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AlsobyMichaelMorpurgo

Arthur:HighKingofBritainEscapefromShangri-LaFriendorFoeFromHereaboutHillTheGhostofGraniaO’MalleyKensuke’sKingdomKingoftheCloudForestsLittleFoxesLongWayHomeMrNobody’sEyesMyFriendWalterTheNineLivesofMontezumaTheSandmanandtheTurtles

TheSleepingSwordTwistofGoldWaitingforAnyaWarHorseTheWarofJenkins’EarTheWhiteHorseofZennorWhytheWhalesCame

ForYoungerReaders

ConkerMairi’sMermaidOnAngelWingsTheBestChristmasPresentintheWorld

TheMarbleCrusher

MICHAELMORPURGO

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainin1995byEgmontBooksLtd

Thise-bookeditionpublished2011byEgmontUKLimited

239KensingtonHighStreet,LondonW86SA

TextCopyright1995MichaelMorpurgo

Themoralrightsoftheauthorhavebeenasserted

ISBN9781405233361eBookISBN9781780311425

www.egmont.co.ukwww.michaelmorpurgo.org

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Library

PrintedandboundinGreatBritainbytheCPIGroup

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystem,or

transmitted,inanyformorbyany

means,electronic,mechanical,photocopying,recordingorotherwise,withouttheprior

permissionofthepublisherandcopyrightowner.

TableofContents

CoverTitlePageCopyrightDedicationGreat-AuntLauraJanuary20thFebruary12thFebruary14th

February15thJuly21stJuly30thJuly31stAugust23rdSeptember6thSeptember7thSeptember8thSeptember9thOctober25thNovember1stNovember30thDecember6thDecember8th

December9thDecember10thDecember24thDecember25thMarzipan

ToMarion,Keith,DanielandCharlie

GREAT-AUNTLAURA

MYGREAT-AUNTLAURADIED A FEW MONTHSago.Shewasahundredyearsold. She had her cocoa lastthing at night, as she usuallydid, put the cat out, went tosleep and never woke up.

There’s not a better way todie.I took the boat across to

Scillyforthefuneral–almosteveryone in the family did. Imet again cousins and auntsand uncles I hardlyrecognised, and who hardlyrecognised me. The littlechurch on Bryher waspacked, standing room only.Everyone on Bryher wasthere,andtheycamefromallover theScilly Isles, fromSt

Mary’s,StMartin’s,StAgnesandTresco.Wesang thehymns lustily

because we knew Great-auntLaurawould enjoy a rousingsend-off. Afterwards we hadafamilygatheringinhertinycottage overlooking StinkingPorthBay.Therewasteaandcrusty brown bread andhoney. I took one mouthfuland I was a child again.Wanting to be onmy own, Iwent up the narrow stairs to

the room that had beenminewhen I came every summerformyholidays.Thesameoillamp was by the bed, thesame peeling wallpaper, thesame faded curtains with thered sailing boats dippingthroughthewaves.I sat downon the bed and

closed my eyes. I was eightyears old again and ahead ofme were two weeks of sandand sea and boats andshrimping,andoystercatchers

and gannets, and Great-auntLaura’s stories every nightbefore she drew the curtainsagainst themoonand leftmealoneinmybed.Someone called from

downstairsandIwasback tonow.Everyone was crowded

into her sittingroom. Therewas a cardboardboxopen inthemiddleofthefloor.‘Ah, there you are,

Michael,’saidUncleWill.He

was a little irritated, Ithought.‘We’llbeginthen.’Andahushfellaroundthe

room.Hedippedintotheboxandheldupaparcel.‘It looks as if she’s left us

one each,’ said Uncle Will.Everyparcelwaswrapped inold newspaper and tied withstring, and there was a largebrown label attached to eachone.UncleWill read out thenames. I had to wait some

minutes formine. TherewasnothingIparticularlywanted,except Zanzibar of course,but then everyone wantedZanzibar. Uncle Will waswavingaparcelatme.‘Michael,’ he said, ‘here’s

yours.’I took it upstairs and

unwrapped it sitting on thebed. It felt like a book ofsome sort, and so itwas, butnot a printed book. It washandmade, handwritten in

pencil, the pages sewntogether. The title on thecover read The Diary ofLaura Perryman and therewasawatercolourpaintingonthe cover of a four-mastedship keeling over in a stormand heading for the rocks.With the book there was anenvelope.Iopeneditandread.

DearMichael

When you were little I toldyou lots and lots of storiesaboutBryher, about the IslesofScilly.Youknowabouttheghosts on Samson, about thebell that rings under the seaoff St Martin’s, about KingArthur still waiting in hiscaveundertheEasternIsles.Youremember?Well,here

is my story, the story of meand my twin brother Billywhomyounever knew.HowI wish you had. It is a true

storyandIdidnotwant it todiewithme.WhenIwasyoungIkepta

diary,notaneverydaydiary.Ididn’t write in it very often,just whenever I felt like it.Most of it isn’t worth thereading and I’ve alreadythrownitaway–I’velivedanordinarysortoflife.Butforafewmonthsalong,longtimeago,mylifewasnotordinaryat all. This is the diary ofthosefewmonths.

Do you remember youalways used to ask whereZanzibar came from? (Youcalled him ‘Marzipan’ whenyouwere small.) Inever toldyou, did I? I never toldanyone.Well,nowyou’llfindoutatlast.

Goodbye, dear Michael, andGodblessyou.

YourGreat-auntLaura

P.S. Ihopeyou likemylittlesketches. I’m a better artistthan I am a writer, I think.WhenIcomebackinmynextlife–andIshall–Ishallbeagreat artist. I’ve promisedmyself.

JANUARY20TH

‘LAURA PERRYMAN,YOU ARE FOURTEENYEARSoldtoday.’Isaidthattothemirrorthis

morning when I wishedmyself ‘Happy Birthday’.Sometimes,likethismorning,I don’t much want to be

LauraPerryman,who’s livedon Bryher all her life andmilkscows.IwanttobeLadyEugeniaFitzherbertwithlongredhair andgreen eyes,whowears a big wide hat with awhiteostrichfeatherandwhotravels the world insteamshipswithfour funnels.But then, I also want to beBilly Perryman so I can rowoutinthegigandbuildboatsand run fast.Billy’s fourteentoo – beingmy twin brother,

he would be. But I’m notLady Eugenia Fitzherbert,whoever she is, and I’m notBilly; I’m me. I’m LauraPerryman and I’m fourteenyearsoldtoday.Everyone is pleased with

me, even Father, because Iwas the onewho spotted theship before they did on StMary’s.ItwasjustthatIwasin the right place at the righttime, that’s all. I’d beenmilking the cowswith Billy,

as usual, and I was comingback with the buckets overWatch Hill when I saw sailson the horizon out beyondWhiteIsland.Itlookedlikeaschooner, three-masted. Weleftthebucketsandranallthewayhome.The gig was launched in

five minutes. I watched thewhole thing from the top ofSamson Hill with everyoneelse. We saw the St Mary’sgigcleartheharbourwall,the

wind and the tide in herfavour.The racewason.Forsome time it looked as if theSt Mary’s gig would reachthe schooner first, as she sooften does, but we foundclear water and a fair windout beyond Samson and wewereflyingalong.Icouldseethe chief holding on to themast, and Billy and Fatherpulling side by side in themiddle of the boat. How Iwanted tobeoneof them, to

be out there rowing withthem. I can handle an oar aswell as Billy. He knows it,everyone knows it. But thechief won’t hear of it – andhe’s the coxswain – andneither will Father. Theythinkthat’sanendofit.Butitisn’t. One day, one day . . .Anyway today we won therace, so I should be pleasedaboutthat,Isuppose.TheStMary’sboat lostan

oar. Shewas left dead in the

water and had to turn back.We watched our gig drawalongside the schooner andwe all cheered till we werehoarse.ThroughthetelescopeIcouldseethechiefclimbingup the ladder to pilot theschooner into St Mary’s. Icould see them helping himonboard, thenshakinghandswithhim.Hetookoffhiscapandwavedandweallcheeredagain. It wouldmeanmoneyfor everyone, and there’s

precious little of that around.WhenthegigcamebackintoGreatPorthwewerealltheretomeet her.We helped haulher up the beach. She’salways lighter when we’vewon. Father hugged me andBilly winked at me. It’s anAmerican ship, he says, theGeneralLee, bound forNewYork. She’ll be tied up in StMary’s for repairs to hermizzenmast and could bethereaweek,maybemore.

This evening, Billy and Ihad our birthday cake fromGranny May as usual. Thechiefandcrewwereall thereaswell,sothecakedidn’tlastlong. They sang ‘HappyBirthday’ to us and then thechiefsaidwewerealla littleless poor because LauraPerryman had spotted theGeneralLee.AndIfeltgood.Theywere all smiling atme.Now’sthetime,Ithought,I’llaskthemagain.

‘Can I row with Billy inthegig?’They all laughed and said

what they always said, thatgirls don’t row in gigs.Theyneverhad.Iwenttothehen-houseand

cried.It’stheonlyplaceIcancry in peace. And thenGrannyMaycameinwiththelast piece of cake and saidthereareplentyofthingsthatwomen can do, that mencan’t. It doesn’t seem that

way tome. Iwant to row inthatgig,andIwill.OnedayIwill.Billy came into my room

just now. He’s had anotherargument with Father – thistimethemilkbucketsweren’tcleanenough.There’salwayssomething, and Father willshoutathimso.Billysayshewants to go to America andthat one day he will. He’salwayssayingthingslikethat.I wish he wouldn’t. It

frightens me. I wish Fatherwouldbekindertohim.

FEBRUARY12TH

TheNightoftheStorm

A TERRIBLE STORMLAST NIGHT AND THEPINEtreeatthebottomofthe

garden came down, missingthe hen-house by a whisker.The wind was so loud wenever even heard it fall. I’msurethehensdid.We’velostmoreslatesofftheroofaboveBilly’s room. But we werelucky. The end of GrannyMay’s roof has gonecompletely.Itjustliftedoffinthenight.It’ssittinglopsidedacross her escallonia hedge.Father’sbeenuptherealldaytrying to do what he can to

keep the rain out. Everyonewould be there helping, butthere isn’t a building on theisland that hasn’t beenbattered.GrannyMayjustsatdown in her kitchen all dayand shook her head. Shewouldn’t come away. Shekept saying she’ll never beabletopayforanewroofandwhere will she go and whatwill she do?We stayedwithher, Mother and me, givinghercupsofteaandtellingher

itwillbeallright.‘Something’ll turn up,’

Mother said. She’s alwayssayingthat.WhenFathergetsall inside himself andmiserable and silent, whenthecowsaren’tmilkingwell,when he can’t afford thetimber tobuildhisboats, shealways says, ‘Don’t worry,something’llturnup.’She never says it to me

because she knows I won’tbelieve her. I won’t believe

her because I know shedoesn’tbelieveitherself.Shejust says it tomake him feelbetter. She just hopes it’llcome true.Still, itmusthavemadeGrannyMayfeelbetter.She was her old self againthis evening, talking awayhappily to herself. Everyoneon the islandcallsher amadoldstick.Butshe’snotreallymad.She’s justoldandabitforgetful. She does talk toherself, but then she’s lived

alonemostofher life,so it’snot surprising really. I loveherbecauseshe’smygranny,because she loves me, andbecausesheshowsit.Motherhas persuaded her to comeandstayforabituntilshecanmove back into her houseagain.Billy’sintroubleagain.He

wentofftoStMary’swithouttelling anyone. He was goneall day. When he got backthis evening he never said a

word to me or GrannyMay.Fatherbuttonedhis lip foraslong as he could. It’s alwaysbeen the same with FatherandBilly.Theyseteachotheroff. They always have. It’sBilly’s fault really, most ofthetimeanyway.Hestartsit.He does things withoutthinking. He says thingswithout thinking. AndFather’s like a squall. Heseems calm and quiet onemomentandthen. . .Icould

feelitcoming.Hebangedthetable and shouted. Billy hadnorightgoingofflikethat,hesaid,whentherewassomuchto be put right at GrannyMay’s.Billytoldhimhe’ddowhat he pleased, when hepleased and he wasn’tanyone’s slave. Then he gotupfromthetableandranout,slamming the door behindhim. Mother went after him.Poor Mother, always thepeacemaker.

Father and Granny Mayhad a good long talk about‘young folk today’, and howthey don’t know how luckythey are these days and howthey don’t know what hardwork is all about. They’restillatitdownstairs.Iwentinto see Billy just a fewminutes ago. He’s beencrying, I can tell.He sayshedoesn’t want to talk. He’sthinking,hesays.Thatmakesachange,Isuppose.

FEBRUARY14TH

GRANNY MAY’S ROOFHAS BEEN PATCHED UP.She moved back homeyesterday.Weareonourownagain.Father said at breakfast he

thought Molly would calve

downtodayandthatBillyandme should keep an eye onher. Billy went off to StMary’s and I went up tocheckMollythisafternoononmyown.Shewaslyingdownby the hedge, her calf curledupbesideher.Helookedasifhe was sleeping at first, buthe wasn’t. There were flieson his face and his eyesweren’t blinking. He wasdead, and I couldn’t makeMolly get up. I pushed her

and pushed her, but shewouldn’t move. I didn’t tellFather because I knew howangry he’d be. We shouldhavebeenthere,Billyorme–one of us should have beenthere. I fetched Motherinstead. She couldn’t getMollyonherfeeteither,sointheendwehadtocallFatherfrom the boatshed. He triedeverything, but Molly justlaid her head down on thegrassanddied.

Father sat beside her,stroked her neck and saidnothing.But I knewwhat hewas thinking. We only hadfour cows andwe’d just lostthe best of them. Then helookedupandsaid,‘Where’sthatboy?’Mother tried to comfort

him, but he wouldn’t evenanswerher.‘Just you wait till he gets

back,justyouwait.’Thatwasallhesaid.

Billy came back atsundown. I saw him comesailing up Tresco Channel. IrandowntoGreenBaytotellhimaboutMolly,towarnhimaboutFather.ThenIsawthathewasnotalone.‘This is Joseph Hannibal,’

said Billy. ‘He’s American,off the General Lee in StMary’s.’Joseph Hannibal is a bear

of amanwith a bushy blackbeard and twitchy eyebrows

thatmeet in themiddlesohealways looks angry. I neverhad a chance to tell Billyabout Molly. He’d broughtJosephHannibal back to seethe island, he said, and theywent off together up towardsHellBay.I didn’t see them again

until supper. Father sat in astony silence and Mothersmiled all the time, thinly,like she does when she isworried.But after a time she

wasdoingwhat Iwas doing,what Billy was doing, whateven Father was doing. Wewere all listening to JosephHannibal.He’s been all over the

world, theSouthSeaIslands,Australia, Japan, China, thefrozen North. He’s sailed ontea clippers, on steamships,andhe’sbeenwhalingtoo.‘Yessir,’ he went on,

puffingathispipe,‘I’veseenwhaleslongerthanthisentire

house and that’s the honesttruth.’Youhadtolistentohim–I

mean, you wanted to listen.Youwantedhim togoonallnight. Then Mother said weshouldgouptobed–thatwehadthecowstomilkearlyinthe morning. Billy said hewasn’t tired, that he’d be uplater. He stayed where hewas. Father looked at himhard,butBillydidn’tseemtonotice. He had eyes only for

JosephHannibal.Hestilldoesn’tknowabout

Molly, and he’s still downthere now talking to JosephHannibal.There’s something about

JosephHannibal,somethingIdon’t like, but I’m not surewhat it is. One thing I amsure of though. As soon ashe’s gone Father’s going tohave something to say, andwhenhedoesIwouldn’twanttobeinBilly’sshoes.

I’mtryingtostayawakebywriting this, so I can warnhimaboutMolly,butmyeyesareprickingand Icanhardlykeepthemopen.

FEBRUARY15TH

THISISTHEWORSTDAYOF MY WHOLE LIFE. ITbegan well. Joseph Hanniballeftthehousethismorningatlast. I thoughthe’d sail awayon the evening tide and thatwould be the end of him. I

was wrong. Billy has gonewithhim.EvenasIwriteit,Ican hardly believe it. Billyhasgone.It all began just after

Joseph Hannibal left. We’vehad arguments before, Billyand me, but never like this.He didn’t seem a bit sadwhenItoldhim,atlast,aboutMolly and her calf. He justsaid that I should have beenthere, or Mother; that itwasn’t his fault. I got angry

andshoutedathim.Billyjustshrugged and walked off. Ihate it when he does that. Iraced after him and grabbedhim. He turned on me andtoldmeIwastakingFather’ssideagainsthim.Iknewthenthat it was all because ofJoseph Hannibal. It’s as ifhe’s split us apart. Billythinks that everything abouthim is wonderful, that he’sdoing what a proper manshould.Hewon’thearaword

againsthim.This afternoon Billy and

Fatherhadtheirexpectedset-toaboutMolly.Fatherroaredand of course Billy shoutedbackathim.Hewasn’tgoingto stay and be a cowman allhis life, he had better thingsto be doing. I’ve never seenBilly like it. The angrier hebecame, themore he seemedto grow.Nose to nose in thekitchen he was as big asFather.Fathersaidhe’dstrap

him if he didn’t hold histongueandBillyjuststaredathim and said nothing, hiseyes like steel.Mother camebetween them and Billystormedout.Ifollowedhim.We went to Rushy Bay

where we always go to talkwhen we don’t want anyoneelse to hear. We sat on thesand together, and that waswhen he toldme. He’d beentalking to Joseph Hannibal.Joseph Hannibal had asked

the skipper of the GeneralLee and the skipper hadagreed: Billy could join theshipascabinboy.‘I’m going, Laura,’ Billy

said. ‘Iwas thinking about itall last night. And not justbecauseofFather,either. It’sabigworldoutthereandI’mgoingtoseeit.Thiscouldbemyonlychance.’And I could see that he

meantit,thatIcouldn’targuehim round. I tried all the

same.Ibeggedhimtostay.IevensaidI’dgowithhim.Heshook his head and lookedaway. I know Billy so well,better than he knows me, Ithink.Oncehe’smadeuphismindthere’snostoppinghim.Iknewitwashopeless.Heput his arm aroundme

andtoldmehewassorry,thatI’dbeallright.He’dwritetome,andwhenhecomesbackhe’sgoingtobringmelotsofthings from America, from

China,fromthefrozenNorth.When I cried he hugged mevery tight and said he’d gonow,justashewas.Hedidn’twant to have to go homeagain.‘You’ll tell Mother?’ he

said.‘You’llsaygoodbyeforme?’I walked in silence with

him down past the church tothe quay. We saw Fatherparingahedgeupinthefieldwhere Molly had died. Billy

looked at him and saidnothing. He was close totears.Heturnedaway.‘And say goodbye to

Granny May too,’ he said.FromthequaysidewelookedacrossatStMary’s.Wecouldsee the masts of the GeneralLee.‘She’safineship,’hesaid.

‘A fast ship. She’ll take meall over the world, JosephHannibalsaid.’He smoothed my hair and

told me to go home withoutlooking back. I cried all theway home, not so muchbecauseBillywasgoneandImight never see him again,but because he didn’t wantmetogowithhim.Thisevening, from the top

ofSamsonHill,IwatchedtheGeneral Lee sail out past StAgnes. Billy was right. Shewas a fine ship. I knew he’dbelookingbackatBryherandheknewI’dbeuponSamson

Hill. I could feel his eyes onme.Ishivered,notfromcold,but because I knew then as Iknownow,thatI’llneverseeBilly again. Her sails werered in the last of the sun, asredasanyblood.I said nothing till just

before supper, when MotheraskedwhereBillywas.Itoldherasgentlyas Iknewhow.She sat down and her eyesweresuddenlyemptyoflife.‘No,’ she whispered. And

thatwasall.Fatherwasworking late in

the boathouse. He came in afewminutesago.Iwassittingon the stairs when she toldhim.‘Youdrovehimaway,’she

said, shaking her head. ‘Youshouldn’t have. Youshouldn’thave.’‘He’ll be back,’ said

Father.‘You’llsee.’Mother turned away from

him. She didn’t believe him,

andneitherdoI.

JULY21ST

MY HOUSE IS NOT MYHOMEANYMORE.IT’SAplaceIlivein.Myislandisaprison and I am quite alone.Mother and Father arestrangers to each other.Billyhas been gone for over fourmonthsnow.There’sbeenno

letter, no word. We scarcelyever speak of him. It’s as ifheneverlived.I went to his room this

morning and found Mothersitting on his bed staring atthe wall, rocking back andforth.Shehadhisbluejerseyon her lap. I went and satbesideher.Shetriedtosmilebut couldn’t. She hasn’tsmiledsinceBillyleft.I do the morning milking

onmyownnow.That’swhen

ImostmissBilly.Italktothecows and they listen.Maybethey understand too – I hopeso.They’renotmilkingatallwell–Ithinkperhapsthey’remissing Billy, like everyoneelse. They aren’t eatingproperly either. Their coatsare staring, and they’re notlicking themselves. They’rejustnothowtheyshouldbe.

JULY30TH

IN CHURCH TODAY IWAS LISTENING TO THEvicar. It was as if he wasspeaking just tome. He saidwemustn’thopeforanythingat all in this life, only in thenextlife.IthinkIunderstandwhathemeans.Youonlyget

disappointedifyouhope.Every night – like tonight,

whenI’vefinishedthis–Iliein thedarknessandhopeandpray that Billy will comeback. I pray out loud, just incase God can’t hear mehoping. And every morning,assoonasIwakeup,Igotothe window and hope to seehimrunningup thepath.Buteachdayheisn’ttheremakesevenhopingmorehopeless.

JULY31ST

EVEN MY OTHER HOPEHASCOMETONOTHING.Ihopedthat,withBillygone,Imight at last be allowed totake his place in the gig. Ifinally plucked up courageenough to ask the chief. Hesaid I had to ask Father. I

waiteduntilhewasdoingtheevening milking – he’salways gentler when he’s upwith the cows. He was withRosieinthebarn.‘There’s something wrong

with these cows,’ he said,withoutlookingup.‘Hardly a bucketful

betweenthelotofthem.Theygo on like this,we’re in realtrouble, real trouble.They’venotbeenright,noneof them,notsinceBillyleft,noneofus

have.’His eyes were filled with

tears when he looked up atme.‘Mother’sright,’hesaid.‘It was my fault Billy wentaway.’‘No it wasn’t,’ I said. ‘It

wasJosephHannibal.’ Itwasonlyhalfthetruth,andFatherknew it.Hewentback tohismilking.I asked him then what I

hadcometoaskhim.IknewI shouldn’t but I had to. He

was on his feet at onceshouting atme.Rosie kickedout in alarm and the bucketwentover.‘Is that all you ever think

about?’ he roared. ‘Yourbrother’srunofftosea.EverycowI’vegotissick.It’sthesecows put food in your belly,girl, you know that?’ I knewthat. Of course I knew that.‘They die. We die. They’reallwe’vegot.Andyoucomefussing to me about the gig.

Howmany times have I toldyou? There’s never been agirl rowedout in thegig,noton this island, not on anyisland.Andyou’ll not be thefirst,doyouhearme?’I ran off with him still

shouting after me. I neverthought I could think it. IneverthoughtIcouldwriteit,butIhatemyfather.

AUGUST23RD

ROSIE IS VERY SICK.THERE’S NO DOUBTABOUTitnow.She’sthinnerevery day. She’s stoppedmilking entirely. We sellwhat we can – a little toeveryone.Untilnowthecowsalwaysmadeenoughmilkfor

the whole island. We’re theonly people with milkingcows. They rely on us fortheirmilk–theyalwayshavedone. Now with Molly goneand Rosie poorly we justhaven’t got enough to goaround. We’ve still gotCelandine and Petal, butPetal’s not in milk andCelandine’s giving preciouslittle. Father says if anythinghappens to either of themwe’re done for. All we can

do, he says, is to hope andpray for a wreck. So that’swhat I’m doing, hoping andprayingforawreck.IlongforMothertotellme

that everything will be allright, even if she doesn’tmean it. But she’s stoppedsaying anything. I thinkmaybeshe’sdyinginside.IwenttothetopofSamson

Hill this evening and lookedout to the open sea. Therewasabigswellbuilding,and

the sky was very low andgreyoverthesea.Itriedtomakemyeyessee

over the horizon as far asAmerica.It’stheclosestIcangettoBilly.Hewasouttheresomewhere on that sea. Icould feel it. I could feel hewas still alive and I wassuddenly happy in spite ofeverything. I just wish hewould come back home. Ifonly he would, theneverythingwouldbeall right

again.I’msureofit.

SEPTEMBER6TH

A GREAT STORM ISGATHERING, THE SEAShuge,theskiesfullofanger.We went to fetch Granny

May this morning. Her rooflooks as if itmight blow offat any time. She didn’t want

toleave,shedidn’twanttobeatrouble.Motherpaidhernoheed and we took an armeachandbroughtherhome.All day we huddled

togetheraroundthefireinthekitchen tryingnot to listen tothe howling outside. Fathersaw to the cows today. He’sshut them in the shed now,outofthestorm.It’s a high tide tonight.

Father says there’ll beflooding.Theseawillpourin

across from Great Porth andmake another island of us –it’shappenedbefore.Onnights likethis,whenI

was little, I used to go intoBilly’s room, climb into hisbed and we’d talk tillmorning. We could pretendwe weren’t frightened and ifwe pretended hard enough,thenweweren’t.NowIsitaloneonmybed

and listen to the roar of thestormoutsideandthewhistle

of the wind in the windowsand I am afraid. I can onlythinkofallthatseapoundingourlittleisland,tryingtosuckusdownandsinkusforever.Iamsoafraid.Where are you, Billy?

Whereareyou?Whydidyougoandleaveme?

SEPTEMBER7TH

THE STORM HASPASSED, BUT IT HASRUINED us utterly. I wentout early to milk the cows.The meadows were a greatlake and the cowshed on thehillside had gone. The gate

into themeadowswasoff itshinges. There were no cowstobeseen,notatfirst.ThenIsaw them. Celandine andPetalwerelyingdrownedandswollenwheretheseahadleftthem, legs stiff in the air. Iranhome.No onewould believeme,

because they didn’t want tobelieve me. I didn’t want tobelieve me. They followedme out. Father knelt besidethem in the shallows and

sobbed. Granny May andMother led him home, hisheadinhishands.I stroked the white patch

on Petal’s neck, where Ialways patted her aftermilking.Shewassocold.Herbig,blueeyesgazedupatme,unseeing. I ran off and laterfoundmyself outsideGrannyMay’shouse.Herwholeroofhad gone this time, but thatwasn’t all. When I wentround the side I saw the end

of the cottage had collapsedaround the chimney. Next toit the Jenkins’house toowasbeyond repair, like a gianthadtrampledalloverit.I walked all around the

island. Hardly a house hadsurvived intact. When I gothome I found the hen-housegone,thehenswithit,andthekitchen window had beenblownin.Several boats, not ours,

thankGod, have been driven

on to the rocks and smashedto pieces, and the chief haslost his crabber altogether.Bryheriswrecked.It’s likeanightmare.Iwanttowakeupandfindnoneofitistrue.Weare all ruined and done forand we shall have to leave.Everyone says so – exceptGrannyMay. But she hasn’tbeentoldaboutherhouseyet.Fatherwon’tdoitandMotherwon’t do it. They just can’tbring themselves to tell her,

andneithercanI.When Granny May had

gone up to bed this eveningFather said, ‘It’s like thebeginningoftheend.Inafewyears’ time Bryher will belike Samson and Tean,abandoned and deserted, lefttotherabbitsandthebirds.’He cried and I knew I

didn’t hate him any more, Iknew I loved him still.Motherwon’t cry. I’veneverseenMothercry.Sheputher

arms around Father and heldhim, and that’s the first timeshe’s done that since Billyleft.

SEPTEMBER8TH

TODAY I FOUND ATURTLE. I THINK IT’SCALLEDaleatherbackturtle.I found one once before, butit was dead. This one hasbeenwashedupalive.Fatherhadsentmedownto

collect driftwood on RushyBay. He said there’d beplentyaboutafterastormlikethat.Hewasright.I’d been there for half an

hour or so heaping up thewood, before I noticed theturtle in the tideline of piledseaweed. I thoughtat firsthewas just a washed-up treestumpcoveredinseaweed.Hewasupsidedownonthe

sand.Ipulledtheseaweedoffhim. His eyes were open,

unblinking. He was moredeadthanalive,Ithought.Hisflippers were quite still, andheld out to the clouds aboveas if he was worshippingthem. He was massive, aslong as this bed, and wider.He had a face like a twohundred year old man,wizened and wrinkled andwise with a gently-smilingmouth.I looked around, and there

were more gulls gathering.

They were silent, watching,waiting; and I knew wellenough what they werewaiting for. I pulled awaymoreoftheseaweedandsawthatthegullshadbeenathimalready. There was bloodunderhisneckwheretheskinhad been pecked. I had gotthere just in time. Ibombarded the gulls withpebbles and they flew offprotestingnoisily,leavingmealonewithmyturtle.

I knew it would beimpossible to roll him over,but I tried anyway. I couldrock him back and forth onhisshell,butIcouldnot turnhimover,nomatterhowhardI tried. After a while I gaveup and sat down beside himon the sand. His eyes keptclosing slowly as if he wasdropping off to sleep, ormaybe he was dying – Icouldn’t be sure. I strokedhim under his chin where I

thought he would like it,keeping my hand well awayfromhismouth.Agreat curling stormwave

broke and came tumblingtowards us. When it wenthissingbackoverthesand, itleft behind a broken spar. Itwas as if the seawas tellingmewhat todo. Idragged thesparupthebeach.ThenIsawthe turtle’sheadgobackandhis eyes closed. I’ve oftenseen seabirds like that. Once

their heads go back there’snothing you can do. But Icouldn’t just let him die. Icouldn’t. I shouted at him. Ishook him. I told him hewasn’t to die, that I’d turnhim over somehow, that itwouldn’tbelong.I dug a deep hole in the

sand beside him. I wouldlever him up and topple himin. I drove the spar into thesand underneath his shell. Idrove it in again and again,

untilitwasasdeepasIcouldgetit.Ihauledbackonitandfelt him shift. I threw allmyweight on it and at last hetumbled over into the hole,andtherightwayup,too.Butwhen I scrambled over tohim,hishead lay limp in thesand, his eyes closed to theworld.Therewasn’t a flickerof life about him. He wasdead. I was quite sure of itnow.It’ssilly,Iknow–Ihadonly known him for a few

minutes–butIfeltIhadlostafriend.Imadeapillowofsoftsea

lettuceforhisheadandkneltbeside him. I cried till therewere no more tears to cry.AndthenIsawthegullswereback. They knew too. Iscreamed at them, but theyjust glared atme andmovedincloser.‘No!’Icried.‘No!’I would never let them

have him, never. I piled a

mountain of seaweed on topof him andmy driftwood ontop of that. The next tidewould take him away. I lefthimandwenthome.Iwent back toRushyBay

thisevening,athightide,justbefore nightfall, to see ifmyturtlewas gone.Hewas stillthere. The high tide had notbeen high enough. The gullswere gone though, all ofthem. I really don’t knowwhatmademewanttoseehis

face once more. I pulled thewoodandseaweedawayuntilI could see the top of hishead. As I looked it movedand lifted. He was blinkingupatme.Hewasaliveagain!I could have kissed him,really I could. But I didn’tquitedare.He’s still there now, all

coveredupagainstthegulls,Ihope.Inthemorning...I had to stop writing

because Father just came in.

He hardly ever comes inmyroom, so I knew at oncesomethingwaswrong.‘You all right?’ he said,

standing in the doorway.‘What’veyoubeenupto?’‘Nothing,’Isaid.‘Why?’‘Oldman Jenkins.He said

he saw you down on RushyBay.’‘I was just collecting the

wood,’ I told him, as calmlyas I could, ‘like you said Ishould.’ I find lying so

difficult.I’mjustnotgoodatit.‘He thought you were

crying, crying your eyes out,hesays.’‘I was not,’ I said, but I

dared not look at him. Ipretendedtogoonwritinginmydiary.‘You are telling me the

truth, Laura?’ He knew Iwasn’t,heknewit.‘Course,’ I said. I just

wishedhewouldgo.

‘Whatdoyoufindtowritein that diary of yours?’ heasked.‘Things,’ I said. ‘Just

things.’And he went out and shut

the door behind him. Heknows something, but hedoesn’tknowwhat.I’mgoingtohave tobeverycareful. IfFather finds out about theturtle, I’m in trouble. He’sonlygottogodowntoRushyBay and look. That turtle

would just be food to him,andtoanyoneelsewhofindshim. We’re all hungry,everyone is getting hungriereveryday.Ishouldtellhim.IknowIshould.ButIcan’tdoit. I just can’t let them eathim.In the morning, early, I’ll

havetogethimbackintothesea. I don’t know how I’mgoingtodoit,butsomehowIwill. I must. Now it’s notonly the gulls I have to save

himfrom.

SEPTEMBER9TH

TheDayoftheTurtle

I SHALL REMEMBERTODAY AS LONG AS ILIVE.ThismorningIslipped

awayassoonaseverIcould.Noonesawmegoandnoonefollowed me, I made quitesure of that. I’d lain awakemost of the night wonderinghow I was going to get myturtlebackintothewater.Butas I made my way down toRushy Bay, the morning foglifting off the sea, I had noideaatallhowIwoulddoit.Even as I uncovered him, Istilldidn’tknow.Ionlyknewithadtobedone.SoItalked

tohim.Iwastryingtoexplainit all tohim,howhemustn’tworry, how I’d find a way,but that I didn’t yet knowwhatway.He’sgoteyes thatmake you think heunderstands. Maybe hedoesn’t,butyouneverknow.Somehow, once I’d startedtalking, I felt itwas rudenotto go on. I fetched someseawater in my hat and Ipoured it over him. Heseemed to like it, lifting his

head into itas Ipoured.So Idid it again and again. I toldhimallaboutthestorm,aboutGrannyMay’sroof,aboutthebatteredboats,andhe lookedatme.Hewaslistening.He was so weak though.

He kept trying to move,trying todighis flippers intothe sand, but he hadn’t thestrength to do it. His mouthkept opening and shutting asifhewasgaspingforbreath.Then I had an idea. I

scooped out a long deepchannel all the way down tothe sea. Iwouldwait for thetide to come in as far as itcould, and when the timecameIwouldeasehimdownintothechannelandhecouldwade out to sea. As I dug Itold him my plan.When I’dfinished I lay down besidehim, exhausted, and waitedforthetide.I told him then all about

Billy, about JosephHannibal

and the General Lee, andabout how I missed Billy somuch, all about the cowsdyingandabouthownothinghad gone right since the dayBilly left. When I lookedacross at him his eyes wereclosed. He seemed to bedozing in the sun. I’d beentalkingtomyself.The gulls never left us

alone,notforaminute.Theystood eyeing us from therocks, from the shallows.

When I threw stones at themnow, theydidn’t flyoff, theyjust hopped a little furtheraway, and they always cameback. I didn’t go home forlunch – I just hoped Fatherwouldn’t come looking forme. I couldn’t leave myturtle, not with the gulls allaround us just waiting theirmoment. Besides, the tidewascominginnow,closerallthe time. Then there wasbarely fiveyardsof sand left

between the sea and myturtle, and the water waswashing up the channel justas I’dplanned it. Itwasnowornever.I told him what he had to

do.‘You’ve got to walk the

rest,’Isaid.‘Youwanttogetbackinthesea,you’vegottowalk,youhearme?’Hetried.Hehonestlytried.

Time and again he dug theedge of his flippers into the

sand, but he just couldn’tmovehimself.The flippers dug in again,

again,buthestayedwherehewas.Itriedpushinghimfrombehind. That didn’t work. Itried moving his flippers forhim one by one. That didn’twork. I slapped his shell. Ishouted at him. All he didwas swallow once or twiceandblinkatme. In theend Itried threatening him. Icrouched down in front of

him.‘All right,’ I said. ‘All

right. You stay here if youlike. See if I care. You seethose gulls? You know whatthey’re waiting for? If theydon’t get you, then someoneelse’ll findyouandyou’llbeturtlestew.’Iwasshoutingathim now. I was reallyshoutingathim.‘Turtlestew,do you hear me!’ All thewhile his eyes never left myface, not for a moment.

Bullying hadn’t workedeither. So now I triedbegging.‘Please,’ I said, ‘please.’

But his eyes gave me theanswer I already knew. Hecould not move. He hadn’tthe strength. There wasnothingelse left to try.FromthelookinhiseyesIthinkheknewittoo.I wandered some way

awayfromhimandsatdownonarockto think.Iwasstill

thinking, fruitlessly, when Isaw the gig coming aroundDroppy Nose Point andheading out to sea. Fatherwas there – I recognised hiscap.Oldman Jenkinswas inBilly’s place and the chiefwas setting the jibsail. Theywere far too far away to seemyturtle.Icamebacktohimandsatdown.‘See that gig?’ I told him.

‘OnedayI’mgoingtorowinthat gig, just like Billy did.

Oneday.’And I told him all about

thegigand thebigships thatcome into Scilly needing apilot to bring them in safely,and how the gigs race eachother to get out there first. Itold him about the wreckstoo, and about how the gigswillputtoseainanyweatherif there’s sailors to rescue orcargo tosalvage.Thestrangething is, I didn’t feel at allsilly talking to my turtle. I

mean,Iknowitissilly,butitjust seemed the natural thingto do. I honestly think I toldtheturtlemoreaboutmethanI’veevertoldanyonebefore.I looked down at him. He

wasnudgingat thesandwithhis chin, his mouth opening.Hewashungry!Idon’tknowwhy I hadn’t thought of itbefore. I had no idea at allwhat turtles eat. So I triedwhat was nearest first –seaweed of all sorts, sea

lettuce, bladderwrack,whateverIcouldfind.I dangled it in front of his

mouth,brushinghisnosewithit so he could smell it. Helooked as if hewas going toeat it. He opened his mouthslowlyandsnappedat it.Butthenheturnedhisheadawayandletitfalltotheground.‘Whatthen?’Iasked.A sudden shadow fell

across me. GrannyMay wasstandingabovemeinherhat.

‘How long have you beenthere?’Iasked.‘Long enough,’ she said

andshewalkedaroundmetogetabetterlookattheturtle.‘Let’s try shrimps,’ she

said.‘Maybe he’ll eat shrimps.

We’d better hurry.We don’twantanyoneelsefindinghim,dowe?’Andshesentmeoffhome to fetch the shrimpingnet. I ran all the way thereand all the way back,

wondering if Granny Mayknewaboutherroofyet.Granny May is the best

shrimper on the island. Sheknowsevery likelyclusterofseaweed on Rushy Bay, andeverywhereelsecometothat.One sweep through theshallows and she was back,hernetjumpingwithshrimps.Shesmileddownatmyturtle.‘Useful, that is,’ she said,

tappinghimwithherstick.‘What?’Ireplied.

‘Carrying your housearoundwithyou.Can’thardlyhave your roof blowed off,canyou?’Soshedidknow.‘It’ll mend,’ she said.

‘Roofs you can mend easilyenough, hope is a littleharder.’She told me to dig out a

bowl in the sand, rightundertheturtle’schin,andthensheshookouthernet.He lookedmildly interested for amoment and then looked

away.Itwasnogood.GrannyMaywas looking out to sea,shieldinghereyesagainsttheglareofthesun.‘Iwonder,’ shemurmured.

‘I wonder. I shan’t be long.’And she was gone, down tothe sea. Shewas wading outup to her ankles, then up toher knees, her shrimping netscooping through the wateraround her. I stayed behindwith the turtle and threwmore stones at the gulls.

Whenshecameback,hernetwas bulging with jellyfish,blue jellyfish. She emptiedthem into the turtle’s sandybowl.Atoncehewasatthemlike a vulture, snapping,crunching, swallowing, untiltherewasn’tatentacleleft.‘He’ssmiling,’shesaid. ‘I

think he likes them. I thinkperhaps he’d like somemore.’‘I’ll do it,’ I said. I picked

up the net and rushed off

downintothesea.Theywerenot difficult to find. I’veneverlikedjellyfish,notsinceIwasstungonmyneckwhenIwaslittleandcameoutinaburning weal that lasted formonths.SoIkeptawaryeyearound me. I scooped uptwelve big ones in as manyminutes. He ate those andthen lifted his head, askingformore.Wetook it in turnsafter that, Granny May andme,untilatlastheseemedto

have had enough and left ahalf-chewed jellyfish lyingthere, the shrimps stillhopping all around it. Icrouched down and lookedmyturtleintheeye.‘Feelbetternow?’Iasked,

andIwonderedifturtlesburpwhen they’ve eaten too fast.He didn’t burp, but he didmove. The flippers dugdeeper. He shifted – just alittleatfirst.Andthenhewasscooping himself slowly

forward, inching his waythrough the sand. I wentloony.Iwascavortingupanddown like a wild thing, andGranny May was just thesame.Thetwoofuswhistledand whooped to keep himmoving, but we knew soonenough that we didn’t needto. Every step he took wasstronger, his neck reachingforward purposefully.Nothingwouldstophimnow.Ashenearedthesea,thesand

was tide-ribbed andwet, andhe moved ever faster, faster,pasttherockpoolsandacrossthe muddy sand where thelugworms leave their curlycasts.Hisflipperswereunderthe water now. He was halfwalking, half swimming.Thenhedippedhissnoutintothe sea and let thewater runover his head and down hisneck. He was going, andsuddenly I didn’t want himto. I was alongside him,

bendingoverhim.‘You don’t have to go,’ I

said.‘Hewantsto,’saidGranny

May.‘Hehasto.’He was in deeper water

now,andwithafewpowerfulstrokeshewasgone,cruisingout through the turquoisewater of the shallows to thedeep blue beyond. The last Isaw of him he was a darkshadowundertheseamakingouttowardsSamson.

I felt suddenly alone.GrannyMayknew it I think,because she put her armaroundmeandkissedthetopofmyhead.Back at home we never

said a word about our turtle.It wasn’t an arranged secret,nothing like that. We justdidn’ttellanyonebecausewedidn’twantto–itwasprivatesomehow.Father says he’ll try to

make a start on her house

tomorrow,justtokeepouttheweather.GrannyMaydoesn’tseematallinterested.She just keeps smiling at

me, confidentially. Motherknowssomethingisgoingonbetween us, but she doesn’tknow what. I’d like to tellher,butIcan’ttalktoherlikeIusedto.If Billy were here I’d tell

him.I haven’t thought about

BillytodayandIshouldhave.

All I’ve thought about ismyturtle. If I don’t think aboutBillyI’llforgethim,andthenit’llbeasifhewasneverhereat all, as if I never had abrother,asifheneverexisted,and if he never existed thenhe can’t come back, and hemust.Hemust.ThisisthelongestdayI’ve

everwritten inmy diary andall because of a turtle. Mywristaches.

OCTOBER25TH

I LOVE THE SMELL OFPAINTINTHESUNSHINE.Today we painted the gigoutside the boathouse –Fatherandmetogether–andhe began talking about Billyagain.He’sbeentalkingmoreabout him lately. I wish he

wouldn’t because he onlyends up tormenting himself.Always the same impossiblequestions I can’t answer:Why?Whydidhegoofflikethat?Where’shegone?Whydoesn’thecomehome?I just wish I had the

couragetotellhim,andtotellhim straight: ‘Because youwould keep shouting at him,because he was sick ofmilkingcowsdayindayout,sick of slaving on the farm

everyhourofeveryday.’Buthewouldn’tunderstandanditwouldn’t do any goodanyway. It wouldn’t bringBillyback,wouldit?We were painting all day.

Mother and Granny Maybrought us out some breadandwaterandIsatdownandadmired the gig, sleek in thesun, a shining gleaming jetblack.Noonespoke.Whennoonetalksitmeans

we’reall thinkingofBillyor

of how long we can last outhereonBryherwiththecowsgone and no money comingin.WhenGrannyMay looksatmeandsmiles,Iknowsheisthinkingofourturtle.I was looking out to sea

today and I was thinking:they’re out there, Billy andour turtle, both of them.MaybeonedayourturtlewillswimrightunderneathBilly’sship. They’ll meet in mid-ocean and never know it.

Maybe.We finished painting the

gig by sunset. A cold windwasgettingupandmyhandswere numb. Everyone comedown to the boathouse tolook.Thechiefsaidhowfineshe looked and how she’dmovefasterthroughthewaternow she was painted. And Isaidshe’dgoa lot fasterstillif I rowed in her. They alllaughed, but Iwasn’t joking.Father knew it. I caught his

eye.Hewasn’tangry.Ireallythink he was proud of me,justforamoment.Motherlookssogreythese

days, and thin. She’s alwaysgazing out of the window.She’s looking for Billy – Iknowsheis,she’swaitingforhim.She andFather scarcelyspeak at all. Only GrannyMaytalksandshetalksmoreto herself than anyone else.I’m hungry. We’re allhungry.

NOVEMBER1ST

THE COLD OF WINTERHAS CREPT INTO THEhouse,intomyroom,intomybed. I curl up tight. I pile onblankets, but I cannot keepwarm. Mother says I’msickeningforsomething.

GrannyMay stayed in herbed in Billy’s room all day.Shehasacoughonherchestthat won’t leave her. Whenshe’snotcoughing,thereisasilence in the house thatfrightensme.Wehad limpets for supper

– again. There’s little else toeat. I sleep a lot and driftfrom dream to dream. Idreamed of my turtle againtoday and I went in to tellGrannyMay. She’s as white

as her pillows. She smiledand said she can neverremember her dreams. Shesaid she’ll be down againtomorrow, when she feelsbetter. She’s still cheerful –she’s the only one of us thatis. She looks older in bed.There’salwaysadewdropontheendofhernose. I trynottolookatit.Thehousecreaksinthewind,likeashipatsea.Iamsocold.

NOVEMBER30TH

WE ARE LEAVING. IREAD IT AND I STILLCAN’T believe I am writingit.Weare leavingBryher forgood, forever. And there’sothers doing the same thing,all over the island. Even the

chiefisleaving.Ithinkthat’smaybe what finally made upFather’s mind for him. Hecameoutwithitthisevening.‘Ifhe’sgoing,’saidFather,

‘then that’s an end of it, theendofBryher, theendofus.There’llbenooneleft.We’releaving.’‘Youcanleaveifyouwant

to,’saidGrannyMayquietly.‘But I’m staying put. ‘Youhearme?I’mstayingput.’Mother said what I was

thinking. ‘But what if Billycomes back? We won’t behereforhim.’Father spoke sharply

without looking at her. ‘Wecan’t spend all our liveswaitingforBilly,’hesaid.Hedidn’t have to go off like hedid,didhe?’GrannyMaytookMother’s

handsinhers.‘I’ll be here,’ she said.

‘He’ll findmeand thenhe’llfind you. He’ll come back,

you’llsee.’MotherlookedatmeandI

tried all I could to give hersome hope but she knew Iwaspretending.She’s sitting downstairs

now, crushed and sunken inherchair.Shedoesn’tcryandneither do I.My tears won’tcome because they don’twant to come. The honesttruth is that I want to leave.This house is full of sadnessand hunger. We’re lucky to

haveonemealaday.There’sno bread, no milk, no eggs,only a few soft potatoes, andlimpets – oh, there’s alwayslimpets. There’s no joy, nolaughter,noBilly.No one smiles at you any

more as youpass by, noonewaves. Everywhere I seestooped figures bending intothe wind, faces gaunt withhunger, yellow from toomany limpets. Some peoplehave left already. Sally and

Sarah and all their family,andMrandMrsGibsonfromtheshop.Fathersayswe’llbegoneinaweekorso– if theweatherpermits–onthenextboattothemainland.Ishan’tbesorry.GrannyMay is sleeping in

withmenow.Wetrytokeepeach other warm. She’s sothin. I’ve told her and I’vetold her shemust comewithus when we leave, but shewon’t listen. Instead, she

whispers in the dark aboutour turtle. She wonders ifwe’d have done the samething now, whether we’dhavehelpedhimbackintotheseaifwe’dbeenashungryaswe are now. Granny Maythinkswewould,butI’mnotsosure.Ican’t sleepso I’ve lit the

candle and am writing a bitmore. More than anything Ifeelangry.Maybethat’swhyIcan’tsleep.I’mangrywe’re

beingdrivenoutofourhome,driven off our island, andangrier still that now I shallnever be able to row in thegig...Granny May has just

woken up. She looked atmeand said, ‘I’m telling you,Laura, Iamnot leaving.Youcan write that down in yourdiary.Iwasbornhere.I’lldiehere.I’mnotleaving.’She’s sleeping again now.

When old people sleep, you

canhardlyseethembreathe.

DECEMBER6TH

WE’RE STILL HERE.THERE’VEBEENSTORMSforaweeknow.Noonewillbe going anywhere till it’sover.GrannyMaysaysit’sanomen, a warning. The stormis telling us to stay, so we

must stay. Father says hedoesn’tbelieve inomensandsuperstitions or any of thatkindof thing,and theyhadabig argument. I’ve neverheardGrannyMay so angry.She’smade up hermind andshe won’t be gainsaid. Shemeans it. She’s set her hearton it. If she has her way noone will leave, and whenGrannyMaysetsherheartonsomething . . . maybe wewon’tbeleavingafterall.

Mother wants to stay too,but she says nothing. She’sdisappeared inside herselfcompletely, and Idon’t thinkshe’llevercomeoutagain,orsmile, or laugh, or tell useverything will be all right,like she used to when Billywashere.Sometimes now, I cannot

pictureBilly’s faceanymoreand I think maybe that’sbecause he’s dead. I don’twant to think it, but I can’t

helpmyself.

DECEMBER8TH

WILL THE RAIN NEVERSTOP? WILL THE WINDblowforever?Wehardlyeverleave the house, just to cutlimpets off the rocks and tobring in firewood from theshed. There’s precious little

wood left, andwhat there is,isdamp.Granny May won’t eat.

Mother has tried everythingshe can to tempt her – thisevening the very last of thepotatoes.Shewon’tevenlookatit.Sheturnsherfaceaway,just like the turtle did. She’lldie if she doesn’t eat. Sheknowsitandshedoesn’tcare.And I know why. I reallythinkshe’smadeuphermindtodie– thatwayat least she

can stay here like she wantsto.She sleeps most of the

time. She’s sleeping nowbesidemeandshe’stalkinginhersleep,allabout theturtle.I can’tmake any sense of it,but it’s a kind of ramblingprayer, not to God likeprayers should be, but to theturtle.She’s losinghermind,Ithink.

DECEMBER9TH

TheWreckoftheZanzibar

I DON’T KNOW WHERETOBEGIN.GRANNYMAYis still asleep. She wakes

from time to time, and looksupatmefondly.I’vetoldheragain and again what’shappened today. She justsmiles and pats my hand. Ihopesheunderstands,butI’mnot sure she does. I’m notsureIdo.Mother sent me out early

as usual to fetch back somelimpets or whatever I couldfind.Itwastooroughagaintofish from the rocks. Thestorm was worse than ever.

There must have been adozen of us out doing thesame thing on Great Porth,when someone saw the sail.The rain was coming in hailsqualls, driving intomy faceso hard that I could scarcelyopen my eyes. One sailbecame four, white againstthe black storm clouds. TheshipwasbeatingherwaypastSeal Rock towards theTearing Ledges, making noheadway in the teeth of a

gale.We all knewwhat wasgoingtohappen.We’dseenitbefore. A ship about tofounder staggers before shefalls.Ahugewavebrokeoverher stern and she did notcome upright again. She layon her side and wallowed inthewaves.The cry went up from all

around.‘Wreck!Wreck!’I raced home and met

Father and the chief comingupthetrackatarun.

‘Is it true?’ cried Father.‘Havewegotawreck?’When we reached the

boathouse they were alreadyhaulingthegigdownintothesurf. Time and again, thecrew leapt in andwe pushedthemout,up toourwaists inthe icy sea, and time andagain they were driven backby thewaves. In the end shewas caught broadside on,capsized and everyone wasupturned into the sea. After

that everyonewanted to giveup,everyoneexceptthechief.‘Rushy Bay!’ he cried.

‘Nothingelsefor it.We’llbeoutofthewind.We’lllaunchherthere!’Butnoonewouldhearofit

until the schoolteacher camerunning along the beachtowardsus,breathless.‘There’s men in the sea,’

she said. ‘I saw them fromSamsonHill.Theship’sgoneontherocks.’

‘You heard her!’ cried thechief. ‘Well, what are wewaitingfor?’They lashed the oars

across,andatawordfromthechief, lifted the gig up on totheir shoulders. Mother wasbeside me now, taking myhand in hers, silent withanxiety.Istoodandwatched,yearning, aching to becarrying the gig, with thechief, with Father, with oldmanJenkinsandtheothers.

They staggered up thebeach and set off across theGreentowardsRushyBay,allof us running alongside.When we reached the trackup Samson Hill everyonemadeoffupthehill towatchfrom the top, everyone butme. I stayed with the crew.Mothertriedtoholdontome,but I broke free. Fatherbellowed at me, but I paidhim no heed and I knew hewastoobusytomakeme.

Over the dunes theywent,cursing and groaning underthe weight of the gig, and Iwentwiththem.AndthatwaswhereFatherwentdownwitha cry, clutching at his ankleand rolling over in agony.When he tried to stand, hecouldnot.Iwenttohelphim.He looked up, and shook hishead.‘Youtakeit!’thechiefwas

shouting,andhewasshoutingatme.‘You,Laura,you!’He

tookmebytheshouldersandshookme.‘Comeon!’So I took up Father’s oar

and my share of the weighton my shoulder, and leavingFather behind on the dunes,we ran the gig down thebeach and into the sea. Weunlashed our oars, leapt in,and at once we were pullinghard for Samson. The waveshurled us up and down soviolently that I thought the

gigwouldbreakherback.IjustrowedandasIrowed

I suddenly realised where Iwas,andwhat Iwasdoing. Iwas out in the gig! I wasrowingout toawreck! IwasdoingwhatIhadalwaysmostwanted to do all my life. Atlast,atlast,atlast!No one spoke except the

chief. He stood in the prowbellowingatus.‘Row, you beggars, row.

Rowlikehell.There’sfolkin

thewateroutthere.Rowyourhearts out. Row, blast youreyes,row!’And I rowed like I had

never rowed before, fixingmyeyesontheblade,pullinglong and hard through thewater, reaching far forward,bracing my feet and diggingtheoaragainintothesea.Thesea surged and churnedaround the gig. I becamemyoar,myoarbecameme.Iwastoobusy to feelanyfear, too

coldtofeelanypain.The gig grounded

suddenly. I had not expectedit so soon. We were onSamson already. We hungover our oars like wet rags,drained of all strength. Butthechiefhadn’tfinishedwithusyet.‘Out!’ he cried, and he

leapt over the side. ‘We’llcarry her across Samson andlaunchheragainontheotherside. It’s the only way we’ll

reach them. Come on, youbeggars.Betimetorestwhenit’sdone.’So we tumbled over the

side, lashed the oars againandlifted.TheneckofSamsonisjust

ahundredyardsorsoacross,butintheteethofthatgale,itfelt like a mile. More thanonce I stumbled and fell tomy knees, but always therewere strong hands graspingme and hauling me to my

feet.‘I can see them!’ cried the

chief.‘OveronWhiteIsland.Icanseethem.’Thechiefwaseverywhere,

lifting with us, bellowingbehind us, clearing the wayahead of us.We reached thebeach on the far side ofSamsonatlastandranthegigdown over the pebbles untiltheseatooktheweightofherfrom us. We unlashed theoars,pushedheroutandpiled

in.‘Pull!’ he cried. ‘Pull for

your children, pull for yourwives.’I have no children, I have

no wife, but I pulled all thesame. I pulled instead forGrannyMay, forMother, forFather and for Billy,especiallyforBilly.It was no great distance

acrossthenarrowchannelbutthe seas were seething. Awitches’ brew of wind and

tide and current took us andtossedusaboutatwill.Underus thegiggroanedandcried,but she held together. Athunderous wave reared upabove us, a great green wallof water and I thought wemustgoover.‘Steady!Steady!’camethe

chief’s voice, and even thewave seemed to obey him. Ifelt the boat rise with thewave,surgeforwardandthenwe were surfing in towards

the beach where we weredumpedhighandsafeon theshingleofWhiteIsland.I climbed out and looked

about me. I saw menstaggering towards us, andone of them was runningaheadoftheothers.‘Laura!’ he cried. I knew

the voice, and then I knewhim.‘Billy?’ I said, taking his

face inmy hands to be sure,to be quite sure. ‘Is it you,

Billy?Isityou?’‘Thank God,’ he

whispered.Ihavetopinchmyselfstill

tobelieveitasIwriteit.Billyisback!Billyissafe!Billyishome! We hugged out thereon White Island. We cried.Welaughed.OnthewaybacktoBryher,

with thewind and thewavesbehind us,with new strengthinourarms,thegigflewoverthe sea. We had rescued

everymanonboardandBillyhadcomehome.Icouldhaverowedthatgigsingle-handed.They had hot baths ready

all over the island. Billy satthere, laughing in the tub inthe kitchen with all of usaround,andshiveredthecoldoutofhim.He was bigger, stronger,

different somehow, but stillBilly. We had hot soup –limpetsagain–butwedidn’tcare,notnow.I’veneverseen

anyoneashungry.I’ve never seen Mother

glowing so, nor Father somotherly. Everyone’s proudof me. I’m proud of me.Billy’stootiredtotalkmuch,he says his ship was calledtheZanzibar.Shewasboundfor New York from France.He was suddenly tired andMother took him up to bed.He’lltellusmoretomorrow.I’ve just told GrannyMay

againthatBilly’sbackhome,

butallshesaysis:‘Theturtle,theturtle.’She’s asleep again now. I

am so tired and I am sohappy.

DECEMBER10TH

WHEN I WOKE UP THISMORNING I THOUGHTyesterdaymustbe adream. IhadtogointoBilly’sroomtobe quite sure it wasn’t. Hewas still asleep. He sleepslike a baby, like he always

did,withhis fingeralongsidehisnose.The wind has dropped.

From his window I watchedthe sea dancing in themorning light.Fatherwasonhis way out when I gotdownstairs,leaningonastickand limping, but beaming atme.‘The Zanzibar,’ he said,

‘she’s still on the rocks –what’s left of her. But shewon’t be there for long.

We’re going out to see whatwecantakeoff.’Mother tried to stop him

buthewouldn’t listen.Itriedto go with him but Motherwouldn’t have it. She stoodbetween me and the door,took hold of me and sat medownfirmly.Lateron,IwentupSamson

Hill with Mother, leavingBilly and Granny May stillasleep. Every boat fromBryherwasoutaroundWhite

Island. The wreck was highon the rocks, only her prowhidden under the water, hersails were in tatters. Therewere men crawling all overher like ants.AswewatchedwesawthegigpullingslowlyawayfromWhite Island.Shewas low in the water. Therewaslaughteracrossthesea.AsthegigcameintoRushy

Bay below us, I sawsomething lashed to eithersideofher.Mothercouldnot

make out what it was andneither could I. The crewshipped their oars some wayfrom shore and let the gigcome in slowly on her own.Then I saw thechief andoldmanJenkinsleaningoutoverthe side. They had knives intheir hands and they werecuttingattheropes.‘Cows!’ someone said.

And at that moment, amidgreatsplashingandwhoopingfrom the gig, six cows came

out of the sea and camegambollingupthebeach.‘Well, I’ll be beggared,’

saidMother.The crew leapt out after

them, and thenbeganagreatcow chase all over RushyBay, Father waving his stickat everyone and shouting. Intheenditwasdifficulttosaywhowaschasingwho.Weallran down Samson Hill tohelp,anddrovethemupoverthe dunes on to the Green

where they settled at last tograze. Father, all breathless,leanedonhisstickandshookhishead.‘Well,’ he said. ‘Would

youbelieveit?’But there was a lot more

thancowsonthewreckoftheZanzibar. All afternoon theboats came back and forthloaded to the gunnels withtimber, with corn, and withbrandy!Billywasupbynow,and along with all the other

rescued sailors from theZanzibar,helentahand.By this evening, thebeach

on Rushy Bay was litteredwith piles of loot – everyfamilyhadtheirownpileandweferrieditallbackhomeindonkeycarts.Wehadprayedforawreck

and a wreck had come. Andwhatawreck!Thatamiraclehadhappened,noonedoubts.There is wood enough torebuild our battered houses,

and to rebuild or replace ourruined boats. There are cowsto give us milk, all the cornweneed to feedus and themthrough the winter, andthere’ll be enough over forseednextspring.Andbrandyenough, Father says, to keepusallhappyforever.Granny May insisted we

get her up. She keepstouchingBillytobesurehe’sreal. She took some soup –the first time she’d eaten for

days–andthenmadeustakeher to Rushy Bay to see thewreck.Shecouldn’twalk, soBillyandhisfriendsfromtheZanzibar pulled her acrossthe island in the back of acart,asthedonkeyswerestillbusy.Shewasbesidemethisevening, at high tide, whenweheardtheZanzibargroan.Everyonewas there towatchher go.Wewatched her sinkslowly into the sea, hershredded sails whipping in

the wind, waving at us. Iwaved back in silence. Thecrewtookofftheirhats,somecrossed themselves and oneof them fell on his knees inthe sand and thanked God.And then we all knelt withhim, except Granny May, Inoticed.We’re staying. Everyone’s

staying. Billy’s staying.He’ssaid so, he promised. He’scrossedhisheartandhopedtodie. He’s been all over the

world – America, Ireland,France, Spain, Africa even.Imagine that, Africa. I askedabout Joseph Hannibal. Itseemshedidn’tquiteturnoutas Billy had expected. Hedrank a lot. He borrowedBilly’smoneyandnevergaveit back. And when Billyasked for it, he threatenedhim.SoBillylefttheGeneralLeeinNewYorkandbecamea cabin-boy on theZanzibar.It was the Zanzibar that had

takenhimallovertheworld.Billy says there are

beautifulplaces in theworld,wonders you wouldn’tbelieve unless you saw themwith your own eyes, but thatthere’s nowhere else in theworld quite like Scilly,nowhere like home. I toldhim I knew that already, andFather said there’s somethings you’ve got to find outforyourself,andBillyandhesmiledateachother.

DECEMBER24TH

I’M MILKING THEZANZIBAR COWS, ANDWITHBilly,too.Threeofthesix are inmilk andwe thinkthe others may be in calf –let’s hope! Everyone hadmost of what they want off

thewreck.There’sbeensomegrumbles, of course, but it’sbeen fair shares. We’ve gotthe cows because we’re theonly oneswho know how tohandle them – we got somecorn, too – everyone did.We’ve rebuilt the cowshedjust as it was. Granny Mayhas enough wood for herroof. There’s timber stackedup in gardens all over theisland. There’s boats beingmended, roofs going on.

Everyone, everywhere, ishammering and sawing.Bryherisaliveagain.GrannyMaywill probably

bewithusuntilthespring,tillher house is ready. She’s thesame now as she ever was,scuttling about the place andmuttering to herself.Sometimes I think she is the‘madoldstick’everyonesayssheis.Shekeepstellingmeitwasn’t God that brought thewreckthatbroughtBillyback

to us, it was the turtle. Sheramblesonandonabouthowthere’s no such thing as amiracle. If somethinghappens, then something hasmade it happen. Law ofnature, she says. We savedthe turtle and so the turtlesaved us. It’s that simple.Yougetwhatyoudeserve inthis world, she says. I don’tknowthatshe’sright.I’vetoldBillyallaboutthe

turtle. He says if he’d found

it, he’d have eaten it, but hewouldn’t have. He’s justsaying that. We talk and wetalk. We’ve hardly stoppedtalking since he came back.I’veheardhisstoriesoverandover,butIwanttohearthemagainandagain.Iknowthemsowell, it’s as if I waswithhimallthetimehewasaway,as if I’ve been to AmericaandAfrica,asifI’veseenformyself the great cities, thedesertsthatgoonforeverand

icebergs and mountains thatreachupandtouchthesky.The crew of the Zanzibar

left from the quay thisevening. We were there towave them off. Everyonehugged everyone. Theywereallsohappytobealiveandsogratefultousforsavingthem.Sincehe’sbeenback,Billy

hasn’t had a crosswordwithFather, and Mother is mymotheragain.

DECEMBER25TH

ChristmasDay

IT SEEMS GRANNYMAYMIGHT HAVE BEEN rightafter all. I was with Billycleaning out the cowshedafter church when he called

meoutside.Everyoneseemedto be running down towardsGreen Bay and there was acrowd gathered down on thebeach. So we left everythingand ran.WemetMother andGranny May coming out ofthehouse.‘There’sbeenadeadturtle

washed up,’ said Mother.Granny May looked at me,hereyesfulloftears.Wehadto push through the crowd.People were laughing, and I

hated them for that. He wascovered in sandandseaweedand they were trying to rollhim over, but he was tooheavy,evenfor them.ThenIlooked again. It was a turtleall right, but it was not ourturtle. It wasn’t any turtle atall. It was painted brightgreenwithyelloweyesanditlooked as if it had beencarved out of wood. It wasthefigureheadoffaship.Billy crouched down

beside it, and brushed thesandoffitsface.‘That’s off the Zanzibar,’

hesaid.GrannyMaywas laughing

through her tears. She tookmyhandandsqueezedit.‘Nowdoyoubelieveme?’

she said, and shedidn’t needananswer.‘Ifit’soffBilly’sship,’she

went on, ‘then it belongs toBilly, doesn’t it?’ No onearguedwithher.

‘We’ll call him Zanzibarandhecanliveinthegarden.Let’s get him home.’ So weheaved him up on to a cartand trundled him home. Allafternoonwescrubbed.A lotof his paint had come off inthe sea. He’s a little biggerthan our turtle was but hisface is just the same,wizened, wrinkled and wiselike a two hundred year oldman. And he smiles just thesametoo–gently.

I’m looking out of mywindow as I write this. Helooks as if he’s trying to eatthe grass. He won’t, ofcourse. He’ll only eatjellyfish. Zanzibar is a goodnameforhim,therightname,Ithink.(On the last page, she had

written in ink, in thewobblyhandwritingofanoldlady:)

P.S.OneLastThing

I’m not leaving Zanzibar toanyone. I’m leaving him toeveryone. So Iwant him putout on the Green so all thechildrenofBryher can sit onhimwhenevertheylike.Theycan ride him wherever theylike. He can be a horse, adragon, a dolphin, anelephant or even aleatherbackturtle.As you know, yourGreat-

uncleBillylivedagoodlonglife. When he died, I didn’t

know how I’d managewithout him. But I did,because I had to. Anyway,we’retogetheragainnow.

L.P.1995

MARZIPAN

ISATTHEREONTHEBEDFOR SOME MOMENTS,looking at the last of Great-aunt Laura’s drawings – ofZanzibarontheGreengazingouttosea.Sittingastridehimisasmallgirl.Thewindisinher hair and she’s laughing

outofsheerjoy.FromoutsidethewindowI

heard peals of laughter. Ileaned out. There must havebeenhalfadozenlittleniecesand nephews down in thegarden and clambering allover Zanzibar. The smallestof them, Catherine it was –my youngest niece, wasofferingZanzibar some grassand stroking his headbetweenhiseyes.‘Come on, Marzipan,’ she

wassaying,‘you’lllikeit.’‘He won’t eat it,’ I called

down. ‘He only eatsjellyfish.’ She looked up atme,squintingintothesun.‘How do you know?’ she

asked.‘Ifyouletmesitonhim,’I

said,‘I’lltellyou.I’lltellyouwhere Zanzibar came from,howhegothere,everything.’‘Allright,’shesaid.So, sitting on Zanzibar in

the evening sun, I read them

Great-auntLaura’sdiaryfrombeginningtoend.BythetimeI’dfinished, theentirefamilywasgatheredaroundZanzibarandlistening.I closed the book. ‘That’s

it,’ I said. No one spoke forsometime.ItwasCatherine’sideathat

we should move Zanzibarright away. So we fetchedGreat-aunt Laura’s ricketycart out of her shed, loadedup Zanzibar and hauled him

along the rutty track to theGreen. I knew from that lastdrawing in the diary exactlywhere she wanted him put.Andthat’swherewelefthim,gazingouttosea.When I looked back there

were gulls circling abovehim.Somehadlandedonhisback, and one on his head.Catherine was running atthem, waving her hands andshouting. ‘Shoo!’ she cried.‘Shoo!’ They flew off,

protesting; and Catherinecaughtusup.‘Anyway,itdoesn’tmatter,

doesit?’shesaid.‘Theycan’teathim,canthey?Marzipan’smadeofwood,isn’the?’‘Zanzibar,’ I said. ‘He’s

calledZanzibar.’‘That’s what I said,’ she

replied, and skippedoff aftertheothers.

ThemagicofKingArthurcontinues...

THESLEEPINGSWORD

Ifeltallaroundme.Oneverysidetherewereearthwalls.Inapanic,IgropedabovemefortheholeImusthavefallenthrough.Itriedagainandagaintohaulmyselfup,but

thesoilroofkeptgivingwayandfallinginonme.Imusthavebeenawareoftherumbleofthetractor,butonlynowdidIrealisethatitwastoocloseandcomingcloser,thatitwasheading

straightforme.

BunBendlestumblesonedayintoanundergroundtombcontainingashieldanda

beautiful,ancientsword.As

hetouchesthehilt,hiswholebodyisgrippedbyanincredible,centuries-old

power.ItisapowerthatwillchangeBun’slifeforever.

MICHAELMORPURGOThemasterstoryteller

Formoregreatbookssee:

www.michaelmorpurgo.orgwww.egmont.co.uk