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The Rat from the River
by
Jack Windsor
The locals
could not remember a winter as hard as this one.
Even old Henry Toomey was reluctant to make
comparisons with the past, and Henry could always
be relied upon to bring forth a tale about how much
worse things were when he was a lad.
It was a winter without respite that sorted the
weak from the strong amongst humans, animals and
plants. It started with a fall of snow in
mid-December and now at the end of January that
same snow still lay on the ground, frozen into icy
permanence by week after week of unrelenting frost.
With each day the winter's bitter lance thrust
deeper into the soil, destroying in its path all
but the hardiest of plants. Animals and birds were
forced to exist on the most meagre of food supplies
and survival of the fittest was a grim realism for
all of them. Though it would only be
when Spring eventually arrived that nature could
fully count its costs.
For the first time since way back in 1939 the river
totally froze over, much to the delight of children
and ice-skaters. The water dwelling animals and
birds, however, did not find the phenomenon so
beneficial and soon death took its inevitable
tithe. For some other animals the hard surface of
the river was an advantage, for it expanded their
territories at a time when food supplies diminished
to barely subsistence level.
So it was with the rat; a young female who
inhabited an abandoned otter's hole in the river
bank. A few weeks before, a lean and hungry vixen
had killed her mate, and now she was on her own
fending for herself. As the winter grew longer and
food became scarcer, so the rat ventured out across
the river, extending her territory day by day until
at last, she came to the outlying houses of the
town.
The humans in their inefficiently heated homes
turned up the heating controls another notch or two
and tried in vain to stop the draughts around doors
and windows. Each day they were exhorted to "put on
more clothes and keep warm." Radio and television
presenters seemed to delight in telling them of new
records: the first white Christmas for 18 years;
the coldest day of the decade; the coldest December
for a century. And for the people, just as among
the animals and plants, it was the weakest that
suffered most.
Few ventured into the Siberian temperatures without
the warmest clothing, and time spent out of doors
was kept to a minimum. Theatres, cinemas and
restaurants suffered, for only the hardiest of
people were willing to brave the icy conditions in
order to obtain their entertainment.
The Taj Mahal Restaurant was no exception. For many
weeks there were hardly more than half a dozen
customers during any single evening, and Mr. Virani
was not a happy man. He had opened his new venture
only six months before and now he was in danger of
seeing the business fold. The time had come for
desperate measures.
First he visited a local printing firm and
explained his ideas for attracting more people into
his establishment. The printers too, were suffering
from the general lack of trade, and they
enthusiastically gave Mr. Virani their help and
advice. Before long there took shape an advertising
leaflet, which carried an offer that few people
would be able to resist. Mr. Virani placed an order
for 5,000 leaflets. Almost as soon as they came off
the press, he, all his family and many of his
friends cocooned themselves against the polar
conditions in as many clothes as they could find,
then set off for all the residential areas in easy
reach of the restaurant.
Up and down the garden paths they trod, trying to
balance the caution needed on the icy surface with
the speed of movement required to keep warm. It was
a losing battle, for the piercing cold insinuated
its way into the very marrow of their bones; but on
the doormat of each home they walked away from, lay
an invitation to escape to the tropics.
In every house in every street the leaflet's bold
headline shouted its message to the frozen
inhabitants of the town:
VISIT THE TAJ MAHAL, AND SEE THE TAJ MAHAL
Their interest
aroused, they gazed at a picture of the famous
sandstone and marble Indian memorial. It glistened
in the sunlight and drew their eyes down to the
message of the advertisement. Each person having a
meal in the Taj Mahal restaurant before the end of
March would be given a free entry in The Grand
Indian Holiday Draw. The leaflet went on to
describe the prize; two weeks in the sunshine and
warmth of India, seeing the famous sights,
absorbing the local customs, swimming in the hotel
pool, and all of this far, far away from the cold
British winter.
After reading this, most people were able to close
their eyes, and make themselves feel warm by just
imagining the exotic holiday. But many were tempted
by the prize offer and picked up the telephone to
reserve a table. After all there was nothing to
lose, was there? And they might just find
themselves on an aeroplane heading away from all
the ice and snow. At the end of the week, Mr.
Virani was smiling. There were enough table
bookings to ensure that the Taj Mahal restaurant
would survive until the cold weather was over.
The many who thought that winter would begin to
loosen its grip with the coming of March, were to
be disappointed as temperatures fell even lower and
yet more cold weather records were established.
Travel agents around the country were overwhelmed
as thousands of people sought relief from the
arctic conditions by taking early holidays in
warmer lands. Radio, television and the newspapers
speculated on the reasons for such a severe winter.
Some said it was freak happening; others claimed
that such winters occurred regularly every 300
years; many blamed the scientists; and the
political extremists laid responsibility firmly
with the Government.
Indeed, belatedly it was thought by some, the Prime
Minister created a "Minister for Winter," who very
quickly was dubbed
"The Jack Frost Minister" by the
Press. None of this, however, had any effect
on the freezing temperatures and both humans and
wildlife struggled against the elements as best
they could.
Mr. Virani rarely felt the cold, for his restaurant
was so busy there was little opportunity to leave
it. Customers flocked in every day, eager to claim
their draw tickets, and looked forward to the
announcement of the winner at the end of March.
Many were surprised at the palatability of the food
and some took to coming for a meal every week.
The days and weeks sped by and almost every night
the Taj Mahal Restaurant was fully booked. Indeed
they were so busy, Mr. Virani and his staff looked
forward to a quieter time in April. But first,
there was the Grand Indian Holiday Draw, and
suddenly the last day of March was upon them; it
was time to make the draw.
It was warm in the restaurant ---- but outside,
winter's savage grip was unrelenting. April was
only one day away and yet there was not the
slightest indication that Spring was on its way.
Not a single bulb or corm was able to pierce the
icy soil; the birds expended their energy in
finding warmth, quite forgetting it was the time of
year to burst into song; and the frost encrusted
trees showed no sign of breaking into bud. Wildlife
overcame its distrust of humans and ventured
further into the town than before. The rat in an
agony of hunger sniffed its way from door to door
and through the back gardens of suburbia. Twice as
it passed over open ground it narrowly avoided the
over-eager attentions of a silent and starving barn
owl.
The frustrated bird alighted upon a fence post and
noiselessly watched for the telltale movement that
would locate its prey; but now the rat was well
aware that danger threatened. Slowly the owl
rotated its head as it scanned the terrain around
it, like an air field radar searching out the
enemy. The rodent crouched in the shadows unable to
see the predator, but sensing its presence. Time
ceased and death waited for just an instant before
passing on. Then hunger decided the course of
destiny.
Giving up the chase, the hunter spread his vast
wings and, without a sound, vanished in the
direction of the river. Its intended prey, urged by
the desperate need to eat, moved inexorably toward
the sound of human life.
Mr. Virani was beaming as he welcomed the diners
for this, the big draw evening. After their meal
there would be a celebration and the Mayor and
Mayoress had agreed to draw the winning ticket.
The chef had surpassed himself, for he had taken
even more care than usual in mixing the subtle
blends of spices that made his meals so memorable.
He told himself that Mr. Virani may have persuaded
the customers to come to the restaurant in the
first place, but he, the chef, would ensure that
they kept returning. Yes, he was proud of his
skill. He was also proud of his kitchen, and as
soon as the last meal was served, he commenced the
clean-up operation.
Meanwhile in the restaurant, the Mayor and Mayoress
made their arrival and were chatting with some of
the diners. Nearby on a table in the centre of the
room, stood the drum containing the draw tickets.
Upon each ticket was written the name of a customer
hoping to escape from the frozen streets of his
home town to the heat and hospitality of India.
Everyone in the restaurant felt the excitement
building as they waited for the winning name to be
revealed. Mr. Virani opened several bottles of
champagne and poured a glass for everyone present.
The Mayor plunged his hand deep into the paper
filled drum, and closed his fingers around a single
ticket.
Back in the kitchen, the chef had been told that
the Mayor and Mayoress would like to visit his
domain and he looked around to check that all was
as it should be. His critical eye fell on a
discarded spice container, which marred an
otherwise perfect scene. He hurried to dispose of
it before the visitors arrived. Rushing out into
the yard, he left the door ajar as he opened the
bin and dropped the offending rubbish in.
The heated air from the kitchen cascaded into the
arctic night creating thermal eddies that swirled
invisibly through the darkness. Carried along in
the warm air were the aromas of exotic spices and
the mouth-watering smell of food. It was all too
much temptation for the rat, which crouched nearby,
and it darted through the open door into the
kitchen. The chef returned, slamming the door
against the cold. The rat, still apprehensive about
humans, ran on unseen through the curtained archway
into the restaurant.
All eyes were upon the Mayor as he held up the
ticket and announced the winner of the prize. There
was a flash of light as the local news photographer
recorded the scene for the weekly paper.
Meanwhile, the rat, disorientated by its sudden
arrival in the midst of so much light and noise,
scampered hither and thither until at last it ran
right over the Mayoress' foot. Feeling the movement
she looked down and emitted a scream so piercing
that it froze the expression on every face in the
restaurant.
Pandemonium erupted. Several women joined in the
screaming and some climbed upon chairs and even
tables to escape the rodent. Two or three men tried
to chase the animal but in the milling crowd this
was impossible, and they merely added to the
confusion. The photographer quickly summed up the
situation and began taking pictures as fast as he
could, for he knew this would be a front page
story. In the midst of all this panic, the Mayor
ran to the aid of his wife to protect her; the
ticket, now forgotten, slipped from his fingers and
drifted to the floor. It came to rest at the feet
of Mr. Virani, who stood with his head in his hands
lost in the anguish of the dream exploding around
him.
The Mayor's chauffeur opened the front door of the
restaurant and shepherded his charges through, then
the rat, smelling fresh air and seeing a chance to
escape from that frightening place, darted after
them. On the way out she saw the discarded winning
draw ticket, and thinking it might be food, grabbed
hold of it in her jaws, and took it with her until
she reached a snow filled ditch where she felt
safe.
A week later the cold weather finally broke and
Spring at last showed its face. With the warmer
weather the rat returned to the river, never
knowing the devastation it had caused amongst the
townsfolk that cold March night. Certain people,
however, remembered the rat for as long as they
lived.
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