I invited the devil in and he was little and quiet
Shocker: I’m a country mouse
Sometimes you miss home but what you miss is home five years ago. I was eating banana muffins, the banana muffins my mother used to make. I begged her to make them again for me. I remembered them so clearly, how wonderful they used to taste. They still tasted good, but like there was an ingredient missing. I was eating them alone in my flat in East London with nothing else in my fridge and a mouse. The mouse was new.
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen a mouse. After all, I worked retail for just under six months. That translates into thousands of sales, seven hundred and eighty-four hours (Jesus Christ) and three dead mice. Bad things tend to happen in threes. I went to an interview recently and I've learnt how to talk about my retail experience in an employable way. I tell them that I developed a good work ethic, organisation, flexibility - you know the drill. All of that is actually true, but it’s not what I tell my friends if I ever talk about my time in retail. I tend to lead with the mice, they’re more interesting. I was warned, a dirty vintage basement in Brick Lane plus a damn cold winter means mice were to be expected. And though they made me uncomfortable, I was able to turn a blind eye, I mean, they were dead for one and a mouse in the workplace is completely different to a mouse in your home!
It was close to three in the morning and I’d just crawled home. I was in my bathroom moving slowly. I heard the mouse before I saw it, classic. And then, before I could process the noise, a very much alive and very energetic mouse ran straight towards me. I screamed twice, darted into my bedroom in my underwear and alternated between hyperventilating and jumping around. How shamefully typical that my first response was to post on my instagram story. I received different reactions. Some were shocked. My more local friends were merely shocked that this was my first mouse. Then I called my mother. I only realised how little I still was in a crisis. “The mouse has to go,” I said, trying to muster some authority from my position perched nervously on the corner of my bed. “It has to go.” This was my home, I’d lived there for ten months, which was longer than I lived inside my mother. When I first moved in I was greeted by a huge spider in the bathtub. I let it stay there. I figured it had lived there longer than me (which at that point was only a week, my shit was still in boxes) and so really, I was the imposter. Since then, I'd seen the flat through two seasons, plastered the walls with art and the flat had become my flat. And, at some point in that process, my flat had become what I called ‘home’ while the house that was once home was a place I visited. A place I hadn’t been back to in a very long time. So the mouse had to go. It was making me feel little. It was making me wish I was back at a home that wasn’t there anymore.
The next day an exterminator and my father came. I waited downstairs. The consensus was that the mouse must have come in because I left the back door open, but I was not to worry, it was a one-off. I’d read that a singular mouse was rare, in fact in the last twenty four hours I'd read just about every article on mice ever written. Anyway, according to google, where there was one, there were usually many. Mice travelled with their family. But this mouse was an exception. It was a lone mouse. We couldn’t find it anywhere, they told me, we looked everywhere. The exterminator did set up traps just in case any more mice were to visit. It must have left out the back door, they said. I wasn't convinced. Everybody assured me, Abigail, it’s left. We’re going to go home now.
Later that night I heard a scuffling. Right by the back door, there it was, huddled up next to the step. Oh fuck. There you are. I knew you hadn’t left. I didn't scream this time. It was so little. This mouse was an intruder. It had no family here and no reason to be here. Come on. I opened the door. Please, leave. Leave before you get stuck in one of the traps. I was overtired and rationalising with a mouse about how it could save its life. This is not your home, go back home. And miraculously, it did. I shut the door, sat down on the step and burst into tears. I wasn't managing very well.
The following morning, I left too, unrelated to any further mouse concerns, just at a wits end. I ended up going home. A lot had happened in the past year and as such I avoided going home. It wasn’t the same. Whatever I was looking for, wasn’t there. But it gave me other things. For one, I slowed the fuck down. I forgot how comfortable my bed was. I became domestic, I’m always a much better cook at home than I am normally. My family was sweet and welcoming to me. At night many aeroplanes and one shooting star flew over the house and I watched. Hit with a heatwave for the end of summer, I took my littlest brother to the beach. The tide was in and the kids were playing in the water. I took his shoes off and urged him to go in. We stood by the edge for a while. Go on, I teased. Are ya scared, don’t be scared. He laughed and laughed but wouldn’t so much as dip a toe in. I’m scared, he squealed, climbing up on me. Well then, you don’t have to go in if you’re scared. The water would be there next year. And you’ll be bigger.
On my last day there I sat outside. The house next door was undergoing major construction work. The new owners had knocked most of the structure down, leaving the home bare in its basic brickwork. The tall property that once stood there was now completely hollow, as easy as that. The machines were very loud. I wondered how anyone could bear the noise for so long. Home could be loud too. It was filled with noise. But mostly it was my mind. That night I felt anxious, replaying events in my head, remembering why I ran from this place. I knew it was time to leave again. The only catch being, wherever I went I had to take myself with me. My mother gave me some cakes to take back with me. Back in the city I recalled my visit home fondly to my friends. As I age, I have less expectations for things. I don’t need things to be perfect as long as they are good. I went home for five days. And it was good. And here I find myself referring to it as home.
The mouse did not come back to my place. And I doubt it will. I’ve found that fear can be exterminated but shock tends to stay a little longer. The body remembers what the mind makes a pact to forget. I don’t think I was really scared of the mouse, just a little shocked. I regret screaming so loudly at it. It must have had quite the shock itself. And I’m not scared of going home, the idea just shakes me a little. At least I dipped my toes in.