Barefoot in the dark – be afraid, be very afraid

By Roddy Phillips

Published:

IT SEEMS to be the smallest things that press my wife’s panic button. A tiny twig scuttling past her on the road or a sudden shifting shadow will send her up like a rocket. Pheasants are the worst offenders because they’re all highly-charged nervous wrecks.

When we’re out for a walk and one screeches off in front of us, my wife will be so startled she will be close to collapse.

She reckons the pheasants gang up on her, skulking around in the shadows waiting for her to come within shrieking distance and then once she’s a few feet away they let her have it.

She would probably have blinkers by now, but for the fact that she has absolutely no problem with a genuine full-metal-jacket crisis. In fact, she has a superwoman suit permanently concealed about her person. Two years ago, for instance, she waded into a field and pulled a semi-conscious girl from a wrecked car that was on the brink of exploding into a fireball.

A few hours later, she probably screamed the house down because she inadvertently brushed her leg in the kitchen against a dangling tea-towel. I’d probably be a nervous wreck by now if I hadn’t formed a scream-proof barrier, although sometimes nothing can withstand my wife’s sudden explosions of terror.

The other night, just as we were going to bed, the cottage was so quiet you could hear the frost forming outside on the enamelled road. I was drowsily going about my business, switching off lights, when a sudden scream went through my head like an electric bolt.

The bloodcurdling scream came from the direction of the kitchen or the conservatory, so I waited a second before asking the inevitable question; there was always the chance that my wife had been snatched by a burglar or, even worse, had spotted a mouse. Either way, both had probably died by now of a heart attack.

“Sorry about that,” shouted my wife, laughing, “I stood on the arm of a cardigan I was carrying and I got a fright.”

A few minutes later, another scream ripped through the house because my wife had repeated the cardigan-sleeve incident on the way out of the conservatory, just to be on the safe side.

I was in our bedroom barefoot in the dark on the way to the little library room when it happened. There was a big clear moon hanging in the library window and I wanted to see it in all its ivory glory. The library is only about six or seven feet deep and it was pitch black apart from a shaft of moonlight illuminating about half the third shelf.

“Don’t you dare open that library window,” shouted my wife, fearing, of course, that we might freeze to death in the middle of the night. Quite how she knows I’m about to do things when she’s in another part of the house is a mystery I’ve stopped pondering.

Sneaking the window open, I sucked in the brittle, freezing air and for a moment it made my head swirl and then it cleared like the sky I was gazing at.

Within seconds, I may as well have been standing barefoot in a crypt, it was so cold, so I closed the window and stepped back for another look at the moon.

I might have remained like that for a minute or so taking in the big moon face if I hadn’t become aware of something under my right foot. Standing stock still, I tried to work out what I had just stood on: it was soft and furry like a lucky rabbit’s paw.

Moving gingerly backwards and switching on the light, I realised it was an unlucky mouse and so without thinking I shrieked.

“What’s happened now,” shouted my wife.

I was too stunned to reply so, within seconds, my wife was at my back, peering over my shoulder.

“What is it?” she whispered, “did you see something; are you OK?”

“Actually, I just stood on a mouse,” I said, matter of factly.

The shriek just about punctured my right eardrum.

“Is it dead? I don’t want to see it. Where is it?” said my wife, now hiding behind me.

“I think it’s dead,” I replied, “I mean, I haven’t checked its pulse or anything, although it looks like it’s in the recovery position, so it might be OK.”

“Did you stand on it intentionally?” asked my wife. “I’m so glad it wasn’t me; this is my worst nightmare.”

As I explained what happened it began to sound extremely unfeasible.

“So the mouse just stopped behind you and waited for you to stand on it?” said my wife. “Just get rid of it,” she continued as she left the bedroom quivering visibly.

“I thought I’d give it a decent burial in the morning,” I shouted.

“Now,” barked my wife, “and no hymns.”

I got the brush and pan out and reluctantly scooped up the mouse, peering at it with one eye in the hope that it might somehow look better, but it appeared to be rather on the flat side.

When I threw it out the little window, I heard an owl swoop down and catch it before it hit the ground.

This actually gave me some comfort because, if the mouse had been outside where it should have been, the owl would have got it anyway.

The next day, still troubled by my barefoot misadventure and brooding over the odd twinge of remorse, I confided in my friend Mike, who I was sure would bring some commonsense to bear on the matter.

He didn’t seem too bothered about me standing on a mouse with my bare feet. In fact, I think his experience of mice was more limited than I thought.

“So it’s dead, is it? he asked matter of factly.

“Oh yes,” I said. “It was bookmark flat.”

“Serves it right,” he declared, “sneaking about in the dark like that; what did it think was going to happen?”