continued opening the match-box. Then someone banged on her door so hard, she jumped, and spilled at least half the box's contents onto the floor. She cursed loudly, before lowering herself slowly and ungainly to her knees, to pick the matches back up. She had no idea if she was going to be able to get up again.
As she scrabbled on the floor, the knocking continued with such a terrifying intensity, Grandma began to fear the door would come off its hinges. She quickly stuffed the matches back into the box, threw some more paper, wood and coal into the oven while she was down there, lit it, and slowly climbed back to her feet, using the chimney breast for support.
She looked at the door. It was shaking with every knock. Whoever was knocking was either very big, or very angry. She paused for a minute, before picking the poker up again. She didn't know how useful it would be, but she wasn't going down without a fight. She brandished it in front of her as she shuffled back to the front door. Again, she looked through the spy-hole. Again, she saw nothing. Again, she frowned. The door bounced on its hinges. Surely anything that could hit a door that hard was going to be big. She steeled herself, gripped the poker and opened the door.
There was no one there. She looked left. She looked right. She shuffled a little way down the footpath and looked around the sides of the house. Nothing. No one could have been that quick, surely? She turned to go back in, and stopped as she heard a loud squeak. She looked down.
A crowd—and that was the only word she could use to describe them, there were that many—of mice was occupying her footpath. She had nearly stood on them. “And what do you want?” she snapped. All the mice turned their head to look at her. It was rather disconcerting. Then one of them squeaked, and before Grandma could stop them, they all rushed up the path and into the house.
Grandma stood motionless, her mouth hanging open in silent surprise, staring after the mice. As the last tail disappeared through the door, she pulled herself together. Not in her house, not mice! Not any kind of vermin.
She shuffled back in, still brandishing her weapon of choice, and entered the kitchen. The mice were nowhere to be seen.
Now, where could the little beggars be hiding? She had to get them out. If that many mice started chewing on the fabric of her home, there wouldn't be much left of the place by this time tomorrow.
She opened the oven door, put a shovelful of coal on the burgeoning fire, and started looking for mice. This was going to be a long afternoon, she thought. She picked up her heavy, cast iron frying pan and tried a practice swipe. Yes, a little bit on the heavy side, but just the thing to squash the creatures good and proper.
She had just begun looking under the welsh dresser, when the door went again. Grandma paused. What would it be this time? Jehovah's Witnesses? No, she was not going to waste her time even considering answering the door to them. She tore a piece of bread off a loaf, placed it on the floor, stood beside the dresser, and waited.
The knocking continued, even louder now. It was no use. The creatures weren't going to come out of hiding with this racket going on. Grandma sighed, and shuffled yet again to the door, flinging it open with an angry, “Now what?”
“Hi,” said one of two suited young men. “I'm Josh, and this here is Ben, and we were wondering if we might talk to you about Jesus...” Grandma slammed the door.
She returned to the kitchen and glanced around. The mice had already been at work. Parts of the window sill had been severely nibbled. Grandma seethed inwardly. Really, there was only one way to get rid of all the little blighters. She'd be in trouble with the Sisterhood for it, she knew, and it would draw even more unwanted attention to her from nosey folk in the village, confirming the rumours that already abounded, but really, what else could she do?
She began to rummage in cupboards and drawers. Now where had she put it? She hadn't used it since—oh, it had to be that irritating girl and her phobia of needles. The girl hadn't, it should be said, a phobia before she met Grandma, but she had one by the time Grandma left the premises.
Another round of knocking began. “Touch anything,” Grandma shouted to the mice, “and it will be the worse for you!” As she turned to go, she was sure she heard something blow a raspberry.
Grandma opened the door. There was no one there. Again, too late, she looked down, just in time to see a dozen or so large brown rats rush past her feet. “No!” cried Grandma, shuffling after them.
The rats were everywhere as she entered the kitchen. She had no way of getting rid of them other than—well, she'd already reached that conclusion about the mice, hadn't she? There was no need to justify her actions to herself again. But she had to find the wand, first.
Another knocking on the door. “Oh, for crying out loud!” shouted Grandma. “Is there really no peace for the wicked?” She stomped back out of the kitchen and to the front door. “Go aw—” was as far as she got. The figure before her was tall, and dressed in a combination of tights and tunic, both of which were decorated with black and white diamonds. Or possibly squares, depending on which way you viewed them. He was tapping what appeared to be a flute on the palm of his hand, but Grandma's eyes were inexorably drawn to the codpiece. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, before she could stop herself. She felt herself blushing.
“I was just... passing,” said the young man, with a smile. “Vermin control,” he added. “Got... any... vermin?”
“Hmm,” said Grandma, perplexed. This was all very convenient. She smelled, dare she say it, a rat. Or, rather, about a dozen of them.
“I only ask,” explained the young man, “because some of your neighbours have been... plagued? Yes, plagued... by vermin. So, as I'm in the area, I thought I'd check if anyone else is suffering with… vermin.” He smiled again.
“Well,” said Grandma, still highly suspicious, as wicked people tend to be, “as it happens, yes.”
“Super!” said the young man. “Well, not for you, of course. But it makes my journey worthwhile, hey?” There was that smile again. “Well, shall we?” he said, indicating the doorway.
Grandma shuffled back in. The kitchen showed signs of further erosion. Grandma tutted. “Oh, dear,” said the young man, also noticing the damage. “The place isn't going to last too long, if we don't get them out, is it? Probably,” he added, looking around the kitchen, “on reflection, not the best building material to use. Though, I suppose, cheap and easy to repair.” He put the flute to his lips. “Right. Shall we get started?” He blew.
You couldn't really call it a tune. Noise would be nearer the mark. Grandma began to wonder, very quickly, whether the young man had ever got much further than, Lesson One: How to Blow, before giving up flute lessons entirely. Grandma was just about to lay about him with the frying pan, when two mice suddenly scurried up to his feet, followed by three rats. Within five minutes all the rats and mice were gathered in a crowd around the young man's feet. “Okay, guys,” he said to the rodents, “if you could just wait outside, we'll wander down to the river and see if we can find you a nice new home. Okay?” And, to Grandma's astonishment, the rats and mice did as they were told.
The young man gave the old lady another smile. “Is there anything else I can do?” he asked. Grandma, her mouth too busy hanging open to talk, shook her head. “Sure?” he said. “Well, I'll just put some more coal on that fire for you, and then we'll be on our way.” He opened the oven door and piled more coal on. “That should keep you going,” he began. “We don't—oh! Should that be in there?”
“What?” said Grandma sharply. “Should what be in where?”
“That,” said the young man, pointing to the furnace. “In there?”
“What?” said Grandma, pushing him rudely out of the way.
“There. Right at the back. Do you see it?”
Grandma leaned further forward, trying to see the back corner of her fire place. “Where, exactly?” she said.
“Just—there,” said the young man, and on the word “there”, he put his foot on Grandma Stannard's backside, and pushed her
firmly into the oven. He then bent down, calmly folded her legs in, and slammed the oven door shut, pulling the handle down to lock it as he did so.
The young man turned around and, without so much as a backward glance, left the house to join the rats and mice waiting for him. “Okay, guys,” he said, bringing the flute up to his lips. “Well done. And now, it's party time.” And the young man led them out of the garden, skipping to the tune of Ding-dong! The Witch is Dead.
Round the corner and out of sight of Grandma Stannard's cottage, the young man met with Granny's previous visitors. “Any luck?” said the double-glazing salesman.
The young man nodded smugly. “Mission accomplished,” he said with a grim smile. “She'll bother you no more.”
“What?” said Ben. “What do you mean by that?”
“She's... gone,” said the young man.
“Gone?” said the double-glazing salesman. “We weren't intending Gone. We were just attempting Annoy. And maybe a little bit of Revenge, if possible.”
“Well, the mice and rats annoyed her,” pointed out the young man. “Quite a lot, in fact. She was quite happy to let me in to remove them.”
“No!” exclaimed Josh. “She actually let you in? Dressed like that? We didn't even manage to exchange words.”
“Of course you didn't,” snorted the double-glazing salesman.