It was a fine May morning with not a scent of trouble in the air. The sort of morning, Tumtum noted happily, that bore the promise of a very uneventful day. He rose from his bed and set off for the kitchen—and the kitchen was a long way from the bedroom, for Nutmouse Hall was a big house with long corridors and lots of stairs.
As he went, he remembered all the things he had to do. There was breakfast, lunch, and supper to eat, and a newspaper to read, and a nap to fit in. And that is a lot of events in a day that promises to be uneventful.
Tumtum pressed on, eager to get started. But when he reached the kitchen he found Nutmeg in a terrible fuss.
“Something dreadful’s happened!” she cried.
“What, dear?” Tumtum asked, sitting down at the table. Nutmeg often fussed, and usually about the silliest things— such as an upset vase or a broken mug. Even so, it struck Tumtum that this morning she looked more flustered than usual.
“It’s the children,” she said miserably.
“Why? Is one of them ill?” Tumtum replied.
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Something much worse.”
“Gracious. Have they died?” Tumtum said, looking shocked.
“Oh, no, no. Not that. But something almost—well, something terrible, all the same.” She sat down and looked at him very solemnly. “Arthur and Lucy are going to spend the night outdoors. In a tent.”
Tumtum looked relieved. Dear Nutmeg! It was just like her to make a fuss and bother about nothing. He took the lid off the serving dish and helped himself to some scrambled eggs. “What’s wrong? Why are you so concerned with sleeping in a tent? I’m sure they’ll have a lovely time,” he said.
“But think about all the things that could go wrong,” Nutmeg wailed. “I heard them planning everything just now when I went to borrow some butter from the kitchen, and I’m sure it will end in disaster. They’re using an old tent that Arthur found in the garden shed. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if it leaks—”
“If it rains they can come back inside,” Tumtum interrupted. “Their father is sure to leave the kitchen door unlocked for them. Now don’t look so anxious, dear. I don’t see how they could come to any harm camping out in the garden on a warm spring night. Besides, we’ll be able to creep outside and check on them.”
“No we won’t,” Nutmeg groaned. “That’s the whole point. Oh, don’t you see, Tumtum? The children have no intention of sleeping in the garden. They’re going to camp by the stream!”
“Are you sure?” Tumtum asked. Now he looked anxious, too. The stream ran along the bottom of the meadow behind Rose Cottage. It was at least a quarter of a mile from the house. And a quarter of a mile would seem a very long way if you were a mouse.
“I am quite sure,” Nutmeg said. “I heard the whole conversation. At first they were going to pitch the tent in the garden, then Arthur suggested they go down to the stream. And of course Lucy went along with it, because she thinks it will be more of an adventure. And now they seem to think they’re going on a real safari. They want to light a campfire, and fry sausages on it, and boil a kettle to make tea!”
“Don’t they have to be at school tomorrow?” Tumtum asked.
“No. They’re on break. They don’t have to be back at school until Thursday.”
“Hmmm,” said Tumtum. “What does their father say about it?”
“Oh, you know what Mr. Mildew’s like. He wouldn’t notice if they stayed away for a month.”
Tumtum looked thoughtful. It was true that Mr. Mildew was very absentminded. He was an inventor by trade, and he spent all day long shut away in his study, inventing silly things such as grape-peelers and singing key rings. He had little interest in anything other than his work. As often as not he wouldn’t even notice what time of day it was, and then he would get all his meals muddled up and give Arthur and Lucy canned spaghetti for breakfast and porridge for lunch.
Nutmeg was right. He would be too absorbed in his latest invention to worry about what his children were up to.
“When do they plan to set off?” Tumtum asked.
“This afternoon, around four o’clock,” Nutmeg replied. “They’re going to spend the morning packing.”
“Well, if they’ve made up their minds, then I can’t think how we can stop them,” Tumtum said. “We shall just have to hope for the best. I can’t see that much will go wrong. Lucy’s very responsible and—”
“Hope for the best?” Nutmeg cried. “I will have you know, Mr. Nutmouse, that I am not going to watch those children set off all alone across that vast meadow, and then just sit here as though nothing had happened, hoping for the best.”
Tumtum was taken aback. Nutmeg only called him “Mr. Nutmouse” when she was very, very cross. “Then what do you propose we do?” he asked feebly.
Nutmeg started picking at the tea cozy, avoiding Tumtum’s eyes. He could sense she was about to say something he wouldn’t like. When she looked up, her expression was very fierce. “There’s only one thing for it,” she said. “If Arthur and Lucy are going camping, then we’re going, too.”