The Deptford Histories

by Robin Jarvis

  Suddenly Gwen snapped out of her thoughts.

  The lace curtain was roughly pushed aside and into the cosy, candlelit room strode her husband. The fragrant coolness of the midsummer night airs flowed after him and, with a shudder, Gwen recognised the foul humour that had overwhelmed him.

  “Plague take it!” Thomas roared, stomping over to the shelf that housed his pipe and tobacco. “A body can’t get a minute’s peace—not nowhere any more. Always some danged fool a-yammerin’ or a-cluckin’ somewhere.”

  The midshipmouse slipped the end of the wooden pipe into his mouth but made no attempt to light it. Instead he began to pace about the room, his white, wiry eyebrows twitching and tangling together as a sombre frown settled over his face.

  “Thomas,” his wife began in a gentle voice, “come and sit down, please, dear.”

  “Your Arthur was right!” he bellowed. “This place is too crowded. Each way you turn there’s some blasted fool getting in the way. There are times when I almost wish...”

  He glowered at the mouse sitting forlornly upon the bunk but could not meet her sympathetic gaze for long. Spinning on his heel he lunged for a leather flask and poured its contents into a bowl.

  Watching him, Gwen shook her head. “You said you weren’t going to touch that any more,” she reminded him gently.

  Thomas raised the bowl to his lips but paused before drinking the rum it contained. “What else am I to do?” he cried. “It’s my only release—the only way to dull the bite of that old wound.”

  “It seems to have been gnawing you rather a lot of late,” she observed a trifle wearily. “Thomas my love—you’re drinking far too much.”

  The midshipmouse glared at her for a moment then in one rebellious tilt of his whiskery head, drained the bowl of its heady contents.

  “Let me be,” he uttered huskily after wiping his mouth upon the back of his paw. “There’s nowt I can do.”

  “It might help if you talked about it instead,” she answered, “instead of drinking yourself into a stupor every night. After all this time together you still won’t let me help you. Why do you continually keep that part of yourself closed to me?”

  Thomas dragged the blue woollen hat from his head and hurled it to the floor in exasperation. “ENOUGH!” he yelled. “Belay that badgering—can’t you see how it is? I can’t tell you—I can’t tell no one!”

  Gwen rose from the bunk and put her arms around him. “You must do something, my darling,” she comforted. “You’re destroying yourself and building a wall between us.”

  The midshipmouse hugged her desperately, scrunching up his eyes and bitterly repenting of his harsh words. “Oh Gwennie,” he murmured, “forgive me. When this mood takes a hold there ain’t nothing I can do. Why do you put up with this scurvy old rogue?”

  “You know why,” she told him, “but I was thinking, dear, if you can’t tell me—why don’t you write it down? I know we’ve spoken of it before but perhaps if you began your memoirs and put to paper all that torments you, the pain might ease. You never know, it could exorcise your demons for good.”

  Thomas looked into her soft brown eyes and the anguish that burned his soul eased a little.

  “Aye,” he mumbled, “maybe you’re right. There ain’t no harm in tryin’—though I don’t want no one to read it when I’ve done.”

  Gwen gave his paw a gentle squeeze to reassure him. “They shan’t,” she said, moving across the small room and taking a sheaf of papers from the shelf. “I promise.”

  Thomas sat himself down and gingerly took up a quill which he dipped into a pot of black ink.

  Quietly, Gwen tiptoed away so as not to disturb him and threw a shawl over her shoulders before stepping from the figurehead to visit the Chitters—leaving the midshipmouse alone with his troubled memories.

  With the candlelight playing over his frowning face and flaring in his fine white hair, Thomas Triton began to scratch his firm, well-ordered script over the first page.

  For the first time in many grim years he summoned to the fore those thoughts which he had so desperately attempted to forget.

  It was long ago, when he was a young mouse eager to see the world, that it first began. How easily he remembered walking down that country path, the narrow stony road that wound down to the harbour where his adventures were sure to start and the humdrum life of the landlubber would be left behind forever.

  Yet Thomas had made the mistake of setting out upon his journey just before one of the worst winters was about to seize hold of the country, and even as his light footsteps carried him ever nearer to the coast the first flakes of snow had started to fall.

  A far-off look settled over Thomas’s face when he recalled how he scampered for the nearest shelter and found it in a quaint and ramshackle farmhouse where a community of field mice took him in and made him welcome.

  The quill trembled in the midshipmouse’s fingers as the images and feelings which he had locked away and sealed in the rum-drowned bilges of his mind bubbled to the surface. Faces swarmed before his vacant eyes. Visions of those friendly mice all beckoning him into their winter quarters and offering him hot food from their tables.

  And then, one grinning face appeared before him as he knew it would and the sturdy seafarer’s heart quailed within his breast.

  Try as he might he could not bring himself to look upon that small, trusting face for long and he threw his paws in front of his eyes in an effort to dispel it.

  Wailing, Thomas pushed himself away from the small desk, knocking over the ink and flinging the papers to the floor as he reeled away from his own guilt.

  “I can’t do it!” he called. “There’s no going back fer me. I can’t dwell on what I did—I can’t never bring myself to relive it.”

  Wretchedly, the midshipmouse lurched for the leather flask and great tears rolled down his hoary whiskers as he gulped the warming, numbing liquid down.

  When the flask was empty, Thomas cast his eyes about the room and stared at the pool of ink that oozed over the floor. Its glimmering surface was like a mirror of black glass and he peered down at his reflection in an agony of turmoil.

  Then his liquor-stained lips parted and, in his distress, a name formed upon them.

  “Woodget,” he whispered softly, “forgive me.”

  1 - A Bowl of Berrybrew

  Before the sun had edged over the blossom-laden trees which massed on the horizon like a dense bank of snowy clouds, the preparations for this special day were already complete.

  It was the morning of the Great Spring Celebration and the field mice who had taken refuge within the farmhouse over the harsh winter months were at last ready to move out.

  In those half-remembered days, Betony Bank Farm was small, having only one large barley field and a meadow in which four fat dairy cows grazed contentedly. Across the yard were two outbuildings: the stable where a shire horse resided, snug in his straw-filled stall, and next to that a shabby-looking barn.

  As the first weak rays of the climbing sun flickered over the distant trees, a group of yawning but excited figures emerged from the farmhouse.

  Across the dusty yard the field mice scurried, each laden with carefully prepared decorations. The hawthorn girl and oak-leaf boy were carried proudly into the meadow and set down in the centre of a small clearing where two mousewives immediately began to sew the special favour ribbons upon them.

  The foraging parties were dispatched to find sprays of fragrant blossom whilst the others toiled within the nearby hedgerow to construct the chambers of Winter and Summer.

  When two hours had passed and the sun was higher in the sky, the clearing was filled with the heady sweetness of hawthorn and a delicious feast had been spread upon the ground. All was now ready and those youngsters who were to come of age were marched with great solemnity up to a leafy entrance fashioned in the dense and gloomy hedge.

  Everyone loved this time of year and though their stomachs were growling, they waited patiently until the ce
remony of the mousebrass giving was over before they tucked into the food.

  Standing a little apart from the main group, a lovely young mouse maiden with curling tresses of chestnut-coloured hair closed her soft brown eyes and lifted her face to the warm sunshine.

  Bess Sandibrook was a kindly creature, whose sweet nature had made her a favourite amongst those who dwelt on the farm. With a smile traced upon her comely features she idly fingered her own mousebrass which she had been given the previous year. It was the sign of the fieldmouse, as good and as worthy a symbol as any, and she followed the shape of the gleaming metal with her fingertips. Tilting her head to one side, she listened to the squeals of joy and gasps of mock horror that floated out from the hedgerow and smiled happily.

  Few events in a mouse’s life were as important as today’s festivities and everyone threw themselves into the merrymaking. A ghostly moan issued out over the meadow and the assembly giggled, knowing that it was only someone in the chamber of Winter trying to scare the youngster passing through.

  Bess grinned and sat herself down upon a heap of soft, sun-warmed moss. She recognised that hollow voice—it belonged to her lifelong friend, Woodget Pipple and she laughed softly, thinking of her small companion’s delight at the prospect of taking part in the ceremony this year.

  So eager had Woodget been to participate that he had spent several evenings making a ghost costume, chuckling incessantly at the fun he would have leaping out at those unsuspecting youngsters or appearing suddenly above them—emitting ghastly and woeful shrieks.

  Bess was very fond of Woodget but she forgot about him for an instant when a second voice, deeper this time, came echoing from the hedge.

  Undoubtedly that was Thomas and the mouse maid hugged her knees and nibbled a length of grass as she took time to consider this handsome outsider.

  Thomas Stubbs had been with them for nearly five months now. He had first stumbled upon their little community on the night of that terrible blizzard. Were it not for Woodget’s large and sensitive ears his pitiful cries would have been lost forever on the gale, but the little fieldmouse had bravely faced the storm and found Thomas in the yard, close to death.

  With the aid of the others, Master Pipple brought Thomas indoors and placed him near the fire. The stranger had been an alarming sight for he was covered in snow and the frost had made his whiskers so brittle that most of them had snapped off. With tender concern, the field mice saw to his needs, and it was Bess who gave the freezing newcomer a bowl of hot soup to thaw him.

  A few days of recuperation followed in which Bess and Woodget became Thomas’s closest friends and now the trio were inseparable.

  Bess liked Thomas enormously. Not being a fieldmouse, he was taller and stockier than the others and had already proven how brave he was. Once he had courageously ventured into the haunted barn in the dead of night and returned with a chilling and ghostly tale of what had happened there.

  Suddenly a jaunty tune was struck upon a whisker fiddle and a reed pipe and the mouse maid stirred from her thoughts. The ceremony was over; all the youngsters had received their brasses and the proud families were eagerly pressing around them to see what symbols they had been given.

  Then a giggling cry was heard as, from the entrance, stumbled two outlandish figures and a ripple of mirth spread through the field mice as they roared and pointed.

  First came a small, black, flapping spectre, whose billowing body was a mass of carefully sewn cloth. The face of this apparition consisted of a large mouth painted into a toothy grimace and two round holes which served as eyes.

  Unfortunately, the outfit was rather too long and the ghost came tripping into the clearing uttering little squeaks and grunts of annoyance when the ample skirt was stepped upon from within.

  Behind this clown-like phantom appeared an even more startling creature. Out of the entrance lumbered a completely white and deathly-looking mouse whose dark eyes seemed sunken and empty by contrast.

  In the crowd a tiny mousechild let out a doubtful whimper as the two horrors staggered and reeled around in a wobbly circle until the black-shrouded one lost its footing and flew headlong into his pale comrade. Onto the grass the gruesome pair collapsed and writhed in a confused tangle as swathes of the thrashing material became utterly twisted and snarled around them both.

  “Ooer!” chirped a high gurgling voice from behind the painted cloth face. “I got me frock in a muddle! I can’t get up—I’m all in a knot, where’s me feet got to? Now the hood’s shifted—the peepholes have moved round—I can’t see nowt!”

  Beside this wriggling spectre, Thomas Stubbs finally managed to extricate himself from the ensnaring costume but was powerless to help his friend—for every time he caught a glimpse of him squirming in that ridiculous outfit he burst into fresh laughter.

  Most of the flour that Thomas had covered himself in before the festivities had started was now gone, either brushed off on the grass, rubbed onto the black cloth or washed away by the tears that streamed down his chuckling cheeks.

  He was a fine young mouse, with a proud and defiant air about him that demanded respect, and in the brief time he had been at Betony Bank had made many friends. None however were as close to him as the one presently endeavouring to disengage himself from the ghost costume and with a hearty laugh, Thomas reached across and tore the hood away.

  Blinking, and with a wide grin that split his little face in two, Woodget Pipple let out a grateful sigh.

  “Thank’ee, Tom,” he cried. “I did think I were lost fer good in there.”

  With his russet-gold head poking out of his ghost outfit and his paws lost inside the voluminous sleeves, Woodget was a comical sight.

  Master Pipple, eldest son of Herbert and Marigold and brother to Burdock, Cudweed and little Throgfittle, was small even for a fieldmouse. His ears were larger than his head and his long whiskers were continually trembling, for his senses were extremely acute and it was said amongst the others that he could smell the weather changing and always knew at what hour the rain would come.

  “We really put the frighteners on them younguns, din’t we, Tom?” he cried, staring up at his friend with wide, glittering eyes. “Our Cudweed didn’t half yowl when I popped out from them leaves and did that horrid moanin’. Did you see how she went a scamperin’ out o’ there into the other chamber? She’m plain daft!”

  Thomas smiled and offered a paw to help him up. “Well, I’d be careful if I were you,” he said. “Here’s your sister now and she don’t look well pleased with us at all.”

  “Green save us!” Woodget yelped as he turned to behold a plump mouse girl with straggly pigtails and a grim expression fixed upon her round face come barging through the crowd towards them. “Let’s scarper, Tom! She’s got that same look as when I pushed her into the brook. Awful hard paws has our Cudweed.”

  “You come back here, Woodget Pipple!” the girl’s outraged voice shrieked when she saw her brother making a dash for it. “I‘ll teach you to scare me. You too, Master Thomas—I’ll learn you both.”

  Out of the clearing ran Thomas, laughing all the way until he realised that Woodget was not following him and he knew that his friend had fallen victim to the treacherous costume once more.

  Chortling, he made his way back and heard Cudweed’s scolding voice berating her brother.

  “You’re a wicked pair,” said another by his side.

  Thomas turned and there was Bess.

  “Scaring them half to death! Don’t you have nothin’ better to do?”

  “Was only Cudweed who didn’t like it,” he protested. “Mind you, Woodget did go a bit far with her. Chased her right out of the chamber, he did.”

  “Well, he’s paying for it now,” Bess observed. “Listen to that girl; just imagine what she’ll be like in a few years.”

  “I pity the one she marries,” Thomas added. “His ears won’t never stop ringing.”

  Bess flicked her hair over her shoulders and gazed mischievously at hi
m. “I heard that she likes you,” she said. “Set her sights, she has.”

  “I’d feed myself to an owl before I’d let that happen,” he shuddered. “That Cudweed really is summat to be scared of and no mistake.”

  “Maybe, but once a mousemaid has made up her mind who she wants, it’s as good as settled.”

  Thomas gazed at her and saw in her eyes a strange light that he had not noticed before and wondered what it could mean. But he could not discover the answer, for at that moment Woodget ambled towards them, with his outfit now bundled under his arm and his left ear glowing a bright crimson.

  “Oaks and ivy!” the fieldmouse exclaimed. “That were lucky! Only cuffed me lughole that time. I reckon Cuddy’s got soft now she’s growed up.”

  For the rest of that day the three friends laughed and chatted lightly with one another. When they had tucked into the food and stuffed themselves until their stomachs ached, they found a cool shady spot and watched the games and entertainments unfold in the clearing. Eventually the afternoon stretched by and a group of five musicians prepared for the long night of dancing that lay ahead.

  “Come on Bess, lass!” Woodget squeaked, jumping to his feet as The Green Revels commenced. “Let’s you and me go show Tom how we country folk can frolic.”

  Propped upon his elbows, Thomas watched them skip into the midst of the other gathering dancers, but a furrow creased his young brow as a strange and unexpected idea occurred to him. Although he loved both of those happy mice dearly, he almost resented them being together and enjoying themselves without him.

  Surprised and mildly alarmed by these dreadful stirrings of jealousy, Thomas shook himself to dispel them and drew a paw over his eyes.

  “You’re tired, Tom lad,” he told himself, “that’s all. No wonder, you were up early and have eaten more in one sitting than most folk do the entire week.”

  Yet he could not take his eyes off his two friends whirling in time to the sprightly music and, more often than not, his gaze was fixed upon Bess.