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‘Because I would never want to live longer than you,’ I said. ‘I couldn't stand being looked after by anybody else.’
There was a short silence. She had a way of fondling me behind the ears with the tip of one finger. It felt lovely.
‘How old are you, Grandmamma?’ I asked.
‘I'm eighty-six,’ she said.
‘Will you live another eight or nine years?’
‘I might,’ she said. ‘With a bit of luck.’
‘You've got to,’ I said. ‘Because by then I'll be a very old mouse and you'll be a very old grandmother and soon after that we'll both die together.’
‘That would be perfect,’ she said.
I had a little doze after that. I just shut my eyes and thought of nothing and felt at peace with the world.
‘Would you like me to tell you something about yourself that is very interesting?’ my grandmother said.
‘Yes please, Grandmamma,’ I said, without opening my eyes.
‘I couldn't believe it at first, but apparently it's quite true,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘The heart of a mouse,’ she said, ‘and that means your heart, is beating at the rate of five hundred times a minute! Isn't that amazing?’
‘That's not possible,’ I said, opening my eyes wide.
‘It's as true as I'm sitting here,’ she said. ‘It's a sort of a miracle.’
‘That's nearly nine beats every second!’ I cried, working it out in my head.
‘Correct,’ she said. ‘Your heart is going so fast it's impossible to hear the separate beats. All one hears is a soft humming sound.’
She was wearing a lace dress and the lace kept tickling my nose. I had to rest my head on my front paws.
‘Have you ever heard my heart humming away, Grandmamma?’ I asked her.
‘Often,’ she said. ‘I hear it when you are lying very close to me on the pillow at night.’
The two of us remained silent in front of the fire for a long time after that, th
inking about these wonderful things.
‘My darling,’ she said at last, ‘are you sure you don't mind being a mouse for the rest of your life?’
‘I don't mind at all,’ I said. ‘It doesn't matter who you are or what you look like so long as somebody loves you.’
It's Off to Work We Go!
For supper that evening my grandmother had a plain omelette and one slice of bread. I had a piece of that brown Norwegian goats’-milk cheese known as gjetost which I had loved even when I was a boy. We ate in front of the fire, my grandmother in her armchair and me on the table with my cheese on a small plate.
‘Grandmamma,’ I said, ‘now that we have done away with The Grand High Witch, will all the other witches in the world gradually disappear?’
‘I'm quite sure they won't,’ she answered.
I stopped chewing and stared at her. ‘But they must!’ I cried. ‘Surely they must!’
