The Willows in Winter

by William Horwood

  WILLIAM HORWOOD

  The Willows

  in Winter

  Illustrated by Patrick Benson

  I

  Into the Blizzard

  The Mole sat toasting his toes in front of the fire. The winter wind howled safely outside, sending occasional flurries of soot down his chimney He was thinking that things were nearly perfect, but not quite.

  “I must not be uncharitable,” he said to himself, though a slight and uncharacteristic frown showed he was finding it difficult not to be. “I have my health, I have my home and I — I must not be unfriendly.”

  He darted a glance across the hearth towards the smaller and less comfortable chair that was ranged there, looked briefly at the cause of his ill-temper, and looked away again.

  “No, I must be patient. My heart must be compassionate. I must put up with it. I must — O bother!”

  The wind blew suddenly more violently all round the outside of his house, which was snug among the roots of a fallen old oak tree, and doors rattled, and an ember of the beech log that was burning brightly on his fire cracked and shot onto his rug and smouldered there.

  “Don’t worry!” said the unwelcome guest who sat in the chair opposite. “I’ll move it!”

  “I can do it myself, thank you very much,” retorted the Mole in a grumbly way, quite unlike his normal good—natured self. “O — O drat!”

  He shook his paw in momentary pain at the heat as he sought to pick up the ember and put it back where it belonged.

  “Would you like a —”No I wouldn’t!” declared the Mole vehemently “I would like — I would like — I —”

  But he could not bring himself to say what he would like, which was to be left alone and snug in his cosy home, free to potter through the winter evening, free to make himself a warming drink — or not, as the case might be — but certainly free not to have to think about someone else.

  Free not just for this evening, but for every evening to come!

  O, how distant those days seemed when he had been alone in his home, and happy! How far off those wonderful days! O yes, winter had come into his life now all right, but it had nothing to do with the snow and sleet that drove against his front door, and the draughts that worried at his paws when he went the short distance between the warm fireside of his parlour and his soft bed. Winter? Such matters as mere cold and ice, violent wind and driving snow were as nothing compared to the bitter loss of his privacy since he had turned up.

  Mole scowled at the floor, and at the little burn mark the ember had made in the rug, and did his best yet again to tell himself that really he was an uncharitable Mole, and deserved none of the many good things life had brought him, if he could not show a little tolerance for a few more —”Months,” groaned the Mole. “The longest months of the year, that’s how long he’s going to be here. How can I turn him out in this weather? And yet there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him at all, nothing. It’s me that’s to blame. I should have sent him packing while I still could.”

  “Are you all right, Uncle?” asked his most unwelcome guest. “You look gloomy to me.

  “Well, I’m not,” said the Mole ungratefully.

  “Well, you look it.”

  There was a sudden flurry of sleety snow at the door, and a chill blast of air across the room. The fallen oak tree which was the support and strength of Mole’s home shook and stressed and both the Mole and his guest looked up at the ceiling in alarm, and at the sideboard on which plates and cups rattled and shook.

  “Haven’t you got something better to do than talk?” grumbled poor Mole.

  “Nothing better than talking, especially on a night like this,” said his Nephew, leaning forward expectantly.

  Then, since Mole was not forthcoming, and thinking to encourage him to talk, the youngster continued after a pause, “Mind you, a winter night like tonight, when most creatures are too weak and frightened to go out, wouldn’t worry you! Nothing scares you, I know that. Why, you could walk miles across the Wild Wood itself in the dark and blizzard winds and still save a creature who was in peril, if you had to!”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, I am not the Mole you think I am!” snapped Mole in exasperation. “The last thing I or any sensible creature would do is to go wandering off into the Wild Wood tonight. I really am not the brave bold mole you seem to have heard about. I am just an ordinary mole, and it makes me very cross when you keep suggesting that I am anything other than —”

  “But Uncle, I know you are not an ordinary mole. Water Rat told me you were the bravest cleverest boldest Mole he had ever met in his life. Mr Toad declared that if there was one living creature he would want at his side in a time of crisis it was you. And even Mr Badger, and everyone knows how wise he is, said, and I quote, ‘There’s only one Mole, and no one is braver and bolder and better than he!’ So it’s no good being modest, Uncle!”

  The Mole, who had the good grace to feel just a little flattered, though in his heart he felt that all these compliments were undeserved, wiggled his toes at the flames and thought that perhaps, after all, he ought to try to make the best of things. “Well, I suppose if you have nothing else to do, you could make me a nice hot sloe and blackberry drink,” he muttered.

  No sooner was it said than his young Nephew was up and at it with that busy, clumsy, exasperatingly energetic way he had, clattering about in the kitchen, rattling at the hob, and, worst of all, humming happily to himself.

  The Mole frowned again, scowled and then, finally, smiled.

  He stared at the flames and felt his nose all cosy warm. He rested his paws on the arms of his comfortable chair.

  Brave? Not he!

  Bold? No, not really!

  Better? No, no, not so.

  “But as for Ratty’ he said over his shoulder, “now there is a brave animal!”

  “What did you say, Uncle?”

  “I said Ratty is a brave animal,” replied the Mole, half turning to look behind him.

  “And Mr Badger too?”

  “Yes, certainly Badger’s brave, as well as wise. That’s quite certain.”

  “And Mr Toad! He’s brave!”

  Mole laughed.

  “Toad brave? That’s not a word I’d use about old Toad. Bold certainly, foolish definitely, vain absolutely, but never brave.”

  “But you like him, don’t you?” said his Nephew softly, placing the warm winter drink within comfortable reach, together with a slice of warmed bread and butter pudding, dripping with melted butter.

  “I really shouldn’t,” said the Mole, taking it anyway, sniffing at it appreciatively, sighing, and then eating a mouthful.

  “No, liking Toad doesn’t come into it at all. Toad is, that’s the thing about Toad. Just as the trees are, and the river, and summer; and the winter. Toad may be the most exasperating creature who ever lived, or ever will live — even more exasperating than you, if I may say so —but at the end of the day, when all is said and done, sitting here in the safety of my home, with the fire burning bright and only memories to disturb our peace and quiet, and with the prospect of a good and deep night’s sleep before us — after all of that, I must say that without Toad there would be nothing much to live for at all.”

  Mole took a sip of his drink, and another bite of his pudding, and stared ruminatively at the fire.

  His Nephew studied him uncertainly He so wanted Mole to talk and tell him of those days when he and Water Rat and Toad and Badger had had adventures along the river and in the Wild Wood. Indeed, it was for this that he had first made the long journey from the Wide World to find his famous uncle, and stay with him for a while.

  The Mole had experienced mixed emotions that day in autumn when the young mole had com
e knocking at his door and told him who he was, and how his father, the Mole’s wastrel and ne’er-do-well brother, had passed on, leaving his son with nothing, and nobody to care for him. How far the youngster had travelled, and what dangers he had survived, Mole was never able to find out, for they were things his Nephew did not talk about. But nothing had warmed his good heart more than to see the look of relief on the youngster’s face when he had asked him in, fed him, listened to his brief and sorry tale, and said those fatal words, “Well then, since you’re family, you can stay here as long as you want.”

  If only he had said “Till next Friday morning” or something like it. For “as long as you want” soon feels like a life sentence to a bachelor like Mole, unused to sharing his home with another for more than an evening at a time. Sure enough, the Mole had soon tired of his Nephew, and rapidly found that his constant good cheer and enthusiasm to see and do far too many things were vexing in the extreme.

  So, too good, too weak perhaps, to tell him to leave, the Mole had sent him off to stay with the Water Rat for a time, and learn what he could of the river.

  “He will not want to come back to me after he’s seen the excitements of the river,” said the Mole.

  But he had come back.

  “I’ll send him to Toad. All that comfort and style will soon make him forget my humble home!”

  But he didn’t last a week at Toad Hall before he was back once more.

  “O dear! O dear!” Mole confided in the Rat as autumn deepened and winter set in. “I know I ought to tell him there’s not room enough for two of us, but you see, Ratty, I have a sneaking admiration for him: the way he made his way here from the Wide World, well! And if you had known my brother, who was as weak and hopeless a case as could be, it doesn’t seem possible for him to have produced such a resourceful son. But he has, and now, now —”Now he’s ensconced with you, my dear chap, and you don’t like it,” said the Rat sympathetically “Nor would I!”

  “Wouldn’t you?” said the Mole, a little cheered by this.

  “Of course I wouldn’t. No one would who lives alone and likes his own company for a good bit of the time. Company’s fine only if you can escape it when you need to. You know that, I know that, but the young don’t always appreciate it!”

  “What can I do?” the Mole wondered.

  “I know what I would do — tell him to leave, post-haste and no hard feelings. But we all know that you’re not me, Mole, that’s your charm, that’s your quality. You are kind, and good, and soft-hearted, and —”

  “No Ratty, don’t say such things, really I mean it. Just tell me what to do.”

  “Send him to Badger. I’ll be seeing Badger in the next day or two and I’ll tell him about your problem. He’s the wisest creature living and he’s sure to know what to do.”

  The Mole had done so, confident that with the Water Rat’s support, reinforced by the very frank sealed note he sent with his young charge, the Badger would know exactly how to tell his Nephew that enough was enough and he should now be on his way.

  But — he — had — come — back. And neither the Rat, nor Toad, nor the Badger himself would talk about the matter thereafter, except to say useless things like “it will sort itself out”. It was almost as if they had conspired not to help him, which if it were so, he could not understand at all.

  No wonder then that the Mole had suffered the coming of winter, and with it the chance of his guest leaving dwindling each day with a gloomy heart. No wonder that he had become fractious and irritable.

  The Mole took another sip or two of his delicious drink, the more delicious because somebody else had made it for him, and munched pleasurably at the bread and butter pudding. Was life so bad after all? Perhaps not. Perhaps he could learn to put up with things and make the best of the winter visit. Perhaps it would even do him good!

  He stared into the fire, thinking of his friends and feeling suddenly content. His stomach was warm inside and out, his head just a little dizzy, his thoughts drifting into the memories his Nephew had so wanted him to talk about.

  “O well,” he said finally to himself, “and why not?” Then, in a warmer voice than he had used for days past, and one that held all his engaging modesty and self-doubt, he began, “Did I ever tell you —His Nephew relaxed, and though the Mole did not see it, there came to his face a look of such affection, such admiration, such happiness to be in the company of this Mole of all moles, that his eyes and his nose shone almost as brightly as the fire itself. He leaned forward, hardly daring to breathe, trying his best to be barely noticeable at all. His uncle was going to talk after all!

  And so the Mole might have done, had not there been a sudden, though weak, rat-tat-tat at the door. Hardly loud enough to be heard over the wind’s roar. Indeed, the Mole doubted that he had heard it.

  “Just a branch, that’s all. Or a fall of icy snow Now, where was I? Ah, yes, I was about to tell you —Rat—tat-tat!

  It was a little more urgent this time.

  “There is someone at the door’ said the Mole, glowering, “or something.”

  “Something?” said his Nephew in a thin voice.

  The Mole nodded and said firmly, “Whatever it is, I’m not opening the door for it. No one sensible goes out on a night like this. Not a creature with good intent, that’s for sure. It can rat-tat—tat all night long for all I care, I will not open that door.”

  Rat-tat-tat! — but more weakly now, and the Mole, quite put off his stride where story-telling was concerned, glared at the door. The wind positively howled down the chimney; somewhere in the Wood nearby a branch tumbled to the ground.

  Then despite all the noise and din, there came through the door, or perhaps from under it, a soft and pathetic cry. Hopeless, helpless, forlorn and lost. The cry of one who had journeyed long through the night, overcome every obstacle and now, reaching at last the only place of help and succour it knew, found no one at home.

  Mole’s Nephew rose to his feet, finding it quite impossible not to respond to that tragic call. But the Mole responded quicker. He who had been grumpy, then sleepy, then comfortable, and then most reluctant to be interrupted as he began to talk — he became a different Mole. A Mole In Charge.

  “No!” he commanded. “Leave this to me! I’m not saying it is, mind, but it may be a trick. A way of getting us to open the door. On the other hand it may be a creature in distress. Whatever it is, take this and be ready to use it if you must! Don’t flinch! Don’t hesitate! Be bold!”

  Nephew was amazed at this transformation in his uncle, still more so when he dived into a shadowy place between the dresser and the wall and produced a solid-looking cudgel.

  “A present from Ratty years ago, just in case. Not my kind of thing, but it will have to do. So, stand there, be ready and —”

  As a further cry, weaker still, came from under the door, the Mole slowly opened it, while his Nephew stood at his flank, cudgel at the ready But no great beast or monster loomed there, ready to do mischief no fiend from out of the night.

  Only the sad little huddle of a half-grown otter, his eyes wide and full of tears.

  “It’s Portly, Otter’s son’ said the Mole in surprise.

  “My dear fellow — come — you must —”

  But Portly was too cold, too shaken, too frightened to move, and it did not help that Mole’s Nephew still brandished his cudgel.

  “Put it away!” cried the Mole, as he went down to the little fellow on the ground. “Why you’re cut and bruised; your paws are all bleeding and — and only something very serious indeed would have brought you across from the river tonight.”

  Then, half carrying him across the threshold, and closing the door against the wind, they led Portly to the fire and sat him down in Mole’s own armchair.

  “Now, tell me what’s happened’ said the Mole.

  Portly’s teeth chattered; his paws shook; his fur steamed; his eyes stared wildly about.

  “Try and tell us.”

  “
I—he—you—we —”was all Portly could say, his whole body shaking.

  “You’re safe with me,” said the Mole soothingly, “and you can take as long as you like —”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw that his Nephew had already poured a tot of the sloe and blackberry drink, and was getting some food together.

  When he brought it over, Portly stared at it as if he had never seen food or drink before. He drank and he chewed; he shivered and he sobbed; then he stopped sobbing and gulped down some more sloe and blackberry drink, and guzzled at the bread and butter pudding, nodding when he was offered more and eating it all up in no time at all, with his whiskers all spattered with butter.

  “It was such a long way coming here’ he said at last, and most pathetically.

  “But what’s happened?” asked the Mole once more. But Portly started sobbing again, only stopping when he was given a third helping of the pudding, and offered a fourth tot of the potent brew, which meant that he had had far more than a youngster should.

  “It was a very long way which went on and on!” he said suddenly, beginning to calm down.

  “You poor fellow,” said the Mole, “it must have been hard. Now —”

  “Is there any more?” asked Portly.

  “Well, my dear chap, I think you had better tell us how you come to be here before —”

  All he said was, “I think, Mole …”

  Portly’s voice faded away and his eyes went round in little circles, and he smiled beatifically.

  “I think, Mole, what?” asked the frustrated Mole. “Please try and tell us, Portly, for it’s sure to be important. Portly? Portly!!”

  But Portly, his snout and ears now quite pink from the fire, his stomach tubby with the pudding, and his snout squiffy with far too much sloe and blackberry, was sliding towards sleep.

  “Yesh, Mole,” he said blissfully, “it was very cold out there, very cold, but here —” He yawned, and stretched ominously slowly, yawning even more as he did so, and began to curl his back paws round one way and his head and front paws the other, as only otters can when they are preparing for a very long sleep indeed.