The Wind in Westminster
by
J.W.B. Richmond
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 J.W.B. Richmond
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
This ebook is licenced for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Dad
***
Introduction
The Wind in Westminster began with the conceit of what would happen if Toad of Toad Hall became an MP and rose to power in contemporary England. It was written for my Dad, Miles Richmond, the artist, who passed away on 7th October, 2008. He was able to read the manuscript before he died.
The project has expanded into a trilogy which will see Toad and his friends wrestle with the forces of darkness on the international stage.
I would like to thank my Mother for all her encouragement and, in particular, would like to acknowledge the voluntary help, support and inspiration of Marie-Estelle McCrimmon, my creative editor and friend.
J.W.B. Richmond
8th October, 2011
***
Chapter One
When the local Riverbank Conservative Party first approached Toad to represent them at the forthcoming General Election his first instinct was to cry “Absolutely!” but then hard-won wisdom prevailed; for this was no longer the irresponsible Poop-Poop! Toad of the Open Road, the Prison Cell and the Stolen Horse, but the Penitent Toad who owed everything to the kindness, courage and generosity of his devoted friends, some of whom had Labour leanings - and Mole was a paid-up member of the Liberal Democrats. Nonetheless, generations of Toads had been natural Conservatives, and he couldn’t help but be a little flattered to have been invited to put his name forward, a mere formality he was assured, by the buxom rabbit in the tweed suit and pearls standing on his hearthrug.
Toad’s first dutiful instinct on seizing his BlackBerry was to consult with Badger, but somehow, in scrolling to the number, he misdialled and found himself, instead, leaving a brief message on Ratty’s voicemail which he never checked anyway. “I say, Ratty old chap, I’ve been collared by Lady Gertrude Rabbit about this election thingy, and I just can’t see any way of wriggling out of it. I don’t think it will affect the picnic for the field mice, old man.”
‘There, I’ve done the decent thing,’ he thought. ‘Decision made.’
Jarozlav, the Polish butler, shimmered in with the tea things beautifully arranged on a silver tray, and placed them carefully on the walnut occasional table. “Dzie,kuje,” said Toad graciously. “Prosze,” replied the re-skilled anaesthetist, before withdrawing with a practiced bow.
“Would you care to be Mother?” The Toad invited Lady Gertrude.
“I don’t mind if I do,” she simpered, with a flash of grass-stained incisors. “Now then!” she declaimed, as she poured the tea from a great height, but barely spilling a drop, “let’s get down to brass tacks shall we? We’re going to have to take a long hard look at your CV.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a car,” said Toad, ruefully.
Lady Gertrude cocked her head to one side in perplexity and then roared with laughter. “I say, you are a card Mr Toad, and so Green!” she cried, “as long as you’re sound on Europe, the committee will be rooting for you, I’m sure.”
A fortnight later Toad stood before the long mirror in his dressing room trying to decide between his MCC tie and the pink one with the little blue tulip motif. Derek, the Under-Gardener - who doubled up as his Valet in these straitened times - stood back with his arms folded across his chest and his lips pursed severely.
“You’ve got to ooze, Sir, just positively ooze, and I’m dreadfully sorry to say it, but your fob-chain just won’t do; it’s simply too de trop for words. This isn’t the 1900’s and, unless you’ve been terribly discreet, you’re not a Freemason!”
Toad’s features twisted into a sulky scowl. “I’ve always worn my watch chain for important occasions; it’s my birthright, we’re talking about my Great-grandfather’s watch here, I’ll have you know!”
“That’s as maybe, and there’ll be no harm in having it tucked safely in our trouser pocket now, will there?” cooed Derek.
“Then I could keep the chain in my waistcoat!?” Toad suggested, with a rising inflection of hope in his voice.
Derek cleared his throat diplomatically. “I thought we had settled on the two-piece Paul Smith suit, Sir? I know it’s not Saville Row, but it does give you just a hint of the common touch, and you do look fabulous in that particular shade of burnt Sienna. If I may say so Sir, Mr Smith’s creation imparts upon your figure an even greater degree of elegance than it naturally possesses - although I do understand from cook, that you’ve been sending puddings back untested; is this truly la verité?”
“Well, you know how it is,” said Toad, rather preening himself, “a moment on the lips, a lifetime at Weightwatchers. I need to be a lean, mean, fighting machine when I take my place at the nations’ helm, and all that sort of carry on.”
“You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to get a personal trainer,” mused Derek. “Why don’t I have a word with Sergé? Oh, and as we’ve settled on the Paul Smith, it’ll be the pink tie.”
The Riverbank Conservative Association offices were in the handsome, sandstone town square next to the railway station, and occupied the deconsecrated Post Office much lamented by the locals. Toad was due to meet the selection committee there at half-past six. At a quarter-to, he descended the great staircase of Toad Hall, ablaze in his Paul Smith suit, buffed and polished to within an inch of his life by Derek who was even now tugging at Toad’s jacket to improve that ambitious animal’s posture, and flicking desperately at one or two flecks of dandruff which had appeared on Toad’s shoulders, the result of being prevailed upon by his over-zealous valet to experiment with a subtle chestnut tint upon his ever so slightly moth-eaten hair. Jarozlav stood in the hall like a Grenadier Guard.
“I say old chap, would you get me a cab into town,” said Toad.
The Butler bowed. “If I may say so, Sir, you look like a million zlotys.”
“Jolly nice of you to say so! I’ll take a Pimms on the terrace while I’m waiting.”
As he sat there waiting for destiny to collect him, Toad allowed his mind to wander back through the years; he reflected on some of his adventures and the dear friends who had shared them. He thought of those sun-dappled days upon the river and how they had ended in disillusionment with water-borne transport, of his brief experiment with Bohemian living on dusty roads and beneath the evening stars - which had been brought to such a catastrophic end when he had been vouchsafed that epic, petrol-driven vision which had launched his tragic unrequited love affair with motor cars. How bitter that had been, despite all its heady seductions; it had reduced him to ignominiously waiting for a mini-cab when he should by rights have been chauffeuring himself to this meeting in his own gleaming Maserati.
But then again, what a rich variety of experience had been his as a result of all that hard-won wisdom gained, often painfully, when he had been forced to rub shoulders with the Great Unwashed. The contemporary Toad was a more rounded individual, in the noblest sense, and one who could bring his experience to bear on the lives of those even more unfortunate than himself.
Yes, he, Toad, had something of inestimable value to impart to society. He took a long hard drink of his Pimms, and allowed his gaze to range over the ornamental carp pond and across the impeccable lawns to the boat-house. It would be nice to be giving something back. And he might well be on the telly! That would make his friends sit up and take notice. And what good fellows they were although Mole had gone totally organic and become just a bit tedious about the Soil Association, if the truth be known.
As for poor old Ratty, he was, apparently, still waiting for an insurance payout following the Great Inundation - which the company were quibbling over - on the grounds that he had been living below the waterline at the time. As a consequence, the Water Rat had much less time for messing about in boats than was essential to his spiritual needs as he was forced to spend a wearisome amount of his life online in the local library, and he really didn’t hold with computers. Luckily, the devoted Mole was constantly at his side - equipped as he was with superior IT skills.
Toad hadn’t actually seen the Badger in ages, since that mysterious beast still kept himself very much to himself in the middle of the Wild Wood, which had thankfully for some, been preserved for posterity by its hard-won green belt status, notwithstanding the best exertions of the more commercially progressive members of the Riverbank community. In the years since the epic battles with the Weasels and the Stoats, Badger had taken to the study of the law via the Open University - and become a highly qualified practitioner. He was often called upon to settle disputes amongst the woodland creatures - which service he always provided on a pro bono basis when he wasn’t hibernating. The poor animal had suffered a nasty brush with TB a few years previously and, although it hadn’t proved to be a strain resistant to penicillin, it had left him somewhat weakened - and a prey to dark misgivings about the dairy industry.
‘Dear friends, but in their own ways flawed,’ Toad reflected. Now it was down to him: the scion of a noble house, the embodiment of all that was best about Britain to make his mark upon the Island Story. Hearing tyres crunching on the gravelled drive he drained his glass, including the fruit because it counted towards his beastly five a day, and clambered to his feet.
The mini-cab that was waiting before Toad’s magnificent front door was a rather battered Peugeot and, crouched uncomfortably behind the wheel, sat a morose-looking Bengal Tiger. Jarozlav was holding open the rear door.
“The Old Post Office please,” said Toad climbing in. Jarozlav shut the door smoothly behind him. “What’s your name?” asked Toad affably, as they pulled away.
“Mohammed,” replied the Tiger, taking a long hard look at Toad in his rear view mirror, from which hung a string of prayer beads and a pine-tree shaped air freshener, “which post office you wanting?”
“The one by the station in the square.”
“There’s no damn post office there, this ruddy Government they shut it down.”
“I know!” said Toad, “it’s disgraceful, but we in the Conservative party are going to do something about it. Why, when I was young, one got one’s post at breakfast and again at lunch; now one’s lucky to get it at all, and if that wasn’t bad enough I hear they pay the fellow in charge untold millions!”
“What you going to do? It’s just globalisation,” said Mohammed wearily.
“I say, that’s rather good!” exclaimed Toad, “do you mind if I use it?”
“Maybe I charge you double fare,” said the Tiger, with a gleam in his eye.
“Oh I hope not,” said Toad earnestly, “it’s very hard to get one’s hands on ready money.”
With just minutes to spare they drew up outside the Riverbank Conservative Party Headquarters. “Here you are, keep the change and wish me luck,” said Toad handing over a tenner.
“Inshallah!” said Mohammed, displaying a set of very sharp white teeth. And he drove off in search of his next fare.
Toad was greeted most effusively at the door by Lady Gertrude, a large brooch now pinned to her jacket lapel which clashed madly with her pearls; who proceeded to introduce him to the big hitters on the selection committee - chief amongst whom were Gustave Eel, a prominent local poulterer, Judge Horace Turkey OBE who took rather a dim view of Gustave and Doug Mink - who represented New Money in the town. In just two generations, since his parents had been freed by right-wing animal activists, Doug had built up a considerable empire, not least since gaining a place on the planning committee. Once the introductions had been concluded; and the small talk had subsided, the meeting got under way.
Judge Turkey was in the chair. He cleared his throat noisily. “Thank you all for coming here this evening, I know how busy you all are, as indeed am I, and I do not intend to detain you for longer than is absolutely necessary (deferential cheers). However, it behoves me to raise one or two issues which are, I feel, pertinent to these proceedings and which, if ignored, may lead to more or less grave misunderstandings later on in this process which is so vital, not only to the Riverbank Conservative Association, but also to the great democracy of which it forms a small, but I like to think, a vital part; an essential cog in a machine shaped over centuries by our constitutional process which is based not on revolution, but instead on evolution, though you try telling that to the vandals currently in charge! No, we in the Conservative Party believe that our great institutions of state should be shaped like the smooth-worn pebbles on a British river bed, not knocked together like self-assembly furniture with some wretched little Allen key - which keeps going missing and has instructions that only one’s wife can understand!”
He cleared his throat again. There was a certain amount of shuffling and coughing, and a smattering of applause and Toad wondered if he was finally going to get to the point, first thing when he got elected he’d put a stop to all these long meetings.
“We are gathered here this evening, as I’m sure you are all aware, as part of our duty, and I’d like to stress that word ‘duty’, of selecting the right animal, or indeed human of whatever…erm…sex, to - God and the electorate willing - represent this constituency at Westminster. I cannot stress too severely what a responsibility this is. It falls to us, this faithful few gathered together in this unhallowed post office, for the use of which we are much indebted to Doug here, to select a candidate with real bottom; one who can take on the shallow soothsayers of New Labour and prove them false. Let us never forget that they currently hold this seat with a majority of 3,752 so it will be no mean feat to turf them out. We are looking for a swing factor of 9.7%.
Therefore, it is vital that we choose a candidate - whether warm or cold-blooded - who can take the fight to the enemy, who can win hearts and minds. New Labour may have run out of rope with which to hang itself, though personally I think that’s too good for them, but that doesn’t mean we can afford to be complacent. It most certainly does not! We’re not going to get by with kissing the odd baby. Oh no! This time we’re going to need policies as well, and the right chap to put them across to people who spend most of their lives eating chips in front of the television; someone with authority, but who also has the common touch.” ‘Gosh!’ thought Toad, ‘I’m glad I wore the Paul Smith suit.’
Judge Turkey continued, “now, I don’t want to labour the point unduly, if you’ll pardon the pun, but it would be remiss of me to exclude from this peroration the matter of…” at this point Doug Mink interrupted - much to his chagrin - but Doug paid most of the bills, so he swallowed his gobbles for the time being.
“Fine words Horace, fine words,” the Judge winced, “but we’ve got a planning meeting about this eco-town in half an hour, and we’ve got to fight that one tooth and claw, so can we just cut to the chase? Who’s the lucky contestant tonight?”
Toad sat up, wondering if the pink tie had been the right choice as Lady Gertrude rose to her feet, directed a withering glare at Doug, who grinned winsomely back, and announced, in her haughtiest tones.
“We’re very lucky that the distinguished local gentleman, Mr Toad of Toad Hall, whose family have lived in this county since the dissolution of the monasteries, has been prevailed upon to put his name forward. May I present, Toad!” The eponymous creature climbed to his feet and made what he hoped was a self-deprecating bow. There was a murmur of appreciation, which went straight to his cockles.
“Very good of you to step up to the plate, I’m sure,” remarked Gustave Eel oleaginously twirling his fountain pen. “Have you been a Conservative for long?”
“I can’t remember ever being anything else,” declared the Toad stoutly.
“Hmm, well we’ll check the records,” Gustave said, with just a hint of menace.
“That won’t be necessary,” intervened the Turkey, “I knew his Father, a thoroughly good sort. I remember when we were up at Oxford together we had some very ripe times. Why, there was one occasion on which we were out punting when…”
Doug butted in again. “What’s your line of business, mate?”
“Well I have a few acres which keep me pretty busy.”
“So you’re a hands-on kind of guy?”
Toad surveyed the back of his mottled manicured paws and considered his reply, “well I suppose that strictly speaking Julian takes care of the details, but we normally meet up once a week or so, to sign cheques and that sort of thing.” The little crowd shifted uneasily in their seats.
“I can just see the headlines now, ‘Top-hatted Toady Tories,’ ” Gustave sniffed.
“Harumph!” ejaculated Judge Horace, “since when was it a crime to a be a guardian of the countryside, and a gentleman to boot?”
“Hear, hear!” cried Lady Gertrude, “the only other serious contender is a hedge fund manager, whereas Toad manages real hedges and has local roots, unlike Barrows who lives in Fulham. I don’t think I’m alone when I say that I know which one I’d rather have!” There was a ripple of applause. “This election isn’t going to be about the class war, it’s going to be about the price of a loaf of bread, and who better than a farmer to understand that?” There was a general murmuring of assent.
“How does your wife feel about all this?” asked Gustave slyly looking back at Toad, “modern politics is something of a glasshouse, and spouses are very much under the spotlight.”
“Well, that’s alright then,” said Toad, “because I haven’t got one.” This statement received a mixed reaction; a narrowing of eyes from some, a certain alertness from eligible others, but overall an insucking of breath.
Judge Horace looked somewhat taken aback. “But are you courting Toad?” he asked anxiously, “have you got any romantic plans that we could bring forward? If the Conservative party stands for anything in this dreadful post-colonial world, it stands for the nuclear family, whatever that is!”
“I don’t know, it’s never been an issue,” said Toad unhappily, “I’ve always had my chums, and from what little I know, wives rather complicate things.”
“Indeed they do…but so does the lack of one in this instance,” remarked Gustave Eel archly, “but I can’t help noticing that you’re rather well turned out for a rural bachelor; surely one can detect the feminine hand there?”
“Not on your nelly!” cried Toad indignantly, “that was Derek.”
“Your partner?” enquired the Eel with raised eyebrows. “Gosh no!” Toad laughed, “he’s the Under-Gardener, but he helps me get dressed.” A frisson ran through the assembled Conservatives.
“Now, don’t let’s get carried away!” shouted Doug Mink above the hubbub, “this could play well with the swing voters, if handled properly. I’ll have a word with Eustace Squirrel, if anyone can spin this story it’s Mr Useless.”
“And there’s always my daughter Fennela!” Lady Gertrude piped up.
“Yes, there’s always your daughter Fennela.” riposted Gustave caustically.
“Ladies, Gentlemen and Others, I think we have our candidate!” exclaimed Doug. “Well he’s not quite his Father, I must say, but on the whole I like the cut of his jib, and if we can do something about the under-gardener situation, perhaps Lady Gertrude might take an interest there? After all, despite the beastliness, he’s still a considerable catch for any young rabbit. By the way Toad, where did you go to school?”
“Well, mostly Eton.”
“Thank God for that!” cried Judge Horace Turkey OBE evacuating his lungs in relief.
“I still prefer Barrows,” said the Eel sullenly, “he’s got more of a grip on the markets.”
“Frankly, who cares what you think,” ejaculated the Turkey. “My next meeting’s already started, I’ve got to dash!” exclaimed Doug as he gathered up his papers and knocked his chair over in his rush to get away.
And that was how Toad came to be selected to fight the Riverbank Parliamentary seat on behalf of the Conservative and Unionist Party of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
***
Chapter Two
The following Tuesday Toad was enjoying his constitutional in the rain. Despite, or perhaps because of, all this Global Warming, he really wasn’t quite sure, it had been uncommonly wet of late. The water streamed off his old green oilskin and his Wellington boots sucked at the mud as he made his way down to the river through his ancestral acres, loving every step he took through these familiar scenes. Apart from the sound of the rain pattering on the leaves it was rather quiet - with only the occasional mysterious scuffling in the undergrowth to betray the presence of a small scavenging creature. Toad took a benevolent view of such goings-on, he was a great believer in noblesse oblige, after all, he could afford to be generous with his worms, and he knew that there were families out there to whom they made a real difference. From somewhere nearby a blackbird let forth its liquid song, into which it ingeniously interwove the sound of a car alarm. Two damp looking wood pigeons sat hunched together on the branch of a dripping tree.
The footpath brought him out just upstream from the new weir. Otter, who had particularly strong feelings about the hydro-electric turbines, had got up a petition to protest against the disruption to wildlife, but then you couldn’t turn on the telly these days without being swamped with information about clean energy and stuff and what a good choice hydro-electricity was so while Toad sympathised with the poor fellow, he did find it all quite confusing.
It wouldn’t be long, however, before as an MP, he would be in full possession of the facts, and then he could yea or nay these things any old way he jolly well liked. With a last long lingering look at the grey water tumbling past in which, according to Mole, there was a dreadful degree of what he called ‘runoff’ from pesticides; the poor chap got quite heated about it. Perhaps now that he was about to straddle the national stage he should have a word with Julian about the issue, although Julian, his Estate Manager, was fixated with something he called ‘the bottom line’ which Toad was rather vague about. With these sombre, but on the whole noble thoughts, competing for ascendancy in his imagination with the prospect of coffee, toast, scrambled eggs and kippers when he got home, he pulled his cap down over his ears and continued on his way, whistling ‘Lily Bolero’ as he strolled back through the lush countryside; the sweeping views marred only by the occasional pylon.
He reached the top of Wimple Hill and winced at the sight of the wind farm. The vast blades dripped in the still air atop their extra-terrestrial seeming stalks. Julian had explained about how essential they were to upsetting his carbon. They certainly succeeded. Toad was just glad his Father wasn’t alive to see them. He proceeded sadly towards the hall. The 21st century was certainly perplexing.
He took his boots off in the scullery and donned the slippers that Jarozlav had placed there for him. Then, armed with an excellent appetite, he made his way across the parquet hall floor to the morning room where long years of happy experience had taught him to expect his breakfast. He was not disappointed. As he tucked the starched white napkin into his collar Jarozlav appeared with the coffee pot and the toast rack, both full. As Toad poured his first cup then set to applying the wretched low fat spread, which Derek now insisted upon, to his toast, Jarozlav reappeared with the eggs which were laid by Toad’s own flock of free range chickens, and the kippers, which were placed by his side on a silver salver. Jarozlav then withdrew magisterially to the fireplace from where he aloofly observed proceedings, in case some sudden want might require his expert intervention.
Halfway through breakfast the telephone in the hall rang. “Shall I answer that Sir?” enquired the Butler. “By all means!” choked Toad, struggling with a mouthful of toast and kipper, “but I’m terrifically busy right now.”
“It had not escaped one’s attention Sir,” said Jarozlav, withdrawing to answer the rude summons. Toad took advantage of the interruption to demolish the last of the scrambled eggs (a personal favourite of his), and by the time his retainer returned he was ready to face the marmalade.
“It’s a Mr Eustace Squirrel Sir, he says he was asked to contact you by a certain Doug Mink with a view to er…brainstorming.” He pronounced this last word with distaste.
“Yes, that does ring a dim bell. Ask the fellow to pop over this afternoon if he can. I haven’t got my diary to hand, but I’m pretty sure that’ll be O.K. - unless Rodney turns up for croquet - which I don’t think he will in this weather.”
“Very good Sir, I will convey that message to him.”
Toad applied a liberal coating of thick cut marmalade to his last piece of granary toast. Jarozlav returned. “Mr. Squirrel will be here at half past two, if that is convenient?”
“That’s right in the middle of my afternoon nap!” exclaimed Toad, indignantly. “I do beg your pardon Sir, how appallingly remiss of me. I will ask him to call at four.”
“That’s more like it,” replied the Toad, “then he can stay for tea.”
At ten past four a re-sprayed Mini Cooper pulled up at the foot of the front steps in a shower of gravel. Jarozlav observed aloofly from the doorstep where he stood waiting. A harassed-looking grey squirrel jumped out and then dived back into the car to retrieve his laptop. “Mr Eustace Squirrel, I presume?” intoned the butler.
“That’s me, I do hope I’m not terribly late! The fact is my Sat Nav packed in, and I’ve been driving around in circles for three quarters of an hour. I planned to be in plenty of time. Oh dear, oh dear and this place really is a top end property, very much upscale. I do hope Mr Toad will find it in himself to overlook my tardiness.”
“We can but pray,” responded Jarozlav, “we can but pray.”
“Oh dear,” muttered Eustace as he made his way up the steps behind the butler and through the great front doors, “oh dear, oh dear.”
Toad was in the library, wrestling with a Soduku problem, when Jarozlav tapped on the door, he threw the puzzle down with relief. ‘These things really were just dreamt up to annoy people who frankly had better things to do,’ he decided, ‘they weren’t designed with the truly gifted in mind, lateral thinkers like himself.’
“Mr Eustace Squirrel,” announced Jarozlav. Toad leapt out of his chair delighted at the distraction. “Good of you to come!” he cried, “would you like some refreshments before we get down to business?”
“Well I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a glass of water, Mr Toad.”
“Please just call me Toad.”
“Would that be still or sparkling?” enquired the Butler.
“Oh, just tap water’s fine.” The Squirrel replied as he opened his bag to draw out a laptop and looked around for a chair to sit on.
“Each to their own,” said Toad, “I’ll have a slice of that excellent venison pie, a small selection of cheeses, some biscuits and a jug of dandelion and burdock since I need to keep my wits about me, yes, that should keep me going until tea time. Now what’s the plan Eustace, if I may call you that?”
“I’d be obliged if you would,” said the Squirrel appreciatively.
Eustace Squirrel had been a successful, and popular, estate agent - but he had come to grief in the Great Nut Crash. However, thanks to a few friends in high places, he had managed to recover his fortunes, somewhat, by working as an image consultant to some quite high profile clients - including a ranked British tennis star. He had gone on to transform the public perception of ‘Mug’o’Stew’ that savoury ambrosia garnished with the choicest cuts of offal -transforming it into the must have potable snack for indigents everywhere - which had, in turn, brought him to the attention of a newly rampant Conservative Party, where he had become one of their up and coming Mr Fixits, credited with the ability to spin a silk purse out of a the most unpromising of sow’s ears. His wife was an extremely good friend of Doug Mink’s.
“Now then, Mr Toad,” he said, opening his laptop, “let’s start by taking a few details, how many bedrooms have you got?”
“I’m not sure,” said Toad, “let’s ask Jarozlav,” who had just returned with the refreshments.
“May I be of service Sir?”
“How many bedrooms have I got? Roughly.”
“34,” replied the Butler promptly, “including the extension to the east wing,” He deposited their refreshments expertly before them, with an added panache garnishing the natural flair, which had first brought him to the attention of the Principal at his buttling college in Kraçow.
“Sorry, that was my mistake,” said Eustace looking up from the document on his screen, “force of habit, that should have been, how old are you?”
“I don’t see that that’s any of your business!” exclaimed the Toad indignantly.
“I do appreciate your feelings on the matter,” said the Squirrel soothingly, “but as you must have noticed from reading the papers, it’s the only vital statistic anyone’s interested in these days. I mean you never see ‘Mr Jones (five foot ten) do you’? No, people are only interested in the ticking clock of the Grim Reaper and, let’s face it, he’ll be here soon enough!” He stared hollowly off into space for an instant.
“Well, since you put it like that, I’m um…34!” exclaimed the Toad, rather taken aback.
“34?” repeated Eustace quizzically.
“Yup,” said Toad, his voice muffled by a large mouthful of pie. He swallowed noisily, “…err, I think I may have muddled my numbers,” he coughed almost sheepishly, “perhaps that should be 43.”
“43 it is then,” affirmed the Squirrel, doubtfully tapping at his keyboard. “Am I right in thinking that you went to Eton?”
“And Harrow,” replied the Toad proudly. The Squirrel looked puzzled, “I was broadening my education,” Toad explained, “after the unpleasantness in the tuck shop. Pater said it was for the best, although he never tired of telling me that he had to pull no end of strings.”
“I think we’ll just put Eton,” said the Squirrel hastily, “and did you go on to university?”
“It’s funny you should ask that,” said the Toad hesitantly, “ but as a matter of fact ‘no’. Just as I was about to go up to Oxford, Father’s old college of course, and read PPE - which is frightfully clever, I was recruited by MI6 and packed off to the Balkans, though I’m obviously not at liberty to say much about it.”
“Of course not,” observed the Squirrel dryly, "but that must have been very exciting for a young toad?”
“Oh yes, I was rarely out of the arms of a beautiful woman, when I wasn’t killing people stylishly, or wresting with sinister frogmen, but that’s just between you and me, old chap. I wouldn’t want people to think I was bragging - especially not Badger,” he added anxiously.
“Of course not,” said the Squirrel understandingly. “We’ll just put ‘foreign travel’ which we can use to inform your views on the EU in due course.”
“Rightiho,” said Toad cheerfully, “that’s a subject I could write the manual on, or rather Julian could, he’s always harping on about caps and things, it gets jolly wearing, I can tell you!”
“And he is?”
“My Estate Manager, of course, everybody knows that.”
“So you have substantial interests in farming?”
“I don’t want you to take away the impression that I’m a sedentary creature,” said Toad, “one who’s content to plough the fields and scatter, and all that sort of thing. I’m pretty cutting edge me, always pushing the envelope. Why, it was me who drove through the wind farm project.”
“I think we can safely put you down as the enterprising CEO of an agribusiness to energy conglomerate,” said Eustace, tapping away enthusiastically.
“Gosh, I rather like the sound of that!” Toad responded, “I might get some new business cards printed, ‘Toad Enterprises’ has a certain ring to it…”
“Perhaps we can go back and look at some of your earlier career moves, what did you do after you left the, er, Secret Service?”
“I’m still a sleeper!” exclaimed Toad. The Squirrel nodded gravely and Toad frowned as he unearthed his recollections. “Let me see now, I’ve had a pretty full and varied life, I can tell you, I’m a bit of a Toad of Action, why I once escaped from the deepest darkest dungeon in the whole land, disguised as a washerwoman!”
“OK,” said Eustace, drawing breath, “let’s just unpack that one a bit, shall we? What were you doing in the dungeon?”
“It was an outrage! All I did was borrow somebody’s wretched motor car and, just because I was going slightly over the speed limit, some officious red-faced rural policemen decided to throw their weight around, and I felt it my duty to give them a piece of my mind, dratted fellows! I thought the law was there to protect people like me, but let me tell you, the system is rotten from top to bottom! That old codger on the bench gave me twenty years. Me! A toad in the very prime of life! It nearly broke my heart, it did.”
“A miscarriage of justice? A youthful indiscretion…?” the Squirrel mused uncertainly, “I’m not sure where the European Convention on Human Rights stands on retrospective grand theft auto. I’ll have to look into it, but I’m sure we can airbrush it somehow although, I’m not so sure about the cross-dressing.”
“Yes, I was pretty cross,” said Toad, “frankly it was demeaning, but I escaped from the most impregnable fortress in the country armed only with my native wit, cunning and resourcefulness - and a dreadful old shawl.”
“High jinks,” remarked the Squirrel, “you’d have got it out of your system if you’d gone up to Oxford. Perhaps we can roll the whole episode into your time with the… umm, Secret Service?”
“Yes…” said the Toad, doubtfully.
“Moving on then…” said the Squirrel discreetly, “what happened after that little incident?” He took a sip of water nervously.
“Well, when I got back Toad Hall was full of squatters, dreadful riff-raff from the Wild Wood who’d taken advantage of my absence to turn this delightful gentleman’s residence into a place of vulgar debauchery, but me and my friends we learned ‘em alright! These days they’re a mannerly bunch, they mind their Ps and Qs and consider themselves jolly lucky to get a job here cleaning the windows!”
“So it didn’t come to litigation?”
“The very idea! No, we just showed ‘em, that what! We broke a few skulls - it’s the only language they understand. Ah, that was a glorious night, and it was the Chief Weasel’s birthday party as well! I gave him quite a present, I can tell you - not one that he’ll forget in a hurry, though I understand his memory’s not what it was! Nowadays he relies on meals on wheels - and he has to suck them through a straw.”
“But Mr Toad, are you not aware that until quite recently it was against the law to attack an intruder?”
“Stuff and nonsense! Not any more it isn’t! Take it up with Badger if you want to; he’s got book learning and all that gammon coming out of his ears!” cried the Toad indignantly, “no, we learned ‘em alright, me and Ratty and Mole and Badger, we gave ‘em what for! And we were out-numbered a hundred to one. People in these parts talked of little else for years afterwards. It was simply glorious…” his eyes glazed over dreamily as he recollected those events, whilst guiding a dollop of ripe cheese, balanced on a water biscuit, to his lips.
“I think we’d better put that down as civic action linked to your growing interest in local politics,” said Eustace judiciously.
“Rubbish!” cried Toad, “it was revenge! Pure revenge! And it was richly deserved, let me tell you! The bounders, the upstart Wild Wooders, were depriving me Toad of my Ancient Liberties, here at my own hearth - and that was before we installed the central heating. Why, if we hadn’t taken our lives into our hands and bashed them into a cocked hat, you’d be looking at a ferret right now!”