‘Yes, of course, but –’
‘That will at least provide me with a temporary bolt hole, a halfway house, so to speak. You can look for me there, when you come. Then, if you choose – only if you so choose – we can try again.’
‘No,’ said Bet. ‘Because it would be no use.’
‘I don't agree,’ the mole said steadily. ‘We have been friends; and friends can always help friends. You are a friend I have trusted. If you choose, you can help me to free myself from witchcraft – restore me to the true mole nature that I should have. If you choose.’
Bet said desperately, ‘But suppose I simply can't?’
The mole said, ‘Think over all that I have said, and take heart, child.’
With that they parted.
Chapter Nineteen
A Private Intention
Mr Franklin looked out of his window over the pasture and decided to take a stroll on the river bank in the sunshine. The day was entirely his: Sunday – no Mrs Allum.
He was living in the cottage again after the flooding. Moon had joined him there. In the meadow, the old grey pony had been moved back. Only the molehills had not yet reappeared. And, of course, the log had gone.
As usual, there would be moorhens and ducks on the river. No heron – but surely one day another would come. And this morning, if he were very lucky, he might see – as he never had, so far – a kingfisher. Mr Franklin slung his binoculars round his neck and shut the study door on Moon, asleep on his chair. Then he set out from the cottage.
He was nearly on the river bank and was already level with the ash tree when he noticed a new molehill, after all, and not far from it, a hole, and – ‘The mole!’ Mr Franklin whispered to himself.
The upper part of the mole's body was just visible in the mouth of the hole. It turned towards Mr Franklin, as he advanced; and the mole's nose and the whiskery hairs round it twitched slightly.
This was the first time, Mr Franklin realized, that they had seen each other – if ‘seen' was an allowable word – since before his accident on the ladder. He raised his voice to call out with much cheerfulness, ‘A lovely morning, sir!’
‘Franklin?’
‘The same.’
‘I hope’, said the mole, ‘that you are not come with queries and theories and so-called good advice. I may be short of conversation nowadays, but to that kind I would prefer silence.’
Mr Franklin said humbly that he would feel privileged to talk with the mole on any subject of mutual interest. So first of all they talked of the weather and the effects of the recent floods. Then they spoke of Bet. By now she had paid several visits to her new family.
The mole said, ‘I have talked with her only infrequently since her settling in this new place, but I believe she is happy with her family and this friend she speaks of.’
‘The girl, Maddy,’ said Mr Franklin. ‘Yes, very happy, I think.’
‘Although she tells me that her mother sometimes scolds her.’
‘Not more sharply than her grandmother used to, but about different things, no doubt.’
‘And she will be going to a new school, it seems. How will she like that?’
‘Bet can certainly stand up for herself,’ said Mr Franklin, ‘and she is resourceful. Moreover, she'll be there with her friend, I gather.’
‘So, all in all,’ said the mole, ‘you think she is likely to be happy?’
‘I think so,’ said Mr Franklin. ‘So does Bet's grandmother, and she should know.’
‘I'm glad for her,’ said the mole. ‘Truly glad.’ He sighed.
‘And yourself?’ asked Mr Franklin. ‘You're moving back into the meadow, I see. I'm afraid you'll have a good deal of work to do underground. But you've made a start.’
‘I have made for myself what one might call a temporary refuge of tunnelling. It is not my intention to do more. I shall be setting off on my travels again so soon. But that is only between ourselves, please.’
Mr Franklin wanted to ask whether the mole's ‘travels' would take him to Hampton Court; but he did not quite dare to mention that name. So they spoke of other things, such as earthworms.
In parting, Mr Franklin pointed out that the mole could meet Bet's friend, Maddy, when they came down together at half-term for the day. And before that Bet would be coming by herself on a visit.
‘Ah,’ said the mole.
Later, when Bet came to the meadow, she was full of stories of her new life – of going to parks and playgrounds with Maddy, and wandering round the marketplace with her on market day. ‘You can buy anything there – anything!’ she told the mole. And Disham was not far from the coast; so, one weekend, Bet's stepfather had driven all his family to the seaside for the day. Maddy had come, too. ‘And when the baby's old enough we might all go on holiday in France. And, if we do, we might drive through the Channel Tunnel from England to France. Just think: a tunnel under the sea. You would love it.’
The mole said, ‘You really think so?’
‘Well, perhaps not…’
On this visit, as before, Bet did most of the talking; the mole listened. He asked no questions. He raised no topic outside whatever Bet wished to talk about. Nothing awkward from the past was mentioned.
Bet returned to the cottage rather pleased with herself.
Mrs Allum was getting ready to leave for home. Mr Franklin had just paid her what he owed her for recent housework done. He saw Bet coming in from the meadow. ‘So you found the mole, and talked?’
‘Yes,’ said Bet, ‘about all sorts of things. And hasn't he done a lot of digging underground since the flood! Now there are new molehills all over the place.’
‘Not his, I think,’ said Mr Franklin. ‘They will have been the work of other moles entirely.’
‘None of the new molehills thrown up by him? No tunnelling by him?’ Bet was alarmed.
Too late Mr Franklin saw his mistake, and tried to put it right: ‘Unless, of course, he has changed his mind. He told me that he had come to a decision, but he may well have gone back on it.’
‘Come to a decision? What decision? Why is he not rebuilding his tunnels? What's going on?’
‘Now, now!’ Mrs Allum said, starting to pay attention as Bet raised her voice; and Mr Franklin began: ‘I can't tell you more than I already have, for reasons I cannot go into —’
‘Then if you won't tell me, I'll ask the mole! He'll tell me the truth.’ And with that Bet was out of the cottage, and across the meadow towards the ash tree.
‘That creature!’ said Mrs Allum, exasperated. ‘What now?’ She was impatient to be off.
But Mr Franklin took the matter more seriously. ‘Trouble,’ he said. ‘Bad trouble, I fear.’
Chapter Twenty
Miss Z
When Bet reached the ash tree, there was no sign of the mole. She knelt and put her mouth close to the mole-hole and shouted down, ‘Hello there!’
Silence from below; then a slight noise of movement; and then the mole's voice, cross: ‘Who calls so rudely?’
‘It's only me again – Bet!’ Her voice had suddenly softened. ‘Please come out and talk to me – please! Oh, I can't bear it!’
The mole appeared and crept out of his hole. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
‘You're leaving here, aren't you? You're going away, aren't you?’
A short silence. Then, ‘Yes,’ said the mole.
‘But why can't you stay? Why?’
The mole said, ‘This pleasant pasture has become like a prison to me, an iron cage. I must escape. I must move on.’
Bet said, ‘Really, it's because of me, isn't it?’
The mole made no answer.
Bet said, ‘It's because I couldn't help you get rid of the witchcraft, isn't it? And it's worse than you think, because I could have helped you, and I deliberately didn't. And it's even worse than that, because I willed the witchcraft in you not to go. Did you know that?’
The mole said nothing.
‘I think you did, in t
he end. In the end, you knew I was a friend you couldn't trust.’
‘My dear child,’ said the mole, ‘all living creatures are as they are. Human beings in particular –’ He paused there, clearly searching for words that would not be too wounding for his listener. ‘Human beings are a species with natures more – more variable than the nature of a mole.’
‘You mean, they change? They betray? But I needn't have been like that. I needn't be like that now. It's not too late. I can change back. I can help you, and I will. Now. I will.’
‘Oh, wait!’ said the mole. ‘Think – think carefully for a moment! Remember! If we try again, and if we succeed where we failed before, I shall become natural mole, who fears – and therefore hates – the human being that you are. I shall not be able to help myself.’
‘I don't care, said Bet. ‘Now, at this minute, what I want most in the world is for you to be mole, wholly mole, nothing but mole. Because that's what you want – that's what you need; and you can trust me, your friend, to help you get that.’
He had to believe her. ‘Very well,’ said the mole.
For the last time they were friends together, determined between them to achieve something heroic in the name of friendship.
Again the mole compacted his body; and again Bet reached out and touched him with a finger, and let her finger remain where it touched. This time something like an electric current seemed to run between the two of them; and Bet became aware of changes and transformations even more wonderful than big to little, or little to big. First, and reluctantly, an ancient foulness, in its entirety, left the mole; and then his whole body began to shimmer with joy. At his hindquarters the shimmer solidified into something that was a little taller than a matchstick and a good deal fatter than a matchstick – and otherwise not very much like a matchstick at all. For this was part of the mole's own body restored to him at last: his tail.
Bet gave a cry of delight. At the same moment the mole squealed in terror and bit her finger. Then, in frantic haste, he flung himself away from her to the river bank and headlong into the water. Bet saw him swim across, climb the opposite bank and disappear into the darkness of the trees.
Watching from the cottage, Mr Franklin and Mrs Allum could not, of course, hear what was said between girl and mole, nor could they be sure of what they saw. All they were aware of was some desperate happening, and then Bet's own movements. She went to sit on the very edge of the river bank, drew her knees up under her chin and fixed her gaze on the obscurity of the woodland opposite.
‘She must come back!’ fussed Mrs Allum. ‘We have to get home. He'll want his tea.’
Mr Franklin said, ‘You can't disturb her now. She's too upset. Wait.’
Mrs Allum went to wait in the car, ready to set off at once. Meanwhile, Bet had got to her feet, turned from the river and was coming back across the meadow. Mr Franklin met her at the field gate. She said, ‘The mole bit my hand.’ When Mr Franklin exclaimed in astonishment and indignation, she said, ‘No, it wasn't like that at all.’ She explained enough of the circumstance to enlighten him.
Mr Franklin said, ‘I'm so very sorry…
‘No,’ said Bet. ‘I did what I most wanted to do, and it's all all right.’ But her voice was dreary.
Mr Franklin tried to comfort her: ‘You have been a true friend to the mole – one of the best. Not Miss X – not Master Y – was a trustier friend than you have been.’
Bet did not answer him; and Mrs Allum was sounding the horn for her to hurry.
Mr Franklin said, ‘I'm afraid you'll never want to visit here again.’
‘I have to come at half-term,’ said Bet. ‘I promised Maddy that we'd come together then.’ She went on to the car, where her grandmother had already started the engine.
Weeks later, at half-term, the two girls came.
Mr Franklin was surprised by Bet's friend, Maddy. She was bouncy, rather talkative, and unabashed in company. Not in the least like Bet, but perhaps it was just because of those differences, Mr Franklin reflected, that they got on so well.
After they had all greeted Mr Franklin, Mrs Allum started on her housework and Bet went into the meadow; but Maddy lingered in the cottage. Its oddity fascinated her. In Mr Franklin's study she saw Moon asleep.
She said, ‘That's a lovely cat. So white.’
‘It's called Moon,’ said Mr Franklin.
‘That's right,’ said Maddy.
‘Right?’
‘I mean, his name suits his colour, doesn't it?’
Mr Franklin watched Maddy. Now she was examining the books still piled on tables and chairs, waiting to be reshelved. She was chatting to herself as she puzzled out some of the titles. She picked on one of the thickest volumes: ‘Alfred, Lord Tennyson – that's poetry, isn't it, Mr Franklin?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Maddy held the book in both hands, murmuring, ‘My! It really is heavy!’
Mr Franklin looked curiously at Maddy. Probably she knew all that he knew of the happenings in the meadow. Bet would have told her. But had Bet told her even more? There was at least one mystery he would like to have solved. (As usual, he longed to know, to understand.)
He said, ‘Before the recent flood here –’
He paused.
Maddy said, ‘Yes?’
‘Before the flood here, there was a day when something odd happened in the meadow.’
‘Odd?’ said Maddy.
‘Well, it seemed odd. Something to do with Bet's size.’
‘Size?’ said Maddy.
‘She suddenly seemed – well, you know, bigger. Temporarily bigger. Has she ever talked to you about her size?’
‘Oh, yes!’ cried Maddy. ‘Of course, Mr Franklin! Because Bet's a little older than I am, so it's not surprising that she's taller than I am. Bigger, you know. Was that what you meant, Mr Franklin?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Mr Franklin, ‘but it doesn't matter.’
Their eyes met: Maddy's gaze was bold, but also blank. She was giving nothing away. Mr Franklin realized then – and it is a useful bit of knowledge – that a talkative person can also keep secrets.
After exploring the cottage and its contents, Maddy joined Bet out in the meadow. ‘Where was the log that got swept away in the floods?’ she asked.
The baldness where it had lain was beginning to disappear as the grass and meadow weeds grew over it. But Bet found the place, and they stood there. Maddy, gazing round, said, Just look at the molehills!’
Bet explained about other moles in the meadow, each one living separately in its own tunnel system.
‘And your mole might be one of them, Bet.’
‘He was never my mole; he belonged to himself always. But, if he were here, we'd never know.’
Maddy was not satisfied. ‘Look at the molehills!’ she said again.
‘I have.’
‘No, but the molehills nearest to this bare patch – nearest to where the log used to be – look! They're roughly in a circle – in a deliberate circle.’
Bet turned slowly round – right round. Maddy was right, the molehills were arranged like a necklace round the very spot where the log had been, where so often she and the mole had met for reading aloud or for talk. But she said, ‘The mole warned me that he would have no memory of what had been.’
Maddy said, ‘Well, I don't remember things that happened long ago when I was very little; and yet I nearly remember. It could be like that for him.’
Bet stood on the bare patch and stared at the molehills and thought over what her friend had just said. She felt some kind of comfort creeping into her.
Maddy was going from molehill to molehill. ‘You must take something home with you to remind you always.’ With her fingers she was sifting through the fine soil of each molehill in turn. ‘Here's quite a pretty little stone you could keep.’ She moved on. ‘Or a snail shell – but it's broken.’ She moved on again. ‘And here's an old metal button – I think. Very dirty.’
Bet sprang forward.
‘Oh, yes, that's what I want!' She did not yet say why. They took the object indoors to the tap in the scullery and began scrubbing at it.
‘Not a button,’ said Maddy. ‘Perhaps an old lucky threepenny bit?’
They scrubbed on. ‘Not a coin at all,’ said Bet, puzzled. Cleaned up, this was just a flat silvery disc with a hole punched in it, off-centre.
‘Quite a lot of writing scratched on one side,’ said Maddy. ‘An address…’
‘The address of this cottage!’ said Bet, peering. Then she understood. ‘There'll be a dog's name scratched on the other side - yes! S-u-n-n-y. He was old Miss Franklin's dog, long ago – you remember? I did tell you. This is his identity disc.’
‘So the mole cast it up in the waste earth of one of his molehills. He meant it for you, Bet.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bet.
‘Truly,’ said Maddy; and she saw that Bet clasped the disc tightly in her hand.
Later, when they were about to go home, Bet went alone into the meadow, with the disc in her pocket, to look again at the necklace of molehills. She dared to say aloud, ‘I really think Maddy may be right.’ She smiled to herself: ‘Yes.’
Hugging that thought to her, Bet went back to the car.
Mr Franklin was waiting to see them off. He looked anxiously at Bet. ‘All right?’
‘Oh, yes!’ She smiled at him, as she had smiled to herself in the meadow. She said, ‘And I would like to come again some day, please, with Maddy.’
He was relieved, happy for her. He said, ‘Any day, my dear Miss Z.’
Philippa Pearce, The Little Gentleman
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