Mother Dearest, a wind in the willows fanfic

Mother Dearest

A/N: Technically the musical never outright states that Toad's mother is dead (implied, yes, but if it's not outright stated then I'm not technically breaking canon) and the book doesn't mention her at all, so technically there's nothing stopping me from playing with the idea that she's very much alive, just frequently absent from the Riverbank. So here I am, unburying one female character from witw at a time.

The name Grenouille comes from the French for "frog" – despite this, she's still very much a toad; I just couldn't use the French word for toad, since that is unfortunately "crapaud." I had cobbled together her general character before I read Horwood's "Toad Triumphant" but it did amuse me to discover I wasn't the first to have a dramatic female toad with a French name in witw.

Many thanks go to dontbecattyratty/jeremystollemyheart for entertaining these headcanons as they came to fruition and enabling Madame Grenouille to be created.

Toad never spoke of his mother.

It had to be something terrible, Mole was sure, for he talked often enough of his father, late as he was, with an easy-going tone – if with a somewhat rose-tinted view of the level of paternal approval his actions would wreak. But Toad's mother… Toad's mother was accompanied with a shake of the head and a quick change of the subject. What little that was said of her was done in phrases that sounded euphuistic, even to Mole's ears, built up of carefully-trod sentences and definitions dancing deftly around the stone-cold word of Dead.

She was not here. She was elsewhere. She was visiting distant shores. She was too far away for the likes of the Riverbankers. She was absent.

After all, it wasn't the kind of thing an animal could simply ask. (He recalled the last time he had brought her up in conversation, and the speed at which Toad had gone for him before Badger's cane had dragged the amphibian to a derailing halt. Even Ratty had moved with sharp haste between them, ready to intercede should Toad make it that far.)

So Mole had learnt (not all that quickly, it had to be said) that it was a breach of Riverbanker etiquette to question too far into another's ancestral history, for chance of stumbling upon a familial tragedy.

(In the confines of underground society, grief was a collective thing; a mutual understanding that the earth around them was created from the millennia of life cycles past, buried and unearthed in equal measure, and the burden of bereavement a duty to be shared on communal shoulders. The farewell funeral line of dust to dust carried a different kind of weight when dust was built into their walls, their floors, their air.)

So, yes. Mole felt securely vindicated in the knowledge that Mrs Toad was dead.

It wasn't the first misunderstanding he'd encountered since leaving Mole End, but it might just have been the weirdest.

Toad was an expert in invitations.

It wasn't something Mole had considered something a person could be an expert in, but since becoming part of Riverbank life he had been the recipient of his fair share of Toad's summonses, and thus had become familiar with the art form that Toad had raised invitations to. They were unfailingly marked with careful flowing calligraphy, far too many words, and stamped with a wax Toad Hall seal.

Oh, and naturally bright green.

So when an understated (still green) card was delivered by a hassled-looking rabbit with only the words 'come immediately' scratched in Toad's everyday scrawl, Mole and Rat knew something had to be amiss.

"It must be something quite awful," Mole said as he and Rat trotted up to Toad Hall from the jetty, "for him to have forgone all his usual pomp and circumstance."

"Hm," said Rat, who had significantly more experience in Toad's chaos. "Awful for us, most likely."

"But we're still going to help," Mole said, his tone gently balanced between unyielding and affectionately admonishing.

"But we're still going to help," Rat grumbled. "Even so, if this proves to be another caravan incident, I can tell you now I'm not…" He trailed off as they came to the entrance of Toad Hall, in front of which sat a very handsome motor car with a silver hood ornament in the shape of a toad.

Both animals, quite unintentionally, halted.

"Maybe it's not his–" Mole suggested, although without much conviction.

Rat abruptly picked up the pace, storming towards Toad Hall like Toad's personal thunder cloud, leaving Mole to hurry after him. "Of course it's his! Of all the reckless, idiotic – after all the fuss of last year, you'd think even an animal like Toad would have learnt–"

"Or at least moved on," Mole offered.

"Don't remind me of the jet pack incident. It still staggers the mind that he found a hobby faster or more perilous than his precious motor cars – where's Toad?" he demanded to the rabbit who greeted them at the door.

"Mr Toad has requested that you await him in the drawing room–"

"The note he sent said 'come immediately,'" Rat intoned, "and now he's going to leave us waiting?"

"It did sound rather urgent," Mole said.

The rabbits of Toad Hall were creatures of nervous energy most days, but today that was particularly evident in the rabbit's quivering whiskers and twitching ears. "Mr Toad seemed – he seemed quite adamant that you were to be shown to the drawing room," he stuttered, his gaze darting between the visitors but never focusing on either. "He was quite clear about that."

Mole patted Rat's arm. "Perhaps we'd better do as asked. If there really is something amiss, we don't want to go stumbling into it without some forewarning."

"I suppose. There's probably a plant monster roaming Toad Hall from one of Toad's gardening attempts or some such nonsense," Rat muttered.

Mole made a face that betrayed that hadn't been quite the attitude he had been going for, but that it would have to do. They came to the drawing room – or one of Toad Hall's drawing rooms, anyway – and were met with the familiar, unamused face of Badger. "I don't suppose you know what all this commotion is about, do you?" he asked grumpily. "I had to rush my lunch to make it here."

"No, but we have a clue," Rat said. "Did you see the motor car outside?"

Badger's face darkened. "That I did."

"But we have no guarantee that any of this has to do with motor cars," Mole offered, although he didn't sound any more convinced than he had five minutes before.

"If it's not the motor car, it'll be something else equally inane," Badger said. "You mark my words."

Before Mole could think up a possible defence for the absent Toad, the animal in question came scurrying around a corner, looking more bedraggled than Mole had ever seen him. Even during his trial for his motor theft he had retained a good portion of his self assurance – right up until the end, anyway – but here the phrase 'headless chicken' would not have gone amiss. "Oh, you're here, Ratty… Moley – and Badge! You came!"

All three mammals stiffened slightly at the nicknames which, under the employ of Toad, usually portended trouble ahead.

"What is it, Toad?" Badger intoned. "We came at your request and we'd like to know why."

"Oh, it's awful, simply awful!"

"What's awful?" Mole asked.

"She's arrived!"

There was a dubious pause from his guests, and Mole was sure his friends were as flummoxed as he when Rat, with tones of dread, slowly echoed, "She?"

Toad nodded. "She!"

Badger nodded solemnly. "I see."

There were plenty of shes along the river, but none struck this level of fear into Toad – or, indeed, into his other two friends. Mole was very sure that whoever this ferocious she was, she was a terrifying creature indeed. At that exact moment, however, he mostly just felt annoyed at this unhelpfully cryptic exchange. "Well, I don't see," he grumbled. "Who is this mysterious she who has you all in such a fizz?"

Rat exhaled heavily, as if steadying himself, and said, "Mrs Irene Toad." Another pause. Another breath. "Toad's mother."

There was a long pause in which Mole tried to neatly slip this fact into Things He Knew.

He failed. "But she's dead."

There was a collective spluttering that ranged from outrage, shock, and disappointment from his friends, and Mole mentally chalked this up as another faux pas on his part. "Or not?" he offered hesitantly.

Rat waved the remark away, which was a somewhat worrying sign to Mole that More Serious Things were afoot than the foot currently in his mouth. "Look, Toad, just tell us what you need and we'll help," Rat said, in a rare show of unquestioning loyalty to the amphibian.

"Oh, it's such a little thing, really, no problem at all for you, I doubt…" Toad saw his friends' expressions shift to one of significantly reduced sympathy, and he quickly hurried his speech along. "I just need you to keep my mother distracted–"

"Distracted?" Mole and Rat echoed simultaneously, although while Mole's tone was surprised, Rat's was one of horror.

"Just for a short period!" Toad was hasty to reassure. "I've managed to keep her preoccupied so far with inspecting the grounds, but it's only a matter of time until she returns and turns her attention to Toad Hall itself."

"And why," Badger asked, focusing on the crux of the matter with pin-point accuracy, "does she need to be preoccupied?"

"Oh, it's no big deal," Toad scoffed, in the particular manner of one trying very hard to downplay an awkward truth. "It's only a little tidying here and there really that needs finishing. Just the final touches, you know."

"If that's all, then why did you need us?" Mole asked.

"Right," Rat agreed. "If it's really such a small thing then you can most certainly manage without us playing the red herring." Rat moved as if to leave and Mole jumped to stop him, but he needn't have worried – at Rat's threat of abandonment, Toad immediately caved with the truth.

"Oh, Ratty, so maybe it's not quite the modest tidy that I made it out to be–"

"Toad, what have you done?" Badger intoned.

"Nothing – or, at least, it would have been nothing if she had not returned out of the blue!" Toad's tone changed from wheedling to one extolling the virtues of a new hobby. "It was simply that I had heard of this recent pastime called indoor kart racing and I – well, I–"

"And you decided to give it a try," Rat finished, in the weary tones of one reluctantly familiar with such developments. He took a steadying breath that sounded, to Mole, like he was curtailing his temper, and asked, "Which rooms did you convert into racing track?"

"Only a few – the portrait gallery, the third-floor dining room, the banqueting hall, the statue gallery, the second-best sitting room–"

"The statue gallery?" Mole echoed. The image of Toad's terrible driving skills and a hall full of statues was not a pretty combination.

"–the conservatory, the walled garden, the corridor from the library to the kitchens–"

"And right now your staff are furiously deconstructing them before your mother sees," Rat said, cutting off what was quantifiably not turning out to be only a few rooms.

"Exactly!"

Mole and Rat exchanged glances. Even without any context for Mrs Toad, Mole received the distinct impression that preoccupying her would be a burdensome favour. "Ratty, we said we would help," he reminded, in a tone that sounded innocent enough, but any animal familiar with Mole knew it brooked no argument. "And at least it's not another caravan incident."

"I'd prefer the caravan," Rat muttered.

"So you'll do it?" Toad asked.

Rat didn't answer immediately. He was doing his best to avoid The Look Mole was giving him; the look in question was partly a thing of judgement, stubbornness, and the promise of disappointment should Rat ignore his better nature. Despite having been the victim to That Look several times over the last year, Rat found he hadn't grown any more immune to it since his first exposure. If anything, he had grown less immune to it, and he could feel The Look passing judgement even without making eye contact. "Fine," he grumbled. "But only if Badger agrees too," he added, although he doubted there was much chance of Badger refusing – Badger wasn't much better at resisting That Look than Rat, although that was probably because Mole had the older underground animal wrapped around his little claw, even if he wasn't aware of it.

"We'll help," Badger said, "but let this be a lesson to you, Toad." He spoke with the knowledge that there wasn't much chance of that being the case, but he felt he'd better say it anyway. "Now, where is your mother?"

"I'll direct her to the sitting room next door when she comes in from the grounds," said Toad. "I'll let her know that you're – that you've paid a visit, if you can just – just wait here until I send someone to bring you in, that'd be… that'd be grand." And with a hop, a skip, and a jump, Toad vanished into the next room, more jittery than a wound-up jack-in-the-box.

"He looks like he's had the fear of God put into him," Mole remarked once the door had firmly clicked shut behind Toad.

"The fear of Mrs Irene Toad, but close enough," Badger said.

There was a long, laborious silence as they waited for the fateful call to enter. Nothing could be heard beyond the door, however hard they strained their ears, and the calm seemed to only unsettle Mole's friends further.

When it became quite clear that no immediate summons were on the horizon, Rat whispered, "Dead? Why did you think Toad's mother was dead?"

"No one told me otherwise!" Mole furiously whispered back. He had his eyes glued to the door between them and this indomitable Mrs Toad, as if the door was liable to disintegrate upon her appearance.

"So you made the logical leap to her being dead?"

"The way everyone talked about her… it made sense. Anyway, she's never visited before."

"She travels a lot. Part of her job."

"And a good thing it is too," Badger said, "for I doubt the Riverbank could support a character such as Mrs Irene Toad long-term."

"Is she really as terrifying as all that?" Mole asked, slightly awed at the fact that even Badger's tone had the edge of trepidation to it.

"Terrifying is such a strong word–" Badger began, but Rat cut across him with a flat, "She is."

"Oh my." Then, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer, Mole added, "But, Badger, I didn't think you were afraid of anything."

"Only a fool is not afraid of Mrs Toad."

Mole opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to think of a suitably safe response, and eventually settled on a repeat of, "Oh my."

Rat patted Mole's shoulder, belatedly realising that perhaps his doom-n-gloom talk had done little to help his morale. "Cheer up, Moley. After all, she's never met you before, so you'll probably be fine."

"Probably?" Mole echoed.

"Well," Rat admitted, "nothing in life is certain."

The same rabbit that Rat had snapped at upon their arrival now eased open the door to the sitting room and gave the visitors a baleful look. "Mrs Toad will see you now."

Mole decided he didn't like the way his friends both abruptly corrected their posture, shifting their stance as if they were schoolpups who had been summoned to the principal's office. He tugged at the riverwater-stained scarf he had hastily thrown on that morning and wished he had grabbed a smarter one instead. Distracted by this thought, he almost didn't notice Ratty and Badger had already entered the sitting room until the door was on its way to swinging shut, and he hastily set off after them.

The first impression Mole caught of the indomitable Mrs Toad was that of a large newspaper occupying Toad's best chair. The paper was dated several months back and the front headline announced, in big bold non-negotiable words, Toad's misadventures from last winter.

Mole had always assumed Toad's penchant for the dramatic had been passed down from his oft-mentioned father, but now Mole began to reconsider. Toad himself was stood beside his mother, looking for all the world like a sulking adolescent pup that had just been grounded. There was a defensive slant to his shoulders that spoke of apologies, but also the peevish tone of I don't really see what all the fuss is about, which Mole had only ever seen in response to Badger's reprimands.

At their arrival, Mrs Toad snapped the paper down and looked across the newcomers with a cool, calculated expression. Mole had the fleeting sensation of deja-vu, which departed rapidly as she spoke. "It seems," she intoned in a calm-before-the-storm voice, "that you have been busy in my absence."

None of his friends physically shrank back at Mrs Toad's words, but there was the unmistakable air not dissimilar to bracing oneself against a bitter winter wind. Even Badger, usually the one delivering such a mood, had schooled his face into a lesson of neutrality.

"It has been…" he carefully ventured, "an eventful year."

"So the tabloids have been saying." The newspaper was folded up with a decisive snap that left the incriminating headlines in full view of everyone, and she turned her steely gaze onto Badger. "I see you've allowed my son to run wild again."

There was an indignant spluttering from Toad, but notably more muted than his usual volume.

"Yes, ma'am," Badger answered. "Sorry, ma'am, it won't happen again."

Mrs Toad rose to her feet and approached the penitent badger. "I seem to recall you promising the same with his father."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Tell me, was that before or after the Christmas party incident?"

"I believe it was before."

"Hm." Somehow, she didn't need to add anything to impart her potent disapproval. She looked to Rat, and Rat squirmed in the way reserved for specifically dealing with the parents of friends, a discomfort untouched by the passage of time.

"Mrs Toad," he mumbled.

"And I suppose you also got involved with these motor shenanigans that have been making all the papers?"

"Only from a distance."

"That's not the tale that Junior has been telling me."

Mole caught the shocked laugh before it could make an appearance, but it was a close-call. The whole situation was already so far up the hysterical route that the nickname of 'Junior' threatened to be the last straw that broke the camel's back. He dropped his snout into his paws to muzzle any stray humour.

"Oh? And what has Junior been saying?" Rat asked.

"According to him, you were very much present when he discovered the wonder of motor cars." Mrs Toad's tone betrayed that this was a phrase Toad had used enthusiastically in his retelling of the past year's events.

Rat shot Toad a glare that could, generously, be called venomous. Behind his mother, Toad offered a pleading expression that did little to soften Rat's look. "I was there when a motor car upset the caravan we had spent the summer in, yes," Rat said, and Mole received the impression that it was only due to Mrs Toad's presence that Rat's tone was anywhere in the vicinity of cordial. "But I had little to do with it after, Mrs Toad."

Mrs Toad harrumphed. "I suppose I should be glad Junior's talent for dragging his friends into his problems has lessened, at least," she said, and no one corrected this misassumption. She moved along the queue of shame-faced animals and halted as she came to Mole. "And who might you be?"

Mole opened his mouth, but found no words came.

"This is Mole," Badger offered, when it became quite clear none of the younger generation were in any fit state to reply. "He's living with Rat at the moment."

"Another animal to be caught up in Junior's chaos, I'm sure."

She turned away, and it was in that unfortunate moment that Mole's mind finally placed the face he had been struggling to recognise, so that instead of anything approaching the numerous apologies he had been angling for, what instead left his mouth was a strangled, "Madame Grenouille?"

Mrs Toad faltered, and her expression shifted. "Junior has spoken of me then?"

"No–" Out of the corner of his eye, Mole saw Toad furiously gesturing for him to curb that sentence, and Mole belatedly realised that this was probably one of those times a Tactical Lie wouldn't go amiss. "I mean, yes, but my mother is also a huge fan of your opera work – I was practically raised listening to your records." He turned to Toad, not quite sure how to deal with the sudden fit of starstruckness. "Your mother is Madame Grenouille and you didn't tell me?"

Toad spluttered something, his natural desire to be the centre of attention (i.e. not being upstaged by his own mother) colliding with what little survival instinct he possessed. The outcome was a garbled, "Well, yes, but you never asked and – and anyway – how was I know your mother is an opera enthusiast?"

"But – but – Madame Grenouille," Mole stressed, quite perplexed as to how having a renowned opera singer for a mother had failed to come up in conversation before now. He returned his attention to the renowned opera singer in question and did his best to form coherent sentences. "My mother's never going to believe – she wanted to see you perform in Eugene Onegin, but London's a little too far for the likes of us – I didn't recognise you at first because I've only ever see the stills from the record art – and of course there's the pseudonym – I mean, of course you have a stage name, I just…"

Rat patted Mole on the shoulder. "Are you okay, Moley?"

"I think I need to sit down."

"I think you'd better."

It was only as Mole collapsed down into a seat that he realised he had been guided into Toad's best chair with no fuss from either toad. He didn't have much time to dwell on this though before his curiosity got the better of him and he refocused on Toad's mother. "Madame Grenouille – I mean, Mrs Toad – I mean…" He verbally stumbled, quite caught between what he already knew her by, and what his friends were respectfully calling her.

Toad's mother motioned for him to calm. "Please, call me Irene. Madame Grenouille is such a mouthful."

"I – thank you." If Mole hadn't been quite so starstruck at that immediate moment, he might have taken notice of the expressions his friends were affording him, which couldn't have been any less incredulous if he'd suddenly grown a second head. "Mada– I mean, Irene, are you staying here long?" He perked up. "Are you performing locally?"

"I had only intended on passing through – my schedule is so busy that I can only afford the occasional home-visit to ensure nothing is amiss," and here she spared a withering glance back to her son, "but I'm sure I can stay for the afternoon. That is, if my son has no qualm with that," she said in a voice that implied that any problem with her prolonged stay would be a problem for everyone.

"That would be wonderful," Toad muttered.

"Then it's settled. I think an early supper would be the civilised thing to offer our guests, don't you, Junior?"

"Of course, Mother."

"The third-floor dining room should suit us fine – after all, the sun always hits the windows just right during this time of day."

"Not the third-floor dining room," Toad said quickly. "It's too drafty in this season."

"It wouldn't be too drafty if you were running proper upkeep of the place."

"I think," Mole said, vaguely recalling the dining room as one of the victims to Toad's latest fad, "that if it's alright with you, supper on the lawn sounds nice. It's getting towards the end of the season and it seems a shame to waste such a good day."

The Riverbankers collectively held their breath as Mrs Toad considered this suggestion. One could have parked whole carriages in the ensuing pause. Then she gave a swift nod and gestured to the rabbit unfortunate enough to be on duty that day. "Well, you heard the animal – a light supper on the lawn it is."

As they made their way to the grounds – via a carefully selected route so that they would not pass any of the remnants of the kart racing – Mole found himself in step with Mrs Toad. (To his delight and the others' relief.)

"Is it true about your first big role?" Mole asked excitedly. "That you were the understudy and you had to step in ten minutes before the curtain went up?"

"Very much so," Mrs Toad said. "Oh, to step out onto that stage in the role of prima donna for the first time was a moment I shall never forget. Naturally, there were malicious rumours of sabotage against the original prima donna, but they were only jealous hearsay."

"I never believed them for a second," Mole said loyally.

"I did," Toad muttered.

"I heard that," Mrs Toad intoned. "Honestly, such manners from my own son. Now," she added, gesturing to her conversational partner, "why can't you be more like this polite Mr Mole?"

Toad went an interesting shade of green, and Ratty and Badger made a grab for him before he could take matters into his own webbed hands. (Fortunately for everyone involved, Mrs Toad had returned her attention back to Mole, and so didn't see the undignified scuffle behind her.) Once Toad had regained what usually passed for his senses, Ratty did his best to (very quietly) offer some kind of condolences for the harsh dismissal – hiding his smile behind a paw and a cough as he did so. He even almost managed to look sincere.

Their roundabout detour had another advantage, in that it gave the staff just that little bit of extra time to assemble a light supper before Mrs Toad and her entourage reached the grounds. Toad looked somewhat disparagingly at the array of cold meats, sweetmeats, salted fish, cheeses, salad, sandwiches, rolls, fruit – and then glanced sidelong at his mother in preparation for the comments. But he needn't have worried, for Mole had already settled down eagerly at the feast and it appeared his enthusiasm was somewhat contagious, for Mrs Toad didn't offer one critical remark during the meal.

Instead, the party was treated (a term applied variably to individual members in the gathering) to tales of Mrs Toad's colourful career in opera – gleefully encouraged by the still-starstruck Mole, and warily attended by the rest. Yes, she assured, she had 'acquired' various props over the years ("my little trophies" she crooned); no, the previous prima donna's sudden loss of voice was pure coincidence ("although that didn't deter the tabloids from making tasteless 'frog in the throat' jokes"); and yes, she had always wanted to be a singer ("ever since I was a tadpole"). The evening passed, if not enjoyable for all (Toad was sulking as overtly as he dared), then at least civilly – which was more than could be said for previous visits. And when it came for Mrs Toad to head off, it was with a genial handshake and the promise to perform locally as soon as she was able.

"Naturally, I will ensure an invitation is extended to you and your mother," Mrs Toad assured. "It will be a delight to meet another animal with such a discerning taste in music." She turned to the assortment of animals in her wake. "Badger. Ratty. Always so good to see you again."

Both animals mumbled something in the vicinity of "likewise."

"And Junior."

Toad straightened at the address. "Mother."

She leant in with a knowing smile. "If I hear that your indoor karting craze so much as grazes the wallpaper, I will be back."

"All in all," Mole said later, when he and Rat had finally escaped back to the Riverbank, "I don't see why you all made such a fuss over Irene." He took the drink Rat offered. "Thank you. She seems like a very amicable animal."

Rat's whiskers twitched. "Yes, well, I'm sure Irene is lovely, but unfortunately I've only ever had the pleasure of knowing Mrs Toad."

"Also… Junior?"

"Ah, yes well… when animals share their name with their fathers, there's usually some distinction afforded. Sometimes we don't always escape our childhood nickname entirely."

Mole sat for a moment, recalling what he could of Rat's particular family tree. He grinned at his housemate. "So… were you Rat Junior?"

"I was mostly just 'Ratty' while my father was around."

"Aren't you still Ratty now?"

"I was just Rat for a while." He hesitated, reading the disbelief in his friend. "Well, it was beginning to catch on until a certain undergrounder started calling me 'Ratty' again."

"At least it's better than 'Junior.'"

Ratty snorted. "Are we really setting the bar that low?"

"Still," Mole said, returning the conversation to the matter occupying his mind, "I can't believe Toad's mother was Madame Grenouille all this time and Toad never even mentioned it." He paused, and took a swig from his drink. "Or that she's alive."

Ratty laughed. "Why do I get the feeling the Grenouille part of the revelation is the more shocking discovery?"

"She's Madame Grenouille, Ratty." Mole gestured as best he could the enormity of this fact. "It's the equivalent of… it's like meeting… it's…" he floundered as he struggled to find an adequate comparison. "Listen, just trust me when I say it's a big deal." He sat back in his armchair. "Madame Grenouille. Just wait until my mother hears about this."