By JON GADSBY
At around 5 am on Easter Sunday, the bunny came to visit - or I thought it was the bunny. All was quiet at the beach-house until I was disturbed from blissful repose by a scratching at the open window, then the pitter-patter of little paws across the carpet and up on to the bed.
"What did the Easter Bunny have for me?" I thought. "Would it be chocolates? Eggs? Ridiculously expensive sweetmeats imported from Switzerland?" I lay hugging myself in the dark, aquiver with anticipation. And then a live mouse was deposited in my ear.
I sat bolt upright with a cry, dislodging the mouse which landed on the slumbering Jo. She then sat bolt upright, and began screaming the house down. Tiche the cat wisely made a bolt for the window. We were left alone, in the room, in the dark, with the mouse.
I was then commanded to ensnare the creature and get rid of it. From her elevated position, standing tiptoe on the bed, Jo was able to scream helpful instructions at me: "Don't hurt it!" was one. With the aid of the light, I crawled semi-naked around the bedroom floor, diving clumsily in the direction of the mouse, which had adopted the tactic of skittering like quicksilver beneath the bed, from one side to the other.
After some time I fell back exhausted, nursing contused elbows and knees. The mouse seized this opportunity to make a dash for the nearest open door it could see - that of a large walk-in wardrobe. With a cry of triumph I slammed the door behind it. The creature was now contained, I explained. We should now catch the errant cat, put it in the wardrobe, and let nature take its course.
"No," I was told firmly. "I don't want Tiche in there with the mouse. She might kill it."
I sighed. All thought of further sleep banished, we repaired upstairs to find the entire household awake and wondering what the hell was going on. We explained.
"Simple," suggested my sister-in-law, Karen. "Put the cat in the cupboard with the mouse."
I sighed again and went outside to stare gloomily at the crashing surf.
Later, fortified by coffee and Easter eggs, I decided to resume the downstairs safari. Brother-in-law Kingsley manfully volunteered to help. Armed with damp towels (don't ask me why, it seemed a good idea at the time) we approached the wardrobe door. The mouse shot out and disappeared under the bed. Scientifically, we chose a side of the bed each, and lying on the floor, attempted to drive the mouse out of cover. Jo shouted advice through a crack in the bedroom door, shrieking hysterically each time the mouse appeared. Twice we trapped the fearsome rodent in a corner, but had nothing to catch it with.
We bravely sought more appropriate weapons. The sight of two grown men, one wielding a cane basket, the other armed with a landing net, leaping around a small bedroom and repeatedly crashing into each other, was suddenly amusing to Jo. Kingsley suddenly realised he was late for golf. I suddenly realised I had had enough.
"I'm putting Tiche in here with it," I stormed. "She brought it in. She can bloody well catch it!"
Reluctantly, Jo agreed. I was more successful catching the cat, and an hour or so later saw me sneaking towards the bedroom door with the struggling animal. I opened the door a crack, and the mouse scurried across the floor. With an oath I cried havoc, let slip the cat of war and slammed the door behind me.
Later that day I decided to take a look. I opened the door, expecting a scene of carnage. The mouse looked up inquiringly from the corner, then resumed washing its whiskers. The cat was asleep on the bed in the late afternoon sun. I gave a roar. The cat leapt out of the window and the mouse shot back into the wardrobe.
The garage at the beach-house is a treasure trove. It contains everything from a wetsuit collection to a gasket kit for a Polaris submarine. And at midnight that night, do you think I could find a mousetrap? It had come to that, you see. We had been forced, at Jo's insistence, to move out of the rodent-haunted room and camp next door. We were leaving the next day and to abandon the parent-in-laws' house to the ravages of a wild animal was unthinkable, hence the trap. I found one eventually, jammed between a socket-set and a speargun, and yes, it was set.
Clutching a rapidly swelling finger and a lump of cheese, I entered the creature's lair. The trap was set, and left to do its deadly work. I snuggled into bed confident of a result. As I drifted off, a soft noise at the window heralded the entry of Tiche. With a single bound she landed on the bed, plonked herself between my knees, and began purring loudly, as though a good day's work had been done.
Lying fuming in the dark and unable to sleep, I arose and checked the killing fields. The cheese was gone and the trap still set. I rebaited it, checked the mechanism and returned to bed. Two hours later, a rerun: the cheese gone, the trap unsprung. I rechecked it. It activated upon my swollen finger. I began to cry.
We left the beach-house that morning. Just before departure I reluctantly entered the haunted room to retrieve the cat's basket and a travel rug. As I lifted the rug a tiny form was revealed to me. It was the mouse, full of cheese and fast asleep on Tiche's pillow. I released it in the garden and it ran away. At last we were free.
I know it's my imagination, I know it can't possibly be true, but as we turned on to the Bombay Hills I could have sworn I saw a tiny face in the rear vision mirror, framed in the backseat headrest. It appeared to be laughing.
<i>The Great Gadsby:</i> A mouse that roared became Easter prey
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