The Willows in Winter (2 page)

“Wouldn’t you?” said the Mole, a little cheered
by this.

“Of course I wouldn’t. No one would who lives
alone and likes his own company for a good bit of the time. Company’s fine only
if you can escape it when you need to. You know that, I know that, but the
young don’t always appreciate it!”

“What can I do?” the Mole wondered.

“I know what I would do — tell him to leave,
post-haste and no hard feelings. But we all know that you’re not me, Mole,
that’s your charm, that’s your quality. You are kind, and good, and
soft-hearted, and —”

“No Ratty, don’t say such things, really I mean
it. Just tell me what to do.”

“Send him to Badger. I’ll be seeing Badger in
the next day or two and I’ll tell him about your problem. He’s the wisest
creature living and he’s sure to know what to do.”

The Mole had done so, confident that with the
Water Rat’s support, reinforced by the very frank sealed note he sent with his
young charge, the Badger would know exactly how to tell his Nephew that enough
was enough and he should now be on his way.

But — he — had — come — back. And neither the
Rat, nor Toad, nor the Badger himself would talk about the matter thereafter,
except to say useless things like “it will sort itself out”. It was almost as
if they had conspired not to help him, which if it were so, he could not
understand at all.

No wonder then that the Mole had suffered the
coming of winter, and with it the chance of his guest leaving dwindling each
day with a gloomy heart. No wonder that he had become fractious and irritable.

The Mole took another sip or two of his
delicious drink, the more delicious because somebody else had made it for him,
and munched pleasurably at the bread and butter pudding. Was life so bad after
all?
Perhaps not.
Perhaps he could learn to put up
with things and make the best of the winter visit. Perhaps it would even do him
good!

He stared into the fire, thinking of his
friends and feeling suddenly content. His stomach was warm inside and out, his
head just a little
dizzy,
his thoughts drifting into
the memories his Nephew had so wanted him to talk about.

“O well,” he said finally to himself, “and why
not?” Then, in a warmer voice than he had used for days past, and one that held
all his engaging modesty and self-doubt, he began, “Did I ever tell you —His
Nephew relaxed, and though the Mole did not see it, there came to his face a
look of such affection, such admiration, such happiness to be in the company of
this Mole of all moles, that his eyes and his nose shone almost as brightly as
the fire itself. He leaned forward, hardly daring to breathe, trying his best
to be barely noticeable at all. His uncle
was
going to talk after all!

And so the Mole might have done, had not there
been a sudden, though weak, rat-tat-tat at the door.
Hardly
loud enough to be heard over the wind’s roar.
Indeed, the Mole doubted
that he had heard it.

“Just a branch, that’s all. Or a fall of icy
snow
Now
, where was I? Ah, yes, I was about to tell
you —Rat—tat-tat!

It was a little more urgent this time.

“There
is
someone at the door’ said the
Mole, glowering, “or
something.”

“Something?”
said his Nephew in a thin voice.

The Mole nodded and said firmly, “Whatever it
is, I’m not opening the door for it. No one sensible goes out on a night like
this. Not a creature with good intent, that’s for sure. It can rat-tat—tat all
night long for all I care, I will not open that door.”

Rat-tat-tat! —
but
more weakly now, and the Mole, quite put off his stride where story-telling was
concerned, glared at the door. The wind positively howled down the chimney;
somewhere in the Wood nearby a branch tumbled to the ground.

Then despite all the noise and din, there came
through the door, or perhaps from under it, a soft and pathetic cry.
Hopeless, helpless, forlorn and lost.
The cry of one who had
journeyed long through the night, overcome every obstacle and now, reaching at
last the only place of help and succour it knew, found no one at home.

Mole’s Nephew rose to his feet, finding it
quite impossible not to respond to that tragic call. But the Mole responded
quicker. He who had been grumpy, then sleepy, then comfortable, and then most
reluctant to be interrupted as he began to talk — he became a different Mole. A
Mole
In
Charge.

“No!” he commanded. “Leave this to me! I’m not
saying it is, mind, but it may be a trick.
A way of getting
us to open the door.
On the other hand it may be a creature in distress.
Whatever it is, take this and be ready to use it if you must! Don’t flinch!
Don’t hesitate! Be bold!”

Nephew was amazed at this transformation in his
uncle, still more so when he dived into a shadowy place between the dresser and
the wall and produced a solid-looking cudgel.

“A present from Ratty years ago, just in case.
Not my kind of thing, but it will have to do. So, stand there, be ready and —”

As a further cry, weaker still, came from under
the door, the Mole slowly opened it, while his Nephew stood at his flank,
cudgel at the ready But no great beast or monster loomed there, ready to do
mischief no fiend from out of the night.

Only the sad little huddle of a
half-grown otter, his eyes wide and full of tears.

“It’s Portly, Otter’s son’ said the Mole in
surprise.

“My dear fellow — come — you must —”

But Portly was too cold, too shaken, too
frightened to move, and it did not help that Mole’s Nephew still brandished his
cudgel.

“Put it away!” cried the Mole, as he went down
to the little fellow on the ground. “Why you’re cut and bruised; your paws are
all bleeding and — and only something very serious indeed would have brought
you across from the river tonight.”

Then, half carrying him across the threshold,
and closing the door against the wind, they led Portly to the fire and sat him
down in Mole’s own armchair.

“Now, tell me what’s happened’ said the Mole.

Portly’s
teeth chattered; his paws shook;
his fur steamed; his eyes stared wildly about.

“Try and tell us.”

“I—he—you—we —”was all Portly could say, his
whole body shaking.

“You’re safe with me,” said the Mole
soothingly, “and you can take as long as you like —”

He looked over his shoulder and saw that his
Nephew had already poured a tot of the sloe and blackberry drink, and was
getting some food together.

When he brought it over, Portly stared at it as
if he had never seen food or drink before. He drank and he chewed; he shivered
and he sobbed; then he stopped sobbing and gulped down some more sloe and
blackberry drink, and guzzled at the bread and butter pudding, nodding when he
was offered more and eating it all up in no time at all, with his whiskers all
spattered with butter.

“It was such a long way coming here’ he said at
last, and most pathetically.

“But what’s
happened?”
asked the Mole
once more. But Portly started sobbing again, only stopping when he was given a
third helping of the pudding, and offered a fourth tot of the potent brew,
which meant that he had had far more than a youngster should.

“It was a very long way which went on and on!”
he said suddenly, beginning to calm down.

“You poor fellow,” said the Mole, “it must have
been hard. Now —”

“Is there any more?” asked Portly.

“Well, my dear chap, I think you had better
tell us how you come to be here before —”

All he said was, “I think, Mole …”

Portly’s
voice faded away and his eyes went
round in little circles, and he smiled beatifically.

“I think, Mole,
what?”
asked the
frustrated Mole. “Please try and tell us, Portly, for it’s sure to be
important.
Portly?
Portly!!”

But Portly, his snout and ears now quite pink
from the fire, his stomach tubby with the pudding, and his snout
squiffy
with far too much sloe and blackberry, was sliding
towards sleep.

“
Yesh
, Mole,” he said
blissfully, “it was very cold out there, very cold, but here —” He yawned, and
stretched ominously slowly, yawning even more as he did so, and began to curl
his back paws round one way and his head and front paws the other, as only
otters can when they are preparing for a very long sleep indeed.

“Who told you to come?” the Mole almost
shouted.

“Rat did because he said — he said —he must —
he was going — my
fa
—”

But whatever the Rat had said, Portly was not
now going to be able to report, because with a final weak
yawn
,
and a little shiver, and a smile on his face, he fell into a sleep so deep that
nothing the Mole said or did could wake him up.

“What are we going to do?” asked Mole’s Nephew.

“Do?”
said
the Mole
with a look of determination and resolve on his face. “Do? We are going to do
something,
of course. Or, rather, I am. You are going to stay here and wait till this
wretched and unreliable animal wakes up. Then, if it’s not too late, we can
find out what he was meant to tell us. Meanwhile I know what I must do!”

The Mole went to the peg behind his front door
and took down his warmest, longest, snuggest coat, and a warm, long, snug scarf
to match, and put them on.

“Uncle.”

Then the Mole pulled on his galoshes, frowned
and took up the cudgel and slipped it through the stout belt he had buckled
round his waist to keep the coat tight against the wind.

“If you’re going out, Uncle, I —”

But the Mole was silent with determination, and
deaf to all entreaties not to go. He wrapped up what little of the bread and
butter pudding was left in some greaseproof paper and popped it in his coat
pocket. Then he took down the storm lantern that hung by the door, lit it,
closed the shutter to the tiniest crack, and checked he had all he needed.

Finally, when he was ready, he took one last
look around his comfortable, warm home, shook his head with a look of regret,
and opened the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“To Rat’s,” he said, “where else? Something’s
badly wrong and I must go and find out what it is since Portly is unable to
tell us.”

“But the weather — couldn’t you wait till the
morning?”

“Wait?
Wait?
Would Rat ‘wait till the
morning’, as you blithely put it, if
you
came tottering in and said,
‘Mole sent me’? He would not, Nephew. Would Badger? Of course not — even in the
winter when we all like to stay snug in our homes. Would Mr Toad!?”

“Well,
he
might, especially in winter’
faltered his Nephew.

“Yes, well, he might’ conceded the Mole. “On
the other hand he might not. No — if any of my friends thought I was in trouble
they would forsake all comfort and sleep and rush to my side to see what they
could do! So shall I now rush to Rat’s! And if it’s not him who’s in trouble
but Otter, then two’s better than one in an emergency!”

With that he pulled the door open, only to have
the violent wind blast it open still more, sending him reeling backwards.
Nothing daunted he drew his cudgel and cried out in a loud voice, “To Rat’s!”

With that he battled his way out into the
blizzard and the pitch-black night.

“But —” said his Nephew, staring after him with
a mixture of astonishment, awe and familial pride, “but,
Uncle!”

But his uncle, the renowned hero Mole, known up
and down the river and far beyond, had gone.

“
Cloash
the door,
thersh
a draught,” mumbled Portly from the fireside,
curling up even more irrevocably in Mole’s armchair, and beginning to snore.