winter, eating our lunch, I explained about the Resident. Morris listened till I’d finished. Nodding along with what I had to say. It was about week three of my new peace of mind and I was feeling very pleased with myself. Telling Morris was, in a way, a boast as much as anything. Like indicating that if he and his wife had been on to this, they wouldn’t have had to move out, but could have gone on enjoying the luxury of their bridal bed. If that’s what it is.
Morris didn’t say anything. I suppose he’d noticed that I hadn’t been carrying out any rats for a few weeks. And when I’d finished he lovingly sliced a segment from his portion of back fat, white, almost luminous stuff, turning it between his greasy thumb and forefinger, examining it with the eye of a specialist, before putting it in his mouth and chewing. His pocket knife poised over the remaining chunk.
When he’d swallowed the fat and washed it down with a mouthful of cold tea, Morris said, casual and interested, ‘What will you do if the Resident gets a companion?’
It took a while. But there they were tonight. And squatting outside the limits of the chest of drawers! I was shocked. I felt betrayed.
‘So this is the thanks I get is it?’ Crazy! Fancy expecting gratitude from a rat! I’m out of practice and they dodged around. It was messy. But there was nothing else for it. I couldn’t have them setting up a new colony right here in my room!
Anyway, they’re both out there on the dung-heap in the rain now.
Maybe Morris will help me to find a permanent solution. Then again, maybe there’s really no such thing as a rat-proof house. Things aren’t going to be the same in here . . . And there he goes now, laughing with her in there, then cough-cough-cough! The storm’s letting up. Blowing itself out at last. It’s late and my candle’s burnt down almost to the tin, the flame wobbling madly, rearing up wide and yellow then almost snuffing itself, filling the air with the smell of candle grease and reminding me of the shelter and the air raids. All that old stuff coming up.
The hole’s still there. I haven’t tried to block it. It’s silent too. I wonder what’ll happen now? Just keep up the war I suppose. The rats won’t stop. They’re congenital colonists. That’s biology.
I’d better get some sleep. I have to be up and out of here before Morris in the morning. I put a set of new shoes on Kabara and Finisher, the gelding, in preparation for today. The Tiger’ll want them saddled and waiting by daylight at the latest. It’s a long ride to Winsford from here.
The scent will be deadly after this storm!
Morris and his wife aren’t awake when I slip the latch on the back door and step out into the darkness. The moon is still bright enough over the oaks in Will’s wood to cast their shadows across the close-cropped turf of Old Ley. Everything’s sodden from the storm and the air is cold and still. I stand on the crest of the ridge and look down into the valley without a name that locals call the Black Valley, and I can see across a vast sweep of sleeping countryside all the way to the silvered waters of Bridgwater Bay and the outlet of the Doniford Stream. Everything is cool and clean! I can taste the air on my palate! There’s the sound of water trickling out of a pipe under the hedge next to me. I have to go. As I turn I startle a blackbird from its roost and it flies out, flat and fast across the field.
From fifty yards away the farm could be abandoned. Dead. Deserted. A settlement left over from another era. The big dark shadows of the cattle shed, the barn, the stable and the house all joined together, their windows and doors facing inward to the yard. Blank walls to the world. Compact against storms and trouble, and against anything else that might come along. Expecting the worst. Their weathered grey featureless stone walls and their grey slate roofs not interested in anything outside. They don’t want to know about
Morris didn’t say anything. I suppose he’d noticed that I hadn’t been carrying out any rats for a few weeks. And when I’d finished he lovingly sliced a segment from his portion of back fat, white, almost luminous stuff, turning it between his greasy thumb and forefinger, examining it with the eye of a specialist, before putting it in his mouth and chewing. His pocket knife poised over the remaining chunk.
When he’d swallowed the fat and washed it down with a mouthful of cold tea, Morris said, casual and interested, ‘What will you do if the Resident gets a companion?’
It took a while. But there they were tonight. And squatting outside the limits of the chest of drawers! I was shocked. I felt betrayed.
‘So this is the thanks I get is it?’ Crazy! Fancy expecting gratitude from a rat! I’m out of practice and they dodged around. It was messy. But there was nothing else for it. I couldn’t have them setting up a new colony right here in my room!
Anyway, they’re both out there on the dung-heap in the rain now.
Maybe Morris will help me to find a permanent solution. Then again, maybe there’s really no such thing as a rat-proof house. Things aren’t going to be the same in here . . . And there he goes now, laughing with her in there, then cough-cough-cough! The storm’s letting up. Blowing itself out at last. It’s late and my candle’s burnt down almost to the tin, the flame wobbling madly, rearing up wide and yellow then almost snuffing itself, filling the air with the smell of candle grease and reminding me of the shelter and the air raids. All that old stuff coming up.
The hole’s still there. I haven’t tried to block it. It’s silent too. I wonder what’ll happen now? Just keep up the war I suppose. The rats won’t stop. They’re congenital colonists. That’s biology.
I’d better get some sleep. I have to be up and out of here before Morris in the morning. I put a set of new shoes on Kabara and Finisher, the gelding, in preparation for today. The Tiger’ll want them saddled and waiting by daylight at the latest. It’s a long ride to Winsford from here.
The scent will be deadly after this storm!
Morris and his wife aren’t awake when I slip the latch on the back door and step out into the darkness. The moon is still bright enough over the oaks in Will’s wood to cast their shadows across the close-cropped turf of Old Ley. Everything’s sodden from the storm and the air is cold and still. I stand on the crest of the ridge and look down into the valley without a name that locals call the Black Valley, and I can see across a vast sweep of sleeping countryside all the way to the silvered waters of Bridgwater Bay and the outlet of the Doniford Stream. Everything is cool and clean! I can taste the air on my palate! There’s the sound of water trickling out of a pipe under the hedge next to me. I have to go. As I turn I startle a blackbird from its roost and it flies out, flat and fast across the field.
From fifty yards away the farm could be abandoned. Dead. Deserted. A settlement left over from another era. The big dark shadows of the cattle shed, the barn, the stable and the house all joined together, their windows and doors facing inward to the yard. Blank walls to the world. Compact against storms and trouble, and against anything else that might come along. Expecting the worst. Their weathered grey featureless stone walls and their grey slate roofs not interested in anything outside. They don’t want to know about
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