Wendy Perriam’s seventeen novels and seven previous short-story collections have been acclaimed for their psychological insight and their power to disturb, divert and shock.
She feels her inspiration as a writer comes from her many conflicting life experiences – strict convent-school discipline and swinging sixties wildness, marriage and divorce, infertility and motherhood, 9-to-5 conformity and periodic Bedlam – have helped shape her as a writer. ‘Writing allows for shadow-selves. I’m both the staid conformist matron and the slag; the well-organised author toiling at her desk and the madwoman shrieking in a straitjacket.’
For Anne Charlton, Goddess of Northumbria!
A mere dedication cannot express my gratitude for
your unstinting and expert help with my previous book
CONTENTS
1. Mouse
2. Joy
3. Magical Numbers
4. ‘Can I have it when you go?’
5. ‘Just yourself?’
6. Presents
7. Lost
8. Boiled Eggs
9. Yew
10. ‘Ta-ra!’
11. A Cuppa and a Biscuit
12. Marshmallows
13. Venus
14. ‘Sorry for inconvence’
15. ‘Unbelievably wonderful!’
By the same author
Copyright
Mouse
‘If that mouse comes up here on the platform, I’ll die – and I mean literally die.’
The young girl shrank back in obvious terror, all but colliding with Jo, who happened to be standing behind her. Following her gaze, Jo peered down at the rails, where a small brown mouse was scuttling harmlessly along.
‘Any second, it’ll be running up my leg.’ The girl turned to face Jo; her expression one of sheer horror and disgust.
‘No, honestly, it won’t.’ Jo felt duty-bound to reassure the poor woman, so acute was her distress. ‘It’s physically impossible for such a tiny creature to clamber up six feet of concrete.’
‘How can you be sure?’ The girl kept glancing back at the mouse, as if, at any moment, it would indeed scale the steep incline and pop up at her feet. ‘I mean, it must have extraordinary powers to live down there at all, on top of the live rails. You’d think it would get killed when the trains go roaring over it.’
‘No, it’s small enough to sit safely underneath them.’
The girl shuddered in repugnance. ‘I’ve never seen a mouse on the tube before, otherwise I wouldn’t travel by underground – no way! And I’ll certainly never set foot on Clapham Common station again. Or do you think there might be mice on every station?’
‘No, I shouldn’t imagine so.’ Jo tried to block out the memory of a large, black, bloated rat she’d spotted just a fortnight ago, actually sitting on the platform at Kilburn station, grooming its whiskers with apparent smug satisfaction.
‘Oh my God! There’s another!’ Panic-stricken, the girl clutched Jo’s arm, her voice rising to a wail.
‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’ Jo steered her gently towards a bench, aware that the girl was literally shaking. ‘Those mice won’t hurt you, I promise. They can’t get anywhere near you and, anyway, they’re only tiny things, far more frightened of you than you are of them.’
‘Impossible!’ The girl shook her head so vehemently, her long, curly ponytail bounced and swung on her shoulders. ‘Even thinking about mice brings me out in a cold sweat.’
She had indeed turned worryingly pale, so Jo kept hold of her arm, stroking it with what she hoped was a calming rhythmic motion, although anxious about overstepping boundaries. A total stranger might take offence at such uninvited intimacies.
‘If only the train would come.’ The girl glanced up at the indicator-board, with a beseeching look, as if she could prevail on an inanimate object to be merciful. ‘Oh shit! Eleven minutes to wait still.’
‘I’m afraid I’m going in the opposite direction – to Morden, and my train’s due any minute. Will you be all right on your own?’
‘No, I won’t, I won’t!’ The girl made a grab for Jo’s coat, holding on with such force Jo was physically prevented from getting up from the bench. ‘Don’t leave me, I beg you. I feel safer with you here.’
‘Don’t worry – it’s OK. I’ll stay until your train comes. I’m in no particular hurry.’ In point of fact, she was tired, in pain, and eager to get home, but there was no way she could abandon the girl. At this late hour, stations could be dangerous places and, indeed, two sinister-looking men were standing at the far end of the platform. The mice themselves posed no danger, but the men just might, lured by the girl’s attractive figure and crazily short skirt. And the whole atmosphere of this dimly lit, near-deserted, claustrophobic no-man’s-land was hardly reassuring.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ The girl was all but weeping in relief. ‘But isn’t it an awful cheek – I mean, delaying you like this?’
‘It’s no bother, honestly. My mother was petrified of mice, so I’m well aware of the problem.’
‘And did she ever conquer her fear?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ It had riled her as a child that her mother should give way to veritable hysterics if the tiniest, most bashful field-mouse dared poke out its nose from some unobtrusive hole. Whereas she had adored all animals – big and small, wild and tame; she had even loved worms and beetles, and had once kept a couple of caterpillars, as furry pets, in a tank.
‘Well, I have to say I feel for your mum, because I know how hard it is. I’ve tried everything myself – hypnosis, psychotherapy, CBT, you name it – but I reckon my phobia’s so deep-seated, I’ll probably never be cured. You see, it first began when I had my tonsils out, aged four …’ The girl’s eyes were still fixated on the rails, anxiously watching for the mice; flinching each time they scurried out; relaxing just a fraction of a fraction if they disappeared from view. ‘When I was waking up from the anaesthetic – dopey still and definitely not with it – I had this terrifying sensation of a real live mouse trapped right inside my throat. At that age, I wasn’t frightened of mice in the slightest, but just the feeling of that slimy body writhing and struggling to get out of my mouth, and its revolting sleek black fur, wet against my tongue, and its long, skinny black tail coiling round my teeth, stayed with me for ever.’
She raised her voice above the noise of a train rattling into the station – Jo’s Morden-bound train, which seemed very nearly empty, a mere two passengers alighting and a solitary man getting on.
‘The nurses tried to tell me it was only a nasty dream, but it felt far too real and vivid for that. And, afterwards, the fear took hold and I couldn’t even read about a mouse in a children’s picture-book, or look at one in a toy-shop.’
Jo clasped her hand in sympathy, no longer worried about taking liberties, since the girl appeared to welcome the gesture. And, indeed, the tonsillectomy experience did sound truly hideous, especially for so young a child. ‘Was it caused by the pain in your throat, d’you think? After having your tonsils out, your throat tends to feel extremely sore and uncomfortable, so maybe you interpreted that as a living creature scrabbling to get out.’
‘Well, partly, I suppose. But I think it’s also connected with my brother’s clockwork mouse. He had one just the same – a really evil-looking thing, with black, wet-looking fur, and a long pointy snout, and a repulsive skinny tail. He liked to tease me by trying to run it across my bare legs, or tickling my face with its tail. And, once he—’ She broke off with a shriek, rocketing up from the bench. ‘Oh, Christ! Oh, shit! Another two, would you believe?’ Pointing to the rails, with a look of utter revulsion, she then collapsed back on the seat, hiding her face in terror.
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Jo peered down at the four little mice, one of which seemed to be frenziedly nibbling at some morsel it was holding in its paws. Sparing the girl the details, she held her arm securely until all four creatures had again skittered off out of sight. ‘It’s OK now – all clear.’
‘It’s not “all clear”! They’re still down there, aren’t they? Look, I must get off this station. Surely those eleven minutes are up by now. Could you check the board for me and see if my train’s due? I feel so scared, I daren’t look up or down or anywhere.’
Jo checked, only to shake her head in dismay. ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, feeling personally responsible that she had no better news, ‘but there’s some further delay, it seems. There’s no north-bound service for another fifteen minutes.’
The girl let out an anguished groan. ‘But that’s longer than it said before.’
‘It’s probably a signal-failure. They’re very common on the Northern Line, although it’s odd they haven’t announced it. And the trains going the other way don’t appear to be affected.’ As if to confirm her words, another south-bound train came rumbling into view, disgorged a couple of passengers and trundled on its way again.
‘I can’t stand any more of this! I’ll have to give up and try to get a taxi – except I live in Belsize Park, which will cost a bloody fortune and I just can’t afford that sort of cash. Yet it seems terribly unfair to expect you to stay here, like my nanny. You’ve just missed your train – and the one before – and I simply can’t delay you any longer.’
‘Look, it’s OK, I assure you. I’ve nothing to get home for.’ True it was way past her usual supper-time, and her arthritic pain was particularly acute, so she’d welcome a double dose of Ibuprofen and some scrambled eggs on toast. But, left alone, the girl might develop a full-blown panic attack if any more mice should dare to venture out. Perhaps a whole colony lived here, enjoying the warmth and darkness, and the safety from cats and foxes. And, presumably, there would be plentiful snacks from people on the platform throwing scraps of food on to the rails. ‘Tell me more about your brother,’ Jo coaxed, in an effort to distract the girl. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Philip.’ She gave a sudden giggle, as unexpected as it was gratifying. ‘You won’t believe this, but one of my therapists blamed my whole mouse phobia on Phil; said my early bad experiences with an obviously sadistic brother had left me with a basic fear of men, which manifested itself as a fear of mice. Well, that’s total and utter crap! Most little boys like teasing their sisters, so Phil was quite normal in that respect, and, anyway, we got on really well. As for men, I’ve never had any problem with them and I have a really lovely boyfriend at the moment – Toby. Oh, and I’m Michelle, by the way. It’s about time I introduced myself.’
‘And I’m Jo.’ She had been christened Josephine, in honour of her father’s devotion to St Joseph and, although always called formal Josephine by the nuns at her convent school, at home, as a child, she had insisted on plain, boyish Jo. ‘And what does Toby think about your mouse-fear?’
‘Oh, he’s very easy-going, so I’m lucky in that way. But I’m afraid it does rule his life – poor man! I mean, we can’t live where there might be mice, so it has to be a modern concrete building, preferably the top floor. In fact, this very Friday he’s driving down to his parents’ cottage in Kent, and there’s no way I can go with him, because the place is surrounded by hayfields, so mice go with the territory – literally. And, of course, from now on, I’ll never dare risk the tube again, which will restrict us terribly. And we’re restricted, too, when it comes to holidays. Caravans and chalets are completely out of the question and, as for a farmhouse, that would be my absolute worst nightmare.’
Jo was suddenly jolted back to her first and only holiday as a child: a fortnight staying on an Irish farm, in 1954. She hadn’t given it a thought in decades, yet now every smallest detail was flashing into her mind. Yes, she was on the ferry, steaming out to Rosslare on a thrillingly choppy sea, standing beside her father right on the top deck, pressed against the rail; the wind slapping their faces, tousling their hair, almost trying to rip the clothes from their backs. She relished every sight and sound: the great, powerful ship with its two red funnels and mournful hooter; the flocks of gulls following so close behind, they were like her own personal bodyguard; the huge, white-crested waves giving her a glorious sense of danger, as if, at any moment, they might have to take to the lifeboats and embark on a still more exciting adventure.
In the normal way, there wasn’t money for treats or holidays, but her Aunt Agatha had died and left them something called a bequest. And had left her, as the only niece, a solid-gold St Christopher pendant – worth a mint, according to her father. He wouldn’t let her wear it until she was grown-up, because the chain was too long for a child. Besides, it was precious, he explained, and had to be guarded very carefully, so that if, in adult life, she found herself impoverished, she could sell it and raise some ready cash. But she knew, even at the age of nine, she would never consider selling it, because, if you wore a St Christopher medal, it kept you safe on each and every journey, including the Journey of Life, which was vastly more important than any amount of money.
She had learned more about St Christopher at school: he had miraculous powers, having been born a giant who once carried Christ across a swollen river. And, ever afterwards, he protected people from flood, tempest, plague and sudden death and, although none of those seemed a likely peril for a little girl in Kennington, there were other ways he could protect you, so the nuns said. For instance, if you gazed on his image first thing in the morning, you would suffer not the slightest harm all that day or night. So, every morning, as soon as she got up, she would open the luxurious, velvet-lined box, where the pendant was kept until she was old enough to wear it, and look fixedly and prayerfully at the figure of the saint. Soon, the details were imprinted on her mind – his gnarled walking-stick and flowing cloak and the improbably large Christ-child weighing down his shoulders – so just the briefest glance at it imbued her with the certainty that, for the next twenty-hour hours, at least, she would be completely safe from danger.
She leapfrogged back to the present, as Michelle’s fingers suddenly dug into her arm. A mouse must have sneaked into view, because the girl was sitting ramrod-tense again, staring down at the rails with a look of the deepest alarm.
‘I’ll tell you a funny story,’ Jo began, determined to distract her once more. ‘Well, perhaps not so funny at the time, but you’ll empathize, I’m sure.’ They were still alone on their seat, although several other people were sitting on the benches further down, presumably also waiting for the north-bound train. ‘When I was a little girl of nine, my parents took me on a farm holiday in Caherciveen, in the West of Ireland.’ She had loved those exotic Irish words, so hard to spell, but wonderfully weird and wild on the tongue. Caherciveen was overlooked by the Macgillycuddy Reeks, which was the most amazing place-name of them all, and she used to recite it to herself like a magic incantation.
‘A farm in such beautiful countryside,’ she continued, ‘was my idea of heaven, because we were Londoners, born and bred, living in the basement of a dark, cramped house, without so much as a garden, let alone fields and mountains. And our landlord forbade any kind of pet, so it was a huge treat for me to be staying somewhere with sheep and cows and dogs and hens, and even a pony to ride.’
She would never forget that fat, frisky, skewbald mare: the sheer astoundment of its colouring – uneven splotches of chestnut, white and black – and the thrill of riding bareback; the plump, quivery flanks warm against her legs, and the shock of its bouncy, jiggling trot, which all but jounced her off its back, and its eager velvet lips probing her palm when, afterwards, she fed it pieces of apple from the farm’s own private orchard.
And her first time feeding the hens had been every bit as magical: the squawk and rush and flurry of feathers, as she tossed the shining gold grain; the flock of greedy birds pushing and shovin
g each other, with no strict parent restraining them. But best of all the experiences had been watching the milking twice a day: just being so close to big, solid, living animals, and their peculiar, almost embarrassing udders, and the surprise of the milk gushing and frothing into a bucket, instead of being left on the doorstep in boring, workaday bottles.
‘Well, when I came back in, after my first enchanting day there, tired and messy and walking on air, my mother said I was to wash and change my clothes, so I’d be nice and neat for supper. I was sharing a room with my parents – to save them money, I suppose – and I was just rooting in a drawer to find a clean jumper, when I heard this shriek of pure unmitigated terror. I whipped round to see my mother clambering frantically on to the bed, her face as white as uncooked dough. And, there, on the floor below her, was the tiniest of fieldmice, equally terrified, I’d guess.’
Michelle gave a dramatic shudder. ‘Don’t go on! The very thought of such a thing makes my blood run cold.’
‘Yes, so it did with my mum. In fact, she insisted, there and then, that we all go straight back home. I just couldn’t believe it and burst into tears, but, although my father did his best to change her mind, she was completely deaf to reason. So our one-and-only holiday ended after just one day and we’d wasted all that money, and had to return that very evening, despite the fact we’d already spent two days travelling. There were no motorways in the fifties, you see, and, even if there had been, our third-hand Morris 8 was incapable of any sort of speed. So, the day we left home, we had to set the alarm for five in the morning and drive eight hours to Fishguard, and we arrived so late at Rosslare, we had to stay the night in a b-and-b, before proceeding on to Caherciveen early the next day. That took another six or seven hours, what with avoiding all the potholes in the roads, and having to slow down for sheep or cattle being taken from one pasture to another, or even wild horses leaping out on to the roads!’
As she paused for breath, it was Michelle’s turn to sympathize. ‘I do feel really sorry for you, Jo. I mean, what a ghastly disappointment for a child! On the other hand, I can imagine exactly how your mother must have felt, and I know I’d be the same. I just hope you could forgive her.’
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