The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood (16 page)

“Oh, dear,”
murmured Ridley, and sat down on his bed with a shoe in each hand. He did not, after all, think a polish was required today. He bent over to put them on, with difficulty, for he had grown very stout.

“Six rats were cornered in the corn bin, Ridley! It was a massacre.”
Rosabelle dropped her broom and used the tip of her long white tail to wipe her eyes.
“The killers were two yellow cats—mercenaries, disgraceful-looking creatures, with torn ears and scruffy fur. They killed all six, every one, and then they cut off the tails and nailed them to the barn door! Oh, horrible, horrible!”

Ridley straightened up.
“Quite,”
he agreed, pleasurably imagining the six rat tails nailed to the barn door. The cats did not sound like village cats. They must have come in response to his advertisement.
“And which rats were these?”
he asked hopefully.

“What would you have me do, Rosabelle?”
Ridley asked, managing not to smile.
“To be quite blunt about it, there are far too many rats in this attic, and most of them are rats of the worse sort. The loss of a few—or a many—is hardly to be mourned.”
He rose and went to brush his whiskers, admiring his reflection in the scrap of a mirror that hung over his bureau.

“But they are our guests, Ridley!”
Rosabelle protested, with a despairing wail.
“Like them or not, surely you can’t stand idly by and see them massacred! Why, when word of this gets out, Hill
Top’s reputation for hospitality will be ruined! I shall never be able to hold up my head in rat society again!”

“I think, Rosabelle,”
Ridley said severely,
“that you had far better worry about Hill Top’s reputation as a place of comfort and high moral tone. Have you visited the east end of the attic lately? Why, it is nothing but a den of corruption! A cesspool of licentious-ness and depravity! Gambling, dancing, billiards, bawdy song, and beer—all out in plain sight for the youngsters to see and emulate. And all on account of your sister’s husband, who was the first to invite these ruffians and rowdies into our quiet attic.”

“You leave Bluebell out of this,”
Rosabelle said, stamping her foot angrily.
“It’s not her fault. You are the one to blame, Ridley. You should have stopped Rollo from inviting all those horrid creatures. You should be doing something now!”

“As to that,”
Ridley replied loftily,
“I am doing something. I am doing something right this very minute.”
He took his pocket watch from the bowl on top of the bureau, wound it, held it to his ear to make sure it was ticking, and put it into his watch pocket.
“I am advertising.”

Rosabelle stared at him, uncomprehending.
“You are . . . advertising?”

“Exactly.”
Ridley looped his watch fob across his waistcoat.
“I have posted several advertisements on the east side of the lake. For cats.”

“For CATS!”
Rosabelle shrilled hysterically.
“Ridley Rattail, have you lost your mind? Oh, I cannot believe it. I simply cannot believe it. What were you THINKING?”
And with that, she grabbed her ears and began running in mad circles, shrieking.

Ridley, who fancied himself a reasonable man and a philosopher, ignored her histrionics.
“I have advertised for cats to rid us of these rats,”
he said calmly.
“What’s more, I imagine that the cats who killed the rats in the corn bin came to Hill Top in
response to my advertisement. If that is the case, I am glad to take the credit.”

“But what’s to keep the cats from killing US?”
Rosabelle cried.
“You and me, Ridley. And my sister and her children? Her four little innocent children. Have you thought of that, Ridley? Have you thought of THAT?”

“Of course I have,”
Ridley said in a reassuring tone.
“I have thought it all out, every step of the way. I shall simply explain that you and I are the original occupants of this attic, and that we—and our personally invited guests, Bluebell and her children—are to be let strictly alone.”

“Oh, you shall, shall you?”
Rosabelle replied with a mocking scorn.
“And whatever makes you think they will listen? Ridley, you are a fool. A half-wit, a dunce, a dolt, a NINCOMPOOP.”
The more names she thought of to call him, the angrier she became.
“An imbecile, a simpleton, an IGNORAMUS!”
By the time she reached this point in her tirade, she had worked herself into such a remarkable passion that she began to beat poor Ridley about the head with her broom and dustpan.
“A dimwit, a BLOCKHEAD, a BOOBY!”

Ridley put up his arms to fend off her blows, but she managed to land one so squarely on his nose that he saw stars and was required to sit down on the floor. He was trying to find the words to tell her that she was being appallingly unkind and ungenerous, when she suddenly uttered the most unkind, most ungenerous words she could have said.

Ridley stared at her, uncomprehending.
“Packed? Out? You can’t be serious, Rosabelle!”

“Oh, can’t I?”
Rosabelle asked in a steely voice, narrowing her eyes to ratty slits.
“I have reached the end of my patience. Ridley, you are evicted.”

Ridley’s heart plummeted down to his toes.
“Evicted! But I have nowhere to go!”

“That is really too bad,”
Rosabelle replied unfeelingly.
“But it makes no difference to me. You are a comfortable fellow in many respects, Ridley, but you have lately become so surly and selfish that no one can bear to be around you. I have defended you to the others over and over, but now I have reached the end of my rope. Advertising for cats is the last straw, the very last. I shall thank you to leave. Within the hour, do you hear?”

And with that, she aimed one more thwack with her broom at Ridley and marched out, slamming the door so hard that the picture of Ridley’s mother fell off the wall and smashed onto the floor with the sound of breaking glass.

For a long time, Ridley sat staring blankly into space, his brain in a fog, his thoughts in a complete muddle. And then, as he gradually began to comprehend the awfulness of his situation—no more warm, cozy bed, no comfortable apartment nor cheering meals, no companionable conversations with Rosabelle—he began to feel very sorry for himself. Rosabelle had no idea how hard he had worked to rid the attic of their unruly guests. She didn’t appreciate—but how could she? for she was merely a female—how extraordinarily difficult it was to be a male rat. She didn’t comprehend the burdens he had borne on her behalf, the terrible travail, the enormous effort.

And then, thinking how put-upon he was, and how little appreciated and loved—he, the most mannerly and affable and wittiest of rats—Ridley began to sniffle, and then to whimper and sob, until finally he fell prostrate on the floor and wept for a long time.

But at last he stood, wiped his eyes, and took out his watch. Within the hour, Rosabelle had said, and Ridley was nothing if not punctual. Sadly, his shoulders bowed and his head bent, he shuffled to the closet, hauled out a portmanteau, and began to empty his bureau drawers of their contents. When he had done, he picked up the picture of his mother, brushed off the broken glass, and put it on top of his shirts. He looked disconsolately around the room, with its comfortable furnishings: his loyal bed, his devoted chair, his willing footstool beside the fender, his smiling and friendly fire. The two of them—he and this dear little room—had been happy together, but that was all over now. He took out his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. Over now, forever.

Ridley’s portmanteau, fully packed, was so large and so heavy that he had to drag it down the stairs. Once in the kitchen, he saw a toy wheelbarrow filled with tiny seashells, sitting beside the geraniums on Miss Potter’s kitchen windowsill—just the thing to manage his heavy load. He dumped the shells on the sill, heaved his portmanteau into the barrow, and wheeled it out the door. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea where in the world he was going. He pushed the stolen barrow under the lilac bush, sat down beside it, and tried to think.

Should he move to the Tower Bank Arms, just down the hill, where there was always a great deal of food, but where (it was rumored) the proprietor set wicked traps to catch unwary rats?

Or to Buckle Yeat Cottage, which had a delightful garden but a dark, cramped attic and a miserly pantry that was locked up every night?

Or to Farmer Potatoes’ barn, which was roomy and dry and within easy walking distance of Miss Barwick’s Anvil Cottage Bakery?

He had just decided on Farmer Potatoes’ barn and was getting up to push the barrow in that direction, when he heard Miss Potter, speaking in an unusually sharp, scolding tone. He made himself as small as he could amongst the leaves, then peeped out to see what was going on. As he did so, a black cat walked past.

Ridley’s eyes widened in astonished horror, for he had never seen such an ugly beast. The cat was the size of a dog—no, the size of a tiger!—with muscular shoulders, sinewy legs, sharp yellow fangs, and scimitar-like claws. He was informing Miss Potter, in a very firm tone, that he was not a barn cat.

“I am the Cat Who Walks by Himself,”
said the cat,
“and barns do not appeal to me. Your advertisement says that your rats live in your attic. If I am to exterminate the brutes—exterminate ALL of them—I must work in the attic, too. And that’s all there is to say about that.”
And then he pushed past Miss Potter and into the house.

Panic, like a snake, wrapped its chill, scaly self around Ridley’s neck, clutching him so hard that he felt he would suffocate. His advertisement had summoned a monstrosity, a monster, a brute, a basilisk! And what was just as bad as the gorgon’s size and ugliness was his obstinate, unbiddable nature, for Ridley himself had just heard, with his very own ears, the insolent Cat refuse to take orders—and from Miss Potter. Miss Potter herself!

Ridley’s heart failed him as he realized the enormity of what he had so innocently and naively and hopefully done. He might, as he had assured Rosabelle, have been able to reason with the yellow cats, and persuade them to ignore himself and Rosabelle and a few others in return for easy access to the rowdies and perhaps a special tribute, such as ale from the Tower Bank Arms or sticky buns from Miss Barwick’s bakery. But if such a firm and forceful person as Miss Potter failed in her efforts to direct the Cat Who Walks by Himself, it was appallingly evident that nothing Ridley could say would have any effect whatsoever.

And then poor Ridley thought ahead to what now seemed to be the inevitable end of this terrible misadventure. This devil of a cat would establish himself in the attic and rapidly—in little more than a day or two, Ridley was sure—eliminate all of the rowdies and ruffians, even those who were brave enough to stand up against him. It would do them no good, of course, for no rat, no six rats or a dozen rats, not even a hundred rats together, could fight off such a monster. They were doomed, every single rat who lived in the Hill Top attic. And that included Rosabelle and her sister and all Rosabelle’s little nieces and nephews. They would be utterly defenseless against the Cat.

Ridley closed his eyes and moaned softly, imagining Rosabelle in the clutches of that dreadful demon, her beautiful gray fur tattered and torn, her generous heart’s red blood spilled all over the floor. Rosabelle, who had welcomed him in his hour of need. Dear Rosabelle, she of the unselfish spirit and sympathetic soul, whose hospitality he had so cruelly abused.

What could he do to save her? What could he do to redeem himself?

But the answer, Ridley knew to his great shame, was
nothing.
Some, like St. George, might be so brave that they would fling themselves against a fire-breathing dragon and fight to the death. Others, like Napoleon, might be so powerful and charismatic that they could summon an entire army and annihilate the fiend. And still others, like Merlin the Magician, might be so clever that they could outwit any foe.

But cleverness had already got him into this fix, and Ridley knew very well that he was neither courageous nor charismatic. Not to put too fine a point on it, he was nothing but a stout, slow-witted middle-aged rat who liked his comforts, a rat without a valiant bone in his body or an heroic whisker on his face. He was a duffer. He was an awful muff. He was a coward.

Ridley bowed his head, while the ignominy of the word—the disgrace, dishonor, disrepute, and discredit of it—washed over him like a flood of filthy water.

Coward.

17

The Professor Makes a Recommendation

At the same moment that Ridley was confronting his cowardice, Bosworth Badger was surveying his surroundings with a great deal of understandable pride.

The badger had always thought that the library was quite the nicest room in The Brockery. He loved the family portraits that hung on the walls, the comfortable leather chairs on either side of the fireplace, and the heavy oak table he used as a desk, where his pencils were laid out in a careful row, and his knife for sharpening the pencils, and his quill pens and inkpot and blotting paper, all very helpful to a badger who enjoys his work as an historian. The fire was especially cheering on damp mornings—and this Saturday morning was decidedly damp, as the badger had noticed when he put his head out the front door to sample the weather.

Bosworth, however, had no business that required him to be out and about in the wet, and indoors and underground, the weather was as it always was: perfectly perfect. He’d had a letter recently from a badger cousin who lived in the Wild Wood to the south, asserting that underground life was the very best life to be had: “No builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no
weather.
” Bosworth found himself in full agreement with his cousin’s remark. A drizzly morning was exactly the right sort of morning to spend underground, toasting his toes at the crackling fire and looking through the
History,
as he had promised Rascal.