“Not even an ‘Address Unknown Return To Sender’.”
“Not even that!” exclaimed the Mole, feeling that he was beginning to get the hang of things.
“No, sir, we don’t often get to deliver one of these, and seeing as it’s caused me so much trouble I’m not sure I want to deliver another one.”
He dug deep into the bag.
“What is it?” asked the Mole, quite forgetting himself.
But now the postman seemed willing enough to talk. “This,” he said, “is a Customer Instruction to Collect — that’s on this side — and Customer Permission to Receive and Take Away — that’s on this side. Collect from the Town Head Post Office, that is, seeing as the item is too big, or bulky or in some other way not party to the normal regulations. Clearly we cannot as postmen undertake the risk to our persons of delivering such items, so the customer must take it upon himself.”
The Mole saw at once that he had been quite correct to think that “other things” might be in some way dangerous. He permitted himself a momentary and uncharacteristic sense of selfish relief that it was not he who was to receive this Instruction to Collect, but the Rat. But then the Rat was more practical than he and would no doubt know what to do, or soon work it out.
“What is the nature of the item?” asked Nephew, as curious as his uncle.
“I am not permitted to tell you that,” said the postman, “but there is nothing to prevent me reading out what is upon the card, and nothing to prevent you hearing me do so.”
He held up the card, squinted at it long and hard, and uttered a single and most startling word.
“Livestock,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” said the Mole.
“I shall endeavour to read out this word again, sir, and I trust you will endeavour to hear it this time.”
He held up the card once more, peered at it, and uttered that astonishing word again, quite clearly, and for all to hear.
“Livestock,” said he.
“And Mr Rat is to collect it?”
“Or them, sir; you never can tell with livestock.”
“Are you permitted to read anything else on the card which may give us a clue about this matter?” continued the Mole, his curiosity undeniable.
“The only other item that may have relevance, sir —and beyond this I know nothing myself, for incoming mail and other items is a different department, of course — concerns the source of said item. That often gives a clue. For example, if the source were ‘The Cheesery, Wensleydale, Yorkshire’, you might reasonably conclude it was a Wensleydale cheese.”
“But that wouldn’t be livestock,” said the Mole.
“I would not be quite so sure upon that point, sir, if I were you, given some of the cheeses I have seen lingering in the Sorting Office.”
“So with respect to livestock, if the source were something such as a farm, for example, or —“Or an abattoir, sir, in those cases where said livestock is no longer alive, or in other words is dead. But in this case —“Yes?” said the Mole eagerly.
“— the source is quoted, and again I must remind you that —“
“Yes, yes,” said the Mole impatiently, having now got the measure of this postman and seeing that he was as curious about the matter as the Mole himself.
“Well then, the source is given as ‘Egypt’!” said the postman without further ado.
“O my!” said the Mole, whose knowledge of Egyptian livestock was restricted to camels. “O my!”
“A sentiment with which I wholeheartedly agree, sir.” At which the Mole suggested that he and Nephew guide the postman to the Rat without more delay by way of the River.
The walk down to the bank was pleasant, and confirmed the promise of the dawn, and as the Mole had expected, the Rat was already out on his side of the River, busying himself about his boat and moorings.
“Mole! Good, good. Just the fellow I was hoping to see —“
He stopped the moment he saw the postman, with a look of surprise and enquiry on his face. The matter was very soon explained, however, if not yet understood. Over came the Rat in his boat in a trice, but as the postman refused to hand the item to him directly and insisted he must deliver it personally to the Water Rat’s address, back over the River they all went.
“It must be a mistake,” said the Rat finally, when the card had been read several times and the matter had been fully explained to him. “I know nobody in Egypt, and I have certainly not ordered any camels.”
“It can’t be helped, I’m afraid, sir: rules are rules. We, that is the Royal Mail, assumed responsibility for this item the moment it touched the shores of the land, but you took up that same responsibility once you had acknowledged receipt, if only mutely, which is to say through silent reading of the card. Then, allowing for a day’s grace once you are informed of said livestock’s presence, you must pay storage charges at a rate of sixpence a day minimum. Herds work out more dearly than individuals.”
“Well —” said the Rat.
“Be warned, sir, those charges soon mount up. In the case of Lord Bell, former cotton king of Glasgow, who foolishly acknowledged receipt of fifteen gross bales of cotton from India but omitted to collect them for six years, the charges bankrupted him, and he went to gaol!”
“O dear, Ratty, you had better collect it today,” said the Mole.
“But the last thing I want on a day like this is to go to the Town!”
“In a case such as yours, sir,” advised the postman, who was used to difficult customers and knew how to spot their weak points, “the first item the bailiffs would take, as part payment of unpaid charges, would certainly be that boat of yours.”
“Not my boat!” said the horrified Rat, eyeing the craft that had given him and the Mole so much happiness, and which had been so damaged on some of their more dangerous expeditions that it had taken all his skills and patience to restore it.
“And the oars, sir. They’d have to go as well. If you take my advice you’ll collect this item forthwith.”
“Yes, I will, I must,” said a very subdued Ratty “But, Mole?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you’d come with me, and Nephew too, for if this livestock proves to be a herd of something rather than a single specimen then I shall need a good deal of help.”
He sighed, and looked about the River with considerable misgiving, for the morning was turning glorious, and a journey to the Town was never to his taste, particularly on so promising a day as this and with the River’s warning of yesterday still so much on his mind.
“It will take me a good deal more than a day to get there in my boat,” said the Rat, “for I shall have to row all the way There’s nothing for it but to borrow Toad’s motor-launch.”
Having escorted the postman to the Iron Bridge and said their farewells, and with the collection card carefully stowed away in Rat’s inside pocket, they marched purposefully up to Toad Hall to see if they might borrow Toad’s launch for the day.
It had been some time since any of them had seen Toad. They found him in the great hall by his front door studying a good many packing cases of all shapes and sizes of which he had evidently recently taken delivery. They all had upon them the imprint of the Town’s best-known emporium for the better classes and, stencilled in black, the words: IMMEDIATE DELIVERY.
Toad’s greeting, normally so effusive and generous-hearted, was on this occasion subdued. He was sitting in a chair, eyeing the cases as if he were summoning up the energy and courage to open them.
“O, hub!” he said in a preoccupied way.
“Anything we can help with, old fellow?” offered the practical Rat.
“I am afraid not,” said Toad.
“Is this, perhaps, some new equipment for your home?” suggested the Mole, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“My home? No,” muttered Toad, “nor even for me.” Then he rose up, paced about, sighed a good deal and said, “But what’s the use of talking to you fellows
, who have no real responsibilities except towards yourselves, whereas I have parental duties to consider, and much else to worry about? Now what can I do for you?”
It was plain that Toad did not wish to be pressed further, so the Rat quickly explained why they so much needed to borrow his launch. Toad was only too happy to oblige, for whatever else one might say about Toad of Toad Hall, he was never mean with his possessions. But as for going with them..
“Much as I would like to, you fellows really must try to understand that I have a good deal to attend to today, and much to worry about, so very much! You go off and have a good time, but if you have a moment to spare a thought for me, please do so. You see, in addition to this delivery I have to deal with, he’s coming home today”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Mole. “I quite forgot; so he is.”
“Who?” enquired the puzzled Rat.
“Master Toad,” said the Mole quietly.
“Ah! Yes, well, we’d best be on our way” said the Rat hastily, adding with not entirely convincing regret, “but you’re definitely not able to come with us?”
“You’ll just have to do your very best to have a good time without me,” said Toad, showing them out onto the terrace. “You know where my craft is, Ratty, and how it works, just as well as I do; better in fact! Now off you go, for I have so much to do!”
With that he dashed inside as the others made their way down to his boat-house. In no time at all the Rat had the motor-launch out on the River, and had turned it expertly upstream towards the Town; while behind them, though the River Bank was aflame with autumn sun, the River itself was still and sombre, its surface seeming already to reflect the dark hues of approaching winter.
II
Master Toad
What so preoccupied Toad that day was the same matter that had preoccupied him daily and weekly in the years since he had assumed guardianship of his distant relative, the Count d’Albert-Chapelle, and accepted the spoilt youth into his house and home.
The once carefree Toad, who for most of his life had only himself to think about, was now in a nearly constant state of worry and concern about his youthful kin, whose return from a Grand Tour of the Continent was expected at any moment.
He was no longer called “The Count” along the River Bank, however, except occasionally by Toad when he was eager to impress somebody with the nobility of his family and connections. No, those who lived thereabouts, such as Mole and Rat, Otter and Badger, had taken to referring to Toad’s ward simply as “Master Toad”. This was partly to distinguish him in conversation from Toad himself, but also because as a name and description it fitted him rather well.
At first the Count had been very happy with this, for his English was not then good enough to understand the difference between “Master” in a youthful sense and “Maestro” in its more Continental and authoritative sense, and the toad in him naturally inclined to the latter interpretation.
Most unfortunately, somebody had put him right on the point a year or so after his arrival at Toad Hall. At the time he had been passing through an especially bad stage of the irritating physical and emotional changes that beset those caught between youth and adulthood, and had taken to carrying a silver-topped cane and wearing those outlandish garments so favoured by indulged youths of the privileged classes. He therefore stood upon his dignity and insisted that people should begin calling him “Count”.
The wise Badger advised everybody to accede to Master Toad’s demands at once, and call him “Count” just as he asked, but with very special emphasis and deference every time they used it. Sure enough, it was not long before this began to vex the youth greatly He had come to like the River Bank and its inhabitants very much, since they comprised the first real home he had had, and being no fool he soon saw the absurdity of putting on airs and graces among those who had come to know him so well and like him as he was.
“Please,” he said, after only a few days, “I would, after all, prefer it if you would call me Master Toad like you always ‘ave.”
It must be said at this point that it was much to Master Toad’s credit that he quickly realized that the better he spoke English, the better it was for him. He still had difficulty remembering his “aitches” but, except for moments of stress or emotional excitement, when he would break back into French, and when attempting some of the more complex Anglo-Saxon constructions, he was beginning to be able to pass himself off as an Englishman.
In this endeavour he was greatly helped by Toad’s decision to send him to one of the leading public schools — indeed, some might say the very best. At first Toad’s friends had resisted this idea, but as time passed and the youth grew more difficult and extreme in some of his eccentricities, it had begun to make a good deal of sense.
Certainly the boarding school to which Master Toad was sent, which lies within the very shadow of the Monarch’s home, was the most expensive in the land, but then this mattered not one whit to Toad, who, now that the expenses of re-building Toad Hall following the fire that gutted it some years before had been defrayed, had a good deal of disposable income once again. What was a fortune to other animals upon the River Bank was no more than an incidental expense to Toad.
Master Toad himself had nothing but his name, for the family fortunes in France had been lost by his late father the Count, who had been both gullible and over-optimistic in business matters, a fatal combination. Such funds as remained went the mother’s way, and since she was now re-married and living in Australia with Toad’s former butler, it was unlikely that Master Toad would gain very much financial support from her. But no matter, Toad did not care one bit, and begrudged not a single penny he lavished upon his ward, just as he never for one moment counted the cost in any of his acts of generosity to others and indulgence to himself.
Most unfortunately, Master Toad had discovered that money — Toad’s money — buys friends, or at least acquaintances, of a kind that were a generally baleful influence upon him. Yet his popularity was not due only to his wealth — indeed there were a number of fellow pupils whose paters were a good deal more wealthy than Toad, and in certain respects much better connected: namely, the sons of the High Judge (whom Toad had met occasionally in a professional capacity), the Commissioner of Police (another professional acquaintance of Toad’s) and that Bishop whom Toad had previously known as “Senior”, but who had very recently been promoted “Most Senior Bishop”.
Master Toad had had to earn the respect and loyalty of these three the hard way, and he had done so splendidly. He was better than his schoolmates at muddy games, and at avoiding those they did not wish to play, he was a good deal more imaginative in thinking up new japes and pranks, and he showed considerably more flair and courage in the execution of the same.
In some respects Master Toad became their leader, and it was undoubtedly from him that they gained the title that gave them such notoriety as a group, for they were known as the Four Musketeers. It is said that to this day that educational establishment still bears the scars of their activities.
For example: in the form of water-stains on dormitory ceilings from flooding caused by the removal of ballcocks from attic plumbing; smoke marks in two senior common rooms and the Master’s Hall from their blocking up of a suite of chimneys with a consignment of rugby balls; and, most notorious of all and a cause of a term’s rustication for each of them, the hiring of some navvies (who should have known better) to demolish a large part of that ancient wall against which the school’s most hallowed game had long been played, and the reuse of its stones, bricks, flints and cement for a soup-kitchen then being built for vagrants, waifs and strays.
It was following this incident, with which Master Toad declared himself exceptionally pleased, that all Four Musketeers descended upon Toad Hall together, and had a great deal of fun at the expense of Toad and his friends.
The issuing of free liquor to all the weasels and stoats was perhaps forgivable, as were other pranks: upon the Mole (an order for one hund
red bottles of his sloe and blackberry drink, ostensibly from the most prestigious store in the Town, which had the Mole in a flap for several days); upon the Rat (a seemingly legitimate requisition by the Royal Navy of his much-loved boat for active service against the Nordic Kingdoms in retaliation for their sacking of Lindisfarne in AD 793, which caused poor Ratty considerable anguish); and upon the Badger (an apparently genuine request from the editor of that most august daily organ, The Times, to contribute a regular column upon country matters, the first of which he worked upon very hard indeed, only to receive a rejection slip as false and mischievous as the original request, accompanied by the comment “should try harder, or not at all”).
On the whole, the River Bank’s inhabitants were bighearted and good-humoured enough to tolerate such jokes, provided they were not too frequent, but then Master Toad and his friends went a little too far. Making mock of the adult world they were so soon to join was one thing, attempting to divert the River into the Canal quite another. They preceded this folly by sending Official Notices to all those living along its banks to expect “the River to cease its flow with effect from next Sunday, 9.00 AM prompt.” Yes, that was beyond a joke, and might have had long-lasting consequences had not the Rat and the Otter taken urgent corrective action.
A deputation led by the Badger called upon Toad and persuaded him to discipline his ward, and send his fellow pranksters packing. This he had duly done, and peace had returned to the River Bank once more (for the time being). The youth had returned to his educational establishment for the summer term, and Toad had thoughtfully arranged for him to take a Grand Tour of several European capitals in the holiday weeks thereafter, which had put the River Bank back onto an even keel for the summer months.
Now that respite was over, however, and with the final academic year before the youth was thrust out upon the world about to begin, Master Toad was expected to return to Toad Hall for some cramming in vital subjects before the new term commenced.
The Willows and Beyond Page 2