Free The Willows at Christmas by William Horwood Page A

your presence, because —”
    “Never mind that, Toad,” barked Mrs Ffleshe, “the only question is, have you done your work or not? Because if not then I will have no choice but to —”But of course I’ve done my work, Mrs Ffleshe,” said Toad obsequiously, adding in a sweet, winning voice, “and I have done it happily, reflecting on the errors of my ways, for which you have so rightly chastised me.”
    Mole applied his eye to the keyhole and watched the proceedings. He saw Toad bow and scrape before the not inconsiderable figure of Mrs Ffleshe, who was arrayed in silks of purple and green, her bosom like the prow of an enemy battleship.
    Her face and gaze were severe as she looked down upon Toad. “I wish to examine your work,” said she.
    Toad pointed smugly at the potatoes that Mole had peeled, the sprouts that Mole had prepared, the carrots that Mole had cleaned and chopped and the cabbage that he had so neatly sliced.
    “All done with my own hands,” said the brazen Toad, “which are sore and bleeding from the task, but I don’t mind, for I deserved it!”
    She looked at the vegetables with evident surprise, and then picked up one or two to examine them more closely.
    “Hmm, I must say, Toad,” said Mrs Fleshe in a gentler voice, “these are well done, and all the peelings and dirty water cleared away.
    “Though I say it myself, Mrs Ffleshe, I am a dab hand at such things,” said Toad, who could not resist gilding the lily, “for my Pater, bless him, thought it good for the education of one who would grow up to be a country gentleman that he should learn how the other half lives and works. See how I have been careful to sweep the floor, and dust the range as well.”
    Mrs Ffleshe nodded her approval and said, “I certainly do see, Toad, and I am glad you have learnt your lesson. Now come on back upstairs and try to be a good Toad for the rest of the day”
    “I will, I will,” cried Toad almost gaily. “Ladies first, Mrs Ffleshe, ladies first.”
    With that, and without a backward glance, the ungrateful Toad disappeared up the stairs and out of sight, leaving the Mole immured in the dark, dank, dingy coal cellar.
    For twenty minutes, the Mole waited in silence before he began to realise that Toad was not going to come back down again.
    Mole was not easily given to ire, but ireful he now felt. He began to bang on the door, calling out for somebody to let him out, but no one came. Then he tried to reach up to the circular cast-iron cover above his head, climbing on the coal itself to do so, but he could not quite reach it.

    It was perhaps an hour later, his voice by now grown hoarse from shouting, his feet two blocks of ice and his teeth chattering, that he heard the sound of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels above his head. He just had time to pull himself upright and look up before the coal-hole cover was removed, and a shaft of daylight nearly blinded him.
    “H-h-help!” he called through chattering teeth. “It’s Mr Mole of Mole End, and I —”
    These words were barely out before the hole above his head darkened and a spatter of coal dust fell on to his face and into his mouth, the only warning he had before half a hundredweight of coal was poured down on top of him.
    Mole only saved himself from injury by leaping back against the door, as with a thunderous roar the next load of coal came down, and with it a choking black dust thicker than any he had ever known.
    As he began to cough and gasp, light reappeared and he just had time to croak, “Please, no more — I am down here — I —” when the rumbling darkness returned, and another load tumbled down, roaring like an avalanche towards where Mole cowered against the door.
    The coal was like a living, growing thing and the Mole soon had to climb and scrabble up to keep himself from being submerged.
    “Help!” he croaked as light briefly reappeared.
    But the cover was swiftly slid back over the hole and the coalman and his cart soon