The Fox in the Attic (35 page)

Hinges and latch had been recently oiled: the door swung open without the creak she expected. This second floor, she remembered, consisted of “rooms,” like the first floor: finished, and even furnished—only not used since the war so that everything here was lifeless, and shrouded moreover in dirt and dust: her sensitive fingers abhorred it.

She stood still here a moment, and listened; but there wasn't a sound. The groaning had ceased. Something told her, though, it had come from much higher than this—that terrible groaning.

As best she could Mitzi felt her way to the next flight of stairs (which she dimly remembered were brick ones) and started to mount them. These stairs were uneven and narrow: she hadn't been up here for years and no longer could picture properly what lay in front of her.

So she reached the next story, and it was from this point she reckoned that nearly the whole building lay open right up to the roof: a timber skeleton only—rooms never partitioned, floors that had mostly never been planked. But in that case, surely she ought to ... wouldn't she hear the roof-clock clearly, not muffled like this?

She should have, of course! And this muffled sound convinced her she'd made a mistake. So long was it since she'd been up here she'd counted them wrong: there must be another flight yet before one got to the attics. This was a whole story of rooms she'd somehow forgotten ... and just then she tripped over a jug.

Again Mitzi started to mount; but confused now, for having once made a mistake she could no longer imagine at all what her eyes should be seeing. Progress was nightmarishly slow although the need for haste was so desperate for she had to trust wholly to feel, and feeling explored no more than one arm's-length ahead every time.

Then her ears told her she had got there at last! The slow, clear tick of the clock ... a feeling of space all around her, the breath of a draft again Mitzi stood still and listened. Though clear and sharp it was still far above her, the
tick
...
tock
... of that clock. From far above, too, came the sizzle of water that trickled into the tank in the roof through a half-frozen ball-cock. And the squeaking of bats.

From here on, the stairs were a makeshift: little more than a ladder. She needed her hands to climb with. Then she came to what must be some sort of platform, for her shuffling foot felt an edge—with nothing below; and her fingers confirmed it.

The sound of the clock and the sizzling water were nearer now. But now there was something else too—a faint sound of movement ... quite close to her ... yes, the sound of ... Someone
was
there!

Mitzi opened her lips, and licked them, and called: “Who is it?”

No answer; and yet the faint sounds continued.

“Don't be afraid!” she called clearly: “I'm coming to help you! Where are you?”

No answer; yet still that rustle, of somebody moving. A creak—very close to her now.

The fox had been here: Mitzi smelt him. She dropped to a squatting position calling his name, and he thrust his wet nozzle into her hand with a stifled half-howl. The creature was in a queer state: she could feel it, and caught the infection. Suddenly she too was thoroughly frightened.

That faint sound
was
movement—within feet of her surely! Nearer than ticking clock or dribbling water, although so much fainter. Mitzi wanted to call out again “Who is it?” but now her voice wouldn't come.
The stairs
! Could she find her way back to the stairs if ... if she had to? But she mustn't think about stairs yet: she had come here to bring
help
.

“
Sub pennis ejus sperabis
,” Mitzi breathed: “
Non timebis a timore nocturno. A sagitta volante per diem, a negotio pera bulante in tenebris, a ruina et dæmonio meridiano
...” As that gabbled childhood spell against the dark had always done long ago, now too the sacred words began to work in her instantly. “Under His feathers thou shalt find hope,” she repeated (in German this time). “Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day ...” and now fear totally left her: and left of “her,” seemingly, nothing but a love that spread outwards like pulsing chimes from a bell.

But then in a puff of sound the distant happy voices of the children floated up to her followed by Franz's scandalized voice that admonished them. That recalled “Mitzi”: for the sound must come through a window, and this meant that now she knew where she was—somewhere close to the dormer! This platform must be the narrow planked catwalk that led to it.

On her hands and knees she crept there. The dormer was open! Something smelling of ammonia was close to her ... She craned out and called to him:

“
Franz!
—Quick,
Franz!
”

“COMING!” he shouted.

*

The children—this was what had scandalized Franz—were chasing Augustine out through the Great Gate pelting him with snow: so neither they nor Augustine heard Mitzi. But Franz heard, and flight after flight he bounded upstairs, burst into the attic, then up the ladder ... and saw them—there, by the perilous window! His sister was crouched at the low sill. Close behind her was Wolff, looming over her. Close to Mitzi—as in life he had never been close.

For this was Wolff's body, hanged from the beam. The feet were clear of the gangway—out over nothing. The body was swinging a little still, and slowly turned from the tension it put on the creaking rope.

Franz's first thoughts were none for his hideous friend but all for his sister: how could he get her away unaware of what was hanging right over her? Any moment she'd stand up and bump into it.

Franz grabbed her, but Mitzi strongly resisted: “No!” she cried. “
Idiot
. There's someone up here, I heard him! I called you ...”

She only gave in when he told her, sharply, that Wolff was beyond help.

Buckets ringing like bells on the cobbles: the early-morning caroling of boys with December voices still hoarse from the pillow, with unwashed eyes still sticky from sleep and new-donned breeches still cold to their bums! Jinglings from the saddle-room, whinnyings from the stalls: a smell of leather, metal-polish, saddle-soap, of linseed bubbling on the stove, of warm new dung being shaken, of sizzling urine ... bobbing lanterns haloed in mist, rime on the great yard pump ghostly in the gloaming—and a huge forkful of hay traveling high like a giant's head on a pike ...

Two weeks to Christmas—and the stable clock striking Six! For life began mighty early in Mellton stables under Mary's regime even if this wasn't a hunting morning (hunting had stopped even in this scrambling Mellton country because of the iron frost).

Polly in her nightgown hung out of the nightnursery window, listening to it all and trying to watch. Alas that it was all too far off to be smelt also; for in Polly's nose nothing after Gusting's smell equaled the smell of stables, not even a rabbit-hutch full of her own particular rabbits. As she leaned from the window the December air was raw and her teeth started to chatter, but Polly paid no attention: it was better to be cold than bored. Polly's purgatory was that every single day she woke soon after five; and unless Augustine was in the house, at five no one seemed to welcome a visit. But except Christmas and birthdays Polly wasn't allowed to dress till years later—not till Minta came at the dreary hour of seven. If only they'd let Polly take her rabbits to bed with her or even a kitten she'd have stopped on in bed, perhaps; but not just with teddies, for teddies smelt only of shop, she'd no use for teddies ... Oh lucky stable-boys (thought Polly) allowed to get up at half-past five every day of their lives!

Polly had told Willie-Winkie once how lucky he was; but he only made noises for answer, and the noises were rude. All the same, Wee-Willie-Winkie was her favorite (fourteen, yet almost Polly's own size). Willie smelt of gin and tobacco as well as of horses and “boy”: he was aimed for a jockey, he told her. Willie was clever too: she had seen him bridle a hunter of seventeen hands; he tempted its head down with an apple laid on the ground, and then when the horse's head went up again wee Willie went up with it.

Now the stable clock struck half-past, and Polly could stand it no longer. She would creep downstairs to see what the housemaids were up-to, enjoying their brief hour of sovereignty now while the house was exclusively theirs. As she opened the door Jimmy scuttled past down the passage, his arms full of boots and his mouth full of jokes. Then she found Gertie brushing the stairs: Polly stepped over her carefully, but Gertie tickled her legs with the long-haired banister-brush as she passed.

When Polly got to the drawing-room, Rosamond was dusting the Cupiddy ceiling with a bunch of cock's-feathers on the end of a twelve-foot cane. Polly hoped to be chased with it; but Rozzie was “busy”... The dining-room, then? But Violet was sweeping the dining-room and Violet was always a cross-patch, so Polly tiptoed away unseen. However, in the morning-room she found Mabel, lighting the fire and singing. Mabel had polished the grate till it shone, and Polly by now was shivering (she'd forgotten her slippers and dressing-gown) so sat herself down on the fender to admire it, watching the flames as they grew and warming her toes. She and Mabel were friends: Mabel let her stay on (but, “Now then, Polly Flinders!” said Mabel, and stopped her playing with coal).

When Mabel departed at last she forgot her blacklead, and Polly—deeply admiring the shine on the grate—thought suddenly how very much nicer the rocking-horse up in the nursery would look ... so annexed the saucer of wet blacklead and the brushes and (remembering Gertie to pass) secreted them under her nightgown. But they were awkward to carry that way, and she dropped them twice before she successfully got to her room. Just as she got there moreover the clock chimed the three-quarters: Minta might come any minute, so prudently Polly hid her spoils in her bed and climbed in on top of them. Thus at Seven, when Minta did come at last, against all precedent Polly was fast asleep.

At Eight, kitchen-breakfast was over and Lily—you remember young Lily—was out in the scullery washing it up. For Lily this was a fine coign of vantage for saucing the postman (a light-weight boxer of note); for at Eight the post was delivered. The mail for the Chase arrived grandly, in their own private leather dispatch-box with the Wadamy crest: Mr. Wantage it was who unlocked it and gave out the post, and as usual he made this a solemn occasion. The Master's and Mistress's letters he would sort and set out with his own hands by their places at breakfast, with the “halfpennies” underneath the real letters (today the Mistress had one with a foreign stamp: he would put this on top). Any letters for Kitchens he gave to Cook to distribute. Today there was one for Mrs. Winter: that went to the Room. There was a letter today too for Nanny Halloran; and this he entrusted to Minta.

Minta took Nanny's letter up with the Nursery breakfast, and as soon as Nanny had drawn an elegant “P” in golden syrup on Polly's plateful of Force she opened it. The letter came from Minta's forerunner, Brenda (an orphan, Brenda was devoted to Mrs. Halloran and still looked to her for advice when she needed it).

Brenda had gone temporary now to Lady Sylvia to help “Mumselle” with little Lady Jane; and the letter was dated from a village near Torquay, for in spite of the season Her Ladyship had packed Janey off into lodgings—as far from Eaton Square as she could. Now, Brenda wanted advice about giving her notice. “Tchk, Tchk,” said Nanny, pursing her lips as she read it and absently cooling her tea in the saucer: for Janey (it said) the very first day there had locked Mumselle in her bedroom and gone off ferreting with some village boys. She enjoyed this so much that next day she and the boy at the lodgings decided to go on their own; but, not having a ferret, took the cat with them instead. However, it seems that when the boy pushed his cat down a rabbit-hole the cat had objected. It tried to get out, and so Janey sat on the hole. Thus began a battle of wills; for the half-suffocated cat was desperate and yet under the boy's eyes Janey just
couldn't
give in. It bit and it scratched, but she sat and she sat. In the end, she “come home with her knicks all blood and fair tore to rovings”—and also minus the cat.

“Tchk, Tchk,” said Nanny, passing the letter to Minta. Then she added: “Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!” and sighed at the prospect. “When that one was old enough,” Nanny went on, “
I
'd send her into the Navy—if she wasn't a girl.”

“If she was a boy, you mean,” put in Polly.

“That's what I said: ‘
if
she wasn't a girl.'”

“But she might be a dog,” said Polly, her eyes shining with logic: “Not everyone's boys or girls.”

“Eat up your Force, dear,” said Nanny.

*

Mrs. Winter's letter was propped beside Mrs. Winter's breakfast egg in its green crochet-work cozy, and the postmark was “Flemton” (“Proper mad-house!” Mrs. Winter muttered: “Ought to be certified the whole lot of them.”). The letter of course came from Nellie's mother-in-law; and it was certainly short. The old lady was well but wanted a catapult and hoped dear Maggie would send one.

When Gwilym's mother first had that seizure at the mortuary she was taken to the Penrys Cross infirmary, but when she was better they had wanted to send her home. Where should they send her however? She was a bit “funny” after her illness: she certainly mustn't live alone any more. Could she come to her son at the “Hermitage”?

She'd have to sleep in the kitchen of course, and if she was bedridden ... but still, if they had to ... Nellie herself was prepared. All this ought to have worried Gwilym, no doubt; but nowadays Gwilym seemed to have lost the power of worrying just as he had lost the power of using his legs. It certainly worried Nellie! But what could be done? Maggie was adamant the old lady mustn't come to the “Hermitage”; but Nellie couldn't even get away to go down there and see to things (nor could she have borne to go there). So, in the end, Maggie it was who went.