Brian Jacques - The Ribbajack

Miggy figured out the total time she would spend with her dad, laughing. “Atty Lok will say it’s eleventeen days. But it’s the longest you’ve been home in ages. What have you got in the bag, Dad? Please tell me.”

Paddy shook his head. “Is that Siamese cook still around? He’s a nice little feller, but he’s teachin’ you your figures all wrong. Proper schoolin’, me girl, that’s what ye need—it’s eleven days, not eleventeen.”

Miggy shrugged. “I know that, Dad, I can count right enough. But you still haven’t told me—what’s in the sack?”

Paddy gave her a broad wink. “I’ll tell ye later, darlin’. Look, we’re home. There’s me brother Eric, waitin’ on the step t’greet me. He looks like a bulldog chewin’ a wasp, but don’t tell him I said that.”

Paddy nodded affably to his scowling elder brother. “Eric, great t’see ye again, mate!”

Eric sucked on his clay pipe, and spat out sourly, “I suppose ye’ll be wantin’ some brekkist. Come on inside. An’ you, girl, get yourself into that kitchen. There’s men need feedin’, an’ not a dish washed in the place. Shift!”

Paddy stroked his daughter’s unruly brown curls. “Go on, darlin’, do as your uncle Eric says.”

Both men watched her go indoors. Eric stowed the pipe in his hatband. “Huh, just like her mother, hungry as a wolf an’ lazy as a sow. By rights she should go to the parish.”

Paddy’s eyes blazed with anger. “No daughter o’ mine is goin’ to end up in the parish workhouse. I pays you good money for Miggy’s keep, ye can’t deny that!”

Eric slouched inside. Indicating a vacant table to his younger brother, they both sat down. Paddy saw Miggy wearing an apron many sizes too large for her. She was carrying out breakfasts to the waiting lodgers.

Eric rapped a grimy finger on the tabletop. “I been waitin’ to have words with ye about the girl. She ain’t a baby no more, Paddy, she’s growin’ up fast. I’ll be needin’ an extra twelve bob off ye. Things bein’ what they are, I can’t afford t’keep her on the money ye give me. Have ye seen the price o’ things nowadays?”

Paddy stared incredulously at his brother. “Another twelve shillings?”

Eric scratched his stomach, replying offhandedly, “It’s either that, or she goes to the parish.”

Paddy counted out money from a small bag strung round his neck. “There, that’s what I usually pays ye, plus the extra twelve bob. Miggy goes to the parish over my dead body. Right?”

Eric watched as he slammed the money down on the table. He skimmed it quickly into his trouser pocket and stood up. “Right, I’m off to the Maid of Erin, got some business there. Stow yer gear in the cellar, I won’t charge ye. ’Tis better than sleepin’ aboard ship.”

Without a backward glance he sauntered out the door, off to the pub and a long day’s drinking.

Miggy shed her apron and ran to sit in the seat her uncle had vacated. Atty Lok appeared, carrying a tray ful of food, which he brought to the table.

Miggy spread her arms grandly. “Brekkist for two, please!”

Paddy shook the Siamese cook’s hand warmly. “Atty Lok, ye old grubroaster, how are ye, my friend?”

Atty continued pumping Paddy’s hand up and down. “Paddy ’Grail, old cockleshell, I fine, how you? Both eat up now, plenny good special I make for you an’ daughter. See, eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, molasses an’ plenny tea!”

Paddy grabbed his knife and fork eagerly.

“All the way from Bombay I’ve been dreamin’ of a good Liverpool feed. Salt horse, ship’s biscuits an’ weevils in the hard tack, that’s what I’ve lived on for six months. Atty, you’re as merciful an’ kind as the Bud dha himself!”

The cook sat and watched until they had finished. “Much good chow, eh?”

Paddy slapped his lean stomach. “Fit for a Mogul of India. Now come with me, I’ve got something to show ye both.”

Between them they carried Paddy’s gear down to the cellar. Placing the bumpy sack on Miggy’s old navy blanket, Paddy undid the drawstring.

“This is a present for you, Miggy, me girl. Wait’ll you see this!” Some cotton waste and ship’s ration scraps tumbled out of the sack, then a small head peeped forth.

The girl stared wide-eyed at the beast emerging from the sack. It had a pointed nose, little whiskers and a pair of eyes which shone like black diamonds. Slightly smaller than a tabby cat, the creature had short legs, a long thick tail and a bristly silver-grey coat, almost blue where the lantern light caught it. Standing on its hind legs, it licked at Miggy’s fingers, which had traces of molasses sticking to them. It was not afraid of the girl, nor she of it. Miggy smiled.

“Oh, isn’t he lovely, Dad! What sort of animal is he?”

Paddy stroked its back with one finger. “This, me darlin’, is the Malabar Egyptian. Right, Atty?”

The Siamese cook spoke in reverent tones. “That feller mongoose, bravest snake killer in alla world. You wait here, I get friend mongoose some food!”

Whilst Atty was gone, Paddy explained to his daughter about the animal. “Y’see, Migg, this feller ain’t no common mongoose. He comes off a very special strain. His father an’ mother were both prize serpent slayers, bred from rare stock. His bloodline is a mixture of two kinds o’ mongooses. Malabar, an’ Egyptian ichneumon, the bravest there is. They’re also the most lovin’ an’ faithful of pets, ask Atty, he’ll tell ye.”

The cook returned with an egg, which he gave to Miggy. “Hold mongoose, blow in his face gently, soft now.”

She did as he instructed. The mongoose leaned close to her mouth, its nostrils twitching. Atty nodded.

“He know you now. Crack egg a little, put it on floor for mongoose feller. He like egg pretty good.”

Miggy cracked the egg slightly. Liquid leaked from it as she placed it on the floor. Putting the mongoose down next to it, she spoke quietly. “Come on, Sailor, this is for you.”

The little beast leaped on the egg, holding it with its paws and attacking the shell with razor-sharp teeth. Paddy McGrail watched his daughter stroking the mongoose as it lapped up both yolk and white like a hungry kitten. “Sailor, eh? That’s a good name for him.”

Miggy nodded. “Well, he sailed with you, Dad, all the way from India. What do you think, Atty?”

The cook shook his head. “No, should be called Lascar, that name for Indian sailor. Lascar!” He reached forward to stroke the creature’s nose with one finger. It snarled, baring its teeth warningly. Atty pulled his hand away quickly.

“He loyal to you now ’til fifty-sixth of Foreveryear. Best he be called Sailor, he British citizen now. You take care of Sailor, he take care of you, ho, yes!”

Miggy scoffed. “How could a little fellow like him take care of me?”

Atty Lok sounded deadly serious. “I tell you, missy, mongoose fear nothing, not scared of poison serpent or death. He protec’ you good!”

Sailor had finished his egg. He looked up from the well-licked shell fragments at Miggy. Folding him in her arms, she stroked him lovingly. The mongoose snuggled up to his new owner, making rusty little noises of pleasure.

Paddy McGrail cautioned his daughter, “Don’t be carryin’ him round an’ pettin’ him like that. I’ve got a feelin’ that Eric doesn’t like animals of any kind, especially foreign ones. Keep Sailor out of sight when your uncle Eric’s around. No sense invitin’ trouble, darlin’.”

Miggy heeded the warning, it made good sense. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll make him a little nest behind my bed, and I’ll only bring him out when Uncle Eric isn’t in.” Whilst she talked, the young mongoose gazed up into her eyes, as if listening intently to every word Miggy said.