The Willows in Winter (25 page)

In this moment of weakness Toad saw the
advantages of his plan in a rosy light. For one thing there was the hot meal
that was undoubtedly his for the asking, for he could smell it, and see and
hear something like a thick stew with dumplings simmering away upon the range.
For another, drink was certainly to hand as well, for there hanging above the hob,
ready and willing, was a large pewter tankard all ready to be filled with beer
or cider or some other rustic brew.

But the temptations were not purely gluttonous.
There was a large and comfortable armchair in full view of where Toad stood,
upon which, had he had the chance to examine it more closely, he would not have
been surprised if in such a warmly domestic establishment as this, there might
have been a plaque upon which was inscribed, “Pa’s Own”.

Lastly, and in some ways the most tempting of
all, was a little door that stood ajar and through which Toad could see a
simple staircase leading to the rooms above, in one of which, he had no doubt
at all, was a large, comfortable, soft bed awaiting his hard-used body.

These, then, were mighty temptations, but Toad
was not so far gone as to yield to them without some vestigial thought of the
consequences, nor to delay matters for a few moments by saying, in what he
imagined was a rude and rustic way, “
An’t
yer
going to ask me what I bin
delallied
fer
?”

Out of what repository of his former lives
these extraordinary words and sounds came from Toad dreaded to think, but out
they came, and they served.

“Bless you,
Duckie
,
but
yer
not even out the cold yet.”

“It’s that bone-shaker of a bicycle’ said Toad,
procrastinating.

“Felled off again?”  
said
Toad.

“Now I looks at
yer
face, I can see
it’s
swolled
.”

“
Swolled
bad’ said
Toad.

Those temptations which had loomed so large a
moment before now rapidly receded before the dreadful dangers that began to
loom in their place.

These were, first of all, the quintet of
youths, his sons and heirs it seemed, all scruffy, all sooty, all about to
launch themselves upon his person.

“Beware!” a warning voice in Toad cried out.

Then there was the galvanised bath tub he had
spied, already steaming, and surrounded by any number of bars of carbolic soap,
flannels, towels, brushes, and even —and this surprised Toad in so humble a
home — a long and scratchy-looking
loofah
.

“Take heed!” cried that voice once more.

But lastly, worst of all, worse in many ways
than a pack of slavering hounds, was the sweep’s eager, potent, gargantuan
wife. If she who seemed to love her partner so well knew him so ill that she
could mistake him for Toad, to what bounds beyond dreadful imagining might such
a woman’s passions lead when — there was no “if” about it, not with the bathtub
at the ready — she realized that what she had within her grasp was not her
husband, but someone
new?

“Escape this fate while you can,” Toad’s inner
voice wisely commanded.

With a wild and dramatic gesture Toad cried,
“Came
ter
say I got
ter
work late tonight, my love! Be back afore the dawn!” and without more ado he
turned, and ran out into the wintry night, never looking back, despite the
heart-rending calls and cries of “Pa! Pa! O Pa!”

But finally these grew faint, as did the
glimmering and once welcome light, and for the first time in his life Toad came
to see how it could be that the shelter of a hedgerow might be as good and safe
a place as any to spend the night.

Of the days that followed, which were some of the darkest and the
bitterest of Toad’s eventful life, even he rarely spoke. Whatever he might like
to think he was, whatever he might once have known himself to be, the fact was
that through those wandering winter days Toad was no more than a common tramp.

His disguise seemed to serve him well enough,
but if he fancied himself a Tradesman Chimney Sweep, trained, skilled, and
experienced, the world saw him as one who had fallen on hard times, and could
no longer find employment.

He found charity enough along the way, and when
the weather worsened and the hedge was too cold a shelter, kindly folk would
let him sleep in their barn, if they had one, or the pig sty, if it was not
already occupied. As for food, well, a bowl of gruel and dry bread was enough
to keep him going, and he accepted it with a word of thanks, and a humble
doffing of his cap. If words of complaint came to his mouth, or a sense of
misery and despair, he had only to remember that pack of hounds, or ponder for
a moment the chimney sweep’s wife’s unwelcome embrace and where it might have
led him to, to know that he was lucky to be alive, free, and unencumbered.

Winter, he told himself, would not last forever,
and anyway, if only he could get his bearings he might find his way back to the
river, and thence to Toad Hall and all the home comforts that awaited him
there.

It may seem strange that he found getting home
so difficult, but his flying machine had taken him to pastures strange and new,
far
afield
from anywhere he had ever been before, and
nothing seemed quite the same on this far side of the Town to which his destiny
had brought him. In any case, and this was perhaps rather more to the point, he
had a certain reluctance to return to Toad Hall, for that would mean he must
face something as unpalatable as those many trials and dangers from which he
had only barely escaped. For the Badger and the Rat and the Mole would be
awaiting him, always assuming, of course, that the last two were still alive.

How could he
ever
face them? Mole, whom
he had deserted in his hour of need! Rat, whom he had to all intents and
purposes hurled from his flying machine! And Badger, who had trusted him but
whom he had fooled so easily, and left locked up in his smoking room (where,
for all Toad knew, he might still be).

So Toad’s wanderings, avoiding the Town as he
now had to, and the river out of cowardice, were roundabout and aimless.
Perhaps he hoped that when spring came he might be allowed to turn over a new
leaf, which done, he might slip quietly back into his own domain, reoccupy Toad
Hall, and live a modest, charitable life from which all thought of machines and
escapades would (this time) be permanently banished.

These cheerless ruminations preoccupied Toad
during those lost and wretched days when the world, which owed him nothing,
gave him rather more charity than he deserved. Perhaps such thoughts sustained
Toad then, and kept him moving on, hopeful in some way of eventual rather than
immediate change.

The weather improved, and though it was not
true that spring was in the air, at least winter seemed a little more out of it
than before. Here and there a snowdrop showed; and sometimes when he woke and
found himself lying on the dank and chilly ground, the bright yellow petals of
winter aconite had burst forth with the dawn to cheer him on his way.

It was on such a morning, with the sun shining
brighter than had been its wont, that Toad saw that he was approaching a
village. He saw its church tower from afar, and was passed more than once along
the way by carriages
both horseless
and horse-drawn,
filled with people dressed in what seemed their Sunday best, though it was not
Sunday.

“They can’t be going to pray,” thought Toad, “
for
they’re all too merry for that. There must be a wedding
on. Here, surely, I may find sympathetic folk who in the happiness of the
moment will give a poor Toad — I mean, a poor chimney sweep — a shilling or
two, or perhaps something more. Ah, what would I do to have enough to stay a
night in some friendly
hostelry!
”

Thus Toad spun simple hopes and pleasures as he
went along, waving almost cheerfully to the wedding guests as they passed him
by upon the road.

“This is certainly a big wedding,” thought Toad
as he came nearer, and his eyes grew a little
more keen
.
For a sizeable occasion might swell that shilling to a form, or even a half
guinea!

The nearer he got, the greater and more
impressive the assembly about the little church seemed to be, what with carriages
great and small, two or three automobiles of the most modern sort, all colour,
brass and wheels.

There were crowds of guests, the men in formal
morning wear, the women in their finest finery, and yet bigger crowds of
onlookers, some almost as finely dressed as the guests, others of the lower and
common orders and even more rudely dressed than Toad.

By the time he reached the church’s ancient
lych
gate and stopped to stare, it seemed that the guests
had all arrived and had gone into the church and out of sight. The groom had
long disappeared into the interior and though Toad made efforts to find out who
the lucky pair might be, no one was much interested in talking to him, for they
were all eagerly waiting for the bride to arrive.

This she soon did, and prettily too, for it
seemed she lived in the regency manor right opposite the church and from there
she was now processed by her father, a tall white-haired gentleman who walked
as proudly as if he were about to marry her himself.

Well might he be proud, for if a couple were
going to get married on a winter’s day, they could not have hoped for better:
bright sunshine in a clear blue sky, a churchyard filled with daffodils
jewelled with dew, and those same snowdrops and aconites that Toad had seen
beginning to appear in days past, now in full bloom, all busy and eager about
the verges and stone walls of village, house and church.

Toad should not be blamed if, in the excitement
of these charming moments, he failed to notice some last-minute arrivals. There
were, for example, a brace of Bishops, all purple and black and with silvery
white hair. Along with these, and a fine complement to them, were a quartet of
footmen of the tallest, most aquiline and most senior sort. The
kind indeed that one might think would only deign to accept service
in, at the very least, a Lord’s employ.

Yet Toad did get an inkling of the danger he
was in, for following this holy twain and haughty four there slipped out of a
black shiny vehicle — discreetly tucked away down a nearby lane — no less than
an octet of men in blue: the police! Into the church they plodded, senior
officers all, their uniforms giving off that sudden flash of iridescent colour
such as an idle occupier of a riverboat might briefly catch a glimpse of when
a kingfisher flashes by.

This glimpse Toad caught, and though he did not
realise its import at the time, it left him feeling vaguely uneasy, as if he
knew something was not quite right but could not work out what.

He shook his head, he frowned, he shivered
slightly, and then he overrode his instinct (which was to flee, and flee fast)
and fought the pressing crowds to keep his vantage point by the church gate
from which to enjoy the wedding scene.

The bride and her father crossed the village
green to cries of “Good luck!” and “Bless ‘er!” and in they went. By order of
the manor a hot toddy and mince pies were handed out to the assembled throng as
they waited outside during the wedding service, gossiping and chattering
cheerfully till, guessing that the service was nearly done, they began to fall
silent in expectation of hearing the wedding march from the organ inside and
seeing the church door thrust open, and the happy couple emerge.

Toad was carried away by the spirit of it all,
and made light-headed by the availability of free food and easy drink, so that
he pushed himself forward with the best and worst of them, raised his brushes
in the air, and joined in a song or two.

Having missed the warning signs of the arrival
of Bishops and footmen, and failed to respond to the dangers implicit in a
police presence, Toad might still have realised his mortal danger when one of
the crowd said to him, “Here officially are you?”

“Me?” said Toad, not understanding at all.

“On duty, like?”

The fellow grinned and laughed and Toad thought
it best to laugh back. If only he had understood!

“‘Ere comes the bride!” the shout went up, for
the church doors were being flung open, and the vigorous strains of the wedding
march came out into the wintry morning.

At first all was well, for what harm can there
be in a happy bride and her new-made groom? What possible threat from proud
parents? What danger in aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, friends and
—”Bishops?” whispered Toad to himself, alarm bells ringing as yet only
distantly in his mind as the brace of Bishops he had not seen earlier emerged,
followed by one whose purple was even
purpler
, and
whose embroidered chest supported a cross that was ominously larger than all
the others, and whose shepherd’s crook positively glittered with High
Holiness.

Toad gulped and his eyes grew a little wider as
he stared upon the face of this ethereal person, for he knew him, and his visage
struck sudden terror into Toad’s heart. For My Lord Bishop was the same one
whom Toad had seen from on high, unwillingly perched as he himself had then
been in a hothouse roof.