16 Farewells and new beginnings

It was Rat who decided that Toad’s recovery should be marked by a lunch. ‘It’s too easy’, he said, ‘to let significant events pass by without notice or celebration. Perhaps this is because we usually only recognise their importance after the event.’

For reasons best known to himself, Rat chose to hold this event in the Red Lion, an old coaching inn with a central courtyard and wood-panelled dining-rooms. The waiters seemed as old as the building, with drooping moustaches and long, white aprons which reached down to their cracked black shoes.

Even before Rat entered, he knew what the menu would be: Brown Windsor soup, roast Norfolk turkey with chipolatas, followed by sherry trifle, some dry cheddar, coffee extra. He arrived first in order to check that the private room he had booked was properly laid up. Rather to his surprise, the appearance of the room (called the Isis Room) was excellent, the table laid with a gleaming white starched cloth and napkins, sparkling glasses and heavy, old-fashioned cutlery.

He studied the wine list and, as he expected, saw several wines of good vintage and reasonably priced. He ordered a couple of bottles of claret and then repaired to the bar to await the arrival of the others. He ordered a pint of his favourite beer, ‘OBJ’, which stood, appropriately, for ‘Oh Be Joyful!’ and, in a spirit of great contentment, leaned on the bar and quaffed his ale.

The next to arrive was Toad. He was feeling relaxed and at ease and was looking forward to meeting his friends and telling them all that had happened. But as he walked casually through the courtyard, having leant his bicycle against the hotel railings and straightened his new cricket-club tie, his legs turned to water. For he recognised exactly where he was and the events associated with the place flooded over him. For this was the Red Lion, the very inn where, having escaped from his reforming friends years ago, he had eaten an enormous lunch and then (oh horror! he could scarcely continue) he had stolen a beautiful motorcar and driven straight to prison.

Luckily, at that moment Rat appeared at the hotel doorway and in his sensitive way he said, ‘Hello Toady, you look as if you’ve just seen a ghost. You’re the first to arrive. Come on in and I’ll buy you a drink.’ Regaining his composure somewhat, Toad followed Rat into the bar. The oldest waiter gave him a long and enquiring look, but Toad was able to stare back and handed him his coat to hang up.

‘What’ll you have then?’ asked Rat. ‘A pint of bitter?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Toad. ‘You know I always have a brandy and soda.’ ‘Nonsense, Toad,’ replied Rat with some spirit, ‘I can remember many times when you’ve had a beer.’

‘Name one,’ said Toad, practising his new-found assertiveness.

Fortunately, before the discussion could become too heated, Mole and Badger arrived together. They had shared a cab and Badger, as usual, had managed to get Mole to pay.

‘Hello, Badger. Hello, Mole.’

Soon they were all standing in a group at the bar and talking animatedly.

‘Good idea of yours, this lunch, Ratty,’ said the Badger in his kindly way. ‘Well done.’ Rat half thought he might have his head patted. Toad was telling Mole one of his tall stories and Mole was saying ‘Really’ and ‘Then what happened?’, but in fact he had heard it before and was thinking about lunch.

At that point, the old waiter came in and said to Rat, ‘Lunch is ready now, sir, if you would like to go in.’ So in they trooped and were soon eating their soup and tucking into their turkey, helped down with liberal glasses of the excellent claret which Rat had chosen. Then there was the sherry trifle, which actually had some sherry in it.

‘That’s unusual,’ said Badger. ‘Usually the chef merely waves the cork over it.’

Toad and Mole both had seconds and then cheese and coffee were served, by which time everyone was feeling mellow and contented. Toad was about to take out a very large cigar from his cigar-case, when a stern look from Badger made him replace the offending weed, patting his pocket as if he were merely looking for his handkerchief.

‘Well,’ said Badger, smiling affably at all of them, ‘so what are you all planning to do now?’ There was silence. Small animals do not usually do much forward planning. Regularity and rhythm, within the framework of the changing seasons, provide the comfort that keeps anxious thoughts at bay. To change involves risk, and risk could bring danger, and danger means threats.

But after all they had been through and learnt about themselves, change had already happened to them and they knew they had to move on, whatever the risk. They were all growing up and learning how to put away childish things. So it was inevitable that each of them had made plans, even though, so far, they had not shared them with each other.

‘Shall I start then?’ asked the ever-helpful Mole. There was a chorus of agreement, and so Mole continued, ‘I’m going back to Mole End. I’m going to turn it into a restaurant.’

The Rat, who had no knowledge of this, blurted out, ‘But you can’t cook for toffee. You can’t even boil an egg!’

‘Go and boil your head,’ said Mole under his breath, but in a louder voice, ‘I shan’t be doing the cooking. I’ve got a very good chef. Do you remember Otter’s young cub, Portly, who once got lost but we found him? Well, he’s quite grown up now and seems to have been touched by the gods. He can cook the most delicious fish dishes, and his desserts are a delight. His speciality is bread and butter pudding. We are going to open it soon and it will be called “The Garibaldi”.’

‘I remember now,’ said the Rat. ‘I only visited your house once, but it was a very snug and compact place, and you had a bust of Garibaldi in your garden.’

Mole smiled with pleasure. ‘You remembered, Ratty. I’m so pleased. And do you remember the rest of the garden—the goldfish pond with the cockle-shell border and the silvered glass ball that reflects everything all wrong? Well, that is where the restaurant will be. Otter is put- ting up the money and will be my partner. But I shall manage it and Portly will be the chef.’

‘Well done, Mole,’ said Badger. ‘I shall come and patronise you frequently. I like my grub, I do.’ Badger could be remarkably vulgar when he chose.

‘I’ll be there too,’ said Toad. ‘What a ripping idea. When will you open?’

‘Probably in the autumn,’ replied Mole. ‘You know, when most animals are fairly quiet and beginning to slow down and will appreciate the particular ambience of Mole End.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Badger, who welcomed the undergroundness of Mole’s house.

Mole continued, ‘And then, in the spring, we shall do picnic-hampers. You know, cold tonguecoldhamcoldbeef-pickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwichespotted-meatging erbeerlemonadesodawater, that sort of thing.’

I wonder where he got that idea from? thought Rat, remembering their very first picnic together on the river, but said nothing.

Mole stopped. He realised that, until recently, he would have been much more shy and reticent in speaking. Now he was the centre of attention and was describing his plans clearly and interestingly. He felt stronger and happier than he had done for a long time.