‘But, surely –’ Mr Franklin pleaded.
‘No,’ said Mrs Allum. ‘He don't like to be kept waiting.’
‘Tomorrow, then,’ Mr Franklin said to Bet.
Bet nodded.
As they drove home, Mrs Allum said, ‘There weren't nobody in that meadow?’
‘No,’ said Bet.
‘Nobody hiding?’
Bet knew that her grandmother was thinking of the trees that, here and there, grew in the meadow: a huge old sycamore, an ash, three horse chestnuts. All had stout trunks behind which it would have been just possible for a kidnapper to have lurked.
‘Nobody,’ said Bet.
No more was said until they were nearly home. Then Mrs Allum spoke: ‘Cracked in the head, poor soul. But no harm in him.’
Chapter Three
The Book and the Listener
The next day it rained, in heavy squally showers.
At school, Bet looked out through the classroom window at the driving rain and thought that, at this rate, there would be no visiting the meadow. A pity: the whole project might be crackpot, just as her grandmother had said; but she had liked the meadow, she had liked the book, and she had liked being entrusted with something that Mr Franklin – even if he did have a screw loose – had thought was important. Indeed, she had felt at the time that it really was important.
In the cottage by the meadow, Mr Franklin hopped about fretfully with the aid of his crutches. He knew that he could rely on Mrs Allum, of course. She would come, rain or shine; but she would never allow the child to go out in this, even under an umbrella. And then, no doubt, after they'd gone and it was all too late, the weather would clear! Well, then, later, why shouldn't he go into the meadow himself, to the log? But no! – he could almost hear Mrs Allum's voice in protest. It would be madness. The terrain was treacherous for someone on crutches: there was the unexpectedness of all those old, grown-over molehills, and then the tripping grasses. He might fall helplessly, and what then –
Meanwhile, Mrs Allum, in mackintosh and plastic hood, was getting on with her household shopping, to which had to be added Mr Franklin's. She thought of him only to remind herself of what he needed from the shops. And she must remember to collect from him his dirty washing, which she would do at home in her own washing machine.
In the pasture itself, as the rain swept across, the old grey pony took shelter under a tree and turned its rump to the rain. Such weather always passed.
It did, late in the afternoon. The weather had begun to clear, just as Mrs Allum prepared to set out with Bet. (‘Done your homework, then, girl?’ Bet nodded.)
They found Mr Franklin, his hopes realized after all, in a fever for Bet to venture again into the meadow. From the same book as before he read through with her what he called ‘the favourite passage’. (‘Whose favourite passage?’ Bet wondered, but never asked.) Again he corrected, explained, advised. Mrs Allum let them get on with it by themselves. She busied herself in the scullery with Mr Franklin's washing-up. She shut herself in there with Moon, who was not to be allowed into the meadow.
So, this time, Bet set off alone. The afternoon sun shone weakly, hardly warming her; raindrops from the long grass sprinkled her legs and fell into her sandals; but the air smelt fresh and sweet after the rain. A heron rose from the river ahead of her and sailed aloft on huge, leisurely wings. Her spirits rose and sailed with the bird. She did not hurry. She simply strolled towards the log as though the rest of the day belonged to her, alone and free.
She held the book high against her chest, in case it might be dampened by a stray raindrop. She remembered Mr Franklin's explanations and advice on this further reading. She must be prepared for some odd words. ‘A Volunteer’, he had told her, meant a particular kind of soldier. Then, ‘the Peewit' was a bird – and she needn't bother about its other name, in Latin. ‘You can skip the Latin,’ Mr Franklin had said. (But she rather liked the idea of another name in another language.)
Bet reached the log and sat down. Again, she was unhurried, enjoying herself. She opened the book at last and lowered her eyes to it and began reading once again about earthworms.
‘It has often been said,’ she read, slowly, loudly, ‘that if the ground is beaten or otherwise made to tremble, worms believe that they are pursued by a mole and leave their burrows.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Bet was aware of something like a movement in the rank grass at one end of the log; but she read steadily on. ‘From one account that I have received, I have no doubt that this is often the case –’ The movement in the grass had subsided – ‘but a gentleman informs me that he lately saw eight or ten worms leave their burrows and crawl about the grass on some boggy land on which two men had just trampled while setting a trap; and this occurred in a part of Ireland where there were no moles. I have been assured by a Volunteer that he has often seen many large earthworms crawling quickly about the grass, a few minutes after his company had fired a volley with blank cartridges. The Peewit –’ Bet took a breath to tackle the Latin, and managed not too badly. ‘The Peewit (Tringa vanellus Linn.) seems to know instinctively that worms will emerge if the ground is made to tremble; for Bishop Stanley states (as I hear from Mr Moorhouse) that a young Peewit kept in confinement used to stand on one leg and beat the turf with the other leg until the worms crawled out of their burrows, when they were instantly devoured. Nevertheless, worms do not invariably leave their burrows when the ground is made to tremble, as I know by having beaten it with a spade, but perhaps it was beaten too violently.’
Bet had reached the end of the paragraph. Without shutting the book she looked downwards to the grass tussocks where she thought she had seen movement earlier.
And there it was.
A very small, compact animal, probably less than a hand-span in length, and almost completely covered in close-growing, glossy black fur. Only the extreme tip of its muzzle – its nose – was exposed in a faintly glistening, dusky pink. It seemed to have no eyes, no ears. It leaned out of its hole, hunched shoulders and neck and head all in one, as someone might lean from an open window, settling down on the window sill for a gossip with a neighbour. So Bet thought bemusedly; but then she saw that, instead of resting on folded arms, the creature faced her with large hands splayed outwards on either side. The fingernails were not exactly claws but were long and very strong-looking and also earth-stained.
The mole spoke as if indeed in mid-flow of neighbourly chat: ‘… and you probably have little idea of how delicious how toothsome – how scrumptious – they are when eaten fresh. Of course, I have my worm larder – He corrected himself: ‘worm larders, well stocked; but the earthworm pursued or promptly pounced upon, and eaten fresh – as I've said – ah! – there's nothing like it! You can have your slugs and your wireworms and your leatherjackets and as many ground beetles as you like to eat – snap! crackle! crunch! You can have them all! There's nothing to equal the near-liquefaction of worm meat as I pass its length through my fingers, sieving out the earth granules from the creature's incessant feeding. Or alternatively tear it to eat at once in great guzzling, gulping chunks.’
He paused. ‘You don't say much, do you?’
Bet, dazed, said nothing.
The mole continued: ‘Very unlike Franklin. I suppose he's dead?’
‘No,’ said Bet. ‘No.’
‘Pity,’ said the mole. ‘Anyhow, he will die. They all do. You will, in due course.’ He sighed, then brisked up again. ‘Meanwhile, you read well. You can come again.’
Bet said, ‘Mr Franklin broke his leg, but my gran says he'll be able to walk out and about again quite soon.’
Up to now the mole's voice had been small but clear and very exact; now it suddenly rose into a ragged squeal. ‘You can tell Franklin that he is never to come to me again, and certainly I have no intention of visiting him, as he has suggested. I distrust and dislike the man. He spoke to me – to me – of a vivarium. He has a mind vicious and ignoble.’
Bet stared at the enraged mole.<
br />
‘Now read on.’
Bet did as she was told.
Later, on her way back over the meadow, Bet pondered. She knew the word ‘noble’, of course, but not ‘ignoble’. Paired with ‘vicious’, it sounded bad – what her grandmother would call ‘real nasty’. This was what the mole thought of Mr Franklin. And all because of something called a vivarium.
When she reached the cottage, ‘Well?’ Mr Franklin asked. ‘A truly astonishing experience, eh?’ Bet nodded. ‘Unbelievable, wouldn't you say? Go on – tell me – tell me!’ But, in fact, Mr Franklin was far too excited to be told anything by Bet or anybody else. Instead, he was telling of his own experience in the meadow – of how one day this extraordinary mole had appeared at his feet as he sat on the log, and asked to be read to. ‘But no, no – before that, we got into conversation and I discovered how – in spite of his command of speech – how very ignorant he was. Even of the natural world about him, and its history. He asked me to read to him, and I was going to suggest something that would be really illuminating, educative –’
Mr Franklin suddenly remembered he was talking to a child. ‘Something – well, useful to him, and up to date, of course. But, oddly, he'd got hold of this one big name from the past – of course, very important indeed, absolutely so; but all the same, of the past… You've probably never heard of Charles Darwin?’
‘At school I have,’ said Bet. ‘He was in the reign of Queen Victoria. A scientist. Evolution.’
‘Very roughly, yes,’ said Mr Franklin. ‘A truly great man, with his theory of the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection. So I was going to read that book, The Origin of Species, to this extraordinary mole – at his own request, mind; but I happened to mention that Charles Darwin had also written a book on earthworms; and – do you know?’ Mr Franklin began to laugh wildly. ‘This mole-phenomenon insisted I should get hold of that book by Darwin and read it to him. And can you guess why? Because the glutton loves his food, and the food he loves best is earthworms!’ Mr Franklin steadied himself; he summed up: ‘Our mole has a shallow, frivolous and uninquiring mind.’
As she listened to Mr Franklin, Bet remembered that she had to tell him, from the mole himself, that he was not to come again was never to come again to read on the log in the meadow. Should she tell him that now or later? It would be difficult now; but it might become even more difficult later.
She decided: now.
And told him.
Mr Franklin was bewildered, then outraged. ‘Not go to him in the meadow when my leg is right again? Why ever not?’
‘He didn't like something you talked about.’ The word the mole used had been strange to her; she had no idea what it meant. All the more important that she should get it exactly right now – the mole's word, Mr Franklin's word. ‘You talked to him about a viv – a vivarium.’
Carefully she repeated the word, and then watched a red flush begin to creep over Mr Franklin's face. She could not tell whether it was a sign of anger or, perhaps, of shame. Mr Franklin seemed about to speak, but did not.
Into this silence walked Mrs Allum with her bag crammed full of Mr Franklin's dirty washing for her machine. ‘Time to be off,’ she said to Bet.
They went off together as usual, leaving Mr Franklin alone with his thoughts.
Chapter Four
Go-Between
Mrs Allum had said that Mr Franklin was ‘on the mend’. The hospital agreed. After a few weeks the plaster was taken off his damaged leg, and he was given two walking sticks to use, instead of crutches. Then one walking stick, with which he hobbled about the cottage and even into its little garden.
But never into the meadow.
Whatever deep disagreement there had been between himself and the mole was not referred to again.
Meanwhile, Bet went to and fro between the mole in the meadow and Mr Franklin in the cottage with news of whatever of interest was said or told – or asked for.
After Darwin on earthworms, the mole asked for poetry by Tennyson. He had always enjoyed, he said, the poems of Lord Tennyson when they were read to him by a Miss X. (So he referred to her.)
‘Miss X?’ said Mr Franklin sharply, when Bet reported this. ‘Who's she? Where does she live? Find out all about her for me, Bet. She will be another source of information on this mole-phenomenon.’
But the mole was secretive, even with Bet, and simply repeated his request for the poetry of Tennyson.
Annoyed, Mr Franklin asked Bet, ‘And does your friend with a taste for Tennyson ever say, “Please”?’
Bet thought for a moment: ‘No.’
‘Then you can go back to him and remind him that he is asking a favour of a civilized human being,’ said Mr Franklin, not letting go from his hands his aunt's copy of The Complete Poetic Works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, in One Volume.
Bet reported back to the mole this refusal, using Mr Franklin's own words, rather curious to see what the mole would think of them. He gave a small-sized but very disagreeable guffaw: ‘Civilized, indeed! I could tell you of barbarities – brutalities – committed by so-called civilized human beings not just on my mole species but on other human beings. However, I won't speak of that, for it would turn your stomach. Meanwhile, to this self-styled “civilized” gentleman, I say now, Please, can we borrow your Tennyson?’
The book was lent, and Bet began reading from it. The mole remembered favourite poems, which Bet had to find. Quite early in the readings, the mole asked for a poem beginning
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye…
‘That's The Lady of Shalott!’ Bet exclaimed with pleasure. Her class at school had read the poem, and acted the story. Bet had been given only a very small part in the acting. ‘A burgher,’ she explained to the mole, adding as a joke: ‘Not the kind of burger you eat. My burgher was a citizen of Camelot.’
Either the joke did not appeal to the mole, or he did not know about beefburgers. He just said, ‘Oh?’
Bet read The Lady of Shalott several times, each time liking it better and reading it better.
The mole complimented her on her reading, and, rather hesitantly, had a suggestion to make. ‘We are not always safe from strangers in this meadow. We need a word-warning – a Beware! – which you can give to me secretly when there is an intruder. Here we are by a river, just as was Sir Lancelot.’ The mole quoted from the poem:
‘“Tirra-lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
‘Suppose you sing out “Tirra-lirra!” to me when you see any danger? Then I shall know not to appear above ground.’
They agreed upon this useful arrangement. From time to time people did visit the meadow. Every so often someone would come to check that the old grey pony was all right – as he should be in summer, with grass to eat and the river to drink from. Less often came a man with a ride-on grass-cutter. Before he began the mowing, he spent some time kicking flat the more recent molehills, which would otherwise obstruct his machine and throw grit into its works. ‘That'll teach the little black vermin!’ he muttered every time he did so.
The mole overheard and was sourly amused. When the man and his machine were gone, he explained to Bet: ‘Ignorant people suppose they can harm a mole by destroying the molehills he raises. But the hills are just heaps of waste earth from tunnellings below. It doesn't matter what happens to them. If you were a sensible size – small enough, I mean – I could take you underground and then you would understand how the whole tunnelling system works.’
Bet had given a gasp, which perhaps the mole noticed. ‘But oh! Couldn't you possibly somehow – She left her question hanging in the air.
‘No!’ said the mole. ‘I'm not a magician. No!’
This was a conversation which Bet reported back to Mr Franklin only in part. He thought the ‘Tirra-lirra!’ watchword sounded silly; and she did not repeat to him the mole's, ‘If you were… small enough’. Anyway, Mr Franklin was much more interested in the possibi
lity of tracking down the mole's Miss X and finding out all she knew. ‘And do you think, Bet, there's anyone else who's read to him?’ he asked.
Bet hesitated. ‘There was a boy who talked with him a lot, and read Just William stories that made him laugh. But he grew up and went off to fight in a war.’
‘A war? Which war? There are wars all over the globe nowadays. Surely the young man said where he'd been when he came back?’
‘He didn't come back,’ said Bet.
‘Oh,’ said Mr Franklin. Then, ‘This mole seems to have been fitting a lot of conversation and being read to into a very short life.’
Bet gazed at Mr Franklin doubtfully.
He asked, ‘What have I said, that you're staring at me so?’
‘Nothing,’ said Bet. ‘Sorry.’ Her grandmother had always told her she must not stare at other people, whatever silly things they might say. One must keep one's thoughts to oneself.
Chapter Five
Mrs Allum Stands to Reason
Mr Franklin had discussed with Bet the likelihood that his aunt had been one of the mole's readers. It seemed such an obvious thing. In a roundabout way he questioned Mrs Allum: when his aunt had gone into the meadow, had she usually taken a book with her? Was there already a log there, and did she settle down on it to read?
‘Your auntie never went into that meadow at all, said Mrs Allum. ‘She never would. Never.’
Mr Franklin was taken aback. ‘Why not?’
‘Your auntie was poorly every spring and summer with the hay fever, wasn't she? Streaming nose, streaming eyes, headaches – oh, she suffered! So the last place she'd go into was a meadow.’ Mrs Allum paused, then decided to add to what she had said. ‘I can tell you who did go there.’
‘Who?’
‘Moon. In your auntie's time here, he was a young cat. A great hunter. He went often into the meadow – fairly haunted it. Never came back with a moorhen or even a mouse, but he was hunting something.’