Moominsummer Madness (6 page)

The whole family would have felt completely happy, had it not been for the strange laugh which sometimes cut them short when they talked with each other. At other times there were just contemptuous snorts. Somebody was snorting at them but never showed himself. Moominmamma used to fill a special bowl at the dinner-table and put it by the paper palm in the dark corner, and the following day the bowl was always carefully emptied.

'It's someone who is very shy,' she said.

'It's someone who's
waiting?
said the Mymble's daughter.

*

One morning Misabel, the Mymble's daughter, and the Snork Maiden were combing their hair.

'Misabel ought to change her hair-do,' remarked the Mymble's daughter. 'A parting in the middle doesn't suit her.'

'But no fringe for her,' said the Snork Maiden and ruffled up her soft hair between the ears. She gave her tail-tuft a light brushing and turned her head to see if the fluff was tidy down her back.

'Does it feel nice to be fluffy all over?' asked the Mymble's daughter,

'Very,' the Snork Maiden replied with satisfaction. 'Misabel! Are
you
fluffy?'

Misabel didn't answer.

'Misabel ought to be fluffy,' said the Mymble's daughter and began to tie her hair in a knot.

'Or curly all over,' said the Snork Maiden.

All of a sudden Misabel stamped her feet. 'You and your old fluff!' she cried out, bursting into tears. 'You know everything, don't you! And the Snork Maiden hasn't even got a frock on! I'd never never never show myself if I weren't properly dressed! I'd sooner be
dead
than have no frock on!'

Misabel hurried off across the drawing-room and into the passage. She stumbled sobbing through the dark, and then she stopped short and felt very much afraid. She had remembered the strange laugh.

Misabel stopped crying and anxiously began to feel her way back again. She fumbled and fumbled for the drawing-room door, and the longer she fumbled the more afraid she felt. Finally she found a door and pulled it open.

It wasn't the drawing-room at all. It was quite another room. A dimly-lighted room containing a long row of heads. Cut-off heads on long and narrow necks, with an unusual lot of hair. They were all looking towards the wall. 'If they'd looked at me,' Misabel thought confusedly. 'Imagine if they had looked at me...'

She was so scared at first that she didn't dare to move a step. She could only stare, bewitched, at the golden curls, the black curls, the red curls...

*

Meanwhile the Snork Maiden was feeling rather sorry in the drawing-room.

'Never mind Misabel,' said the Mymble's daughter. 'Anything makes her fly off the handle.'

'But she was right,' the Snork Maiden mumbled with a glance down at her stomach. 'I ought to have a frock.'

'Of course not,' said the Mymble's daughter. 'Don't be silly.'

'But you have one,' protested the Snork Maiden.

'Well, that's me,' said the Mymble's daughter carelessly. 'Whomper! Should the Snork Maiden put on a frock?'

'If she's cold,' replied Whomper.

'No, no, just anyway,' explained the Snork Maiden.

'Or of it rains,' said Whomper. 'But then it's more sensible to put on a raincoat.'

The Snork Maiden shook her head. For a while she hesitated. Then she said: 'I'll go and have this matter out with Misabel.' She went for a flashlight and stepped into the small passage. It was empty.

'Misabel?' cried the Snork Maiden in a hushed voice. 'As a matter of fact, I like your parting in the middle...'

But no Misabel answered her. Then the Snork Maiden caught sight of a streak of light at one of the doors and pattered up to it to look through the crack.

In the room behind the door Misabel was sitting all alone. She had a wholly new hair on. Long, yellow corkscrew curls framed her worried face.

The little Misabel stared at her reflection in the glass and sighed. She reached for another beautiful mop of hair,

a red and wild one, and pulled the fringe down to her eyes.

It didn't make matters better. Finally, with trembling paws, she seized a set of curls that she had laid aside because she loved them most. They were magnificently jet-black with little dashes of gold glittering like tears. Breathlessly Misabel fitted this splendid hair over her own. For a Jong minute she looked at herself in the mirror. Then she lifted off the hair very slowly and sat staring at the floor.

The Snork Maiden slipped back without disturbing her. She realized that Misabel wanted to be alone.

But the Snork Maiden didn't return to the others. She went instead a bit further along the passage sniffing the air. She had noticed an enticing and very interesting scent, a scent of face powder. The small round spot from her flashlight wandered along the walls and finally caught the magic word 'Costumes' on a door. 'Dresses,' whispered the Snork Maiden to herself. 'Frocks!' She turned the doorhandle and stepped in.

'Oh, how wonderful,' she panted. 'Oh how beautiful!'

Robes, dresses, frocks. They hung in endless rows, in hundreds, one beside the other all round the room - gleaming brocade, fluffy clouds of tulle and swansdown, flowery silk, night-black velvet with glittering spangles everywhere like small, many-coloured blinker beacons.

The Snork Maiden drew closer, overwhelmed. She fingered at the dresses. She seized an armful of them and pressed them to her snout, to her heart. The frocks rustled and swished, they smelled of dust and old perfume, they buried her in rich softness. Suddenly the Snork Maiden released them all and stood on her head for a few minutes.

'To calm myself,' she whispered. 'I'll have to calm down

a bit. Or else I'll burst with happiness. There's too many of them...'

*

A little before dinner Misabel was back again in the drawing-room and sat grieving alone by herself in a corner.

'Hello,' said the Snork Maiden and sat down by her side.

Misabel gave her a glance without replying.

'I've been looking for a dress,' said the Snork Maiden. 'And I found several hundred and was so happy.'

Misabel made a sound that could have meant anything.

'Perhaps a thousand!' continued the Snork Maiden. 'And I looked and looked and tried on one after the other and felt sadder and sadder.'

'Did you!' Misabel exclaimed.

'Yes, what d'you think,' said the Snork Maiden. 'They were far too many, don't you see. I couldn't ever have had them all or even choose the prettiest. They nearly made me afraid! If there'd been only two instead!'

'That'd been much easier,' replied Misabel a little more cheerfully.

'So in the end I just ran away from them all,' finished the Snork Maiden.

They sat silent for a while and watched Moominmamma lay the table.

'Just think,' said the Snork Maiden, 'just think what sort of a family lived here before us! A thousand frocks! A floor that goes around sometimes, pictures hanging from the

ceiling, all their belongings on shelves in Mr Propertius's room. Paper doors and a special rain. What can they have looked like?'

Misabel thought of the beautiful curls and sighed.

But behind Misabel and the Snork Maiden, behind the dusty rubbish by the paper palm, gleamed a pair of observant and sharp little eyes. The eyes looked at them with some disdain and then wandered over the drawing-room suite to rest at last upon Moominmamma who was now bringing in a large dish of porridge. The eyes blackened still more and the snout between them wrinkled with a noiseless snort.

'Dinner please everybody!' cried Moominmamma. She filled a plate with porridge and set it on the floor by the palm.

The Moomins came running and sat down to dinner, 'Mother,' began Moomintroll and reached for the sugar, 'don't you think...' and then he stopped short and dropped the sugar bowl with a thump back on the table. 'Look!' he whispered. 'Look!'

They turned around and looked.

A shadow detached itself from the dark corner. A grey and wrinkly shape came shuffling out, blinked in the sun, shook its whiskers and gave the company a hostile look.

'I'm Emma,' said the old stage rat solemnly, 'and I'd like to tell you that I hate porridge. This is the third day you're eating porridge.'

'We're having gruel tomorrow,' Moominmamma replied shyly.

'I loathe gruel,' answered Emma.

'Won't Emma take a chair, please,' said Moominpappa. 'We thought this house was deserted, and that's why we...'

'House, indeed,' Emma interrupted with a snort. This is no
house?
She limped up to the table but didn't sit down.

'Is she angry at me?' whispered Misabel.

'What have you done?' asked the Mymble's daughter.

'Nothing,' Misabel mumbled to her plate. 'I just feel as if I had done something. I always feel as if someone were angry with me. If I were the wonderful-est Misabel in the world everything would be different...'

'Well, but as you aren't,' replied the Mymble's daughter and continued her meal.

'Was Emma's family saved?' asked Moominmamma sympathetically.

Emma didn't answer. She was looking at the cheese.... She reached for the cheese and put it in her pocket. Her gaze roved on and fastened on a small piece of pancake.

'That's ours!' cried Little My, and landed on the pancake with a flying jump.

'That wasn't nice manners,' said Mymble's daughter reproachfully. She lifted her sister aside, brushed some dust off the pancake and hid it under the tablecloth.

'Whomper dear,' Moominmamma hastened to say. 'Run along, and look if we have something nice for Emma in the pantry!'

Whomper hurried off.

'Pantry!' exclaimed Emma. 'The pantry, indeed! You seem to believe that the prompter's box is a pantry! And the stage a drawing-room, with the drops for pictures! And the curtain's just curtains and the properties a person!' She had become quite red in the face, and her snout was wrinkled up to her forehead. 'Really, thank goodness,' she cried, 'thank goodness that my beloved husband, Stage Manager Fillyjonk (mayherestinpeace) can't see you all! You don't know a thing about the theatre, that's clear, less than nothing, not even the shadow of a thing!'

'There was a herring, but it's rather an old one,' said Whomper, returning.