Arabel's Raven

  "Mortimer!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

  "Nevermore," said a voice at ground level in the dark behind him. Although he had been expecting something of the kind, Mr. Jones jumped. Then he turned around and saw Mortimer, with his eyes shining in the light of the streetlamps, walking slowly along by the hedge, peering in at all the front gates of the houses in turn. He was on the wrong side of the road, so it was likely that he would have passed clean by Number Six and gone on goodness knows where. Mr. Jones picked him up.

  "I probably ought to turn you over to the police for eating the traffic lights and causing an obstruction," he said severely. "But Arabel's ill in the hospital, so I'm going to take you to see her. And you'd better behave yourself."

  "Kaaaark," said Mortimer. Mr. Jones was not absolutely encouraged by the way he said it.

  He went home, because he had not yet packed up the nightdresses, tea bags, and digestive mints. While he was finding these things, Mortimer wandered into the kitchen and saw the large dish of spaghetti that Mr. Jones had cooked for his supper.

  Mortimer looked at it thoughtfully. He loved spaghetti as a rule, but just at present he was so full of bananas that he felt unable to eat anything else.

  "Kaaaark," he said sadly.

  He wanted to make some use of the spaghetti, however, since he wasn't able to eat it, so he looked around for a container. When allowed to do so, Mortimer greatly enjoyed packing spaghetti into jam jars or sponge bags or old yogurt pots.

  He had just disposed of the spaghetti when Mr. Jones came back with the mints and nightdresses, took a box of tea bags from the kitchen cupboard, dropped all these things into the tartan shopping bag, put on his overcoat again, and picked up Mortimer.

  By now it was quite late in the evening, but Mr. Jones supposed that it would be all right to go to the hospital, although it was after proper visiting hours, because the doctor had told him to bring Mortimer.

  He drove his taxi to Rumbury Central, parked it outside, and walked in with Mortimer on his shoulder.

  Mortimer was amazed by the hospital. It had been built about a hundred years ago, of stone, and was huge, like a prison. Several of its corridors were about a mile long, and the echoes from even the smallest sound, even things outside in the street, were so loud that many patients believed the nurses and doctors were allowed to drive cars along the passages, although this was not actually the case.

  Mr. Jones went up to the fourth floor in a huge creaking lift—at which Mortimer said, "Kaaark," because it reminded him of the lift in Rumbury Tube Station—and then walked along miles of passage until he found Balaclava Ward. There was nobody outside the door to ask if he might go in, so he stood on tiptoe and peered through two round glass holes like portholes in the double doors. He could see a double row of white-covered beds and, some distance off, Mrs. Jones, sitting by one of them. He caught her eye and waved. She made signs that he was to wait until the sister—who wore a white pie-frill cap and sat at a desk near the door—noticed him and let him in.

  Mr. Jones nodded.

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and prepared to wait quietly.

  But he didn't wait quietly. Instead, he let out a series of such earsplitting yells that patients shot bolt upright in their beds all over that wing of the hospital, porters rammed their trolleys into doors, nurses dropped trays of instruments, ambulances started up outside and rushed away, doctors jabbed themselves with syringes, and Mortimer flew straight into the air and flapped distractedly round and round, shouting, "Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore!"

  Mr. Jones fainted dead away on the floor.

  Sister Bridget Hagerty came rushing out of the ward. She was small and black-haired and freckled; her eyes were as blue as blue scouring powder; when she gave orders for a thing to be done it was done fast. But everybody liked her.

  "What in the name of goodness is going on here?" she cried.

  Dr. Antonio arrived. He was in charge of that wing of the hospital at night and had just come on duty. He was not the same doctor who had told Mrs. Jones to have Mortimer brought. In fact, Dr. Antonio couldn't stand birds. He had been frightened by a tame cockatoo at the age of three, in his pram; ever since then the sight of any bird larger than a blue tit brought him out in a rash.

  He came out in a rash now, bright scarlet, at the sight of Mortimer.

  "It's obvious what's going on!" he said. "That beady-eyed brute has attacked this poor fellow. Palgrave! Where are you?"

  Palgrave was the orderly, who had just been bringing the doctor a cup of instant coffee. He came running along the corridor at the doctor's shout.

  "Palgrave, get that bird out of here."

  "Yes, sir, right away," said Palgrave, and he opened a window and threw the cup of coffee all over Mortimer, who was still circling around overhead, wondering what had come over Mr. Jones.

  Mortimer didn't care for coffee, unless it was very sweet, and his feelings were hurt; he flew out of the window.

  "Doctor, there's something very funny about this man," said Sister Bridget, who was kneeling by Mr. Jones. "Why do you suppose his hands are all covered with spaghetti in cheese sauce?"

  "Perhaps he's an emergency burn case," suggested the doctor. "Perhaps he couldn't find anything else and used the spaghetti as a burn dressing. We had better take him along to the Casualty Department."

  "But his pockets seem to be full of spaghetti, too," said Sister Bridget.

  "Perhaps he was on his way to visit some Italian friends," said Dr. Antonio. "Perhaps he is Italian. Parla Italiano?" he shouted hopefully into Mr. Jones's ear.

  Mr. Jones groaned.

  "Parla Italiano?" said the doctor again.

  Mr. Jones, who had flown over Italy as a Spitfire pilot in World War II, said feebly, "Have we crashed? Where's my gunner? Where's my navigator?"

  "A mental case," said Dr. Antonio. "Speaks English, hands covered in spaghetti, asks for his navigator. Without doubt, a mental case. Palgrave, fetch a straitjacket."

  Luckily at that moment Mrs. Jones walked out, wondering what had become of Ben. When she saw him lying on the ground, his hands covered in spaghetti, she let out a cry.

  "Oh, Ben, dear! Whatever has been going on?"

  "Do you know this man?" asked Sister Bridget.

  "He's my husband. What's happened to him?"

  "He seems to have fainted," said the sister.

  Mr. Jones came to a bit more. "Worms," he said faintly. "Worms in my pocket. It was the shock—"

  "Oh my goodness gracious, I should think so, whatever next," cried his wife. "Worms in your pockets, how did they come to be there then?"

  "It wasn't worms, it was spaghetti," said the sister, helping Mr. Jones to sit up and fanning him with the straitjacket which Palgrave had just brought. "Could you fetch a cup of tea, please, Palgrave? How did you come to have your pockets full of spaghetti, Mr. Jones?"

  "Instant coffee, instant straitjacket, instant tea," grumbled Palgrave, stomping off.

  "Spaghetti? Oh, that'll have been Mortimer, bless his naughty ways," said Mrs. Jones. "Last time I left him alone with a bowl of spaghetti for five minutes he packed it all in among my Shetland knitting wool. Arabel's friends were asking where she got her spaghetti—Fair Isle sweater—Ben! Where is Mortimer?"

  Mr. Jones struggled to his feet and drank the cup of tea Palgrave handed to him.

  "Mortimer? He was here just now. Have you seen a raven?" he asked Palgrave.

  "Raven? Big black bird? I chucked him out the window with a cup of Whizzcaff up his tail feathers," said Palgrave.

  "Oh no!" wailed Mrs. Jones. "Dr. Plantagenet said a sight of Mortimer was the one thing that might make Arabel feel better."

  She looked beseechingly at the sister. Sister Bridget looked at Palgrave. Palgrave looked at Dr. Antonio, who looked at his feet.

  "Better go outside and start looking for him and quick about it," said the sister.

  "Instant coffee, instant straitjacket, instant tea, instant raven," grumbled Pa
lgrave, and went out through the fire door onto the fire escape.

  Where, all this time, was Mortimer?

  Outside the windows of Balaclava Ward there was a balcony that ran right along. There Mortimer sat in the dark, thinking gloomy thoughts.

  He was quite tired. It had been a long, exciting day: first of all the roller skating, then the bananas, then the chimney, then the soot, then the two-mile walk from Auntie Brenda's house to Rainwater Crescent. Then the traffic lights.

  Mortimer longed for his cozy white shiny enamel bread bin; his feet hurt and his tail feathers felt fidgety from the Whizzcaff, and his wings were sore where Lindy, Cindy, and Mindy had pulled them, and he wanted to go to sleep very badly.

  But also he had a kind of feeling that Arabel was somewhere not far off, and he wanted to see her very badly, too.

  Limping a little, muttering and croaking under his breath, he started going sideways along the parapet of the balcony, looking through each window as he came to it.

  Just inside the third window there was a bed which at first looked as if there was nobody in it; the person was so very small, and lying so very flat, not moving at all.

  Mortimer flopped across from the parapet to the windowsill and looked through the glass, his black eyes as bright and sharp as pencil points. "Kaaaark!" he said.

  The person in the bed didn't stir.

  Mortimer tapped on the closed window with his beak.

  Nobody came to let him in. Sister Bridget was talking to Mr. and Mrs. Jones at the other end of the ward, a long way off. All the other patients were asleep. Nobody heard Mortimer.

  Down below, on the ground, Dr. Antonio and Palgrave, with torches and butterfly nets, were hunting for Mortimer in the hospital garden. They weren't finding him.

  Mortimer sighed. Then he spread his wings and hoisted himself into the air. He flew along the row of windows tapping each in turn. They were all shut. Fresh air came into the ward through small round ventilators; no use to Mortimer.

  When he had been all along one side of the ward and back along the other side, Mortimer flew up over the roof. Here he found a chimney and perched on it.

  The chimney had a familiar sooty smell. Mortimer stuck his head down inside and listened. Then he sniffed. Then he listened again. Then he tapped with his beak on the chimney pot. Then he came to a quick decision and dived headfirst down the chimney.

  Luckily for Mortimer they had given up using stoves to heat Rumbury Central Hospital. They had electric radiators instead. But the stoves were still there, because nobody had time to remove them, and anyway it would make too much mess.

  In the middle of Balaclava Ward there was a big blue stove, shiny, with a big black stovepipe leading down to it, and two doors that opened in front, with shiny little mica panes in them so that you could see the fire behind them when it was lighted.

  Mortimer came clattering down the chimney head first and landed inside the stove, with two pounds of clinker and a bit of soot—though nothing like so much as had been in Auntie Brenda's chimney, because this one had been regularly swept.

  He made the most amazing noise inside the chimney. Several of the patients woke up and thought it was Santa Claus.

  Sister Bridget came running.

  Mortimer was trying to open the doors, but he couldn't. He did get his head out through one of the mica panes, though, and glared at Sister Bridget as she came up to him.

  "Is that your bird?" Sister Bridget asked Mrs. Jones.

  "Oh good gracious, bless my precious soul, yes, however did he get in there, the naughty wretch. Oh, dear Sister Bridget, do get him out of there quick, please, I'm so anxious about Arabel, she doesn't seem to take notice of anything."

  Sister Bridget undid the screw that kept the stove doors shut. When she opened the doors, out swung Mortimer, with his head still stuck through one of the panes. Sister Bridget grabbed him around the middle. She didn't hurt him, but she held him tight while she worked his head backward through the hole he had made.

  Then she held him up and had a look at him.

  "Did you ever in all your born days see a bird in such a filthy state?" she said. "That bird is going to have a bath before he goes anywhere near your daughter or my name's not Moira Bridget Hagerty."

  "Nevermore," said Mortimer.

  "Oh please be quick then," sobbed Mrs. Jones. "I think he's her only hope, I truly do! Oh my goodness, I'm sorry I ever said a word against his pecking, munching ways and if Arabel gets better he can undo every bath towel and hearthrug we have in the house!"

  Sister Bridget carried Mortimer into a white-tiled room called the Sluice and there she suddenly put him under a jet of warm soapy water. Mortimer let out a yell and struggled as if he were being barbecued. Sister Bridget took no notice at all. She held him in the jet of water until every speck of soot had run off him. Then she clapped a hair dryer over him which was so powerful that in two minutes flat he was bone-dry and his feathers were sticking out all around like the rays of the sun.

  By this time he was in a bad temper. And when Sister Bridget lifted the dryer off him he sidled toward her as if he would have liked to give her a good peck. But Sister Bridget stood no nonsense, from nurses, from doctors, or from ravens.

  "Behave yourself now!" she said sharply to Mortimer, and she picked him up around his black middle and took him over and put him on Arabel's bedside locker.

  "Arabel dearie," said Mrs. Jones, "here's Mortimer come to see how you are getting on."

  Arabel didn't answer. She lay very white and quiet with her eyes shut.

  Mr. Jones gave a gulp and blew his nose.

  Mortimer looked at Arabel. He looked at her for a long, long time. He sat still on the polished wooden locker staring at her. Arabel didn't move. Mortimer didn't move either. But two tears ran down, one on either side of his bill.

  Then he hopped down onto Arabel's pillow. He hopped close beside her head, and listened at her left ear. He listened for a long time. Then he went around to the other side and listened at her right ear.

  Then he croaked a little, gently, to himself, and made a tiny scratching noise with his claws on the pillow. Then he waited.

  There was a pause. Then, very slowly, Arabel rolled over onto her stomach. She turned her face a little and opened one eye, so that she could just see Mortimer with it.

  "Hullo, Mortimer," she whispered.

  Nobody breathed much.

  Then she turned her head the other way, so that she could see Mrs. Jones.

  "Mortimer's tired out. He wants his bread bin," she whispered.

  "Oh, Ben—quick!" Mrs. Jones gulped.

  Mr. Jones went very quickly and quietly out of the ward. He didn't like to run until he was on the landing. Then he fairly hurled himself down the hospital stairs and rushed out to his taxi.

  "Bird's found; going to get bread bin," he panted to Palgrave and Dr. Antonio, who were standing scratching their heads, wondering where to search next.

  Mr. Jones drove home as fast as he dared. He ran into the kitchen at Number Six, Rainwater Crescent, tipped the loaves of farmhouse, whole meal, and currant malt, and a bag of rice buns out of the bread bin onto the floor, and carried the bin out to the taxi. He hadn't even switched the engine off.

  When he got back to the hospital everyone was in exactly the same position as when he had left, except that Palgrave was there with a pot of cocoa, and Dr. Antonio with a bright scarlet rash.

  Arabel had shut her eyes again, but when her father whispered, "Here's the bread bin, dearie," she opened them.

  "Put it on the bed," she whispered, and curled herself into a C shape.

  Mr. Jones put the bread bin into the middle of the C. It had two enamel handles, one on each side. Mortimer stepped down from Arabel's pillow and climbed slowly, by means of the handle, onto the rim of the bin. Then he jumped down inside. Then he stuck his head under his wing and went to sleep.

  Arabel reached out a hand from under the bedclothes and took hold of the enamel handle. Th
en, holding the handle, she, too, went to sleep, quietly and peacefully.

  "Would you look at that, now?" said Sister Bridget.

  "Oh my gracious, now I suppose we'll have to keep the bread in the coal scuttle," said Mrs. Jones. Mr. Jones sat down beside her and they went on sitting by Arabel all night.

  Sister Bridget took Dr. Antonio away to put something on his rash.

  Palgrave drank the pot of cocoa, as nobody else seemed to want any.

  In the morning Arabel's cheeks were pink and her eyes were bright. Mortimer was as black as ever, still asleep, with his head under his wing.

  "She'll do now," said Dr. Plantagenet, coming to look at her. "But don't let her out in the rain again for a long time."

  "She'll just have to stay indoors, then," said Mrs. Jones, "for I don't think it's ever going to stop raining."

  But just then it did stop, and a watery blink of sun peered through the hospital window. Arabel was too weak to speak much yet, but she pointed to it and smiled a little.

  Mr. Jones leaned over and gave his daughter a kiss, then he went off to drive his taxi and buy a new coal scuttle.

  Mrs. Jones settled down with her knitting by Arabel's bed.

  Mortimer went on sleeping in the bread bin with his head tucked under his wing.

  The Escaped Black Mamba and Other Things

  It was not long after Mortimer the raven took up residence with the Jones family, at Number Six, Rainwater Crescent, Rumbury Town, London, N.W. 3½, that Mr. and Mrs. Jones received an invitation to the Furriers' Freewheeling Ball, at the Assembly Rooms, Rumbury Town.

  "What is a freewheeling ball?" asked Arabel.

  She was eating her breakfast. Mortimer the raven was sitting on her shoulder and peering down into her boiled egg to see if there were any diamonds in it. Mortimer was going through a phase of hoping to find diamonds everywhere.