Miss Mitchell and the Mouse

by Janice Johnston

‘Oh no. Not now.’ I groaned, as two curious brown eyes peered through the hedge. I turned my back, clutched my paint pot, and hoped he’d go away. The picnic table I was standing on rocked ominously on the uneven ground.
My neighbour stood up and leaned forward, waiting for me to land face first in the flowerbed. When I managed to get my balance again, he sighed and finally asked the question I’d been dreading.
‘Whatcha doing, Miss?’
For a moment I toyed with the idea of telling him the truth, but I knew my pedestal would crumble in seconds. I quite enjoy being hero worshipped by more than a dozen males every day, even if they are only 7 years old. I couldn’t risk it.
‘Miss?’
My most endearing pupil was not going to give up until I gave him an answer. I drew myself up to my full height – about 8 ft 9 ins including the table – and tried to think of a reasonable explanation for me to be standing on last summer’s B & Q bargain.
‘I’m, erm, testing to see how strong this table is.’ A bit pathetic, I know, but it was the best I could come up with on a rather cold and damp April evening.
My neighbour, Calum, nodded. This he could understand. Didn’t he regularly test the strength of his bed, high branches, the roof of the garden shed - much to his mum’s annoyance? Before I could stop him, he climbed up beside me and jumped enthusiastically.
‘That’s enough testing here, Calum.’ I grabbed him. ‘Why don’t you check underneath?’
‘OK.’ He squirmed away then pointed to the pot in my hand. ‘ Are you going to paint it orange?’
‘It’s not orange it’s ‘Arabian Sunset’’ I said, staring at the empty pot. It was at this point I realised that a large number of dollops of paint were dripping off various parts of my body and a trail of paint led from the kitchen door.
‘Aren’t you coming down, too?’ Calum asked.
‘No!’ I looked for a reason to stay on the table. ‘I think this bit of wood is loose.’
‘My big cousin’s good with wood.’ Calum’s voice echoed eerily from under the table.
I had a vision of a spotty 14 year-old version of Calum coming to my rescue, the same dirty-blond hair flopping over those same curious eyes. I shook my head. I would be all round the village in hours and life in the classroom wouldn’t be worth living.
‘He’s good with fires, too.’
I swivelled quickly to peer at my house. Was his cousin a pyromaniac? The kitchen door banged in the wind but apart from that everything looked fine. Had Calum seen something, smoke, flames? The thought was almost enough to get me off the table and back into the house. Almost, but not quite.
‘He let me have a go in his fire engine last week.’ Calum sat up beside me, swinging his legs. ‘He said he’d give me another go if I found out why you were out here.’ He waved at his own kitchen window. A tall shadowy figure waved back.
A fireman! Didn’t they sign oaths of allegiance or vows of silence - no, maybe that was monks. Anyway, surely I could trust a fireman not to blab. They dealt with delicate situations all the time.
I waved enthusiastically. The shadowy figure paused, but gamely waved back before making his way up the garden path.
I began to think my primary 2 girls were in for a treat if Calum grew up to look anything like his big cousin.
“Hi, I’m Mike.” He smiled. “I understand you are the wonderful Miss Mitchell.”
“Joanna,” I gabbled from my perch, “Nice to meet you.” I closed my mouth and tried to turn a drool into a smile.
Mike stood calmly, dirty blond hair flopping over those wonderful eyes, waiting. Somehow I didn’t think the ‘testing the strength of the table’ line was going to fool him.
“This bit of wood is loose.” Piped up Calum.
“Yes.” I said, waving my arms and making exaggerated gestures about boys with big ears.
Mike’s fireman training must include understanding weird sign language from strange females.
“OK, Calum.” He said, clapping his hand on Calum’s shoulder, man to man. “Why don’t you fetch your dad’s claw hammer and some nails from his toolbox?”
The youngster disappeared rapidly in the direction of his house.
Mike turned back to me with a quizzical smile, “Well, what’s the real reason you’re standing on a table, in the garden, in the rain, with a paint pot in your hand?”
I sighed. Best get it over with. Perhaps he’d stop laughing before Calum came back. ‘It’s a mouse’
‘A mouse?’ His lips trembled, but he managed to keep a straight face. ‘You mean the wonderful Miss Mitchell is scared of mice?’
‘Just don’t tell Calum,’ I hissed, ‘Or I’ll have a classroom full of them before you can say ‘revolting rodents’’
‘My lips are sealed.’
I’m sure they quivered again.
‘Where is it, anyway?’ Mike peered under the table.
‘No. Not here, in the kitchen.’ I shuddered at the memory. ‘It nibbled my toe.’
‘Ah.’ Mike glanced at my feet. ‘This orange toe?’
‘It’s not orange it’s ‘Arabian Sunset’. I thought it would brighten up the living room.’
‘Well,’ Mike grinned, ‘It certainly brightens up you. Tell me, is this down to the mouse, too, or is there another reason you’ve poured orange …’ I glared at him. ‘Sorry, ‘Arabian Sunset’ paint all over yourself?’
‘When I felt something tickling my toes I looked down,’ I explained patiently. ‘At the time I was holding the opened paint tin. When I saw the mouse I panicked, threw up my arms and ran.’ At this point I wondered if I should have stuck with the ‘loose plank’ story. I could abandon the house, live rough, wander the streets clutching the paint pot and talking to myself. I dragged my mind back from my life as a bag lady to listen to Mike.
‘Will I check out your kitchen for any wayward mice?’ He repeated, louder.
‘Yes.’ I breathed. That was an even better idea. ‘My hero.’ I murmured as he strode bravely down the garden path.
‘Did Mike say he’s looking for mice?’ Calum was back, sooner than expected, loaded down with every sort of hammer and nail in his father’s toolbox.
‘Yes.’ Then, thinking quickly, ‘I spotted one slipping in the back door.’
‘Wow!’ Calum climbed up beside me again. ‘You must have brilliant eyes!’ He peered towards the door. ‘No wonder you know everything that happens in the classroom.’
Yup, I was still holding my place on that pedestal.
Mike appeared in the doorway. ‘All clear!’ He called.
I made my way gingerly down the path, but hesitated before peering through the open door. ‘How do you know it’s not hiding behind the cooker, or something?’
Mike grinned. ‘Well, I could say it’s due to the amazing tracking skills I’ve inherited from my American Indian ancestors.’ He crouched down, studying the ground. ‘Ah, yes, a hedgehog trampled over this blade of grass at precisely 3.38 this morning.’ He looked up. ‘But I think even you will see the mouse-shaped Arabian Sunset footprints disappearing under the Azaleas.
I grinned back. ‘I’ve gone off that colour, now.’ The thought of a mouse-free house was making me more confident. I twirled the paint pot, slowly. ‘Perhaps you could help me pick a better shade.’
Calum had been ignored for too long. ‘Mike’s good with wood, and fires, and mice, and paint.’ He paused, then tugged on my paint splattered shirt to whisper confidentially, ‘But we’d better check for spiders, first. He’s really scared of spiders. His mum always has to get rid of them.’
‘You mean the wonderful big cousin, fireman Mike is scared of spiders?’ I laughed.
Mike looked shamefaced. ‘O K, you deal with the spiders and I’ll deal with the mice. And you,’ He ruffled Calum’s hair, ‘Keep your mouth shut from now on.’
‘Yes,’ I grinned, ‘Together we can cope with anything – even 7-year-olds!’