Читать книгу The Rescuers - Margery Sharp - Страница 8

THREE DAYS LATER, Miss Bianca was in Norway.

The journey, as usual, had given her not the least trouble. She travelled as usual in the Diplomatic Bag, where she amused herself by reading secret documents while the great aeroplane flew smoothly and swiftly over mountain and forest, river, and finally, sea. (To be accurate, there was a slight bumpiness of the mountain part, but Miss Bianca was too absorbed in a very Top Secret to notice.) Precisely twenty-four hours after departure she was reinstalled in her porcelain pagoda in the Boy’s new schoolroom in Oslo, the capital of Norway.

It was then her mission really began; with, in Miss Bianca’s opinion, far too much left to her own initiative. She was simply to seek out the bravest mouse in Norway! Without the slightest idea where he was to be found – or indeed where any mice were to be found! For Miss Bianca’s life had been so remarkably sheltered, she really didn’t know anything at all about how other mice lived. Except for Bernard, she had never even spoken to one.

Except for Bernard … Miss Bianca’s thoughts flew to him so readily, she felt quite angry with herself. Now that the excitement of their midnight meeting was past, she couldn’t help recognising that good and brave as Bernard was, he was also completely undistinguished. Yet how kind and resourceful, when she fainted! How understanding, when she came to, of all her doubts and fears! And how lost in admiration, how absolutely overcome, when she finally accepted her heroic task!

“I must be worthy,” thought Miss Bianca. And mentally added – “Of the Prisoners’ Aid Society.”

So the very first night in her new quarters, she set out.

No one knew she was so slim that she could squeeze between the gilded palings of her pleasure-ground. Certainly the Boy didn’t know it. But she could.

The door of the new schoolroom didn’t quite fit. In the morning no doubt someone would see to it; in the meantime, Miss Bianca slipped under. Outside, immediately, she still felt pretty well at home – all embassies being much of a muchness. There was first a broad corridor, then a broad landing, then a grand staircase leading down to a great grand entrance hall. (Miss Bianca, who had an eye for carpets, even recognised everywhere familiar patterns.) But she hadn’t so far encountered any other mouse. “The pantry!” thought Miss Bianca – remembering Bernard again. “But where on earth are the pantries?”

However sheltered, all women have certain domestic instincts. Miss Bianca was pretty sure she ought to get lower down.

She also knew about service lifts. Passing from the entrance hall into the dining room, and observing a gap in its panelling (left open by a careless footman), up Miss Bianca ran to investigate. There inside, sure enough, were the proper ropes. “Obviously connected with the pantry,” thought Miss Bianca, climbing on. When after two or three minutes nothing happened, she boldly ran down – quite enjoying the easy exercise, and quite confident of finding herself in a pantry below.

Actually this particular service lift ran straight down to the embassy cellars. Which was fortunate as it turned out, though Miss Bianca didn’t immediately think so.

For what a sight, as she emerged, met her eyes!

Remember it was well after midnight, it must have been nearly two o’clock in the morning, the hour at which mice feel themselves most secure. In the embassy cellar there was evidently some kind of bachelor party going on. At least fifty Norwegian mice were gathered there – singing and shouting and drinking beer. The most part wore sea boots and stocking caps; some had gold earrings in their ears, some a patch over one eye. Some had a wooden leg. It was in fact the most piratical-looking party imaginable, and how any one of them ever got into an embassy, Miss Bianca really couldn’t imagine.

Never had she felt more uncomfortable. It is always trying to enter a room full of strangers – and such strangers! What a racket they made! The singing and shouting almost deafened her ears, there wasn’t a moment of repose. (Miss Bianca had frequently assisted, from the Boy’s pocket, at diplomatic soirées. There, always, was a moment of repose; in fact sometimes the moments ran into each other and made hours of repose.) Even if she shouted she couldn’t have made herself heard, and Miss Bianca had never shouted in her life! She stood utterly at a loss, trembling with dismay; until at last a mouse nearby turned and saw her, and immediately uttered a long, low whistle. It was vulgar, but it did the trick. Head after head turned in Miss Bianca’s direction; and so spectacular was her fair beauty, silence fell at last like a refreshing dew.

“Forgive me for joining you uninvited,” said Miss Bianca nervously, “but I am a delegate from the Prisoners’ Aid Society, seeking the bravest mouse in Norway, on behalf of a Norwegian poet imprisoned in our parts.”

Simply as she spoke, it was with a touching grace. Several mice at once cuffed each other for want of respect to the lady. Several tankards were kicked under benches. One of the soberest of the seafarers, who looked as though he might be a petty officer, stepped forward and touched his cap.

“Anyone from the Prisoners’ Aid, ma’am,” he said forthrightly, “finds all here ready and willing at the first tide. Just pick your chap, and he’ll put himself under orders.”

“How splendid!” said Miss Bianca, greatly encouraged. “Though how can I pick, stranger as I am? You must tell me, who is the bravest.”

“All of ’em,” replied the petty officer. “All our lads are brave equally. Look about for yourself, ma’am, and count the Tybalt Stars!” (There was one on his own chest, with clasp.) “Some may look a bit rough to a lady – pipe down there, you by the bar! – but as to being brave, each and all rate A1 at Lloyd’s.”

Miss Bianca still felt any decision quite beyond her.

“Won’t you choose for me?” she begged. “Of course it should really be a volunteer – but if you could give me any indication—”

The petty officer simply reached out a hand and clapped it on the nearest shoulder – only then looking round to see whom he’d got.

“You, Nils!” he snapped. “You a volunteer?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Nils.

“Not a family man, or anything of that sort?”

“Not me,” said Nils. (Several of his friends round the bar roared with laughter.)

“Willing to put yourself under this lady’s orders?”

“Please, under the orders of the Prisoners’ Aid Society!” cried Miss Bianca.

“All comes to the same thing,” said the petty officer. “You just tell Nils what to do, ma’am, and Nils he will do it.”

With that, as though no more had been settled than who was to run into the next room, all returned to singing and shouting and standing each other rounds of beer, and Nils and Miss Bianca were left alone.

She looked at him attentively. He was indeed rough to a degree. His sea boots smelt of tar, and his stocking cap had obviously never been washed since it was knitted. But he had good steady eyes, and he appeared quite unperturbed.

As simply as possible, Miss Bianca outlined the situation. She hoped he was taking it all in – he was so very unperturbed! Also, he would keep humming softly under his breath.

“You’re quite sure you understand?” she said anxiously. “How you travel in the first place I must leave to you—”

“Why, by ship – o’ course,” said Nils.

“I believe the capital is some distance from the nearest port,” warned Miss Bianca.

“Ship and dinghy, then,” said Nils. “Wherever there’s towns there’s water – stands to reason – and wherever there’s water, there us Norwegians can go.”

“How resourceful you are!” exclaimed Miss Bianca admiringly. “As to reaching the Black Castle itself, for that the chairwoman will have a plan. You must get in touch with her immediately, at the Moot-house.”

For the first time, Nils looked uneasy.

“Could you let me have a chart, ma’am? On shore I’m a bit apt to lose my bearings.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Bianca. “If you will give me the materials, I’ll do it now.”

After a little searching, Nils produced from one of his boots a paper bag and a stump of red chalk. (He found several other things first, such as half a pair of socks, a box of Elastoplast, a double-six of dominoes, a ball of twine and a folding corkscrew.) Miss Bianca sat down at a table and smoothed the bag flat.

At the end of ten minutes, all she had produced was a sort of very complicated spider web.

The Moot-house was in the middle – that was quite clear; but the rest was just a muddle of criss­cross lines. Miss Bianca felt so ashamed, she rapidly sketched a lady’s hat – just to show she really could draw – and began again.

“Hadn’t you best start with the points of the compass, ma’am?” suggested Nils.

Miss Bianca, alas, had never even heard of compass points!

“You put them in,” she said, turning the paper over. Nils took the chalk and marked top and bottom, then each side, with an N, an S, an E and a W. Then he gave the chalk back, and Miss Bianca again put a dot in the middle of the Moot-house – and again, out of sheer nervousness, drew a lady’s hat round it. (The garden-party sort, with a wide brim and a wreath of roses.) Nils studied it respectfully.

“That I’d call clear as daylight,” said he. “You should ha’ set your compass first.” He laid a finger on one of the roses. “Them, I take it, would be duckponds?”

“Oh, dear!” thought Miss Bianca. She knew perfectly well where the Moot-house stood – Bernard had explained everything so clearly – but she just couldn’t, it seemed, put her knowledge on paper. And here was good brave Nils preparing to set forth with no more guide than a garden-party hat!

“Yes,” said Miss Bianca recklessly. “Those are duckponds …”

An idea was forming in her mind, an idea so extraordinary and thrilling, her heart at once began to beat faster.

“All the same,” added Miss Bianca, “I think it will be wiser to return with you myself, and conduct you to the Moot-house in person.”

What on earth induced her to make such a mad, unnecessary offer? Her own personal mission was creditably accomplished, no one expected any more of her, upstairs in the Boy’s new schoolroom a luxurious porcelain pagoda waited for her to come back to it. As the Boy waited for her – or would wait, how anxiously, should she quit his side! Miss Bianca’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of him. But she thought also of someone else: of Bernard from the pantry.

It has often been remarked that women of rank, once their affections are engaged, can be completely reckless of the consequences. Duchesses throw their caps over the windmill for grooms, countesses for footmen. Miss Bianca, more discerningly, remembered Bernard’s modesty and kindness and courage. “Did I call him undistinguished?” she chided herself. “Isn’t the Tybalt Star distinction enough for anyone?” To make no bones about it, Miss Bianca suddenly felt that if she was never to see Bernard again, life in any number of porcelain pagodas would be but a hollow sham.

Thus, since obviously Bernard couldn’t come to her, it was she who had to rejoin Bernard; and fortunately duty and inclination coincided.

“Which I take very kindly,” Nils was saying. “Can you be ready, ma’am, by the dawn tide?”

“What!” exclaimed Miss Bianca. Her thoughts hadn’t carried her quite as far as that!

“It so happens there’s a cargo boat,” explained Nils. “Nothing like cargo boats for picking up a passage upon! And not so many bound your ways neither – we should take the chance! In fact, in my opinion, we should start for the docks straight off.”

“Heavens!” thought Miss Bianca. Yet in one way it made her decision easier. The thought of seeing the Boy again, possibly for the last time – of running up on to his pillow and breathing a last farewell in his ear – was already almost unnerving her. “Better not,” she thought, “I might break down …” She rose, smiling.