The Storm in the Sallows
Once again we venture gallantly off the beaten-track and take a divergence down a story route. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin…
Once upon a time, quite recently actually, in a land not very far away at all, there lived a Mole. Mole was doing a spot of spring cleaning. Mole hated spring cleaning. But it was spring, and there was cleaning to be done.
“Oh dear, oh deary deary me” Complained the Mole. “So much dust, where does it all come from?”
The watery April sun was shining through a gap in the top of the molehill and its radiant beam seemed to goad the Mole as he worked.
“So much to do, so little time”
Mole dusted with dusters, swept with booms and brushes and moped with mops. Dust flew everywhere in great clouds, and settled on shelves and matted in his velvet fur, but the Mole persevered in a state of some agitation.
“Oh bother, oh blow… hang spring cleaning!”
And he dashed off out of his house without even stopping to put on his coat. Out through the fields he ran, pushing through knee-high grass, and on along the hedgerows. Orange tips fluttered about his head as the nodding blossoms of lady’s smock rocked in the rushy, damp grasses. Downhill he sped, pushing past alder, then willow trees and out suddenly onto the river bank.
Mole paused and gazed into the cool water, studying the ripples cascading along the back of a trout as it cruised amongst the crowfoot.
Plop! A loud splash made him jump and look up river. A few hundred metres upstream a large brown animal was struggling with the oar of a shallow punt. Round and round the punt spun, making poor Mole quite giddy to watch it. Mole fussed and hustled along the bankside, through the lush vegetation, until he drew alongside the confused spectacle.
“I say, hello” announced Mole
“Wha!?!?” cried the Vole and fell backwards into the water with the second loud ‘Plop!’ of the morning.
The Vole appeared, spluttering and clung to the far side of his boat, pushing the straw boater to the back of his head in an attempt to look casual.
“I say, that’s a cruel trick to sneak up on a fellow like that, what do you want to do that for?” exclaimed the Vole.
“I’m sorry,” said Mole “I couldn’t help but notice you were in some trouble and I wondered if I could help at all.”
“Touble?” asked Vole. “Trouble? I was in no trouble until you snuck up and verbally assaulted me! I should have you know, we Water Voles are quite at home on the river.”
“Really?” enquired the Mole. “How long have you been boating exactly?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I’ve only just arrived on this stretch of the river and this was my first outing in the old punt. You never forget the basics though, I always say. Was just getting the hang of it again when you turned up and turned me out.”
“I am sorry,” said Mole, apologetically “I didn’t think we had met before, water vole you say?”
“Here you are,” said Vole. “Don’t just stand there looking useless, come down here and help fish me out, I think some of my picnic is still salvageable.”
Mole and Vole sat on the bank and eat a hearty meal of carrot and apple, while Mole politely picked the grubs from the apple and surreptitiously threw the vegetables into the longer grass.
It tuned out that Vole had found himself here a few weeks ago, after living a rather urban lifestyle in a cosy high-rise cageblock, being fed regularly by a number of very friendly humans. After a slightly fizzy apple slice, Vole admitted to not being much of a one for boating and Mole agreed that he only ventured into the water when absolutely necessary.
“If you are new around here Voley, do let me introduce you to some of my friends. I know the chap who lives up there in the Manor House, he’s quite a character. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
*
Knock, knock, knock.
Mole and Vole stood on the threshold and waited for the huge oak doors to open. They waited, and they waited. Mole smiled nervously at Vole and knocked a forth time.
“Parp! Parp!”
Mole and Vole nearly fell on their bottoms with surprise! A blur of red shining metal flashed past behind them at high speed. Voley’s boater span on its rim in the gravel.
Back sped the convertible sports car and in a cloud of dust and a scream of brakes it skidded to a halt. A large warty olive-brown face in slick black sunglasses turned casually down to look at them over the driver’s door. A long lingering smile spread along the width of the face and Mr Toad raised his shades slowly to reveal his big, bogly yellow eyes. “Parp, parp!”
Mole and Vole picked themselves up, dusted themselves down and stepped forward to meet the Toad. Toad leapt out of the little red sports car through the open top, without opening the door, and raced up to meet them.
“Did you see that?” asked the Toad. “Did you? I must have got up to fifty in second-gear then! Only just got her and she’s an absolute beauty. Plenty of juice under the bonnet and step on the loud pedal and she screams like a scalded tadpole!”
“Hello Toad,” said Mole ignoring his friend’s line of enquiry. “This is my new friend Vole; Vole, Toad.”
“Jump in old fruit,” said Toad in response, “we’ll take her for a spin.”
“Um, which one of us?” enquired Vole, lowering his offered hand self-consciously.
“Both of course, you can squeeze into the passenger seat can’t you?”
So the Mole and the Vole crammed themselves into the car. Toad leapt into the driving position, once again without opening the door; pushed the large red starter button, turned to grin at the slightly ashen faces beside him, and lurched forwards along the driveway without looking forwards.
“Ahhhhh!” exclaimed Vole and Mole in unison.
“Parp parp!” cheered the Toad.
*
And so we leave this week’s instalment. The story may be a little familiar to you, and will conclude in next week’s column, when I will also reveal the reason why I am parodying this old classic so dreadfully!