The Willows at Christmas (7 page)

Then sanity returned and he told himself, “No, I will not be put into the cooking pot meekly, if only to show that we of the River Bank are not so easily vanquished! I’m sure it’s what Badger would advise and what Ratty would do!” And with that he lay still, safety pin in hand, ready to attack the moment the villains released him.

How very differently had Mole’s friends passed the evening! How dolefully true is the adage that out of sight is very soon out of mind, especially when creature comforts are on offer!

No sooner had the Otter settled down by the fire to explain how it was that the Mole had been captured than he yielded to the heady comforts of food, drink and companionship.

“How much more I would enjoy these excellent crumpets,” he was saying, “if only I knew for
certain
that poor Mole was still alive!”

A second glass of mulled wine and toasted crumpets as a rather unusual
hors d’oeuvre
to the mushroom stew that the Badger was cooking, plus the soothing effects of a warm fire, had calmed the Otter to such an extent that all urgency concerning Mole began to leave him.

“And yet,” he mused, “there must be
some
way we can work out where he might be, so that we are ready to search for him at first light.”

“The Wild Wood is a big place,” said the Badger as he stoked the fire under the stew to bring it to a final boil and helped himself to another crumpet, “and there are many holes and underground passages that would serve the role of dungeon for one such as Mole very well indeed. But —”

Just then there was a slight movement in the shadows to the left of the Badger’s inglenook which stopped their conversation quite dead.

“Good heavens, Badger,” cried the Rat. “In the excitement of Otter’s arrival and disturbing intelligence we have quite forgotten those villainous thieves we captured earlier tonight.”

“Thieves?” said the astonished Otter, raising himself from his semi-slumber.

“There, in that muddy sacking,” explained the Rat, pointing to the wet bundle by the hearth. “Three stoats and a brace of weasel at least. Caught ‘em thieving along the River Bank just near your house.”

“Stoats?” cried the Otter angrily, rising to his feet and staring down at the sacking.
“Weasels?”

“Yes,” said the Badger, shaking his head. “They’ve always been the same, those animals. No standards, no values, no respect for property and people’s liberty. One would have thought that the trouncing we gave them at Toad Hall earlier this year would have taught them a lesson, but not so! They get more and more impudent as the months go by. Still, I suppose we ought to release them now and take their names.”

“We should,” said the Rat, “and come to think of it they might give us some help in finding Mole.”

“Help?” cried the roused Otter. “I should say they’ll give us some help — once I’ve given ‘em the drubbing they deserve.”

Without further ado he set about kicking at the sacking. “Villains! This is for our friend Mole, whom your colleagues have abducted, and this as well, and this too!”

“Really, Otter, I think perhaps —” essayed the Rat, trying to restrain his friend.

“Desist, Otter, desist at once,” cried the Badger, his voice deep with alarm. A drubbing was one thing, but a common assault quite another.

“Well…” growled the Otter, his ire suddenly gone, and feeling rather ashamed at getting so carried away.

As the other two regarded the sacking with a mixture of concern and curiosity, the Otter bent down and untied the cords that bound its top together.

“Out you come, villains!” he said, rising up once more, and hoping the stoats and weasels had no more than a bruise or two apiece.

But the sacking remained ominously still, the shapes of bodies inside it accentuated by the flickering flames of the nearby fire, and made all the more lurid by the rise of steam from the hessian.

“I say, fellows,” said the Water Rat, “this may be more serious than we thought. You don’t think they have suffocated in there, do you?”

At once the three animals knelt down to release the captives, pulling open the mouth of the sack still further.

“Out you come!” ordered the Badger.

“Out?” cried an enraged voice from within the wet and steamy sack.
“Out?
I’ll come out, all right!”

Out he certainly came, the bruised, abused, battered and furious Mole, like a rabbit bolting from its hole. Up and at ‘em, safety pin and all!

“Take that! And that! And
that!”
he yelled, stabbing, pricking, hitting and punching, lunging and digging and making as much use of his tiny arsenal of weapons as he could. A Viking frenzy was upon him, which was why he did not immediately see that it was his friends he was assaulting.

“Have me for supper if you must!” he cried wildly. “But I shall fight and struggle all the way into the pot!”

Their cries of alarm and pain did nothing to stop him, but rather spurred him on, till one by one they retreated — the Badger to his bedroom, the Rat to the kitchen and the Otter behind a chair. Only then did the Mole give pause to see with clearer eyes, and realise with growing astonishment that he was in the Badger’s sitting room.

“Villains!” he shouted (for he naturally thought that the weasels and stoats had somehow gained access to the Badger’s home, and most likely had already eaten him for lunch). “Come out and show yourselves!”

Then, most sheepishly, most apologetically, his three friends left their hiding places and stood before the Mole, the very picture of contrition.

“But — but — but —” was all the astonished Mole could say, looking first at one and then another, then at the sacking by the fireside and the cooking pot, and finally understanding all.

It was a long time before anybody dared speak. Finally, the Otter took it upon himself to attempt to mollify the aggrieved Mole.

“Well, now,” he haplessly began, “I mean to say —”Best say nothing, old fellow,” said the still angry Mole softly, rubbing his many bruises. But then, with a twinkle in his eye, for he was never one to hold a grudge, and always the first to laugh at himself and put the best complexion on things, he said more gently, “Best say nothing at all.” Then, relaxing a little more, he said, “Do I not smell the heady scent of mulled wine?”

“You shall have some at once, dear Mole,” said Ratty, hurrying to serve him.

“And crumpets, too?”

“I’ll toast and butter you some fresh ones right away’ said the Otter.

“And comfortable chairs?”

“Have mine, old fellow,” said the Badger without hesitation, though no animal in living memory had ever sat in his chair before.

“Why, that’s most obliging,” said the Mole, sitting down with aplomb. “Very obliging. Ratty, perhaps you would be kind enough to charge my glass once more. And, Otter, I think that one more crumpet would go down well before I try that mushroom stew. O, and Badger, another cushion would — that’s right, just there, yes, aah — and while you’re at it, Badger, be a good chap and put another log on the fire.”

Then a look of happy contentment came to him, and slowly to the others as well, as they began to enjoy that special peace and companionship that comes with the resolution of misunderstanding between good friends.

IV

A Tale of

Bleak Midwinter

“It is a pity,” observed the Mole a little later, now calmed and comforted by food and drink, “that Toad is not here. I’m sure he would have enjoyed this evening.”

“It
is
a pity,” murmured the Badger, puffing at his pipe, “but I am afraid that his family duties for the festive season have now begun and so we shall see nothing of him till after Twelfth Night. There it is.”

But there it definitely was
not,
so far as the Mole was concerned. He was determined to get to the bottom of the River Bank’s festive malaise and do something about it.

“You said, Badger, ‘there it is’, as if you accepted the situation. Forgive me for being bold, but I do
not
accept it. Toad must have his reasons for not celebrating Christmas, but I doubt that they are good ones, or ones he cannot be persuaded to abandon. But, since none of you is friend enough to tell me exactly what ails Toad, there is not much I can do to help.”

He sighed in an exaggerated way to emphasise the distress he felt at not being taken into their confidence. Though it was very unlike his normal modest way to cause a fuss, he felt it was the least they deserved after their harsh treatment of him earlier.

A very long silence followed. The others all understood that it was best to wait to let Badger say what he must in reply. Finally, sighing rather as Mole himself had done, he began to speak.

“My dear friend, you are right to feel aggrieved and I apologize if we have seemed over-secretive. Let me try to explain how the situation was and now is, though the story starts even before
my
time.”

As the Rat stoked the fire, and the Otter served up more mushroom stew, there unfolded a story so astonishing that the Mole could only shake his head at the folly of it all, and sigh at how one person could destroy the pleasure of so many; and then sigh again that the many should have allowed it to happen…

In the days of Toad’s father, generally known as Toad Senior, Toad Hall certainly
had
been the fountainhead of things social and celebratory along the River Bank, just as the Villagers had told the Mole earlier.

Toad’s father was good-natured and benign, and though it is perhaps true that he spoilt and overindulged his son — the Toad they knew and grew irritated at and yet very much loved — at least he never put on the airs and graces that the wealthy sometimes do, and he did his best to stop Toad doing so either.

As for Christmas at the Hall, it was the local high point of the year. and Toad Senior saw to it that those in the Village who regularly supplied the Hall with the goods and services that a great establishment needs were remembered and rewarded. So too were those individuals and families who needed support when the cold months of winter descended. In fact, there was not a family in the area who in one way or another did not find that their festive fire shone more brightly for the concern, generosity and seasonal thoughtfulness of the occupants of Toad Hall.