When Roger rushed for the cheese, Retsina had acted instinctively to save him. Later, she told me she had surprised herself. “I’ve grown used to him,” she said. “He’s become a part of the family.”
I had to admit that I was greatly relieved when she pulled him away from danger. Many a time I had wished that Jolly old Roger would disappear, but the thought of him lying on a trap, with a neck broken by a steel bar, brought a wave of sadness. He was lazy, greedy and unreliable, but Retsina was right. If he had been killed, we would have felt considerable loss.
Roger, being Roger, changed the story. Once he’d recovered from his fright, he denied trying to get at the REC bait. “I knew the second spring was there,” he said. “I simply wanted to know how that horrible trap worked.”
Alpha reminded him that he had said, “You are mine!” to the cheese.
“Wrong on two counts,” he told Alpha. “I said, ‘You are mean,’ and I said it to the trap, not the bait.”
Arguing with him was of no use whatsoever: he had more excuses than a fish has scales. Because we were silent, he thought he’d convinced us, and he walked jauntily, telling us what a lovely day it was—as if we didn’t know.
We were on the same road, but beyond Grissenden it had ceased to be a highway and was narrower, with only occasional traffic. There were no mesh fences and we had some clear views of farmland with cows and pigs, and humming beans sitting on earth machines. Ahead, the road was even smaller. It went over a hill, looking like a string over a green parcel of land. Even further in the distance, as misty as cloud, was a mountain range.
“Stop!” I commanded, and everyone turned to me. “Look ahead! What do you see?”
“A hill,” said Beta. “Some trees.”
“Yes, yes, but in the distance! What is it?”
“Some mountains?” suggested Gamma.
Retsina knew. She came close to me and her beautiful eyes were bright as she stared into our future.
“I see a road that goes on forever,” growled Roger. “Isn’t it time we stopped for a rest?”
I looked at our ratlets and said, “Tell them, Retsina.”
She smiled. “They’re not some mountains. They are the mountains. On the other side of them is a valley—” She paused.
Beta’s eyes opened wide. “Ratenburg?”
“Yes, Ratenburg.”
Our young squeaked and cheered, and even Roger did a small dance of excitement. We all stood on our back paws, stretching to see better, but the mountain range was far distant and only visible because the day was clear.
I said to the family, “Roger’s right. We need to rest now. There are trees near the top of that hill. They should provide safe shelter.”
We knew we were nearing the end of the Railway rats’ map, but actually seeing the mountains filled us with new energy. I’m sure, dear friend, that we would have kept on walking, such was our enthusiasm. I have also learned that every positive feeling has a negative side, and too much enthusiasm can make creatures careless, especially if their senses have been dulled with weariness. We had walked much of the day as well as the previous night, and it was time to catch up with ourselves. As we travelled up the hill, our views were wider. We saw a great stretch of water far to the left, and a fast-flowing river to our right, exactly as Moonshine Mouse had described. I thought the river was probably the same one that went under the swing bridge near the mountain. Compared with the perils we had already met, a rope-and-plank bridge did not seem such a dangerous thing.
The trees at the top of the hill proved to be a grove of willows next to a small road that led to a farmhouse. I had hoped for apple or plum trees, but the willows would give us shelter, and we could fossick for a meal after dark. Then Roger drew attention to a box on a post by the gate.
“This is it!” he said. “The perfect hiding place!”
I looked up at the white-painted box. It had a gap in the front, not large, but wide enough to be an entrance. I was doubtful. “I’ve seen boxes like this in the city.”
“That’s right,” said Roger. “They’re birdhouses. People make them for birds to nest in. Funny world, isn’t it, shipmate? The two-legs hate rats but they love birds. Many a day I’ve had breakfast on bread thrown out for sparrows.”
I sniffed the post but could detect no bird odour. “Are you certain these things are birdhouses?”
“Absolutely,” said Roger. “I once found a couple of starlings in one. They thought I was after their eggs—bad-tempered pair.”
I was certain he had been egg hunting, just as I was sure there were no birds in this box. It was of a size that could accommodate us all.
“Darling, I think we should shelter in the trees,” Retsina said.
“Cats can climb trees,” said Roger. “No cats or dogs can get us in a birdhouse. That’s why they are made this way.”
“I’ll investigate,” I told my anxious wife. I ran up the pole, eased myself over the platform and peered through the gap in the box. It was empty, except for some paper on the floor. “No one’s home!” I called cheerfully. “Come on up!”
One by one, they followed me: Roger, Gamma, Beta, Alpha, Delta and finally Retsina. For once, Roger was right. It was an admirable shelter. The papers lining the floor of the box provided a soft nest, and we were very comfortable. I lay at the front so I could see through the gap, and the others curled in a heap behind me. They were all asleep in minutes and I, too, was dozing when I heard the crunch of heavy steps on gravel. Instantly, I was alert. The smell of humming bean was strong, yet when I looked through the gap, no one was there. Someone must have passed by on the road. The footsteps stopped. I heard humming-bean breathing, snorting sounds and then an extraordinary thing happened. The back wall of the birdhouse fell open. I jumped, and everyone woke up. The back wall had gone! How could this have happened?
But wait, dear friend, it gets worse. A face filled the open space, and what a face it was! Round eyes behind glass windows, red cheeks with little blue lines in them and a thin red mouth! The eyes stared and then the mouth opened. A scream came out, louder than a song from a blue-tailed hawk. None of us could move.
“Rats! Filthy rats!”
The back wall of the box slammed into place and we heard rapid crunching noises as the humming bean ran away.
Roger lay down again. “That scared her off,” he said.
“No, it didn’t,” I said. “She’s probably gone to get her cat. Or a gun. We have to get out of here before she returns.”
Haste made us clumsy, and we were slower getting out of the birdhouse than we were climbing in. I helped the ratlets and Retsina through the gap, then turned to Roger, who still insisted that the humming bean would not come back.
“All right,” I said. “You can stay here on your own.” But as I put my head through the opening, Roger decided to move. Unfortunately, he tried to push himself through at the narrowest end of the gap, and he was caught around the middle.
I was now outside the box and on the platform. Below me, Retsina and the ratlets were running towards the willow trees. I said to Roger, “That end is too small. Go back and come through down here.”
He waved his front paws at me. “I can’t! I tried but I’m stuck. Help me!”
The last squeak sounded urgent because we could both hear the barking of a dog. “Try harder!” I said, as I glanced at the ground. My sensible Retsina had reached the trunk of a willow and was ushering our young up it.
The barking of the dog was getting louder, and the female humming bean was screaming encouragement “Get ’em! Get ’em, boy!” The number of feet on the gravel road was now six instead of two.
“Help me!” screamed Roger.
There was only one way to do this. I climbed back inside the box and went to the far wall. Then I ran as fast as I could and hurled myself at Roger’s rear end. He shot out so fast that he flew through the air, missed the platform and fell to the ground. I climbed out and looked down. He was sitting on the grass, looking dazed.
The humming bean and her big cattle dog were almost at the gate. She was screaming. “Get those filthy rats!”
I scampered down the pole and pushed Roger into action. “Dog!” I said.
We took off as the creature broke out of the gate. Lucky for us, the humming bean had him on a lead. The dog was straining to get after Roger and me, but it was being dragged towards the box on the pole. “Get those stinking rats!” she yelled, and she opened the back wall of the box. The dog wasn’t looking at the box. It was jumping up and down on the end of its lead, watching me and Roger, and barking terrible language at us. When the humming bean saw the box was empty, she let the dog loose, but by then it was too late. We were climbing up the nearest willow tree, aiming for a high branch.
I knew that Retsina and the ratlets were several trees away, but I couldn’t get to them. Roger, frightened and sore, crouched beside me in the fork of a branch, while below, the dog lay in the grass by the trunk, looking up and growling. “Stupid rats! You’ll come down sooner or later. I’ll sit here all today and all night and all next week if I have to. I’ve got a lot of patience.”
Roger groaned softly.
The dog went on. “You rats have the brains of blowflies. What made you move into the old lady’s letter box?”
I looked at Roger. He pretended not to notice.
“Right on mail collection time, too. How stupid is that?”
I felt Roger move as though he was going to say something to the dog, and I stopped him. “Don’t answer him. If we refuse to speak to him, he might get bored and go away.”
“It’s better to be chased by a dog than a cat,” Roger said. “Dogs don’t climb trees.”
“So I’m meant to be grateful?” I was angry with him, not only because I had believed his idiotic birdhouse theory, but also because he’d got himself stuck and I, once again, was separated from my family. “Roger, I’m sick and tired of your tall stories.”
He stuck his chin out. “What tall stories?”
“Birdhouse! Huh!”
“It was the same shape as a birdhouse.”
“See? There you go again. One excuse after another! You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the backside,” I hissed in his ear.
“You’re the liar,” he said. “You’re always picking on me like I’m a waste of space.”
“Because you are lazy and greedy!”
“I’ve saved your life twice and this is how you thank me!”
“Once,” I said. “You pulled me out of the milk pot and I pushed you out of a letter box. That makes us even.”
“The first time you stole my ratlets’ food and I chased you out of the building. That doesn’t count.”
He wasn’t going to give in. “I didn’t steal their food. I took it so you would run after me, and I could get you out of the building.”
“Rubbish! That’s something else you invented.” I was so angry now, I couldn’t stop. “This Pirate rat business. It’s sheer fantasy! The way you go around with your shiver me timbers and your yo ho ho! Everyone knows you’re making it up.”
“And everyone knows you’re a pompous bully,” he squealed. “You think you’re the big rat king.”
There was a stirring under the tree and the dog barked, “What’s going on up there?”
I leaned back against the rough willow bark. This idiot rat had gone too far. I hissed, “I do my best to look after my family!”
“You preach at them,” he said. “You give them orders.”
“I do not!”
“You do! And you’re mean. You treat me like a mouse.”
I took a deep breath. It was useless talking to someone who thought only of himself. “If that’s how you feel, then you may leave us.”
“I will,” he sniffed. “As soon as I get down from this tree. No respectable Pirate rat would tolerate this nonsense.” He glared at me. “Be glad that I don’t have a sword.”
He sounded so ridiculous that I laughed. “Oh, stop acting, you pathetic fool! Your name isn’t Jolly Roger!”
He stared at me, his mouth hanging open. He looked as though I had suddenly hit him on the snout.
Before he could invent another lie, I put the evidence to him. “The Jolly Roger is the skull and crossbones flag flown by pirate ships—a thousand generations ago. We all know that. Your Pirate background exists only in your head!”
I expected a bunch of blustering stories, but there was silence. After a while he said in a sulky voice, “You pretend you’re better than me. You’re not. I’m from the same clan as you. My parents were Ship rats. They gave me a terrible name so I changed it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
This sounded like the beginning of another tall tale. “What’s your real name?” I demanded.
“It’s the name of a ship’s flag. I only changed it to another flag. Jolly Roger was more interesting.”
I repeated my question. “What—is—your—real—name?”
“Ensign,” he said.
I realised he had damp fur. The silly rat was crying! I said, “What’s wrong with that? A lot of Ship rats are called Ensign.”
He sniffed. “I’m the only one I know.”
I looked at him carefully. “Roger, who is your father?”
“Was,” said Roger. “He’s dead. Killed in a humming-bean raid. Mum and us ratlets escaped.”
“And your mother’s name?”
“Pools.”
“Pools?”
“That’s right.” He sniffed again. “Mum moved us into a nest behind the wall of a food factory. It was very embarrassing.”
“A food factory!” I believed that this, at last, was the truth. “There’s nothing wrong with living in a food factory! Why did you make up those stories about pirates?”
He was quiet for a moment, then he said, “It was a dog-food factory.”
I laughed and laughed. It doesn’t seem amusing now but then it was very funny, especially with that big cattle dog lying under our tree. Of course, Roger didn’t know what I found hilarious, so I said through gasps, “This—this tree is a dog-food factory!”
“And we are the dog food!” said Roger with a little giggle. Then we were both laughing as though everything in the world was a big joke.
There was a loud growl from below and a fresh wave of dog smell came to us.
“You’ll stop laughing when I bite your heads off.”
That made us laugh all the more, and by the time we were exhausted, the dog was also tired. We heard soft, grunting snores as regular as a heartbeat. It was asleep. We discussed the possibility of leaving our tree and joining Retsina and the ratlets in their willow, perhaps all escaping down the road, before it woke up. But we decided not to risk movement. If the creature was a light sleeper we would truly be dog meat.
The sky darkened. I crept to a higher branch, hoping to see the tree that housed my family. What I did see was the next best thing: our star low in the sky, shining hope for the future.
“Venus,” said a voice. Roger had followed me. He, too, had his nose pointed to the sky. “You know it’s the planet Venus. Why do you insist on calling it a star?”
“Because that’s what it means to us. Words must have meaning. Roger, I think I understand why you changed your name. It wasn’t because Ensign was terrible. It’s actually a very nice name. But it had no meaning for you. If you like, I shall continue to call you Jolly Roger.”
“Thank you.” There was a pause. “That still hasn’t answered my question. I know what Venus means to you and your family, but why call it a star?”
“Do you know your letters?”
“Most of them.”
“Then what is star backwards?”
“Oh. Rats. I see.” His eyes glowed in the dark. “Like my mum.”
I stared at him. “Your mother Pools?”
“That’s right,” he said. “After Dad died, she changed her name too. Backwards like your star.”
My heart beat so fast, I thought it would explode and shatter my ribs. “Roger, I’m going to ask you something. This is very, very important, so tell me the truth. Do you remember your father’s name?”
“Of course I do! That was another terrible name. It was Mizzen!”