Moominpappa's Memoirs Page 6

  ‘A merry-go-round,’ Hodgkins replied. ‘Don’t you remember? I drew it for you once. Cross section of the engine.’

  ‘You didn’t draw it like this,’ I protested. ‘It’s all horses and music and flags and gold!’

  ‘And cog wheels,’ said Hodgkins.

  ‘Ginger ale, please?’ asked a big Hemulen in a definitely unbecoming pinafore (I’ve always said so: Hemulens have no taste). She gave us each a glass and said importantly:

  ‘You’ll have to go and wish Daddy Jones many happy returns of the day. It’s his hundredth birthday, you know.’

  I took my glass of ginger ale in a shaky paw and looked up towards the Autocrat’s throne. For the first time in my life I beheld a real King! He was terribly old and wrinkly and merry and he was stamping time to the music so that his throne wobbled. Under it he kept a fog horn and gave a short blast every time he wished to acknowledge a toast from any one of his subjects.

  We bowed to the earth, and when the fog horn ceased Hodgkins said: ‘Many happy returns of the century!’

  ‘And thank you for the greatly successful surprises, Your Autocratical Majesty,’ I added in an unnatural voice and saluted with my tail.

  ‘Cheerio!’ said Daddy Jones and chuckled happily. ‘Did it come off? Were you wet? What did the bull do? Did anybody fall in the treacle trap? Really, sometimes it’s great fun to be King!’

  ‘If Your Majesty allows me…’ I started to say.

  ‘Call Us Jones, please,’ said the Autocrat. ‘Hullo, my people good and true! (Blast you, stop that merry-go-round!) Come hither, all! It’s time to draw the lottery prizes!’

  The merry-go-round and the swings stopped, and everybody came running with their eggs.

  ‘701!’ shouted Daddy Jones. ‘Who’s got number 701?’

  ‘I have,’ said Hodgkins.

  ‘Here you are, please,’ said the King and handed him an excellent fret-saw of the kind he had always wanted.

  I squeezed my eggs in excitement. Every time a new number was called I felt a catch in my throat – but every time it was somebody else’s number. Every little black-beetle seemed to have won something or other, but not I.

  The Joxter and the Muddler already had a row of prizes in front of them and were busy, because the prizes were mostly chocolate balls, marchpane Hemulens, or spun-sugar roses. And Hodgkins satin the grass holding a heap of practical and uninteresting things in his lap.

  Finally Daddy Jones rose and made a little speech:

  ‘My dear people! Dear muddle-headed, fuzzy, and thoughtless subjects! Each of you has won exactly the things that suit him best and that he’s earned. In Our centennial wisdom We have hidden the eggs in three kinds of places. Firstly, in the grass where you might stumble on them simply running about or when you are too lazy to look carefully. All those prizes are eatable. Secondly, We have hidden some eggs where they can be found with meticulous and methodical search. Those prizes are useful. And thirdly, We have chosen hiding-places that need a certain amount of imagination to find. And those prizes are of no use whatever. Now, my pig-headed, dear and silly subjects! Who of you have looked in fancy places: in the brooks, in the tree-tops, in the flower-buds, in his own pockets, or in the anthills? Who has found Numbers 67, 14, 890, 999, 223, and 27?’

  ‘I have,’ I shouted quite loudly, which made me a little embarrassed for a moment.

  And shortly afterwards a smaller voice beside me said: ‘999!’

  ‘Come hither, poor little Moomin,’ said Daddy Jones.

  ‘Behold the utterly useless rewards of the fantastic. Do you like them?’

  ‘Terribly, Your Majesty,’ I breathed.

  My prizes were enchanting. I think number 27 was the nicest. It was a drawing-room decoration: a small meerschaum tram on a coral pedestal. You could keep safety pins on the front platform. Number 67 was a champagne whisk beset with garnets. The other prizes were a shark’s tooth, a preserved smoke ring, and an organ-grinding handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Can you understand my bliss?

  ‘And what about me?’ asked the Mymble’s daughter who had Number 999.

  ‘Little girl,’ said Daddy Jones gravely. ‘You have drawn the capital prize. You are entitled to kiss Daddy Jones on the nose.’

  The Mymble’s daughter shyly climbed on the Autocrat’s lap and kissed him on his old autocrat nose. The multitude cheered madly and started eating their prizes.

  It was a really lavish, grand and sumptuous garden party. At dusk, coloured lanterns were lighted all over the Garden of Surprises, and everybody played or danced or sang and forgot all about morning.

  I was milling around with the others when I perceived a female person who seemed wholly built of round pieces. I went up to her, bowed and asked:

  ‘Excuse me, Madam, do you happen to be the Mymble?’

  ‘Herself!’ said the Mymble laughing. ‘Tumble and bumble, what a lot I’ve eaten! Listen, Moomin, weren’t you sorry to get such peculiar prizes?’

  ‘I like them,’ I replied. ‘And think of the honour! Not to mention your daughter who won the main prize.’

  ‘She’s a credit to the family,’ said the Mymble proudly.

  ‘So you’re not angry with her any more?’ I asked.

  ‘Angry?’ said the Mymble surprised. ‘I’m never angry with anybody, at least not for long. I simply haven’t the time! Eighteen, nineteen kiddies to wash, put to bed, button up and button down, feed, wipe the nose of, and the Groke knows what. No, my young Moomin, I’m enjoying myself all the time! ‘

  ‘And what a singular brother you have,’ I continued by way of conversation.

  ‘Brother?’ said the Mymble.

  ‘Yes, your daughter’s maternal uncle,’ I explained.

  ‘Who camps beside all the longest words until he’s studied them enough, and who sleeps in his long red beard where two white mice lodge free of rent.’

  The Mymble started to laugh heartily and said: ‘What a daughter I have, indeed! She’s been pulling your leg, Moomin! She hasn’t any uncle that I know of. Cheerio, I’ll have to try the merry-go-round!’

  And the Mymble collected as many of her children that her broad lap could hold and mounted one of the red carriages drawn by a dapple grey horse.

  ‘What a remarkable lady,’ said the Joxter with sincere admiration.

  On the horse sat the Muddler looking quaint.

  ‘Well?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t it fun?’

  ‘Yes thanks, grand,’ said the Muddler. ‘I’m certainly having a swell time. But this going round and round makes you a bit sick in the end It’s a pity!’

  ‘How many rounds have you been on?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t know,’ replied the Muddler exhaustedly. ‘A lot! Such a lot! Oh, here I go again!’

  ‘Time to go home,’ said Hodgkins. ‘Where’s the King?’

  But Daddy Jones was busy at the swings, so we left discreetly.

  (Except for the Joxter who wasn’t able to tear himself from the company of the merry and laughing Mymble.)

  In the park we found our Nibling. He had dug himself a hole in the ground and gone to sleep.

  ‘Hullo!’ I said. ‘You haven’t taken out your prizes.’

  ‘Prizes?’ said the Nibling and blinked his eyes.

  ‘Your eggs,’ said Hodgkins. ‘You had a dozen.’

  ‘I ate them,’ answered the Nibling shyly. ‘I hadn’t anything else to do while I waited for you.’

  I’ve often wondered since what the Nibling’s prizes would have been and who got them when he didn’t ask for them.

  Perhaps Daddy Jones saved them for his next centennial garden party.

  CHAPTER 6

  In which I become a Royal Outlaw Colonist and show remarkable presence of mind when meeting the Ghost of Horror Island.

  AT dawn the following day a uniformed Hemulen of the Autocrat Guards knocked on the door of our cabin and shouted: ‘Telegram! Express telegram for Mr Hodgkins!’

  Hodgkins calmly put on his captain’s cap a
nd opened the message. It read:

  OUR ATTENTION DIRECTED FACT HODGKINS FIRST-CLASS INVENTOR PLEASE PLACE TALENTS IMMEDIATELY AUTOCRAT JONESS SERVICE URGENT

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the Muddler, ‘but he doesn’t seem to be any grand letter-writer. There’s a lot of small words and stops missing.’

  ‘That’s how express telegrams are,’ explained Hodgkins. ‘No time to put in all the words. It’s a very good telegram.’

  ‘But you said yourself that not a single letter’s lost on the way,’ said the Nibling.

  ‘Too long to explain now,’ said Hodgkins. ‘I’ll have to see the King.’

  ‘May I put in the small words in your express telegram while you’re away?’ asked the Muddler.

  ‘Please do,’ said Hodgkins. ‘But carefully.’

  ‘Are you going to stay with the King?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘Don’t know yet,’ Hodgkins said abstractedly, polishing his zipper. ‘Depends. New tools… tons of nuts and bolts… miles of wire spring… Might improve the house-boat…’

  ‘And what about me?’ I said.

  ‘You?’ said Hodgkins surprised. ‘You’ll stay too, of course. As Royal Moominhouse constructor. We’ll found a colony. We’ll be colonists.’

  ‘M-m,’ I replied and went ashore to visit the Mymble. I kicked a stone before me all the way and pretended it was a king, until I suddenly remembered that I was a royalist. God save the King, I said quickly three times to myself. The stone’s a colonist, the Groke take him.

  ‘Morning,’ said the Mymble’s daughter. She was standing at the pump washing her small brothers and sisters. ‘Have you swallowed a lemon?’

  ‘We’re not explorers any more, we’re colonists,’ I said.

  ‘Pestilence,’ said the Mymble’s daughter. ‘That’s bad. What do colonists do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Probably something silly. I think it would be better to follow the Hattifatteners, lone as the desert wind or the mountain eagle.’

  ‘I’m coming with you!’ said the Mymble’s daughter.

  ‘There’s a lot of difference between Hodgkins and you,’ I said (markedly).

  ‘Yes, isn’t there,’ cried the Mymble’s daughter happily. ‘Mother! Where are you?’

  ‘Here,’ said the Mymble and put her head out from under a large leaf. ‘How many have you washed?’

  ‘Half,’ said her daughter. ‘I’ll leave it at that. Because this Moomin has asked me to go round the world with him.’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact…’ I managed to say.

  But the Mymble said wonderingly: ‘You don’t say! Then you won’t be back for dinner?’

  ‘Oh no, mother,’ said the Mymble’s daughter. ‘Next time we meet I’ll be grown-up and the biggest Mymble in the world! When do we start?’

  ‘I suppose colony life isn’t so bad after all,’ I said faintly. ‘We’re a Mymble short. So if you’d rather like to become just a colonist…’

  She rather liked it

  Mymbles like anything.

  About two nautical miles north of Daddy Jones’s kingdom there lies a moderately big, heart-shaped island. We colonized it.

  We moored ship in the cove (the map will show you), and Hodgkins remained aboard and started inventing trap doors for the Autocrat. The Joxter settled down in an apple tree on the eastern side, and I moved the Moominhouse from the boat to the western shore. The Muddler’s tin was rolled up on the hill in the middle of the island, because he was a little scared to live near the edges, he said. The rest of the island belonged to the Mymble’s daughter – except the tip of the heart which we chose for a secret meeting-place.

  We held the first council (to make laws for the colony) on a Thursday at dusk. Each of us had a large sea-shell to sit on, and Hodgkins pulled the bung from a hollow tree that we had filled with a supply of Daddy Jones’s home made palm wine.

  The Muddler served us corn cobs (my favourite food) and plum cake. A bright orange moon was poking its head over the horizon. The night was quite warm.

  ‘And now, what is a colonist, please?’ I asked.

  ‘Colonists are strangers in a country that do not quite like to live alone,’ explained the Joxter. ‘So they move together in the wilderness and start quarrelling, I believe. I suppose they like that better than not to have anybody to quarrel with.’

  ‘Do we have to quarrel?’ asked the Muddler. ‘I wouldn’t like it Excuse me! Ifssosad!’

  ‘Bless me, no,’ said Hodgkins. ‘We’re going to live in peace.’

  “Exactly,’ said the Joxter. ‘And sometimes we’ll make something unusual and sudden happen. Then peace again. What?’

  ‘Exactly!’ we all said.

  ‘My tree on the sunside,’ the Joxter continued dreamily. ‘Songs and apples and sleeping late, you know. Nobody buzzing around and telling me that things cannot be postponed.… I’m going to let things run themselves.’

  ‘And do they?’ asked the Muddler.

  ‘Do they?’ exclaimed the Joxter. ‘Just leave them alone and you’ll be surprised. The oranges grow, and the flowers open, and now and then a new Joxter is born to eat them and smell them. And the sun shines on it all.’

  ‘Great big oranges,’ said the Nibling. (He sat by himself drinking milk, because he was too small for palm wine.)

  ‘You, little Nibling,’ said Hodgkins kindly. ‘You’re going home to your mother. Tomorrow morning on the packet boat.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ said the Nibling and sipped his milk.

  ‘But I’ll stay,’ said the Mymble’s daughter. ‘Until I’m grown-up. Hodgkins, can’t you invent anything to make Mymbles grow terribly big?’

  ‘A small one’s enough,’ I said.

  ‘That’s what mother says, too,’ she replied. ‘D’you know, I was born in a clam and wasn’t bigger than a water-flea when mother found me in her aquarium!’

  ‘Fibbing again,’ I said. ‘I know perfectly well that people grow inside their mothers, like apple seeds.’

  ‘Any way you like,’ said the Mymble’s daughter.

  Just then the Joxter half-rose and said:

  ‘Wait a bit! Here’s something funny…’

  A ragged cloud passed across the moon. We listened intently. Everything was silent.

  ‘You’re trying to scare us!’ said the Muddler. ‘We’re the only colonists on this island.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the Joxter and sat down again. ‘I just had a kind of feeling that somebody went sneaking over the sand. Like apple seeds, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, or a plum-stone,’ I replied. ‘Are you sure you’re mistaken? Didn’t you see anybody?’

  ‘Something grey and misty, perhaps – I don’t really know,’ mumbled the Joxter. ‘It glided, sort of.’

  ‘I’m cold,’ said the Muddler nervously. ‘Excuse me, won’t anybody take me home?’

  ‘You can stay with me tonight,’ said the Mymble’s daughter. ‘I’m terribly brave.’

  ‘Is your house strong?’ asked the Muddler.

  ‘Concrete and stone!’ she answered.

  (Of course we all knew that she was lodging under a big leaf.)

  But the Muddler felt easier, and they walked off together with the Nibling, as soon as we had tied an address label to his tail for the voyage and kissed him on the nose. (It was greatly to his honour that he didn’t bite anybody’s snout for a farewell.)

  ‘Best regards to your mother,’ Hodgkins said. ‘And don’t sink the packet boat.’

  ‘I shan’t,’ said the Nibling happily, and so he went.

  ‘Well,’ Hodgkins said and drained his wine cup. ‘I suppose we’ll call it a day, too. The laws can wait.’

  ‘Couldn’t we have an outlaw colony?’ asked the Joxter. ‘Laws are always a bother.’

  ‘Ought to break them first, of course,’ Hodgkins said. ‘I mean, something has to go wrong before you know a law is called for.’

  ‘But if you do something the wrong way and nothing goes wrong afterwards?’ I a
sked. ‘It happens, you know. Does that call for a law, too?’

  ‘A poser, that,’ Hodgkins said. ‘Good night, everybody!’

  We separated at the Muddler’s tin, that stood empty and abandoned on the hill-top (as usual he had forgotten to put the lid on).

  I walked on alone to my house.

  It stood beautifully outlined against the sky between the cliff-tops by the beach. The sand glittered in the moonlight, and all the shadows were pitch-black. I mounted the stairs to the former steering-cabin and opened the window. The night was so silent that you could hear the big furry moths brushing their wings.

  Then the door downstairs gave a creak.

  A cold draught swept up from below and breathed down my neck.

  Now, afterwards, I’m sure I wasn’t scared; I simply took natural precautions. Determinedly I crawled under the bed and waited.

  Soon the stairs began to creak also. One small creak, and then another. There were nineteen steps, I knew, because the staircase had been quite a complicated affair to build (it was a winding staircase, of course). I counted nineteen creaks, then everything was silent once more, and I thought: ‘It’s standing by the door.’

  *

  Here Moominpappa stopped reading. The thrill was intense.

  ‘Sniff,’ he said, ‘turn up the wick, please. Do you know, my paws become all wet when I read about that ghastly experience!’

  ‘Then it was a ghost?’ asked Moomintroll who had pulled his quilt up to his ears.

  ‘It was a ghost,’ replied Moominpappa seriously.

  ‘Did my daddy the Joxter like that Mymble very much?’ Snufkin suddenly asked.

  ‘I think he did,’ said Moominpappa a little thoughtfully.

  ‘More than me?’ asked Snufkin.

  ‘He never saw you, you know,’ said Moominpappa. ‘I mean – if he’d seen you I suppose he’d liked you more still. But Snufkin dear, don’t look so downcast Wait a bit, I’ll show you something!’

  Moominpappa went to the big corner cabinet and started a search on the lowest shelf. After a while he returned and laid a glistening white shark’s tooth on Snufkin’s bed.

  ‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘Your daddy used to admire it.’