Vote at Toad Hall

by Eddie Saint

I looked at the pain in his face and I began to read there just what the problem was. He was on the Fox hit list, and hadn’t been able to break cover for months. And now I was on their list too. And that’s before we factored in the Toads. I was still persona non grata with the powers that be at Toad Hall for hacking into Security HQ. Dug had made enemies there too, digging into the money launderette.

  He was right. We couldn’t tell Toad.

  ‘You’ll have to go on your own, Mel,’ I said, and Dug gave me a resigned nod.

  She looked at me, and then at Dug, and worked out the unspoken thoughts easily.

  ‘Well…’ she began, indignantly, but she had no follow up. The reality of the position was crystal clear.

  Then something occurred to her.

  ‘I can’t do anything about the Foxes on your tails, but at the very least I can get Toad to give you both a written pardon. Hornworm makes the mansion deals look like nothing more than pocket money.’

  I ran that idea around my head a couple of times. The thought of not having HQ hell hounds on my tail did sound appealing. At least I’d only have to look one way for threats. And something told me that with Mother on my side, and Tommy and the rest of the crew of The Ends, the Fox threat was something I could handle.

  At that point I made a foolish decision. I don’t know if it was pride, or excitement, or what, but I said I’d go with Mel, no matter what. I’d done the legwork. I’d put the final pieces together. And I wanted to see that written pardon as soon as the ink dried. It had been a hellish week. Maybe I just felt I deserved a little treat.

  Idiot.

  THE BLACK SPOT was familiar.

  It was hard to judge its distance, with one eye now completely swollen shut, but Ivan didn’t care. His mind was far, far away, in the Far Northern Forests that must surely now be his fate.

  He had crawled into the basement on all fours, the thick river mud caked into his bandages and coating the once shiny callipers. His ribs hurt. His eye throbbed. His jaw ached. In fact, try as he might, he could not find a single part of his body that hadn’t been pleading for a sick note for the last few hours.

  Commander Reynard had at least been humane, like a jousting knight showing clemency to his vanquished opponent. He had called for the medic, and given Ivan all the time he needed to clean and sooth his battered body. He had even allowed Ivan a good night’s rest before the 8 am meeting that would surely be his last as a recruit in the Alternative Army.

  And so he stood in the Commander’s office, facing the black spot but not really looking at it, already building the mental testudo he knew he would need to help him survive the harsh climate and harsher regime of the Far Northern Forest.

  ‘Fairy,’ the Commander began, from his seat behind the desk, ‘I have always had my own view of your… capabilities as a recruit.’

  At least, with the new posting I will be able to pick a new name, won’t I? he thought, grasping for small comforts, and he began to mull over new names, if only to help shut out the words he had hoped never to hear the Commander utter.

  ‘You have proved two things over this past week,’ the Commander continued. ‘First, that you are not suited, in any way, to remain a part of my elite Alternative Army.’

  Ivan had known those words were coming, but they still hit him in his stomach as hard as a Kangaroo’s punch.

  ‘You have not only failed to complete any tasks successfully, but you have even come close to compromising the very secrecy on which the success of this Army depends.’

  Put like that it was hard to argue against. Ivan had been fooling himself all this time. He even acknowledged that his school friends had probably been right, in their own teasing and bullying ways. In truth, he himself had really known it all along, deep down. He would have got nowhere near the Alternative Army had it not been for his Uncle. The first snowflake fell on the soft grassy spot where he had lain in his mind with Gemini, and he watched his heart’s desire slink off into the shadows.

  ‘Second, and you might be pleased to hear that this is a point on the, um…, on the credit side of your own personal report, as it were…’

  Off she went, fading to grey. In truth she had never been his. He still didn’t even know what sort of animal she was. And now he never would. A flurry of snow swept across his mental glade.

  ‘You have shown yourself to have exceptional levels of loyalty and determination.’

  He knew he would never find anyone to take her place. She hadn’t even wanted him. She had spoken to Scoots. When… no, if she ever saw him out of costume he would just disappoint her.

  ‘With both those capabilities in mind,’ continued the Commander, ‘the President and I have agreed on a new role for you.’

  Just like he disappointed everyone.

  ‘You are to be discharged from the Alternative Army immediately…’

  And there it is. My final disgrace…

  ‘…in order that you can take up your new role as soon as your injuries allow.’

  A faint ray of hope peaked through the clouds and tried to melt the snow.

  My injuries? Ah well, perhaps while I convalesce I could try to track down Gemini? I found Cottontail. Maybe I could find my true heart’s desire? Maybe. I could start with the librarian, see if he is still in a co-operative mood.

  The anaesthetic of a plan helped dull the pain of the Commanders bludgeoning words.

  ‘Following an update from the staff medic I judge that you should be ready for your new post in precisely forty five minutes.’

  And with that, the avalanche descended.

  The coup de grace.

  Instant.

  Brutal.

  Final.

  Of course, thought Ivan. Of course I can’t stay. I’ve disgraced the uniform, and my Uncle. The Commander is right. I have left him no choice. There is nothing left for me now but to obey and, eventually, die.

  ‘With that in mind, you will find your new uniform on your bunk.’

  The Commander’s words entered Ivan’s ears and coughed loudly in the centre of his mind, but there was no one home. All that remained was the husk of a broken Fox.

  ‘Report for inspection on the front steps at 9 am.’

  ONCE PHILLIPS HAD cleared the breakfast dishes away, Toad spread out his stack of freshly ironed newspapers on the polished mahogany table-top and treated himself to a leisurely browse.

  The polls had held steady overnight, with Remain a small but significant distance ahead, and he afforded himself a sigh of relief that the totally unexpected storm of support for Leave had blown over. He could not deny that Oliver Weasel had run a successful campaign, but surely now that would only serve to validate the Remain victory. Citizens would agree the vote had not simply been a rubber-stamping exercise, a coronation, but rather a mature, open consideration of expert opinions.

  He sipped his Earl Grey tea, savoured the delicate flavours on his palate and contemplated his office for the final morning of his tenure. History would no doubt record that he, Tarquin Toad the Third, had kept a steady hand on Wild Wood’s tiller during some rough financial storms, and had eventually steered his craft to peaceful, happy waters. With the free internet contract he had negotiated with the Tigers his legacy was all but assured. Today, as animals up and down the land had their say on membership of the LEAF League, his place in History would finally be cemented.

  Voting day always left him with a nervous tingle in his tum. Campaigning was forbidden, reporting was blacked out, all that could be done was to wait for the Digital Vote to close and then tot up the results. At least, with this new system, he wouldn’t have to wait too long for his victory to be announced.

  Under the gaze of Old Father Toad, the original owner of Toad Hall and the very first Prime Minister of Wild Wood, Tarquin Toad the Third opened the papers and began to browse.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said his secretary, hopping in. ‘Ms Higgins to see you, sir. She doesn’t have an appointment but she is rather insistent.’<
br />
  Toad put down his paper and put on his most patient smile.

  ‘That is quite alright. I am still Prime Minister after all. Do show her in, and bring us more tea.’

  The newspapers could wait. He had a lifetime of leisure to read them. What did one more day of work matter?

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the section head of the Security Service (Domestic Division), breezing past the secretary and into the room.

  ‘Melody. How nice to see you,’ said Toad, charming to a fault. He ushered the Badger to an armchair by the window.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, sir,’ said Higgins, settling herself into the well-padded seat.

  ‘Good, good,’ replied Toad, lowering himself into the armchair opposite. ‘I’ve always appreciated your efficient approach, Melody.’

  The Badger sat upright in her chair and looked at Toad over her half-moon spectacles.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news, sir,’ she began. ‘On two fronts.’

  Higgins was a dependable sort, never trying to feather her own nest, always putting the job first. Not an ounce of political ambition in her, mind, but at least that made her reports easier to read.

  ‘Well, give it to me straight,’ said Toad, almost savouring the chance to turn over the wheels of office one final time.

  ‘Your Referendum has been compromised.’

  ‘Well, that was certainly ‘straight’!’

  Toad sat back in his chair and waited a while, to show he was considering the statement. Then he leaned forward and said,

  ‘Melody, I’m grateful to you for bringing it to my attention, and you weren’t to know, but I dealt with the matter yesterday.’

  ‘You… did?’ said Higgins.

  ‘Yes, there must have been a mole somewhere in my office staff because all sorts of nonsense was being given to poor Oliver. Good chap, Oliver. Didn’t bat an eyelid when I told him. Didn’t ask to call off the Vote. Just took it in his stride and brushed it off.’

  ‘But, sir, I think you’ll find there is much more to it than that.’

  She explained how Pincer had been using micro-targeted ads to support the Leave campaign, and how President Vulpine’s Alternative Army had also been busy mobilising global, local and social media to amplify the same pro-Leave messages.

  The normal green hue in Toad’s cheeks drained to a dull brown colour.

  ‘Good heavens! Are you sure?’ he asked, and he gripped the arms of his chair with his leathery hands.

  ‘Quite certain, sir. There is even some low-level intervention coming from within Wild Wood itself. I have a crack team trying to pin point that source as we speak.’

  ‘Crumbs,’ said Toad. ‘Crikey. Dogs and Foxes you say?’

  ‘And some Wild Wooders too, sir, yes.’

  ‘Well lordy lord!’

  ‘That isn’t all, sir.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  Toad was good at thinking on his feet. He quickly calculated that whatever happened in the Referendum he would be out of office and happily retired to his caravan far away from Toad Hall by the time any consequences played out. It was annoying, like a scratch on the paintwork of his new car, to think that skulduggery might have been afoot in his final act as Prime Minister, but he was confident that it was nothing his successor couldn’t put right in a jiffy. Root out the cheats. Throw the book at them. Run the Vote again properly. Easy.

  However, it was when Higgins went on to explain about Hornworm, and the bigger picture that President Vulpine was working towards, that the magnitude of the problem really came home to him.

  ‘And you say these ‘Cottontails’ did most of the leg-work?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, and I am personally recommending them for written pardons, from you, today, for their roles in protecting the national interest.’

  She took two documents out of her folder and handed them to Toad.

  ‘Pardons, you say? For…?’

  As Prime Minister, Toad had underlings to keep on top of details for him, details like who was on the Enemy of the State list.

  ‘Jay J hacked HQ, sir. It was a few months back, and she didn’t see anything classified. The other, Dug, is her brother. He was one of ours and he had gone into hiding after finding some rather sensitive links between Foxes and Toads.’

  She raised an eyebrow at Toad but maintained her professional manner.

  ‘Anyway, he’s back, she’s helped us join some rather significant dots and I’d say it’s time to call it quits.’

  ‘Quits? I see. Quite.’

  Toad sat, dazed, and took time to digest all that his brief conversation with Higgins had thrown up. If she was right, his Referendum might already be lost, but that would be insignificant in comparison to letting President Vulpine get one over on him. And after all he had done for Vulpine with the money launderette! The Fox was an absolute cad.

  He signed the official pardons, thanked Higgins and waved her out of the room. Vulpine’s Hornworm move was cunning. Very cunning indeed, but there was still time to get ahead of the curve, if he acted swiftly, before the markets got wind of it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  HIS BUNK HAD been made for him.

  That had never happened before. They probably already had a new recruit lined up to take his place. A proper recruit. One who could follow orders without messing things up.

  Ivan looked at the uniform they had laid out for his new posting to the Far Northern Forest.

  A neatly folded white shirt.

  Dark woollen shorts, with a crease. No combat pockets.

  A blazer.

  No longer daring to use his ‘in-it-i-a-tive’ he pulled the shorts on, taking care not to snag the neat material on his callipers. The clasp was easy to close but the belt was too intricate for his wounded paws.

  I can’t even dress myself!

  He realised just how foolish he had been to think, to dream even for one second, that Commander Reynard, or Uncle Vulpine, or even Gemini might have taken him for a real soldier.

  As if to underline the point, he tried the shirt, and couldn’t even begin to undo the neat buttons down its carefully ironed front. Instead, he tried to put it on over his head, like a jumper, but the cuffs were fastened and there was no way he could fit his bandaged paw down the sleeve.

  Dejected, he went to sit on his bunk, but stopped himself just in time. Was it even his bunk any more? Instead, he leaned against the upright post at the foot end and let a tear of frustration run down his nose.

  The clock on the dormitory wall said ten to nine. He had ten minutes before he got kicked out and he couldn’t even do that properly.

  Listless and depressed, he picked up his shirt and blazer, and slumped out of the dormitory to meet his fate. Instead, he met the librarian, returning from breakfast with a jangling bunch of keys in his paw and a whistle on his lips. When he saw Ivan he fell silent. His tail moved, involuntarily, between his legs. The keys stopped dancing. His Alpha had arrived.

  Something deep in Ivan’s brain stirred. It clamoured for attention, and finding a large empty space between Ivan’s ears, it strode forward and took over.

  ‘Put this on for me!’ Ivan ordered, proffering the crisp, white shirt.

  The librarian carefully placed his bunch of keys on the floor and did his master’s bidding, undoing the tight buttons, sensitively manoeuvring the cotton over Ivan’s bandages and fixing the buttons closed again. Without embarrassment he then tucked the shirt into Ivan’s shorts and tightened the belt, pulling the white material tight then tugging it out of the waistband just an inch to give his Alpha some room to move.

  Ivan stood, amazed. It was as if his fingers had suddenly started firing magic from their claws.

  ‘Does Sir want the blazer too?’ the librarian asked, and he took Ivan’s stunned silence as a command.

  And so it was that at precisely eight fifty eight Ivan found himself standing on the front steps of the building he had called his home for over a year, neatly dressed for his po
sting to the Far Northern Forest.

  He stood to attention and waited for his Commanding Officer. The morning air was still cool, and it struck Ivan just how easily the chill got to his fur through the light cotton shirt and shorts. Was that how they toughened you up out beyond the snowy steppes?

  ‘Ah, Fairy!’ said the Commander’s voice behind him. ‘You do look the part.’

  It was the first nice thing Ivan had ever heard him say. A line from Ivan the Whys came to him involuntarily.

  ‘Beware the iron fist in the velvet glove.’

  Ivan shivered, and braced himself for the Commander’s next words.

  ‘Now, put this on and get in the car.’

  The Commander held a peaked cap out to Ivan. It did not look like standard military issue, but then Ivan hadn’t ever actually seen any cadets from the Far Northern Forest.

  He put it on, being careful not to put too much pressure on the lump where his head had connected with the stone bench in the Badger’s garden. A black Sedan with darkened windows pulled up at the front of the building. Ivan trudged slowly down the stone steps for the last time, took one last look over his shoulder at the mansion he was leaving behind and opened the rear, kerb-side door.

  ‘Not the back, Fairy!’ said The Commander, almost jovially. ‘Chauffeurs normally sit behind the wheel.’

  Ivan’s mind rapidly turned to jelly. He couldn’t quite compute what was going on. Was he being sent away? Was that the Commander’s final, sarcastic joke? Would he open the driver’s door and find all the other recruits laughing at him from the mansion windows? Even worse, was he actually being asked to drive? It was a skill he had never taken up, his club foot always making it too awkward to work the pedals on his family jeep back home.

  The Commander saw him hesitate and, showing a side Ivan had never seen before, he gave him a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Ivan,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you ‘Ivan’. Can’t have a chauffeur with a name like ‘Fairy’. Anyway. Yes. Ivan, you will be the President’s new chauffeur, after a fashion.’

  ‘But I can’t…’ began Ivan, but the Commander stopped him.

  ‘And don’t worry about the driving. The car uses the very latest Tiger technology. It will be driven remotely, by a team back here at base. All you will need to do is sit in the driver’s seat, stare straight ahead and keep your hands on the wheel.’