Free The Willows at Christmas by William Horwood Page B

gone. The Mole supposed that this was a small mercy, for at least no more coal would come down. Now he could only cough and gulp and splutter as he turned to the door and tapped pitifully at its black and gritty surface.

    When it finally opened, the poor, suffering Mole tumbled straight out and lay gasping, barely conscious, at the feet of the astonished Miss Bugle, who was brandishing a poker.
    “But — but —” she said, “I thought it was mice!”
    “Water!” gasped the Mole, who felt he was dying of thirst. “Water!”
    “I’d better get help at once.
    “No’ he cried, “no, please do not. Toad will get into trouble, don’t you see?”
    “But, Mr Mole, I absolutely insist,” said Miss Bugle. “And I absolutely insist you do not,” said the Mole very firmly “Please, if you could just bring me a glass of water and let me warm myself by the range.
    Miss Bugle stared at him for a moment and realised that his mind was quite made up.
    “Very well, Mr Mole’ she said reluctantly, “but as housekeeper of this establishment I should like to know how you got into this predicament. Look at you, you’re quite black with coal dust! At least permit me to dust you down.”
    The glass of water came, and then another, and the solicitous Miss Bugle put the kettle on the range to brew Mole a pot of tea. Then she took him outside into the back courtyard — a precaution he himself insisted on — and began to dust him down with a feather duster.
    A great cloud of coal dust flew up in the air, but much of it flew down again — back on to Mole.
    “It’s not making much impression, I’m afraid,” said the Mole. “Don’t you have a carpet beater?”
    “We have, sir’ said she, “but I really think —”
    Then the light of realisation came into her eye.
    “Goodness, I quite forgot! Some weeks ago, before Mrs Ffleshe arrived, Mr Toad ordered a new cleaning gadget from London. It has not been out of its bag yet, but if I may say so, Mr Mole, in your present state you are the perfect object upon which to try it out!”
    Ever afterwards, the Mole preferred to draw a veil over the events of the next hour or so. Suffice it to say that with the brand-new Dustaw Rotary Windsor vacuum cleaner that Toad had so thoughtfully acquired for his housekeeper, and using its finest bristle upholstery brush — and with the Mole lying on the floor and turning the handle himself to create the suction, since Miss Bugle found she could not do both actions at once — that obliging lady successfully managed to vacuum-clean the Mole so that in less than an hour of intensive labour he was, once more, nearly as spick and span as when he first arrived.

    Nor was his pride hurt, or good humour affected, for he realised very early on in these dusty proceedings that as a result of this to-do he and Miss Bugle were getting to know each other a great deal quicker and better than a spinster lady and a bachelor Mole might normally be expected to do.
    He had soon discovered from Miss Bugle’s sharp asides concerning Mrs Ffleshe that she was not one of those retiring spinsters who, like so many of her age and station, was a little too meek and mild for her own good. He saw now that she was made of sterner stuff than he had imagined, and he was sure that she might be — no, she would be — an ally in his campaign to bring some general improvements to the River Bank Christmas.
    He was about to broach this delicate subject when he remembered the compote he had brought her as a gift. He produced it from his bag with something of a flourish and not a little pride. Though not wrapped in paper, it was brightly ribboned and labelled, and he had written his festive greetings under her name and followed it with his signature.
    Her eyes brightened at once, and for a moment he thought they might fill with nostalgic tears. She held it tightly to her bosom, as if to suggest that if she received no other festive gift than this it would be enough to warm her