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There’s too much light.
Mrs. Judson, in her infinite kindness, appears to have opened the windows last night, and omitted to close them – on purpose, of course. She always believes in the healing power of fresh air and sunlight. Which leaves Basil feeling like a moody child, complaining about the brightness, unable to articulate how the powerful beams of light pierce his head and make his eyes ache and his stomach queasy.
The smell of coffee is delicious and tempting – what a marvellous colonial import – but he forgoes it for a moment in favour of raising his hands to his eyes and just shutting out the painful, piercing glare for a moment. Immediately, his head settles and his stomach calms. He would like to close the shutters, but some dregs of propriety remain. It’s not… now that Dawson lives here with him, Basil can't just close the shutters in the morning. Mice are not nocturnal. Basil cannot just hide from the light like a pup wanting to nestle in a pile and avoid the outside world. Especially not in front of his new housemate, who will no doubt be looking forward to his own tea on a bright sunny morning, free of this ridiculous weakness that plagues Basil.
He stares down at the newspaper. He is such a fortunate mouse, not to be living in the gutters, scrambling for his next meal, dodging predators and cart-wheels. And instead of appreciating what he has, he is moping around. What does that even mean, the sunlight is too much? Ridiculous! Meaningless! No reasonable mouse cringes from the sunlight as Basil does.
“Good morning, Basil. Goodness, you seem rather… Isn’t the sun too bright for you, old boy? You look as if you’ve got a bit of a headache.”
“I am perfectly well, Dawson.” Basil looks down at his coffee cup irritably. Something feels prickly and spiky in his chest and head, pressing outwards as though it will make his skull explode. His stomach roils as if he might be sick.
“Well, it’s certainly too bright for me first thing in the morning.” Dawson bustles to the window and pulls the shutters to, allowing only a vertical crack of light to show through, then to the second window, doing the same thing. The harsh glare dissipates, replaced by kinder, softer dimness. The diffuse light is a caress instead of violent pounding on his eyes, his head, his senses. Something unknots in Basil’s chest and he feels the shameful need to weep with relief. “There, that’s better. Fresh air and sunlight are all very well, but perhaps not immediately upon waking.” He looks at Basil as he makes his way back to the table. “Unless, my dear Basil, apologies for presuming – unless you would prefer the windows open?”
“By no means,” Basil says, tripping over his words in his haste. “This is preferable to me as well.”
“Excellent.” Dawson takes his seat at the breakfast-table. His voice, when he speaks again, is gentle. “Coffee, old boy?”
Basil takes a moment to enjoy the peace, the feeling that he isn’t being subjected to relentless blows, to luxuriate in the sensation of his headache gradually fading away. “Don’t m-mind if I do,” he finally manages, trying to control the hitch in his voice. Dawson pours it for him and adds milk. “Thank you,” he says politely, taking the cup.
Dawson shakes out the newspaper and commences reading silently. It is probably too dim for him to be reading the small print of the paper, but he doesn’t complain or appear incommoded, relaxing into his chair and nibbling at a piece of bread and butter with his tea. “Is there anything of interest you would like to look at, or listen to?” Dawson asks, still keeping his voice soft and soothing. “Perhaps this mysterious train robbery?”
Right. The train robbery, when the signal-mice flagged the train to slow down before a long, straight stretch of track where there was no earthly reason to slow down. “They would do well to question the signal-mice,” Basil says without much spirit, taking a sip of his coffee.
Dawson stares at his newspaper, then lowers it and stares at Basil, then stares at his newspaper again, then back at Basil. “D-do you mean to say,” he stammers, “that you have an inkling of who did it without so much as inspecting the site?”
“Is it not obvious?” Basil asks. Dawson, though he appears unassuming, has a formidable intellect; he should be capable of coming to the same conclusions. True, they have scarcely been living together two months, so the doctor has not had time to absorb Basil’s methods: but it is so painfully obvious to Basil that he finds it hard to believe that Dawson has not spotted it also.
“I’m afraid not, old boy,” Dawson says at length, after looking at the news item for some moments. “Pray explain it to me.”
“It is elementary,” Basil says kindly. “The news says that the train slowed down just after Milton Keynes. That is where there is a long stretch of perfectly straight track – that is to say, the very place where one would expect a train to pick up speed, not the reverse. There would be no earthly reason to slow down after Milton Keynes unless the train was given a signal to slow down by the signal-mice.” He stops to think. “Probably they would do well to question the engineer, too.”
Dawson’s jaw drops. “That’s amazing!”
A familiar warmth spreads through Basil. After a lifetime of being sneered at, whispered about behind his back, and called a know-all, Dawson’s honest admiration is like a balm to his soul. “Simple deduction, my dear Dawson,” he says, trying to hide his beaming smile and doing his best not to preen.
“Amazing,” Dawson murmurs again, turning back to his newspaper. Basil smiles into his coffee, warmed all over, feeling valued and important. Probably base vanity, but it feels comforting for all that. “Let’s see what it says about today’s weather…” Dawson commences muttering softly to himself about weather forecasts and the reliability, or lack thereof, of the Met Office.
And in the soft shadows, sipping hot coffee, basking in his housemate’s admiration, listening to his gentle voice reading out the weather forecast, accompanied by the rustling of the newspaper... Basil feels his heart fill. Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer. Softer summer, that is, with the shutters closed, of course.