Joanna Fulford also wrote as Jane Croft

The Rat and the Mole were enjoying a leisurely breakfast al fresco when their peace was shattered by the sound of gunfire.  They sat motionless, alert, ears straining to catch the sound again. For a moment or two all they could hear was the faint chuckling of river water against the bank and the breeze rustling the reeds. Somewhere a moorhen called. Then it came again, the same staccato crack carried towards them on the light wind.

“Hark!” said the Rat. “It is gunfire!”

Seeing the concern in his friend’s expression the Mole shivered.

“You don’t suppose…it couldn’t be…hunters?”

Although the Mole knew of the existence of hunters he had never actually seen any. They were part of the natural lore he had assimilated from his earliest youth and were beings associated with dread and awe. 

“No, my dear fellow,” replied the Rat. “For it seems to be coming from the direction of Toad Hall.”

Drawn from his private musings the Mole listened. Once again his ears caught the short intermittent explosions.

“I believe you’re right,” he said. Then another thought occurred to him. “You don’t think the stoats and weasels are making another bid for the place?”

“Why should they?”

“Revenge for their previous humiliation perhaps?” 

“I suppose it’s just possible,” said the Rat meditatively, “though I doubt they’d be so foolish. Not after the drubbing they got last time.”

“What then?”

“I suspect Toad is involved somehow.”

“Toad? With a gun?”

It was an alarming thought and for a moment the Rat looked grave.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that where Toad is concerned anything is possible.”

“Oh, my. Whatever can he want with such a thing?”

The Rat pushed back his chair and stood up. “I don’t know, Moly, but I think we must find out.”

With every step they took towards Toad Hall the sound of the shots grew louder until they were almost deafening. However, when they reached the house and knocked on the front door they received no reply. 

“Let’s go round the back,” said the Rat. “That’s where the noise is coming from.”

Without waiting for any response he set off leaving the Mole to scurry after. So anxious was he to keep up he failed to notice that his friend had stopped dead at the corner of the building and so blundered into him. His companion seemed not to notice though and was staring straight ahead.

“What in the whole wide world …”

The Mole looked over his friend’s shoulder and then he too stared at the scene on the lawn before him. For there resplendent in tweed and gaiters was Mr. Toad, a gleaming new Churchill shotgun tucked into his shoulder. Close by was a strange contraption manned by two young hedgehogs. One inserted a round flat thing and when Toad shouted “Pull!” the other flipped a spring-loaded arm which launched the object on a high trajectory. An instant later the gun roared. The Rat and the Mole watched open mouthed as the disc sailed on and fell to earth unscathed among some distant trees.

“Whatever can he be doing?” asked the Mole.

“Goodness knows.”

Hearing voices Mr. Toad looked round and espied the two observers. Immediately his face split in a wide grin.

“Ratty! Mole! My dear friends, how fortuitous this is.” He flung his arms wide. 

As one the Rat and the Mole dived for cover as the gun barrel swung towards them.

“No need to worry,” Toad assured them. “Both barrels have discharged. It isn’t dangerous now.”

Feeling somewhat foolish the other two picked themselves up.

“What on earth are you doing, Toad?” demanded the Rat, brushing grass cuttings off his jacket. “And stop waving that thing around for goodness sake.”

“What am I doing? I’m taking the advice of my friends, that’s what.” Toad beamed. “I have hired a chauffeur to drive the motor car, and taken up clay pigeon shooting instead.  It’s the best thing in the world.”

“Clay pigeons?” The Mole looked round. “Where?”

“In that box, old chap.”

The Mole’s imagination had supplied him with a vision of beautifully sculpted and painted replicas of the avian namesake, so when he looked into the box his friend had pointed out and saw only a pile of ugly clay discs he felt intense disappointment.

“What are you supposed to do with them?” he asked.

“Why shoot them of course.”

“But won’t they break?”

“Of course they will. That is the point my dear fellow.”

Ratty threw him a speculative glance. “And how many of these things have you actually hit, Toad?”

“Er, I haven’t kept a precise tally.”

“Toad?”

“Oh, all right, none yet. However, with more practice I shall become proficient. Bisley next year I shouldn’t wonder.”

The Mole wandered over to the machine nearby and watched the hedgehog load another of the clay discs.

“What is this thing?” he asked.

“It is called a trap, sir,” replied the hedgehog.

“Well I never did.”

“Never did what, sir?”

“Clay pigeon shooting I’ll be bound,” exclaimed Toad who had joined them. “Would you like to have a go, Moly?”

“Well, I’m not sure if …”

“Nothing to it,” cried the exuberant Toad. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”

He reloaded the gun and instructed the Mole how to hold it.

“Tuck it into your shoulder tightly like so. That’s it. Now line up the sights along the barrel and when you feel ready just shout “Pull”.  As soon as you see the clay just aim and fire. Couldn’t be simpler.”

Hearing the matter so described the Mole could not but feel it was quite straightforward after all. Although the gun was heavy in his paws he felt his heart beat quicken in anticipation for his entire being quivered with the new and unknown thrill of it all. Already he could see in his mind’s eye the disc flying across the sky only to explode into a million fragments. He could hear his friends’ exclamations of surprise and congratulation and his heart swelled. 

“Pull!” he called.

The mechanism clicked and whirred as the flying disc hurtled away.  Almost immediately it became a vague blur for the Mole’s distance vision was poor, so he swung the gun barrel in that general direction and pulled the trigger. The gun roared and kicked, flinging him backwards. Half stunned, he lay on his back with his legs in the air as the disc sailed on untouched across the sky. 

“Moly?”

“I say, are you all right my dear fellow?”

“Sir?”

He became aware of several faces looking down at him.

“I …I think so,” replied the Mole. 

They helped him to his feet and brushed him off. He flexed his shoulder experimentally and winced a little for it felt as though it were bruised right through. 

“Gun has quite a kick, hasn’t it?” said Toad.

“Yes.”

The Rat threw them both a quelling look. “I never saw anything so irresponsible. Toad how could you? The Mole might have been killed!” 

The Toad reddened. “Oh, come now, Ratty, you can’t really think…”

“It’s always the same! You never think ahead to the possible consequences of your actions. Are there no limits to your foolhardiness?”

The Toad was reduced to stuttering incoherence but the Mole, who had heard the anxiety in his friend’s voice, was stricken with remorse.

“I’m all right really, Ratty. No harm done.”

“More by luck than judgement then. What on earth possessed you, Moly?”

“I really don’t know,” replied the crestfallen Mole.

He looked so remorseful that the Rat was immediately sorry for his harsh tone.

“There, there, Moly. Don’t take on so. It could have been much worse I dare say.”

The Mole managed a wan smile. He knew his shoulder would sport a fine bruise tomorrow and that it was his own fault. He bent and retrieved the fallen gun and handed it back to the Toad.

“Here, you’d better take this.” 

“Yes,” said the Rat, “and in future…”

He broke off for the Toad was not attending. Instead his whole attention was focused on a distant point in the heavens. Following his gaze the Rat frowned. A strange object was heading their way. It looked like an inverted tear drop with something suspended beneath it. 

“What is it, Ratty?” whispered the Mole, squinting to try and see.

The Rat shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

As they watched the object grew bigger and bigger with each passing moment. They could see now that the teardrop was in fact a huge fabric envelope striped with all the colours of the rainbow and beneath it was suspended a gondola which appeared to be carrying a man. 

“Bless my whiskers, a balloon!” said the Rat.

Open mouthed the Mole stared. Then he whispered, “Oh, Ratty. I never saw anything like it. But how does it stay up there and not fall to earth?”

As the Rat turned to answer his gaze fell on Toad. The latter was standing like one transfixed, his gaze riveted on the approaching balloon. His breathing was short and rapid and a beatific smile lit his face. From time to time he uttered little whimpers of delight.

“Toad?” said the Rat. “Are you quite all right?”

“My, oh, my,” replied the Toad. “Did you ever see anything like it?”

“Yes, I once saw another balloon when…”

“Oh, look Ratty!” cried the Toad cutting him off. “I do believe it’s going to land. Oh, joy! Oh, bliss!”

“Oh, no,” murmured the Rat.

It seemed though that the Toad was right for the balloon was losing altitude now and its great coloured envelope almost filled their line of vision. They could see the gondola was in fact a rectangular wicker basket. They could even see the pilot’s face. Down and down it came, skimming the trees at the bottom of the garden and drifting gently toward the lawn where it landed with a thud. As it did so the envelope began to collapse. The pilot, a dashing moustachioed fellow in his late twenties, climbed out of the gondola. Seeing the five spectators, for the little hedgehogs had joined the other three unnoticed, he waved a cheery greeting.

“Hullo there. Sorry to land in your garden like this.  Miscalculated with the venting and lost height rather too soon, what.”

“My dear fellow, don’t consider it for a moment,” said the Toad, hastening forward. “You are most welcome here.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure.”

The Toad was looking beyond him at the balloon, an expression of utter rapture on his face. Seeing it the visitor smiled.

“Keen on balloons, are you?”

“Oh, yes, beyond everything.  Might I…might I have a look?”

“Of course! Delighted, old chap.”

And so there followed a detailed examination of every part of the balloon. The Toad was so interested and asked such thoughtful questions that the pilot warmed to him immediately, and in a quarter of an hour they were chatting like old friends.

“You will stay for elevenses, won’t you?” said Toad.

“That’s very kind but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. Not the least in the world.”

“Jolly civil of you,” replied the pilot. “Certainly I’ll stay. Have to wait for my back-up team anyway.”

Toad bade the little hedgehogs run indoors and tell the cook. Thus it was that a short time later a table was laid on the terrace and they all sat down to tea and biscuits and cake. In that time the pilot regaled them with wonderful stories of ballooning adventures. When he spoke it seemed to his listeners that they too had ascended into the sky with the effortless ease of birds and seen the ground receding and then the whole green land spread out below like a gigantic patchwork. They too could see the little villages nestling in the folds of green hills, and the rivers and streams like sparkling ribbons threading across the fields, and the woods and the hedgerows appliquéd at intervals between. They too could feel the wind on their faces, could imagine the infinite peace of the sunlit heavens.

“It’s the only way to travel,” said the pilot.

“The only way,” murmured the Toad, looking longingly at the balloon.

Before anyone could make any further observations on the pleasures of ballooning, the back-up team arrived: two men driving a great reinforced wagon on which was a large steel cylinder and a reel of hose pipe. Once the introductions had been performed and the new arrivals supplied with tea and biscuits they turned their attention back to business. The men pulled the hose pipe from the reel and ran it across the lawn to the balloon and, after inserting the end into the envelope, they opened the valve on the cylinder. A hissing sound announced the passage of gas and a short time later the envelope began to fill and rise again. 

“Hydrogen,” explained the pilot. “Lighter than air, you see.”

The animals didn’t but they nodded anyway. Soon the envelope was full and presently the pilot climbed back into the gondola. Then he bent and lifted a bag of sand which he heaved over the side. It was followed by several more. The balloon began to ascend.

“Goodbye!” called the pilot, giving them a cheery wave. “And thanks for elevenses.”

“Goodbye! Goodbye!” they cried in unison.

They watched in fascination as the balloon rose higher and higher. Then the wind caught it and carried it away, over the roof of Toad Hall and over the drive and the lawn and the hedge and across the fields and into the distance until it was a small dot on the horizon. With that the back-up team packed away their gear and departed too.

“What a morning it has been!” said the Mole as the wagon disappeared from view round a bend in the road.

The Rat smiled. “Indeed it has, my friend. I think we shan’t soon forget it.”

“No, never.”

“Never,” echoed the Toad, an expression of utter rapture on his face.

When his friends thanked him for elevenses in their turn and bade him farewell a short time later, the Toad replied absently. Indeed he scarcely noticed their departure. His thoughts were elsewhere. Hastening back into the house he went straight to the library and searched the shelves for the book he wanted. Eventually he found it: Around the World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne.  He blew the dust off and then, settling himself in a comfy chair, began to read.

It took him all the rest of the day and half the evening to finish it, but so engrossed was he with the adventures of Phileas Fogg and Passepartout that he lost all sense of time.

“What a fool I have been,” he said to himself as he reached the end, “to think the motor car a glorious and stirring sight. Pooh! How could I have allowed myself to be so deceived? How could I have been seduced by leather and chrome and red paintwork? Oh, tawdry show. Oh, shallow pleasure. But I know better now. Ballooning is the thing, the only thing. To be up and away! To rise above the common bound and soar with the birds, to be carried on the wings of the wind, to look down and see the vastness of this great green earth and know it all. What boundless pleasures lie before me! What new horizons beckon! What endless vistas of delight! Farewell to the highways of England: the world is my oyster now. A Toad’s reach should exceed his grasp or what’s a balloon for?” 

Thus it was that a few days later a wagon drove up to Toad Hall bearing several large crates and a tall steel cylinder marked, ‘Hydrogen. Handle With Care’. At the Toad’s instruction the crates were carried into the back garden and there carefully unpacked.

When the Rat and the Mole called in some hours later it was to see the lawn almost entirely concealed by packing cases and straw, a large wicker basket, coils of rope, bags of sand, a length of coiled hose and a vast quantity of red and yellow fabric.

“Whatever can he be doing?” asked the Mole, looking around in bewilderment.

The Rat sighed. “I think Toad has discovered another fad.”

“You don’t mean…”

“Yes, I do. I knew how it would be when he saw that balloon.”

“But Toad knows nothing of balloons.”

“No, but that will be no bar to his ambition.” 

The two of them picked their way across the lawn towards their friend who was poring over a large instruction manual. Becoming aware of their presence at last the Toad threw them a beaming smile.

“Ratty! Mole! In good time. You can help me assemble the balloon. The work will go on much faster with three of us.”

“We shall do no such thing,” replied the Rat. “What foolishness is this?”

“Not foolishness, Ratty. Rather I have come to my senses at last.”

“You cannot seriously be thinking of going up in that thing?”

“I most certainly am.”

“But consider…”

“I have considered.  I have done nothing else for days. This is the only way to travel.”

“You said that about motor cars.”

“Pooh! What are motor cars to me now? No, the balloon’s the thing.”

“Yes, the thing to get you into yet another scrape.”

“No, the thing that will carry me to fresh adventures and pastures new,” replied the Toad in lofty tones. “The world beckons. I shall follow in the footsteps of Phileas Fogg and go around the globe in eighty days, but I shall do it all in a balloon.”

With that he turned back to the instruction manual and began to attach ropes to the wicker gondola. The Rat looked at his companion and sighed.

“It’s hopeless,” he said. “Once he gets an idea in his head nothing will do but he must follow it. A more obstinate, foolhardy, chuckleheaded, heedless, reckless ass I never met.”

The Mole regarded him in surprise for he knew his friend to be a kindly soul and fond of the Toad at bottom. That he should express himself in such forceful terms suggested an unusual degree of vexation and alarm.

“Perhaps he’ll tire of all this before ever he puts the thing together, Ratty, for it looks very complicated.”

“Don’t you believe it. He won’t give up until he has broken his neck.”

The Mole shuddered for the thought of Toad’s probable and untimely demise was disturbing and grieved his gentle heart.

“Whatever shall we do?”

“There’s only one thing to be done,” replied the Rat. “We must speak to the Badger. He’s the only one who may be able to make the Toad see reason.”

As the two of them departed on their mission the Toad’s eyes narrowed. He had paid little heed to his friends’ conversation but he had caught Badger’s name and the mention of it made him feel distinctly uneasy. Badger would almost certainly try to spoil sport and Toad had no intention of being locked in his bedroom again and lectured to boot.

“I shall go ballooning whatever they say,” he muttered. “They shan’t prevent me.”

With renewed determination he set to work and in a surprisingly short time had assembled all the component parts of the balloon. Then he connected the hose pipe to the hydrogen cylinder and watched as the canopy began to fill. Making sure the gondola was secured to the ground he ran indoors to collect the things he had set aside on the hall table earlier that morning: a wad of bank notes, a pocket knife, a compass, a packet of sandwiches and a stone bottle of ginger beer. As he stuffed things into his pockets he smiled to himself.

“Who says I don’t think ahead?” 

Grabbing the stone bottle he turned to go but on reaching the door espied the shotgun leaning in the corner. In the excitement of his latest venture he had forgotten all about it. Recalling that Phileas Fogg had been armed when he undertook his journey, the Toad considered it only prudent to do likewise. Accordingly he tucked the gun under his arm and hastened back to the balloon. 

The canopy was upright now and the ropes straining. The Toad’s excitement mounted. He shut off the hydrogen supply and cast the hose aside. Then he climbed into the basket, stowed the shotgun in one corner with the ginger beer, and cast off the ropes. The balloon didn’t move. He frowned, mentally running through a checklist of all the procedures he had carried out. Had he forgotten something?

“Wait, Toad! Wait!”

Jolted out of his thoughts Toad looked round and saw to his horror that the Rat and the Mole had returned and with them was the Badger. 

“Stop, Toad, you foolish creature!” he commanded.

The tone was so severe that the Toad gulped. He knew that if they reached him they would drag him from the basket by force. Then he would be locked in his bedroom again, only this time he wouldn’t escape down a knotted sheet for the Badger would not be caught twice by the same trick. The Toad knew it would be the end of his dream. Frantic he looked around and his gaze fell on the sand bags at his feet.

“Of course!” he exclaimed. “Silly me!”

Seizing hold of the nearest bag he heaved it out of the gondola. There followed another and another. The balloon began to rise. Glancing up he saw the other three running across the lawn towards him.

“Stop!” they cried.

For answer the Toad hurled yet more sandbags over the side. The balloon went straight up and moments later he was looking down at three upturned faces.

“Ha ha!” he chortled. “You can’t catch me!”

“Come back, Toad! Come back!” cried the Mole and the Badger in unison.

“‘Shan’t!” he replied.

“Come back, you ass!” yelled the Rat.

The words fell on deaf ears and they could only stand on the lawn and watch as the balloon gained height.

“Now what?” said the Badger.

“We must do something,” replied the Mole in dismay. “He doesn’t know how to pilot that thing. He’ll kill himself.”

“Jolly good thing if he did!” retorted the Rat.

The Badger eyed the departing balloon. “We must follow him.”

“How are we to do that?”

“Tell the chauffeur to get the motor car out of the garage, Moly,” replied the Badger. “And tell him to hurry!”

The balloon ascended rapidly and soon the three animals were specks on the lawn and Toad Hall a match box. The Toad laughed out loud.

“Foiled ‘em! They’re clever but they’re no match for Mr. Toad.”

With that he began to strut up and down the gondola and sing at the top of his voice:

“The Rat is a fine and clever chap

With a river bank abode

But he cannot compete or hope to beat

The cunning Mister Toad.

And Mole is a knowing creature

As many a time he has showed,

But he hasn’t the brains for playing games

With brilliant Mister Toad.

As for Badger it’s certain

That he’s middle-of-the-road:

When it comes to wit he hasn’t a bit

Compared to Mister Toad.”

Exhilarated by the narrowness of his escape and delighting in the knowledge of his superior intelligence the Toad puffed out his chest. As he surveyed the sunlit landscape his eyes filled with tears. It was all as he had foreseen: there were the dear green fields with their contented grazing cattle; there were the hilly pastures dotted with woolly sheep; there was a sleepy village basking in the warm sunshine and further off a town with streets a-bustle with carts and motorcars and people bound on their everyday errands. In his heart he pitied them for they would never know the freedom he enjoyed, the utter delight of floating free in the vast silent skies. Now indeed the world was truly at his feet. 

“Ho ho,” he said to himself. “The Toad is not like other mortals. Not for him the common earthly shackles. He was made for higher things. His spirit soars above the mass of ordinary beings for adventure is his meat and drink. He snaps his fingers in the face of danger. He rushes in where others fear to tread. Ah, intrepid Toad.”

There was much more in the same vein on which it would be too ghastly to dwell here. Suffice it to say that the balloon was borne aloft by hot air in every sense of the word.

Meanwhile, the chauffeur had brought the car round to the front of the Hall and the Toad’s anxious friends piled in.

“Where to, sir?” asked the chauffeur looking at the Badger who, by virtue of his size and demeanour, bore a natural air of authority.

“Follow that balloon!”

Moments later they were bowling along the highway. Even so they could see the balloon was travelling apace and with every moment receding into the distance.

“Step on it,” said the Badger. “There’s no time to be lost.”

The chauffeur put his foot down and the car accelerated until verge and hedge and ditch sped past in a green blur. Unfortunately the motor car, though fast, could not take the most direct route across the fields and so they could only follow the lanes leading in the same general direction as their quarry, but they were able to keep it in sight at least.

For half an hour they followed thus and with every mile the three friends grew more concerned for it seemed they would never catch up. Then suddenly the Rat called to the others.

“See!  The balloon’s lower than it was before.”

Badger stared hard. “I do believe you’re right.”

The Mole listened intently for, with his poor eyesight, it was only a blur to him.

“It’s definitely coming down, sir,” the chauffeur agreed. “Looks to me as if it’s heading for those trees.”

Now while the Toad was basking in the radiance of self-congratulation he had paid no heed to such trifling matters as altitude and direction. By the time he realised the balloon was losing height the ground was much closer than before. The Toad surveyed it with a frown. Then he glanced over the right hand side of the basket and gasped in dismay to see the tree canopy just a few yards below him. His startled gaze fell on the sand bags at his feet and grabbing the nearest ones he heaved them over the side. The balloon began to rise again. 

“Ha ha!” he cried, capering with glee. “Resourceful Toad!”

Unfortunately, even as he spoke, his foot caught the stock of the shotgun and caused it to slip sideways. As it fell the trigger snagged on a jutting piece of wickerwork in the side of the gondola.  With a deafening roar a charge of shot tore heavenward followed instantly by the sound of ripping fabric and a dreadful whooshing noise.  Toad shrieked as the basket dropped like a stone. It crashed through the leafy top of a tall elm, sending the startled inhabitants of a rookery cawing skyward, before smashing through the upper branches in a an orgy of splintered wood and stripped foliage and coming to rest at a drunken angle among the boughs further down. Dazed and battered, festooned with leaves and twigs, Toad lay in the ruins of the gondola. With a sick feeling in his stomach he saw above him the wreck of the coloured envelope now reduced to twisted rags, the ropes hopelessly entangled in the branches. Worse still, between him and the ground yawned twenty feet of empty space. He swallowed hard.  

“Oh, woe is me! Oh, foolish Toad,” he moaned. “Why did you not heed the wise counsel of your friends?” 

The question was purely rhetorical of course, but it served as a vent for the powerful emotion that gripped him now. What should he do? He could not stay in the tree, yet how to get down? The gondola had come to rest in the fork of a long branch. It looked thinner than the ones surrounding it. Somehow he must crawl along it to the main trunk and thence lower himself by degrees to the ground.  Cautiously he shifted his weight. Without warning the basket tipped forward. Toad was thrown out and with a cry of alarm made a wild grab for the branch. His frantic paws clutched the rough bark and jerked him to a halt and he hung there, legs dangling over the yawning drop.  

“Help!” he cried.

He did not know how long he remained thus for every minute seemed like an eternity and his arms felt as though they were being torn from their sockets.  Just when he had given up all hope he heard the sound of running feet.

“Help! Help!” he cried again.

“Over here!” called a voice. “Hurry!”

Other voices answered. When Toad looked down and saw the Badger’s upturned face he almost sobbed with relief.

“Oh, Badger. How glad I am to see you.”

A moment later his friend was joined by the Rat and the Mole and the chauffeur.

“We shall need a ladder,” said the Badger.

The chauffeur nodded. “I’ll go back to the farm we passed just now and get one.”

“Please hurry,” moaned poor Toad. “I can’t hold on much longer.”

The chauffeur hastened away leaving the others beneath the tree.

“Hold on, Toad!” called the Mole. “Help is on its way.”

The Toad shut his eyes for a moment. He felt sick and dizzy and his arms ached with the strain. The bark of the tree was cutting into his paws and to try and relieve the pressure he altered his grip. There followed a sound like a pistol shot as the branch cracked.

“Frankly,” said the doctor, “you’ve had a lucky escape.”

“Where am I?” asked the Toad.

“In hospital. You fell from a tree and received a concussion. That and a broken ankle and some cuts and bruises besides, but it could have been much worse. As it is you’ll be as right as rain in a week or two.” The doctor paused. “Your friends are outside. They’ve been waiting some time to see you.”

The Toad looked up and saw three faces peering round the edge of the door. Seeing he was restored to consciousness their former anxiety was replaced with beaming smiles.

“Oh, Toad, you’re alive!” cried the Mole. 

“Thank goodness,” murmured the Rat.

“What a relief,” said the Badger.

The sincerity in their voices and in their expressions of concern brought a lump into the Toad’s throat.  He had expected a thundering scold and knew he deserved it, but it never came. In many ways their kindness was worse for it made him feel ashamed to the depths of his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” he gulped. “So very sorry for causing you all this worry and trouble.”

“There, there,” said the Badger. “Don’t upset yourself old chap. You’re all right and that’s what matters.”

“I never want to see another balloon,” vowed Toad. “No more foolish fads for me. I shall turn over a new leaf.”

The others exchanged eloquent glances.

“Do you think he really will turn over a new leaf?” asked the Mole as they left the hospital later.

“Who can tell?” The Badger sighed. “Perhaps he will, this time.”

“Well,” said the Rat, “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

End

If there’s one thing that gets up my nose, it’s pretension. It has a bouquet all of its own and is not to be confused with a desire for social betterment. Take Darren and Gary in telephone sales – as common as supermarket plonk the pair of them, but they make no attempt to hide it. They work hard too and I respect that. No, it’s people like Peregrine Smythe whom I find so unpalatable.

We joined Ambrosia Vintners at about the same time so I suppose it was only natural that we should strike up an acquaintance. Of course, I don’t begrudge him his good looks. It’s the suave insincerity that’s so off-putting: all white teeth and gush.

‘Call me Perry.’

The very name sounded like a tart’s tipple. How an untalented poser like that got into the wine business was beyond me, so out of curiosity I asked him. 

‘Drifted into it, Nigel, old man. Have to earn a living somehow and this seemed as good a way as any.’

I bit my tongue. To me this was never just a job; it was a love affair. Wine making is a subtle alchemy that transforms the base material into liquid gold. There are few pleasures as great as the discovery of a really fine vintage, a moment of pure rapture that, as the poet puts it, “surprises with a fine excess”. 

Perry never understood that, but then, while public school credentials may go with elegant diction and a polished manner, they are no guarantee of intelligence. Frankly, Perry was to academia what malt vinegar is to vintage champagne. Even so he picked up the basics: learned the trigger smells, developed a nose for the obvious. He never had a fraction of my skill but disguised it behind a pretentious patter and confident delivery: ‘A pert little wine with a sharp tongue and a dry wit. I think you’ll be amused by its impudence.’ That sort of thing is swallowed whole by the uninitiated, the nouveau-riche clientele desperate to establish a credible cellar.  They saw Perry as an authority. It was laughable. His palate was incapable of distinguishing the subtle, those delicate nuances of taste that are the hallmark of the true connoisseur. I might lack Perry’s good looks and smooth manner, but I could distinguish the great vintages blindfold.  After all, it was I who introduced the Côte Rôtie into the Ambrosia cellar. The boss was dubious – until he sampled La Mouline. After that, I knew I was in line for the head buyer’s job when Jackson retired.

However, the sad truth is that appearances matter, and there Perry was in his element. He could have ingratiated his way through a keyhole. It was luck not judgement that he landed the contract with Lavoulère. The hierarchy was thrilled. To see Perry smarming around the top brass turned the stomach like corked wine. They lapped it up though. The result was his promotion to Head Buyer. Head Buyer! A man who barely knew grapes from grapefruit!

‘There’s no justice, Nigel,’ said Darren as we stood by the coffee machine. ‘Or a slime bag like that wouldn’t get promoted.’

Gary nodded. ‘Look how he weaselled his way out of the cock-up over that consignment of Montrachet. Swore blind I’d copied the order number down wrongly, and all the time it was his mistake.’

‘Bastard,’ said Darren.

Which just goes to show that, though common, they were still good judges of character.

In the event I got over Perry’s undeserved promotion sooner than expected because it was around that time I met Jessica. It was in the bistro one Friday lunch time. She came in after me and sat at the next table. At first I just stared. She was a stunner: tall, slim, auburn haired with green eyes deep enough to drown a man. I racked my brains for an opening gambit, something that wouldn’t sound like every ghastly cliché she’d heard before. Nothing suggested itself so I smiled in what I hoped was a casually friendly manner and then feigned a study of the dessert menu.

When she came to order she chose the sea bass with a selection of vegetables. However, she hesitated over the wine and then looked at the waiter.

‘What do you recommend?’ 

He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. He looked like a student trying to earn some money in his free time, and her question clearly put him on the spot. He pulled a name from thin air. Possibly it was the only one he knew.

‘Liebraumilch is nice.’

I felt my stomach spasm. It was time to intervene. 

‘Forgive me for intruding,’ I said, ‘but have you considered the Meursault? I can certainly recommend it, and it’s ideal for the dish you’ve chosen.’

‘Oh.’ She seemed surprised but recovered quickly and smiled. ‘Well, in that case Meursault it is.’

The waiter regarded me askance and squinted at the wine list. ‘Er, which…’

‘Number eight,’ I said. Given the standards in education it was entirely possible that he couldn’t read very well, never mind French. 

‘Oh, right.’  He looked relieved and, having scrawled the number on his notepad, hurried off to the bar.

A couple of minutes later he was back with the wine. My companion tasted it.

‘You’re right. This is delicious.’

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ I said. 

She looked intrigued. ‘How is it you know so much about wine?’

After that it was surprisingly straight forward. Jessica was easy to talk to and I learned that she worked for a prestigious advertising company. In the course of the conversation we discovered a shared love of theatre and fine dining. By the time we’d finished lunch I’d summoned the courage to ask her out. 

I’ve never found it easy to get girlfriends, but this was different. There was an immediate rapport. With her I didn’t feel awkward. Over the next few weeks we talked easily on all sorts of subjects, and with every conversation we discovered more things in common. I knew that at last I’d found the right woman, the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I felt so proud to be with her. Whenever we went out I could see other men looking at Jess and knew they’d give anything to be in my shoes.

Christmas was coming up and work was hectic. I had to go on various buying trips but I saw her as often as possible. The office party provided another chance.  I picked her up at seven. She looked stunning in a clinging, low-cut black dress; the epitome of understated elegance. Then we drove to the venue, a Georgian country house hotel. 

We arrived just before eight. Having timed our entrance for maximum effect I wasn’t disappointed: as soon as we walked in heads turned. They were looking at Jess, of course, not at me, but I was gratified by the response. Who wouldn’t be?

Perry seemed quite overcome. ‘You lucky dog, Nigel. Wherever did you find anything so pretty?’

I made some light-hearted reply, I don’t remember what, and Jessica merely smiled. We talked for a minute or two and then moved on. Although we didn’t speak to him again that evening, I caught him looking our way on several occasions. It gave me a feeling of immense satisfaction to have something he wanted.

Christmas came and went and then, in the middle of January, Jessica had a busy period at the office. It meant working late at least two evenings a week. As a result she had to cancel a couple of our planned dates. 

‘I’m so sorry, Nigel, but it’s an important contract,’ she explained. ‘The firm can’t afford to lose it, especially not in this financial climate.’

I bit back disappointment. ‘Yes, of course.  I understand.’

In the end the hard work paid off because she told me later that the firm had landed the contract, so that was good news. However, success has its penalties; the company began to demand more of her time, kicking off with a weekend course in March.

‘It’s a real drag but I can’t get out of it,’ she said. ‘Still, it’s only for the one time so it’s not too bad.’

As it turned out it wasn’t just the one time. They sent her on two more courses after that, both at weekends. When I muttered something about work-life balance she looked concerned.

‘If I go on these courses I’m better placed for promotion,’ she said. ‘The job market is just so competitive these days.’

That was unarguable. ‘I’ll miss you,’ I said.

‘I’ll miss you too, but we’ll make up for it later.’

Except that we didn’t somehow. Superficially things were still the same but I knew deep down that something was wrong, so the next time she said she was working late I followed her. It should have been beneath me, but somehow I couldn’t help myself. I waited outside her office building until I saw her leave and trailed her for two blocks to a cocktail bar. I think I’d already guessed who she was meeting. Even so, to have the suspicion confirmed was like being punched in the gut. 

After that I followed them half a dozen times, mostly to his flat. As the extent of their duplicity became clear I was sickened, as though hurt and anger had congealed in a lump in my stomach. I didn’t know what to do and so for a while I did nothing. The thought of losing Jess was bitter but we couldn’t carry on like this.  Besides, in my heart I knew she’d made her choice. I didn’t want a row; I’ve never been one for loud confrontations so I decided that the matter must be settled privately, between the three of us, and in a quiet and civilised fashion. 

Therefore, after careful thought, I invited Perry round for dinner one evening. Taken by surprise he couldn’t refuse without looking churlish, and Jess didn’t want to give herself away by seeming to attach overmuch importance to one of my colleagues. I must say they carried it off well between them. At any other time I might have enjoyed the element of farce. Eventually they were going to have to face up to the situation, but there was no reason to ruin a perfectly good meal. So I kept up a light flow of conversation as I put the dishes on the table. It was a simple but elegant main course: boeuf bourguignon served with potatoes and a selection of vegetables – accompanied by the bottle of Shiraz I’d opened earlier. 

I watched Perry breathe in the bouquet and take a sip, rolling the wine round his mouth. ‘Hmm. Don’t think I’ve tasted this one before.’ He picked up the bottle and read the label. ‘Ah, Australian.’

‘It was a bin end.  Picked it up for a song a few weeks ago,’ I said. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

He agreed as I knew he would. Perry wasn’t about to contradict my assessment of a wine. He took another mouthful.

‘Hmm. Very mellow. Rich rounded flavour with deep fruit tones.’

That was for Jess’s benefit. 

‘Not sure what the underlying flavour is though,’ he went on. ‘Almond perhaps?’

‘There’s no fooling you, Perry,’ I said. 

He preened silently and watched as I poured some wine for Jessica.

‘Aren’t you having any?’ she asked.

‘I’ll finish that first,’ I said, indicating the half bottle of Merlot on the table. ‘It was left over from last night. I hate to waste it.’

‘Quite right,’ said Perry. ‘Anyway, you should never mix wines in a glass. It always ruins the flavour of both.’

‘Just so,’ I replied.

I drank very slowly so that, over the course of the meal, they shared the entire bottle of Shiraz between them. It took a little while to take effect but that was to be expected. Food slows the absorption of poison. It was interesting to watch its progress; rewarding too – particularly the moment of horrified realisation just before the end.  

Afterwards I went to the bedroom, packed a bag, collected my passport, ticket and money and then drove to the airport, arriving in good time for my flight to Rio.  Business Class check-in was a breeze and the plane even left on time. Once aloft and comfortably ensconced I perused the lunch menu.  

The stewardess smiled. ‘Would you like some wine with your meal, sir?’ 

I ordered a half bottle of Beaune. It was a delightful vintage: a rich, full-bodied, mouth-filling red with dark undertones and savouring strongly of revenge. 

‘Anything wrong, Emma?’

Startled to discover her boss standing there Emma returned to earth with a jolt. The photocopier was silent, the printed pages in the tray. How long had they been there?  She reddened conscious of Sue’s penetrating stare.

‘Sorry. Were you waiting to use the machine?’ 

‘There’s no rush.  Besides, you looked preoccupied.’

‘Yes.’ Emma removed the sheets from the tray. ‘Today is my wedding anniversary.’

‘Congratulations! Has it really been a year? It seems only months since you and James were planning the wedding.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is he taking you? Somewhere nice?’

‘I don’t know. That is, it’s a surprise.’

‘I can’t wait to see how he follows the balloon flight he arranged for your birthday,’ replied Sue. ‘That was so romantic. Not like my Dave. He can’t think beyond a meal in the local pub.’

Emma forced a smile, willing herself not to cry. Romantic! Hardly that, she thought. As soon as she could she escaped to her desk. A glance at the office clock revealed that it was just on three. Two more hours to go.  Pretending to be absorbed in her work she stared at the computer screen in front of her.  How could he have forgotten?  Every anniversary was a milestone, but the first one was special and she had been so looking forward to it. When it came to thinking of how he would mark the occasion her imagination had supplied all manner of possibilities: a dozen red roses, a pretty necklace, her favourite perfume perhaps. What she hadn’timagined was nothing. Not even a card. It hurt more than she could ever have dreamed. She had spent a long time choosing his and the watch to go with it. In her mind she saw him wearing it to the restaurant for the intimate dinner they would share. They would re-affirm their love over a glass of champagne… Pulling herself up with a start she realised it wasn’t going to happen and, as they hadn’t managed to get to a supermarket in the past week, they’d have to make do with a micro-waved meal in awkward silence in front of the TV.  James would be embarrassed and apologetic and she would pretend it didn’t matter.  People said that marriage killed romance but she’d never believed it, until now. 

For several minutes more she sat brooding over the probability of a dull colourless future in which James gave her a peck on the cheek and the occasional bunch of flowers grabbed from a garage forecourt when he remembered. Then another thought occurred to her and with it a glimmer of hope: she hadn’t checked her emails since this morning. There might be one from him: perhaps he’d remembered and wanted to make amends. Recalling the messages she’d received from him in the days leading up to their engagement, she smiled. If he had realised he’d be abject by now. Logging into her mailbox her heart leapt to see it there, a message bearing his address and entitled Tonight. He had remembered after all.  With another tremulous smile she logged on and read: ‘Think we’d better do Tesco this evening. Pick you up at five. Love James.’ 

‘Tesco?’ Her smile vanished. ‘Tesco! Why you utter…’

‘Did you say something, Emma?’ Sue looked across from her work station, a quizzical expression on her face.

‘No!’ 

Avoiding Sue’s gaze and ignoring the grins of those around Emma glared at the screen and deleted the message. It would be too humiliating to let anyone see it. Sue, like the rest of her colleagues, thought she’d married her dream prince: tall, dark, good looking and apparently head over heels in love. If only they knew.  Tears welled again and angrily she dashed them away.

The hands of the clock dragged round to five. Emma cleared her desk and gathered her things before bidding her colleagues good night. 

Sue smiled and called out, ‘Enjoy your evening!’

‘Thanks,’ she replied.  Walking away she muttered under her breath, ‘I’m sure Tesco will be scintillating.’

When she got outside James was waiting in the car. For a moment Emma was tempted to ignore him and get the bus home. On the other hand if she did that she wouldn’t be able to give him piece of her mind. Marching across the pavement she opened the car door and climbed in.

‘Hi, love,’ he said. ‘Had a good day?’

‘Not particularly.’ Emma slammed the door shut. ‘You?’

‘So so.’

Easing the car away from the kerb James headed the vehicle out into the traffic.  Music from the radio filled the conversational void, he concentrating on the road, she staring out of the window. Ordinarily the return of light evenings and the signs of new green in all the gardens would have been cheering but now it could not lift her mood. Even though she wanted to speak the lump in her throat rendered it impossible. Once or twice he glanced her way but said nothing only smiled content to drive in what he clearly took to be companionable silence.

After what seemed an interminable length of time they pulled up in a car park.  Emma looked around.

‘This isn’t Tesco’s.’

‘No, Em, this is the airport,’ he replied.

‘The airport? But what on earth are we…’

James grinned and reaching into his jacket pocket took out a slim wallet bearing the British Airways logo. He handed it to Emma.

‘What’s this?’

‘Why not open it and see?’

With trembling fingers she opened the wallet.  It contained their passports and two tickets to Paris.

‘I thought you might prefer it to Tesco’s.’ He leaned across and kissed her. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’

Emma’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I thought you’d forgotten.’

‘Forgotten?  I’ve been planning it for weeks,’ he replied. ‘Mind, I did have some help. Your sister packed a bag for you and Sue agreed to let you have the time off work.’

‘Sue knew about this?’

‘Of course, though I swore her to secrecy.’

Emma laughed for the first time that day. ‘Well, of all the devious…I never guessed.’

‘You weren’t meant to. That’s the whole point of a surprise.’ He paused. ‘Besides, marriage should be romantic, shouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Yes, it should.’

‘Shall we go then?’

They retrieved their bags from the boot and locked the car. Then he took her hand and together they headed for Check In.

End