The Christmas Mouse by Miss Read Page B

return to, thought Mrs Berry firmly. It must go back, as surely as Stephen had, to resume its proper existence. Strange that two creatures, so alike in looks, should flee their homes and take refuge on the same night, uninvited, under her roof!
    The best way to send this little scrap on its homeward journey would be to open the window and hope that it would negotiate the frail stairway of the rosebush trained against the wall, and so return to earth. But the thought of reaching over the mouse to struggle with the window catch needed all the courage that the old lady could muster, and she sat on the bed summoning her strength.
    The longer she watched, the less frightened she became. It was almost like watching Stephen Amonetti all over again – a fugitive, defenceless, young, and infinitely pathetic. They both needed help and guidance to get them home.
    She took a deep breath and stood up. The bed springs squeaked, but the mouse did not take flight. It stoppedwashing its whiskers and gazed warily about it. Mrs Berry, gritting her teeth, approached slowly.
    The mouse shrank down into a little furry ball, reminding Mrs Berry of a fur button on a jacket of her mother’s. Quietly, she leaned over the sill and lifted the window catch. The mouse remained motionless.
    The cold air blew in, stirring the curtain and bringing a breath of rain-washed leaves and damp earth.
    Mrs Berry retreated to the bed again to watch developments. She sat there for a full minute before her captive made a move.
    It raised its quivering pink nose and then, in one bound, darted over the window frame, dragging its pink tail behind it. As it vanished, Mrs Berry hurried to the window to watch its departure.
    It was light enough to see its tiny shape undulating down the crisscross of thorny rose stems. But when it finally reached the bare earth, it was invisible to the old lady’s eyes.
    She closed the window carefully, sighed with relief and exhaustion, and clambered, once more, into bed.
    Her two unbidden visitors – her Christmas mice – had gone! Now, at long last, she could rest.
    Behind the row of wallflower plants, close to the bricks of the cottage, scurried the mouse, nose twitching. It ran across the garden path, dived under the cotoneaster bush, scrambled up the mossy step by the disused well, turned sharp right through the jungle of dried grass beside the garden shed, and streaked, unerringly, to the third hawthorn bush in the hedge.
    There, at the foot, screened by ground ivy, was its hole.It dived down into the loose sandy earth, snuffling the dear frowsty smell of mouse family and mouse food.
    Home at last!
    At much the same time, Stephen Amonetti lowered himself carefully through the pantry window.
    The house was as silent as the grave, and dark inside, after the pallid glimmer of the moon’s rays.
    With infinite caution he undid the pantry door, and closed it behind him. For greater quietness, he removed his wet shoes and, carrying them in one hand, he ascended the staircase.
    The smells of home were all about him. There was a faint whiff of the mince pies Mrs Rose had made on Christmas Eve mingled, from the open door of the bathroom, with the sharp clean smell of Lifebuoy soap.
    Noiselessly, he turned the handle of the bedroom door. Now there was a stronger scent – of the liniment that Jim used after football, boasting, as he rubbed, of his swelling muscles. The older boy lay curled on his side of the bed, dead to the world. It would take more than Stephen’s entry into the room to wake him.
    Peeling off his clothes, Stephen longed for bed, for sleep, for forgetfulness. Within three minutes, he was lying beside the sleeping boy, his head a jumble of cake tins, fierce old ladies, stormy weather, sore feet.
    And somewhere, beyond the muddle, a hazy remembrance of a promise to keep.

C HAPTER T EN
    I t was light when Mrs Berry awoke. She lay inert in the warm bed, relishing its comfort, as her bemused mind struggled with memories of the