by Anna Fargher
‘Make yer life a little brighta!’ a market seller bellowed from somewhere in the crowd. ‘Meat and pickled eggs! Sellin’ fast! Last chance to buy!’
‘Sugar! Butter!’ Another cried nearby. ‘Get yer sugar and yer butter ’ere!’
‘Mama always wanted more butter and sugar,’ Pip said to Dickin as they walked through the crowd, ‘but she could never get it if the humans in our house didn’t have any. How come there’s so much here?’
‘In wartime,’ Dickin said, his voice muffled by the umbrella in his mouth, ‘things like butter and sugar are in short supply. It’s rationed so humans get their fair share – even the royal family has to make do. Us animals just get the scraps of what’s left. But these dodgy dealers steal it straight from the human black market and then they sell it to them blightas down here that want it bad enough. Charge a pretty penny for it too.’ A low growl rumbled in his throat. ‘Thievin’ sods. Don’t look them in the eye or they’ll try it on with ya.’
Pip looked away, but she couldn’t resist quickly glancing back over her shoulder. She’d never seen a dodgy dealer before. At the same moment, a large toad with warts bubbling over his skin looked up from behind his stall. His steely yellow eyes caught her gaze, sending a cold shudder rippling over her fur. Gasping with horror, she snapped her head forward and quickened her pace alongside Dickin.
‘Tea!’ another seller shrieked into the crowd, ‘Fre-esh tea! Soothe yer weary hearts! Come and get yer tea here!’
‘What’cha reckon, mate?’ Dickin said. ‘I think we deserve one of them.’
The terrier eagerly trotted forwards to the stall. Gently laying the umbrella on the ground alongside it, he sat on his haunches and loomed over the counter with a customary sniff. The stall was made from small, scuffed matchboxes stacked one on top of the other. Each box had ‘BRITISH MADE’ printed in big letters across the front and some had pictures of boats and army men as big as Pip. With her little nose twitching, she wobbled on her tiptoes and peered over the counter.
‘Blimey,’ whispered a sparrow sitting at the stall. His feathers were matted in tufts around his neck and his black beak curled into a sneering smile. A wiry grey rat with brown, rotting teeth sat beside him. ‘Looka that!’
‘Have you ever seen anythin’ like it?’ the rat said under his breath, and nudged the sparrow in the ribs with a bony elbow.
‘’Allo, Dickin,’ the tea seller said. She was a shrew with a long nose and eyes that were magnified behind thick-rimmed glasses partially fogged up with steam. ‘What’ll it be today?’
‘One tea for my little mate, please. Two pinches of sugar.’
The shrew clonked a tarnished thimble on to the counter and Pip’s mouth watered, watching a small teapot fill it to the brim. As steam swirled from the thimble, Pip greedily pulled it to her lips.
‘Be careful, mate,’ Dickin said. ‘It’s hot!’
Pip ignored him and took a brief sip from the thimble so it would not burn her mouth. The tea felt like a warm hug and as it trickled down her throat, Pip thought of the shop window on the days when the sunshine would pour over the Hanway umbrella and brighten her nest with a cosy glow. For a moment, she could smell Mama as clearly as if she was just over her shoulder and Pip’s ears pricked in hope of hearing her and Papa. All too soon, her head caught up with her heart and she let out a long, shuddering sigh that was choked with tears. She pushed the tea thimble away, no longer feeling able to drink it.
‘What’s wrong, love?’ Dickin said. ‘Come on, it’ll do ya good.’
Pip hung her head and pretended not to hear him.
‘Look!’ a nearby voice cried in excitement. ‘It’s Pip!’
‘Pip! Is that you?’
She turned to find two familiar faces pushing their way through the crowd. It was Dot and Joe, her friends from the pub next door to James Smith & Sons. Their great-grandparents were once pet mice who had chewed through the bars of their cage and escaped to the cellar. Their family had lived there ever since and Pip had spent many nights with them, exploring underground. One time, they even made it as far as the Shaftesbury Theatre behind the umbrella shop and had watched men and women sing and dance under bright lights on a stage. It had been the most marvellous thing Pip had ever seen.
‘Oh, Pip!’ Dot squeaked, warmly wrapping her arms around Pip’s neck. ‘Thank whiskers you’re all right! We were so scared something terrible had happened to you and your mama and papa.’
‘Have you seen? There’s nothing left of your umbrella shop,’ Joe said, speaking quickly like he always did when he was gossiping. ‘Or our pub! Mama said if we hadn’t been underground we’d be flatter than squashed flies now.’
‘Pip,’ Dickin said, giving her friends a sniff and standing on all four paws. His kind, brown eyes twinkled with an idea. ‘I’m gonna go and find someone that I think can help ya. He’s the only one I know that can.’ She nodded, moving to follow him, but Dickin shook his head. ‘Nah, nah, you stay here with your mates. I know where he is and I’ll find him faster if I go on me own. Whatever you do, stay here. I’ll be back soon.’
With a warm smile and a wag of his tail that accidentally knocked the roofs off two neighbouring market stalls, he trotted away and quickly vanished into the market crowds.
‘Who was that?’ Joe said with twitch of his nose. Seeing the tatty red cross stitched to the side of Dickin’s white uniform fade into the distance, he let out gasp of excitement. ‘Wow! Is he a search and rescue dog? They’re heroes! How do you know him? Is he a friend of your mama and papa’s? Can I meet him when he gets back?’
‘Where are your mama and papa?’ Dot asked, looking left to right with concern. She laid eyes on the umbrella lying beside the tea stall and smiled with relief. Pip clenched her teeth, sadness threatening to overwhelm her. ‘Are they inside the umbrella? Mama will be so happy! We’ve been keeping an eye out for all of you ever since we arrived yesterday.’
‘They’re not inside the umbrella!’ Pip snapped, with tears stinging her eyes.
‘Oh – are they in the market? Our mama keeps going over there to smell the butter and sugar. . .’
‘My mama and papa are gone! They’re dead!’
As each word left her mouth, Pip felt a throb inside her chest. She turned away from them, biting her lip to stifle the urge to cry. Dot and Joe stared at one another, wide-eyed with shock.
‘I’m so sorry, Pip,’ Dot said, stepping towards her and sympathetically placing a paw on Pip’s shoulder. ‘We didn’t know.’
‘I have an idea!’ Joe said, after a long, awkward pause filled with not knowing what to say. He glanced at Dot and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come and live with us?’
‘Yes!’ Dot cried. ‘It will be so fun! We’ll be sisters!’
‘And I’ll be your brother!’
‘We’ll be your family, Pip. Our mama and papa will be so pleased!’
Pip paused and smiled uncomfortably. Normally when Dot and Joe had an idea she believed in it until the end – or at least until they got caught. This time, doubt twisted inside her. She didn’t want to go with them.
‘Don’t worry,’ Dot said, rolling her eyes, noticing the look of discomfort on Pip’s face. ‘You can bring the umbrella.’
Pip looked at it fondly. It belonged with her in the umbrella museum in Gignese where Mama and Papa would want her to be with all the other umbrella mice, not in a bombed-out pub in London. If Mama could make it to Britain inside an umbrella all those years ago then she could make it back to Italy too.
‘What’s yer story then, ducky?’ the rat sitting at the tea stall said, leaning his bony body over the counter and eyeing the young mice with big, gleaming eyes. ‘What’s yer name?’
‘Her name?’ Joe said hesitantly, glancing at Dot in mutual surprise at the interruption. Pip recoiled as the rat licked its lips and smiled at her. ‘Her name is—’
‘Flick,’ Pip lied, looking the rat up and down with a scowl.
‘Cor!’ the sparrow scof
fed, jumping off his stool beside the rat and hopping over to Pip on sharp, bony, black talons. ‘Don’t ya talk proppa! Betcha come from a nice big house.’
‘Where I lived was bombed yesterday,’ Pip said, firmly wiping away a tear from her whisker and taking a step away from the sparrow with Dot and Joe. Feeling their fur brush hers, she was grateful they were with her now. Standing on her hind paws, she looked over the strangers’ shoulders into the crowded market, hoping to see Dickin’s scruffy shape padding through the stalls, but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘You ain’t alone there, ducky,’ the rat said, following the sparrow, walking around the umbrella. Reaching out and touching the carved, silver handle, his bony paws lingered on its gold inlay. ‘St Giles’s fulla them that’s been bombed.’
‘What ya doin’ with that old codger?’ asked the sparrow. ‘Dickin’s good for nothin’.’
‘Unless you want an ear full of yap and rubbish,’ the rat sneered, arrogantly leaning an elbow on the umbrella handle as if it was his own property. ‘Did he tell ya that sob story about “his Jack” and the Blitz?’
‘What a load of old codswallop!’ The sparrow chuckled.
‘We all know he’s been with Mr King since day one. He tells that story to everybody he saves so they’ll leave their bombed houses and come to St Giles. That way, he gains their trust by makin’ them think he’s grieving too.’
‘Can’t put yer faith in a dog, love,’ the sparrow said with an earnest shake of his head. ‘Everyone knows they’re only looking out for themselves.’
‘Or their bellies, more like.’
The rat and sparrow sniggered and slapped each other’s backs. Pip felt foolish. After all, she didn’t know Dickin very well. Nor any dogs for that matter. She remembered Mama and Papa had once explained that dogs were pets because they couldn’t remember how to hunt for food. Perhaps it was true he was only helping her so he wouldn’t go hungry.
‘Listen, missy,’ the sparrow said, clearing his throat. ‘First things first. There’s protocol in St Giles for new arrivals, but you weren’t to know. Dickin should’ve told ya.’
‘Protocol?’ Pip said.
The mice anxiously looked at one another.
‘Yeah, you know,’ the rat said, ‘forms and that to fill in so you get the right help: A Class when you’ve lost all yer home. B Class for injured, C Class for orphans, D Class for dead.’ The words struck Pip like a blow across her face and she clenched her jaw to stop her lips from trembling. ‘There’s a big fine if ya don’t register.’
‘A fine!’ Dot and Joe cried.
‘Ya might even get a criminal record.’
‘Oh dear, mate,’ the sparrow said, shaking his head and making a tut-tut sound, ‘they won’t like it that you’ve been drinkin’ black market tea.’
‘Pip!’ Dot and Joe gasped, not admitting that they had no idea what black market tea was, having had two cups themselves that morning. ‘You’ll get into trouble.’
‘See, ya can’t trust Dickin!’ the rat sneered, taking advantage of the look of worry that furrowed Pip’s brow. ‘He’s already gettin’ ya in a lot of strife, it’s lucky ya found us when ya did.’
‘Don’t ya worry,’ the sparrow said, honourably puffing out his chest feathers. ‘We won’t say nuffink about your little crimes, including that little fib about your name, eh? That ain’t what mates do, is it?’ With a gleeful glance at one another, the rat and the sparrow nodded and lifted the umbrella above their heads. ‘Come with us, we’ll look after ya.’
‘No!’ Pip said, dashing to the umbrella and standing in front of the bird, trying to block his path. ‘I am waiting for Dickin. He’ll be back soon.’
‘What did we just say about that blinkin’ fleabag?’ the sparrow said, angrily ruffling the feathers around his neck. ‘Dickin ain’t coming back for you. You’re in St Giles now and he’s gone to get his treats like he always does. We’re the ones that are really helpin’ ya.’
‘Yeah,’ the rat said, and a crooked smile, filled with long, sharp teeth, spread across his face. ‘Don’t you know what a favour looks like?’
‘What shall we do?’ Pip whispered, turning to Dot and Joe and feeling more lost than ever. If she got into trouble here she might never get to Gignese, and without Dickin, she may never get the help she needed to get there.
‘I don’t know,’ Dot said. ‘We told Mama we’d be back soon.’
‘It won’t take a minute, ducky,’ the sparrow said, effortlessly stepping around Pip and her friends. Pip gasped in horror as the strangers started to move away from the tea stall with the umbrella carried above their heads. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Stop! I never said you could take my umbrella!’
‘Come on,’ Joe said, following the rat and sparrow and beckoning Pip and his sister forward with his paw. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing. Let’s get this out of the way, then we can keep exploring. I saw a mouse doing magic tricks earlier. You pick a card from his deck and somehow it ends up behind your ear. You have to see it! It’s amazing!’
‘Oh!’ Dot said, not thinking about her mother any more and giving Pip’s paw a tug of encouragement as she trotted to her brother’s side. ‘I’d love to see that, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Pip said, and hurried after her friends.
Normally, Dot and Joe’s merry banter took her mind off anything, but now she was uneasy. With a last look over her shoulder for a glimpse of Dickin, she sighed with disappointment and walked onward, wondering how she was going to get to Gignese now.
‘Make yer life a little brighta!’ The sellers’ cries grew distant. ‘Meat! Butter! Sugar! Get your comforts ’ere!’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE CROOKS
The umbrella turned many feathered and furry heads as it travelled above the crowd with the young mice trotting after it, trying to keep up with the rat and the sparrow ahead of them. Leaving the safety of the market far behind, the nervous flutter in Pip’s chest quickly grew to a drumming thud of dread as they reached a dark corner where no other creature roamed.
‘You’re talking absolute rubbish!’ Dot scoffed, gleefully bickering with her little brother. ‘You couldn’t even pull off a magic trick to fool a blind mouse!’
‘I could!’ Joe scowled with his fur standing on end.
‘Not even a deaf, dumb and blind mouse!’
‘All right then. When we get back, I’ll show you!’
‘I bet you can’t.’
‘I bet I can.’
‘I bet you can’t!’
‘I bet I can!’
‘What do you think, Pip? Wouldn’t he be the worst magician in the world?’
Pip’s ears cocked on her head but she wasn’t listening. The rat and the sparrow were leading them and the umbrella towards a small shadowy opening in a brick wall, similar to the one she and Dickin had used to enter St Giles. But this one had green moss and black slime glistening around its edges and the sound of water trickling nearby.
‘Stop!’ Pip said firmly, hurrying ahead of Dot and Joe so she was walking briskly alongside the strangers. ‘Where are you taking us and my umbrella?’
‘It’s not far, mate,’ the rat said nonchalantly without turning his head. He quickened his pace along with the sparrow. ‘Just around this corner and we’ll settle everything. Don’tcha worry. Everybody does it when they arrive.’
‘Don’t be such a worry-guts,’ Joe said. ‘The sooner we get this over and done with, the sooner we’ll get back to the market.’
‘I suggest you lot hurry up,’ the sparrow said loudly. ‘It gets busy up there when them bombs come crashin’.’
The strangers scuttled forward and vanished through the opening in the wall. The young mice broke into a run behind them and swiftly climbed through into an enormous underground sewer canal. It smelt of musty laundry and was enveloped by a gloomy domed brick tunnel. A wide expanse of black water with no beginning and no end rushed below the narrow ledge they found themselves on. The
umbrella was dropped to the ground, where it smacked against the concrete. The clatter echoed along the tunnel, as if the bricks were laughing at them.
‘First things first,’ the sparrow said, turning to loom over Pip with its sharp, ebony beak glinting in the gloom. ‘You owe us arrival and insurance tax.’
‘What?’ Pip said, staring fearfully at the umbrella lying so close to the water.
‘Every bein’ pays it,’ the rat said with a sneer. The mice looked nervously at his long yellow teeth and drew closer to each other. ‘It’s the law in St Giles.’
‘But we don’t have any money.’
‘Prove it!’
The mice glanced at one another nervously and innocently held out their empty paws. Shaking their heads with disapproval, the strangers tut-tutted and stepped towards them with a jeering snarl.
‘They’ll lock you up and throw away the key!’
‘You’ll never see the light of day again.’
The mice stepped backwards, looking desperately over their shoulders for a place to run, but the rat and sparrow encircled them, licking their lips like wolves, pacing around their prey.
‘Your punishment is simple: your umbrella is forfeit,’ the rat said with a menacing smile. His eyes pored over the umbrella’s silver handle and its gold inlay carvings, both flickering in the gloom. ‘Now scram, you pesky little varmints,’ he said, snarling at the mice, ‘or we’ll rip ya into little pieces.’