The Amazing Adventures of Freddie Whitemouse (4 page)

Mrs Whitemouse looked over the brim of the Hat, shrugged and said, ‘Anything to keep them quiet, but none of that tiger nonsense – it’s time you stopped showing off.’
This made Freddie feel that his mother did not love him, and he felt very sad.

However, he did his best. Instead of saying he was the tiger he simply said, ‘Once there was a tiger . . .’

But it was no good. The story sounded somehow dull – he could see they didn’t believe in it. ‘But you were the tiger, weren’t you, Freddie? It all happened to you,
didn’t it?’

And one very small sister called Violet said, ‘What happened is that you got magicked into a tiger – that’s what.’ And there was a chorus of agreement.

Freddie stared in amazement, but before he could say anything, one of the older boys said, ‘Don’t be silly, Violet. What do you know about magic anyway?’

‘Someone called Alberto told me. He did tricks with bird seed: they were conjuring tricks, so I do know.’

‘And who is this wonderful Alberto?’

‘He lives in apartment No. 72 East. I see him sometimes.’ Freddie noticed that her pale pink nose had suddenly become much pinker. ‘Tell us about the wicked snake, Freddie. Did
it try to bite you to death?’

‘Don’t be silly, Violet. A snake couldn’t kill a tiger.’

‘Oh, do shut up, Eustace. Let Uncle Freddie get on with the story.’ And Violet insisted, ‘And you are the tiger, Freddie. I just know you are.’ Her bright beseeching eyes
were too much for him. He would go back to being the tiger, which, after all, was true. But when it came to the snake part of his tale, he did not want to tell of his uncourageous retreat, and so
he made it a braver story. ‘It came nearer and nearer, rearing up and making its black head wide – like a great hood – and hissing horribly. But I stood my ground. I said,
“If you come any nearer, I will smite you with my mighty paw, and you will be dead and your eggs will have nobody to look after them when your children come out of them.” And the snake
went back into the cave to her eggs.’

‘And then what?’

‘I left her. In peace.’

‘Did each of the eggs have a wicked snake inside?’

‘Of course.’

‘Didn’t you wait to see them all come out?’

‘I had more important things to do.’

‘Oh, Freddie, you are so brave!’

There was a chorus of agreement.

Freddie’s mother interrupted. ‘Time for your suppers and bed.’ To Freddie, she said, ‘Well, at least you kept them quiet with your nonsense.’

A moment later she added, ‘It’s dark enough now; you’d better join your cousins foraging – do something useful for a change.’

Freddie simply could not understand why she was being so horrible to him. He looked around the dim den, crowded as usual and enlivened with the sound of twenty mice chewing apple peel, and made
off down the main mouse-made passage that ended in the kitchen of one of the apartments in the building. The people who lived in the ground-floor flat were not at all tidy and did not do very much
cleaning. This was an ideal situation for Freddie’s family. Things got dropped on the floor, left on the table, kept in flimsy paper bags that were easy to chew through. Plates were seldom
washed up, and often contained delicious snacks like scrambled egg, bacon rind, sometimes even bits of toast with melted cheese on them. Cornflakes and crumbs were all over the place. The only
danger was that the people who lived there often turned up to make themselves something to eat. Then the foragers had to hide and keep very quiet until the person or people had gone. Luckily the
people hated cats, and the horrible cat from next door had stopped trying to get in after he had been drenched by a boy with a water pistol. Freddie’s Uncle Herbert, who had seen this, said
he laughed so much that even his whiskers ached, and he told the story so often that the family got bored of it.
And they’ll get bored of my stories as well
, he thought. It was the
custom for the foragers to eat on the spot before they carted stuff home for the others. Freddie wasn’t very hungry after his huge morning meal, but he nibbled on some cake crumbs while he
watched his cousin Horatio, a rather bossy athletic mouse who had managed to get onto the kitchen table, where he had found a half-eaten packet of crisps and a saucer with some peanuts. These he
was pushing one by one over the edge of the table, ordering each of the others to take one of them home. Some of the peanuts had split and this made them easy to carry by mouth, but the whole ones
were too big and had to be rolled along the floor. Freddie noticed a rather shy mouse trying to take a whole nut in her mouth. Horatio was shouting at her. She was shaking with fright and then
suddenly the nut split in two. ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ Horatio roared. She burst into tears.

Freddie flew to her aid. ‘Shut up, you bully!’ he squeaked with rage. ‘Nuts do split. It wasn’t your fault,’ he said to the poor mouse. ‘Please cheer
up.’ He really couldn’t bear to see her crying. He offered his tail to mop her tears and she accepted; he noticed that the round tops of her ears and her nose had gone a much darker
pink.

‘We could each take half the nut,’ he said, and she nodded gratefully.

They left the kitchen with Horatio still shouting orders at the last few unfortunate mice in the foraging party.

The tunnel back to Freddie’s home was too narrow for two mice so they had to go in single file. Freddie led the way.

‘Why, if it isn’t Lavinia!’ exclaimed his mother when they emerged in the den. ‘How are you, my dear? And how is your dear aunt?’

His mother was sorting out the booty brought back by the foragers, while the little mice crouched in a ring around her waiting for their supper.

‘She hasn’t been very well, Mrs Whitemouse, so she sent me to get some supper. Freddie has been helping me. He saved me from Horatio.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. That mouse will come to no good – frightening all the young ones out of their wits. Stay and have your supper with us, and I’ll find something nice
for you to take home to your aunt and then Freddie will see you safely home.’

So that is what happened. Lavinia led the way, and Freddie, armed with a delicious potato crisp, followed. When they reached the passage to Lavinia’s home (which turned out to be No. 16,
Skirting Board East), she turned to Freddie and said, ‘I can manage perfectly well from here. Thank you so much for everything.’

‘Wouldn’t you like me to take the supper into your home for you?’

Lavinia looked suddenly frightened. ‘Oh no. You see, my aunt wouldn’t like it. She might think you were . . .’ She stopped, her nose and her ears blushing again. ‘She
doesn’t like me bringing friends home. Not like your mother at all. She is so kind to everyone, isn’t she?

‘But thank you,’ she called as she disappeared down the passageway.

Kind to everyone except me
, Freddie thought dismally as he ran home.

But when he got back, his mother seemed in a good mood. The tiny mice were huddled together asleep in the Hat, and the slightly older mice were lying in neat rows; Mrs Whitemouse had counted
them to make sure they were all there, and they were. There was just space beside the Hat for her and Freddie.

‘Lavinia is a very nice, well-behaved mouse.’ She was whispering. ‘And ever since her aunt had that nasty accident, she has had to look after her.’

‘What nasty accident?’

‘She was caught by that horrible cat, who kept letting her go and then catching her again. One of her legs got broken. The dog chased the cat away, and Lavinia’s poor aunt crawled
home. But she hasn’t been in her right mind since. She won’t ever go out, and she won’t see any of us – only Lavinia.’ There was a pause, and then she added
(mysteriously to Freddie), ‘You could do a lot worse.’ She gave him an affectionate nudge with her nose and fell instantly asleep.

He spent some time wondering what she meant, but was mainly just glad that she was being friendly again.

He never knew afterwards whether he had had a dream about it, or whether it was some flash of inspiration, but he woke up the next day quite certain that he would go to the
sorcerer and ask to be a dog. Possibly it was his mother’s story about the dog saving Lavinia’s aunt from the cat; certainly his time in the dog-food tin had something to do with it.
Dogs did not have to hunt and struggle for food. They got fed from special bowls every day. They got taken about in cars, went for walks, even had games with balls and suchlike. They got stroked a
lot, and their owners kept telling them how good and beautiful they were. Put like that, it seemed a pretty good life.

They spent hours asleep in special beds their owners got for them. A dog’s life was the thing.

This idea became clearer and more urgent throughout the following day (his last before meeting the sorcerer). He spent it slaving away at enlarging the Whitemouse home – which meant
chewing away at floors and skirting boards and trying to get the younger mice to cart the chewed bits outside. It was a crowded, noisy and exhausting day, at the end of which he was expected to go
foraging again. He went to see if the bit of ham sandwich was still by the dustbins, but it wasn’t. On top of all this labour the younger mice were clamouring for a story while they had their
supper. By then he was so worn out that he simply wanted a bit of peace and quiet. When he said he’d told them all his stories they simply said, ‘Tell us again. Tell us about the
jaguars; tell us about the elephants – no, tell us about the snake.’ The snake was their favourite. Mrs Whitemouse shrugged and said on his own shoulders be it, which he didn’t
understand at all, but felt that in some way she was blaming him. He told the story, noticing that the cobra, from being about five feet long two days ago, was now nearer fifteen. It didn’t
matter; they squeaked with joyful terror, which was what they wanted.

Being a hero was actually rather tiring, he thought, as he settled down for the night – his last, possibly, as a mouse. He quenched the tremor of fear at this thought; he must be trembling
with excitement – he was well known for his courage so naturally he was not in the least afraid.

‘
A
nd what may I do for you this morning?’

The sorcerer had ingeniously placed himself against a corner of the water tank in the greenhouse where at odd intervals a tap dripped one huge, reluctant drop onto the top of his head. Then he
would look up and the drop would dribble slowly down his back to add to the shallow puddle in which he crouched. He had breakfasted off twenty-eight mosquitoes, and was in a contented frame of
mind.

‘I’ve decided that I want to be a dog.’

‘What kind of dog?’

‘Er – a large dog.’ After a pause during which the toad eyed him unblinkingly, he added, ‘And beautiful – by dog standards, that is. So that everyone will love
me.’

‘You’ve considered the drawbacks, of course.’

‘Not really, because I don’t know what they are. But I’ve thought a lot about the advantages – the good side.’

‘And what do you consider them to be?’

‘Well, dogs don’t have to hunt for food . . .’ He listed all the advantages that had occurred to him when he’d first had the idea, ending with being loved by
everyone.

The toad listened. It was impossible to tell from his expression what he was thinking. Then he said, ‘Of course I can turn you into a dog – even a specific breed of dog – but
after that the life you lead will be entirely a matter of chance; it’s nothing to do with me. Nor,’ he added ominously, ‘might it have very much, if anything, to do with
you.’

There was a silence during which Freddie heard a monstrous drop of water plop onto the toad’s head. He felt confused. What did the toad mean – things not having very much, if
anything, to do with him?

While he was puzzling about that, the toad interrupted: ‘Before we go any further, I have two statements to make.’ He cleared his throat in a rich, croaky manner. ‘One: this is
the last time I’m prepared to do any sorcery for you. Officially I retired last year. It was merely because I hadn’t switched off my magic properly that I heard from you –
messages occasionally still got through. Also, I have to admit that I was a trifle bored. People usually wish to be more of whatever they are in the first place, and your desire to be someone
completely different intrigued me. So – you have just one more chance. Two: the same rules apply as they did when you became a tiger. You will have precisely one week as whoever you choose to
be. You then come back to me and decide whether you wish to remain a dog or whatever animal or go back to being a mouse. And that will be all. Is that clear?’

Freddie nodded. He was feeling more and more nervous and could not prevent his nose from twitching quite violently.

‘Could you choose the kind of dog for me? I’m afraid I don’t know any of their names.’

The sorcerer looked at him consideringly. ‘Let me see: large, beautiful and everyone loving you – poodles, red setters, Afghans . . . Ah! I’ve got it! A lurcher! That’s
the best one for you. But before we agree on that, I feel I should warn you that this time you will not remember anything at all about being a mouse. You will be entirely a dog, and nothing but a
dog. Understood?’