Next, she rigged up an equally ingenious system whereby I could switch on the light whenever I entered a room at night. I cannot explain how it worked because I know nothing about electricity, but there was a little button let into the floor near the door in every room in the house, and when I pressed the button gently with one paw, the light would come on. When I pressed it a second time, the light would go off again.
My grandmother made me a tiny toothbrush, using matchstick for the handle, and into this she stuck little bits of bristle that she had snipped off one of her hairbrushes. “You must not get any holes in your teeth,” she said. “I can’t take a mouse to a dentist! He’d think I was crazy!”
“It’s funny,” I said, “but ever since I became a mouse I’ve hated the taste of sweets and chocolate. So I don’t think I’ll get any holes.”
“You are still going to brush your teeth after every meal,” my grandmother said. And I did.
For a bath-tub she gave me a silver sugar-basin, and I bathed in it every night before going to bed. She allowed no one else into the house, not even a servant or a cook. We kept entirely to ourselves and we were very happy in each other’s company.
One evening, as I lay on my grandmother’s lap in front of the fire, she said to me, “I wonder what happened to that little Bruno.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if his father gave him to the hall-porter to drown in the firebucket,” I answered.
“I’m afraid you may be right,” my grandmother said. “The poor little thing.”
We were silent for a few minutes, my grandmother puffing away at her black cigar while I dozed comfortably in the warmth.
“Can I ask you something, Grandmamma?” I said.
“Ask me anything you like, my darling.”
“How long does a mouse live?”
“Ah,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”
There was a silence. She sat there smoking away and gazing at the fire.
“Well,” I said. “How long do we live, us mice?”
“I have been reading about mice,” she said. “I have been trying to find out everything I can about them.”
“Go on then, Grandmamma. Why don’t you tell me?
“If you really want to know,” she said, “I’m afraid a mouse doesn’t live for a very long time.”
“How long?” I asked.
“Well, an ordinary mouse only lives for about three years,” she said. “But you are not an ordinary mouse. You are a mouse-person, and that is a very different matter.”
“How different?” I asked. “How long does a mouse-person live, Grandmamma?”
“Longer,” she said. “Much longer.”
“How much longer?” I asked.
“A mouse-person will almost certainly live for three times as long as an ordinary mouse,” my grandmother said. “About nine years.”
“Good!” I cried. “That’s great! It’s the best news I’ve ever had!”
“Why do you say that?” she asked, surprised.
“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?”