The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf V

Lone pilgrim…

Unlike most of the local creatures – who never ventured far from where they were born, throughout their lives – the Badger (at night) and the Water Rat (of a day) had both been keen explorers: the Badger knowing every copse, hedgerow, track, bump and lump, for miles around; and the Rat being acquainted with every inch of every stream, brook, source, and, of course, the River itself – the waters’ heights in every season; the currents that would catch others out; whether they were good to drink, swim or sail in; or just suitable for a good paddle!

The Mole, he felt, proudly, had been getting there gradually – not bad for someone who had spent most of his existence happily underground, before… – becoming an able navigator on land and by rowing boat; and being able to work his way back to most places from all the other ones: albeit sometimes by unexpected, but happy, diversions. The trees – should you spend long enough with them: learning their names, and their distinctive shapes; their histories… – were the most amenable guides: and he would often spend hours, resting against their trunks, between habituated, enfolding roots, reading; or lying flat beneath their summer shade, doing nothing much other than the occasional bit of thinking, or humming, or snoozing, of course; occasionally sketching the most distinctive ones – the pollarded willows, reinforcing the River’s banks; the stools of coppiced ash, just inside the Wild Wood; the stag-headed field-oaks – or just an individual leaf, twig, branch or fruit. “Not forgetting Badger’s small-leaved lime,” whispered the Mole, sadly.

The Pard of Avon (ye seconde parte thereof…)

Blow winds and crack your cheeks…

Time had moved on. And the experience had made her vow never to do it again – what with all the packing; still-unopened cardboard boxes; complicated fees; broken Emma Bridgewater crockery; crooked solicitors; and estate agents who wouldn’t recognize any version of the truth if it poked them in both eyes with a hot poker. This time, she swore (for the umpteenth time), it was permanent: even if the cottage had proved not to be quite as perfect as it had first looked on that bright spring day; and all the paint had obviously been applied hastily with a thick roller by a one-legged moose. Especially the skirting-boards. This meant that it was now winter, of course. (Nice carpets, though. And extremely well fitted.)

Flakes of snow were therefore dutifully drifting lazily down outside The Peacock, in Oxhill: so lazily, in fact, that some of them just couldn’t be bothered to land; whilst the majority took the shortest route to the ground possible, whilst still trying to look as ballerina-like and graceful as they could: imagining they were in some wonderful Disney cartoon (and wondering when “whilst” took preference over “while” in a sentence).

Inside, two familiar-looking oldish gents (you might have to saw them in half and count the rings) were sat in front of the log-burner: which didn’t so much roar, as just hint at the odd, low, unthreatening growl. Our two subjects were long past the coat-steaming stage; and well past their first pints of the night. They were the only customers, though.

“No: I didn’t mean the plays and sonnets weren’t any good, when I said that. I just implied that, having been around this long, it’s just slightly easier to keep them in print, and help build importance, and an industry around them – that’s all. I mean, there isn’t a Royal Jonson Theatre, is there? Although I’m sure that would bring the Yanks over here even more! Or the Royal Marlowe Company? All it takes is the very occasional, very little nudge. Obviously I don’t make any money from it… directly. But the fame’s nice.”

“So how do you survive – er, financially, I mean?”

“I used to, er, help out at the Birthplace Trust. But, at the moment, people seem to think I’m some sort of retired archaeologist, ‘off the teevee’ – which isn’t that wrong, of course; and I, for one, am not going to convince them otherwise: especially if it gets me free pints of ale…! Another?” he asked, clinking his almost empty glass against his greying, close-cropped companion’s. “I must do some research, though: they seem to expect that I should always wear badly-knitted, colourful jumpers….” He stroked his stubbly, white chin with his free hand.

“Don’t mind if I do,” replied the other, a ruminative smile on his face. “Mind you, I’ve got to get back home, later; and look at it,” he said, glancing outside into the darkness; and then lifting his darkened spectacles – which didn’t help. “Two miles. In wellies. And with my gammy leg….”

“No problem,” his friend grinned, then laughed, at the obvious ploy. You can bunk at my hovel. But shouldn’t you be writing more of that Kenneth Grahame eco pastiche rubbish…?” Just at this moment, a gaggle of middle-aged women entered, snow piled like advertising-manufactured dandruff on their hats, hoods, and thick coats’ shoulders; and, after a ritual removal of said items, scarves and gloves (but not necessarily in that order), they plonked themselves down around the large ‘Reserved’ table in the window of the pub: some of them snuggling amongst the cushions on the large bench; others choosing and shuffling chairs around, governed by some innate, feminine law of organized chaos – including a couple from under the gentlemen’s table: who courteously nodded their tacit agreement in return, touching their long-eroded forelocks politely. “Oh bugger,” suddenly whispered the older one, with the wispy hair, after rising from his seat. I don’t bloody believe it.”

As if on command from some invisible sergeant-at-arms, all the women [see subsequent book description] had removed various editions of King Lear, of various ages, and in various states of repair, from their handbags [ditto]. “Hello, Book Club!” welcomed the barmaid. “Hello, Linda!” they all replied in unison, cheerfully; and then a discussion followed – literally over the gents’ heads – about the sudden change in the weather; the inaccuracy of forecasts; would they be having their usuals, or something a little more warming; and were they happy with their food orders. “I think a couple of extra bottles of that nice South African Merlot would be nice!” chirrupped one of them (as the others nodded, sagely). Somehow, it was obvious that this (obviously Waitrose-shopping, Boden-wearing, Range Rover-driving) slightly older, less rural-accented lady, was the leader of the group. And it would become more obvious as the night wore on; and the snow deepened, dependably.

¶

Once the hubbub had resolved itself, and all were back at their respective tables (and Linda positioned behind the bar, of course: after many trips to and from the kitchen), the two men listened in on the discussion; realized it was probably growingly obvious that they were doing so; and ordered some food, too, so they could eat in silence, and listen some more. “They just don’t get it, do they?” muttered the senior of the two, chewing appreciatively on a chunk of gravy-coated Charlecote venison sausage. “Honestly, it’s not that complicated – it’s just about a bloke who goes senile; his nasty, greedy, dysfunctional family; and a critique of mental healthcare. The rest is just filler. Oh, apart from the storm. Everyone loves a good storm – I mean, look at them… – special effects will make everyone forget the dross; and a sad bit at the end – especially someone or three worth caring for dying (and the more the merrier, if you see what I mean…) – that means that those with hearts leave the theatre in a turmoil, knowing that it moved them, and therefore must have been really good. Honestly, it’s just a formula. Well-written, I’ll admit; and cleverer than Jonson or Marlowe, of course; but nothing particularly original. You could even set it on a council estate, now, if you wanted ‘edginess’, or modern relevance….”

“What about the Fool?”

“In this winter and rough weather? Mind you: the ‘mango and lime’ one sounds rather nice! Perhaps followed by a large cup of coffee?”

His companion sighed. And not for the first time. Nor the last. Not by a country mile. Or twain.

The Pard of Avon (the first part of several…?)

Thou hast seen these signs…

Perhaps it was the poor council intern from K.E.S., pulling the trolley up Chapel Lane, loaded with identical-shaped and -sized R.S.C. bags, in the sweltering heat, narrowly avoiding a collision, firstly, with the last open air bus of the day, and then a man, with sunglasses and closely-cropped greying hair, badly parallel parking in the Disabled spaces? Perhaps it was the yells emanating from the opened windows of Elizabeth House, as the councillors who had held their seats for the fifteenth time quizzed their new, fresh-faced colleagues as to whatthefuck an “app” was anyhow; and how were they then supposed to downsize it on their mobile telephones, anyway? Perhaps it was the row of white vans on Henley Street, all labelled – some considerably better than others: which did not bode well for the results of their work – with the words “sign”, “design”, “print”, or “type”; and the endless hammering from men with muscles, hard hats, and sweat: all perched precariously on a parallel row of stepladders, and a serial row of planks? Perhaps it was the rapid desecration and sacking of the dictionary corners in what were currently Waterstones and WHSmith – the raping and pillaging of books leaving anything behind, scattered on the floor, not synonym-, paronomasia- or Bard-related? Whatever it was, some powerful plague had infected – or some virulent concoction had been injected into – the retail arteries of Stratford-upon-Avon. And all just before nine o’clock, one unseasonably hot Friday night at the end of May (just as the shops were about to close).

In her first week as the United Kingdom’s second female Prime Minister, Nicola Sturgeon had declared that localism – or “subsidiarity”, as she preferred to call it: seeing as how it was so badly tarnished by Cameron’s feeble, skewed attempts – was the number one policy that would unite a nation riven by the petty squabblings of a general election campaign that, in its final days, had dissolved into name-calling and, sometimes, even outright racism. It was therefore “up to local people to take back local control” – and the newly-formed Stratford-on-Avon District Council (with an unlikely make-up of one representative from each major party – including the freak selection of an SNP member for the newly-defined Red Horse constituency – several ‘outliers’ – including a 97-year-old woman claiming to represent all Warwickshire badgers and hedgehogs – as well as an Independent ‘poet’ named Steve) had interpreted this (or was trying to) as meaning that every single business – especially those which ‘interfaced’ with tourists (and whose onrush was already making its mark in the town) – should be named – and relevantly – with an apposite Shakespeare quote, term, character or play name. Puns were allowed – under certain circumstances (which would be determined by Steve) – but no bastardizations or misspellings. Oh, and all retailers had to apply for their Shakespeare Nominative Outline Term (or S.N.O.T.) licences by midday, the next day. Hence, the “rush into the secret house of death”; or – less poetically – the long tailback from the council offices all the way down to Holy Trinity.

At the head of the queue was a man with a strong French accent screaming that a café sold food: so why could he not retain “Ze Food of Lurve”…? And, for what felt like the forty-seventh time, wafting her face with a battered copy of Twelfth Night, the poor girl behind the counter, trying also to hide behind the necessary rotating fan, now that the air-conditioning had sensibly retired, not wanting to get involved, replied “Because it’s to do with music. Music. M. U. S. I. C.. Not food. And it says here that your ‘appetite may sicken’, and you’ll ‘die’. D.I.E.. I know. I did it for G.C.S.E.. Is that what you really want…? To be associated with food poisoning…? And it’s already been given to the guitar shop, anyway….” But her fading words went unheard.

What was needed was someone (or something) with authority. But, in a building centred around politicians (that is, people with skill-sets that ill-prepared them for government: especially of a town whose population increased, tsunami-like, at the beginning of summer; and whose definition of multiculturalism was a takeaway Balti from Thespians Indian Restaurant), this was as likely as not stumbling into parading columns of famous actors with vast, flaunted, velvet cloaks, pacing perpetually up and down Bancroft Gardens – even in this heat – waiting to be accosted (“Oh: how did you know it was little meee? I was trying sooo hard to blend in, my dear boy…”); or a drunken ex-Hamlet in a dark corner of The Dirty Duck (“Itsh wash my finesht hour, you know. My very finesht. Yesh: mine’sh a double. Thank you, good man. Oh. And a pint of Stella…”).

But, as the Man once said: “A most high miracle!” [Tourist tat and legal potions; 26c Union Street; surprisingly, perhaps – or maybe not – run by an arrogant, and, of course, bearded, hipster, named Sebastian (or so he says).] And, in through the front door – miraculously parting the infinitely long, increasingly stressed and dehydrated crocodile of shopkeepers – entered a tall, quiet, man; in fact, entered what can only be described as a tall, quiet, very wizardy-looking man. Just detectable was his voice. And, just detectable in that voice was a distant Irish brogue – as distant as Dublin and Dubai, maybe; or Dudley and Dundee – but detectable, nonetheless. But was there also a tinge of rural Warwickshire in there…?

“Excuse me,” he said (or possibly whispered: the only noise now was the whirring fan – and even that seemed to have dwindled in the man’s mysterious and powerful presence). “I’m trying to find Fairer Fortune. [Tourist tat and predictions; 26d Union Street; predictably run by a raven-locked woman of indeterminable age and thickly-applied make-up, named Helen, of course.] I have an interview there in ten minutes. But none of the shops have signs on them. And it looks like the street names are all being removed.” The receptionist gave him a map, and scribbled directions – a long arrow, basically – on it. He said “Thank you”; hesitated for a moment, and added: “It looks like you’re having some sort of trouble. I’ll be back. Later.” By the time she had looked up, after putting down her pen, all that was left in front of her quizzical, grateful eyes was an impression of wayward, wispy white hair, a kindly smile, and spectacles that somehow glistened mischievously. She didn’t even wonder why anyone would attend an interview so late. And on a Friday night, too.

¶

The following morning, all the hubbub had died down; the street signs had returned; and finally, after decades of complaints from furious letter-writers to the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald, the fascias on every shop in the centre of town were not only aesthetically pleasing in themselves; but, somehow, magically, you may say, formed a rather wonderful grouping and concatenation of hues and typography. There were even gaps in-between catering establishments – some, even, not purveying “tourist tat” at all. Or coffee.

And yet, for a while, no-one noticed. Only a couple of weeks later, wandering along by the theatre, did a man named Jack notice that Sheep Street’s clothing shop, All the Men and Women, was next door to Merely Players, the gaming-related souvenir shop; followed by Exits and Entrances, the funeral directors; One Man in his Time, the clockmakers; what used to be Mothercare; their offshoot, selling school uniforms; Ann Summers; a sheet-music shop; an Oxfam specializing in ex-military uniforms; a new public house (specializing in roast lunches and dinners); and an old-people’s home. And, on Ely Street, Flat 2b was – possibly amusingly – next to a flat labelled “2c (not 2b)”; next door to a philosopher’s; and then a gun shop; the relocated, and much-expanded, Fairer Fortune; Games Worskshop; and another funeral directors.

But, by the time he reached what he was convinced he believed he knew to be Pizza Express, all thoughts of abnormality had been replaced by hunger: and he singularly failed to notice, that, although the logo looked similar and familiar, his favourite restaurant had been renamed, weirdly, The Proud Man’s Contumely; and the previously friendly waiters had somehow become very rude indeed.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf IV

A hard rain’s a-gonna fall…

Mister Mole’s bacon and marmalade toasted sandwiches

1. Two thick slices of your favourite bread

2. A pot of best orange (preferably with ginger) marmalade

3. Freshly-churned butter

4. Four to six rashers (at least) of streaky bacon

5. Freshly-ground black pepper (optional)

Grill (or fry) the bacon until crispy on both sides. Meanwhile, toast the bread lightly; spread one side of each slice with lashings of butter (whilst the toast is hot); and then – once the butter has melted – add dollops of marmalade (and black pepper), to taste. Layer the crispy bacon immediately on the bottom slice; add the top slice; and, if feeling cowardly, or delicate, cut into two – and let munchings proceed whilst still hot! (It is advisable to have a very large napkin tucked into the top of your pyjamas: as butter will inevitably dribble down your greedy chin; and you will frequently need to wipe your paws!) Repeat as necessary!

¶

“Everything’s stopped,” said the Water Rat, mysteriously, taking one of the tea-towels from the rail in front of the stove; and with a mixture of bemusement and happiness painted on his wind- and rainswept face; his whiskers still dripping; his clothes starting to steam with the heat of cooking, like frost emerging from shade on a sunny winter’s day. “EVERYTHING!”

Before the Mole or the Mouse had a chance to ask what-in-the-Wild-Wood he was gibbering on about, the Rat’s expression quickly changed to one of complete bliss, as his shiny nose began to quiver, and his eyes to sparkle: “Ooh, brunchfast! My FAVOURITE!” And, before the others even had a chance to say porridge-bacon-butter-teacakes-toast-jam-marmalade-and-coffee, he had dropped his soused hat, boots and coat onto the floor, and was sitting at the heavily-laden table, grasping his knife and fork, and banging the ends of their poor old ivory handles happily on its deeply-patinated, ancient wooden top; the tea-towel tucked under his chin. “A little bit of EVERYTHING, please, Mister Mouse. SIR!”

¶

Once the Water Rat had greedily broken his fast, and been satiated with enough scrumptiousness to make some sort of sense – and whilst waiting for a helping of thirds from the Mouse, humming happily back at the stove – the Mole – filling all three mugs with yet more deep, dark, thick, almost treacly, piping coffee – started to squeeze the Rat’s morning story from him, raindrop by raindrop.

“It’s deserted,” spluttered the Rat: his voice slightly slurred by the fact he was talking into his mug, rather than to his colleagues. “Deserted. And the whole place has turned to sludge; with that big, awful machine up to its knees – if it HAD knees – in the stuff. I knew SOMETHING had happened: because it was the first morning I’d woken up, since returning, not being continually thumped in the back. So I went out to investigate. And what a foul morning I found… – even for ME! Le Rat D’eau; M’sieur Campagnol Amphibie; le grand Campagnol Aquatique!”

“So what time did you go out?” asked the Mole, wiping his extremely puzzled face (and trying to ignore this very peculiar outburst). “I didn’t hear you at all. But, without that infernal banging, I slept sounder than sound. A log amongst logs.”

“I bet THIS won’t have hurt, either,” chipped in a cheeky voice from the direction of yet more sizzling and frizzling – and in-between extemporizing hums of both activity and song – brandishing the empty bottle high above his head. “It certainly didn’t,” grinned the Mole. “But what ELSE did you find, Ratty? Why has it all suddenly ground to a halt?”

“I couldn’t get back to sleep,” yawned the Rat: “so I lay there, wondering if I should – could be bothered to, really – go out and watch the sun rise. But it’s probably as dark now as it was in the middle of the night. I’ve never seen such weather; such thick, dark clouds. If it carries on like this, the river will be back. Soon….” The momentary silence in the room was accompanied by an evanescent expression of dreaminess deep within the Water Rat’s moistening eyes. “But we all know that’s NEVER going to happen. Don’t we…?” Even the spits and sputters sensibly hushed for that moment; and the Mole and the Mouse looked at each other, and then the Rat, with an ineffable sympathy for their friend.

“Anyhoo,” he continued, composing himself: “Once I’d realized just how tranquil everything was; and this old hooter of mine had also come to, and discerned just how very damp it was, outside; I KNEW I had to drag myself out. What I wasn’t prepared for was all that mud. Everywhere – it’s everywhere. It can’t have stopped raining since YOU turned up, last night, Mouse. (Another bacon butty? Oh, yes PLEASE!) Protected by all these trees, it’s fine, here. But once you get to the edge of the Wild Wood, it’s a mire of utter muddy mayhem: as if a herd of giant pigs had spent the night trampling and rolling around in the meadows… – where the meadows used to be, I mean. That’s why everything’s stopped. Apart from the rain. But I’m not really sure what it all signifies. It’s probably only temporary, isn’t it? And it’ll all start up again once the sun comes out. But wouldn’t it be marvellous if it wasn’t; if it didn’t? And the river returned….”

¶

Brunchfast – although it was near-enough lunchtime – thus finished in silence (although there was much self-restrained slurping, chomping, and soft smacking of lips): as the Mole and the Mouse ruminated on the Water Rat’s report. Was it good news, or bad? Who would know?

The Rat, though, dreamed of burblings and rushing eddies; the rhythmic creaking of boats moored by riverbanks, tickled by the coolness and gentleness of enveloping currents on a summer’s day. And a small, essential, central part of him – which he had believed was locked away for ever, deep and forgotten – rose within; and opened up the remote possibilities of a life lived out to its rightful conclusion: ending where it had begun, by and in the water that still flowed through his very veins.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf III

New morning…

It was very late the next morning when the Mole awoke – startled to find himself actually in bed for once! The seduction of the now head-shaped, indented goose-feather pillow; the snug mattress with just-enough give; and the embracing eiderdown he had cocooned perfectly around himself, almost smothered his natural instinct to rise. But then, as his whiskery nose slowly started to twitch – entertained by a streel of smoked bacon, a babble of buttered toasted teacakes, and a cascade of coffee, severally wiggling energetically under his bedroom door, before linking arms for a feisty, literally in-your-face collective smiting – the piquant temptation pull of a full, and filling, brunchfast, quickly waxed utterly irrepressible. (“The lure of Morpheus wanes; and smitten I most certainly am by the sweet-and-savoury odours of Tantalus!”) It therefore did not take long for him to shamble unthinkingly into his slippers, before interleaving what remained with the dressing-gown dangling from the door-peg. Lifting the latch, those persuasive pungencies were completed by all the necessary sizzles, frizzles, spits, sputters, hisses and crackles that should always accompany the assembling of the model first meal of the day: food fit for fighting whatever it has to fling at you.

In the kitchen stood the Mouse: intent on prodding, stirring, checking, tasting, brewing, frying, grilling, buttering, pouring… – but, above all, singing!

Oh to be a mouse,

In a loverlee house,

By the kitchen stove,

With a pan, by Jove!

Oh to be a mouse,

With tons of nous,

A side of ham,

And pots of jam!

Oh to be a mouse,

And not a louse,

La-di-da-di-dee,

Tuddly-ump-tum-twee!

Oh to be a mouse…

For a moment, all the prodding, etc. stopped. “What ELSE rhymes with mouse?” he implored, looking to the ceiling for inspiration; and scratching his head with the wrong end of a wooden spoon (well, the right end for scratching, considering the other right end had been used to stir a pan of warming milk). “Howzabout ‘grouse’?” chuckled the Mole, quietly into his ear: causing the poor, startled Mouse to drop the spoon on his foot. “But THAT will have to wait for dinner!”

“Oh, Mister Mole, sir: I didn’t know you were there!” “I’m not – I’m HERE!” he replied, mischievously, taking a couple of steps back. “And ready for all of that FANTASTIC food! Well, when I say ALL, what I mean is that I’ll have a little bit of EVERYTHING, please!” And with that, he wandered over to the rarely-used dining table – which, today, pulled away from its usual resting place next to the wall, and both leaves extended, groaned with cutlery and crockery; pots of homemade raspberry jam and ginger marmalade; and piles of toast and currant teacakes – and dropped into a chair, after plumping up its gingham cushion. “But where’s Ratty?” he asked, looking at the two other chairs. “He NEVER misses breakfast, brunchfast, OR brunch.”

“I’m HERE!” came the distant reply. And a hint of an echo was joined by a crescendoing squelching and sprinkling of drips and drops: as the Water Rat – true to his name – made his way in from the passage that led to the front door in his stockinged feet, carrying a very muddy pair of Wellington boots in one paw, and a beading Stetson in the other. Water drizzled from his overcoat onto the stone slabs. “I take it that it’s still raining, then!” chortled the Mole, absentmindedly spreading his sleeve with butter.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf II

Walk out in the rain…

And one young mouse was so much braver than the rest; although only just as wise. However, what drove him to such courage, currently, was so much more than a need to protect his brethren – he was in love! Every week, therefore, he left his country burrow behind, and trekked the miles – so very far, for such tiny legs – to the nearest village, to ply his favours. But such distance only added fuel to his avidity: and he always reached his destination stronger, and more vital. (“Oh, to have a BUSHY tail!” he exclaimed, one day, upon arrival.) The long walk home seemed dreary in comparison.

Until one day, after his habitual trudge through the fields, roadside ditches, and then back gardens, he had been rewarded, not just with the embrace from his beloved, but her leading him by the paw to a room not unlike the Mole’s study – only on a much grander scale. “Why have you brought me HERE?” he asked, impatiently. “Well,” she responded: “wouldn’t YOU like to know!”

And soon he did. For on the circular table that filled the room lay the same heavy, dark-blue sheets that decorated the Mole’s desk – but plastered with stuck-on notes in a squiggly script that was, as yet, hard to unravel. “We haven’t got long. The Master will be back, soon. I just wanted you to see them; and see if they could help.”

He held her harder and longer than ever before, leaving her cheeks a becoming shade of rosy perfection. “What a wonderful, wonderful mouse you are!” he almost sang. “A genius above ALL other mouses… – as well as the most BEAUTIFUL, of course…” he added, hurriedly. “Why, I could…” – and then they perceived, over the tapping of the rain on the window, which wanted to come in and share the warmth with them, the sound of heavy boots, slightly muffled by the thick wooden door and threadbare kitchen rug, growing, growing, until the handle of the door was turned, and a slightly round, authoritative-looking giant of a man entered, with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand. By which time, of course, they had concealed themselves hurriedly in a dark corner of the room, under a tired, leather, tub-shaped chair.

“I must go home and tell Mister Mole”, whispered the young mouse, torn between staying and going, going and staying. “This might be important….” His already quiet voice faded, as he realized the sacrifice he must make. But he knew his partner’s discovery was BEYOND important. “Come with me. PLEASE…” he pleaded: holding her fading face in his outstretched paws. “I can’t. But you’ll be back soon. You HAVE to be. For me; and for the sake of your home.”

He knew she was right. And sooner than soon, he was deep in the Wild Wood, yoyoing up and down on that familiar bell-pull with all the might he had left, both feet well off the ground, listening to the deep-toned knell responding far, far away. This was no time to be sneaking in through the back, that was for sure.

¶

“Not AGAIN,” said a weary and suspicious voice. And the heavy door creaked open, slowly, followed by the appearance of a stern-looking cudgel (not that there are many friendly ones), and then a sleepy-looking, shimmering, candlelit Mole, in his oversized dressing-gown and shuffling slippers.

“What, Mouse, my dear little fellow!” exclaimed the Mole, now brighter and awakening.“What ARE you doing in such foul weather? You look EXHAUSTED – and look at the state of your feet, all muddy and sore. Well I never! Ratty – it’s MOUSE!” he called, down the long corridor. “Come in with you,” he encouraged his young visitor, turning back to face the doorway. “Come IN with you; and have a wash and a warm-up. And then you must tell us why you are out on such a HORRID night. Ratty – put a pan of water on, won’t you, good fellow; and see what we have to eat…!”

¶

An hour or so later, the Mole was lying back in his snug chair, next to the revivified fire, still chuckling at the appearance of their young guest; and the Water Rat and the Mouse were together on one of the settles in front of it, scarfing down the remains of some hastily assembled cheese, chutney and gherkin sandwiches, crumbs flying everywhere. The Mouse had not taken well to the proffered whisky: coughing like a dying steam train; and, therefore, a cooling mug of half-finished hot chocolate sat next to him, adding to the interlinked and overlapping circles branded into the ancient varnish: evidence of many previous toe-toasting callers in many previous storms.

“So, what brings you here, on such a terrible night?” asked the Rat, turning to his young friend, his eyes glistening with the reflected flames. “It’s the plans, sir; the PLANS.”

As the lightbulb switched on inside the Mole’s head – with remembrances of absent dust and thoughts of present tidiness – its glow emerged in his eyes as a bright tickled twinkle. “The PLANS?” he proclaimed, raising himself up a tad, and trying to sound as stentorian as possible for such a small furry animal (“and one with creaking bones”, he thought) – whilst looking a great deal less serious than he had intended: as that twinkle spread to his whole face, and the corners of his mouth began to curl. “The PLANS? WHAT plans?”

“Oh, sir, sir, just like the ones in your study, sir….” The Mouse’s voice faded as his shoulders drooped: realizing what he had revealed. But the Mole was desperately trying to stay in character, and thoroughly enjoying the sensation of power. “Do you mean to say – young Mouse – that YOU have been in MY study?”

But it was all too much: and, catching sight of the Rat – almost bent double, trying to suppress the shaking that comes with deep-seated laughter, then looking up, with tears of joy streaming down his face – the Mole let go of the last vestiges of pretence, and both he and the Rat exploded with paroxysms of shared merriment.

Knowing that he had been found out, and that this was Not A Bad Thing, the Mouse finally relaxed; and, when they had all wiped their faces of tears, and their small earthquakes of glee had subsided – and after being told never to call either of them “sir”, ever again, or to suffer the extremely ill-defined consequences – the Mouse explained – his words and phrases tumbling over each other in his haste to get the story out – how his family had been cleaning Mister Mole’s study (“we couldn’t ENDURE leaving it…”); found the blueprints; realized their significance; then their mistake in cleaning them; then their mistake in leaving them dusty; then seeing the same plans (“the same numbers in the corner, Mister Mole; the same strange shapes…”) at the old man’s house (“…and he’s as hairless as a newborn!”), where he had been visiting his umpteenth cousin, so many times removed; how very clever she had been; and how he had realized this was important, as well; and that maybe the two of them had chanced upon some sort of help, or ally; and then that he had rushed here to tell them. Immediately. Of course.

“Except I don’t remember anything between leaving her, and ringing the doorbell,” said the Mouse, bemused. “It didn’t even go by in a rush, like sometimes. One moment I was there; next, I was here. All I could think of was Mister Mole. I didn’t know YOU were back, sir… – sorry, Mister Water Rat, sir, Mister Rat, Mister RAT…. I’m sorry if I woke you both up…. But… did I do the right thing?”

“Of COURSE you did,” replied the Rat, soothingly, placing his paw gently on the young animal’s shoulder, and a big comforting grin on his own increasingly happy face. “You did BRILLIANTLY!”

“Although I’m not quite sure”, pondered the Mole, stroking his chin, “what to make of it all. A little cogitation; a little more sleep; and, when the sun rises, maybe it will shed a little light on it all. We… shall… see….”

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch II; Leaf I

Let’s keep it between us…

There was a reason for Badger’s books staying safe and secure on the tall study shelves, as well as dust-free. In fact, there were several reasons: all of them rather small.

The Mole – who had long since lost the description of timid (probably somewhere in the Toad’s banqueting-hall: but he had never thought about it enough to go back and look) – had fallen into the same trap as those who could not see past his slightly shy, slightly bumbling, slightly muttering-to-himself exterior: assuming that the wood-mice who loved and looked after him (as saviour, friend, and a sort of great – in size, as well as generosity of heart and mind – uncle) were as timorous (“PusillaniMOUSE! Oh, amn’t I a clever, clever Mole!”) and nervous as he had been, before the Water Rat and the Badger had helped him find what he now – mostly – thought of as his “courageous core” (although, sometimes, it felt as solid and enduring as the pinkest, wobbliest blancmange).

Partly it came from numbers; but mostly it came from knowledge, habit and necessity. In a world that was changing faster than the seasons, they had soon determined the exigency of their – and of all the other animals they knew (whether they cared for them, or not) – situation. Something had to be done; and, having discovered the large blueprints in the study, they knew that these held the key. But the Mole was correct in one regard: they understood the significance of these large sheets of heavy paper; but not their detail. And, yes, they were frightened by the scale of change: but this did not mean that they would not face it full on, given the chance. One mouse may not be very strong – although containing more concentrated fortitude than you could possibly imagine – but multiply their courage by the hundreds of kindred groups scattered throughout the shrinking meadows and dwindling copses, and there you have an army: as determined as any mole, water rat or badger; and with as big a united heart.

These tiny, almost hidden foot-soldiers – only visible to most others when they desired – were, in reality, as ever-present as early-morning spring dew and fledgling love; common as sudden summer thunder and cowslips; pervasive as autumn rust and squirrelled nuts; ubiquitous as frosty days and cutting winter’s winds. And, therefore, wherever you stood – from here in the newly-tamed Wild Wood to where the river had swept wide and languorous from before recorded times to the day that man’s greed had vanquished it (exiled, temporarily, to never-fading memories and perennial hand-me-down bedtime tales) – you were never far from one of their extended family groups: be it of tiny harvest-mice, or larger field- or wood-mice (some of whom had beautiful golden collars); and, consequently, always close by one of their numerous discreet dwellings and ancestral byways – linking cousin to cousin, uncle to nephew, aunt to niece, sister to brother, parent to child. Secretive as these creatures could be – often moving quickly from place to place – their expansive labyrinth was, nonetheless, the most efficient way any animal knew of moving significant news and notices around – sometimes seemingly faster than the original thought had taken to form; and so much more reliable than the whispering, rumorous breeze!

Their urge to keep their conspirations hidden from the Mole, for the moment, though, had clashed with their instinctive compulsion to keep his inherited home spick and span; and by leaving the plans subsequently unswept of dust, whilst applying their usual conscientiousness to the rest of the study (where they should not have been, of course), they had almost – through too much supposition and deliberation – drawn attention to their machinations. Luckily, every time the Mole entered this room, he was intent on one thing, and one thing only: solving the riddle that those drawings represented, so that they could never come to fruition; or, if they did, then be wiped from the face of the meadows they had so desecrated. He knew something didn’t quite add up, when he looked around his workspace – hence the umming and head-scratching – but those parts of his brain involved in adducing, deducing and inducing were too brimful of unresolved ideas and blind alleys for that particular something to register.

¶

When the Badger had made his first appeal, under the old lime tree, it was therefore to the mice that he had turned to spread the word; sharing the heavier part of the burden with the rabbits: who were also scattered near and far; and who, it appeared – although only they knew the true extent, of course – had a similar network of extensive paths and burrows. The problem was – or, the problems were – the Twisted Pair of weasels: who had easily persuaded all these malleable “fluffy bunnies” that they were on a between-you-me-and-the-gatepost mission of the Badger’s; not helped, in turn, by the young, almost-minuscule-as-a-mouse rabbit recruit to the committee being both innnately gullible and readily intimidated – unnerved not only by its own shadow, but everyone-else’s: especially when larger, and in larger numbers (than one). Thus it was that the Chief Weasel so thoroughly usurped the Badger’s powers: dividing the animals into long-forgotten – once-traditional, perhaps – rôles of predator and prey.

The mice, however, had wisdom beyond their diminutive size – and this, too, came from their propensity to share, and always discuss matters of import amongst themselves, before reaching any decision with their collective circumspection: a custom that had served them well many, many times. (Proof that the Mole’s views on committees weren’t always correct!) It helped that they had never trusted the weasels and their collaborators, though: knowing them to be, in such matters, false prophets. Thus they had helped the Badger undermine the equivocating stoats and weasels – but, sadly, only so far as to convince those who were already on the Badger’s side. And not for long enough.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf IX

Revised from The Wide World arrives... – 13 May 2014

When the night comes falling from the sky…

It was a cold, spring day, and the Mole, the Water Rat and the Badger were sat around a blazing log fire in the Badger’s kitchen: the Mole and Rat perched on one of the high-backed settles; the Badger sunk into his customary armchair. Half-drunk refills of coffee, and the remains of a plain but ample breakfast – bread crusts, and the odd, crispy bacon rind – lay around: evidence of a long and deep discussion, requiring much sustenance.

“If only life were ALWAYS so simple and satisfactory,” muttered the Mole, wiggling his outstretched feet; but with regret etched into his sad eyes and drooping whiskers.

“But it never is,” stated the Rat, wearily, “when the Wide World moves through the Wide Wood, and an evil wind blows through the willows.”

¶

The previous evening, the monthly Council of Animals had met, and – contrary to the promises made to the Badger: their saviour, the first time an invasion had appeared at their borders… – they had entrusted their defence against the Wide World, this time, to the Chief Weasel.

“I’m so sorry,” said the Mole, directing his sad gaze at the Badger: “you must feel awfully let down – especially after everything you did for all us weaker, less clever animals, before. I know you don’t care one fig about glory; but to be betrayed like that – again – when you gave so much of your life, your solitude – and even your hibernation – for us all; and in favour of the dastardly bullies who nearly ruined things the first time around. Damn them, I say: damn the lot of them.”

“Don’t fret, my little chap,” replied the Badger, soft and smoothing in his tones – not, for one moment, displaying any of the deep, tortuous feeling that both his friends knew was searing through every bone, sinew and nerve in his body. “If all they care about is themselves; and the kudos they think will come from associating themselves with the stoats and weasels of this world; they will get what they deserve – and not the peaceful time they think will come.

“It does seem, sadly, though, that coercion and tyranny now rule not only in the Wide World; but that it has crept through the Wild Wood – where my word was once cherished, was even law; my actions praised… – to the local animals, to the river bank itself. Even Otter acts like the most feeble mouse, when picked on…”

“…as he knows you are too noble to act the tormentor; too dignified to remonstrate or complain,” interjected the Mole, anxiously.

“You are SO right, my furry chum,” added the Rat, patting the Mole generously on the arm; and glancing for approval at wise, old Badger – who, it seemed, did not mind the interruption one jot. “But I wonder how many of the other animals, down by the river, know what is REALLY going on?” He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “Just because Chief Weasel has taken over Toad Hall surely doesn’t mean that all the others think he is now Lord of the Manor…?”

“Not that there ever was such a thing, really,” stated the Badger, almost to himself. “Although they tug their forelocks as if he was KING! If ANYONE is due allegiance as Lord, then it’s the fine gentleman that lives in the big house over the hill. Mind you – sensible chap that he is – he keeps himself very much to himself; and that’s what I shall go back to doing, too. Living here, in the Wild Wood, I am still an outsider, and always was: ’though I fear for what will become of the river, the willows – to you two, my companion friends and campaigners – when the true spirit of the water, the grass, the air, the hearts that beat in all true country animals, is represented in the Wide World by something so selfish and ignorant – so utterly unrepresentative – so arrogant. It is not in our nature to fight even the cruellest enemy but with wisdom… – and, yes, I do see you, Ratty, looking meaningfully at the cupboard where our stash of cutlasses and pistols lies from the last battle!

“But we MUST NOT fight our fellow creatures. They have made their decision – however badly and stupidly it was reached. It is THEY who have divided US; and we should not fall into the trap – especially as we do not have it in us to act the bully; to crave fame and glory; to desire to crash and bang about like the Toad in one of his infernal motors (oh, how I miss silly old Toad…!) – of following in their footsteps, and applying the tactics of the frightened, OR the frightener.

“We must keep our wisdom and wits about us for when the realization dawns that intelligence, graft, research and application of knowledge are what is REALLY needed – even if my now very full stomach tells me that I should close the door FOREVER on them: stoats and weasels that they have all become.”

¶

There was a keen silence: a quiet which seemed to stretch out from the crumbling ashes of the fire, beyond the breeze creaking at the door at the end of the passageway, to the very river itself – listening not only to the murmur of the water, the whispering of the willows, but for the very thoughts of the local animals themselves (many of whom were still asleep; most of whom were yet to learn of the far-reaching decision the council believed – wrongfully – they had been forced into; and had not had the courage nor integrity to fight: not having learned from the exemplary comrades now on the verge of sleep themselves…. It might be division they had wanted to AVOID; but it now seemed inevitable that, instead, they had CREATED such division…). Empty-handed, the draught returned, to spark the glowing embers for a moment, and then die.

“Fie!” exclaimed the Mole, from nowhere. “O blow; and bother! What a load of idiots they are. Otters reduced to mice; stoats made toad. So this is what the Wide World is like. You were right, Ratty. I want NONE of it. Hang the council; and hang all weasels.” He ran out of breath as quickly as he had started; and all the energy slumped from him, from his shoulders to his now-still toes. “Onion-sauce,” he finally whispered, fitfully.

“Aye to that,” said both the Rat and Badger, quietly together in thought and deed. “Onion-sauce.”

¶

“And that’s my last memory of Badger,” said the Water Rat, raising his drink.

“To BADGER!” The Mole and the Rat, comfortable in their shared memories, clinked their glasses together: with a mixture of love, sadness and Happy Times all swirled together in the remnants of one of the Badger’s many single malts.

“I could get used to this,” said the Rat.

“Well, there’s plenty more where that came from,” replied the Mole, wearing the Rat’s stupid grin: “thanks to Badger.”

“But I can’t get used to not having him around… – especially HERE.”

“I know….”

“To BADGER!”

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf VIII

He was a friend of mine…

The Mole was getting nowhere. Literally and figuratively. He was completely and truly stuck. More stuck than raspberry jam. More stuck than a stick. More stuck, indeed, than glue. But, the more he kept on digging, the more he realized he had hit a wall: a very solid wall, at that. And hard. Rock hard. “It’s not exactly prevarication,” he remarked to his confidant candle, shuffling and staring at the blueprints for the umpteenth time that morning, then placing the Badger’s old magnifying glass back on top of them, again; “more shilly-shallying; beating about the bush; sitting on the fence… in PREPARATION for prevarication. If I WERE excavating a hole…” – and the First Law of Holes (But Not According to Moles) suddenly came into his furry head: ‘If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging’ – so he scratched it, hard: as if that would make things better. But it just made it hurt. “If I WERE digging an ACTUAL HOLE, I would KNOW what to do: retrace my steps, and set off in a different direction – to divert, not tergiversate: as Grandad used to say. And certainly NOT GIVE UP.” But he KNEW he was getting nowhere; because he didn’t know where the somewhere he needed, wanted to go to, actually WAS. And he kept taking wrong turns.

“What is needed is a change of tack. But isn’t tacky the same as sticky…? Oh bother. Oh blow. Oh… botherblow! Oh BLOTHER.”

He got up from the unyielding study chair – the soft cushions having long tumbled with his fidgeting down onto the threadbare once-patterned rug beneath: bearing witness to much movement of furniture and feet – and stared, absentmindedly, at one of the Badger’s sprawling bookcases. Books in piles; books double-stacked; books seemingly always on the brink of toppling. But, somehow, they stayed safe, and secure, as well as dust-free. (“Umm.” He scratched his head, again.) What he knew he required, in answer to his question, was a dictionary; but, pulling himself up onto the chair, tiptoeing, he reached for a thin leather volume on the highest shelf he could reach, instead: its gleaming red leather binding having caught his eye, as if beckoning him to select it. KUBLA KHAN, it said, on the spine, in-between well-worn, raised bands: A VISION IN A DREAM.

Fluffing the fallen cushions, and replacing them on the wooden seat, one under, one behind, the Mole pulled open the front cover, carefully, leant back, pushed his spectacles further up his nose, and began to read, mouthing the words as he went. It wasn’t long, of course, before he found himself snoring gently in “gardens bright with sinuous rills”.

¶

The Mole hated committees (and their meetings) even more than he hated tomatoes (and their eatings). The bitter taste of both would linger in his mouth for a long, long time afterwards; and, being naturally timid, he would spend hours compiling minutes, rather than contributing anything to them. In fact, for all the Badger’s sagacity, and supposed primacy as democratically-elected chair, it rapidly became clear that the group was to be used as a soapbox for the warped opinions of the taller of the two weasels – rapidly christened by the Water Rat as the “Twisted Pair” – but only as a stepping stone on the way to grabbing power and authority for their own perverted predilections and sinister schemes (most of which seemed to be about flaunting what they obviously believed was their superiority over all all other animals). It did not help that the smaller, rounder one now lived in – and reigned over – what had been Toad Hall; and obviously equated saving the river-bank with sparing his own home – and very little else.

“And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,” muttered the Mole, between short, distressed grunts.

The Mole had known that the tiny rabbit would say little or nothing; but had expected – rather than the schism which befell the nascent congress – compromise (“such a weaselly, weedy word”) from the other members: where the stronger influenced the weaker; and some sort of sensible way forward would reveal itself – even if it did not lead immediately to the destination that he, Ratty and Badger desired. He had then hoped that the Badger’s pronounced and natural authority would pull the others along; and had been completely blindsided (“so typical for a shade-loving mole”) by the redirection, the deviation, of the two furtive, treacherous weasels. It seemed that the cottontail wasn’t the only one intimidated, then quelled, by their takeover; and the Badger – with all the goodness he held in his heart; with not one jot of space left for badness of any kind – could not, in an eternity, have foreseen it.

“And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!” The Mole twitched – yet still not awake.

It therefore took a long time for the Badger to admit to the Mole and Water Rat that such dirty, rotten behaviour had gone on without the official meetings, too; and that the Twisted Pair had gone behind his back on a thoroughly nasty campaign of intimidation and innuendo: somehow managing to insinuate themselves between the Badger and his good friend the Otter, and the Council of Animals which he led: the two groups that should have formed natural allies now riven irrevocably.

“And all should cry, Beware! Beware!” A squeak.

But they had been clever enough – given their history; and knowing of the powerful kinship that linked the Badger, the Water Rat and the Mole – to keep their physical distance from these three, even as they snared the other committee members in their nets. But, in doing so, they had left the Badger just enough wiggle room, just enough power, enough freedom, to put his initial plans into action – and openly, too. And, for a short time, as a result, they felt as if the threat of the Wide World had receded. But for a short time only. Soon, it would be back….

“His flashing eyes, his floating hair!”

As he woke – his remembered nightmare vivid, still, flashing in front of his tired eyes – he could hear its echoes still – “As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing…” – distant, but repeated, like the thump someone’s cudgel would make upon a stout wooden door. “Tish and tiddle”, said the Mole. “It was only a DREAM!” He rubbed his gritty eyes.

But the noise would not stop…. “Who is it THIS time, disturbing people on such a night?”

¶

“Oh my dear, dear chum, where have you been? ALL this time. All this TIME…” bawled the Mole, so thrillingly delighted, yet still – but only slightly, now – perplexed, astonished and annoyed at the Water Rat both for his disappearance THEN, and his sudden reappearance NOW. “Where HAVE you been, my good friend? I have so very missed you. It seems so very long…” and he tailed off (which moles are wont to do, of course), until his snout reappeared, instead, sniffling and whiffling, from behind his habitual faded red spotted hankerchief. “You have been gone too long,” he said, simply and quietly. “TOO long. But then,” he snuffled, “a day would have been too long, too. Too….” He looked up over his eyeglasses: and the Rat could see his own stupid, grinning visage reflected back, moistly, distorted in duplicate.

“I was having the most vivid dream. All sorts of images rose up before me, as things. I’d worked out what to do. And, taking my pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote it all down. At this moment…. Oh, Ratty, Ratty, Ratty, RATTY…!” The small book of poetry and accompanying notebook hit the stone floor with a gentle pair of flumps, followed by a small clatter of fountain pen. “Ratty…”

It was more than a hug. For many moments, they stood in the hall, silently, statue-still, reaffirming a bond long-established and unbreakable. Trust was deeply ingrained in that embrace; as was love; as, of course, was friendship; as, of course, was a mutual understanding that required no words to explain.

“I’m sorry, Mole”, said the Rat, simply and quietly: trying.

“No,” said the Mole. “NO. APOLOGIES. I know why you needed to go, what drove you. A water rat is nothing without water. I told them. I TOLD them…. But…”

“But what?”

“There’s no water. Still.”

“I know.”

“So WHY…?”

“Because I took the coward’s way out. Was selfish. I just wanted to feel like a water rat should.”

Now it was the Mole’s turn to say “I know” – again. And to add: “I would have done the same. But what MOLES need is holes. And here, I have plenty! You DIDN’T have what you needed. You HAD to go.”

“Thank you. But now I’m back, for GOOD. To help. To help Badger. And to help YOU.” Something in the Mole’s expression hit him deep, deep down. It hurt so much, it took his breath far, far from him. “But what… WHAT about Badger? What…”

The Mole placed a gentle paw on the Rat’s shoulder. “Long gone. Long gone.” And then it was the Rat’s turn to weep. Now, there was water aplenty.

¶

“I had business in Porlock,” said the Rat.

“What’s ‘paw-lock’ – a door-lock for paws?” asked the Mole, wrinkling his face, curiously, over his amber tumbler.

“A joke,” grinned the Rat. “A stupid, poor joke! From a stupid, poor Ratty!”

“Oh, I’m SO glad you’re back!” chortled the Mole.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf VII

Shelter from the storm…

The trek back to the Wild Wood, and home, seemed much longer than usual: a growing metaphysical burden adding to the heavy beads of water on the Mole’s mackintosh – and it was a dejected, forsaken-feeling animal that eventually propped his stick against the hall table; shrugged off this sodden coat; dragged his muddy boots from his tired feet in the worn jack; and let topple his wide-brimmed hide hat, dripping, to the floor. He did, however, take care in closing and bolting the dark-green door firmly behind him; and then hanging and reshaping his favourite woollen socks on the kitchen maiden; before shuffling into the second skin of his slippers and dressing-gown; then, abruptly, coming to a halt, in puzzlement.

In front of him, obscured in the corner of the room furthest from any passageway, partially overshadowed by the gaggle of other furniture, was a narrow three-sided cupboard: about the same height as his sloping shoulders, and covered with a dark felt cloth, on which sat a framed pencil drawing of what he knew to be Roman ruins. “Perhaps these very ones,” murmured the Mole, not for the first time, whilst trying to call to mind what was behind the tenebrous, varnished façade.

And then he remembered the Badger telling him, with a wink and his familiar wry grin, that this was the cabinet for “emergencies – not of the body, mind, but of the spirit!” Slightly baffled at this recollection, he shambled forwards, towards it; crouched a little; grasped the worn, warm, round handle; and – with slightly more effort required than he had anticipated – pulled.

For a door that had not been opened in living memory, there was only slight resistance, however; accompanied by an almost whispered, momentary groan. A warning; or a welcome?

The Mole, now even more curious, stooped down a little more to inspect his trove. On a short shelf, near the top, stood a serendipitous selection of chunky, cut-crystal tumblers: all in the same proportion; but all slightly different in size and identity. He picked up the nearest one: which fitted perfectly in his palm. And as it moved, it scintillated with the flames of the welcoming fire: transmuting them into a multifaceted, hint-of-green-tinged, hypnotic extravaganza.

Through this, and beyond, he could see, contorted, as if by a hall of fairground mirrors, two lower shelves of apparently teetering narrow cardboard and metal decorated tall boxes and canisters – again, no two the same. It reminded him of a city skyline the Badger had once shown him in one of his many books. Without his spectacles – defogging nicely on the console table in the hall, where he had placed them absentmindedly and habitually – he could not read their labels, though – if that’s what they were. However, each container held a significant, stirring weight: counterparts of the glass he had just placed on the velvety cover.

Choosing one of the shorter boxes – for the apparent simplicity of its design: plain and mostly dark; featuring a much paler wide band, near the top, that didn’t quite meet at what he assumed was the back (like some of his trousers: but at the front…) – he collected the tumbler, and retreated to the comfort of his snug, Mole-hugging armchair.

The neat, square carton he held, inquisitively, was of smooth card; but he could feel raised areas of type on the front of the broad cream stripe, and some sort of sheeny ‘splodge’ below: which was repeated, smaller, maybe, on the lid. (No better word would come to mind: but it was almost like a relief map, or possible portrait – “like you find on those chalky, blue vases”.) Opening it slowly, he confirmed what he had intuited; and, lifting the supporting inner flaps, grasped the short, widening neck of the somewhat dumpy translucent emerald bottle within. Behind its white print (still not clear or large enough for his old, worn-out eyes; and not helped by the dim light), it was full, he realized; and, although a much darker, thicker shade of green than his drinking glass, he could see the liquid gold rocking gently inside.

Carefully, he peeled back the foil, and wrapped his fingers around the bottle’s domed stopper, whilst cradling the chunky base in his lap. Twisting and pulling, cautiously, repeatedly, his efforts were soon rewarded with a reluctant squeak; followed by a slight, polite plop (how he so missed Ratty…); almost drowned by a surprising silence. He held the rich mementous opening up to his prone twitch of a nose; and inhaled, deeply….

¶

In his eagerness to light the first fire of autumn, to flaunt his skill and independence in creating warmth-on-demand in his very first, very own burrow, the youthful Mole, fur as black as coal – having mastered the kindling twigs and tightly-screwed sheets of old newspapers – had inadvertently piled the densely-woven willow basket with THIS year’s oak logs: which he then inadvertently transferred to the longing, burgeoning flames… – which then, advertently, caused them to smoke, damply, but with an exaggerated and impressive keenness: clouding and permeating his new home with a lingering, subtle smell that would come to be as familiar, and as integral, as that of his favourite soap!

Much to the amusement of his giggling companion (who was, it has to be said, still bowled over – but not finding it TOO difficult to hide such a feeling…), the not-at-all-unpleasant aroma mingled cannily with the overabundance of crisp cut flowers he had arranged, tastefully (he believed) around his sitting room; as well as a fresh pot of wild honey – its gleaming dipper spooning on a stoneware plate with the still-steaming spurtle – sitting between two warm wooden coggies of just-right stewed apple, cinnamon and ginger porridge, topped with browned, flaked almonds.

Snuggling outside, on a too-small picnic blanket, hurriedly thrown down on the still-dew-damped meadowgrass and crinkling, rusting leaves, hugging their bowls close in the coolness of the morning, the pair downed their breakfast quickly; and then – not actually waiting for the internal smog still issuing palely from the entrance hole to clear – scurried back inside for extremely welcome mugs of dark hot chocolate and marshmallows, roasted in front of the settling flames….

¶

When the Mole awoke, glass empty, but still held tightly, like his fond remembrance, he eased his creaking frame from the chair, and went to collect his eyeglasses. Rubbing the lenses clean on the corner of one of the many blankets, he then propped them on his snout, where they belonged, and, returning to the kitchen, diligently scrutinized every word printed on the bottle and its box (as was his wont – he would read ANYTHING; and always with a great sense of satisfaction). Much to his delight, above the brandname of the now-much-older-than-ten-years single malt Scotch whisky, was a handwritten inscription: “For an impetuous Mole! – Badger.”

Remembering the morning’s events, and the determination which had leached from him in the homeward rainstorm, these words gave him back the energy and motivation to do what he had set out to do, when turning his back on the pile-driving machine: to return to the plans in the study, and find a way of ensuring they never came to fruition. “But first,” he said, to no-one in particular, “I think, another little blash of that Tobermory might just help lubricate my brain-cells. I need all the help I can get at my age!”

A desert island biography…

Picture, in the not-too-distant future, Windmill Hill as an island – quite likely, I guess; and probably as part of an Avon-Stour archipelago: with the Edge Hills becoming the local ‘Mainland’ – and imagine I retreat there, to live out my days, hermit-like, listening – loudly – to Roy Plomley’s sanctioned eight discs (more likely to be on my battered iPod Classic than a wind-up gramophone – providing Tysoe’s community-funded wind-turbines are still operating), with my head deeply buried in either Shakespeare or my formidably strugglesome chosen book. What would be on my playlist?

The food of love

1. Kinderszenen

Playing the piano (from a very early age) – most often my mum’s ebony Model 10 Bechstein upright: gifted to her by Blackburn Cathedral’s then retiring (but always generous and avuncular) Master of Choristers, Tommy ‘TLD’ Duerden – and singing (in the cathedral choir), were my two favourite occupations, when I was little: and my first choice, therefore (Kirsty!) has to be Chopin’s Mazurkas – probably as played by Maurizio Pollini: one of the most captivating pianists I’ve ever had the thrill of experiencing live.

I inherited my mother’s large collection of sheet music – and a small portion of her incredible musical skill – along with the piano (which now belongs, fully restored, to my son); and my copy of the Mazurkas soon became the most thumbed and Sellotaped, as I discovered how beautifully the music fit my fingers, and varying moods. They seemed written just for me to play.

2. Adolescent angst

Before my voice broke (much, much too soon and suddenly), I was often called on to be the choir’s treble soloist, and loved performing the soaring lines of Allegri’s Miserere (often managing to sing that top C just a little bit sharp…!). Even now – as the Chopin takes me back to a chilly front room in Blackburn – the Allegri kits me out in a cassock, surplice and uncomfortable Eton Collar, or starched (rough) ruff. The Sixteen perform this – and the revised (possibly more authentic) version – as beautifully as anyone; and their limited number of voices ensures that each part is heard clearly, with perfect diction and balance. Heaven on earth (which is what all religious music aspires to be).

3. Teenage kicks

Growing up in a house always filled with classical music; having piano lessons every Monday evening with the wonderfully talented, thoughtful and forgiving Arthur Bury; singing psalms, hymns, anthems, responses, five or six days a week; I suppose discovering ‘popular’ music – mainly through my older sister watching Top of the Pops on a Thursday evening – was as much a shock to me as the emergence of rock ’n’ roll was to most of civilization in the 1950s. My preference, though, has always been for musicians with skill – and often, of course, piano-based: e.g. Elton John, Carole King, even Queen (who I was lucky enough to see live, whilst at university). But the idol – of the whole family – was Neil Sedaka: and I used to belt out Solitaire on Mum’s Bechstein far, far too often, and far, far too loud! (Due to a quirky family tradition, say “Neil Sedaka” to me, and I will be instantly transported to a motor caravan in a Scottish field: with rain marking insistent percussive rhythms on its roof….)

4. Individualization

During my teenage years, I also began to develop my own taste in classical music: sharing some of them, obviously, with my parents; but also breaking away from their core loves of choral and operatic scores. Initially, it was the emotion of music that grabbed me: and no-one, perhaps, wears their heart on their sleeve quite as thoroughly as Sir Edward Elgar (actually – at the time of writing – the seventh most popular composer on Desert Island Discs; with the seventh most chosen piece of music, in ‘Nimrod’).

The ‘Enigma’ Variations also happened to be my first real immersion in his rich and skilful orchestrations, his remarkable gift for melody and counterpoint – explored through his own piano transcription (on almost permanent loan from the local library) – but this soon expanded, through the genius of the two symphonies; The Dream of Gerontius (with Janet Baker, of course); ’Cello and lesser-known Violin Concerto; to his later – to me, greatest – works: the Violin Sonata, String Quartet, hauntingly beautiful Piano Quintet, and Falstaff – where his technical skills combine perfectly with his erudition and understanding of (if not empathy with) Shakespeare’s flawed anti-hero. It is a work I can listen to again and again: but no-one interpreted it better, I think, than Vernon Handley.

5. I must go down

Staying with English music, one of my abiding memories is seeing Benjamin Britten’s Peter Grimes for the first time: on a grammar school trip. The superb use of orchestration to pull you in to the maritime setting – the humours of the changeable weather; the tempers of the tides – and the wonderful word-setting – captivated me utterly. What greater combination can there be than the best music and the best theatre?

The Turn of the Screw may be more accomplished in some ways – especially in its use of smaller forces – but it is the power of the earlier work that overwhelms.

I cannot hear any Britten without thinking of the late (there is no better word than ‘lamented’) Philip Langridge – the perfect inheritor of the works written for Peter Pears. No-one understands the rôles as well as he; enunciates or pitches their interpretation as meaningfully. He always found the soul at the centre of the music: and involved you in its interpretation and delivery.

6. So what?

As far as I can recollect, there was no jazz in my life, as I grew up – my parents often bemoaning Radio 3 straying occasionally into such terrible territory! But modern classical composers – especially Messaien and his stupendous Turangalîla-Symphonie – pointed the way to a medium that, to me, was certainly worth exploring.

I started with the easy stuff – helped on by Alan Plater’s fantastic The Beiderbecke Trilogy – and found my tastes moving inexorably later, until Miles Davis (with a little help from John Coltrane) almost took over my life. The trumpet’s entry at the beginning of Kind of Blue will always make my heart stop; but it is Birth of the Cool that I find rewards repeated listenings: again, with a combination of technique and emotion.

7. When God created the coffeebreak

I cannot imagine trimming my record collection down, though, without including some (all, please!) E.S.T.. Esbjörn Svensson was a nice, ordinary bloke who just happened to have a magical way with music; and two good friends who understood, and knew implicitly, how best to make this sorcery come together and alive.

Just writing about them brings a tear to my eye; and makes me realize there is no one track that would suffice to represent the range of their accomplishments. Instead, the record that Esbjörn told me inspired his musical venturings, will have to suffice: Jazz på svenska by Jan Johansson. Esbjörn built on this with the trombonist Nils Landgren – producing two ethereal volumes of Swedish Folk Modern – but I find them hard to listen to, without wondering what great music the world has missed out on: so it is to the source of all that inspiration that I will turn.

8. The end

For many years, Beethoven’s Drei Equali for four trombones seemed the perfect music to accompany my departure from this world. I am not a major fan of this supposed giant of a composer, normally – apart from the piano sonatas, obviously! – although I admit that, occasionally, he produces extended moments of true brilliance (the opening of his fifth symphony, of course…); but these three short pieces – for a combination of instruments rarely heard together (which, in itself, is sublime: demonstrating that music for brass can be as heartrending as that for strings) – grabbed me by the solar plexus the first time I heard them; and have never let go.

However, here I must cheat a little, and return to the instrument that will always remain ‘mine’, the piano, for my final selection; and a composer that, not only have I met on a few occasions, but that I hope, and believe, will emerge as one of the towering monuments of the last century: Peter Maxwell Davies. Always as lucid in his words as his notes, this is what Max – a preternaturally modest and insightful man (and a Lancastrian, like myself, who, too, fell in love with the more isolated parts of Scotland – but then made it his home…) – had to say, recently, on the subject – and on the piece that fits my fingers (and predilections) better than almost any other – even Chopin:

My little piano piece Farewell to Stromness has almost become a folk tune. People just say, ‘I like that piece,’ and they don’t know who wrote it. It gets played an awful lot at funerals these days. And that’s very unusual, for a so-called serious composer, to write a piece that people like so much, and they don’t care who it’s by.

Reading matters

As I presume most people – especially those with a musical bent – rapidly discover, it is nigh impossible to limit your choice to eight records; and, no doubt, on another day, my selection would be quite different. After all, I have over 20,000 tracks on my music server: dishing up jazz, punk, chamber music, heavy metal, modern opera, folk, rap, even works for organ. My tastes are wide, eclectic, sometimes bizarre, span seven centuries, and most of the globe.

The same can be said – just about – of my taste in literature; and my thousands of volumes of poetry, biography, science fiction, modern European literature…. As I have never got on with the immensely popular operas of Verdi, Puccini, etc. (although I love earlier operatic works, up to Mozart; and more modern ones, such as by Britten, Tippett, etc.), I have never gotten into those books that many seem to imply are essential classics: e.g. Jane Austen, the Brontës, Dickens (although I adore Wilkie Collins).

My love of Shakespeare is obviously satisfied by its standard pairing with the Bible (although I would rather explore the Hindu epic Mahabharata or the many sutras of Buddhism). But the book I have finally chosen – and I know this is immensely specific – is the green pocket 1923 The World’s Classics edition of Moby-Dick or The Whale that I picked up, on the spur of the moment, in 1997, in a second-hand bookshop on my first ever visit to Hay-on-Wye, for the princely sum of £1.50! (It even comes with an integral red, silk, woven bookmark.)

I have read this many times – and with each reading comes fresh discoveries, greater understanding, and a yet deeper admiration for the skill of the storytelling; the use of words to conquer up complex images; and the vein of sheer awfulness and brutality that Melville works into nearly every page. There is a big heart at the centre of the book: and, as with music, it is this that always pulls me in – along with its technical accomplishments. I just cannot get enough of it; and know of no better tutor in syntactic craftsmanship. The print is small, though: so I will have to blag a magnifying glass outside of my chosen luxury.

Life’s little one

I haven’t played, or owned, a piano for quite some time – not since my hearing began to fade. However, this will not stop me from banging away, like the dying Beethoven, at the keys of, hopefully, a Bechstein concert grand – if it can be made to fit inside the windmill!

Re-learning the instrument (providing it comes equipped with a couple of centuries’ worth of music; and a comfortable, adjustable stool) would keep me occupied for most of each day, I think; and, being surrounded by water, there would be no-one to drive away, apart from the gulls! Maybe I would attract a chorus of dolphins or seals…?

But riddle-like lives sweetly

As to narrowing down my eight discs, I may as well stick a pin blindfold in my entire music collection. I think, though – which will leave my parents despairing! – it has to be the Miles Davis. Brass band music with a lilt.

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf VI

Cold irons bound…

That change had arrived; and looked set to stay. Where the Mole stood, shaking, was once the meadow where he had lived for most of his previous life. What he should have seen, in the distance, therefore, through hedges, past copses, was the silver, twinkling, snaking river where he had first chanced upon the Water Rat; where they had shared so much fun – happy days filled with hampers of lemonade, ginger beer, gherkins and cold meats; where the Mole had learned, eventually, to row the Rat’s boat. But the river had first faded to a trickle, when, somewhere upstream, faraway, it had been damned; then its dwindling remains had been confined in harsh concrete pipes; and, finally, these were themselves buried beneath an expanding, featureless, flat wasteland. The soil underneath the Mole’s aching feet, as a result, was dry and powdery as sand, even after the morning’s showers (no dull roots stirred with the spring rain); the view – apart from the Wild Wood a long way behind him: almost invisible through the dust griming the air – bland, fuscous, parched, lifeless, flat: apart from one monstrous, overwhelming Thing.

Seeing it, looming above him, appearing so all-conquering, so savage, the Mole, as he moved forwards, instantly lost all hope. In its presence, he felt so very insignificant; his previous bravura escaping from him with each ragged breath.

A colossus of a machine – taller than an old oak tree, wide as the Mole’s tunnels had been long, planted on the dirt, harsh and yellow, sharp edges gleaming against the filth – glowered down at him, stomping hard, pushing thick metal columns deep into the ground; deeper than the Mole could imagine, or had known; to where he was conscious moisture still had reign – even if only in the clays where he could, would never have dug, would never have made his home. The water table was much, much lower now, he knew; but it still made building laborious: these piles the toll necessary in subduing treacherous nature; in stamping greedy desires on the unwilling land; in making marks that would take centuries to erase – if ever.

With each descending elephantine beat arose another cloud of arid grit, along with belching smoke, thickening in the Mole’s throat and chest: only stopping, briefly, to position another beam, before resuming its demonic, insatiable lust to overpower all in its path: hammering spikes through the Mole’s heart, as well as deep into the earth.

Wrapping the Badger’s old handkin over his mouth and snout, the Mole turned his back on the monster, and began to head wearily back, trying to rebuild his crumbling thoughts: mulling over, and rehearsing, what he had previously been sure needed to be done to try and put things right; who he needed to talk to; who he needed to convince; what he needed to say, and how. But it all felt so tenuous. “I wish Badger and Ratty were here. They would know INSTANTLY.” And thus the tears returned: his anger fading with his earlier confidence. “Hang being alone. I was ALWAYS on my own, before, and managed quite happily in my own small world; but I know now that a mole is NOTHING in the Wide World without such good pals; without their sensible thoughts to share; their cunning stratagems to put in place. Hang being alone. Hang… being… lonely…. Hang. It. ALL.”

¶

As the Mole stomped slowly back to the wood – his stick thudding into the diminishing dryness with each step, with each word, and with deep heartfelt pain – leaving the wilderness and his crumbling footprints behind, he remembered his prior ideas; how much sense they made; and how much hard work had gone into formulating them; and – although he knew their success would depend on the actions of others, as well as what little cunning he now possessed – his pace began to increase, little by little, as he started to see familiar landmarks, make out companion trees, and therefore regain his self-belief. “I need to do what Badger would have done. It’s no good just shouting and boasting. I need to stand my ground and take control. We did it once before; and we can do it again. But this time, it’s on my head; and my head alone.”

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf V

Not dark yet…

When the Badger called all the inhabitants of the river bank together, for the first time, under the ancient small-leaved lime tree, no-one could remember such a gathering happening within living memory; nor could anyone imagine what it would lead to.

The Mole and the Water Rat had enlisted the mice and rabbits to ensure that everyone was aware that the meeting was taking place: spreading the news keenly from burrow to hole to nest, hall and field, and beyond; and even nailing handmade notices to the willows. Some of the animals were still scared of the Badger, back then: but his sagacity, seniority and authority drew them in, nonetheless, to listen to what he had to say.

Raising himself up on a convenient mossy log, under the tree’s thinning canopy, as the sun started to bed behind the mustered, eager throng, the Badger repeated the grave news; and warned the river-bankers of the impending threat: an expansion of the Wide World – an invasion, in reality – encroaching on what they all thought of as theirs: their land, their territory, their homes. “But why is he doing this?” whispered the Otter: “HIS home is safe. No-one would dare attack the Wild Wood.”

“Because he cares, is the simple answer,” stated the Rat. “Because he cares not only for himself, his cosy seclusion; but because he cares for ALL of us; doesn’t want us – or our little piece of the countryside – to be hurt; to be damaged; even to disappear. Badger’s a noble beast; and would put himself out for any one of us. As he sees it: any harm comes to us, it comes to him.”

As the Badger delivered his speech, thoughtfully, and with measure, the animals’ fear of him faded away, and they started to gather closer: encouraging him to invite them to ask questions, to tell their peers THEIR thoughts: what could be done; and when; and by whom. Which of them would help him fight the battles that lay ahead?

For a moment, silence fell – not a harsh silence like the threatening stillness that arrives just before a summer thunderstorm; but a gentle, thinking silence, like the one that emerges just before a duckling leaves dry land for the first time, to discover the joys of the river; or a fledgling sparrow first takes to the air. This was a new situation for everyone: the making concrete of an idea of community that had, until now, just been a loose fellowship – creatures of passing acquaintance united by location, rather than in common purpose.

“What do you need us to do?” squeaked a small voice, hesitantly, instinctively, from the back of the crowd. The expectant calm was broken; and a huge feeling of relief and even comfort spread through the throng. If this small creature – “Oh, it’s one of the young rabbits,” murmured the Mole – was brave enough to stand up and make itself heard, then they could, too. Not that permission was needed; nor bravery; just that someone had to be the first to stand in the Badger’s rather large paw-prints – and not for fame, neither; nor reward – but because they realized the importance requisite in such steps; and knew that others would then follow suit.

“To be honest, at the moment, I’m not sure, young fellow,” smiled the Badger, thoughtfully – stretching his arm out generously towards the smaller animal: beckoning him to his side. “But if enough of us can get together to talk things through; discover how others have dealt with such menaces; how the rules of the Wide World can help us; then, presently, I’m sure we’ll be able to start working out a plan of sorts. We can then reconvene, and move those ‘things’ on: making sure we’re all in agreement.”

As he spoke, several others – including the Mole and Water Rat, of course; and even a pair of weasels – joined the Badger and the small rabbit by the sturdy trunk. Realizing that he was towering over them, the Badger gingerly climbed down; and sat on the thick fallen branch instead – by which time, he was surrounded by eight or nine volunteers: some of them not really knowing why they had walked forward; but understanding that this was IMPORTANT; that their lives were about to be altered, irrevocably; and it was up to them to make sure this was for the better, rather than for the worse.

“Thank you, all,” intoned the Badger, as stillness returned. “Thank you for coming” – as he looked around the wider group – “and thank you for making yourselves known” – bringing his gaze to those close by him. “It is, sadly, only in times of trouble, that we need to come together, like this; and it has been many lifetimes since last it happened; but I KNOW we will all do our very best – each in our own way – to protect what we have; what we river-bankers all stand for. I also know that this is far too big simply for the Council of Animals to address. Although they are known for being cautious” – a momentary glance towards the Otter inviting his tacit agreement – “I am certain they will help us in their own way: especially with their knowledge of the law…. But this is something different, something new; and it will take the strength at the heart of us all to fight and to win. I can make no promises, though. I just know it is better that we try, than stand idly by, and watch our beloved world fade away.”

As the gravity of these words sank in, the sun finally disappeared, the assembly dispersed; and, with the orange glow of the clouds reflecting in the Badger’s now glistening eyes, there rose a cooling autumnal wind: presaging what was to come, perhaps; and ensuring that supper, that evening, would be a more solemn affair than usual, all along the river, and in the meadows between it and the Wild Wood. Tones would be hushed; thoughts would rehearse themselves more thoroughly than of usual – anything flippant being held back for another day – and a new tangible mixture of solemnity and hope would suffuse itself through the air and through the ground, and through the very water. Change was coming; and coming far too soon.