The River Bank

by Kij Johnson

  “You too? Is that what was wrong, yesterday? I know you said something about motor-cycles, but I knew it could not be merely that! I did not know you were a fellow sufferer. Why, I could have suggested my own dentist. He is very good, and so gentle and polite!” The Rabbit began hunting for the slip of paper with her dentist’s address written upon it: in her reticule, in the pocket of her bright, checkered mantelet, in her glove. O, there it was! She had forgotten: Beryl had pinned it to her lapel, so that it could not be lost.

  “No, no, no, my dear girl.” The Toad grinned widely at her, displaying his complete and proper absence of teeth, so that the Rabbit blushed. “Tricked them all,” he gloated again. “No. I am gone into town to look at motor-cycles.”

  She gasped. “O, Toad! Dare you? But the gentleman at the garage! He said—”

  “Never mind what he said. I’ll walk in—quite casually, as though I were a mere window-shopper—ask to see the largest and most beautiful motor-cycle they have—and I shall pay cash for it”—he pulled from his brocaded waistcoat a fat roll of bank notes—“and I shall ride it home!”

  “O, Toad!” she said again. “What a clever idea! There will be no names given, so they cannot deny you! But—can you ride a motor-cycle?”

  The Toad shrugged his shoulders. “I shall have them show me, but I should imagine it will be much like driving a motor-car. It certainly will not be beyond me!”

  “Or like a bicycle, perhaps!” said the Rabbit. “Why, they both have two wheels! I am quite an experienced bicyclist— I have my own Lallement Princesse,” she said proudly; “and it is shining red, and has the loveliest little basket—”

  “Perhaps a bit like a bicycle,” said the Toad with a patronizing air. “Red! Of course it must be a red motor-cycle, the reddest motor-cycle that ever was.”

  The Rabbit said, a little sadly, “And I shall miss it all. I shall be having a tooth looked at, and by the time that is over, you’ll be gone already, off into the countryside in a great roar! I should love to see that.”

  “You may watch me ride about when you return to the River Bank,” said the Toad kindly.

  Upon their arrival in Town, the Toad hailed the first hackney cab he saw and was at Hiccough-Pemberleigh Motors in no time at all. It was indeed everything he had dreamed of—a glorious place, an Aladdin’s-cave of marvels. The double-doors, so tall, so invitingly open! To the left, the showroom, its large windows offering peeks at the wonders within: here, a reflection of blue sky along a chromium handlebar; there, the twinkle of sunlight sparkling upon a faceted headlamp. To the right side was a garage, its four green doors folded back to offer intriguing glimpses into a gloomy cavern filled with mysterious equipment, all a-bustle with slightly grubby men in mechanics’ coveralls. Above it all was a shining dark blue sign that read (in white): Hiccough-Pemberleigh Motors: motor-cycles for the gentry.

  The Toad strutted into the cool, dark showroom and gazed and gazed, but his reception was disappointing. There were the motorcycles, six or seven of them encircled by red velvet ropes draped from brass stands, shining black or green or midnight-blue (but none red, alas); and there were the beautifully suited shop-men, five or six of them standing in ornamental clumps at the back of the room, like pampas grass in pots; and here was he, Toad of Toad Hall, the rich daredevil, the Toad-about-town! But his incognito had its disadvantages: he saw none of the agreeable rushing about he was used to whenever he entered showrooms in his own name.

  After it became clear to the beautifully suited shop-men that this unknown caller was not merely going to wander in and then out, one drifted across the room and said, “How may I help you?” in a supercilious tone, with the emphasis just slightly upon the you.

  The Toad drew himself up to his full height, such as it was. “No, you may not! I shall deal with none but your proprietor, for I am—” But here he stopped, for he remembered suddenly that Toad of Toad Hall was an unwelcome customer—indeed, illegal. Now the salesman was looking down on him with—could that be contempt? He finished with great pomp, “I am Mr Green, the world-famous motor-cyclist.”

  “Mr Green . . . ?” mused the shop-man, and gestured. Another shop-man separated himself from his fellows, idled across, and looked inquiringly at them both. Said the first, “Mr Gervase, this is the ‘famous’ Mr Green. The motor-cyclist. Perhaps you have heard of him . . . ?” Toad could hear the quotation marks around “famous.”

  The second shop-man stared down the length of his long nose, inspecting Toad. “Perhaps Mr, ah, Green has found himself in the wrong place?”

  “I shall be paying cash,” said Toad with a flourish of bank notes.

  “O, Mr Green!” instantly said both shop-men. “Of course! The famous Mr Green!”

  After that, things went much more smoothly. Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh was summoned from his office and appeared, bowing and scraping in the most gratifying manner. The velvet ropes were removed and each motorcycle was in its turn rolled out onto the pavement before the showroom, to glitter and gleam in the sunlight; extolled in the most glowing of language, with enough references to Specifications thrown in to keep it all from feeling entirely like an appeal to Toad’s emotions (as in fact it was); inspected; started and listened to; and declared inadequate by the Toad. He paused and considered for a time when he came to the last: the largest, shiniest, loudest, and fastest motor-cycle, a Dustley Turismo X painted a lush dark green that might have reminded the poetically inclined of pine forests in Norway—not red, alas—but in the end, even this was rejected.

  Then came the moment feared by every purveyor of durable major consumer goods, when the Toad finally said, “So this is all you have?”

  “Well . . .,” said Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh, thinking quickly. “We can of course order others for you from the manufactory— I have many catalogues, if you should like to see them—”

  “Paugh,” said the Toad.

  “—but we have nothing else here, except the red Nonpareil—”

  “The Nonpareil!” echoed the sales-men reverently.

  “—but that is a racing motor-cycle, sir, not at all suitable for ordinary riding,” finished Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh.

  “A racing motor-cycle! Show me the Nonpareil, my good man,” said the Toad imperiously. “It is red, you say?”

  “Very red,” Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh said. “The precise red one generally sees only on the most irresponsible of motor-cars. But I should not even have mentioned it! The Nonpareil is, unhappily, quite impossible. One of the mechanics has been adjusting the carburetor, so it is in the garage, in pieces. It cannot be shown at this time. Perhaps next week.”

  But the Toad only shook his head emphatically. “No, indeed! Show it to me at once. Why did you not tell me of this first, and save us both all this time? A racing motor-cycle, in red! Did you think any of these lesser machines should do for a world-famous motor-cyclist such as myself?”

  “But there are pieces off,” said Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh plaintively.

  The Toad said, “Then they may be put back on, my good man. I shall wait until your mechanic has finished his adjustments, and in the meantime, we may discuss such supplemental purchases as a leather riding suit, and a helmet, and bags, and—and such. I shall wear the riding suit and helmet, but you may send everything else to—” he nearly said, “Toad Hall,” but managed to stop himself; and as the Mole seemed the chap least likely to refuse delivery, he amended it to, “Mr Green, care of Mr Mole, at Mole End, near the River Bank.”

  Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh frowned. “The River Bank? There is a notorious Toad who lives just about there.”

  The Toad smiled his most innocent, most charming smile. “O, him. Toad! He is quite a folk-hero on the River Bank, with his daring and his bold feats! Almost a legend, one might say. Quite the great man of those parts. But we don’t speak of him,” he revised hastily, seeing Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh’s expression. “He is not received anywhere.”

  It took rather a while for the mechanic to reassemble
the bits he had just disassembled (and not without some grumbling, for he loved the Nonpareil the way some grooms love the horses they tend), but the time was spent to the great mutual satisfaction of the Toad and Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh in the purchasing of everything to do with motor-cycles that could be purchased. There was a hitch in the proceedings, for the Toad also wished to hire a chauffeur to keep his motor-cycle in order, something Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh was very willing to do for him. Again, the Mole—or rather, his direction—came to the rescue, though he did not know it: the chauffeur might report to Mole End, and then be directed to Toad Hall, at which point (reasoned the Toad) it would be too late for anyone to do anything about it all.

  The mechanic had the carburetor reinstalled in somewhat more than a trice but rather less than an hour. The Toad, trying on a riding suit and helmet before a mirror, and rather liking the effect of such a gleaming effulgence of leather, caught the flash of red and chromium from the corner of his eye as the Nonpareil was rolled onto the pavement. He moaned aloud.

  “Sir?” said Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh. “Are you well?”

  “O my! O my! That beauty—that angel!” groaned the Toad, and walked from the showroom as though pulled upon a string. There the Nonpareil was before him: a slender, low, lethal-looking motor-cycle; a vain, useless, frivolous object (very like the Toad himself, in character if not conformation); a machine emphatically red. It managed to convey a sense of imprudent speed even though it was standing quite still.

  “How—how does it start?” said the Toad, licking his lips, for they were dry. He felt his heart flutter in his breast: never had anything been as beautiful as the Nonpareil!

  The mechanic frowned a little. “I thought you was a great motor-cyclist, sir. The Nonpareil, she’s a beauty all right, but she starts same as all the other motorcycles. You climb on and then you tickle the carburetor—like this, sir—and then you—”

  But it was too late. At the mechanic’s first words, the Toad had heaved himself up onto the leather saddle, his paws just reaching the handlebars and his toes just reaching the foot-pegs. All words of advice and admonishment went unheard as he cried, “Stand aside!”, rolled on the accelerator, and released the clutch. The Nonpareil leapt forward into the road, where it immediately hit a cobble and fell. The Toad leapt clear as the Nonpareil skittered along the road upon its side, leaving a trail of foot-pegs, cables, gear-levers, valve-covers, dark fluids, and unidentifiable bits of metal.

  A dozen anguished voices went up at once: “The Nonpareil!”

  By virtue of his shape, the Toad rolled some little distance before bumping to a stop against the wheels of a perambulator where it stood outside a milliner’s shop, which set the infant inside to crying. Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh and the mechanic rushed across to where the Toad lay winded but quite uninjured, and grabbed him.

  Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh cried, “Mr Green! Are you all right, sir?”

  But the mechanic shouted to a bystander, “’Ere, you! Call a constable! ’E oughter be up on charges for ruinin’ a valuable motor-cycle!”

  The infant in the perambulator was howling, a remarkably full-bodied sound for so small an article.

  Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh exclaimed, “Mike, of course we’re not going to summon the police! Mr Green shall pay for the repairs, that’s all.”

  The Toad, who had been thinking quickly, groaned artistically and opened an eye. “Where . . . am I?” he managed in a feeble croak.

  “Sir, you are alive!” exclaimed Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh joyfully. “Can you sit up? You—”

  “The Nonpareil—something was . . . wrong with it,” gasped out the Toad. He looked reproachfully (yet weakly) at the mechanic.

  “There was not!” exclaimed the mechanic, recoiling. “H’it was h’in perfect running order.”

  “There was,” said the Toad, more robustly. Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh was looking between the two of them doubtfully. To clinch the deal, the Toad went on, “As a world-famous motor-cyclist, I know these things. The carburetor was assembled improperly.”

  “H’it was not!”

  “Sir—” said Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh.

  At this moment, the squalling infant’s nurse ran from the milliner’s shop. She had meant to leave her charge for a mere moment, to try on a hat that had caught her eye in the front window, a really very charming bonnet with a plaid ribbon and rosettes, suitable for half-days off. The hat had not suited; but there had been another, nearly as charming, and then a third, rather more so—and she had allowed herself to be drawn into a discussion of the merits of pigeon feathers on close bonnets, or whether they might be a bit quaint. Things had rather developed from there. But she had kept one eye upon the pram just outside, and now she shouldered her way through the tangle of men and motor-cycle parts to snatch up her squalling charge.

  She cooed, “Ooh, is Baby afwaid? Has Baby been scared by the nasty mens?” She glared: the very model of a modern nurse, with the obligatory hatchet-jaw and discreet black dress and white apron—though the effect was somewhat countered by the hat on her head, fashioned of improbably yellow straw surmounted by ostrich feathers dyed fern- and olive-green, and a yellow-and-olive gingham ribbon.

  “Obviously I shall not take a defective Nonpareil!” said the Toad with great firmness. “And I shall not pay for the repairs. Indeed, you are lucky no more serious damage was done, and that I am choosing not to press charges.”

  Madame Celeste—for that was the milliner’s name, to judge by the sign over her shop—emerged, calling in an exaggerated French accent. “My ’at, madame! Mon bon chapeau!”

  “’Ere, what?” exclaimed the mechanic.

  “Ze nasty mens, with their loud voices!” said the nurse reproachfully to the infant. It was still crying.

  “My ’at!” again shrieked Madame Celeste. “Remove eet at once, madame, at once! Zis is theft!”

  “For allowing me to drive off on a defective vehicle,” the Toad explained to Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh. “No one would be surprised if I found it necessary to file a lawsuit for injuries sustained—” He coughed experimentally.

  “Ooh, sir . . .,” interjected Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh in agony.

  The nurse glared at Madame Celeste, but only cooed to the child, “Ooh, the hat-lady is nasty, is she? Baby is taking up all of Nursey’s attention, and the nasty hat-lady will just have to wait until Baby is all quiet, won’t she, my precious?”

  The Toad continued, “But I am a magnanimous individual. My friends say I am too forgiving, but there it is. I’ll take that one instead.” He gestured at the dark-green Dustley Turismo X.

  “The Dustley?” said the mechanic and Mr Hiccough Pemberleigh in unison.

  Madame Celeste reached across and tried to tug the hat from the nurse’s head, who threw up one hand to protect herself, as there were a number of hatpins holding it in place. There ensued a tussle.

  “Yes,” said the Toad, “at once! It is not red, and it is not the Nonpareil”—and here a tear welled in one eye—“but”—and here he perked up—“it is nevertheless a glorious machine. Fast, you say?”

  “Very,” Mr. Hiccough-Pemberleigh assured him with dawning hope, pushing the nurse and milliner out of his way.

  “And dangerous, I daresay?” said the Toad casually.

  The mechanic said, “H’in your ’ands, very ’azardous. But wot about the ruin of this ’ere Nonpareil?”

  “And such a lovely green,” added Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh hurriedly, and tittered. “Why, it is quite your namesake!”

  The Toad said, “What? O, I see,” and began, regtrettably, to giggle. “Yes, I’ll take this motor-cycle, the Dustley, but I expect a discount for it.”

  This is where matters stood—unpromising but not yet ruinous—when the Rabbit appeared upon the scene, and said, “O no! Mr Toad, are you injured?”

  The Rabbit’s tooth had been looked at but it had not needed to be drawn, after all: a few minutes’ filing and some Wintergreen Oil, and it was done. The Rabbit fel
t immediately better. The sandwiches had been eaten upon a curved-metal and wooden bench at the park, where she watched a man standing upon a box and declaiming loudly. He was either for the Government or against it, she could not tell exactly which; but whichever it was, he was incensed. When she was done, she folded up her napkin neatly and tucked it back into the basket. She looked at her little lapel-watch. The dentist had taken longer than she had expected, but there was still time to see the lions and tigers and penguins at the Zoo. And so off she went.

  She had nearly forgotten about the Toad’s purchase when she hurried up from the Underground near the Zoo and saw, immediately across the street, a shining dark-blue sign that read (in white): Hiccough-Pemberleigh Motors: motor-cycles for the gentry. A row of motorcycles glistened upon the pavement in front of the shop, and a number of ornamental shop-men were clustered gleaming in the shop’s doorway; but her attention was drawn immediately to the wreckage of what looked as though it might once have been a red motor-cycle. Two men led a drooping third figure away from it: a small figure, quite a squat figure, dressed in tight leather, with a brown leather helmet jammed down upon his round head: unmistakably the Toad!

  The Toad had been in a motor-cycle accident! The Rabbit hurried across the busy street, and as soon as she was close enough, she called out, “O no! Mr Toad, are you injured?”

  Fateful words, infelicitous words! Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh dropped the Toad’s arm and staggered back as though he had been stung by a wasp; but the mechanic only tightened his grip. “’Ere, what?” said he again: “Mr Toad, h’is h’it? The desprit criminal? A-ruining my beautiful Nonpareil? An’ tryin’ to buy this ’ere Dustley?”

  Rabbit recognized her misstep. “O! But you are not Mr Toad at all, are you? I am so sorry for mistaking you! You are quite another person, and I only mistook you for him. Indeed—” She turned prettily to Mr Hiccough-Pemberleigh, who had seated himself upon his shop’s low windowsill and was turning a gentle shade of green. She laid a paw on his sleeve. “Why, he is not even a little similar. Mr Toad is quite tall, and very distinguished! I don’t see how I can have made that mistake, but I am very nearsighted, you know.”