The Willows and Beyond (30 page)

“Have a good time, Mole,” said Toad, rising from his Bath chair and embracing him, which he had never in his life done before. “For without you and Mole End I do not think the River Bank would have been the same or so much fun —“

“Why, Toad!” cried the Mole, surprised and moved by this unexpected speech. “I do believe —“

“Nonsense!” said Toad, collapsing back into his invalid conveyance and wiping away the tears that the Mole had seen. “Now, be off with you, and watch over him, you fellows, for he is a friend of Mr Toad’s!”

Then it was that the Mole was bundled into Master Toad’s latest car and found himself waving goodbye to Nephew’s wife and children, and a blubbering Toad as well. They picked up Portly and the Badger on the way and before Mole knew it, or could protest further, he was bowling along the road, the wind in his hair, and Master Toad was commanding the others to see to their guest’s every need.

“Give him champagne!” said Master Toad, just as Toad would have done.

“But I oughtn’t — well, just a sip,” said Mole, just as he always had.

“Give him a Havana!”

“But I have never — well, just a puff, if you insist.”

“Give him the map — because we’re lost!”

“All in all,” declared the Mole when they arrived at the Hat and Boot for the night and he found himself treated like a celebrity and given the finest, most rumbustious birthday supper he could ever recall, “all in all, Master Toad — or Toad as everyone else now seems to call you — you are not as bad a driver as I had feared when we set off and you lost the way.”

“Not as bad as Mr Toad, eh?” laughed Master Toad. “Never as bad as that!” declared the happy and excited Mole.

Next day, they dawdled on the way, taking an early lunch at that old farmhouse where so long before the Mole and the Water Rat had stayed, and Mr Toad and Master Toad had duped the farmer’s wife and his daughter into giving them room and board for a few days before the farmer returned and threw them both in the River. Now that daughter was a plump matron, with children of her own, and her parents long since passed away.

But what a welcome she gave them, and how honoured she felt to have such an eminent and venerable guest at her table as Mr Mole himself!

“Not long now, Mole,” cried Master Toad as they set off once more, “not more than half an hour.”

“We are certainly travelling very fast,” said the Mole. “Can’t beat a vehicle like this,” said Master Toad, “nothing’s better, nothing — is — more — fun —“

The vehicle shuddered, it slewed, something exploded somewhere deep inside, and finally it gasped and stopped.

“Humph!” said Master Toad. “Wait till I see that salesman!”

So it was that they made the last part of the journey on foot, arriving by way of the bank that ran opposite what had once been Toad Hall, and which they saw had been turned into the Wild Wood Preparatory School for Children of the Gentry with what had been Toad’s fine lawns turned now into a sports field, and every sign that the old boat-house now housed the School Rowing Club.

The Iron Bridge soon came into view, and here the company split in two, for though the Mole’s main purpose was to see if there were any signs of life at the Rat’s House, he was anxious first to go to Mole End and see what had become of it.

“Let’s meet back here at the Iron Bridge at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Master Toad. “By then my motor-car may be repaired.”

So Master Toad, Portly and Grandson headed off to the Village to find their own accommodation, while the Mole and Nephew set off to find out what they might about the fate of Mole End.

The old path had gone, fenced off now by new palings, and not much further down the road they saw an intriguing new notice.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the Mole on reading it, for its words were clear and unequivocal:

MOLE END

The property of the National Trust for Historical Buildings

and Natural Scenery: This way.

(Parties of over twenty only by prior arrangement.

Charabancs not to block the road.)

They opened the gate and set off along a newly surfaced path fenced on either side by iron railings.

“Well, it seems that Mole End is still there,” said the Mole with barely concealed excitement. “Though I cannot say that I like this new path much. Might we not go the old way?”

They found a spot where the railings were loose, and with a little push and shove were through it and walking along that path they had so often walked together after a day or evening with their friends, which ran along the River for a little way before turning amongst the hedgerows towards Mole End.

The Mole chose to linger awhile near the River, and for the first time in the course of the expedition, Nephew noticed that he seemed a little tired, and that the excitement that had taken so many years from his face had worn thin. He sat a little hunched, staring into the placid water, listening to sounds so long familiar.

Nephew feared that worse might follow before long, for he had not had the heart to say that it seemed unlikely to him that Ratty really would be back, and the most the Mole could gain from the trip was fulfilment of his desire to say a final goodbye to the River Bank.

The Mole’s mood was not helped by the sight of the clipped municipal grass on the other bank, and beyond, where the Wild Wood had been, the thin young ornamental trees and grass of suburban parkland, a children’s playground and the first of those houses compulsorily developed in partnership by the Town Authority and the High Judge’s consortium.

But on
his
side all was still much as it had been, and the Mole sat enjoying it, wistful and thoughtful, suddenly old.

“Come on, Nephew, help me up from here, for I have seen what I came to see of this part and rather fear to venture on. Yet perhaps we shall not be disappointed.”

They turned the last corner back to the new-made path and there they saw another notice, on a neat and freshly painted little booth:
1/- adults, 6d juveniles (under age 10) In absence of Curator or his assistant place ticket money in slot and take one sheet per person.

“Stranger and stranger,” said Nephew, “but I really don’t think we need to —“

“If you have the change, Nephew, then please do pay the entrance fee, for someone is certainly maintaining the old place and that costs money.”

There was a twinkle in the Mole’s eye, for he rather enjoyed the notion that Mole End had become a destination for charabanc parties and day trippers.

Nephew had taken up one of the leaflets and now began to read aloud from it:

“Mole End was for many years the permanent residence of Mr Mole, the close friend and confidant of the internationally renowned sportsman and financier, Mr Toad, who lived nearby at Toad Hall. These two gentlemen, along with Mr Badger of the Wild Wood, Mr Rat of the River Bank and their associate Mr Otter, formed the core of that group of individuals now generally known as the River-Bankers.

“Visitors to Mole End are thus afforded a unique opportunity to gain an insight into the personal lives of a community long gone, and a way of life from a different (and some might say better) age
…”

“It rather seems,” observed the Mole wryly, “that the gentleman who wrote those words thinks that Mr Mole is dead.”

“O, he
is
dead, sir, dead and buried long ago!”

This sudden and surprising interruption came from a figure wearing a navy blue hat with a hard shiny visor, whose head had appeared out of the Mole’s former bedroom window.

“I am the Curator, Mr Adams, and I welcome you.”

His head disappeared, the window closed and moments later out he popped into the open, where they saw that his uniform extended to a blue serge jacket and trousers, and very shiny boots. He had a cheerful smile, and held a duster in his hand.

“It’s always good to see moles coming to visit,” he said, “for it goes to show what I’ve always said: one day his own kind will appreciate what a fine and sterling animal Mr Mole was, and quite equal in his way to Mr Toad himself.”

“Well, I wouldn’t quite go so far as that!” exclaimed the Mole, much flattered by the Curator’s remark.

“That’s because you don’t know all of Mr Mole’s life history, sir, if I might be so bold. You’ve probably just heard of him as being a friend of Mr Rat, or ‘Ratty’ as we believe Mr Mole called him, and one of those who appeared from time to time in the larger story of Mr Toad’s illustrious life.”

“Well, I —“ began the Mole, but the Curator was not to be stopped.

“But if you’ll come this way, sir, I’ll show you round while I tell you something of Mr Mole’s life and heroic death.”

“Heroic death!” exclaimed Nephew, tempted to reveal who the Mole was but stopped from doing so by a frown from the Mole, who proposed to enjoy listening to the history of his life and death.

“Now you will observe before we enter the house itself, this little garden, and that bench there, which is where Mr Mole was wont to sit taking tea with Mr Rat. We have no documentary evidence that this happened, only the memories of the grandparents of some of the local inhabitants.”

The Mole remembered those rabbits to whom he and nephew had given the key of Mole End when they left so hurriedly.

“You have kept it very well,” said the Mole, looking about his old garden and glad to observe that the statues of Queen Victoria and Garibaldi in which he had always taken so much pride were still in place, and that the urn full of flowers was very much as he had left it.

“We pride ourselves on preserving things as they were,” said the Curator. “I believe that were Mr Mole alive today he would not want things changed and modernized. Mind you, some improvements had to take place — like that path. In the old days that did not exist but in high season we have so many visitors that we felt it best to keep them to one path.

“But Mr Mole liked his home comforts, and he liked tradition. He was a proper gentleman and treated his guests properly whoever they might be. Well, now he has gone we must try to do the same for him, and treat his home just as he would have liked us to. Perhaps you would care to follow me inside?”

The Curator went on ahead while the Mole lingered for a moment, as much to brush the ready tears that had come from the words just spoken so feelingly as to look again at the garden and that bench where he and Ratty had spent so many happy hours.

Once inside, the Curator took them to the kitchen, the parlour and the bedrooms, all of which were in perfect order, just as the Mole had left them so many years before. Here and there a few items seemed to have been added which were not originally there: some coal and logs by the fire grate, for example, and by the Mole’s old bed some dried flowers.

“My son found those by the River Bank and we felt sure that Mr Mole would have approved.”

“O, he would, I’m sure he would,” said the Mole happily, turning about, poking here and there, and drawing Nephew’s attention to so many things that brought memories flooding back.

“Tell me about Mr Mole’s death, if you please,” said the Mole quietly.

“You will have heard of the historic battle of Lathbury Chase, perhaps — that same battle in which the great Mr Toad himself was at the forefront?”

“Er, indeed —“ began the Mole, not sure what to say.

“I have good reason to believe that Mr Mole was one of the anonymous slain upon that bloody fell, and was buried there in a mass grave, with friend and foe alike, the site now quite forgotten.”

“That is a very great pity,” observed the Mole.

“It is, sir, for as Curator of Mole End, there are a good many questions I would like to have asked him.”

“Such as?” said the obliging Mole.

“Well, for one thing, sir, I could never quite fathom why he had a statue of Garibaldi in his garden.”

“I believe that radical Italian was a hero of Mr Mole’s radical youth,” said the Mole.

“I see, hmm, an interesting theory,” observed the Curator thoughtfully.

“What else would you like to know?” said the Mole; taking off his coat.

“Ah, well now, what I would
very
much like to know, though I fear I never will, for the secret died with him, is his recipe for
this!”