Nelly standing up, Manxmouse curled between her forefeet.
All this might have gone on indefinitely, or at least until the film was finished, had not Abdul Rahim Lal Popadur Mohammed Ali Khayyam had a dream that he had not fastened Nelly securely. Waking up, he could not remember whether it had been a dream, or true. So, picking up a torch, he came to have a look. As he shone the light it fell full upon Manxmouse, fast asleep between two of Nelly’s enormous feet. She too, had her eyes closed and was swaying to and fro, as Nellyphants do when they sleep standing up.
“Allah, preserve us!” cried Lalipop. He seized a broom, raised it and brought it down upon Manxmouse with a tremendous swat.
Or rather, it came down upon the place where Manxmouse had been, for when the broom hit, he was not there. Mice are so sensitive to sound or to a disturbance, even in their sleep, that as the broom descended, Manxmouse slipped around behind Nelly’s left leg.
In the first momentary shock of the discovery, Lalipop had no time to notice the colour was blue, the tail missing, the ears all wrong and the expression sweet. He only knew that it was a mouse and that if Nelly saw it, there was no telling what would happen in her panic. She might break her chain and go charging through the studio, wrecking everything in her path and bringing disaster upon all of them.
In his excitement, Lalipop shouted, “Ho! Ha!” as he beat at the straw with his broom, until Nelly woke up and opened her eyes to see what was going on. It did not take her long to become aware of the situation. The squeaks coming from her friend as he rushed about in the straw trying to avoid the blows raining down, left no doubt.
“What are you doing, you fool? Stop it!” Nelly cried, and aimed a whack at Lalipop’s head with her trunk.
“Light of my life, have no fear!” cried the Indian, ducking, since he was used to doing so when Nelly became irritated with him. “I’m here,” and he continued to rain thunderous blows upon the straw all about, as Nelly began to shout:
“Stop it! That’s my mascot, my Manx Mouse! I’m not afraid of him! We’re friends!”
But in his excitement, Lalipop only heard the words “mouse” and “afraid” and in his turn shouted, “Be calm, my Divinity! I shall protect you! In a moment I will have him.”
Thump! Whack! Whoomph! went the broom in every direction. Faster and faster came the blows, in addition to which the man was trampling the straw with his feet and Manxmouse was forced to flee for his life, or he surely would have been crushed. There was no time even to squeak, “Goodbye” to Nelly. Gaining the side of the enclosure, he ran along to the door, dashed through and away down the floor of the stage, leaping over the wires and cables.
In his ears was still the sound of the blows of the broom and then a despairing trumpet from Nelly, “You’ve driven away my Manx Mouse! Stupid idiot! You’ve had the last day of work you’ll ever get out of me! I was the only Nellyphant who wasn’t afraid of a mouse and now I’m all nervous and shaky again.”
Manxmouse reached the end of the stage, found the door open and was out into the night, down the street, through the gates, around the corner and off. The very last thing he heard was a final trumpet from Nelly, “He was my friend! And now the Manx Cat will get him.”
Manxmouse ran as fast and far as he could, until he no longer could stir a limb. He had regained the country and crawled into the cranny of a stone wall.
There he remembered what he had heard Nelly say – “And now the Manx Cat will get him.” He shivered inside the little niche of rock and hoped that the morning would come soon.
Chapter Seven
THE STORY OF WENDY H. TROY
AND EXACTLY EIGHT hours later, for all this had taken place shortly after midnight, Manxmouse found himself in the pocket of a girl named Wendy H. Troy, on his way to school with her.
The ‘H’ in the name actually did not belong to her, since she had no middle name. But she was a lonely child with not many friends and so she had invented someone called Harrison, and put him between her first and second names. She only used the ‘H’ part on pieces of paper she could destroy, or when nobody could see.
The reason she was lonely was that she preferred the things she pretended to those that were real. This made her quiet but very busy. People did not understand her and the other children thought that she was strange.
And how it came about that Manxmouse found his way into her pocket was the following:
Wendy H. Troy was walking along the lane with her books under her arm on the way to school, when she happened to see Manxmouse sitting on a twig by the side of the road, thinking.
And how this had come to be was equally simple. After escaping from the man with the broom, Manxmouse had fallen asleep inside the stone wall, to be awakened by the sun. When he crawled out, he discovered that he must have run a long way the night before. There was no sign of the film studio or Nelly, or Lalipop, or anyone at all. And since he did not know where he was he thought the best thing to do was to come out from his little cave into the warmth, sit down and think.
He had just begun when he heard footsteps and, looking up, saw a face bending over him. In the face was a pair of bright hazel-green eyes with long lashes. Straight brown hair fell on either side of it. It belonged, he saw, to a small girl who cried, “Oh! How pretty you are.”
“Do you really think so?” Manxmouse was overwhelmed. It was the first time that anyone had ever said that t
o him.
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, “I think you’re beautiful. May I pick you up?”
“Yes, please do,” said Manxmouse. Thereupon he was lifted tenderly and cuddled in the palm of a soft hand, while with one finger she gently stroked his head and then held him to her cheek for a moment murmuring, “Oh, I think you’re just too sweet. What are you?”
“I’m a Manx Mouse.”
“How do you do, Manxmouse,” the girl said gravely. “My name is Wendy H. Troy. What’s yours?”
“Just Manxmouse.”
“Haven’t you any first name?”
“No,” said Manxmouse, “I don’t think I have.”
Wendy held him off a little and said, “Oh, then may I call you Harrison? Harrison Manxmouse – don’t you think that’s a distinguished name? And will you be my friend?”
“I should like that very much,” Manxmouse replied, for of all the things that had happened to him since he could begin to remember, this seemed to be quite the nicest.
“Wendy Harrison Troy,” said the child, “and Harrison Manxmouse. No, that isn’t quite right. There’s something missing. There ought to be another letter in there. I know – Harrison G. Manxmouse.”
“Yes, that is nicer,” said the mouse. “But what does the G. stand for?”
“Not anything. Just G. It makes it sound better. And afterwards, if you feel you need another name, you can invent one like I did, but beginning with ‘G’, like George or Gavin or Gregory.”
What a wonderful day this was turning out to be. From a plain ordinary Manx Mouse running away from a brown man with a broom, he was now Harrison G. Manxmouse and the friend of a little girl.
Wendy too, was enchanted and looked Harrison G. over from every angle. “What a lovely colour you are. And what soft fur. I think it’s such fun that you haven’t a tail. And your ears are simply adorable. I’m going to kiss you.”
She did and Manxmouse thought that his heart would burst. No one had ever kissed him before. He cried, “I think you’re beautiful too.”
“Honestly?” said Wendy. “Nobody else does. They keep telling me my nose is too long and my mouth too big. And my eyes are supposed to be a funny colour, and I’m too tall for my age, and skinny. I’m ten. How old are you?”
“Not very,” replied Manxmouse, for he actually did not know, or rather could not remember.
“We’ll be best friends, Harrison G. Manxmouse,” Wendy said, “and have secrets together and not ever tell anyone and you’ll stay with me always.” She held him to her soft cheek again and Manxmouse squeaked for joy.
Suddenly from a little distance away came the sound of a clock striking the quarter hour.
“Oh dear!” Wendy cried. “We must hurry, or I shall be late for school. I’ll put you in my pocket and there you’ll be safe and nobody will know that you’re there.”
She was wearing a blue school pinafore under her coat and gently deposited Manxmouse in the right-hand pocket. “Now we’ll have to be quick,” and off she ran.
This was how Manxmouse, now Harrison G. Manxmouse, came to go to school with Wendy H. Troy.
The first lesson of the morning was arithmetic which was taught by a Miss Martinet and, from the snug depth of the pocket, Manxmouse heard her say, “Wendy, go to the blackboard and do this sum.” As she did so, the voice continued, “Write this: A farmer had six bushels of corn, four bushels of rye and three bushels of wheat. The mice got into the barn and ate up two bushels of corn, one bushel of rye and half a bushel of wheat. How much grain did the farmer have left?”
As Wendy stared at the blackboard upon which she had written the problem (it was the half bushel that worried her, otherwise the answer would have been easy), she became aware suddenly of the most tremendous commotion in the right-hand lower region of her pinafore. Manxmouse was wriggling around in circles there absolutely hysterical with delight and squeaking – “Nine and a half! Nine and a half bushels! And a lot of happy mice.” For if there was one kind of sum that Manxmouse could do with his eyes shut it was naturally that one, being a mouse himself. And he went on, “Two from six is four; one from four is three and half from three leaves two and a half. Four and three is seven, plus two and a half makes nine and a half. Hurry up and write it.”
Wendy put her hand down to quiet him for it seemed to her that the whole class must have heard him shout. But it was too late.
“Wendy Troy,” came the voice of Miss Martinet, “what is that you have in your pocket?”
“N-nothing,” said Wendy.
The voice rose a level. “Wendy! I distinctly saw something moving and heard a noise, like a squeak. You will produce at once what you have in your pocket.”
There was no escape now. Wendy reached in and brought out Manxmouse. For the first time he saw the class of children seated at their desks, giggling and Miss Martinet holding a ruler. She was long, thin, stern and grey. “What on earth have you there?” she said.
Wendy was not frightened, at least not yet, but only sorry that her new and secret friend had been discovered so soon. She was also cross with herself that she had not been able immediately to work out such a simple sum. “A Manx Mouse,” she replied.
“A what?”
“My Manx Mouse,” Wendy repeated.
Miss Martinet lowered her spectacles on to the bridge of her nose and peered over them to see better, and then said firmly, “Don’t talk nonsense child, there isn’t any such thing.”
“But there is, truly,” protested Wendy.
Miss Martinet looked shocked and rapped on her desk with the ruler. “Wendy,” she said, “I’ll take you to the office of the Headmaster at once, for telling a lie. And if it isn’t a lie and there is such a thing, then you’re to go for bringing it into the classroom with you. Right about turn – march!” And with Miss Martinet walking behind her, Wendy, holding Manxmouse cupped in her hand, went off to see the Headmaster who was short, thick and pink.
He looked up from writing at his desk as they entered and said in the voice reserved for such occasions, “Ahum! And what is it we have here now?”
“This child,” Miss Martinet reported, “came into my class with… with… this…”
“Manx Mouse,” Wendy concluded for her.
“Manx Mouse, indeed!” sniffed Miss Martinet. “Obviously there can’t be any such creature. You have only to look at it. This girl is always dreaming to herself and inventing things, but she oughtn’t to be allowed to bring them into class with her.”
The Headmaster said, “Er… put it down on my desk, my dear,” and Wendy did so. Manxmouse sat up looking a little sad. He hoped he had not got his friend into serious trouble by trying to help her.
As he leaned down for a closer examination, the Headmaster was heard to murmur, “Hmmmmm,” and, “Well, I must say,” and, “No tail, and blue all over; those are kangaroo feet or I’m a donkey and whoever saw ears like that on any kind of mouse? Manx Mouse was what she said. It seems hardly likely. Still, with children one never can tell.”
Then aloud he said, “Perhaps we’d better look into this a little more closely before pronouncing judgement.” He then pressed a switch on a small call box atop his desk and, leaning his pink face to it, said, “I want the history, the biology, the physiology, the chemistry and philosophy teachers to come to my office immediately.”
When they arrived somewhat breathless and wondering why they had been summoned, the Headmaster explained: “I have asked you to come in order to give us the benefit of your learning. This child here claims that – er – what is supposed to be sitting on my desk is a – ah, what did you say you thought it was?”
“A Manx Mouse,” Wendy replied.
“There you are. You heard. And since there isn’t any such animal, I should be pleased to have your opinions.”
All five then crowded around for examination, almost bumping their heads together as they produced spectacles, magnifying glasses and watchmaker’s lenses from their pockets which they screwed into t
heir eyes, studying Manxmouse fore and aft and from all angles.
The history teacher, a woman, was the first to give an opinion. “It’s a myth,” she said, for she also lectured on mythology. “A mythical animal that existed only in the minds of people in ancient times, like the unicorn, the griffin, the dragon, the sphinx and the basilisk. But I’ve never seen a live one. It ought to be chloroformed, stuffed and put on exhibition in the classroom of the Lower Fourth.”
“Nonsense!” protested the biology instructor. “It’s obviously some new and as yet unclassified species, of the Genus Mus of the family Muridae. Give it to me and I’ll dissect it, examine its liver, count its vertebrae and—”
“Waste of time,” interrupted the chemistry professor. “Analyse it, that’s the thing. Let me have a bit of its fur and whiskers, some of its blood and maybe a toenail or toe in my test tubes and I’ll have the answer for you in a jiffy.”
“Faugh!” snorted the physiologist. “You can’t tell a thing until you examine its circulatory system and bone structure. Just give me a chance to inject it with dye, pickle it in alcohol, slice it into sections and put it under my microscope.”
The doctor of philosophy now became excited and shouted, “No, no, no! It’s much more simple than that. Logic is the way to tackle the problem. I’ll give you an example. It’s called a sillygism.” Here he put his finger to the side of his nose and recited:
“Nobody ever heard of a Manx Mouse.
In order to exist, somebody must have heard of it.
But I am somebody and have never heard of it.
Therefore the Manx Mouse does not exist.”
Everyone looked momentarily stupefied at this marvellous example of learning until Wendy said, “But look! He’s sitting right there on the desk.”
The philosopher appeared a bit taken aback at this but recovered immediately and said, “Well, logic can’t be wrong, so I vote we kill it and throw it out and then it won’t be there.”
And now suddenly they all began to quarrel amongst themselves, each clamouring for possession of the Manx Mouse and milling around the Headmaster’s desk shouting: