The Willows at Christmas (3 page)

The Mole judged it best to let him get on with the driving without further talk, for the wind was strong enough to toss the horse’s mane and tail about, and rock the cart as well. Worse, it was driving spits of rain into their eyes. Only when they had crossed the bridge and headed west for a few miles did Mr Baltry speak again.

“I tell you,” he said, shaking his head, “you wouldn’t get me living in these parts, and never in the Village!”

“Why ever not?” asked the curious Mole.

“Folk down ‘ere ain’t got two halfpennies to rub together, times is so hard. The livestock’s all gone, what with the sheep rot last year and the cow gangrene this. And the crops is no better!”

“No!” exclaimed the Mole, who was sorry to hear that the sheep had been ill and the cows poorly.

“Aye, and they say that the wheat round the Village has got the drone fly good and proper now, and there’s no disputin’ their taters are harbouring riddle worm. And, o’ course…

“Yes?” said the Mole, much alarmed by what he was hearing.

The poultryman dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, “… their sugar beet’s taken the fluke root, and that’s bad, very bad. Eat one of them, yer’ll have the pustules by dawn. It’s no wonder folks is deserting the Village like fleas off a dead dog fox.”

“O dear, O dear. I had no idea,” said the kind—hearted Mole. “In that case, may I ask what business is taking you to the Village yourself today?”

The poulterer laughed.

“Business?
There?”
Then, looking back at the produce he was carrying and understanding the reason for the Mole’s query, he added, “Ah, it’s not what you’d call business exactly. You see, the verger’s wife’s my sister, and seeing as ‘er ‘usband’s not the man ‘e was since ‘is geese got the gander fly, I’m giving ‘em some provisions for Christmas, and I’ve thrown in something for their neighbours too, seeing as they’re close to starving. Mind you, that shouldn’t be my job! But the local gentry’s not what it was in the way of helping people out.”

“Really?” said the Mole, realising that he must be referring to Toad of Toad Hall.

“My sister says that in the days of good old Toad Senior he was so quick to help and generous with doctor fees that there’s no way you’d have red mite running riot among the hens like they have now”

“Not them as well!” gasped the Mole.

“Them and the rest!” came the reply. “Why it’s common knowledge that every last pig in the Village has gone deaf, and some say the bees is twaddled as well, which don’t give much hope for pollination of the kale come summer and we all know what
that
means!”

“What does it mean?” asked the Mole.

“Means the fish won’t bite and the black fly’ll swarm in consequence and bring back the plague and every man jack of ‘em’ll be pushing up daisies by next Christmas. If you ask me it’s all up with the Village and the best thing now is for it to be eradicated and razed, and those poor devils remaining given free passage to Australia.”

“You mentioned Mr Toad Senior,” said the Mole to bring the conversation back to his present concerns.

“Only met him once,” said Mr Baltry, “when the sister I mentioned took ‘er son up to the Hall to be blessed. It was widely thought that the Village had stayed free of disease all those years because of Mr Toad Senior’s special powers, so my sister said that he ought to lay hands on her Chesney, who was the youngest and the runt of the pack and ‘ad rickets and all sorts. Toad Senior blessed him and ‘e was cured and never needed braces and blinkers again.”

“A miracle!” said the Mole.

“That’s what we said. My sister wrote to the Pope in Rome to ‘ave Mr Toad made a Saint but seem’ as he was not a Catholic ‘e wasn’t, which is wrong in my opinion because religion shouldn’t be allowed to get in the way of saintliness. You are or you aren’t, I reckons.”

“So Mr Toad Senior was popular?”

“That ‘e was, just like his son after ‘im, the present Mr Toad. But o’ course things have changed since Mrs Ffleshe turned up for Christmas. You wouldn’t think a small thing like that would have such a terrible effect.”

“It has? And on the festive season locally?”

Though this was intended as a question, Baltry took it as a statement.

“You’re right there, sir. To all intents and purposes for the twelve days of Christmas Mr Toad isn’t the toad ‘e normally is. As I said afore and I say again, she is as good a mother—in—law as a bachelor like ‘im is ever likely to find, and since every married man knows what a disaster they can be, especially at Christmas, it’s no surprise the effect she’s ‘ad. Which reminds me, don’t eat no beans from the Village, they’re all sluggified and not good for your — whoa, there!”

Mole had been so absorbed by the conversation that they had arrived at the crossroads at the heart of the Village without his realising it.

“Where shall I set you down?”

Mole could see the church to one side and the Public House to the other, with the Post Office not far off.

“This will do nicely,” said he. “But before you go could you just explain —?”

“Can’t stop, I’m afraid, for the mushrooms ‘ereabout have contracted flux and that’s catching when the wind blows hard from the north like it is today If there weren’t the moisture in the air keeping it down we’d all be dead by sunset. So if it’s all the same to you, and wishing you the compliments of the season, and a Happy New Year, if you get that far, I’d prefer not to linger a second longer!”

II

The Village

It was some time since the Mole had visited the Village, and then only briefly, but he remembered it as a busy, cheerful, thriving place. He was therefore surprised to find, considering it was a weekday morning, that the only sign of life was at the Public House across the way.

Its windows were lit by the flickering lights of candle and fire, and its paint was peeling, but its half-open door offered some kind of welcome to strangers. Mole therefore decided that once he had collected his package he would pay it a visit and see what he could find out from the locals about Mrs Ffleshe and her effect on the community.

On his way to the Post Office, he passed the church and noticed at once that it lacked any sign of festive decorations, within or without. Upon its porch door, whose ironwork was rusty and whose frame showed signs of woodworm, the following dismal notice had been pinned:

To this had been added a pencilled note:

Pondering these unhappy announcements, the Mole carried on to the Post Office, where he was alarmed to read another notice:

Feeling increasingly anxious that he would never see his parcel, the Mole proceeded towards the bridge, which he could see a little way ahead. On his way, he passed what had been a thriving Village shop when he was last here, but which was now boarded up.

“O my!” gasped the Mole, for he felt that the Village was in such rapid decline that if he did not find the Parish Clerk’s house and collect his presents soon, he might never get them at all.

He walked over the bridge and into a part of the Village he had not explored before, where he soon found Court House Yard, a lonely square overlooked by a grand building which seemed to be the Court House.

There was a noticeboard declaring “Parish Clerk’s Residence”, upon which there were a number of announcements in the now familiar writing.

The most prominent read,
“Duty calls! He who is normally in is out. Back at 11 o’clock. Closing soon after for Christmas Day, If work allows.”

“‘Signed the Parish Clerk’,” intoned the Mole with some respect. This was a Village official who certainly seemed to take his job seriously.

Mole looked to right and left but saw no one resembling a parish clerk, nor anyone else for that matter. His pocket watch showed him he had only quarter of an hour to wait, but as it was cold he decided to keep himself busy by examining what he had always thought, till he had seen the imposing Court House, to be the Village’s main architectural feature, namely the bridge.

Its size and splendour spoke of more prosperous days in the Village. A point affirmed by an inscription upon it which read,
“Erected by public subscription to the glory of the Monarch, 1766.”

Mole was just contemplating the rushing water beneath, and thinking that the moment his business was complete he might be wise to return to Mole End, when he espied another building he had never noticed before which projected downstream from the bridge and was part of its structure.