Ratman's Notebooks Read online

  The rats stopped playing. The two big ones immediately, the little ones a few seconds later. For a quarter of a minute or so everything froze, me standing like a statue, the two big rats watching me, the eleven little rats snuggled against stones or plants trying to make themselves invisible. Then one of the adults must have given some order. All the little ones scurried away under the big juniper bush, which grows in sort of layers close to the ground. The big ones followed. A few seconds later there wasn’t a sign of any of them. I was still rather frightened. I tip-toed over and peered under the juniper bush. I couldn’t see anything, but in the ground round about there are several holes which I’m sure must be rat-holes. There must be a whole colony of them. I wondered what we should do.

  I went back to the house. I’d the front grass to cut, and if I’d any time afterwards I meant to do a bit of hoeing at the weeds in the drive. I keep the lawnmower in the W.C. in the yard. Mother doesn’t like it there. She’d like everything to be the way it was when Father was alive. But as there’s no maid now to use that W.C. I don’t see any harm in keeping the tools there. It’s much handier than having to run up to the old tool-shed at the top of the garden every time you want anything.

  Mother saw me the moment I came into the yard. I think she must have been on the look-out for me. I didn’t want to talk, but she rapped on the kitchen window and I had to go in and speak to her. She wears a diamond engagement ring, a gold wedding ring, and another ring with emeralds in it, so that when she raps on the window it is a very peremptory noise which I can’t pretend not to hear.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep the mower in that place,’ she started off.

  I said nothing. It’s the only way with her. Sometimes she’ll go on for quite a long time and if I talk back I find myself being argued into promising things. Then she gets at me later for not keeping my promise. So it’s best to say nothing. This time she didn’t go on about the lawnmower because she wanted something else. ‘Did you do anything about the rats?’

  ‘No. What could I do?’

  ‘I’m sure your father would have done something. Did you even go and look at them?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been watching them.’

  ‘Did you see them then?’

  ‘Yes I saw them.’

  ‘They’re all over the place.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think there’s only one family of them, and they’re just about the rockery so far as I could see.’

  ‘Yes, but they grow up in no time at all and they breed very fast. If you don’t do something about it they’ll be over the whole place.’

  ‘I don’t know what I can do.’

  ‘You’ll have to do something.’

  I nearly said I would think about it while I was cutting the grass, but I stopped myself in time. That would have been a promise to do something as soon as the grass was cut. I just said, ‘I’m going to cut the grass.’

  I managed to keep out of her way for the rest of the afternoon, but at tea-time she started again about the rats. ‘I’m sure your father would have known what to do.’

  ‘Father would probably have got a professional rat-catcher.’

  ‘Well why don’t you get a professional rat-catcher?’

  ‘A rat-catcher’d cost money.’

  In our family, even before Father died, you could stop nearly any suggestion by saying it would cost money. We never had money to spare, and now of course it’s even worse.

  Mother kept quiet for quite a while, and her next remark was on what seemed to be a different subject. ‘I think it’s ridiculous that they haven’t made you a director.’

  ‘I don’t see why they should,’ I mumbled sulkily. I know very well that I’m never going to be a success in business, and I didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘Well your father was head of the firm. That should surely mean something.’

  ‘It means I don’t get the sack.’

  ‘Nonsense. They simply make use of you. They know very well that you’re trustworthy. They wouldn’t get anyone else they could trust with the money for anything like what they pay you.’

  ‘I’m sure they could get someone else if they wanted.’

  ‘Then you should have a better job.’

  This sort of talk makes me feel embarrassed and ashamed of myself. So I didn’t answer. Presently she got back to the rats. ‘I could pour boiling water down the rat-holes and when they came up you could kill them with a stick. You can break their backs very easily, I believe.’

  For a moment this idea thoroughly scared me. I didn’t want any cornered rats jumping up and tearing out my throat. Then I saw it wouldn’t work. ‘If you’d enough water you might drown them,’ I suggested, ‘but boiling water’s just going to run away into the ground.’

  ‘Then you could get a hose and let it run into one of the holes. You’d block the others. Any that tried to come up you’d kill with your stick.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work. They’ve far too many holes. You’d never find them all.’

  ‘You don’t want to do anything at all,’ she retorted. ‘You’re bone-lazy. That’s the trouble. You’re probably lazy in business too, and that’s why you don’t get on.’

  ‘Very probably,’ I agreed. ‘I wonder which side of the family I get that from.’

  In spite of all this, the talk of drowning the rats gave me an idea, and later in the evening, when we were on speaking terms again, I mentioned it to her. ‘You know the pool in the rockery.’

  ‘I thought it had been drained.’

  ‘So it was, but if we could entice the rats in there and then fill it with water, they’d drown all right.’

  This idea pleased her. ‘I knew you’d think of something if I kept at you. All you need is a little prodding. What you want’s a wife to keep after you the whole time. I’m getting too old for it. It would help you in business too.’

  Of course she knows very well that I can’t afford to get married, even if I wanted to. And if she saw any chance of it she’d fight tooth and nail to stop me.

  I never work in the garden on Sundays. Mother wouldn’t approve. I started on the pool this evening, Monday, immediately after tea. It’s going to be a much bigger job than I thought, but it’s the sort of job I can enjoy. I don’t mean actually drowning the rats—probably I shan’t look at that—but all the preparations. It’s turning out to be a really dirty job, and there’s something about dirty jobs, once you get stuck into them.

  I started off with a shovel and wheel-barrow. The pool is silted up with a sort of black sludge, a mixture of earth and water, half-rotten leaves and broken twigs. I can’t simply shovel it out. It’s full of growing things, plants of all kinds, grass and young trees. The roots are tangled together. Each time I thought I’d got a shovelful whatever was on the shovel was dragged off before I could pitch it into the barrow. I tried cutting through the roots with a spade, but that wasn’t much good either. I was afraid to use it too energetically for fear of breaking the concrete. I don’t think it’s very thick. If I cracked it the water would drain away and the rats wouldn’t get drowned. So I mucked in and dragged out the growing stuff with my hands. I’ll have more use for the shovel and spade later, when all the roots are gone and there’s only mud to clear.

  I got into the house tonight at half-past ten. I was black from head to toe. Mother hardly knew me. I had to have a bath straight away.

  Well the first part’s nearly done. I’ve got the pool itself more or less the way it was when Father left it. It’s about twelve feet across and the island in the centre is about three feet. The island is made of old paving stones piled on top of each other. I’ll take off the top two layers, so that the island will be below the level of the edge of the pool. It’s essential that the island should become completely submerged when I let the water in.

 
The next thing is to clear the channel which brings the water from the old mill-pond in the field at the back. This needn’t be a thorough job. I’ll just have to make sure the water flows once the sluice-gate is opened.

  I could almost find it in my heart to do the whole thing properly. Seeing it like this reminds me of it at its best. It really was quite attractive. All I’d have to do would be to clear the little path round the pool, and of course weed the rockery. . . . I suppose I’d have to put in fresh plants to take the place of the ones that have disappeared, and then go on weeding it once a week or so—every night more likely. Once a week would never keep up with it seeing I keep the front as well.

  Mother’d be delighted, but I shan’t do it. I hate any job I must do again and again. I hate cutting the grass and hoeing endlessly at the weeds in the drive. I’d let everything go completely if it wasn’t for Mother. She keeps at me. It’s not as if she ever did a stroke in the garden herself. She says she wears her fingers to the bone looking after the house, but I never see much sign of it.

  Tomorrow’ll be Saturday again and everything is ready for the execution. The pool is empty and dry. All that is now necessary is to ensure the attendance of the victims. There’d be no sense in trying anything too soon. I’ll throw a few scraps into the bottom of the pool tomorrow afternoon and see if they get taken.

  Another week’s gone by and the whole scheme is working out much better than I expected, that is to say than I expected recently. At first I hardly thought out any details.

  I threw in some scraps on Saturday afternoon. The rats can’t even have seen them. They were still there on Sunday morning. On Sunday afternoon some sparrows found them. On Sunday evening I put in more. By Monday evening they were all gone, but I wasn’t sure if it was rats or sparrows. So I got lumps of bread from the house, threw them in, and waited. After about a minute I saw Ma Rat looking out at me from under the edge of the juniper bush, or whatever it is. We watched each other. Soon I got tired and sat down. Ma Rat went on watching me. After another five minutes or so she moved slowly over to the empty pool and peered down at the lumps of bread lying on the bottom. Then I noticed the young rats. They appeared first at the edge of the bush. Then one by one, in short rushes, a yard or so at a time, they lined up beside their mother. They all peered down at the bread in the pool. Suddenly one of the young ones half-jumped half-scrambled down the side of the pool. At the bottom he paused and looked round cautiously. Ma looked round too. Next minute they were all at the bread. Ma was the last. She jumped down very awkwardly and heavily. It looks as if she were in the family-way again. No sign of Father Rat. I wonder has he deserted.

  Well everything is ready now. I’ve got the top two layers of slabs off the island, which I forgot about before. I’ve got the rats quite into the habit of feeding in the pool, or on the island to be exact. I still put a few scraps on the bottom of the pool to attract them in the first place, and make the whole thing look casual. As if I was dumping rubbish there. But most of the food goes on the island. They’ll all be congregated on the island, eating, and won’t notice the water flowing in till it’s too late. At least that’s the idea. They’ll be quite undisturbed. Even I shan’t be there to watch—at the beginning. Of course I’ll be there before the end—in time to see them drown. It’ll be horrid, but I won’t be able to resist.

  Everything worked perfectly. Immediately after tea I went up the garden with a big bowl of scraps. True to tradition the last meal of the condemned had to be good, nothing spared. Mother would have liked to come and watch, but she’s not been well the last day or two. She felt the walk up the garden might be too much for her. We were both excited. I promised to run down to the house and tell her immediately the deed was done.

  I threw the scraps on the island. Some of them dropped off into the bottom of the pool, and one bit of bacon rind dangled over the edge of the island. I paused just a moment to make sure the rats had spotted that it was ‘Grub up’, as I believe they say in the army. Then I hurried away to open the sluice-gate. The pond the water comes from is about seventy-five yards from the pool. The sluice-gate is wooden and runs in grooves. There is a long ratchet coming up from the gate. The teeth of the ratchet fit into a cog on a winch. I had the cog and ratchet well greased. I turned the winch handle and the sluice-gate—it’s only about a foot wide—rose slowly. In spite of the grease the mechanism creaked a bit. It hasn’t been used for years. At first the water seemed reluctant to leave the pond. The bottom of the ditch isn’t deep enough to make the water rush out quickly. Even a bit of ragged robin growing across the ditch held it back for a moment as if it had been a dam. Then it trickled through and gradually the flow became a little faster, more decided. . . . Nothing much, but enough—provided it was getting through into the pool.

  I ran back to the stile which leads from the garden to the field. I stood on the top step. I could see the pool, but I wasn’t close enough to make out what was happening. I got off the stile and tip-toed a bit closer.

  The water was flowing very gently into the pool. All the rats except one were on top of the island. This one was just below the others on the floor of the pool. He was reaching up for the piece of bacon rind I had noticed before, hanging over the edge. He got it and almost at the same moment felt a trickle of water against his tail. He twitched his tail in and hopped up a little on to the lower stones of the island. He wasn’t a bit perturbed. He was able to reach more food from his new position. He started to eat a bit of crust, holding it up in the air between his hands. They were all eating away, unconscious of the rising water. They’d never had a feast like it. Still no sign of Father Rat. I wondered what had happened to him. I didn’t like to think of him escaping. The rat who’d got his tail wet moved a little higher up the shore of the island.

  All the rats went on eating. Slowly the water rose. Two inches deep. If they tried they could still walk through it and jump up on to the edge of the pool. I wondered would they, if they noticed, but they didn’t notice. Three inches, four. . . . The rat on the shore hopped up a little further before the advancing tide. Five inches, six inches. . . .

  The water was at least nine inches deep before Ma Rat noticed anything. Even then she didn’t get excited. She raised her head, looked round, sniffed, twitched her whiskers. ‘It’s too late now, Ma. It’s no good swimming for it. The edges of the pool are smooth concrete. You can scrabble away, but you won’t be able to get a foothold and scramble out. Besides if any of you look like succeeding I can knock you back with my stick. I’ve brought a stick out with me specially for the purpose.’ I didn’t say this out loud. I thought it.

  Ma Rat went to the edge of the island and peered down. It’s steep there, a sort of miniature cliff edge. No. More like a quay wall. Ma Rat watched the water lapping against the quay wall. She was puzzled. She didn’t know she was living at the sea-side. She started on a tour of the coast. On the way she met her gormless son still peacefully taking his supper among the rocks on the lower part of the shore. She made an angry snap at him with her teeth. She thought he should have noticed something. I don’t know if she actually nipped him or not, but he let out a little squeal of dismay. This upset the whole family. They all started scurrying backwards and forwards, peering at the water from every side of the island in turn. They seemed to think there must be one side where there wasn’t any water.

  I came nearer. I didn’t mind the rats seeing me now. I contemplated the scene. How smoothly the water rose, creeping up the edge of the pool, hardly a ripple anywhere, slow, grey, inevitable.

  At first the rats didn’t seem to notice me. They rushed to and fro uttering their little squeals of excitement. I don’t think they realised yet what was happening to them. Ma didn’t squeal. She knew what was happening. At least she realised the water was rising, that the island was going to be submerged. That was the moment I was waiting for. Would they try to swim for it? Or would they wait till the wa
ter was actually lapping over them and swim then?

  Ma stared out over the water. Trying to make up her mind, I suppose. Should she plunge in and swim for the bank, or should she just wait? I thought all rats could swim. But maybe they don’t all know they can. Maybe Ma never had to swim before. I wonder what the water looked like to her. I don’t know how well rats can see. Perhaps they can’t see very far. Perhaps the edge of the pool seemed a long way away.

  Suddenly she caught sight of me. I don’t know how I knew that she’d seen me, but I did. She peered up at me. I stood there on a little mound of the rockery, a huge god-like figure, unmoving, terrible. . . .

  The young rats were really scared at last. They were all milling round the island in a panic, screaming, calling on their mother to save them. I’d never heard a rat scream before. Ten of them doing it at once made an appalling row. Ma herself didn’t utter a sound. I didn’t see her simply as a rat any more. I saw her as a mother worrying about her children.

  She stared at me very fixedly. She’d made up her mind what to do. She got into a position. . . . I don’t know what to call it. Rats don’t exactly kneel. It was a position of supplication. She clasped her hands together. She prayed to me. ‘Please save my children. It doesn’t matter about me. Let me drown if you like, but please spare my children.’