Manxmouse (Essential Modern Classic) Read online

  Fortunately when they reached Liverpool the guard remained away and Manxmouse, climbing up on to a shelf, was able to observe the fascinating ride down the waterfront, past the dozens of great docks. There, ships of every kind, size and colour from all parts of the world, flying their flags, were surrounded by a veritable forest of cranes.

  It was, of course, cold and raining in Liverpool. A fair-sized steamer, the Manxbelle, lay alongside the Prince’s Stage landing. The train doors were opened and all the passengers flowed from their carriages across the dock, up the gangplank and into the ship. When the guard came to fetch his overcoat and tin lunch box from his compartment, Manxmouse jumped down and joined the throng. The guard turned and stared for a moment as though he had seen something and then decided he had not. By that time Manxmouse was aboard.

  The departure, too, was exciting and noisy, with the ship blowing its siren. Bells clanged, sailors shouted and the vessel shuddered as its engines turned and it began to move away from the pier.

  Manxmouse watched the departure from under the rail, until they were out of sight of land. Since there was nothing more to do or see and it was both wet and chilly, he decided to go inside the main lounge and warm himself until something more interesting turned up.

  And here he had a most extraordinary stroke of luck. For a passenger had fallen asleep and one of those pamphlets that are always being put out by steamship companies, railways or tourist offices had slipped through his fingers to the floor. It most conveniently fell right at the feet of Manxmouse. Entitled Welcome to the Isle of Man, it was full of the most fascinating facts about his destination, all of which he felt could in some way or another be highly useful to him in his forthcoming encounter with Manx Cat.

  He read: ‘The Island, known to the Romans as Mona, is about thirty-three miles long and twelve miles broad, containing much beautiful scenery, often of the rugged type, as well as a fine seaboard. It is lozenge-shaped with Snaefell, 2,034 feet, its highest point and reached by a mountain railway. Its capital is Douglas. There are many splendid beaches, holiday resorts and ancient ruins. The climate is mild.

  ‘There are no snakes or toads, no badgers, foxes, moles, voles or squirrels on the Island. The pigmy shrew is abundant, as is the long-tailed field mouse (Mus sylvaticus) and the house mouse, too, is well established.’

  “Excellent!” Manxmouse mused. “No other enemies and plenty of friends.”

  But now he came upon the most exciting piece of information:

  ‘The Manx Cat, without a tail, or with a greatly reduced tail, is common as a domestic pet in the Island. Whether the tailless cat reached the Isle of Man from elsewhere, or whether it developed there is not known. The fur is usually longer and more lax than in ordinary cats. They may be of any colour and the cat has what is termed a double coat, namely soft and open, with a thick undercoat. Its rump is as round as an orange and its hindquarters high, which is what gives it a rabbity or hopping gait, and in some places they are even known as rabbit cats. Many people suppose they are part rabbit, even though this is impossible.’

  Manxmouse was fascinated. “Why, if they were,” he said to himself, “we’d be relatives, because of my rabbit ears.”

  He read on.

  ‘The Manx Cat or “Rumpy”, is one of the mysteries of the feline race and at the same time one of the most interesting and unusual of all the cats. Lively, extremely brave, a patient and skilful hunter, it is an affectionate companion with a cry differing from that of other members of the species. They are very intelligent. No two accounts agree on their origin. There are various stories of the first one having arrived on a trading vessel from the Far East, where tailless cats are more common. Another tells of how one of the ships of the Spanish Armada was wrecked on Spanish Rock, close to the Island, and that some tailless cats swam ashore. The third possibility is that they began right on the Isle of Man.’

  Manxmouse read it all with the greatest of interest, absorbing further information about this strange island divided down the middle, north and south, by a range of mountains, its past history when it was ruled by kings and queens, its other towns where there were many ancient and prehistoric sites, plus the fact that it was the setting of a famous annual motorcycle race.

  By the time he had finished, there was a hooting and clanging of bells and backward churning of engines, and then a bump. They had arrived! He waited until all the passengers had gone ashore and then scampered down the gangplank, through the waiting room, out of the pier into Douglas High Street, and thence from the town, leaving the sea behind him.

  The rain stopped and the sun came out as Manxmouse set off towards the interior. He had gone only a short distance when he saw a chicken striding towards him, her head in the air. Manxmouse could not help staring. The chicken halted and said severely, “Young fellow, just what are you gawking at?”

  Manxmouse replied, “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. You haven’t a tail.”

  “Well, neither have you,” said the chicken.

  “But I’m a Manx Mouse.”

  “Well, I’m a Manx Fowl.”

  “Have all the chick… er… I mean… er… fowls on the Island no tails?” asked Manxmouse.

  “Only us aristocrats,” said the Manx Fowl loftily. “There are plenty of common ones.”

  “And are there any other animals on the Island that have no tails?” Manxmouse asked, for there had been nothing in the pamphlet about the Manx Fowl.

  “No,” said the bird, “only us. Unless you want to count those cats. But they’re pretty common and quite absurd-looking. To us it’s becoming.”

  “But it’s the Manx Cat I’m looking for,” said Manxmouse. “Can you tell me where I could find him?”

  “Is it the one that’s expecting you?” asked the Manx Fowl.

  “Oh,” said Manxmouse, “I’m expected, am I?” and it came as something of a shock to him. He had hoped to be able to walk up to Manx Cat as a surprise and rather take him off his guard.

  “Of course,” said the Manx Fowl. “Straight down this road there’s a lane leading off to the right, and it’s the first house you come to. You can’t miss it,” and the Manx Fowl stalked off.

  Manxmouse could not help feeling that, in spite of her superiority, she too looked pretty silly without a tail.

  The house was there, a small modest cottage with a thatched roof and the whitewashed walls nicely beamed in the old style. As he approached, Manx Cat came out of the door and, looking down the road, waved to him and said, “This way. Here we are. Welcome! A bit late, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?” said Manxmouse. “I’m sorry.”

  Manx Cat came forward, his paw outstretched to greet him. He was a fine-looking, sturdy animal, tiger-striped like a tabby but with markings around his eyes that gave him the effect of peering through spectacles. Manxmouse noticed that he was somewhat hippy, in fact round as a butter ball at his hind and tailless end.

  “Thomas R. Manx Cat is the name,” he said. “But just call me Tom.”

  “I’m Manxmouse – Harrison G.”

  “Delighted to see you Harrison, old boy.”

  “How do you do?” said Manxmouse. They shook hands.

  It was all so completely different from what Manxmouse had expected and steeled himself for, so that he hardly knew what to say or do. For there was nothing at all fierce or terrifying about Manx Cat. True, he was a big, powerful specimen, but the spectacle markings around his eyes gave him an unexpected air of benevolence.

  He was, of course, huge compared to Manxmouse and could have swallowed him in one gulp, but there seemed to be no inclination in him to do so. He had splendid amber-coloured eyes and a proud spread of whiskers. It was he who broke the silence. “Had a good crossing?”

  “Not too bad,” replied Manxmouse.

  “Lucky for some. The Irish Sea at this time of year can kick up very nasty. Did you lunch on the boat?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” said Manxmouse.r />
  “Well then, you’ll be wanting a cup of tea. Come in and meet the wife. She’ll be getting it ready.”

  Manxmouse followed. It was slightly disorganising, to say the least, to have come prepared for battle and be invited in to tea instead.

  And what a pleasant tea, in a charming little dining room with a table set out with a tea cloth, excellent china, with crocheted doilies, plates of sandwiches, scones, toasted muffins, biscuits and other treats.

  A sweet-faced Manx tabby with a white blaze on her throat came forward to greet them. “My wife, Margery,” said Manx Cat. “This is Harrison G. Manxmouse. He didn’t lunch on the boat and is about ready for a good tuck-in.”

  “Do come in,” Margery Manx Cat said. “We’re delighted to see you. Tom would have been so disappointed if you hadn’t come. He’s been looking forward to meeting you for ages.”

  In a corner there were three kittens in a basket. One had no tail at all; the second just a trace of a stumpy one and the third a quite normal appendage. They all shouted, “Tea! Tea, Mummy! Can we have tea, too?”

  “Not now, darlings, later,” their mother replied, and then said to Manxmouse, who was looking at them admiringly, “Children! They are all alike, aren’t they? We are a little upset about the one with a tail. He’s going to feel it dreadfully later on in life. But that’s one of our problems: we never know what we’re going to produce. In my last litter all of them were tailless. I can tell you we were very proud. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Yes, yes, old boy,” urged Tom, “make yourself at home. It’s good to see you.”

  The three sat around the table. Margery poured and was most hospitable and solicitous, offering mustard and cress sandwiches and hot buttered muffins with strawberry jam, as well as little coloured, iced cakes, which were delicious and had some kind of a fruity filling. Manxmouse, who as usual was hungry, did not hold back and thoroughly enjoyed the meal.

  “There’s nothing like travelling to give one an appetite,” Tom Manx Cat said, not backward himself at tucking into the buttered scones. “I see you like those chocolate biscuits. Do have another, since they’re the last you’ll ever be eating, Harrison old fellow.”

  Manxmouse looked up into Manx Cat’s face to see whether he had heard aright. But he seemed not to have noticed that he had said anything untoward, and was looking even more benevolent as he handed the plate of chocolate-covered wafers to Manxmouse, merely remarking, “The Doom, you know.”

  Manxmouse did not know, and the word had not a nice sound. He had probably mistaken Manx Cat’s meaning.

  “Tea now! Tea now, Mummy!” cried the kittens, seeing that the grown-ups had about finished. “And then may Mr Harrison Manxmouse play with us?”

  “Very well, then,” their mother replied, “you may all have your tea now. But you mustn’t bother our guest,” and then to Manxmouse, “Shall we go into the drawing room where we can chat quietly?” As they passed through the door she looked back at her kittens and remarked, “They’re such a joy to me.”

  “They’re adorable,” said Manxmouse and forgot the momentary shadow that had been cast over him at the tea table. He thought only of how kind and hospitable Tom Manx Cat was and what a delightful person and good mother was his wife, Margery.

  The drawing room was nicely decorated and gay with chintzes and comfortable furniture. Tom motioned Manxmouse to an easy chair, took another himself as his wife curled herself up on the couch. “Smoke?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” said Manxmouse.

  “We’ve never formed the habit either. Were you able to have a sleep on the way over?”

  “No,” replied Manxmouse. “Actually I became too interested in reading all about – ah – you people, and how you were supposed to have come here when a ship of the Spanish Armada was wrecked—”

  “Ho!” snorted Tom Manx Cat while his wife smiled indulgently. “That old chestnut! Such a lot of nonsense. We couldn’t have landed here from the wreck of a Spanish galleon, for the simple reason that there have never been any tailless cats in Spain. The real story goes back a lot farther than the Armada, to the time of the Flood and Noah’s Ark, when the animals went in two by two. Did you know that the cat was the last of all to go aboard?”

  “No,” said Manxmouse, “I didn’t. Why was that?”

  “Well,” said Tom, “the way it was told to me by my grandfather, the cat wouldn’t go into the Ark without taking a mouse with it. The mouse was being difficult, for it wasn’t quite certain what the cat had in mind – whether it was being invited to join the cruise out of politeness, or to guarantee a continuation in the supply of mice. I must say,” Manx Cat commented at this point, “one is able to see the situation from the mouse’s point of view: stay behind and drown, or go along and be eaten. Not much of a choice, eh, friend Harrison?”

  “Tom!” said Margery Manx Cat warningly.

  Tom Manx Cat coughed somewhat delicately and said quickly, “What I was coming to was the point of the story, namely that with all the animals nicely inside and the rain starting to come down, old Noah lost his patience and slammed the door just as the cat squeezed through at the last moment, and cut off her tail. On the way to Mount Ararat, Noah stopped here to take on water…”

  “Water?” queried Manxmouse.

  “Well, something,” Manx Cat said. “There’s supposed to be a stone down by the shore marking the spot where he landed. Anyway, he opened the door. Last on, first off! That was my ancestor and we’ve been here ever since. Now tell us something about yourself.”

  Manxmouse replied, “Oh, I’ve had all manner of strange things happen to me,” and recounted one or two of them and then added, “but they all ended up with everyone saying that I belong to Manx Cat and feeling rather sorry for me. I never quite understood.”

  Manx Cat nodded and said, “Yes, of course, that would be the Doom. The word would get around.”

  His wife Margery suddenly looked distressed and murmured, “Oh, that dreadful Doom.”

  “What word would get around?” Manxmouse said.

  “Why, naturally, that I’m to eat you,” Tom replied coolly. “But officially, of course, in a little while and according to the regulations, in front of proper witnesses, as per section two, paragraph three of the Doom.”

  “But what is a Doom?” Manxmouse asked uncomfortably. It was one thing for him to be prepared to face up to Manx Cat and quite another to be made welcome, disarmed by being given a high tea and then hearing his end quite calmly discussed, all beautifully organised and arranged beforehand.

  “A Doom,” explained Tom patiently, “is something written down on an old piece of parchment by someone, usually a witch or wizard, a long, long time ago. It tells what is going to happen to the person upon whom the Doom is pronounced. And it always does. You can’t escape a Doom, you know. Yours was washed up in a casket out of the sea. At least, half of it was, the half that matters. Shall I get it for you? You might like to have a look at it yourself.”

  “Yes, please, I should like to very much,” said Manxmouse. He was not meaning at all to be sarcastic; he really was interested, since it seemed to concern him.

  “Would you fetch it, my dear?” said Tom. Margery arose and went to a cupboard from whence she took a weathered casket of oak, bound in brass and studded with iron nails. In it was a rolled-up parchment with faded writing upon it.

  Tom Manx Cat studied it for a moment and the spectacle markings around his eyes made him look like a professor about to give a lecture. His lips moved as he read silently and then said, “The first part is a bit long – it’s all about the wars between the Manx Cats and the Manx Mice, thousands of years ago. History was never my favourite subject, but it seems in the early days the Manx Mice outnumbered the Manx Cats. But afterwards we won and drove them all into the sea.” He unrolled more of the manuscript and then said, “Oh, here we come to the interesting part: ‘…and it came to pass that one Manx Mouse did escape and on the Third Day of May, a thousand years he
nce, shall return to the Isle of Man with the Doom upon him.’”

  Here Tom Manx Cat looked up and said, “You see how beautifully a Doom works out? That’s today.”

  “Yes, I do see,” said Manxmouse.

  Manx Cat continued, “‘And he shall be greeted by Manx Cat with courtesy and politeness, offered a meal and thereafter be led out to the execution grounds before properly assembled witnesses and, in accordance with the regulations for the procedure, be swallowed by Manx Cat, thus carrying out the conditions as herein set forth. The regulations for the manner of the execution shall be as follows…’” And here the parchment came to an end for it had been torn in half and the other portion seemed to be missing.

  “What did the rest of it say?” Manxmouse asked.

  “Well, we haven’t got that part,” said Tom, “but it really doesn’t matter, because we know how it’s done. It’s been handed down. You bow to me; I bow to you. I pounce and swallow and it’s all over. I promise you, you won’t feel a thing. Besides—”

  “Oh, Tom!” Margery interrupted. “Must we really? I’ve seen Blue Persians, Blue Seal Siamese, North Holland Blue Hens, Blue Tits, Blue Jays, Blue Fish, but never a Blue Mouse. Are you sure he’s a Manx Mouse? The Manx Mouse, I mean?”

  Tom said, “You will have observed, of course, my dear, that he has no tail? Pure Manx strain.”

  “But those ears of his…” Margery insisted, for she found that she had unexpectedly become fond of him, “…like a rabbit; and our hippety-hop hind legs. Supposing we were related? And besides, the kittens seem to like him. He could stay here with us and play with them.”

  Tom Manx Cat sighed, rolled up the parchment and replaced it in the box. “I agree, it’s a pity,” he said, and then smiled genially at Manxmouse adding, “I’ve taken rather a fancy to you myself, and would enjoy knowing you better. But then, there is the Doom,” and here he tapped the box. “What can anyone do about it? And – ah… ah…” here he glanced at his watch, “it’s set for six o’clock, I’m afraid. It’s just a quarter to, now.”