by Paul Gallico
He had, of course, not the faintest notion, at least not at that moment, that he had found shelter and respite for the night inside Madame Tussaud’s famous Waxworks Museum in the Marylebone Road. Here were on exhibition models not only of British heroes but famous and infamous people from all over the world.
Chapter Eleven
THE STORY OF MANXMOUSE MEETS MANXMOUSE
NOW THAT HE was alone and safely locked in, at least until the next morning, Manxmouse felt the best place for him would be down in the basement, which he thought would be rather a cellary place where he could hide. He had not understood the attendant’s mention of the ‘’Orrors’ and nobody being left down there, as referring to the famous Chamber of Horrors. This was the exhibit people went to see for the pleasure of being frightened out of their wits, and especially children.
But he soon found out. For with hardly any lights it was much more gloomy and terrifying. Nevertheless, Manxmouse could not resist a glimpse and a shiver at the reproduction of the mediaeval torture chamber, the guillotine, Mr Crippen, Jack the Ripper and various other murderers in their cells, and the original bathtub in which Charlotte Corday stabbed Marat during the French Revolution. However, it was not long before the presentation of ‘’Orrors’ which included gibbets, racks, thumbscrews, pincers and assorted weapons used to commit particularly gooey murders, proved too much for Manxmouse and he ran shuddering up the stairs and then another flight to the first floor. In his hurry he never noticed the policeman standing on the landing.
He found himself in a very strange set of rooms indeed, where all the famous characters of history, ancient and modern, were collected. They stood about on platforms, dressed in their proper costumes, but not saying a word.
True, there was nothing to be frightened of here. On the contrary it was something of an education to while away the time. Manxmouse went about reading the signs at their feet.
There were Napoleon and Josephine, Mr Gladstone, Mr Lloyd George, and Mr Macmillan and Disraeli, former Prime Ministers, along with Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth I in a huge ruff and trailing gown. He saw Kings and Queens of Europe, Presidents of the United States, Jack Hobbs the cricketer and Stanley Matthews the football player. There were Sir Gordon Richards the jockey, Graham Hill the racing driver, and Sir Francis Chichester who had just sailed around the world all by himself, not to mention Hitler and Gamal Abdel Nasser, Stalin, Kruschev and a number of other international troublemakers.
In addition, he came across a highly interesting panorama of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Puss in Boots, Jack the Giant Killer and the Sleeping Beauty, who lay in her bed as natural as life, for her breast moved gently up and down. Manxmouse stayed for quite a while gazing at her, marvelling. He did not know that she had some machinery inside her chest that made it move as though she were breathing.
He went on to visit Guy Fawkes, Henry VIII and all his wives, Shakespeare, Lord Nelson, Wellington, Richard the Lionhearted and Sir Winston Churchill, when he suddenly came upon a sign with an arrow which read: ‘SPECIAL ATTRACTION. This Way’, and then in brackets, ‘No Extra Charge’. He followed the direction and passed down to a small enclosure off the main hall. It was a circular room entirely surrounded by red velvet hangings. There was a rope stretched across the entrance to keep people out. The attendant had apparently forgotten to switch off some electricity and machinery, for there were several spotlights placed around the ceiling at various angles and they all shone down upon a slowly revolving pedestal set up in the centre of the room. And on the pedestal, sitting up, Manxmouse saw – HIMSELF!
He had never had such a shock in his life!
There he was, the fat little body like an opossum’s, the hind feet like those of a kangaroo, the front paws of a monkey and the long ears of a rabbit. There was no mistaking the identity for he was blue all over. The rabbit’s ears were orange-coloured on the inside. And to make it binding, finally there was no tail, only the button where it ought to have begun. It was the perfect copy of himself in wax.
Imagine what it would be like if, walking in the street, you turned a corner suddenly and saw yourself coming towards you, and you could walk around yourself and see yourself as others see you, and from all sides.
This was now the experience of Manxmouse. And, as if it was needed, at the base of the pedestal was the sign, ‘THE MILLION-POUND MANX MOUSE. Only Specimen in the World.’ For, naturally, since the management had heard the news of the fabulous sale on the radio, it had quickly put up a new placard.
“W-who are y-you?” Manxmouse asked, thoroughly upset, not expecting an answer from a wax figure.
At that moment the Manx Mouse on the pedestal had its back to him and he had to wait until it completed the revolution and faced him again. To his surprise the reply came, simply and plainly put.
“I’m you – Manxmouse.”
“But you can’t be,” protested Manxmouse, “for there’s only one of me. It says so everywhere. I’m the only one in existence.”
Again he had to wait. “Well, you’re not,” said Manxmouse II. “There are two of us, for here we are. I suppose I’m your other self. Everybody has one, even a Manx Mouse.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Manxmouse I. “What is it like to have two selves? I always thought there was just me.”
Manxmouse II revolved again. He did it quite slowly and almost majestically and he began to speak as soon as his right eye caught Manxmouse I and continued until he had lost sight of him with his left eye, so that he could get in quite a little speech. “Well, now you know. One of us is the Manx Mouse that the World sees, rather a calm and noble exterior, friendly and helpful. He never gets flustered. Cool and collected. A friend in need to everyone. An absolutely splendid figure of a Manx Mouse. And the other…” Here Manxmouse II’s back was turned and Manxmouse I had to wait until he came around again. “…and the other is worried, insecure and is secretly frightened inside himself, especially by things he doesn’t understand. He is inclined to want to run away instead of standing up to whatever he must. Also, he believes what other people tell him to frighten him.”
“But which one am I?” asked Manxmouse I, now thoroughly confused.
“Look behind you,” said Manxmouse II.
Manxmouse I did so and let out a shriek of terror, “Help!”
For there, three times larger than Burra Khan had been, eyes bigger than platters and shooting sparks of red fire, mouth open like a cavern showing long, gleaming white fangs, and claws like scimitars unsheathed, tailless hindquarters wriggling for the pounce, was Manx Cat. This was the end!
“Help! Help!” screamed Manxmouse I again and, in a last dash to escape, ran up the pillar of the pedestal where he cowered next to Manxmouse II who was sitting there quite calmly and undisturbed, as the great, evil-looking beast towered over them prepared to strike and kill.
“H-how did he get in here?” quavered Manxmouse I and closed his eyes because he could not bear to look any more at his doom.
“I didn’t bring him,” said Manxmouse II, “so you must have.”
“M-me?” said Manxmouse I.
“Of course! Who else? And when will you make up your mind which Manx Mouse you really are?”
And then, terrified as he was, Manxmouse I remembered something. He opened his eyes, drew a deep breath and, as the pedestal turned around again so that he found himself face to face with the monstrous beast, he stood up on his hind legs and cried, “I’m not afraid of the biggest Manx Cat that ever lived! And anyway, I’m on to you! I invented you because I was frightened of Manx Cat. You’re nothing but a Clutterbumph!”
At this the apparition of the Manx Cat began to fade and grew dim. Manxmouse heard a snarl and a growl “Grrr!” and “Arrgh!” and a voice saying, “You’re sure you’re not frightened any more?”
“Absolutely!” replied Manxmouse I. “Go away!”
The terrible Manx Cat vanished completely. “Oh dear,” came the voice of the Clutterbumph, “you’
re always spoiling my fun! Well, I shall be interested to see how brave you are when you meet the real Manx Cat.” And with a final “Grrrrrmph!” he flew off.
“That’s the boy!” said Manxmouse II. “You jolly well fixed him.”
“But who and which and what am I, then? Which Manx Mouse?” pleaded Manxmouse I.
“Whichever one you truly want and dare to be,” replied Manxmouse II.
“Then I must go and find Manx Cat, wherever he is and meet him face to face, whatever happens and not be afraid.”
“Good luck, then!” said Manxmouse II and spoke no more. Manxmouse I and his wax replica continued slowly revolving under the spotlights.
He wanted to reflect, but the going round and round on the turntable was making him dizzy. He got down and went away from the room of the Special Attraction and crept along in the semi-darkness, finally sitting down at the feet of one of the figures, not noticing that it was that of Sir Winston Churchill who never in his life had been afraid of anyone or anything. And there Manxmouse thought.
And looking back he remembered that he himself had not been afraid in the long ago, before everyone had told him, “Look out for Manx Cat!” – “You belong to Manx Cat!” – “Manx Cat is going to eat you!” but after a while it had begun to worry him and cause him to think about it and be frightened.
He had run away from the brown man with the broom and he had run away from the circus, and he had run away from the auction. But actually in truth he had been running away from Manx Cat and this simply would not do. If a meeting with Manx Cat was indeed to be his fate then, instead of trying to avoid it, he must go forward quickly to face it. And as for being eaten by him when he got there, well, that was something else again, and would be decided between Manx Cat and himself.
For even a mouse could fight and perhaps turn the tide of battle. If not, then it was better to finish down Manx Cat’s throat, kicking and biting, scratching and struggling than forever to live in fear of the day. He would start off upon what might be his last adventure the very next morning.
And having come to this decision, he found himself feeling extraordinarily peaceful, secure and almost happy and quite exhausted after all the excitement. So, curling up between the feet of Sir Winston, he went off to sleep, not to awaken until half past eight.
He got up remembering everything that had happened the night before and his decision. He gave his fur a couple of licks to spruce himself up and went off towards the staircase where, as he descended, he saw the policeman standing on the first landing and it seemed to him that he would be as good as anyone to ask where and how to find Manx Cat.
“Please, sir,” he asked, “could you tell me where I would be able to find Manx Cat?”
“Manx Cat?” replied the policeman. “Well, now that would be on the Isle of Man, wouldn’t it?”
Manxmouse did not find it at all surprising that the policeman replied to his question. But indeed it was most unusual. It was actually the first time in the entire history of Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks that he had ever spoken. For to everybody else he wasn’t real, only realistic – a wax figure that appeared to be alive. Generations of visitors and tourists as well as children had come up to him and asked, “Is this the way to the…?”, or “Can you tell us where…?” and in each case had broken off in mid sentence, laughing at themselves as they realized what fools they had been to be taken in. But to Manxmouse, since it wasn’t yet opening time, he had replied most politely.
“The Isle of Man!” Manxmouse repeated. “But I don’t know how to get there. It’s very important.”
“To meet Manx Cat?” asked the policeman.
“Yes, to meet Manx Cat.”
“Well, now, that’s very brave of you,” said the constable. “First of all then, we’d better have a look and see where it is.”
And with that he pulled a small booklet from one pocket of his tunic in which there seemed to be a map of the British Isles, and consulted it. “Hmm, let’s see now. It doesn’t seem to be down at this end. That big one’s the Isle of Wight. Now, what’s this little fellow off here? No, that’s not it. That would be Lundy Isle. It wouldn’t be in the Scillies. Oh, here we are! Right up in the Irish Sea,” and he leaned down so that Manxmouse could see it on the map himself.
It seemed to be a fair-sized pink blob, sharp at one end and blunt at the other, midway between the North of Ireland and Britain. “However would I get there?” asked Manxmouse.
The constable traced a line across the sea with his fingernail. “Why, by boat from Liverpool, I suppose. Well, now you’d be wanting to know about trains and boats, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, please,” said Manxmouse.
The constable put his booklet away and produced another one. He thumbed the pages. “Liverpool to the Isle of Man – Liverpool – Liverpool,” he mumbled to himself. “Oh, here we are… that would be from Euston Station. There’s an eleven o’clock boat train to Liverpool docks that connects with the two thirty steamer to Douglas on the Isle. Restaurant car on the train. No trouble, the carriages draw right up at the pier and you’ve no distance to go at all.”
“But how do I get to Euston Station?”
“Oh, Euston!” The constable was on firm ground now. “The station’s only a few minutes from here. Number Thirty bus. It goes right by the door.
“Oh, thank you!” said Manxmouse. “What time is it now?”
“The time?” said the constable, consulting his wristwatch. “The time – why, it’s just…” But he never finished his sentence, for from the side door below came the rattle of keys and cheery voices saying:
“Hello, Bill!”
“Mornin’, Tom!”
“Have a good night, Alf?”
The attendants were letting themselves in preparatory to opening up for the day.
The policeman fell silent and was never heard to speak again. And, shortly after, a nearby church clock eventually completed his answer for Manxmouse by striking the hour of nine.
At the last stroke of the clock, the doors were thrown open for the day’s business. All those who had seen Manxmouse nip inside the night before were waiting with tickets in their hands. With a whoop and a holler they came pouring in shouting, “The Manx Mouse, the Manx Mouse! Now we’ll get him. Where is he?”
So excited were they that they never noticed the little creature who slipped out of the door between their feet.
“Upstairs and to the right for the Manx Mouse,” called the attendants. The mob went trampling up past the silent policeman and hurled itself upon the little figure on the pedestal. People fought each other over him, for they were sure there would be a reward offered. And by the time they discovered he was wax and squashed flat in the struggle, the real Manx Mouse had escaped again.
For as he reached Marylebone Road and the bus stop, a Number Thirty, which said ‘EUSTON STATION’ on it, was just drawing up. An old lady carrying a black shopping bag was waiting to get on. Manxmouse jumped into the bag. Old lady, shopping bag and Manxmouse boarded the bus. The conductor gave two dings on the bell and off they went. There were several stops before the conductor called out, “Euston! Euston!”
As Manxmouse leapt out of the shopping bag, the bus conductor saw him, gave him a wink and said, “Good luck with the Manx Cat, chum!”
“Thank you!” said Manxmouse, but didn’t even ask or wonder how a strange bus conductor could know about Manx Cat. One thing was certain, he himself was no longer worried.
He hustled across the pavement and into the station, keeping along the side to be well away from the thousands of shuffling feet. It was a very noisy and confusing place and the first railway station he had ever visited. So, with an hour and a half to spare, he inspected all its exciting booths, shops, newspaper kiosks and ticket offices. He watched porters rushing about trundling baggage. The hiss of steam and the shrieks of impatient locomotives were thrilling. And once he had got to the place from which the trains actually departed, there were no further problem
s for they were all listed on boards at the side of the entrance gates. After a few moments of search and inspection, Manxmouse came across the one that said, ‘11.00 LIVERPOOL EXPRESS Connecting with S.S. MANXBELLE.’
He had no trouble getting past the ticket inspector. True, the press and Mr Smeater were still combing London, poking into every likely place where a Manx Mouse might possibly be, but actually they were the only ones.
For it was another day and the Million-Pound Manx Mouse was only a twenty-four-hour sensation. What London was now interested in was a new pop singer who had arrived from America wearing his jacket on his legs, his trousers over his head, his hair in plastic curlers and whose speciality was singing ‘O Sole Mio’ with a large portion of codfish cakes in his mouth.
But since Manxmouse had committed no crime, no police alert had gone out to watch all railway stations, airports or piers. And so he simply marched through, walking under the suitcase carried by a commercial traveller going north, on to the platform. There he popped into the guard’s compartment of the train, certain that, while the guard would be going through the carriages asking everybody for tickets, he surely would not be looking for anyone in his own cubbyhole.
At eleven o’clock exactly, the platform guard waved a flag and blew a whistle, doors thunked shut, the engine shrieked and gave a clang or two, there was a jolt and crashing of bumpers and the Liverpool–Isle of Man Express and Manxmouse were on their way.
Chapter Twelve
THE STORY OF MANXMOUSE MEETS MANX CAT
THE TRAIN RIDE to Liverpool was uneventful. Manxmouse would very much have liked to have gone up to see what the restaurant car was like, for he had had no breakfast and as lunchtime approached, grew hungrier and hungrier. However, this did not matter for at noon the guard obligingly opened his lunch box, thoughtfully provided by his wife, which contained a veal and ham pie with a piece of egg in the middle, some cake and a flask of tea. But since the train swayed, shook and joggled, Manxmouse was able to join him at his meal from the quite adequate amount of crumbs that fell to the floor.