The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood (15 page)

“Leaves’ll do as well,” the girl replied with surprising assurance. She picked several and added them to the sprigs of rue and hawthorn she held in her hand. She threw a curious glance at Beatrix. “You’re Miss Potter, are you? The lady that makes the books?”

Beatrix nodded. “And you are—”

“Deirdre. I work for Mrs. Sutton. She reads your books out loud to the kids at bedtime, she does.”

“Oh, yes,” Beatrix said, remembering what Sarah Barwick had told her about the girl. She nodded at the small bouquet. “Is that for Mrs. Sutton?”

Deirdre shook her head. She had, Beatrix thought, more freckles than she had ever seen on a child’s face. “For me. An’ me friend Caroline.”

“I know Caroline,” Beatrix said, adding with a smile, “I like her very much.”

“She likes you,” Deirdre replied, cocking her head with a knowing air. “She told me.”

Beatrix glanced again at the little bouquet. “Yarrow, rue, lavender, and thyme. You and Caroline are looking for fairies, then?”

Deirdre’s blue-green eyes opened wide. “You
know
?”

“I’ve tried it myself,” Beatrix confided. “I’ve even thought I had a glimpse of them, dancing on the smooth turf under the moon.”

It was true. Perhaps it was the influence of the old Scottish woman she’d known when she was a child, who was so utterly convinced of the reality of fairies that she had made them seem real to Beatrix, too. Or perhaps it was the delight she still felt when she imagined—as she liked to do when she went for walks through the countryside—that the whole of the Land between the Lakes was enchanted, all of the crags and meadows and woods, but especially the woods; and that each of the trees in the forest had a fairy of its own, birch fairies and beech fairies, alder and fir and pine fairies, and especially oak fairies.

Or perhaps it was the same sort of impulse that compelled her to make her children’s stories: the secret wish that she would never have to leave the spirit-places of childhood and join the adult ranks of skeptics and cynics who delighted in throwing cold water on dreamers. Whatever it was, Beatrix was glad to admit to believing in fairies when she was a girl and to wishing that she could still believe—and sometimes pretending that she did—now that she was fully grown up.

And perhaps it was this that caused her to bend over and pick a primrose and hold it out to the girl. “Take this, too, then, if you’re looking for fairies.” And then, half to herself and half to the child, she recited,

 
“I like that,” Deirdre said, adding the primrose to her bouquet. “Daisies and buttercups really do dance. I’ve seen them.” She paused. “Is it one of your stories?”

“Not yet,” Beatrix replied sadly. She had written the rhyme for
Appley Dapply,
a book of illustrated nursery rhymes she had been working on when Norman died. The book might never be finished now, for she always thought of him when she read the rhymes and felt a deep, sad loneliness that kept her from working on the drawings. She often thought that Norman himself had had a child’s imagination. He loved building dolls’ houses for his nephews and nieces and putting on magic shows and dressing up as Father Christmas to hand out candy and gifts. “There came a lady from Fairyland” was a rhyme he’d especially liked. If he were here just now, he and Deirdre would have been walking hand-in-hand through the garden, exchanging playful stories about the fairies they had seen or hoped to see. And perhaps she and Norman would have had their own children, and told them fairy stories every night before they went to sleep. A sharp pang of loss struck her, and she drew in her breath.

“Well, I think it should be in a book,” said Deirdre in a decided tone. “And you should draw the Fairy Lady’s picture. With a primrose in her hand.”

“P’rhaps I will.” Beatrix smiled. “Are you planning to look for fairies on May Eve? I understand that’s the best time to see them.”

The girl cocked her head to one side, as if she were not sure whether to take Beatrix into her confidence. “If you were hopin’ to see fairies, where would
you
go?” she asked at last.

“I’d look for a place where there are lots of ferns and moss,” Beatrix replied thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, and fairy rings—rings of fairy fungi, I mean. That’s where the fairies are said to dance. Although I’d be very sure not to step into the ring, because—”

“I know why!” Deirdre said brandishing her bouquet. “ ’Cause the fairies might carry you off! Or change you into one of them.”

“Exactly,” Beatrix said, very seriously. “So be careful where you put your feet. Of course, you’re more likely to see fairy rings in autumn, but May Eve is certainly a magical time. You may see all sorts of things.” She paused, thinking that perhaps it wasn’t wise to encourage this child to go wandering through the woods at twilight—although she had certainly done just that, and as often as she could, when she was a girl on holiday. “If you’re going on May Eve, will Caroline be with you?” she asked tentatively.

Deirdre nodded. “But we’re going this afternoon, first. To Cuckoo Brow Wood, to find the best places to look. Jeremy Crosfield is going with us.”

“Oh, well, then, that’s all right,” Beatrix said, feeling relieved. “I’m sure he can show you just the right places.” She had met Jeremy in difficult circumstances, when he was accused by the previous head teacher at Sawrey School of stealing the School Roof Fund. Jeremy was her favorite amongst the village boys, in part because they shared an interest in drawing woodland creatures. Jeremy had shown her a place on Cunsey Beck where there were a great many frogs, and they had often gone there together when she was making the drawings for her frog book.

Deirdre looked down at the bunch of herbs and flowers in her hand. She hesitated, frowning, started to say something, and then stopped. At last she took a deep breath and blurted out, “Do you s’pose you could go with us on May Eve? You know all about fairies. We might have better luck if you’re with us.” She pursed her lips and frowned darkly. “But o’ course, you’ll have to cross your heart an’ promise not to tell a single soul.”

Beatrix felt, rightfully, that she had been paid an enormous compliment. She didn’t want to impose herself on the children, but if they intended to tramp through the wilderness of Cuckoo Brow Wood at twilight, it would certainly be sensible if an adult went along—just in case. In case of what, she wasn’t sure, but it did seem a good idea.

“Let’s agree to this, shall we, Deirdre?” she said. “When you see Caroline and Jeremy today, ask them whether they would like me to come. If all three of you say yes—without reservation, mind—I should be glad to join your party.”

“I’ll ask ’em,” Deirdre said with satisfaction. She bobbed a quick, old-fashioned curtsey. “Thank you, Miss Potter,” she said, and was gone.

Beatrix, smiling to herself, was on her way back to the farmhouse when she caught a glimpse of a very large black cat, perched on the lowest limb of the ash tree. At first she thought it was Max, but knew immediately that couldn’t be right. This black cat was twice the size of Max. His black fur was shaggy and unkempt and he had a long, rumpled black tail, where Max had no tail at all.

“Good morning, miss,”
said the cat. He stood up to stretch his forelegs and arch his back.

Beatrix stared. This was no ordinary cat. He was so large and so black that she almost thought he must be a panther, escaped from a traveling circus.

“My goodness gracious,” she said, and discovered that she was holding her breath. She let it out. “Who are you?”

“I am the Cat Who Walks by Himself,”
said the cat, who had once lived with a Yorkshire schoolmaster who enjoyed reading Kipling’s
Just So Stories
aloud to the children. The cat (previously called by the undistinguished name of Puss) was deeply impressed by the last two sentences of Mr. Kipling’s story about a cat: “When the moon gets up and night comes, he is the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to him. Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods or up the Wet Wild Trees or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his wild tail and walking by his wild lone.” The cat liked this so much that he memorized it and whispered it over and over to himself. And then he adopted the Cat’s name, feeling that it conferred upon him a great distinction and individuality.

After the schoolmaster died, the Cat (who had forgotten that he was ever called Puss) took to the open road, traveling here and there and everywhere but never lingering for very long, for all places were alike to him. That’s what Mr. Kipling’s Cat had said, and that’s what the Cat said, whenever he thought of it:
I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.
He had happened on Ridley Rattail’s advertisement as he came along the road, and thought he would just take the ferry across the lake to Hill Top Farm and make an application for Miss Potter’s position. All places were alike to him, it was true, but he had never visited Sawrey, and places with rats held a special attraction.

“As an exceedingly large fellow,”
he went on, with ill-concealed pride,
“I am able to accommodate any number of exceedingly large rats. If you are Miss Potter, I am pleased to offer you my services.”
He lifted up one forepaw and extended his claws, flexing them expertly.
“I am accustomed to making my living with these.”
He bared his needle-sharp teeth.
“And these.”
He grinned in a good-natured, ingratiating way.
“You will not find a more efficient ratter than myself anywhere in the Land between the Lakes. Or anywhere in the wide, wild, wicked world beyond, for that matter.”
His grin widened and became rather more ominous.
“I have, you see, an insatiable appetite for rats. I am not ashamed to own that I take a very great pleasure in killing as many as possible.”
And at the thought of rats, he began to purr, a deep, rumbling purr that rattled the twigs on the tree.

Beatrix was reminded of Alice’s Cheshire cat and half expected the animal to begin disappearing, leaving his toothy grin behind. To forestall this, she spoke out loud.

“Since you are here, you might as well make yourself at home.” She pointed. “The barn is that direction. I’m sure you’ll find the situation to your liking. We presently have five other cats, but there are more than enough rats to go around.”

“Thank you,”
said the cat, and leapt gracefully out of the tree, landing as lightly as a feather in the green grass beneath. But he didn’t go to the barn. Instead, he followed Beatrix right up to Hill Top’s front door.

She turned. “And just where do you think you’re going?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and standing in front of the door. “I don’t want a housecat. I am not a cat person. The barn is down the hill. You’ll catch all the rats you want there.”

“But I am not a barn cat,”
said the cat firmly.
“I am the Cat Who Walks by Himself, and barns do not appeal to me. Your advertisement says that your rats live in your attic. If I am to exterminate the brutes—exterminate ALL of them—I must work in the attic, too. And that’s all there is to say about that.”
He pushed past Beatrix and through the door, brushing her skirt with his long black tail.

“What cheek!” Beatrix exclaimed, reaching in vexation for the broom. “To the barn, puss!”

The cat turned, amused.
“There, there, Miss Potter,”
he said in a soothing tone.
“Just sit down and enjoy a nice cup of tea, and allow me to take care of those ugly rats for you.”
He leapt up the stairs to the landing, where he paused and added, over his shoulder,
“I prefer a saucer of fresh cream for breakfast, if you don’t mind, and perhaps a bit of cooked vegetable, egg, and cake. A cat cannot live on rats alone.”
And then he leapt up the second flight, taking the stairs two at a time—obviously an athletic creature.

“I dislike unbiddable cats,” Beatrix muttered, now feeling very vexed. But she could already hear the heavy tread on the floor above, and regardless of how she felt about having a cat in the house, especially a very large cat who refused to take instructions, it was indisputably true that there were rats in the house. Perhaps one large cat in the attic would do the work faster than several cats in the barn.

But just one cat in the attic, she promised herself firmly, as she went upstairs to get ready for the afternoon reception at Raven Hall. Only one. And anyway, she reflected, as she took out her best blouse and brushed her best hat, with that gigantic beast prowling around up there, there wouldn’t be room for another.

16

Evicted!

Whilst Miss Potter was in the garden discussing fairies with Deirdre, Ridley Rattail was handed an ultimatum.

His Saturday morning had begun like any other since the explosion of the rat population in the Hill Top attic. He had appeared at the crowded breakfast table only long enough to pour a cup of coffee, snatch a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs from the sideboard, and say a dark and decisive “No!” when asked to join the others in morning games. He turned his back on the company and retreated with his meal to his room, shaking his head and muttering severely,
“Too many rats. Too many rats!”
As was his habit following his breakfast, he read the newspaper from back to front, then (being a compulsively tidy fellow) swept his floor, made his bed, and straightened his bureau drawers, all the while trying to ignore the noise of rats running up and down the hallway outside his door.

Ridley was wondering whether his shoes needed a polish or whether the task could be put off for another day when suddenly his door flew open and there was Rosabelle, her broom and dustpan in her paws, her whiskers all a-twitter.

“Oh, Ridley!”
she cried.
“There has been another horror! Another horror!”