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Short Stories
A Tail of Town & Country © Roland Gray
I was sitting in the kitchen, thinking about making a supper
of the bread and cheese in front of me. I was alone, as I had been every night
since Martha passed away, an empty age ago. I have often thought of moving
somewhere more convivial instead of rattling around in this big, isolated, old,
cold, damp farmhouse. Especially since Martha died here. But it’s where we had
so many happy times together, and I’m not getting any younger, so here I stayed
here, gradually fading into the stone walls.
Anyway, there I was by the kitchen table inwardly
reminiscing about meals we’d shared, when I caught a movement out of the corner
of my eye, over by the pantry door. I turned towards the activity, but only
caught a flash of something small shooting across the flagstones, heading
behind the big oak welsh dresser.
With patience learned through hard practise, I sat immobile
watching where I thought the flash had taken refuge. My virtue was rewarded. A
small wavering of the shadow showed something was emerging along the skirting
from behind the dresser. After a couple of false starts, something crept out
tentatively, looking around for any sign of danger. The “something” was
definitely a small house-mouse. How it got up here all that way from the village
is a matter of conjecture. It probably inadvertently hitched a ride on a
delivery cart up from the village, with driver and passenger equally unaware of
the other. I doubt if it could have made it overland with all those predators
on the lookout for a tasty morsel in the depths of winter; and the weather has
been bitterly cold too.
Its cautious creep turned into a headlong dash as it hugged
the skirting back towards the pantry. Once there, it stopped again and looked
around. Then, curiously, it turned towards me, almost as if it knew I was
watching, and sat nonchalantly washing its face and whiskers. Ablutions
complete, it turned and squeezed itself under the pantry door, its tail giving
a disembodied wiggle before it followed its body out of sight.
I went through a series of emotions in a couple of
heartbeats. A stunned surprise at its very existence. An indignity puffing up
at its impertinence in invading MY home. An anger rising at the thought of it
stealing MY food. But above all, a warm, if wry, amusement bringing a smile,
the first for a long, long time.
And so I decided to be tolerant of the little interloper,
for a while at least. That night I slept soundly.
The next day I began the process of making friends. A little
bit of chocolate goes down very well with a house-mouse; as does cheese, bacon,
and beef dripping. I used these titbits to lure her (I had this feeling it was
a female) out towards more sensible food. I placed this food a little bit
further away from the pantry every day, not a lot; just a few inches, but
progressing steadily towards me at the table.
Then I started moving around while she was concentrating on
her food, little by little, and never towards her. The first time I tried it,
she bolted and didn’t come back for a day. But she seemed to have thought it
over and decided I wasn’t that much of a danger. And anyway, the food was good.
Whatever the reason, she resumed her regular meal times.
From there I progressed to approaching her. Again, patience
and chocolate overcame her initial trepidation, and inch by inch, the gap
between us shrank. Until that magic moment when she took a small piece of
chocolate directly from me, moved a few steps away, and sat and ate it; and
then came back to me for more.
It had taken most of that long hard winter to win her over,
but the satisfaction was immense. The rewards from then on were even better. It
would be laughable to suggest that a little house-mouse could replace Martha,
but, Margaret, her name now, is doing a fine job of easing the pain. She’s a
source of company, amusement, and a very, very good listener. Especially at
night while we lie curled up in our bed and she cleans my whiskers as I recount
the goings-on of old in this farm. Life’s worth living again.
The End
This story is posted to
show how the page should look with work on it. The author does have an
ulterior motive, however. This story was one of two written by him
which were particularly enjoyed by a wonderful lady, Dora Littlewood,
who was performing volunteer work for two organisations until she was
95 years old. Sadly, she passed away 31st January 2008 aged 97 after a
hard fought battle with cancer.
Poetry
Haiku
Slowly turning wheel
Baker kneading breakfast bread
Victorious light
I Think
I Think.
Therefore I Am.
I Think.
I Dream I Think
Therefore I Dream I Am
I Think I Dream
I Think I Am
I Dream I Am
I Think I Am a Dream
I Am I Think
I Am I Dream
I Am……..Confused!
© Roland Gray
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