This is a short story for all ages, based on Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows. I must also give a nod to Kipling's 'Puck of Pook's Hill' (as so many greater writers have before me).
Land near Ratty's riverbank is threatened and a very strange person indeed comes to their aid.
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Author's note
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Some time ago, before you or I were even born, there was a string of years seemingly bathed in sunlight. Those long summers, created by collective memory, serve as contrast to the mud and wire of Flanders thereafter. Our tale falls within that halcyon era evoked by 'is there honey still for tea?' Beneath the modern England of motorways, office parks and concrete housing estates lies another land. Let us call it Deep England, for want of another title. It can still be found in the remnants of lost forests, mysterious tumuli and numerous ancient pathways. Stand in one of our historic churches or cathedrals and wonder at the generations that worshipped there before you. That is the era and the England that I will tell of. Let me take you to a riverbank, in a time when a different king sat upon the throne.
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Adventures in Advent
(A Wind in the Willows story)
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"You're a good fellow," Thomas insinuated.
The small man laughed, "I've heard it said."
"Aye, it does my heart good to see thee," the gamekeeper nodded. He kept his broken gun in the crook of his arm and stamped his booted feet on the cold earth.
A smile spread across that weather beaten face. "You were just a child, the last time we met."
"I was with my granddad," Tom agreed. "And to think: you knew him as a lad too!"
"I knew his grandfather too, mayhap?" The odd little man rubbed his snub nose thoughtfully. "For, after all, I mixed with many more sons of Adam in those days."
Tom, a robust man of more than sixty winters, had seen some remarkable things in his time. This fellow though? Well, he was undoubtedly the most remarkable of all. "Well, I'm glad I saw thee again afore I hang up my gun for good."
"You're leaving your post?"
"Not through choice, master, nay. The estate is to be sold and the new owner may have no need of a keeper." Tom had spent his whole live on the land, tending the preserves. Most country folk and animals had a liking for him, because he was a fair man. Even the poachers and weasels regarded him with a wary, professional respect.
"I've seen more change than you can imagine and it still saddens me." The creature shook his head ruefully; the point of his hat shook.
"It's out of my hands, master." The keeper pulled a rueful face. "Well, I'll bid you farewell and – if I don't see you again – it's been a pleasure to see thee today."
Alone again, the odd man danced a little; his bare feet cared naught for the frosty ground. It was a peculiarity of his, to dance a few steps, to lighten his mood. He was, at heart, a creature of summer. Warm summer nights brightened by a tenacious sun, insects flitting in the hedgerows, the smell of lavender, rosemary, roses and sage. Those were all much more to his taste than the dark, constricted days of midwinter. There was something in the air though that had caught his attention and saw him abroad before Christmas. Suddenly, the creature was alert. Something was coming down the river: a small, blue boat, painted white on the inside. It was expertly handled by a water rat. "Hullo!"
"Hullo yourself," the rat bellowed in reply. He stopped sculling and nimbly tossed the little man a rope. "Would you pull?" Soon the boat was tethered and the two were face to face. The water rat was dressed for boating, in white duck trousers, white shirt with a matching (if elderly) neckerchief and a snug fitting pea jacket. "Do I have the honour of addressing Robin Goodfellow?"
"That is one of my many names," the gnome agreed. "And you are Mister Rat and you live on the riverbank."
Ratty essayed a neat bow, "Ratty; if you would."
"Robin."
"Robin." The courtesies out of the way and (being pleased with his new acquaintance) the water rat suggested they share a bottle of beer and some seedcake. They were stashed in a bag, safe from damp. Robin Goodfellow wasn't overly fond of seedcake but it would have been discourteous to refuse. They sat on a log, eating and drinking, content with a lull in the conversation. Now it is, of course, bad manners to speak with one's mouth full, but Ratty was prone to the occasional lapse. "I saw the keeper, from further down the river," he finally said, indistinctly.
"Master Thomas? He's a good man. We're old acquaintances."
Rat, like many small things, could appreciate Thomas' qualities but found it politic to avoid him in his official capacity. "I waited until he'd gone," he admitted.
Master Goodfellow smiled. "He may not be keeper at all, soon."
The water rat sighed, "So I hear."
"The estate is to be sold."
"It's a confounded shame; it's been in the Wharton family since time out of mind."
"Not out of my mind," Robin corrected Rat. "I knew the founder; he came over with the conqueror, Norman William. The family wasn't called Wharton then, of course."
"No?" Rat said vaguely.
"Something more frenchified."
"Ah." Rat tried to look knowledgeable but he knew little of such things. "Do you know Toad? Toad of Toad Hall?"
"I knew his grandfather."
"Well, the present silly ass… I mean the present Toad… He knows (or claims to know) old Squire Wharton. He's heard all about the sale."
"Has he?" Those elfish pointed ears literally pricked up. "I'd like to hear more too. Would you introduce me?"
Rat's gay little vessel was left by the boathouse, bobbing happily in the water. "We'd better knock at the main door," Ratty suggested, "Seeing as you haven't made Toad's acquaintance." They crossed a shaggy, winter lawn to reach the carriageway. There was no evidence of the owner's previous (and disastrous) infatuation with motorcars returning. There was however a rather nice bicycle, painted in a shiny racing green. For an awful moment Rat imagined the bicycle being replaced, in the near future, with a motorcycle and he duly shuddered. "Still, sufficient until the day is the evil thereof," he told himself.
"Hullo!" Toad swaggered out of the door and down the broad, elegant steps of his house. It was what estate agents might call 'a superior, period, gentleman's residence'. Toad was dressed in an oilskin cape, cricket sweater, long baggy shorts that hid much of his bowed legs, and a flat cap. If I'm honest, he looked a terrible fright. "You fellows have just caught me!"
"Are you going cycling, Toad?"
"I am, old boy." Toad looked at the gnome, a question in his undeniably bulbous eyes.
"Toad, may I introduce Robin Goodfellow? Robin, Toad." Duly introduced, the pair shook hands.
"What can I do for you chaps?"
"Are you in a hurry?" Ratty asked.
Toad gestured towards his cycle. "No, I always have time for old and new friends. Come in, come in," he said hospitably. Soon they were installed in a cosy drawing room and Toad banked up the fire. The brandy was old and clung to their glasses like treacle. Their host pressed large handfuls of nuts on them. "Now, what can I do for you?" Ratty explained the purpose of their visit. "Well," said Toad, pleased to be consulted, "Squire Wharton has to sell the estate. That is of no doubt. It's not nice to gossip, of course, but he has overreached himself somewhat. There are two interested parties. One wants to keep the estate as it is. The other is a wealthy Harley Street physician. I've thought about consulting him myself, about my gout, you know. Anyway, Doctor Chirgeon wants to turn the place into a sanatorium. He'd sell off the whole eastern side of the estate to be developed."
"Developed into what?" Ratty asked anxiously.
"Oh, this and that," Toad replied vaguely. He never liked to expose any ignorance.
"Which party does the Squire favour?" Robin demanded.
"Well, he'd like to keep the place intact, of course." Toad pushed his chest out. "We, the old families and custodians of England, always want to do that. The trouble is…"
"Yes?"
"The trouble is that Doctor Chirgeon is offering more money."
"Three heads are better than two," Ratty had stated (blithely dismissing Toad as a wise head) so the pair sought Mole. Now it would be as wrong to say that Robin shrank to enter the tunnel, as it would be wrong to say he'd shrunk to fit the boat. That implies some obvious diminution. Nonetheless, somehow, he was the perfect size for both. "Ah, good, he's brought his milk in," Ratty noted the absence of a covered, tin jug. Robin Goodfellow looked a little blank (for fairy folk tend to get their milk from source, as it were).
Mole, ever hospitable, made them welcome in his comfortable parlour. It was already decorated for Christmas with sprigs of holly and paper chains. Mole's paws were rather sticky from gumming said streamers, but his guests forbore to comment. Having gratefully received steaming cups of tea and plates full of biscuits, they explained their errand. "But, I say," Mole butted in, "I've seen this Doctor Chirgeon!"
"There, I told you he was a knowing sort of chap," Ratty proudly told Robin.
"Well, it was like this, last Sunday I went to church…"
St Olaf's was (and is) a small, tidy construction that stands on top of a hill, overlooking the village near the Wharton estate. The main body of the church is in the perpendicular style but the belfry, being of Saxon origin, is far older. It was St John de Quarton, in the late fourteenth century, who commissioned the existing structure.
Occasionally, of a Sunday, Mole liked to slip away to Choral Evensong at St Olaf's, where he'd join the church mice in their great, battered pew at the western end of the nave. Generations of church mice had sat at the feet of various Rectors, from time out of mind. Evensong, a service once so familiar to many Britons, since the reign of the first Elizabeth, had already begun. Mole had tarried on the road and so he tiptoed quietly into the pew.
"Almighty and most merciful father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep," the Rector intoned, in his best sing-song tone. The service would adhere strictly to the Book of Common Prayer, that jewel of the English church. The General Confession was made and the church mice frowned a little at Mole's tardiness. The little congregation sang a fine selection of Advent hymns, such as 'Lo, he comes with clouds descending," and tried to ignore the chill in the air. The service ended, the Rector and choir followed the processional cross down the aisle. Suddenly, chatter broke out and people started to say 'how beastly cold it is' and 'can you believe it's nearly Christmas again?'. The congregants in the battered old pew sat quietly and listened as the big people streamed by.
"Ah, Rector, jolly good stuff," boomed a thin, confident chap. His bald dome was compensated for somewhat by a huge, brown beard.
"Thank you so much; um… you are visiting these parts?"
"Yes, although I may become a regular fixture." The man gave a barking laugh. Others, stood waiting to shake the vicar's hand, tried not to appear too impatient. "Chirgeon's the name. Doctor Chirgeon. I'm thinking of buying the Wharton estate."
"Well then, I hope to see you here on a regular basis."
"Absolutely. It'll take some time to tie up, I suppose. Still, I've found a comfortable billet at the Wharton Arms."
"The Wharton Arms!" Robin Goodfellow interjected.
"Yes, that's what he said," Mole confirmed.
"It's at the end of the High Street, I gather," Ratty said helpfully. Not that he'd ever been there, you understand. No, his world revolved around the riverbank and he was content for it to do so.
"Oh, I know the Wharton Arms. I knew it when it was no more than a common alehouse," Robin said with relish. "So, this Doctor is staying in these parts, is he? Now that gives me an idea."
They'd have counselled fellow creatures not to go into the Wild Wood; especially not in the dead of winter. Robin Goodfellow, that ancient imp, was different however. Neither Rat nor Mole really believed that he'd come to any harm.
"I distrust any plan that involves those ruffians," Mole said again.
"I'm not King Canute; I can't turn the tide back all on my own," the gnome told him. It is worth saying here that he had perhaps missed Canute's point.
"They're very sly," Mole frowned.
"Ah, but am I not more cunning still?" Robin warmed his bare toes by the fire.
"Just watch them – that's all - just watch them."
Goodfellow raised his cup of tea in a toast, "To the little gentleman in the black velvet waistket and his sensible advice!"
The trees were stripped bare of their summer garb but there was an abundance of leafy, verdant bushes and undergrowth. The year had painted trunks with a green film but the imp weaved through without a single mark on his tunic. Robin could move nimbly, in complete silence, when he chose so to do. He'd passed by many an oblivious gamekeeper and poacher, in his time. Two farm lads were out cutting holly for Christmas, but they saw him not. The weasels, who were in the middle of a feud with a nearby chicken keeper, had posted a sentry. He was a skinny, scurvy sort with a wild eye and scarred snout. He wore a dirty handkerchief rakishly about his neck, over a grimy, striped sweater. An empty jug lay beside him and his eyes were shut.
"Pirates, highwaymen, bandits!" Robin shouted, leaping on the sentry from on high.
"Wha… Huh! Hoy!" the sentry, rudely awakened, fumbled for his cudgel. "What's your game?" The sprite plucked the club from his grasp and flung it into the bushes. He stood, hands on hips, and laughed.
"I need to see the Chief Weasel and be quick about it," Robin demanded. He had little to fear from any of their kind.
Doctor and Mrs Chirgeon were ill matched in many ways, not least in the matter of breakfast. The Doctor liked to nibble at dry toast and a grilled grapefruit half. He viewed each mouthful with suspicion as if it might do him some great harm. Mrs Cirgeon, as substantial as her spouse was lean, breakfasted very differently. She began with a smoked kipper and eggs, before moving on to bacon, sausage and yet more egg. Her main business conducted, she contentedly chewed steadily through five slices of toast, each buttered well from corner to corner. Four cups of hot sweet tea washed the whole lot down thus keeping her from starvation until 'elevensies'.
Inured to his wife's prodigious appetite, the Doctor ventured, "I think we should go now, Elizabeth, and take another look at Wharton Manor."
The lady dabbed the corners of her mouth delicately with a fine lawn handkerchief. "Hm, yes, we probably ought. I do need another look at the kitchens. I hope we can get help to come in."
"Oh, no doubt, no doubt."
The sun had risen with alacrity and the day promised to be fine. The Wharton Arms was on the very edge of the village. The inn's ancient predecessor (an alehouse of dubious repute) being confined there by order of the then squire. He wouldn't have recognised the modern inn, with its hot and cold running water and rooms for 'superior visitors'. The Doctor's motor car was in the old stable block that now housed automobiles more often than horses. The vehicle was a grand contraption in glossy burgundy with gleaming brass accoutrements. Had Toad seen it, he would doubtless have relapsed into his former obsession.
Robin Goodfellow had flitted unseen about the inn the previous evening. He'd heard sufficient talk in the saloon bar and private parlours to hone his plan. Alarming speculation about new industrial buildings and the resulting loss of land had stiffened his resolve. At dawn he'd led a posse of weasels out of the Wild Wood, by discreet paths, to the very courtyard of the Wharton Arms. "It's our civic duty, lads," the Chief Weasel had said, "These plans will hit us as hard as anyone." He gave the leer that passed for his smile, "And there's plenty in these parts as will owe us when we've done. Oh yes, they'll owe us a favour or six, alright." He smacked his chops in pleasure at the thought.
"Ugh, what's that horrid creature?" Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, on the gravel. She pointed to the thing on the ground, near the stable doors.
"Some sort of rat or stoat… no, a stoat or a ferret," the Doctor decided. He picked up a handful of small stones and flung them. "There, it's gone."
"Yuck," the lady said. "I do believe it's gone into the stable."
"Yes, well, it will be more afraid of us than we are of it," her husband told her stoutly. Now that is a common enough lie, told to the afraid. He grasped his stick and advanced like an infantryman. The stable doors had been opened in advance. "Hey," he exclaimed, "be off with you!" Another weasel was curled up on the bonnet of his motor vehicle. "Go on, clear off," he waved his stick near the beast, being careful not to actually touch the paintwork, "Nasty thing!" The weasel slithered from the bonnet and disappeared into the darkness.
"Bring the car out," Elizabeth commanded, "I'm not going in there with rats."
"I think it's a ferret," the Doctor replied, casting a wary eye to the floor. He'd only just put his hand on the door when he noticed movement. The two-seater was full of weasels, branding knives and clubs. "Great Caesar's Ghost!" he cried.
"It's still there?"
"There's load of them and they're…" The Doctor backed out of the garage into the light of the persevering sun. "They're armed!"
"Arthur, what on Earth are you talking…" The woman shrieked as a band of weasels that looked, for all the world, like pirates, charged out of the stable block with knives glinting and cudgels waving. "Help!" she shrieked, "Get the horrid things away!" She ran as well as her bulk and heeled shoes allowed; ankles cockling as she sped across the gravel.
Doctor Chirgeon stood, frozen. "I'm going mad, this can't be…" He clawed for the handkerchief he kept in his sleeve and mopped his sodden brow. He was very much a denizen of the great metropolis and had little experience of animals of any sort.
Robin Goodfellow, that antique and audacious gnome, stepped out of the shadows. He gestured for the weasels to desist. "Do you know me, son of Adam?"
"No… this is a delusion, brought on by stress and overwork," the Doctor muttered, checking his own pulse.
"I said do you know me, son of Adam?"
"No, because you don't exist," the man of science replied defiantly.
"But I know you and of your plans. Go home, Doctor, go home, back to the city where you belong. You'll not prosper here, I vow, or my name is not Robin Goodfellow."
"Yes… get back home… that's just the ticket… that's what I'll do," the Doctor jabbered. "I'm ferverish – tired – taxed - suffering from strain. Elizabeth, Elizabeth!" Chirgeon started a stately jog to catch up with his retreating spouse. "Elizabeth, we're going home, I'm not well."
The Chirgeons were not seen in those parts again. The good doctor found suitable premises for his sanatorium in London, at the heart of the great wen. It was a success for some years until his whole methodology was discredited. He finally retired, an affluent but disappointed man with a horror of the countryside. The Wharton Estate was sold to a Mister Peters, a minor banker who fancied himself as lord of the manor. Most of the staff remained, including Thomas the gamekeeper, happy to be employed by one who left them to get on with things. News of Doctor Chirgeon's 'breakdown' soon spread throughout the district. Ratty and Mole were able to celebrate Christmas with lightened hearts. Toad's new found enthusiasm for cycling lasted until Epiphany, when his machine was crushed by a speeding lorry. The cyclist suffered no harm, other than to his dignity. Robin Goodfellow, his work done, disappeared as suddenly as he'd arrived. He wasn't seen again in those parts for several generations. There I think we shall leave our rustic friends and it only remains for me to wish you, on their behalf, a very merry Christmas.