The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal Page 6

  Once they’ were in the kitchen Oswald was able to open his eyes properly.

  ‘It must be dinner time now,’ Arthur said crossly. ‘I can feel my empty stomach flapping around. Wait till I see Audrey. I bet she’s had hers already.’

  But Audrey was not at home and Mrs Brown was very worried now. She embraced Arthur, when he came in, fearing that he too had disappeared.

  ‘Suddenly my family is vanishing,’ she said unhappily. ‘First Albert and now Audrey. I don’t know what to do.’

  Arthur calmed his mother down and started to think about Audrey seriously for the first time. He knew that although she was dreamy she wouldn’t miss two meals. Where could she have got to?

  Gwen Brown busied herself by preparing dinner. Twit and Oswald stood shyly to one side until she spotted them.

  ‘Oh I’m sorry boys,’ she apologised. ‘Would you like to stay?’

  The two mice politely refused, saying that Mrs Chitter would have some dinner ready for them and that they could ask about Audrey on the way. So they departed and Arthur told them he would see them later.

  ‘We haven’t tried upstairs yet Mother,’ he reassured her.

  ‘She’ll be mooching around up there somewhere.’

  He ate his breakfast and then started on his dinner.

  * * *

  When Arthur met Twit and Oswald later they had already asked all the families around the Skirtings with no luck. So they began upstairs. For some reason the mice on the landing always acted superior to those below. Sniffy, Arthur called it and if truth be known Mrs Chitter had always wanted to live there. Yet despite this they were all very sorry to hear of Audrey’s disappearance and gave all the help they could in the search.

  ‘You know,’ Arthur said after a time, ‘there is one place we haven’t looked: in the cellar.’

  Oswald was alarmed.

  ‘But you can’t go down there Arthur, you daren’t!’

  Twit was interested. He had heard all the stories of the Grille from the elders and recalled how they would shiver in their skins when they told warning stories of it. Even his mother, Mrs Chitter’s sister, had taken tales of the sewers out to the country with her and made up lullabies to sing to him when he was a babe. The fieldmouse’s eyes were sparkling now.

  ‘Oh yes let’s go. It’ll be good.’

  But Oswald was worried.

  ‘Nobody, but nobody, goes down there! Arthur don’t!’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s not that bad, I’ve been before,’ said Arthur not a little boastfully. ‘Besides, we really have looked everywhere else for her.’

  His mind was made up and Twit was eager. Oswald trailed behind them putting forward well-reasoned arguments, but they did not listen. They gathered some stout sticks ‘just in case’ and headed for the cellar door. But Oswald’s legs trembled when they reached the great object. He had never wanted to pass beyond it.

  ‘I’m not going,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ replied Arthur, ‘but don’t tell anyone where we are.’

  ‘I promise. Oh you’ll be in such trouble. Twit, you really shouldn’t.’

  ‘Look, just make sure no one sees us go in and keep a lookout. If we’re not back soon, well, don’t come after us.’

  ‘I won’t, don’t worry.’

  Arthur looked at the door.

  ‘Well, see you Oswald. Come on Twit.’ He passed through into the darkness and Twit made to follow him.

  Oswald was in a terrible state. He felt an awful coward, just standing there, but he was desperately afraid of the cellar and the Grille. In frustration he looked about him. Would he see his friends again? He cursed his own failings and was about to wish them well when he heard footsteps, and with them the affected cough of Master Oldnose. All his fear, all his nerves, were suddenly switched off by the need to be out of sight. To be caught here was the worst thing possible.

  So Oswald pushed Twit in front of him and dashed through the door. He stumbled, tripped and flew through the air, knocking his cousin over. Together they tumbled down the steps, bowling Arthur over in the process. Three bruised mice lay in a tangled lump at the bottom of the cellar steps. The first to move was Arthur.

  ‘You thumping great nit!’ he fumed at Oswald and staggered to his feet, shaking the dust off his shoulders.

  Oswald groaned.

  ‘I’m sorry, but Oldnose was coming. Oh Twit, are you all right? What’s the matter?’

  ‘He’s laughing,’ said Arthur.

  Twit took control of himself.

  ‘I’m all right. I took no hurt, I landed on Arthur’s belly.’

  ‘Ha, ha,’ said Arthur dryly.

  Oswald stood and looked about him. The musty smell of the damp paper rolls made his nose wrinkle. The cellar was cluttered with tall wooden rods and large crates. They wondered what some of the objects were for. Oswald took a step forward and gasped.

  ‘Arthur! Help, something’s got me.’

  Arthur turned to look and tutted.

  ‘It’s only your scarf on a nail! Come on, be serious. AUDREY!’ he called.

  ‘Not so loud!’ hushed Oswald. Twit wriggled into small spaces and searched the inside of the paper rolls but there was no sign of Audrey.

  Oswald stood before the Grille. From the deep sewers a draught stirred his fur. He swayed slightly, mesmerised by he power that flowed from the darkness. Shadows and enchantments lay behind the grating. A chill slowly crept under Oswald’s skin from the base of his tail up to the top of his neck and made him all goose-pimply.

  Gradually the Grille gathered the other two before it.

  They gazed long at the iron leaf pattern, tracing the curling and sprouting foliage around and around until they found that they were all staring at the rusted gap in the comer.

  ‘’Tis a remarkable thing to be sure,’ remarked Twit. They all sensed the grandeur and menace of it.

  ‘You realise, that if Audrey isn’t here or anywhere in the Skirtings . . .’

  ‘No, Arthur, not through there,’ began Oswald, but his words failed him as the teasing, tantalising force of the Grille worked in him. Soon he found himself nodding in ready agreement. Without another word the three mice stepped through the Grille and were swallowed by the darkness.

  The sewers never changed, always dark, always slimy – always grim.

  Oswald’s spirits were very low. He knew what his mother would say if he could see him there – her cries of alarm and shrieks of dismay would ring in his ears for weeks, yet he felt that he would rather be in the Skirtings suffering them than down here in the darkness.

  Twit peeped around Arthur who was in front of him. The tunnels branched out endlessly.

  ‘I never thought it was like this,’ said Arthur. ‘So dark and damp.’

  They progressed in this way for some time, each clutching their sticks and cautiously looking from side to side, trying to remember the way back. Arthur led, with Twit behind him and Oswald bringing up the rear. All they heard were echoes, and the rush of the sewer water. There was no sign of Audrey.

  Shall we call for her?’ suggested Arthur.

  ‘Please don’t!’ Oswald replied. ‘Think of all the dark slimy things that will come at us out of the walls. Nasty slithery horrors.’

  But Twit was not to be put off. He cupped his mouth in his paws and called out, ‘AUDREY!’ as loud as his little voice would go. The call echoed along the tunnel, distorting strangely as it went. Then there was silence.

  ‘Oh Twit,’ Oswald wailed, ‘you’ve done it now!’

  And he was right.

  Immediately there was a howling and a whooping. Out of the darkness, a pack of three rats came rushing towards them.

  ‘Run!’ cried Arthur. The mice bolted along the sewer ledge, half-running, half-slipping. Oswald kept letting out little squeals of fright.

  The rats were used to the sewers and they were swifter. Twit looked back. They were gaining.

  He had never seen anything so dreadful. The rat
s were large and ugly. One had a patch over one eye and clenched a sharp steel point in his claw; another gnashed his broken yellow teeth – he was doing most of the whooping, gleefully enjoying the chase; but the last, Twit noted with horror, had one of his claws missing and in its place, bound tightly to the stump, was something that made the fieldmouse squeal like his cousin – a peeler.

  ‘Ha!’ cried the rats.

  ‘At ’em lads.’

  And, ‘I bags the fat’ one.’

  Arthur realised that they would never be able to outrun them.

  ‘We’ve got to turn and fight,’ he called to the others.

  ‘What? How?’ squeaked Oswald.

  ‘Use your sticks!’

  So, when the mice reached a corner in the tunnel they turned and faced the enemy, brandishing their sticks as menacingly as they could. But where were their pursuers?

  ‘Maybe they’ve gone,’ suggested Oswald.

  ‘No, they’re playing with us,’ said Arthur. ‘Watching and waiting for a chance to leap out when we’re not expecting it.’

  There was a loud laugh and the rat with the eye patch leapt on to a brick behind them. He waved the sharp steel over his hideous head. Arthur swung out his stick, but the other was too quick, dodging here and there whilst the mouse tried in vain to hit him. Then the rat struck out – he jabbed Arthur in the arm and then cut his ear. The mouse gritted his teeth and winced at the pain, blood trickling from the wound in his ear. He changed the stick over to the other paw and continued.

  Twit was having problems of his own. Over the side of the ledge a claw had appeared followed by a great ugly rat head. The fieldmouse raised his stick and then dropped it as the rat brought his other arm over the edge, revealing the peeler. Twit shrank further back against the wall while the rat advanced.

  Oswald was jumping up and down in dismay. He saw that Arthur was tiring and that his wounds were hurting. He knew that the rat with the eye patch would soon finish him off. He froze in horror and blinked his albino eyes at the mouse-peeler in front of his cousin. Then the third rat came behind him and Oswald was seized.

  The mouse leaped in terror, then kicked and flailed his arms around so wildly that the rat was taken aback for a moment, and before he knew what was happening the snarling creature was left holding nothing more than a green scarf.

  But Oswald had nowhere to run. The three friends were cornered. Trapped with a rat on every side and the wall at their backs, the mice knew that this was it. Arthur’s stick was sent flying out of his paws and resistance was over. Oswald covered his face.

  ‘What a catch!’ said Skinner. ‘Let’s make a “bloody bones” of them.’

  ‘Beats digging any day,’ cackled One-Eyed Jake.

  The third rat laughed. ‘A “raw head and bloody bones” just for us – not for Him. I’m not goin’ back there lads, never.’

  ‘Nor us – kill ’em and let’s have done.’

  Skinner edged forward, licking his teeth as he decided who to slaughter first. The mice could hear the juices stirring the rats’ bellies into action, squelching and gurgling horribly inside their dirty skins.

  Twit closed his eyes. He had been chosen.

  ‘How’s this for a pretty coat,’ Skinner jeered.

  The fieldmouse waited for the first blow.

  Suddenly all was confusion. Skinner was knocked off the ledge and sent spinning into the water below. Something leaped on to Jake’s back and bit deeply into one of his ears so that he cried out and dropped the steel point.

  The three friends stood amazed as a strange grey mouse picked up the weapon and charged after the rat with the broken teeth who turned and fled. At the same time Audrey – for she it was – clung on to Jake’s neck and gripped his ear with her teeth until he too ran.

  She sauntered back wiping her mouth.

  ‘Yuk,’ she said, ‘rat tastes horrid.’

  ‘Come on,’ urged Piccadilly, ‘let’s go while they’re still surprised.’

  So they ran, Oswald leading the way because he remembered it best.’

  There was no time for talk – no time to explain. Arthur had a score of questions to ask. What was Audrey doing down here and who was this grey mouse? He had to wait until they were all in the cellar once more before he began.

  Audrey fended him off firmly.

  ‘Look Arthur, I went to find Father. No one else seemed bothered.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Audrey,’ Arthur snapped back. ‘Have you thought of Mother in all this? She’s been going spare.’

  Audrey glared at him.

  ‘I had to go, I had to try. Why does everyone think the worst when someone goes off?’

  ‘Because they care, you silly ass!’

  There was a pause. Oswald coughed uncomfortably.

  ‘Oh look Audrey,’ sighed Arthur shaking his head sadly, ‘you’ve got to realise once and for all that Father must be dead.’

  There was that word again. Audrey turned cold.

  ‘This is Piccadilly. You’d better hear what he has to say,’ she said.

  Piccadilly felt awkward. He said hello to everyone and then added, ‘Do you think I could see Mrs Brown please? I really don’t think I could say this twice.’

  Arthur agreed that it could wait and that, they had better dust themselves down before they left the cellar. It was while Audrey was straightening her collar that she noticed something was wrong. Her mousebrass was not around her neck. She had lost it in the sewers.

  5. The Return

  A silent, tense group climbed the cellar steps and crossed the hall, passed into the Skirtings and gathered in front of Mrs Brown. Gwen rushed forward and hugged Audrey desperately. Her daughter held on tightly. Arthur gave Twit and Oswald a quick look; they understood and slipped out silently. When Gwen had made sure that Audrey really was there she wiped her eyes and scolded her. Audrey took it quietly, sorry to have caused so much worry. Eventually she said, ‘Mother, this is Piccadilly – he has something to say.’

  This was his cue. Piccadilly cleared his throat and began. Gwen Brown listened patiently and Audrey watched as her mother serenely accepted it all, her eyes dry and her face calm. Audrey did not understand.

  When Piccadilly finished he handed over Albert’s mousebrass. ‘And the last thing I heard him say was that he loved you,’ he added finally.

  Arthur covered his eyes with his paws.

  ‘Well I don’t believe him,’ Audrey said flatly. ‘It’s obvious he ran away when Father needed him.’

  Gwen clutched the mousebrass next to her heart. ‘Audrey,’ she said softly, ‘it’s over and I want you to promise – you and Arthur – that you will never ever go into the sewers again.

  Audrey knew that her tone meant no nonsense and she made the promise.

  Then she remembered her own mousebrass and crumbled inside. How was she to get it back?

  Gwen Brown prepared tea. Piccadilly was famished and went at everything that was laid before him heartily. Even Audrey managed something though she pretended to pick at her food.

  ‘And you Piccadilly,’ said Mrs Brown when they had all finished, ‘what of you now? You say you have no family and the city is a long way off. Will you stay with us? You would be more than welcome.’

  Before he could answer Audrey muttered something and left before she was excused. Her mother let her go.

  ‘Best to get it out of her system, although she won’t be happy till she knows he’s gone and cries for him.’

  Arthur said his sister was potty but eyed Piccadilly cautiously. Like Audrey he too had never seen a grey before.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me I think I’ll see how Audrey is,’ said Piccadilly. ‘She blames me for everything.’

  ‘That’s her hard luck and don’t you take no notice,’ said Arthur. But the grey mouse went to find her anyway.

  Gwen Brown stood where she could see the outside. The moon was rising; it had been a weary day. Arthur put his good arm around her. She had bandaged his ear and bathed his wound
s.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently.

  She smiled and nodded. ‘I knew it was coming,’ she said simply. ‘One feels certain things, Arthur, when two are very close. I knew that first night that my Albert wasn’t coming back.’

  Arthur gave her a slight squeeze.

  ‘I wish Audrey would realise it,’ he said.

  His mother agreed.

  ‘I’m sure she will get around to it. Poor Piccadilly! Audrey can be very cruel – be nice to him, he’s been through a lot.’

  ‘I will. You know I think I felt it too when Father went away.’

  Gwen Brown took his paw.

  ‘Just because he isn’t here any more doesn’t mean we shan’t talk about him. He was a fine mouse, a loving father and a good husband. We loved each other very much. The fact that he is dead won’t end that love: I will always love him and what he felt for me will never change – it will always be there for me.’ She breathed deeply but there was no sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Go and find your sister, Arthur; it’s time for bed. You must all be very tired. I’ll make up a bed for Piccadilly here.’

  Arthur left her.

  Gwen held Albert’s mousebrass lightly in her paw. She looked out at the stars and thought of him. When they were young, she had had many admirers but it was the unassuming Albert whom she had chosen. They had laughed together and he had courted her in the garden beneath the blossoming hawthorn. She had worn the flowers in her hair and he had kissed her under this same moon they had sworn undying love for each other.

  It was a beautiful night. If anyone had been there to witness it they would have seen a strange thing happen to Gwen Brown. As she stood undisturbed in the moonlight, erect and lovely, it seemed as if the care of years fell away and she was young again. Gazing out beyond the stars her remote eyes chanced down to her paws.

  For as they held his mousebrass she felt that familiar touch on her arm and an unseen palm closed for a tender, precious moment over hers.