The Mouse by Frances King. Part 2.
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Mavis was delighted with her present, and next day, at her birthday party, she amused her seven little friends by taking the mouse out of its cage and making it run up and down the sofa by prodding it with a pencil. But when a little boy attempted to prod it with his own stubby finger, she gave him a kick. She was devoted to her mouse, and wouldn’t have anyone else tease it. At tea she fed it on cake crumbs and made it say ‘Thank you’ by pinching it between her thumb and her forefinger. She was a child with all her father’s looks and good humour.
The mothers who were present were charmed by Vernon and decided that any talk of noisy quarrels or even of ‘differences’ must have been malicious gossip. They noticed, in particular, how lovingly Vernon stroked Stella’s ash-blonde hair as he perched on the arm of the sofa beside her, and they agreed that any man who could dress so elegantly and offer them glasses of sherry at six o’clock, could not really be as badly off as their husbands maintained.
But the day after this successful tea party Vernon felt ill; he always said that the mere thought of money made him feel ill, and perhaps it was indeed this that sent him to his bed with a couple of aspirins. It was, as he pointed out to Stella, particularly unfortunate that he should be indisposed at this moment, as a music publisher had sent him a book for which an index had to be prepared by the end of the week. ‘He’ll never send me anything again! Vernon groaned, and added: ‘Oh, do draw those curtains. The light hurts my eyes.’
‘Couldn’t I do it for you?’
‘The index? You, darling?’ He gripped her small hand in his own large one; one would have thought that with a single squeeze he would be able to crush those fragile fingers. But Vernon was always gentle. ‘How can you? You know you hate that sort of thing?’
‘But we do need the money, don’t we?’
‘Oh, the money!’ He sighed deeply and covered his face with his hands. ‘Yes, we certainly need that.’
‘Then don’t worry. I’ll do what I can with the index.’
Mavis had come in during this conversation and had thrown herself on the bed; the mouse was inside the sleeve of her cardigan and from time to time she peered down to see if all went well.
‘You are angelic, darling. I don’t know what I would do without you.’ But really, Vernon decided, as Stella came back and back to him with her fatuous, uncomprehending questions about the index, it would have been far simpler to do it oneself. Mavis was playing on the floor of the bedroom, and he liked to lie and watch her, as she urged the mouse up and down a staircase she had made for it out of matchboxes; but how could he be at peace and get well if Stella kept coming in to ask what should be included in the index and what left out? Not that he wanted to hurt her feelings – in fact, when she began to cry because he pointed out to her (in an entirely friendly manner, of course) that he had already explained the same point to her at least three times, he at once pulled her down on to the bed and began to kiss her neck. But, oh, he did so wish that he had married a woman of some intelligence! … However, she did persevere, there was no doubt of that; so that somehow, by staying up late for a week, she managed to complete the work, and cash a cheque for fifteen pounds with which Vernon was able to buy, among other things, the claret which the doctor had recommended so strongly for his health.
Meanwhile, by the end of that same week, Mavis had taught her mouse to scuttle up and down the matchboxes, for the reward of a piece of cheese rind.
‘He’s really awfully clever, she said to her father. ‘I think I could teach him anything.’
But still they needed money; soon the publisher’s fifteen pounds had been spent on what Vernon would call ‘the bare necessities of life’ and inexplicably none of Stella’s relatives would help them with a loan. Even Stella’s mother, usually so generous, would do no more than treat Stella and Mavis to tea at Harrods and buy Mavis a new cage, of silver wire, for her mouse. Vernon was in despair. How could he write music? he would demand. Oh, he was sick of this life. For four years he had laboured at his symphony and now, for lack of bread, he would never get it finished. He would have to take a job. But of course, he hastened to add kindly, he didn’t blame Stella.