It was now quite dark outside. They had all got used to going to bed when it got dark, and they slept for a long time, longer and longer as the days drew in. Toft crept in like a shadow and gave a mumbled good night and Hemulen turned his nose to the wall. He had decided to build a cupola on the top of Moominpappa’s tree-house. He could paint it green and perhaps put gold stars on it. There was generally some gold paint in Moominmamma’s desk and he had seen a tin of bronze paint in the woodshed.
When they were all asleep, Grandpa-Grumble climbed
the stairs with a candle. He stopped outside the big clothes-cupboard and whispered: ‘Are you there? I know you’re there.’ He opened the cupboard very gently, and the door with the mirror swung open.
The candle flame was very small and gave very little light in the hall, but Grandpa-Grumble could see the Ancestor quite clearly in front of him. He was wearing a hat and carried a stick and looked highly improbable. His dressing-gown was too long and he was wearing gaiters. But no glasses. Grandpa-Grumble took a step forward and the Ancestor did the same thing.
‘So you don’t live in the stove any longer,’ said Grandpa-Grumble. ‘How old are you? Don’t you ever wear glasses?’ He was very excited and thumped with his stick on the floor to give emphasis to what he was saying. The Ancestor did the same, but didn’t answer.
He’s deaf, said Grandpa-Grumble to himself. A stonedeaf old bag of bones. But in any case it’s nice to meet someone who knows what it feels like to be old. He remained there staring at the Ancestor for a long time. The Ancestor did the same. They parted with feelings of mutual esteem.
CHAPTER 15
Nummulite
THE days were growing shorter and colder. It didn’t rain very often. The sun shone down into the valley for a short while each day and the bare trees threw shadows on the ground but in the morning and in the evening everything lay in half-light and then night came. They never saw the sun go down but they did see the yellow glow of the sunset in the sky and the sharp outlines of the mountains all round – it was like living in a well.
The Hemulen and Toft were building Moominpappa’s tree-house. Grandpa-Grumble caught a couple of fish every day and Fillyjonk had begun to whistle.
It was an autumn without storms and the big thunderstorm didn’t come back, but rolled past in the distance with a faint rumbling sound that made the silence in the valley seem even deeper. Only Toft knew that every time the thunder was heard the Creature grew and lost a bit more of its shyness. It was fairly big now and had changed a lot, it had opened its mouth and had shown its teeth. One evening in the yellow light of sunset the Creature leant over the water and saw its own white teeth for the first time. It opened its mouth and yawned, then snapped its mouth shut and gnashed its teeth a bit, and thought: I don’t need anyone now, I’ve got teeth.
In the end Toft didn’t dare make the Creature any bigger. He made all the pictures vanish, but the thunder continued to rumble over the sea and Toft could feel that the Creature was now growing on its own.
Toft found it difficult to go to sleep at night without first telling something to himself because he’d been doing it for so long. He read and read in his book and understood less and less. Now they were talking about what the Creature looked like inside, and it was boring.
One evening Fillyjonk tapped on the box-room door, opened it cautiously and said: ‘Hallo there!’
Toft looked up from his book and waited.
The big Fillyjonk sat down on the floor beside him, put her head on one side and said: ‘What are you reading?’
‘A book,’ Toft answered.
Fillyjonk took a deep breath and took the plunge: ‘It isn’t always easy to be small arid not have a mummy, is it?’
Toft hid himself in his chair. He felt ashamed of her and didn’t answer.
Fillyjonk reached out her paw and then drew it back. She said very sincerely: ‘Yesterday evening I suddenly thought of you. What is your name again?’
‘Toft,’ said Toft.
‘Toft,’ Fillyjonk repeated. ‘A lovely name.’ She desperately searched for words and wished she knew a little more about children and liked them. In the end she said: ‘Are you warm enough? Are you all right here?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Toft.
Fillyjonk tried to look straight into his eyes and asked imploringly: ‘Are you really sure?’
Toft drew back a bit, she smelt of fear. Hastily he said: ‘A blanket, perhaps.’
Fillyjonk got up immediately. ‘And you shall have one,’ she exclaimed. ‘Just wait, it won’t take a minute…’ He heard her running down the stairs and coming back again. She had a blanket with her.
‘Thank you very much,’ Toft said, and bowed. ‘It’s a very good blanket.’
Fillyjonk smiled. ‘Oh, don’t mention it!’ she said. ‘Moominmamma would have done the same.’ She dropped the blanket on the floor, hesitated a little, and then went away.
Toft folded the blanket up as neatly as he could and put it at the back of the shelf, he crept into the roach-net and tried to go on reading. It was no good. He understood less and less, and read the same sentence many times over without knowing what he was reading. In the end he put the book down, blew out his candle and went out.
It was difficult to find the crystal ball. He walked the wrong way, floundering around among the tree-trunks as if the garden was a strange place to him. At last the crystal ball appeared out of the darkness, but its blue light had gone out and it was full of fog, thick dark fog which was hardly any lighter than the night itself. Inside the magic ball the fog quickly floated past, disappeared, was sucked in, and went round and round, more and more fog in deep, darkening spirals.
Toft walked along the river and passed Moominpappa’s tobacco bed. He stepped in under the spruce-trees by the big pool, the withered reeds rustled on all sides and his shoes sank into the boggy ground.
‘Are you there?’ he called softly. ‘Little Nummulite, how are you?’
Then the Creature growled at him from the darkness.
Horror-stricken, Toft rushed blindly away, stumbling and falling and dragging himself up again until he reached the tent. It shone like a calm green light in the night. Inside Snufkin was playing softly to himself.
‘It’s me,’ Toft whispered. He went inside the tent, where he’d never been before. It smelt nice inside – of pipe-tobacco and earth. Beside the sleeping-bag was a candle on a sugar box and the floor was covered with wood-shavings.
‘It’s going to be a wooden-spoon,’ Snufkin said. ‘Were you frightened by something?’
‘There is no family any longer,’ answered Toft. ‘They’ve deceived me.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ said Snufkin. ‘Perhaps they just want to be in peace for a while.’ He picked up his thermos flask and filled two mugs with tea. ‘There’s the sugar,’ he said. ‘They’re sure to come home some time.’
‘Some time!’ exclaimed Toft. ‘She must come now, she’s the only one I care about!’
Snufkin shrugged his shoulders. He made two sandwiches and said: ‘I wonder what it is that Moominmamma cares about…’
Toft said no more. As he was leaving Snufkin called after him: ‘You want to be careful not to let things get too big.’
Then the sound of the mouth-organ could be heard again. Fillyjonk stood on the kitchen steps with her bucket of rubbish at her side, listening. Toft made a detour round her and slunk stealthily into the house.
CHAPTER 16
Picnic
SNUFKIN was summoned to Sunday dinner on the following day. It was two o’clock, quarter past two and Fillyjonk still hadn’t called them to table. When half past two came Snufkin put a new feather in his hat and went to see what was up. The kitchen table was standing by the steps and the Hemulen and Toft were carrying chairs out.
‘It’s a picnic,’ Grandpa-Grumble explained gloomily. ‘She says that today’s the day when we must do just what we feel like doing.’
Fillyjonk came ou
t with the food. It was oatmeal porridge. A gentle but cold wind swept through the valley and made a skin on the porridge.
‘Now help yourself and don’t be shy,’ said Fillyjonk to Toft and patted him on the head.
‘What do we have to eat outside for?’ Grandpa-Grumble complained. He pushed the skin to the side of his plate.
‘You must eat the skin, too,’ Fillyjonk remarked.
‘Why can’t we eat in the kitchen?’ said Grandpa-Grumble.
‘Sometimes one does just what occurs to one. One takes one’s food with one or perhaps one doesn’t eat anything at all. It’s fun!’
The table was crooked on the uneven ground. The Hemulen held his plate in his paws. ‘There’s something that’s bothering me,’ he said. ‘The cupola isn’t going well. Toft saws the wood according to my instructions but it’s never right. And when you saw a little more off the plank, it’s too short and falls off. Do you see what I mean?’
‘What about making an ordinary roof?’ suggested Snufkin.
‘That would fall off, too,’ said Hemulen.
‘I hate skin on oatmeal porridge,’ said Grandpa-Grumble.
‘Of course, there’s another possibility,’ the Hemulen went on. ‘Not to have a roof at all! I have been sitting here thinking that perhaps Moominpappa would prefer to look at the stars. Don’t you think he would rather look at the stars?’
Toft suddenly exclaimed: ‘That’s what you think! What do you know about what Moominpappa likes?’
They all stopped eating and stared at him.
Toft clutched the tablecloth and shouted: ‘You please yourself what you do in any case! Why do you have to make such big things?’
‘Well, what do you know!’ said Mymble in astonishment.’ Toft’s baring his teeth!’
Toft got up so violently that his chair fell over. He hid himself under the table.
‘Really! Toft, who is generally so well-behaved,’ Fillyjonk said stiffly. ‘And on a picnic, too!’
‘Listen, Fillyjonk,’ said Mymble seriously. ‘I don’t think moving the kitchen table outdoors makes one a moomin-mamma.’
Fillyjonk stood up and cried: ‘Moominmamma! Moom-inmamma! That’s all I hear! What’s so special about her? A slovenly family, the whole lot of them! They don’t even clean their own house, even though they can clean, and they don’t even leave the briefest note behind although they knew that we… although they knew that…’ She stopped, helpless.
‘A note!’ declared Grandpa-Grumble. ‘I found a note somewhere and I hid it somewhere.’
‘What? Where did you hide it?’ Snufkin demanded.
Now they all stood up.
‘Somewhere,’ Grandpa-Grumble muttered. ‘I think I’ll go fishing. I’m not enjoying this picnic. It’s no fun.’
‘Now think carefully,’ the Hemulen begged. ‘Try and remember. We’ll help you. When did you see it last, what? Where would you hide it now if you’d only just found it?’
‘I am on holiday,’ Grandpa-Grumble said sulkily. ‘I can forget what I like. It’s marvellous to forget. I intend to forget everything except one or two nice things that are important. I shall go and have a chat with my friend the Ancestor. He knows. You only think, we know.’
The Ancestor looked just the same as usual, except that he had a napkin round his neck.
‘Hallo,’ said Grandpa-Grumble, ‘I’m really angry. Do you know what they’ve done to me?’ He waited a while. The Ancestor shook his head slowly and stamped his feet.
‘You’re right,’ said Grandpa-Grumble. ‘They have ruined my holiday. Here I am, feeling proud that I’ve managed to forget as much as I have and suddenly I’m supposed to start remembering things! It gives me a pain in the stomach. I’m so angry that I almost do have a pain in the stomach.’
For the first time Grandpa-Grumble remembered his medicines. But he couldn’t remember where he had put them.
*
‘They were in a basket,’ the Hemulen repeated. ‘He said that he had them in a basket. And it isn’t in the drawing-room.’
‘Perhaps he’s left it somewhere in the garden,’ said Mymble.
Fillyjonk exclaimed: ‘He says it’s our fault! How can it be my fault? The only thing I’ve done is make him hot blackcurrant juice. He liked it!’ She gave Mymble a wry look and added: ‘I know that Moominmamma usually makes hot blackcurrant juice whenever anybody’s ill, but I did it all the same.’
‘Now, keep calm everybody,’ said the Hemulen. ‘I’ll tell you what you must do. It’s a question of medicine bottles and brandy, a note and eight pairs of glasses. We’ll divide the valley and the house into different parts and then everyone…’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Fillyjonk. She put her nose round the drawing-room door and asked anxiously: ‘How do you feel now?’
‘Bad,’ said Grandpa-Grumble. ‘This is what happens when there’s skin on the oatmeal porridge and I’m not left
in peace to forget things.’ He was lying on the drawing-room sofa under a pile of blankets and had his hat on.
‘How old are you, actually?’ Fillyjonk asked cautiously.
‘I have no intention of dying,’ Grandpa-Grumble declared cheerfully. ‘How old are you yourself?’
Fillyjonk disappeared. Doors were opened and shut all over the house, the garden was full of the sound of shouts and running footsteps. Nobody thought of anything but Grandpa-Grumble. That basket might be anywhere, he thought not without a certain satisfaction. His stomach had settled.
Mymble came in and sat on the edge of his sick-bed. ‘Listen, Grandpa-Grumble,’ she said. ‘You’re just as well as I am and you know it.’
‘Possibly,’ Grandpa-Grumble answered. ‘But I shan’t get up until I know that I can have a party! Quite a small party for old people who have recovered.’
‘Or a big party for mymbles who want to dance,’ said Mymble thoughtfully.
‘Not at all!’ Grandpa-Grumble exclaimed. ‘A huge party for me and the Ancestor. He hasn’t had a party for a hundred years, and now he’s sitting in the clothes-cupboard feeling sorry for himself.’
‘If you believe that you’d believe anything,’ said Mymble with a grin.
‘It’s found!’ the Hemulen shouted outside. The door flew open and the drawing-room was suddenly full of people and movement. ‘The basket was under the veranda!’ the Hemulen exclaimed. ‘And the brandy was on the other side of the river!’
‘Brook,’ corrected Grandpa-Grumble. ‘I’ll have the brandy first.’ Fillyjonk poured out a little drop and they all watched him carefully while he drank it down.
‘Do you want a little of each medicine or only one kind?’ Fillyjonk asked.
‘None at all,’ Grandpa-Grumble answered, and fell back among the cushions with a sigh. ‘Don’t ever again mention things I don’t like to hear. And I shan’t get really well before I’ve been given a party…’
‘Take off his boots,’ said the Hemulen. ‘Toft, take off his boots. It’s the first thing to do when anybody’s got a stomach-ache.’
Toft unlaced Grandpa-Grumble’s boots and took them off. He took a crumpled up piece of white paper out of one of them.
The note!’ Snufkin exclaimed. He smoothed out the paper carefully and read:
‘Please do not light a fire in the stove because that’s where the Ancestor lives. – Moominmamma.’
CHAPTER 17
Preparations
FILLYJONK said nothing more about what had been living in the clothes-cupboard, but tried to fill her head with small, fussy thoughts of the kind she was used to. But at night she could hear the faint, hardly distinguishable sounds that occur when something is crawling inside the wallpaper, sometimes a scurrying sound along the wainscot, and once a death-watch beetle had been ticking over the head of her bed.
The best things in the whole day were being able to bang the gong and put the rubbish bucket on the steps after dark. Snufkin played almost every evening and Fillyjonk had learnt his tunes. But she only whistled when she was s
ure that no one would hear her.
One evening she was sitting by the stove trying to find some excuse for not going to bed.
‘Are you asleep?’ asked Mymble outside the door. She came in without waiting for an answer and said: ‘I need some rainwater to wash my hair.’
‘Really,’ said Fillyjonk. ‘I should have thought that river water would have done just as well. It’s in the middle bucket. That one’s spring water. But you can rinse your hair with rainwater if you insist. Don’t spill any on the floor.’
‘You seem to be yourself again.’ Mymble declared and put the water on the stove. ‘Actually, you’re nicer that way. I shall wear my hair down for the party.’
‘What party?’ said Fillyjonk sharply.
‘The party for Grandpa-Grumble,’ Mymble answered. ‘Didn’t you know that we’re having a party in the kitchen tomorrow?’
‘You don’t mean to say so! It’s news to me!’ Fillyjonk exclaimed. ‘That’s certainly something worth knowing! It’s just exactly what one should do when one is shut in together, washed ashore, wind-blown, rain-drenched – one has a party and in the middle of the party the lights go out and when they go on again there is One Less in the House.’
Mymble looked at Fillyjonk with new interest. ‘Sometimes you’re very surprising,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t bad at all. And then one after another vanishes and in the end only the cat is left, washing itself on their graves!’
Fillyjonk shuddered. ‘I think your water is hot,’ she said. ‘There’s no cat here.’
‘It would be easy to get one,’ said Mymble with a grin. ‘You just imagine it and there you are, you’ve got a cat!’ She took the saucepan off the stove and opened the door with her elbow. ‘Good night,’ she said. ‘And don’t forget to put your hair in curlers. And the Hemulen said that you were the one to decorate the kitchen because you’re the most artistic’ Then Mymble went away and closed the door behind her quite niftily with her foot.
Fillyjonk’s heart started pounding. She was artistic, the Hemulen had said that she was artistic. What a wonderful