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When I was talking about my par chant for mice the other day to a friend, I was reminded of another story concerning mice from many years ago when I was a student teacher.
Unlike today, there were specific ‘Teachers Training Colleges’ where, even if you wanted to do a Bachelor of Education like myself, you went to train. To become a qualified teacher took three years completely dedicated to teaching and then a fourth year if you were doing the B.Ed.
I actually think it was a better system than today because it required three full-term practices. Secondly, it was dedicated to the craft and skills of teaching itself and if you weren’t intending to teach secondary, you could enter the profession with five good O levels (A’s). Lastly, because many people left after their first practice, it meant those who remained, really wanted to teach and were dedicated to education.
Much later in my career, I was responsible for teaching student teachers who, having done three years at university, then did a fourth in education only to discover that it really wasn’t for them. That said, I moved away from home at eighteen to put myself through college and went to Northampton where, over my four years, I had a veritable number of dodgy digs. One in particular came to mind when I was writing the other day and even now, makes me chuckle.
The flat I secured in my final year on my very meagre budget was in a run-down area of the town. It was the ground floor of an old, rather dilapidated Victorian terrace – one of the many two-up, two-down houses that had been built for factory workers sitting behind the old Barratt’s Shoe factory. The front door opened straight onto the street with a small bay window jutting out over the pavement to its right.
On entering the property, there was a narrow hallway with a staircase directly in front (leading to the flat upstairs) and another front door to the right of the stairs. This was the entrance to my flat and inside were two small rooms on the right – the sitting room, which must once have been the front parlour and the bedroom next door, which would have been the main living area.
At the end of the passage and down a step was a tiny kitchen and beyond, a small bathroom built in a lean-to and knocked through into the outside privy. Beyond this was a small, strip of unkempt garden which, at one time, must have been a welcome addition. Fully furnished, it was in a time warp, straight out of the 1930s and over the dado was the overpainted, embossed wallpaper in a fetching gingery, brown whose colour I baulk at describing, with dark brown panelling below.
The hall and kitchen had worn, terracotta tiles underfoot, with painted floorboards in the bedroom and only one ancient, threadbare carpet and working fireplace in what was my sitting room.
What is strange about this is that as I recount the details and can see it all, as clear as day, but I cannot remember anyone ever living in the flat above me, or speaking to a single other resident of that street. I have always actively sought out my neighbours but I cannot recall a single soul in the entire twelve months I lived there.
Anyway, I’d not been there very long when I realised I had a problem……..mice! The little beggars got into everything and were absolutely brazen, putting up their furry little two fingers at me at every opportunity. I found them everywhere; in the cupboards, dangling from the curtains, tightrope walking along the electric flexes, strolling around the kitchen counters, scooting across the floors in front of me and even nonchalantly stopping right in the middle of the carpet as I sat huddled in the armchair in the evening, to wash their ears, play with each other and chew the fibres of the rug.
I put everything in Tupperware containers only to discover that they had chewed through the corners and once, on pulling out the roasting pan from the oven, I found one roasted, laying beside my chicken, which I now could not eat!
Did I put down poison and traps you ask? Of course I didn’t, I couldn’t bear the thought of finding their traumatised little bodies and so I did the next best thing, I got myself a cat!
Mabel was a diminutive, plump little black and white with very dubious parentage and although very human-friendly, had found herself through no fault of her own in the rescue centre without a home. I already had my dog Henry, obtained in my first year away and who was a Battersea dog’s home dog bought for seven shillings and sixpence (which included the licence fee).
Like myself, Henry was a lover, not a fighter and although a Dachshund cross, he was never a ratter, preferring to lightly skip over and around them pretending they weren’t there. I remember on one occasion finding him standing, looking forlornly at his own bed with three little mice curled up and sleeping soundly in the middle of it.
On first introductions, Henry and Mabel chose to say hello and then politely ignore each other but over the years a strong bond was built between them and Mabel was a marvel! From the moment she entered the flat, in spite of her portly appearance, she was a true mouser. The effect was almost instant and I have visions of the mice, having picked up her scent, quickly packing their little suitcases and moving along under the floorboards to take up residence in the two properties on either side of me as within weeks, there was not a single mouse to be seen.
Mabel strolled in, her tail upright, the tip like a question mark as she went from room to room, inspecting every nook and cranny and simply took over.
Although Mabel lived a long and happy life as part of my family, I hadn’t thought about her in years until I wrote this piece the other day. Just thinking about her quiet confidence made me smile. She was a brilliant mouser her whole life and I was never again held captive to those furry little intruders so here’s to Mabel and all the other cats quietly doing their job and keeping our houses clean, hygienic, and free of mice.
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