The Deptford Mice 1: The Dark Portal by Robin Jarvis Page A

with his friends.
    So through the passage they went, happily scaring each other in the dark, and then they were outside. Instinctively they dashed for cover and ran into the tall grass.
    Strictly speaking it was more of a yard than a garden, with a concrete area in the centre. But with long neglect nature had taken over. The brambles had thickened, the nettles had grown tall and the hawthorn had spread freely. Now there were cracks in the concrete and green was poking through. The garden was a wild place.
    Oswald blinked his pink eyes in the bright light. They were weak and pained him.
    Nevertheless it was very exciting to feel the breeze through his whiskers and see the abundant new growth of spring all around him. The scent of the hawthorn blossom was so beautiful that he held his breath for some time.
    Twit was in his element. He had been cooped up in the Skirtings for most of the winter and it was not natural for him. To be out under the sky was a great tonic, and now he seemed to come really alive. He found a stalk of cow parsley and in no time had shinned to the top. There, amongst the starry white spray of flowers, he stayed motionless, his thoughts returning to his field. Once more he was surrounded by golden stalks of corn, nodding and swaying their heads like pale flames. Twit touched his mousebrass, an ear of wheat against the sickle moon. An ache was born in him. How he yearned for his home, his life in the country! He broke out of his reverie and looked down at his friends. Silently and sorrowfully he acknowledged the call of the country. He knew that soon he would have to leave and return home. Slowly he began to climb down.
    The sun picked out the gold in his fur and it shone as he descended.
    ‘That’s a good trick,’ Arthur, called up to him. ‘Do you think you could teach me?’ Twit laughed as he thought of Arthur’s stout frame clambering up a grain stalk.
    And so the happy mood had returned to him. Twit was a simple, sunny-natured mouse. He did not let things trouble him for long.
    The three mice quite forgot that they were supposed to be looking for Audrey. Twit showed them the curly scrolling of worm casts, and the creatures that lived under damp stones. Oswald squealed as a large, shiny black beetle ran over his tail.
    After a while they lay exhausted on the ground. Oswald was panting heavily and shielded his eyes from the sun with the scarf his mother had made him wear that morning.
    Oswald really was the cuckoo in the Chitters’ nest. It was as well that Mrs Chitter was such a good body or there might have been unpleasant speculation on his origins. He was so tall and, well, rattish. But no one was ever cruel enough to say so – it would have hurt him deeply. When he had regained enough breath he asked, ‘Is this what it’s like in your field, Twit?’
    ‘Not much. The field she’m bigger, the corn do be higher,’ said the fieldmouse.
    ‘And the sun?’
    ‘Oh she’m the same,’ and they laughed.
    They could have stayed out there much longer but a rumble came from Arthur’s’ stomach and that settled it. Back they went.
    Once they’ were in the kitchen Oswald was able to open his eyes properly.
    ‘It must be dinner time now,’ Arthur said crossly. ‘I can feel my empty stomach flapping around. Wait till I see Audrey. I bet she’s had hers already.’
    But Audrey was not at home and Mrs Brown was very worried now. She embraced Arthur, when he came in, fearing that he too had disappeared.
    ‘Suddenly my family is vanishing,’ she said unhappily. ‘First Albert and now Audrey. I don’t know what to do.’
    Arthur calmed his mother down and started to think about Audrey seriously for the first time. He knew that although she was dreamy she wouldn’t miss two meals. Where could she have got to?
    Gwen Brown busied herself by preparing dinner. Twit and Oswald stood shyly to one side until she spotted them.
    ‘Oh I’m sorry boys,’ she apologised. ‘Would you like to