light repast in the library, where she also lit a fire for him and made sure he had some tea.
This repast, which consisted of porridge in the Scottish manner, a coddled egg or two, some toast and marmalade, and some cooked fruits and fresh cream — just enough, in short, to keep Toad alive till breakfast —was the quietest and most pleasant part of Toad’s long Christmas Day.
The reason Mrs Fleshe had not put a stop to it was that she generally did not set foot in the library at all. This room, more than any other, had been Toad Senior’s retreat. He had banished Nanny Fowle from it and as a consequence her daughter Mrs Ffleshe continued to feel uncomfortable there. Moreover, above the fireplace hung a splendid portrait of Toad Senior at his jolliest and most cheerful, which she could not abide.
Toad would sit under this benign image, aware of the fact that his time was short, and enjoy his pre—breakfast, wondering how on earth he was going to survive the twelve long days of Christmas.
“Never was there a toad unhappier than I, Pater,” he would say, as he pondered how much milk to add to his porridge, “for I remember things as they used to be and can never be again.” Then, adding some cream to the porridge on top of the milk and tucking in, he continued:
“Pater, what can I do but accept my fate? I am a tragic toad, unloved and all alone, for with your passing there is nobody left to care for me.
Then, having finished the porridge Miss Bugle had so lovingly made for him, and engaging with the coddled eggs by way of a pinch of salt and a peck of fresh pepper (freshly ground by Miss Bugle), he glanced up at his father’s image, sudden tears streaming down his face.
“O Pater!” he cried, checking that Miss Bugle had buttered his toast as she usually did and seeing that she had, “I am the Wounded King of the River Bank!”
His Pater, had he been able, might well have raised his eyebrows at this comparison but he need not have waited long for an explanation. Polishing off the last of the eggs and gratified to see that there were a good few pieces of toast left over, enough to account for most of the jar of marmalade, Toad added with a certain irony, “A Wounded King, yes, but with no knights to fight his cause, no! There is no one who can rid me of this pestilent woman! She is my fate, my doom and I shall breathe my last before she does, Pater!”
The hour of nine struck and Toad knew he must finish his little meal and join Mrs Ffleshe for breakfast. The only bright spot he had to look forward to in the hours and days ahead was the brief visit of Badger and the others later that morning. This was a tradition he had not permitted Mrs Ffleshe to put a stop to, albeit she complained loudly about it the day before and for several days afterwards, calling his friends “lower-class spongers” and “liberal no-gooders” and “layabout loungers” and several more permutations of the same.
He rose, he looked sadly at his father’s eyes and he made his way to the chilly confines of the breakfast room, there to await Mrs Ffleshe’s arrival.
“Toad! You are late! You have kept me waiting and I am fainting with hunger. This is not the behaviour of a gentleman, or of one who should be thinking of my happiness and welfare upon Christmas Day!”
The startled Toad stood upon the threshold of the breakfast room in mental disarray. She was early! She was never early without there being a reason that would be to his disadvantage and discomfort. So she had finally invaded even this precious time.
“Kindly do not wish me a Merry Christmas,” said the enraged Mrs Ffleshe, “for you have made it begin badly, very badly indeed.”
“I am sorry —” began Toad meekly.
“Where have you been?”
“I have — I mean — I was —” stuttered Toad, wondering if there was any coddled egg on his morning jacket, or evidence of porridge on his cuff.
“Well?” she said, rising and staring down at him.
It
This repast, which consisted of porridge in the Scottish manner, a coddled egg or two, some toast and marmalade, and some cooked fruits and fresh cream — just enough, in short, to keep Toad alive till breakfast —was the quietest and most pleasant part of Toad’s long Christmas Day.
The reason Mrs Fleshe had not put a stop to it was that she generally did not set foot in the library at all. This room, more than any other, had been Toad Senior’s retreat. He had banished Nanny Fowle from it and as a consequence her daughter Mrs Ffleshe continued to feel uncomfortable there. Moreover, above the fireplace hung a splendid portrait of Toad Senior at his jolliest and most cheerful, which she could not abide.
Toad would sit under this benign image, aware of the fact that his time was short, and enjoy his pre—breakfast, wondering how on earth he was going to survive the twelve long days of Christmas.
“Never was there a toad unhappier than I, Pater,” he would say, as he pondered how much milk to add to his porridge, “for I remember things as they used to be and can never be again.” Then, adding some cream to the porridge on top of the milk and tucking in, he continued:
“Pater, what can I do but accept my fate? I am a tragic toad, unloved and all alone, for with your passing there is nobody left to care for me.
Then, having finished the porridge Miss Bugle had so lovingly made for him, and engaging with the coddled eggs by way of a pinch of salt and a peck of fresh pepper (freshly ground by Miss Bugle), he glanced up at his father’s image, sudden tears streaming down his face.
“O Pater!” he cried, checking that Miss Bugle had buttered his toast as she usually did and seeing that she had, “I am the Wounded King of the River Bank!”
His Pater, had he been able, might well have raised his eyebrows at this comparison but he need not have waited long for an explanation. Polishing off the last of the eggs and gratified to see that there were a good few pieces of toast left over, enough to account for most of the jar of marmalade, Toad added with a certain irony, “A Wounded King, yes, but with no knights to fight his cause, no! There is no one who can rid me of this pestilent woman! She is my fate, my doom and I shall breathe my last before she does, Pater!”
The hour of nine struck and Toad knew he must finish his little meal and join Mrs Ffleshe for breakfast. The only bright spot he had to look forward to in the hours and days ahead was the brief visit of Badger and the others later that morning. This was a tradition he had not permitted Mrs Ffleshe to put a stop to, albeit she complained loudly about it the day before and for several days afterwards, calling his friends “lower-class spongers” and “liberal no-gooders” and “layabout loungers” and several more permutations of the same.
He rose, he looked sadly at his father’s eyes and he made his way to the chilly confines of the breakfast room, there to await Mrs Ffleshe’s arrival.
“Toad! You are late! You have kept me waiting and I am fainting with hunger. This is not the behaviour of a gentleman, or of one who should be thinking of my happiness and welfare upon Christmas Day!”
The startled Toad stood upon the threshold of the breakfast room in mental disarray. She was early! She was never early without there being a reason that would be to his disadvantage and discomfort. So she had finally invaded even this precious time.
“Kindly do not wish me a Merry Christmas,” said the enraged Mrs Ffleshe, “for you have made it begin badly, very badly indeed.”
“I am sorry —” began Toad meekly.
“Where have you been?”
“I have — I mean — I was —” stuttered Toad, wondering if there was any coddled egg on his morning jacket, or evidence of porridge on his cuff.
“Well?” she said, rising and staring down at him.
It
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