Do Not Exceed the Stated Dose [Stories]

The Mighty Hunter

George Blackitt sniffed the bottle suspiciously, poured some of the stuff on his finger-tips and sniffed again. This would be the first time in a life of seventy years that he had used aftershave.

He took another look at the label. Surfaroma for Roughriders. It certainly smelt rough, he thought, wondering how he had allowed himself to be conned into buying a product so overpriced. Embarrassment, really, he admitted. He wouldn’t easily live down the giggles of the two young girls in the village shop when he’d given them his prepared speech. “I want it for my nephew in London actually. He’s a bit of a ladies’ man, wears the latest clothes and drives a sports car. Do you get the idea?”

Having sold him the bottle of Surfaroma, the pert little miss had caused a fresh eruption of mirth from her workmate by asking pointedly if his nephew required anything else from the shop. George had reddened deeply and fled.

In his day, it would have been unmanly to have used aftershave. Or the other things. He dabbed Surfaroma on his face and winced. It stung.

A large black tomcat stirred in his favourite armchair across the room, opened his eyes and changed position. Catching a whiff of the aftershave, he raised his head just enough for a more informative sniff, then buried his nose under his tail.

“I don’t blame you, Nimmy,” George confided to his cat. “However, needs must, old friend. Can’t expect a lady like Edith Plumley to entertain a gentleman smelling of soap, oh no. She’s used to certain standards from her admirers. A sophisticated lady, Chairperson of the Darby and Joan Club, Queen of the formation dancing, Treasurer of the village fete committee. Quite a good catch, if she’s willing to be caught, as I believe she is.”

Nimrod had fallen asleep.

George gave up talking to the cat and talked to himself instead. He picked up his clip-on bow tie and stood in front of the mirror to adjust it. “You haven’t seen action in a while, George Blackitt, but things are about to change.” His reflection looked silently back, smart but strained, not totally impressed by this bravado. He turned away and reached for the jacket of his dark suit. “Well, you haven’t worn this since Ivy’s funeral.” He sighed as he put it on. “Three years last month. Ivy, old girl, you wouldn’t have wanted me to stay lonely for the rest of my life, would you?”

If a response had come from across the great divide, George wouldn’t have heard it because he immediately started talking to the cat again. “Nimmy, old pal,” he said, “it’s time for another funeral. My own.” He leaned over the chair and stroked the glossy, warm fur. “This is goodbye and R.I.P. to George Blackitt, the wretched widower. And welcome to George Blackitt, debonair, superbly groomed and shortly to cause a flutter in the heart of one Edith Plumley. Stand by for an announcement.” He scratched Nimrod’s head. “Come on, old fellow, I’d better get you fed. Who knows, it could be a long night. I’m not saying what time I’ll be back. Come on, Nimmy. Nimrod.”

Nimrod stood, arched his back and stretched. His name had been called in the proper tone, though the time was earlier than usual. At ten years old, the big, black tom had one companion he would never leave: the blue ceramic feed bowl just behind the door.

“Here we go, old chum,” George said whilst filling the bowl with brawn. “This ought to keep you going till I get back.” A fleck of meat jelly landed on one of his highly polished black brogues. The cat pounced on it in an instant. George looked down fondly. “I named you well, didn’t I? ‘Nimrod, the mighty hunter before the Lord.’ ” No small mammal was safe within range of the cottage. In the summer Nimrod would be gone for hours, checking the hedgerows and the little wood across the meadow. Sometimes he went without processed catmeat for a week. He brought back what he couldn’t consume and left it by the front door, birds, mice, voles and sometimes baby rabbits, hopeful always that when he went back and prodded one of the small corpses it would revive and test the reaction of his right forepaw.

George sang a line from an old song from years past. “Wish me luck as I go on my way.”

Nimrod had his head in the feed bowl.

Two hours later, George was sitting uncomfortably in a rocking chair in Edith Plumley’s cottage, regretting having agreed to a second helping of the steak and kidney pie. The meat had been tough and the pastry only semicooked. He sipped the tea she had given him and tried to wash away the after-taste.

“Biscuit, Mr Blackitt?”

“Well—”

“Do have one. I like a man who can eat.”

George took a digestive. He bit with concentration lest the damned thing disintegrate into a pile of crumbs on his lap. “It was a meal to remember, Mrs Plumley.”

“I’m so pleased you enjoyed it, Mr Blackitt.” Mrs Plumley lookedradiant and George noticed that she, too, had made an extra effort. She’d had her hair done and she was wearing a lace blouse. She had some kind of slip underneath, so it was perfectly decent.

He said, not untruthfully, “First class cooks are hard to find.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice. You like steak and kidney?”

“You couldn’t have made a better choice.”

She smiled. “Most men seem to like it.”

There was a pause in the conversation. The grandfather clock in the corner was ticking audibly.

“Nice weather for the time of year,” said George.

A twinkle came to Edith Plumley’s eye. “Next thing you’ll be asking if I come here often. Please, just relax. I suggest it would help if we used first names.”

He felt himself blush. “If you like.” He still found her attractive, even if she couldn’t cook. She was young in her manner. He guessed she was about sixty-three, but she could have passed for less.

“George.”

“Yes... Edith?”

“I want to tell you something now, and I want to be sure I’m understood. I’m not in the habit of entertaining gentlemen in my home. In fact you are the first since... since I parted from Gregory. If I seem a little eager to be friends it’s just that at our time of life I believe we have earned the right to dispense with — for want of a better word — the foreplay.”

“Oh,” said George, and accidentally set the chair rocking and slurped tea into his saucer.

Edith continued, “There isn’t time for all that pussyfooting. Let’s dispense with it, George. Let’s admit that we’re human beings with needs and impulses.”

The digestive snapped. His crotch was covered in crumbs. He moved his hand there to cover his incompetence. He managed to say, “I wouldn’t argue with that, Edith.”

“Good.” She gave him a long, expectant look.

George swallowed hard. Why had she stopped talking? Why did her eyes beg his for a response? Why was a little drop of sweat rolling down his spine? Why hadn’t he met her forty years ago?

“If you’d like to know,” said George, “I really fancy you, Edith.” He jerked his leg and set the chair going again. He was horrified. The statement sounded so crude. Where had it come from?

Edith laughed heartily. “You’re a smooth talker, George, and an old rogue, too. I suspect you’re making fun of me.”

“No, Edith. Absolutely not. I didn’t mean it. I mean I did mean it, in a way, but not in another way, if you know what I mean.” He was no better than a tongue-tied schoolboy on his first date.

Like a lifebelt, Edith’s command rescued George from his sea of embarrassment. “Come with me. You’ve been frank with me, and I don’t mind admitting that you took me by surprise. And now it’s my turn. After what you said, we should definitely hold nothing back. Put down your cup.”

Without a word he got up and followed her ample form through the door beside the stone hearth. They entered her bedroom.

It was all so sudden. George felt a confusing mixture of guilt, elation and panic. Up to now he had always believed in the afterlife. As he stepped onto Edith Plumley’s pink carpet and saw her double bed with its muslin canopy elegantly draped above the pillows, he told himself that atheism might, after all, be more appealing as a philosophy. He didn’t want dear Ivy’s immortal soul watching the witless ease of his seduction — on one glass of Australian sherry and a half-cooked pie.

And he wasn’t entirely confident of satisfying Edith Plumley’s expectations.

She turned and said, “This is the only way to get to it.”

He said manfully, “I’m game for anything.”

She crossed the room and opened another door. The en suite shower-room, he guessed. Fair enough. He, too, would be happier undressing in private.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob. “Come on, then.”

He hesitated. “Both at once?”

She said, “There’s room. Come on in.” She giggled and disappeared inside.

George took a deep breath like a diver and followed her into the darkened room. It had a curious smell for a shower-room, a dry, musty aroma, vaguely familiar. George couldn’t place it, but he didn’t care much for it.

Edith felt for his hand and gripped it. Then she turned on the light. “Meet my little ones,” she said. “Now everyone say hello to my friend George.”

This wasn’t a bathroom after all. It was a small dressing room, but instead of a wardrobe there were two shelves stacked with glass cages.

“You keep mice?” said George, too obviously in the circumstances.

He knew the smell now. It was that of the local petshop where he bought Nimrod his supply of brawn.

“That’s my secret,” said Edith proudly. “Thirty-nine at the last count. All selectively bred over the last two years.”

“Pedigree mice?”

“Well, of course! Look.” She pointed to the back wall, a mosaic of rosettes and certificates. “One more win and I’ll be a lifetime member of the National Fancy Mouse Society. That’s my ambition, George.”

George discreetly put a handkerchief to his nose and tried breathing through his mouth.

“I may have given you the wrong impression just now,” said Edith, “bringing you through my bedroom, but that’s the only way in, you see. I just loved the expression on your face.”

“I wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted.

“You wondered what the invitation amounted to, didn’t you, and I dare say you’re heartily relieved,” she said. “Heavens, we’re too old to get up to things we shouldn’t. I think I’d die if anyone saw me in bed.”

“I can’t think why,” George gallantly said.

“Well, someone I hardly know.”

“We could remedy that,” said George.

“Given time, perhaps,” said she.

“Not too much time,” he said, feeling bolder now that the immediate challenge had been deferred.

“Any friend of mine would have to get used to the mice,” said Edith. “And the smell. It all comes with me, I’m afraid. I keep them as clean as I can. Come and look at these.” She indicated a cage set apart from the rest.

George peered politely at the two mice inside.

“Long-haired black and white hooded. The classic breeding pair,” whispered Edith, her eyes rooted on the feeding mice. “The final show of the year is in Warminster in September. Only a short-haired silver-hood could possibly beat them. And there haven’t been any shown at Warminster since 1985.”

“You can see they’re special,” said George. He’d told white lies about the steak and kidney pie, so why not about these pesky mice?

Edith turned from the tank to look at George, her eyes shining. “You probably think I’m dotty, but these are my life. Would you really like to be part of it? Would you come with me to the Warminster show? I want someone to share my proudest moment with me. Then, who knows?”

“Edith, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” said George. Confident at last, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Their worlds collided gently amongst the sunflower seeds and sawdust.

He was home before eleven. Nimrod was out, enjoying his night life.

Ten days later, new neighbours moved into the empty cottage next door. George watched from his window in a fatalistic way as an immaculate Land Rover drew up. The place had changed hands several times in the past few years and he’d never got to know the people properly. They had been young couples from suburbia with unreal dreams of living in the country. One winter was usually enough; the familiar red and white ‘For Sale’ board would go up again and the garden would get overgrown until the new owners came in. Mind, the long grass made a happy hunting ground for Nimrod.

This time the young lady seemed friendly, knocking on George’s door to introduce herself before the removal van arrived. In her middle twenties, with what used to be called a ‘county’ accent, but vivacious and attractive, she said she was Hannah from Dorking and her ‘man’ was Keith — which George took to mean that they were not married. He didn’t object. The world had changed, and his own views on morality were changing too. He offered Hannah tea. They worked in television, he learned. She was a freelance researcher (whatever that meant) and Keith was a floor manager, which Hannah seemed to imply was something more exalted than keeping the floor clean, which was George’s first assumption. Hannah said she had travelled on ahead of Keith who was with the removal gang to supervise the handling of some of the more precious items.

The van arrived and Hannah ran out to unlock for them. George settled down to watch the activity from the window. He was rather less obvious about it than Nimrod, who was sitting in the road gazing steadily into the back of the removal van. The Sutton boys from two doors up were out there as well, gaping. George had nothing but contempt for parents who allowed their children to be so blatantly nosy.

Keith, it appeared, was one of the four hefty fellows in T-shirt and jeans unloading the van. George had difficulty guessing which of them was the most likely to be the live-in lover of the elegant Hannah. She looked far too classy for any of them. But in mid-afternoon the van left, taking three in the cab and leaving one sitting on the drystone wall smoking a cigarette. He had cropped hair and a silver ear-ring.

George remarked to Nimrod, who had come in to be fed, “She’s all right, but I’m not so happy about having him next door.” He put on the kettle again, preparing do the neighbourly thing and take them both some fresh tea and biscuits.

“Into the fray, Nimmy, old friend,” he said as he ventured out of the door, tray in hand.

Keith didn’t even get off the wall. “For us? Nice timing, squire,” he said without removing his cigarette. “Go right in, mate.”

“George Blackitt, from next door,” said George still holding the tray and therefore unable to offer his hand as he would have wished.

Keith shouted in a voice the whole village must have heard, “Han, are you there? Guy here with some Rosy Lea.”

George stepped gingerly into the cluttered living room. Furniture and boxes stood in disorder everywhere.

“Mr Blackitt, what a marvellous thought!” said Hannah, appearing from the kitchen. “This is so generous.”

“I’ll leave it on the piano, shall I?” said George. “There’s no hurry for the things. Tomorrow will do.”

“Please don’t rush off,” she said. “Stay and have some with us. Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare mug somewhere. That’s one thing we have unpacked.”

“Moving is a pain in the arse, ain’t it, George?” Keith’s voice said from the doorway. “Park yours on the chair, mate. Han and I don’t mind squatting on the floor.”

George took the mug Hannah handed him and sat like a throned king with slaves at his feet. Hannah offered some carrot cake that they’d brought with them. George politely declined.

“Don’t blame you,” said Keith. “Hippie food. We’ll feed it to the mice.”

“Mice?” said George.

Hannah laughed. “Don’t worry. The cottage hasn’t got mice, so far as I know. Keith has just bought this pair for breeding.”

“Caged mice?”

“I’ll show you.” Keith was on his feet and searching among the packing cases. “Here we are.” He brought out a glass tank and held it under George’s nose. “Ollie and Freda, my latest investment. Still kipping from the journey.”

George glanced into the tank with trepidation. The mice weren’t visible. They were hiding under a shelter of sawdust and shredded newspaper in one corner. It moved in tiny spasms as Keith tapped the glass.

“Here, put the tank on your knees a sec,” said Keith. Immediately he plunged his hand into the sawdust and hauled a mouse out by its tail. “It’s either Ollie or Freda. Not easy to tell.”

“Put it down, Keith,” said Hannah.

“That’s how you handle them,” said Keith with nonchalance, but he then allowed the mouse to rest in his free hand. It crouched shivering. “I’ve never been without a pet, but fancy mice are something new.”

“It looks a very fine specimen,” said George, who was also beginning to know a little about mice.

“Short-haired silver-hood.”

George felt his blood run cold. From all his conversations with Edith, short-haired silver-hoods were the only variety capable of outclassing her long-haired black and white hooded mice. And these people possessed a pair. “These... these are really rare, I believe.”

“Yeah.” Keith released the mouse into the tank. “They cost me a bomb. Well, if you’re breeding, you don’t want to use rubbish.”

“Are you interested in mice, George?” asked Hannah.

“Well, em,” George said guardedly. “A friend of mine keeps some and she and I... well, we take a passing interest.”

“So you’ll be going to the Fancy Mouse Show at Warminster, will you?” exclaimed Hannah, bringing her hands together in delight.

“Well, possibly. It’s a long time off.”

“Oh, do! It should be a hoot. We read about it in the local paper. Imagine, giving rosettes to mice.” She giggled. “If Keith wins one, he says he’s going to pin it up in the little room.”

“Yeah,” said Keith. “And if Ollie and Freda get on with it, we’ll have a totally red silk bog this time next year.”

“Cool,” said Hannah.

“Yes, cool,” said George dismally.

Two weekends later he was horrified to see Keith unloading ten glass cages from the Land Rover. They went straight into the shed at the bottom of their garden.

George slept fitfully that night. He hadn’t slept so badly since the summer of 1940, only this time it wasn’t the threat of German air-raids that kept him awake; it was the prospect of umpteen short-haired silver hooded mice in the garden shed next door. September was fast approaching and with it the culmination of Edith’s breeding programme to secure her election to the National Fancy Mouse Society. He hadn’t said a word to her about the newly-arrived competition. He knew it would break her heart.

“George, you look so downcast. I suspect that you aren’t looking after yourself properly,” she remarked in the men’s outfitters when they were buying George a new linen jacket for the occasion. “Chin up, now. Is anything the matter?”

“Nothing, Edith,” he lied.

“Come over on Saturday and I’ll cook you a pie.”

George had spent many hours watching the activity in the garden shed. Sacks of feed had gone in. And an electric cable, presumably to supply heating next winter. The shed was built on the far side of Keith and Hannah’s garden, but if George weeded his verge by the dividing fence he could just see the darkened outlines of the mouse tanks inside. And often he saw Keith in there, handling his mice.

One August morning he called out, “How’s it going, then?”

“What’s that?” said Keith.

“The breeding.”

Keith laughed. “They breed like mice, mate.”

“Could I see them?”

“Love to show you, George, but I’m on location this week. Got to fly.”

“You don’t appear to have any lids on the tanks that I can see... Not that I’ve been prying, of course.”

“George,” said Keith smugly, “they’re mice, not salamanders. They can’t climb sheer glass walls, mate. Don’t worry, none of the little beggars will get out. If they did, your old cat would have them, and who could blame him? But I keep the shed locked, so don’t lose any sleep over it.”

On the Thursday before the show, George had a stroke of luck. He had just been running Saturday’s ghastly scenario through his head when Hannah called.

“Oh, Mr Blackitt,” she said. “I hardly like to ask, but you were so kind when we moved in. I wonder if you could do us a favour. Keith is doing a night shoot at the Tower of London on Friday. With it being open for visitors, that’s the only time the cameras can get in there. I’ve never been and it’s a wonderful chance. Would you mind keeping an eye on the cottage for us? It’s just one night, but you never know.”

A spark of hope glimmered in the ashes of George’s sunken aspirations. “I’ll be only too pleased. But what about the mice? Would you like me to feed them?”

“No, they’ll be perfectly all right. Keith will feed them before we go and we’ll be back first thing on Saturday.”

“My dear, there’s no need to rush back.”

“Oh, but there is. We’ve entered for the Mouse Show, just for a laugh, as Keith says. We’ll see you there, I hope.”

Just as she turned to leave, Nimrod came in through the cat-flap. “Aren’t you beautiful?” Hannah said, stooping to stroke him. “What’s his name, Mr Blackitt?”

“Nimrod.” Usually George explained the origin of the name. This time he chose not to.

Hannah tickled Nimrod under his chin. The cat, purred, arched his back luxuriously and boxed her hair with his paw. “You’re quick and powerful, aren’t you, Nimrod,” she cooed softly, “but you’ll promise to keep away from my Keith’s shed, won’t you?”

George slept better that night. By Friday evening he had worked out every detail of his masterplan.

Nimrod hadn’t been fed since the morning and the cat-flap was wedged shut. He was prowling about the cottage like a caged lion.

George poured himself a large scotch. “You won’t have much longer to wait, old friend,” he said. “Fresh food for you tonight. Living food, none of that prepacked slop. How about mouse mousse for supper? Short-haired silver hooded mouse mousse. Patience, old friend, patience.”

Nimrod’s mewing was becoming positively feral in tone. He kept running to the table leg that he used as a scratching-post and clawing it agitatedly.

The plan was deliciously simple. At about nine o’clock, when it was dark, George would go out. Under one arm would be the football he kept for his grandchildren to play with when they visited the cottage. With the other, he would be carrying a travelling bag containing Nimrod, by now ravenous. George would let himself into next door’s garden and go to the far side of the shed, the side nearest the Suttons’ cottage. The Suttons had the three boys under twelve, the local tearaways. He would smash the window with the football and push it through. Then he would unzip the bag containing Nimrod and help him through the broken window. Nimrod would embark on an orgy of rodent-killing.

As soon as Keith returned to collect his prize specimens for the Fancy Mouse Show, Nimrod would make his dash for freedom, leaving the brash young punk to discover the mass murder and the football, and draw his conclusions. The next time George saw Keith and Hannah and heard the gruesome story, he would say that he thought he’d overheard some sounds in the garden about nine last night and guessed it was cats. He knew the shed was kept locked, so he hadn’t gone out to check. Then he would apologize profusely for Nimrod’s blood-letting spree and Hannah would say that you couldn’t blame the cat — or George. And if Keith said that the Suttons disclaimed ownership of the football, George would give a shrug and say, “What else do you expect of modern kids?”

After two more scotches, George looked outside to check how dark it was and fetched the plastic travelling bag from his wardrobe. Nimrod actually came running to investigate, so it was simple to sweep him up and bundle him inside. He fought savagely to escape. “Save your energy, old fellow. You’re going to need it presently,” said George, zipping up the bag. “Okay, dinner should be ready.”

He collected the football, picked up the bag, let himself out and moved stealthily past the unlit cottage next door and into Keith and Hannah’s back garden. He rested the bag on the ground and took a precautionary look around him before pressing the football hard against the window. The glass shattered easily and he thrust the football through so hard that he heard it break another pane of glass in one of the tanks. He lifted the bag to the level of the window and unzipped it. Nimrod’s head popped out, his fang-teeth bared. George helped his old friend safely through the hole and felt the strength in the struggling shoulders. The Mighty Hunter had got the whiff of the mice. The energy coming from the black fur was awesome.

George whispered, “Bon appetit!” Having released Nimrod, he picked up the bag and walked back to the house feeling twenty years younger.

The Fancy Mouse Show next day was a revelation. George wandered up and down the rows of tanks and cages in the municipal hall marvelling at the doting owners as much as the mice competing for the titles. They groomed and stroked their tiny charges in an attempt to catch the judge’s eye. First there were the competitions to decide the best in each class. Later would come the accolade everyone coveted, for supreme champion.

Edith clutched George’s arm. “See, George,” she said. “See how exciting it all is? I’m not an eccentric old fool, am I?”

“I never said you were,” George answered.

The judging of the long-haired black and white hooded class took place at noon. Edith’s pair took first place. George and Edith embraced.

“I love you, Edith Plumley,” George declared. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Just keep your fingers and toes crossed for me,” she said tremulously. “They go forward to the supreme championship, on the stage at four o’clock. George, we’re virtually certain to win. Only the late arrival of a truly rare breed would deprive my little beauties of the title.”

“So what happens now?” said George.

“I just told you. We wait for the judging.”

“No, what happens to us now, Edith. What about our future?”

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder.

“So here you are,” said Keith.

George felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Fear gripped him. He was certain his neighbour was about to punch him.

But he did not. “George, old pal,” he said, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

“That isn’t necessary,” said George, suspicious that this was only the prelude to violence.

“To celebrate, man,” Keith said in the same friendly tone. “We just won first prize in our class. In fact, we’re the only entry in our class. The silver-hoods. Extremely rare, the judge said. They created quite a stir. And they’re going to win the supreme champion rosette. No problem.”

George heard a whimper of distress from Edith. He’d almost forgotten her in his anxiety. “Edith, this is Keith, my neighbour,” he said quickly.

He was about to add for Keith’s benefit that Edith was a friend, but Edith said in a horrified voice, “Your neighbour?” Then she covered her face and fled. There was no point in going after her. He’d never explain it to her satisfaction.

“What’s wrong with her?” said Keith. “Wasn’t me, was it?”

George couldn’t find words for some time. “I could do with that drink,” he whispered finally.

After they had been standing at the bar some time while Keith held forth about the idiocy of Fancy Mouse Shows, George managed to say, “Those prize-winning mice of yours — where do they come from?”

“What do you mean — where do they come from?” said Keith. “Other mice, of course.” He laughed.

“No, where did you keep them? The shed?”

“Not the shed. They’re valuable mice, mate. I wouldn’t keep my silver-hoods in the shed. No, they live in luxury, on top of the piano. I just had time to get home and grab them and get them here for the judging.”

“What about the mice in the shed?”

“They’re nothing special. They’re feeders.”

“Feeders?” repeated George.

“Oh, Christ, Han didn’t want me to tell you this. People living next door can get nervous, but there’s no need. The mice are for Percy. You must have seen him on TV commercials. He pays for his keep. He stays coiled up in his tank at the bottom of our shed. It’s got a glass top, mate, so Percy won’t get out. He gets through hundreds of mice. Well, he would. In the wild, a fourteen-foot python would be swallowing live pigs and all sorts. They’re terrific hunters. So quick. They have these dislocating jaws that... What’s up, George? Hey, George, you look terrible.”