Free Maxwell's Crossing by M.J. Trow

prove it. ‘Look, why don’t you pop downstairs and see if Mrs Troubridge would like to see you today? It’s a bit lonely for old people at Christmas.’ He didn’t really want Nolan to see him sweeping under the sofa with a stick. The boy was too young to have seen Willard and that was about rats rather than hamsters, but you couldn’t be too careful. Maxwell and Metternich knew there was no harmful intent, but it would damage his credibility at a later date, he knew. His son was like an elephant, not because he was large, grey and wrinkled but because he had forgotten nothing since birth, or so it sometimes felt.
    Nolan’s face was a picture of indecision. He had known his father pretty much all his life and knew the old chap inside out. He could spot a bit of misdirectiona mile away and sometimes he decided to let it go and sometimes he didn’t. But it was Christmas after all and he was minded to be generous. Not to mention the fact that Mrs Troubridge was truly rubbish at any board game you cared to mention, so he knew that his victories were one hundred per cent genuine. He decided. ‘Yes, I will. She’d like that. Do I need to put my coat on?’
    â€˜I think so, mate. It’s been snowing again. Pop your wellies on as well, but take your slippers. You know how women can be.’
    Both the Maxwell men made a clicking noise with their tongue and rolled their eyes. They both loved the women in their lives and respected all the others that came their way, up to and including Mrs Whatmough, but they liked to play the chauvinist when they were together, for the solidarity. Maxwell helped Nolan wrestle his way into the duffle coat Mrs Whatmough’s establishment insisted upon, and after a slight sidetrack involving mittens on a string, he was ready. Maxwell watched from the landing as his boy negotiated the stairs and let himself out.
    â€˜Don’t close the door until Mrs Troubridge answers,’ he called down.
    â€˜No probs, Dads,’ Nolan called and Maxwell could hear him talking to himself as he waited. Then, he heard him say, ‘Merry Boxing Day, Mrs Troubridge. Can I come and visit you so you aren’t lonely?’ Distant twitterings betokened Mrs Troubridge’s pleasure and Nolan called out, ‘It’s OK, Dads. She says I can visit. Seeyou later,’ and with the slam of two doors, he was gone.
    Maxwell turned back to the task in hand and advanced, twirling the cane in his best Charlie Chaplin, on the sofa and the cat.
    â€˜Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ he cooed and knelt down to peer under the furniture. Two baleful yellow eyes looked back at him from the dark and Metternich gave him his warning siren, a growl so far back in the throat it was the sound of the sabretooth tiger which lurks in every household moggie. ‘Metternich! Let go of the hamster and come out with your paws in the air. Well, not that, because you wouldn’t be able to walk then – I’m not an unreasonable man. Don’t make me use the stick.’ He brandished it in a firm but unthreatening way. The yellow eyes widened a little but otherwise the cat gave no sign that he was at all put out.
    Maxwell decided to try a little reverse psychology. He’d long ago realised the pointlessness of ‘Step away from the settee’ and reading the cat his rights.
    â€˜I think I’ll pop up into the loft for a bit,’ he remarked, to no one in particular. ‘See how the glue is drying on TSM Linkon.’ He genuinely was dying to get cracking on Captain Bob Portal of the 4th Lights, his 54-millimetre present from Jacquie’s mother after a rather hefty hint from her daughter, but he had to be strict with himself. No starting on a new one before he had finished the one before had been his watchword throughout his long years of modelling. The Charge of the Light Brigade or, more correctly, his diorama of themoments before the