Well.
I did not expect to be stuck indoors.
I make sure I use this gift of time. Running through my Butter Mouse theory again and again. This month’s flash fiction piece is already complete. And no need to worry. You can remain indoors for the creative challenge.
Regardless of the silent world outside the window, my plan was to tell you about something from a few weeks before lockdown. It is already a distant memory.
I thought it was worth perusing my schoolwork, writing and drawings from the early nineties. From the time when the Butter Mouse was most active. My parents are forensic in the archiving of my childhood, and they stored everything in the attic in neat cardboard boxes.
They left the city behind a few years ago. I drove along leafy lanes and through sleepy villages to reach their small detached three bed. This was my first time out of Bristol since Christmas. It was like having an affair.
My parents brewed a cup of tea, and sent me to the roof. They asked how my job was going, if I needed anything for the flat. Why I had travelled all this way to look at some musty paper. I mumbled, and made some excuses about swimming certificates.
The attic was cool, but insulated. Quiet. My folks put the hours in when leaving the city. Everything to dig through was stored in date order. But even the neatest of lines need checking.
My tea went cold. Soon documents formed columns around me. Most were irrelevant. I desired fete brochures, newspaper clippings. Ploughing through reception created a mini Parthenon..
At the bottom of the third box was a photocopied A5 pamphlet. A programme for an arts event on the Downs. Alongside the Punch and Judy times one page two was the following declaration:
‘Come and see the Butter Mouse and his amazing show! Juggling, storytelling, and a chance to cross into a whole new world! Bring your kids! Bring your irons!
Underneath was a faded photograph of a man in a bowler hat, whiskers painted on his face. A felt mouse poked out his breast pocket.
My parents asked me to stay for dinner. I declined.
Driving back was a hot bath. Here was at more proof he existed. Had I attended this storytelling session twenty-five years before? Had I taken part in his mysterious crossing to another world exercise, whatever that might be? Was I doing it now?
So much time indoors. So much time to crack this mystery.
