the patter of tiny feet

The autumn nights are drawing in, I've been clearing the long border and making blackberry jelly, the first fires have been lit, Downton Abbey is back, and here at the Old Vicarage are the other first real signs of cold weather; yes, the patter of tiny feet upstairs.  Well not just upstairs; everywhere. In the kitchen, and specifically the cutlery drawer, there is a very strong smell of mice. They are back to overwinter in our warm floorboards and thick walls, and during the PCC meeting held here last week around the kitchen table, there was a terrible pause while everyone held their breath to listen to the squeaking behind the aga.

‘Did you hear that?’ said the Vicar.

‘No?....Oh, that's......um.....probably the children.’ I said firmly, shuffling my papers in a pointless attempt to hide the noise. 'Tea anyone?'

So Tabby Mo has been allowed into the kitchen, and has obliged by performing the most impressive mousing I've ever seen. From apparent sleep in a wing chair he flew through the air to land on the dishwasher which was covered with glasses waiting to be loaded. So flawless were his leap and landing he missed all the glasses, and completed the single movement across from chair to dishwasher by lifting his head with a mouse in his mouth. I wanted to clap!!

Four years ago at 1am I was woken by the earthquake at Market Rasen. It sounded, and felt, as though a train was hurtling beneath the house. I sat up holding the edge of the shaking bed wondering what could possibly be happening.  I was alone with the children, who hadn't woken and I kept looking out of the windows to see if any neighbours' lights were on so I could ring them. But far more terrifying was the sound of the mice in the walls, scrabbling and squeaking to escape. I lay awake all night shivering in fear, convinced the mice had a premonition of an aftershock so great a huge hole would open under the house into which we would disappear. I could imagine the village the next day peering into the hole saying, 'Well that's disappointing. She made quite good cakes for the fete.'

But this week something upstairs has caused me the greatest concern. I know a lone mouse makes a noise so magnified it can sound like a whole army of rodents, and up in the attics here, undoubtedly there are mice, but whatever moved in above us was, without a doubt, much much bigger than a mouse, and in the deepest, darkest part of the night when one’s imagination is at its most vivid, I could believe the creature to be far larger than I initially imagined. After another sleepless night, and dispatching my husband on numerous trips up the dodgy loft ladder, well someone had to investigate, he went to the two excellent ironmongers for rat poison and traps, while I googled pictures of rat droppings. Should they be smooth like those of a mouse, because these weren’t. He returned with a trap, and those brilliant paper sachets of poison which you don’t have to touch, just leave on the tray provided with them.

The following night was fairly sleepless again while we listened to what sounded like an elaborate  game of marbles above our heads. Over morning tea in bed I wearily suggested my husband check the trap. A good keeper checks his traps every hour, I reminded the head still buried beneath his pillow. Up in the attic the trap was untouched, but the bags of poison had been moved and partly buried under a rough pile of leaves and twigs, and beside them was a collection of conkers and walnuts, which explained the game of marbles we had heard. ‘It’s a squirrel! Oh no, poor thing! We must take away the poison,’ I exclaimed.

‘No, No, it’s like a rat, we can’t have it in the house, think of the wiring, do you want the house to burn down!’ My husband was adamant. I did persuade him to block the two most obvious holes and maybe that has worked, or the squirrel is hibernating, or has eaten the poison, but we haven’t heard it since.