The Witches

MR AND MRS JENKINS
MEET BRUNO

My grandmother carried me back into her own bedroom and put me on the table. She set the precious bottle down beside me. ‘What time are those witches having supper in the Dining Room?’ she asked.

‘Eight o’clock,’ I said.

She looked at her watch. ‘It is now ten-past six,’ she said. ‘We’ve got until eight o’clock to work out our next move.’ Suddenly, her eye fell upon Bruno. He was still in the banana bowl on the table. He had eaten three bananas and was now attacking a fourth. He had become IMMENSELY FAT.

‘That’s quite enough,’ my grandmother said, lifting him out of the bowl and putting him on the tabletop. ‘I think it’s time we returned this little fellow to the bosom of his family. Don’t you agree, Bruno?’

Bruno scowled at her. I had never seen a mouse scowl before, but he managed it. ‘My parents let me eat as much as I want,’ he said. ‘I’d rather be with them than with you.’

‘Of course you would,’ my grandmother said. ‘Do you know where your parents might be at this moment?’

‘They were in the Lounge not long ago,’ I said. ‘I saw them sitting there as we dashed through on our way up here.’

‘Right,’ my grandmother said. ‘Let’s go and see if they are still there. Do you want to come along?’ she added, looking at me.

‘Yes, please,’ I said.

‘I shall put you both in my handbag,’ she said. ‘Keep quiet and stay out of sight. If you must peep out now and again, don’t show more than your nose.’

Her handbag was a large bulgy black-leather affair with a tortoiseshell clasp. She picked up Bruno and me and popped us into it. ‘I shall leave the clasp undone,’ she said. ‘But be sure to keep out of sight.’

I had no intention of keeping out of sight. I wanted to see everything. I seated myself in a little side pocket inside the bag, near the clasp, and from there I was able to poke my head out whenever I wanted to.

‘Hey!’ Bruno called out. ‘Give me the rest of that banana I was eating.’

‘Oh, all right,’ my grandmother said. ‘Anything to keep you quiet.’ She dropped the half-eaten banana into the bag, then slung the bag over her arm and marched out of the room and went along the corridor with her walking stick.

We went down in the lift to the ground floor and made our way through the Reading Room to the Lounge. And there, sure enough, sat Mr and Mrs Jenkins in a couple of armchairs with a low round glass-covered table between them. There were several other groups in there as well, but the Jenkinses were the only couple sitting alone. Mr Jenkins was reading a newspaper. Mrs Jenkins was knitting something large and mustard-coloured. Only my nose and eyes were above the clasp of my grandmother’s handbag, but I had a super view. I could see everything.

My grandmother, dressed in black lace, went across the floor of the Lounge and halted in front of the Jenkinses’ table. ‘Are you Mr and Mrs Jenkins?’ she asked.

Mr Jenkins looked at her over the top of his newspaper and frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am Mr Jenkins. What can I do for you, madam?’

‘I’m afraid I have some rather alarming news for you,’ she said. ‘It’s about your son, Bruno.’

‘What about Bruno?’ Mr Jenkins said.

Mrs Jenkins looked up but went on knitting. ‘What’s the little blighter been up to now?’ Mr Jenkins asked. ‘Raiding the kitchen, I suppose.’

‘It’s a bit worse than that,’ my grandmother said. ‘Do you think we might go somewhere more private while I tell you about it?’

‘Private?’ Mr Jenkins said. ‘Why do we have to be private?’

‘This is not an easy thing for me to explain,’ my grandmother said. ‘I’d much rather we all went up to your room and sat down before I tell you any more.’

Mr Jenkins lowered his paper. Mrs Jenkins stopped knitting. ‘I don’t want to go up to my room, madam,’ Mr Jenkins said. ‘I’m quite comfortable here, thank you very much.’ He was a large coarse man and he wasn’t used to being pushed around by anybody. ‘Kindly state your business and then leave us alone,’ he added. He spoke as though he was addressing someone who was trying to sell him a vacuum cleaner at the back door.

My poor grandmother, who had been doing her best to be as kind to them as possible, now began to bristle a bit herself. ‘We really can’t talk in here,’ she said. ‘There are too many people. This is a rather delicate and personal matter.’

‘I’ll talk where I dashed well want to, madam,’ Mr Jenkins said. ‘Come on now, out with it! If Bruno has broken a window or smashed your spectacles, then I’ll pay for the damage, but I’m not budging out of this seat!’

One or two other groups in the room were beginning to stare at us now.

‘Where is Bruno, anyway?’ Mr Jenkins said. ‘Tell him to come here and see me.’

‘He’s here already,’ my grandmother said. ‘He’s in my handbag.’ She patted the big floppy leather bag with her walking stick.

‘What the heck d’you mean he’s in your handbag?’ Mr Jenkins shouted.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ Mrs Jenkins said, very prim.

‘There’s nothing funny about this,’ my grandmother said. ‘Your son has suffered a rather unfortunate mishap.’

‘He’s always suffering mishaps,’ Mr Jenkins said. ‘He suffers from overeating and then he suffers from wind. You should hear him after supper. He sounds like a BRASS BAND! But a good dose of castor oil soon puts him right again. Where is the little beggar?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ my grandmother said. ‘He’s in my handbag. But I do think it might be better if we went somewhere private before you meet him in his present state.’

‘This woman’s mad,’ Mrs Jenkins said. ‘Tell her to go away.’

‘The plain fact is,’ my grandmother said, ‘that your son Bruno has been rather drastically altered.’

‘ALTERED!’ shouted Mr Jenkins. ‘What the devil d’you mean altered?’

‘GO AWAY!’ Mrs Jenkins said. ‘You’re a silly old woman!’

‘I am trying to tell you as gently as I possibly can that Bruno really is in my handbag,’ my grandmother said. ‘My own grandson actually saw them doing it to him.’

‘Saw who doing what to him, for heaven’s sake?’ shouted Mr Jenkins. He had a black moustache that jumped up and down when he shouted.

‘Saw the witches turning him into a mouse,’ my grandmother said.

‘Call the Manager, dear,’ Mrs Jenkins said to her husband. ‘Have this mad woman thrown out of the hotel.’

At this point, my grandmother’s patience came to an end. She fished around in her handbag and found Bruno. She lifted him out and dumped him on the glass-topped table. Mrs Jenkins took one look at the fat little brown mouse who was still chewing a bit of banana and she let out a shriek that rattled the crystals on the chandelier. She sprang out of her chair yelling,

‘It’s Bruno,’ my grandmother said.

‘You nasty cheeky old woman!’ shouted Mr Jenkins. He started flapping his newspaper at Bruno, trying to sweep him off the table. My grandmother rushed forward and managed to grab hold of him before he was swept away. Mrs Jenkins was still screaming her head off and Mr Jenkins was towering over us and shouting, ‘Get out of here! How dare you frighten my wife like that! Take your filthy mouse away this instant!’

‘HELP!’ screamed Mrs Jenkins. Her face had gone the colour of the underside of a fish.

‘Well, I did my best,’ my grandmother said, and with that she turned and sailed out of the room, carrying Bruno with her.