Moominvalley in November (9 page)

'I'm not sure that the boat is still there,' said Snufkin, putting his mug down. He thought: they've sailed away. I don't feel like talking about them with this hemulen. But the Hemulen leant forward and said gravely: 'We must go and have a look. Just you and me, it'll feel better that way.'

They went off into the fog, which lifted and began to drift out of the way. In the forest it was an endless white ceiling held up by the black pillars of the tree-trunks, a tall, solemn landscape created for silence. The Hemulen thought about his boat but said nothing. He followed Snufkin all the way down to the sea and at last everything had become uncomplicated and meaningful again.

The bathing-hut jetty was the same as ever. The sailing-boat wasn't there. The duckboards and the fish-basket lay above the high-water line and they had pulled the little dinghy right up to the trees. The fog drifted away over the water and everything was soft and grey, the beach, the air, and the silence.

'You know how I feel,' the Hemulen burst out, 'I feel quite - quite strange! My neck's not stiff any longer.' He had a sudden desire to confide and to tell Snufkin about his efforts to arrange everything so that other people could enjoy themselves, but he was too shy and couldn't find the words he needed. Snufkin walked on. A dark bank of everything that storm and high-water had thrown up, discarded things, forgotten things, all jumbled up under seaweed and reeds, heavy and blackened with water, covered the beach as far as the eye could see. The splintered timbers were full of old nails and bent cramp-irons. The sea had devoured the beach right up to the first trees, and there was seaweed hanging in their branches.

'It's been blowing very hard,' said Snufkin.

'I'm trying so terribly hard,' the Hemulen exclaimed behind him. 'I want to so awfully much.'

Snufkin made his usual vague noise which meant that he had heard but had nothing to add. He walked along the bathing-hut jetty. The sandy bottom underneath the jetty was covered with a brown mass that rocked gently with the movement of the water, it was seaweed which the storm had torn to little pieces. The fog had gone, and there wasn't an emptier beach in the whole world.

'You understand,' the Hemulen said.

Snufkin bit his pipe and stared down into the water. 'Yes, yes,' he said. And after a while: 'I think that all small boats should be clinker-built.'

'I think so, too,' the Hemulen agreed. 'My boat is clinker-built. It's absolutely the nicest thing for small boats. And it should be tarred and not varnished, shouldn't it? I tar my boat every spring before I go out sailing. Listen. Can you help me with one thing? It's the sail. I can't decide whether I should have a white one or a red one. White's always a good colour, sort of classical? But then I happened to think of red, it's so daring in a way? What do you think? Do you think it would look a bit provocative?'

'No, I don't think so,' Snufkin answered. 'Have the red one.' He felt sleepy and he didn't want to do anything except crawl into his tent and shut himself in.

All the way back the Hemulen talked about his boat. 'It's strange,' he said, 'I feel such kinship with everybody who likes boats. Moominpappa, for example. One fine day he hoists sail and is off, just like that. Completely free. Sometimes, you know, sometimes I think that Moominpappa and I are alike. Only a little of course, but even so...'

Snufkin made his vague noise.

'Yes, it's true,' said the Hemulen quietly. 'And don't you think there's something significant in the fact that his boat is called the
Adventure?'

They separated at the tent.

'It's been a wonderful morning,' the Hemulen said. 'Thanks a lot for letting me talk.'

Snufkin shut himself in. His tent was that green summery colour that makes one think the sun is shining outside.

*

When the Hemulen approached the house the morning was over. Now the day was beginning for the others, they didn't know anything about what he'd been given. Fillyjonk opened her window to air the room.

'Good morning!' the Hemulen called. 'I slept in the tent! I heard all the noises of the night!'

'What noises?' Fillyjonk asked sourly, and secured the window catch.

'The noises of the night,' the Hemulen repeated. 'I mean the noises one can hear in the night.'

'Really,' said Fillyjonk.

She didn't like windows, they're unsafe, you never know with windows, they blow open, they slam shut... It was colder in the guest room facing north than it was outside. She sat down in front of the mirror, shivered a little and took the curlers out of her hair and thought that she always lived facing north, even in her own house, just because everything is the wrong way round for a fillyjonk. Her hair hadn't dried properly, no wonder in a damp room like this, the curls fell out like straightened pokers, everything was wrong, everything, even her morning hair-do which was so important to her, and with Mymble in the house, too. The house was damp and musty and dusty and ought to be aired, a cross-draught through all the rooms and masses of warm water and a marvellous, colossal, thorough spring-cleaning...

Hardly had Fillyjonk thought of spring-cleaning when a wave of dizziness and nausea overcame her and for one terrifying moment she was hanging over the abyss. She knew: I shall never again be able to clean. How can I go on living if I can neither clean or prepare food? There's nothing else worth doing.

Fillyjonk went very slowly downstairs. The others were sitting on the veranda drinking coffee. Fillyjonk looked at them. She looked at Grandpa-Grumble's buckled hat and Toft's tousled head, the Hemulen's solid neck, which was a little red from the chill morning air, there they all sat and Mymble's hair was, oh dear, so beautiful - and suddenly Fillyjonk was overcome by a great tiredness and she thought: they don't like me at all.

She stood in the middle of the drawing-room and looked around. The Hemulen had wound up the clock, he had tapped the barometer. The furniture was all in place and everything that had ever happened in the room was shut away and out of sight and didn't want to have anything to do with her.

Suddenly, quickly, Fillyjonk went to fetch some wood from the kitchen. She wanted to make a big fire in the stove to warm up the desolate house and all those who were attempting to live in it.

*

'Listen you in there, whatever your name is,' shouted Grandpa-Grumble outside the tent. 'I've saved the Ancestor! My friend the Ancestor! She had forgotten that he lives in the stove, how could she! And now she's lying on her bed crying.'

'Who?' Snufkin asked.

'The one who wears the feather-boa, of course,' exclaimed Grandpa-Grumble. 'Isn't it awful?!'

'She's calming herself down,' Snufkin muttered from inside the tent.

Grandpa-Grumble was taken aback, he was very disappointed. He thumped his stick on the ground and said many disgraceful things to himself, and then went down to the bridge, where Mymble was sitting combing her hair.

'Did you see how I saved the Ancestor?' he asked severely. 'One second more and he would have burnt up.'

'But he wasn't,' said Mymble.

Grandpa-Grumble explained to Mymble: 'None of you understands when something big happens nowadays. You all have the wrong feelings. Perhaps you don't even admire me.' He pulled up his fishing contraption. It was empty.

'It's in the spring that there are fish in this river,' said Mymble.

'It isn't a river, it's a brook,' he shouted. 'It's my brook and it's full of fish!'

'Now listen, Grandpa-Grumble,' said Mymble calmly. 'It's neither a river nor a brook. It's a stream. But if the Moomin family call it a river, it's a river. I'm the only one who can see that it's a stream. Why do you want to make such a fuss about things that don't exist and things that haven't happened?'

'To make things more fun,' Grandpa-Grumble replied.

Mymble combed and combed and the comb rustled like water on a sandy beach, wave after wave, lazily and untroubled.

Grandpa-Grumble stood up and said with great dignity: 'If you do see this as a stream, do you have to mention it? Horrid child, why do you want to make me feel unhappy?'

Mymble stopped combing her hair, she was very surprised. 'I like you,' she said, 'I don't want to make you feel unhappy.'

'That's good,' said Grandpa-Grumble. 'But you must stop telling me about the way things are and let me go on believing in nice things.'

'I'll try,' Mymble said.

Grandpa-Grumble was very upset. He stamped off to the tent and shouted: 'You inside there! Is this a brook or is it a river or is it a stream? Are there any fish in it or not? Why is nothing like it used to be? And when are you coming out to take an interest in things?'

'Soon,' Snufkin answered peevishly. He listened anxiously, but Grandpa-Grumble didn't say anything else.

I must go and join them, Snufkin thought. This is no good. Whatever did I come back here for? What have I got to do with them? They know nothing about music. He rolled over on his back, he turned on his stomach, he buried his nose in the sleeping-bag. But whatever he did, there they were in his tent, all the time, the Hemulen's immobile eyes, and Fillyjonk lying weeping on her bed, and Toft who just kept quiet and stared at the ground and old Grandpa-Grumble all confused... they were everywhere, right inside his head, and, what's more, the tent smelt of the Hemulen. I must go outside, Snufkin thought. Thinking about them is worse than being with them. And how different they are from the Moomin family. They were a nuisance, too, they wanted to talk. They were all over the place. But with them you could at least be on your own. How
did
they behave, actually? Snufkin wondered in surprise. How is it possible that I could have been with them all those long summers without ever noticing that they let me be alone?

CHAPTER 12
Thunder and Lightning

TOFT
read very slowly and carefully: 'No words can describe the period of confusion that must have followed upon the non-appearance of the electricity. We have reason to suppose that this Nummulite, this isolated phenomenon which, despite everything, can still be assigned to the Protozoa group, was retarded in his development and underwent a period of stunted growth. The ability to phosphoresce ceased and the unfortunate creature led a life of concealment in the cracks and deep hollows which provided a temporary shelter from the outside world.'