‘You can see how pleased I am, Mister Peter. This sandwich is truly delicious.’
The Giant was saying this in her high-pitched Chum voice, which made everyone laugh.
The hand which, some time ago now, had found Chum in the garden, had been Mum’s hand. Chum had been returned to her cage and to celebrate, Kitty had bought a huge hamster treat from the shop. A mass of seeds wedged together in honey formed something in the shape of a sandwich.
‘Thank you so much, Giant,’ squeaked Kitty to herself, and to Mum and Dad, in her Chum voice.
‘How on earth did you get out into the garden, Chum?’ The question was Dad’s.
‘I hope you weren’t worried, Mister Peter,’ was the high-pitched reply.
And they all laughed.
When Kitty had stopped speaking in her Chum voice, when she had gone upstairs to play on dad’s computer, Mum called after her, ‘No playing on the computer.’
‘It’s called homework, Mum. Like – I need to finish my project.’
‘I thought your project was observation – looking at the real world!’ Mum called back.
Kitty’s school project was a survey of the variety of birds to be seen in the course of one month in a small London garden. She had made a few notes based on what she saw from the window, and from Mum’s bird books. Mum couldn’t see why Kitty needed a computer for this project. Surely the whole point of it was to use her eyes and ears, to look at real birds in a real garden, to recognise finches and tits and robins for herself, not just look them up on a screen. But Kitty couldn’t imagine doing anything without a computer.
‘There’s always my encyclopedia,’ Dad called up the stairs, as Kitty opened his laptop and began to call up her friends on Facebook.
When Kitty’s parents were alone together, Mum said, ‘They’re back in force. You must have noticed.’
Dad grunted from behind his newspaper.
‘You saw all the droppings in the larder, and it’s started to stink in there. Last time we had to take out every single packet of food. They’d eaten their way through the pasta, and the biscuits. They’d even nibbled into the packet of porridge.’
The newspaper rustled. A sound like hrrumff came from behind it.
‘They won’t just go away, Peter.’
‘Oh, Alexandra.’ Dad always used Mum’s full name when he was annoyed.
‘It isn’t fair if I have to do everything. You and Kitty don’t clear up the mess. You and Kitty won’t move every single packet of dried food off those shelves, and wipe them clean, and disinfect the floor. It’s a mouse toilet that place.’
‘What do you suggest we do?’ asked Dad, at long last putting down his newspaper.
‘We have got to find where they live, how they get into the kitchen and larder. We must block up the holes.’
‘Starve them out?’
‘They’re a health hazard, Peter. They’re vermin. One of them came in and stood on my foot yesterday, while I was having coffee at this very table. It stared at me.’
Kitty’s dad held his paper up but couldn’t hide his snort of laughter.
‘Peter!’ shrieked Kitty’s mum. ‘This is war!’
The newspaper quivered. ‘War?’
‘Yes!’ Kitty’s mum stood up. ‘We’re under siege, Peter. The mice have to go! We need to set traps.’
‘That seems a bit drastic.’
‘Alan and Rupert put down sticky-traps. They say it’s the only way.’
‘How do they work exactly?’
‘The mice step on them and get stuck. They can’t move.’
‘And then you kill them?’
‘I don’t think…’ Dad began.
But Mum stood firm. ‘It’s us or them, Peter! It’s not just one or two of them – it’s an invasion.’
Kitty’s dad sighed.