A Boy Called MOUSE Read online

  One by one, Button entered the names from last night’s games into his little black book, with details of each promise to pay and all addresses. He liked to know where people lived.

  Button knew every name in his book. In fact, he had visited many so he could get to know them even better. Alas! Some people did not, or could not, pay their debts. When the time was right, Button made life uncomfortable for such persons.

  Scrope, sipping his coffee comfortably, ignored such small facts. Did not Button, at least, treat him as someone who was owed respect? Did not Button, at least, understand the excitement of the cards? Scrope chose to be well content.

  Who or what was Mr Button? Button was far more than a servant, for no servant could be trusted with such matters. No servant could have helped Scrope out six months before, when his luck hit a sticky patch, none except a man as wise and clever as Button.

  Mr Button, Scrope believed, was a treasure. Was Button a friend? No. Their lives did not mix, except at times like this. Furthermore, Mr Button was definitely not a gentleman. Amiably and a little disdainfully, Scrope pointed Button to the decanter of brandy set among the collars and studs on his dressing table.

  Button shook his head. ‘Not now, sir. Not for me. I live simply.’

  As Scrope shrugged, and stirred brandy into his own coffee, an almost malicious smile licked across the little man’s lips. ‘Tell me, sir, is the dear son and heir well?’

  Scrope’s cup rattled violently on the saucer. Mouse? Mouse! Scrope’s easiness vanished, and, not for the first time, he felt unsure about Button. He shook his head sulkily, grumpily. He did not want to think about Albert and Adeline’s child today. Time enough for that when he was back by old Epsilon’s side, back in that dreary world. Drat the wretched brat!

  Fortunately for the Golden Cockatoo, Scrope recovered his humour in time for a good evening’s play.

  So several days passed, and Hanny’s bold deed was still undetected.

  Also undetected was the storm that crashed across a vast and distant ocean. It churned waves into mountains of salt water, whipped sea foam into white avalanches and destroyed any shipping in its path. The raging tempest ripped down sails, snapped masts like matchsticks and threw the broken vessels into the open maw of an unseeing ocean.

  Scrope returned to his dutiful self at Epton Towers, to his seat at the long dining table and to face his father for another silent meal.

  Once the tedious hour was over, Scrope hurried to his own chamber. He flung himself into his favourite armchair, picked up his newspaper, and flicked through the pages.

  Before he reached the racing news, he stopped. As he stared at the print, his face began to glow. There, right in front of his eyes, were the words that Scrope, in his heart of hearts, had longed to behold.

  Scrope read, and read again. The good ship Tropicana was lost and was no more! Lost and gone, his spoilt eccentric brother Albert! Gone too Albert’s wife, the beautiful Adeline!

  Ah, dearest Adeline . . . Something glistened unexpectedly in Scrope’s eye and ran down his cheek. He wiped it away briskly, blinking hard. That woman chose Albert instead of him, did she not, and without a single word of explanation. Ha!

  Scrope went back to the paper, a smile tickling the edges of his mouth as he read the announcement aloud, his finger moving under the words, just to be very sure. Joy! He, Scrope, was at last rewarded! The two silly fools were lost, lost for the sake of unknown plants in a godforsaken land. So much for the Glory of Travel and the Power of Science!

  Scrope gazed gratefully at the pots of lush tropical ferns on stands and shelves that decorated his room and almost every corner in the huge house.

  He glanced thankfully through the windowpanes to where Albert’s folly, the great glasshouse full of flame-bright flowers and exotic plants, dominated the lawns. Plant-hunting in remote places was such a dangerous passion, and for that Scrope was well and truly grateful. Cards were so much safer!

  Scrope folded the newspaper so that his father would not miss seeing the announcement. His heart brimmed with happiness. He had won. He, Scrope, was the surviving son, the lucky one, and only the toddling Mouse stood in his way.

  Only Mouse? Scrope paused in his stride. His brow furrowed. Mouse? When had he last seen his wretched nephew? Scrope never enjoyed seeing the child, because it hurt him twice over to see Adeline’s features alive in that small eager face, but when exactly had Hanny last brought the boy downstairs? When had he last seen Mouse?

  Scrope counted the days. Perhaps his luck had tripled while he was away in the city? Maybe the child had gone down with measles, or scarlet fever, or worse?

  Now, with the terrible news of the shipwreck, Scrope felt an urgent need to keep close watch on such a precious heir. Surely dear little Mouse deserved a visit from his loving uncle?

  Humming slightly, Scrope started to climb the long staircases all the way to the nursery.

  Within the hour, Scrope, biting his lip, penned an urgent message to his trusted familiar, Mr Button.

  ‘I must see you at once. It is about the boy they call Mouse . . .’

  M

  .

  CHAPTER 1

  MOUSE, DREAMING

  I move, and the rough sacks scratch my cheek. A family of cats, thin and hungry, slip down from the curve of my covers and away. They are not pets. They are angry and hungry, and they sleep against me for warmth.

  Do I mind? Not at all, for the nights down in the depths of the school are so, so cold, and the kitchen fire falls to a sullen glow. As the cats slink away, their eyes shine, for they are off to scavenge the corridors of Murkstone Hall.

  I am lying wide awake now, because the dream came again. It was not the happy bright dream that woke up in my head so recently, full of flowers and fruit. I do not understand where that came from, nor why it was in my mind. No, tonight was the bad dream. I understand the bad dream very well, because it is the story of how I was first brought to this place.

  I reach out my arm, and stretch my fingers against the pale grey square of the scullery window. There is enough light for me to see my hand, grimed with cinders, stinking of onions and dishwater. That is how things are down here. Nobody can keep clean in this kitchen – not me, not Shankbone, not a single dish or kettle or spoon. Nobody cares that the dirt gathers here, certainly not Master Bulloughby.

  The hand I see at the start of my dream is almost clean. It smells of hay and horses and the open air. It is a small child’s hand. It is my hand as it was when I was taken away from the sweet life of Ma’s farm. It is the hand I had when I trusted everyone, before the bad time began.

  Weariness swirls round me and drags my eyes closed, and I know the bad dream is waiting to haunt me again, waiting just beyond my first memory . . .

  .

  CHAPTER 2

  ROSEBERRY FARM

  I never thought I would leave Roseberry Farm, or Ma Foster’s laughing, round, rosy-cheeked face, or big Isaac’s slow smile. Ma looked after me and big Isaac, and I never saw fear in her eyes until the day a certain man arrived and called her by another name.

  Big Isaac was my very first hero. His blue eyes peered shyly through the sun-bleached hair that fell across his forehead, and his wide shoulders almost brushed the timbers as he stooped to enter a door. Isaac seemed as strong as the huge horses he loved and, like them, was peaceful and content and unsure of strangers.

  Isaac had lived at Roseberry Farm all his life. As a young man he did not ask for more until the day he took his cart to market and saw Ma waiting by the stone cross in her neat cotton dress and with her yellow curls escaping from her straw bonnet. But Ma was already on her way to work for a grand lady at a grand house, so she could not come to Isaac or Roseberry Farm that day. Then, when she did come, some six years later, Ma brought me with her. Isaac was glad to see us both
, and the church bells rang out for him and Ma.

  Sometimes other children visited Roseberry Farm, but they were just little babies. Some had golden hair, some had dark and some were in-between. They came and they went, but I remained.

  I got used to the babies squawking and sucking and squealing in their cradles. I tiptoed past when they were asleep. When they were awake I made funny faces for them and did silly tricks and head-over-heeled until they laughed. When the babies grew bigger they toddled after the chicks and hid from the milk-cows and were mostly happy till they went away again.

  Only twice did Ma have to send babies to be angels. When the vicar took the two small boxes to his churchyard Ma cried, because she cared for her babies very much, as much as Isaac cared for his horses.

  Even so, I always knew that I was Ma’s best boy, and that she and Isaac loved me. Wasn’t I the one Isaac wove his straw animals for?

  ‘Where do the babies come from, Ma?’ I asked one day.

  ‘From here, there, everywhere,’ she told me, laughing. ‘I am minding them for their mothers.’ Then she hugged me hard and said, ‘But you, Mouse, are my own special child.’

  ‘Are you my mother then?’ I asked, because I was getting old enough to think about such things.

  ‘Come and have some honey cake, Mouse,’ she said, so I did.

  .

  CHAPTER 3

  A SEARCH BEGINS

  Scrope handed Hanny’s note across to Button.

  ‘She’s taken the brat somewhere where he can grow happy and healthy,’ Scrope scoffed, trying to ignore the incident of Mouse and the windowsill. Had that scared her into action? ‘How can we be sure the boy is safe, Button?’ he said, but even he heard his own words ring false. He tried again. ‘How can we discover where the child is?’

  Button locked his soft pink fingers patiently together into a fleshy steeple. ‘Calm yourself, sir. It will be best if you let me deal with this. Does old Epsilon know?’

  Scrope shook his head. ‘Not yet. It is so soon after the loss of Albert.’ The shipwreck had shaken the old man badly.

  Button came to the rescue with an amazingly good suggestion. ‘A word of advice? Pretend it was your plan, Scrope. Tell Epsilon that you arranged this holiday. Tell him you were concerned that the sight of the boy might cause him distress, especially while the house is still in mourning. It will give us the time to work out exactly what to do.’

  Such cleverness made Scrope beam enthusiastically.

  ‘Do not worry, sir,’ added Button, his smile wide as a frog’s gape. ‘I’ll spy those runaways out soon enough.’

  Button was a man who played his own games, and the small boy was a valuable piece. In Button’s line of work people were not allowed to disappear, especially if they owed money. Certainly if a person had carried away the heir to a fortune, they had to be found.

  Epsilon had given orders that Albert’s wing of the house was not to be disturbed, but Button quietly ignored this request. His slender pick-locks slipped open the door to Adeline’s room and unlocked her writing desk and her inlaid rosewood boxes.

  Button rustled through all the watercolour sketches, botanical dictionaries, journals and correspondence from learned friends and professors. He found what he wanted in a tiny drawer below the scented wedding greetings and love letters from Albert: Hanny’s neatly folded letter.

  Written some years before, it was Hanny’s humble reply to Adeline, accepting the post as Adeline’s own maid. There, at the top of the sheet, in a tidy girlish script, was the name of Hanny’s home village.

  Button tucked the letter inside his small black book. He had not spent time studying the family’s accounts, properties and maps without reason. That tiny village would be found on Adeline’s lands, and there, or somewhere quite nearby, was where Hanny would have run with the boy.

  His search would not take long, and in any case he had plenty of time. The good-hearted Hanny would not do any harm to such a precious infant. Button stowed his notebook back in his pocket with an air of contentment.

  And Scrope, though he did not know it, had slipped even further into Button’s debt.

  .

  CHAPTER 4

  A STRANGER ARRIVES

  One hot summer evening, when Isaac was off harvesting in the far fields, a horseman came to Roseberry Farm.

  ‘Hanny?’ I heard him say, as Ma opened the door. I was tucked up in bed, so I did not see his face. Not then.

  Ma gave a short sharp cry, like an animal recognising a hunter. I remember this, because it was the season when crows and rooks circled the wheat fields watching for runaway creatures, especially on moonlit nights.

  Hanny? Hanny? Who was this Hanny, and what were they talking about? I peered through a crack in the wood, but all I saw was the shadow of a small man in a big coat.

  ‘If he chose, he could have you strung up . . .’ he hissed. ‘Or transported for life.’

  ‘I left a note explaining,’ Ma whispered.

  ‘Did you? The old one never saw it. He told him he’d sent the child to breathe good country air.’ Ma murmured a question. ‘You were easy to find, silly girl. I read your mistress’s letters. Did you know the ship was lost?’

  ‘Adeline?’ Ma asked, and I heard quiet weeping. ‘You searched through her things?’ she said at last.

  ‘I am not a gentleman,’ said the voice, ‘and I am not a good and loyal servant either. I am someone who finds things out for myself. Nobody will make sure that I am “nicely safe from harm”,’ he sneered. ‘Nor you either, if this theft was widely known.’ There was a rustle of cloth as Ma sank down into Isaac’s chair.

  ‘Now, Hanny. There’s good news too. You can keep the brat –’ I heard Ma gasp – ‘until we want him back, but he must never . . .’ I heard more mutterings, and Ma making something that sounded like a promise. Then the stranger strode out of the door and was gone.

  There was a rumble in the distance, so I clambered out of my bed, because I did not like thunder and because the visitor had made Ma sad.

  She hugged me so tightly. ‘Oh, Mouse! You can stay.’

  I heard her heart’s fast beating and I patted her hand because she had tears in her eyes.

  You might be old enough to understand what was going on, but I did not, not then. I had important things to worry about, like playing with the sheepdog’s puppies next morning, and whether the hard green apples had turned golden and sweet. All the while, the big bad dream was gathering, dark as a summer storm.

  After the stranger’s visit, Isaac started to teach me to rough and tumble and fight, but always as friends. How glad I’ve been of his lessons!

  Sometimes, in play, he threw me up into the air, so that the trees and sky seemed close enough to touch. Then, as I fell thrillingly down, he would catch me in his strong hands, and I knew he would never let me fall. I begged for this game over and over. However high Isaac threw me, I was never ever afraid. But that was not all.

  Though I did my tasks around the yard and house, I spent hours in the stables alongside Isaac, helping him groom his two huge horses, each one as gentle as their master.

  The horses lowered their heavy heads, and snuffled close to my face when I called their names. Their big brown eyes watched me when I patted the warm smooth hair on their long whiskered noses. I loved their whinnying breaths and the way they flicked the flies from their ears, and how they pounded their hoofs eagerly at the rustle of the fresh fodder.

  Their legs were sturdy as the trunks of trees, with long tendrils of hair falling softly over their giant hoofs, but Isaac taught me to be wary of that strength.

  ‘A single kick from one of those feet can strike a man’s life from his body, boy,’ he warned. ‘Don’t you do nothing to provoke those horses.’

  The horses knew me as the small boy
who struggled to bring them nets of sweet hay or small handfuls of oats. Then, one lazy afternoon, Isaac lifted me off my feet.

  ‘Up you go, my boy,’ he said, and set me there, high on a horse’s back. I was not at all afraid of falling. Isaac’s weather-brown grip tugged at the bridle and he led my mount out into the yard. ‘Come on!’

  My fingers reached into the horse’s flowing mane, searching for the thin braids Isaac plaited there as a charm against bad luck. I held them tight. There I sat like a little king, high above my world. With my legs stretched across that broad back, I swayed with the stride of the horse, imagining myself to be a story-time hero riding a trusted steed to victory. Such long sunny summer days!

  Of course, our life was not always like that. We had bad, hard times too at Roseberry Farm. There were weeks when winter gripped its icy fist, and the milk froze, and beasts grew thin – as thin as I am now maybe – and we slept huddled together in all our garments while the last log smouldered in the grate. There were months when the rains fell, and the bridges broke, and the yard was flooded, and sullen puddles seeped across the floor.

  I could tell you about those hard seasons, but now I am remembering the good times. Like that last glowing log, I need these thoughts to warm me as long as they can.

  When there was no work to help with, I played in the barn. My noisy games sent the cats out into the yard and the pigeons swooping off on the summer air. Even the rats dug deeper into their dens when I went whooping through the piles of hay.

  I swung on ropes, jumped on bales of straw and slid over heaped-up sacks. I climbed up and down the ladders and made hideaways in the hay stored high up in the roof of the barn.

  It was about this time that I made another discovery, something about myself, but back then I hardly realised how important this would become.

  One morning, while I was playing about in one of the haylofts, I saw a small brown mouse. Like many mice before, it poked a tiny head from the hay and then darted out across the floor. However, this mouse did not run down the wooden ladder as most did, falling and tumbling safely from rung to rung until it had reached the ground.