A/N: Thanks for reading, all! Things will pick up quickly from here. I now have a drawing of Margaret I did on Deviantart along with my collection of Ratigan stuff. Enjoy!
"Do forgive me, Madam," Basil announces hurriedly, desperately trying to make up for his detachment earlier. My response is icy; I deeply resent being overlooked this way. Dawson rolls his eyes at Basil's sudden interest in me. Mrs. Judson disappears into the kitchen, shaking her head. Already, they must have known better than I did that Basil only gives attention where he believes it is due, as if he has only a limited amount and does not want to waste it. That could likely explain a thing or two. "Please," he says, then through gritted teeth adds, "This is as important to me as it is to you." I must wonder whether he is always so belligerent with clients, or whether he will harbour a grudge against me personally. That remains to be seen.
Leaving the side of my chair, Basil approaches the mantle piece and gestures toward a painting framed and mounted there over the hearth. My heart jumps in my chest; the well-done painting is such a perfect rendering of my husband, he comes alive. That is the Ratigan I know with his deceptively dashing smile. I can picture him before me as I sit, I can feel his presence, I can smell the smoke from the cigarette he always has lit No, that's just Basil's pipe, which he has left on the table beside the chair. It is all I can do to ignore the smell of it, the smoky odour that carries a meaning of confusing vileness along with it.
The painting, which is nothing more than paint on canvas, is surrounded by newspaper clippings tacked up on all sides. Basil leafs through these haughtily. "It was only a matter of time before this criminal mastermind resurfaced. The entire kingdom, and I too, were swept up in delight that the Queen was saved, and Professor Ratigan's plot was foiled. Looking back on it now, it is painfully obvious that Ratigan is not so easily silenced. Retrospectively, it is all to easy to trace the path of suspicious activity since that day. Thefts gone unsolved. Mice gone missing. Leads that go nowhere and ultimately grow cold. How long has it been now?" He pauses and shuffles with the articles.
"Three months next week," Dawson reminds him, dutifully. He is apparently well familiar with the length of time.
"Thank you. Dawson, this is the reason for my preoccupation of late. If you had seen the look on Ratigan's face as he plunged from the clock face, there was more to it than fear for his hide. The look he gave me when he grabbed my legs to break his fall said everything he couldn't articulate; for meeting defeat at my hands he would live to see the day when he could prove his persistence."
Pacing back and forth, Basil's voice was jumping up and down in frustration, trying to piece together his prime enemy. "That was who he was. He would not allow himself to die simply for the sake of spiting me. Anyone else would succumb to death after everything against him. Not Ratigan. When the rest of Mousedom believes his end has come, he rises again. Ratigan is a dogged rogue indeed." He tosses his head and looks rapidly about him. I pick up his pipe and hold it out to him. Turning slowly to me, he snatches it from me and asks with a rather obvious tone of suspicion, "But you are already well acquainted with this, of course. Well enough to have produced a family with our tenacious sewer rat."
Now it is my turn to flare up. I rise to my feet, nearly knocking Dawson over in the process and correct him instinctively, "Mouse! He is a mouse." I know it is a mistake to say this to Basil, but I do it anyway.
Basil stands motionless, his head tilted at an angle in thought. "You too? I can't help but wonder what kind of influence Ratigan holds over you. Perhaps he sent you here, with his own twisted motives. Or perhaps not. You must understand, when you give me this nonsense he impresses on all his followers about him being a mouse. It came so mechanically from you, just as it did from his mechanical Queen." Apparently, he finds his remark witty, and Dawson offers it a chuckle as well. The look of exasperation I direct at Dawson abruptly quiets him.
"I don't see fit to say a word more if this is how you will speak to me." This is very much part of what had made me hesitant to look to Basil for help. Never mind what I say or feel; knowing that Ratigan is my husband will make Basil suspicious of every word. Then there is the other side of the coin.
Choking on his own laughter, Basil sobers up. This was the catch – he was not about to let me get away. He works hard to maintain his composure. "Don't be silly. Granted, it was rude of me to say this to someone in your situation. Quickly Margaret, tell me. I am all ears." Now it is plain to see that he knows he has to help me whether he likes it or not. Much as I hate to let Ratigan's corrupt philosophy rub off on me, I can tell that I have Basil right where I want him. My family will be saved yet!
Amiable Dawson, fearing I have given up on Basil again, steps in to right what Basil has wronged. "He means it this time. Don't waste another minute," he says, then adds somberly, "Your children's lives may depend on it."
Most compelling for our Dawson. No doubt he wonders what I am doing here, but he has the sensitivity not to say so. Dabbing my handkerchief to my eyes once more, I nod. "Yes, to be sure." I give it some thought, tracing back through the web of goings on. "Where to start?" I ask to no one in particular.
"The beginning," suggests Dawson, "The best place to start." So I do. I start at the very beginning
"You recall that I introduced myself to you as Margaret. This was the name my mother gave me, but anyone who has known me for a time has another name for me – Maudlin Mag. The name has followed me to this day and maybe with good reason. It seems that the one quality that has remained constant about me is the air of misfortune I seem to carry about me. Whether I happen only to be at the wrong place at the wrong time or consciously bring tragedy upon tragedy on myself, I know not." I turn to Basil, my desperation seeping out unwanted onto my face. "Basil, maybe you can reason which it is."
"As far back as I can remember, nothing was ever simple. Being the youngest of five children of field mice is far from simple, and for my mother and father it was simply grueling. My father was a coal miner, mother told us, not paid half of what he was worth. She worked as a seamstress, because father's pay alone could not support the large family. I was born November 10, 1871. The date has been branded on me. I am all too familiar with it, for that is the day my father died in the mines, crushed when the shaft collapsed, they told me. I had no power over what went on and we all instinctively knew it. But my arrival on that ill-fated day marked me from birth as wretched. What they never realized was that I regret it too. I never knew my father, and he never knew me.
"Without the income of my father, even young as I was, I could perceive meals shrinking and clothes becoming more tattered. Feeding five children as well as herself was unrealistic for mother on a seamstress's wage. Our family was falling apart at the seams, and the way my mother chose to mend it was to remarry. By that time, my family of six had become five with the loss of one of my sisters to fever. None of us were delighted by her choice. Mr. Gloucester was a carpenter who didn't seem to spend much time earning an income by building, but a lot of time building debt by spending his income. For a working class mouse, he liked eating well and living above his status. When money ran out, he did not see it as his fault. The blame rested squarely on the large family of mouths to be fed, including the three he and my mother added together. My sister and brothers made a point of keeping our father's last name of Armstrong. I was too young to know the difference, but I wanted to be just like them, so I did the same.
"Little consequence came of anything we did. The four of us learned quickly that Mr. Gloucester had two remedies that could solve any problem he encountered: brandy, or the cheaper one, his belt. Once we were forced to scrimp and pinch every pence, the belt became his favourite. We learned not to run when he had it in his hand, as it would be over quicker. To get us out from underfoot and earn a few pounds on the side, Mr. Gloucester suggested (or rather ordered) my mother to have us go to work. The new three were far too young, but four was enough to be going on with. He enlisted my oldest brother, Henry, to work with him as a carpenter; my other brother Samuel he apprenticed to one vendor or another.
"Rather than let our mother train us to be seamstresses, Mr. Gloucester took a more direct option with us. So we became match girls. I was seven or eight, and Sophie was about eleven. I hated selling matches; it is one of the most degrading jobs available. To an optimistic young mouse who is an aspiring singer, it is an unwelcome first job. We were always chased by city cats and running to escape being stepped on by a careless human foot. I would tire quickly because I was only little, and Sophie would drag me through the streets, pleading for buyers.
"One day I can remember, Sophie and I were shuffling through the streets. It had rained the night before and rivers of water ran to the gutters. While we stood at the edge of the street, a horse and buggy rolled by, sending a torrent of water on top of us. We were drenched and frustrated, but unhurt. The real problem lay with the matches; soaked with water, they were spoiled, wasted. I sobbed, thinking of the belt. After walking like this for quite some time, Sophie turned and asked, Whatever is the matter, Margaret?'
"We'll be whipped for sure for losing the matches!' I whimpered.
"Sophie ceased to be sympathetic. That happens whether we sell the matches or not.'
"That didn't satisfy me. I wished Mr. Gloucester was gone. He didn't match what Henry, Sophie, and Samuel said of our own father. I miss Father,' I moaned, glumly.
"You never knew your father, muttonhead,' she spat at me as she frantically struck match after match as if she expected them to have survived drowning. He died the day you were born. When I sell matches with things like this always happen to us! And you cry like you are the only one who has troubles. Maudlin Mag!'
"I threw my matches down and scowled at her through a wall of tears. I'm not selling the matches anymore. Our real father would never make us do this. I don't know what he looked like and I don't know his voice, but I love him just the same.' Pausing for a breath, I noticed that she had stopped fiddling with her matches and was standing, eyes focused on the cracks in the road. Children always know when someone loves someone, even if they refuse to say a word. I went to Sophie. You loved him very much, didn't you?'
"His face is a blur now, but I remember his voice,' Sophie said, the bitterness fading from her voice. Every night when I had trouble sleeping, he used to tell me a story about a little poor mouse girl who grows up, marries, and becomes the Queen of Mousedom. Her name was always Sophie.' When I look up at my sister, I see that tears are falling from her eyes, too.
"After that, I don't know what happened. But I distinctly remember that Sophie and I didn't have to sell matches anymore. Samuel no longer worked as an apprentice. I was too young to understand that Henry was now working full time as a carpenter, and that Mother had sold nearly everything of hers to allow Samuel, Sophie, and me to attend school. We got a few years in, but it wasn't long before Mr. Gloucester's brandy habit was no longer sacrificed for our education. The three of us didn't dare to ask why. Samuel and Sophie may have known.
"Mother was not so willing to give up. I would go to sleep some nights only to wake to the sound of Mother and Mr. Gloucester shouting at each other. If the little ones woke and heard the noise, I would often take it on myself to soothe them. I would sing them lullabies, which proved to be the only chance I had to do any singing. But these were nearly drowned out by the din from down the hall.
"Wot'sa mattah with you?'
"Shut up. I don't want to hear it.'
"You and your feckin' brandy! You'd sell your own children for more feckin' brandy.'
"'Finally a good idea. First time you've ever ad one!'
"So many nights carried on that way. Occasionally I would hear Henry's voice, shouting at Mr. Gloucester as well. I couldn't wait to get out of that house. There was nowhere I could go, and I would have done anything to get out. I would have gone so far as to support myself on matches if it could have gotten me out. That didn't happen. For four more years, that was what family was."
I stop and look at Basil and Dawson. Dawson rests his head on his hands, taking in every word. Even Basil pays strict, but still sympathetic, attention; he doesn't hurry me along as I would have thought. Likely he doesn't want me to skip over anything that could prove invaluable as evidence later.
"Tea, anyone?" chirps a lively voice. "My dear, you must want something to drink. Here you are," she says, handing me a cup.
"Thank you," I whisper, taking lingering sips of tea. Dawson and Basil gulp theirs down. They look expectantly at me. I know they are, but I feel that there is another pair of eyes on me as I speak. It isn't Mrs. Judson's. They are coming from the mantle piece. From a painting.
