My grandmother, dressed in black lace, went thumping across the floor of the Lounge and halted in front of the Jenkins’s table. “Are you Mr and Mrs Jenkins? ” she asked.
Mr Jenkins looked at her over the top of his newspaper and frowned. “Yes,” he said. “I am Mr Jenkins. What can I do for you, madam?”
“I’m afraid I have some rather alarming news for you,” she said. “It’s about your son, Bruno.”
“What about Bruno?” Mr Jenkins said.
Mrs Jenkins looked up but went on knitting.
“What’s the little blighter been up to now?” Mr Jenkins asked. “Raiding the kitchen, I suppose.”
“It’s a bit worse than that,” my grandmother said. “Do you think we might go somewhere more private while I tell you about it?”
“Private?” Mr Jenkins said. “Why do we have to be private?”
“This is not an easy thing for me to explain,” my grandmother said. “I’d much rather we all went up to your room and sat down before I tell you any more.”
Mr Jenkins lowered his paper. Mrs Jenkins stopped knitting. “I don’t want to go up to my room, madam,” Mr Jenkins said. “I’m quite comfortable here, thank you very much.” He was a large coarse man and he wasn’t used to being pushed around by anybody. “Kindly state your business and then leave us alone,” he added. He spoke as though he was addressing someone who was trying to sell him a vacuum-cleaner at the back door.
My poor grandmother, who had been doing her best to be as kind to them as possible, now began to bristle a bit herself. “We really can’t talk in here,” she said. “There are too many people. This is a rather delicate and personal matter.”
“I’ll talk where I dashed well want to, madam,” Mr Jenkins said. “Come on now, out with it! If Bruno has broken a window or smashed your spectacles, then I’ll pay for the damage, but I’m not budging out of this seat!”
One or two other groups in the room were beginning to stare at us now.
“Where is Bruno anyway?” Mr Jenkins said. “Tell him to come here and see me.”
“He’s here already,” my grandmother said. “He’s in my handbag.” She patted the big floppy leather bag with her walking-stick.
“What the heck d’you mean he’s in your handbag?” Mr Jenkins shouted.
“Are you trying to be funny?” Mrs Jenkins said, very prim.
“There’s nothing funny about this,” my grandmother said. “Your son has suffered a rather unfortunate mishap.”
“He’s always suffering mishaps,” Mr Jenkins said. “He suffers from overeating and then he suffers from wind. You should hear him after supper. He sounds like a brass band! But a good dose of castor-oil soon puts him right again. Where is the little beggar?”
“I’ve already told you,” my grandmother said. “He’s in my handbag. But I do think it might be better if we went somewhere private before you meet him in his present state.”
“This woman’s mad,” Mrs Jenkins said. “Tell her to go away.”
‘”The plain fact is”, my grandmother said, “that your son Bruno has been rather drastically altered.”
“Altered!” shouted Mr Jenkins. “What the devil d’you mean altered?”
“Go away!” Mrs Jenkins said. “You’re a silly old woman!”
“I am trying to tell you as gently as I possibly can that Bruno really is in my handbag,” my grandmother said. “My own grandson actually saw them doing it to him.”
“Saw who doing what to him, for heaven’s sake?” shouted Mr Jenkins. He had a black moustache which jumped up and down when he shouted.
“Saw the witches turning him into a mouse,” my grandmother said.
“Call the Manager, dear,” Mrs Jenkins said to her husband. “Have this mad woman thrown out of the hotel.”
At this point, my grandmother’s patience came to an end. She fished around in her handbag and found Bruno. She lifted him out and dumped him on the glass-topped table. Mrs Jerkins took one look at the fat little brown mouse who was still chewing a bit of banana and she let out a shriek that rattled the crystals on the chandelier. She sprang out of her chair yelling, “It’s a mouse! Take it away! I can’t stand the things!”