Free The Willows at Christmas by William Horwood

I’m afraid I have more vegetables than just a few potatoes to prepare by noon if she is not to confine me to my room for the rest of Christmas.”
    “Confine you to your room!” cried the Mole, outraged.
    “I fear so,” said Toad, snivelling mournfully between sips of his sherry. “But you see, Mole, before the force of her indomitable person I am as nothing and I must bend to her will.”
    “Well, I think you should stand up to her said the Mole stoutly.
    “I might, indeed I might, and I shall,” said Toad, very unconvincingly. “But only after I have dealt with these Brussels sprouts, which must be made ready for boiling — I suppose it is too much to ask… No, I cannot and will not ask such a thing! I am sure I can do these fiddly sprouts if I must, red raw though my fingers are from my earlier work.”
    Toad made a pathetic show of putting his apron back on.
    “My dear friend,” said the gullible Mole, “let me at least begin them for you while we decide how to deal with Mrs Fleshe, for this sort of thing surely cannot be allowed to continue.”
    “Would you?” said the Toad, brightening once more. “And these carrots, too, which I believe need washing before they are peeled — use that sink over there, old fellow, if you don’t mind — after which all we have to do is to clean the floor and hang out the washing and then — but look how the time is rushing by! Hurry up, Mole, don’t dawdle, or else I’ll be late!”
    Before he knew it, Mole found himself doing the work of several scullery maids whilst Toad, glass in hand, warmed himself by the range, stirring occasionally to give further commands to his too-willing friend.
    “Come on, Moly!” he cried as the minute hand of the kitchen clock neared twelve. “She’ll be down to make her inspection in a moment. Here, you’ve forgotten to slice up these cabbages, and be sure to do it neatly, she likes straight lines to her vegetables — no, straighter than that, Mole! I mean to say, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, don’t you think?”
    “Well, I suppose I do,” said the Mole, his patience beginning to wear thin, “but I hope you won’t mind if I give Mrs Ffleshe a piece of my mind when she appears.
    “A piece of your mind!” cried Toad in alarm. “No, no, no, please do not even think of such a thing. If you spoke out of turn she would punish me all the more.” Just then they heard the ominous sound of someone coming down the stairs from the main house. The steps they heard were heavy and purposeful, with that sharp, jabbing, remorseless quality of a dominant woman on the prowl.
    “She’s coming’ gasped Toad.
    “Well, if you won’t stand up to her I will!” said the Mole with determination, taking off his apron.
    “Toooad! Come here at once!” came the sharp command, in that same harsh voice the Mole had heard a day or two before in the company of Mr Baltry.
    Mole frowned arid said, “Let me go first and I’ll tell her—”
    “No!” cried Toad in a desperate voice, lunging suddenly at the Mole, grasping him by the shoulder, and frog-marching him backwards. Then, before he could protest, Toad shoved him bodily through the coal-cellar door and shot the bolt.
    “Toad, let me out at once!” cried the Mole.
    “My life won’t be worth living, Moly, if you admonish her!” whispered Toad wildly through the keyhole. “So please keep quiet, there’s a good chap!”
    “Toad, where have you gone?” boomed Mrs Ffleshe as she reached the bottom stair.
    Mole was rather inclined to hammer at the door and make a fuss but his natural courtesy forbade it, and anyway, having already briefly met Mrs Ffleshe, he could understand Toad’s dilemma. It would do no good embarrassing him before his ghastly guest.
    He heard Toad call out, “Here — I’m here, Mrs Ffleshe, here doing my work.” Then in an abject and humble way Toad continued, “And I am so honoured that you have descended below stairs to grace me with