Meeting Ginger

Morning seemed years away. I was far too excited to sleep. After tossing and turning most of the night, I was elated when my parents finally came in to wake me up.

"Are we ready to go?!" I asked impatiently.

"Breakfast first," Mum reminded me, briefly resting her hand on her waist.

(For some reason, she'd been doing that a lot as soon as she started gaining weight. I wondered if there was something wrong with her stomach because it wasn't at all like her to allow herself to become so plump.)

Mum's an excellent cook, but I was nearly too excited to eat breakfast. The meal seemed to be taking hours.

"Hurry up! We're going to miss it!"

Dad chuckled. "We're coming, son."

"Calm down, sweetheart." Mum tousled my hair. "We're not going to miss anything."

We finally left the flat and wandered to an open field where a large number of other rodents had gathered to watch a famous shooter from the USA. Her grandfather had lived as a marshal during the times of the Old West.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer began, "all the way from Texas, USA, the best shooter in the West: Ginger!"

A lady with eyes slightly darker than her shoulder length, auburn hair walked out of a tent. She was wearing a denim skirt and black leather boots.

Mum's eyes widened. "Herschel, she's so young! She can't be a day over nineteen, if she's even reached that age!"

We watched in amazement as she hit the center of every target with only one shot, firing almost too rapidly for our eyes to follow the movement. When she was finished, she showed the crowd a necklace with a silver charm: two guns crossing each other with her name engraved at the bottom.

"At the end of every show," Ginger began, "one lucky mouse is going to be given a one of a kind necklace. No two of these are the same."

She looked around the crowd, tapping her chin with her finger. I could hardly believe my luck when she walked over to me and smiled, bending her knees so she would be closer to my height.

"Hello there, little guy. What's your name?"

I introduced myself.

"It's nice to meet you, sweetheart. Did you enjoy the show?"

"I loved it!" I answered. "You were so great!"

She giggled. "Thank you so much! Here, this is for you." She placed the necklace around my neck.

"Thanks, Ginger!"

"You're most welcome." She smiled at Mum and Dad. "And you must be his parents!"

"I'm Herschel Crofton," Dad answered. "This is my wife, Bryna, and of course you've already met our son."

"A pleasure to meet you both!" Ginger shook their hands.

"The pleasure is ours, dear," Mum replied. "How long will you be in London?"

"A couple months."

"Well, we'd be honored to show you around the city. Where are you staying?"

"The inn about a block north of here."

Mum shook her head. "Honey, there are far more comfortable accommodations than that. Would you like to stay with us until we can find you a better hotel?"

Ginger looked as if she were uncertain about the idea, but she didn't wish to offend Mum's hospitality.

Sensing her hesitation, Mum reassured her, "There's no need to fret, dear. My brother's a detective, so you know I'd soon be arrested if I ever caused any trouble. My family and I would be delighted to have you as our guest."

"I wouldn't want to impose…" Ginger glanced down slightly as if unsure how to finish her sentence.

Mum smiled, resting her hand on her waist again. "It won't be for another fortnight at least. By that time, we'll have found you a much nicer hotel room, somewhere much more comfortable than where you're staying now."

After considering the situation, Ginger finally replied, "That sounds wonderful, ma'am. Thank you."

It was a bit strange having someone else in our home, but despite her skill at firing guns, Ginger was actually very quiet. She also made sure to help my parents with the housework, and she was kind enough to tell me a few stories.

I love hearing stories, especially about pirates or the Wild West or other adventures. In fact, I love almost any kind of story except mysteries or detective books, but there's a good reason for that.

My uncle hates me.

Uncle Cliff always scoops me up and puts me on his shoulders, or he takes me on outings or teaches me how to play games. (I'm not so good at cricket yet, but Uncle Cliff says I'm learning well.)

However, my other uncle, the most famous investigator in London, has no time for me. He always ignores me, and he rarely speaks to me unless it's to scold me for something or the other.

I don't think he ever fully forgave Mum for marrying Dad. My parents met because Dad was one of Ratigan's men, and Mum was once a hostage. Since Mum married a criminal, she's a disgrace to the Basil family name and the memory of our ancestors, or so my uncle claims.

My mere existence troubles him: Detective Basil of Baker Street's nephew is the son of a former criminal.