‘That's quite enough,’ my grandmother said, lifting him out of the bowl and putting him on the table-top. ‘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 tortoise-shell 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 thumping 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 thumping 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 perso
nal 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.’