AloneonaWide

WideSea

michaelmorpurgo

HarperCollinsChildren’sBooks

ToLulaLéaandClare,whohelpedmakethisbookwith

me.

MythankstoAlexWhitworthandPeterCrozier,mariners

extraordinaireandquiteancienttoo,whose

emailswhilecircumnavigatingtheworldin

theiryachtBerrimillain2004informedandinspiredthisstory.Thanksalsoto

GrahamBarrettandIsabellaWhitworthforalltheirwonderfulhelpand

encouragement.AndofcourseImustn’tforget

SamuelTaylorColeridge…

Contents

CoverTitlePage

PartOneThe Story of ArthurHobhouse Arthur Hobhouse is aHappening

ThreeRedFunnelsandanOrchestra Kookaburras, CockatoosandKangaroosCooper’sStationandPiggyBaconandGod’sWorkSufferLittleChildrenWesSnarkey’sRevengeSaintsandSinnersMrsPiggytoIda“OnlyOneWayOut”

“Did We Have theChildrenHereforThis?”“JustWatchMe” “For She’s a Jolly GoodFellow”WideastheOcean“CoupleofRaggedyLittleScarecrows”Henry’sHorribleHatHoleIMustGoDowntotheSeaScrambledEggsandBakedBeans

“You’remyBoys,Aren’tYou?”FreddieDoddsOneJanuaryNightAnOrphanJusttheSameThingsFallApartTheCentreWillNotHoldOhLuckyMan!KittyFour

PartTwo

TheVoyageoftheKittyFourWhatGoesAround,ComesAround Two Send-offs, and anAlbatrossJellyBlobbersandRedHotChiliPeppers AndNowtheStormBlastCameJustStayingAlive“HeyHoLittleFishDon’tCry,Don’tCry”

AroundtheHorn,andwithDolphinsToo!DrMarcTopolski“OneSmallStepforMan”AloneonaWideWideSea“LondonBridgeisFallingDown”

Nowyou’vereadthebook

AfterwordAcknowledgements

AbouttheAuthorCopyrightAboutthePublisher

PartOneTheStoryofArthurHobhouse

ArthurHobhouseisaHappening

I should begin at thebeginning, I know that. Butthe trouble is that I don’tknow thebeginning. Iwish Idid. I do know my name,Arthur Hobhouse. ArthurHobhouse had a beginning,

that’s for certain. I had afather and a mother too, butGod only knows who theywere, and maybe even hedoesn’t know for sure. Imean, God can’t be lookingeverywhere all at once, canhe? So where the nameArthurHobhousecomesfromandwhogaveittomeIhavenoidea.Idon’tevenknowifit’s my real name. I don’tknow the date and place ofmy birth either, only that it

wasprobablyinBermondsey,London, sometime in about1940.The earliest memories I

have are all confusedsomehow, and out of focus.For instance, I’ve alwaysknownIhadasister,anoldersister.Allmy life she’s beensomewhere in the deepestrecesseseitherofmymemoryor my imagination –sometimes I can’t really be

sure which – and she wascalled Kitty.When they sentmeaway,shewasn’twithme.I wish I knew why. I try topicture her, and sometimes Ican.Iseeapaledelicatefacewith deep dark eyes that arefilledwithtears.Sheisgivingme a small key, but I don’trememberwhatthekeyisfor.It’s on a piece of string. Shehangs it roundmy neck, andtells me I’m to wear italways.AndthensometimesI

hear her laugh, an infectiousgiggle that winds itself upinto a joyous cackle. Mysister cackles like akookaburra. She comesskipping into my dreamssometimes, singing LondonBridgeisFallingDown,andItry to talk to her, but sheneverseemstobeabletohearme. Somehow we’re alwaysjust out of reach of oneanother.

All my earliest memoriesare very like dreams. I knowthat none of them are propermemories, none that I couldreallycallmyownanyway.Ifeel I’ve come out of half-forgotten, half-rememberedtimes,andI’msureI’veoftenfilled thehalf-forgotten timeswith made-up memories.Perhaps it’s my mind tryingto make some sense of theunknown.SoIcan’tknowforcertain where the made-up

ones end and the real onesbegin. All the earliestchildhoodmemories must belike that for everyone Isuppose,butmaybeminearemore blurred than most, andmaybe that’s because I haveno family stories to supportthem, no hard facts, no realevidence, no certificates, nota single photograph. It’salmost as if Iwasn’t born atall, that I just happened.Arthur Hobhouse is a

happening. I’ve been ahappening for sixty-fiveyears,orthereabouts,andthetimehascomenowformetoput my life down on paper.Forme thiswill be the birthcertificate Ineverhad. It’s toprove to me and to anyoneelsewhoreadsitthatatleastIwashere,thatIhappened.I am a story as well as a

happening, and I want mystory to be known, for Kitty

to know it – if she’s stillalive. I want her to knowwhat sort of a brother shehad. I want Zita to know ittoo, although she knows mewell enough already, Ireckon,wartsandall.Mostofall I want Allie to know it,and for her children to knowit,whentheycomealong,andher children’s children too. Iwant themall toknowwhoIwas, that I was a happeningand I was a story too. This

way I’ll live on in them. I’llbe part of their story, and Iwon’t be entirely forgottenwhen I go. That’s importanttome. I think that’s theonlykind of immortality we canhave, thatwe stay alive onlyas long as our story goes onbeingtold.SoI’mgoingtosithere by the window for aslongas it takes and tell it alljustasIrememberit.Theysayyoucan’tbegina

story without knowing theend. Until recently I didn’tknow the end, but now I do.SoIcanbegin,andI’llbeginfrom the very first day I canbesureIreallyremember.I’dhavebeenaboutsixyearsold.Strange that thememories ofyouth linger long, stayvivid,perhaps because we live ouryoung lives more intensely.Everything is fresh and forthe first time, andunforgettable. And we have

more time just to stand andstare. Strange too that eventsofmymore recentyears,myadultyears,aremoreclouded,less distinct. Time gathersspeed as we get older. Lifeflashesbyall too fast, and isoveralltoosoon.

ThreeRedFunnelsandanOrchestra

There were dozens of us onthe ship, all ages, boys andgirls, and we were all up ondeck for the leaving ofLiverpool,gullswheelingandcryingoverourheads,callinggoodbye.I thoughttheywere

waving goodbye.None of usspoke.Itwasagreydaywithdrizzleintheair,thegreatsadcranes bowing to the shipfromthedocksaswesteamedpast.That’sallIrememberofEngland.The deck shuddered under

our feet. The enginesthunderedandthrobbedasthegreat ship turned slowly andmadefor theopenseaahead,the mist rolling in from the

horizon.Thenunshadtolduswewereoff toAustralia, butitmightaswellhavebeen tothe moon. I had no ideawhere Australia was. All Iknewatthetimewasthattheship was taking me away,somewherefarawayovertheocean. The ship’s sirensounded again and again,deafening me even though Ihadmy hands over my ears.When it was over I clutchedthe key aroundmy neck, the

keyKittyhadgivenme,andIpromised myself andpromised her I’d come backhomeoneday.Ifelt inmeatthat moment a sadness sodeepthat ithasnever leftmesince. But I felt too that justsolongasIhadKitty’skey,itwouldbeluckyforme,andIwouldbeallright.I suppose we must have

gone by way of the SuezCanal. I know that most of

the great liners bound forAustralia did in those days.ButIcan’tsayIrememberit.There’s a lot I do rememberthough: the three pillar-box-red funnels, the sound of theorchestra playing from firstclass where we weren’tallowed to go – once theyevenplayedLondonBridgeisFallingDownandIlovedthatbecause it always made mehappy when I heard it. Iremember mountainous

waves, higher than the deckof the ship,greenorgrey,orthe deepest blue some days,schools of silver dancingdolphins,andalways,eveninthe stormiest weather,seabirdsskimmingthewaves,or floating high above thefunnels. And there was thewide wide sea all around usgoingon it seemed tomeforeverandever,aswideas theskyitself.Itwasthewidenessof it all I remember, and the

stars at night, themillions ofstars.ButbestofallIsawmyfirstalbatross.Heflewoutofashiningwaveoneday,cameright over my head andlooked down deep into myeyes. I’ve never forgottenthat.Theshipwas,inaway,my

firsthome,becauseitwasthefirst home I can remember.We slept two to a bunk, adozen or more of us packed

intoeachcabin,deepdowninthe bowels of the ship, closetothepoundingrhythmoftheengines. It was cramped andhotdownthereandreekedofdiesel and damp clothes, andtherewasoften the stenchofvomit too, a lot if it mine. Iwasinwithalotofotherladsall of whomwere older thanme,somealotolder.I was in trouble almost

fromthestart.Theycalledme

a “softie” because I’d rockmyself to sleep at night,humming London Bridge isFallingDown, and because Icriedsometimes.OnceoneofthemfoundoutIwetmybedtoo, they never letme forgetit.Theygavemeahardtime,a lot of grief. They’d thumpme with pillows, hide myclothes, hide my shoes. Butsending me to Coventry wasthe worst, just refusing tospeak to me, not even

acknowledgingmyexistence.I really hated them for that.They reserved this particularpunishmentforwhenIwasatmymostmiserable,whenI’dbeensickinthecabin.Sea-sicknesswasmy chief

dread.Itcameuponmeoftenand violently. To begin withI’d do what everyone elseseemed todo, I’dvomitoverthe rail – if I could get therein time. It was while I was

doingthisonedaythatIfirstmet Marty. We werevomiting together side byside, caught one another’seye, and shared each other’swretchedness. I could see inhiseyesthatitwasjustasbadfor him. It helped somehowto know that. That was howour friendship began. Somekindly sailor came along andtookpityonusboth.Hegaveus someadvice:when it getsrough,hetoldus,youshould

gobelow,asfardownasyoucan go. It’s the best place,becausedownthereyoudon’tfeel the roll of the ship somuch.Sothat’swhatwedid,and it worked – mostly.Marty came down to mycabin, or I’d go to his. Butsometimes I’dget caughtoutand findmyselfhaving tobesick on the cabin floor. I’dclean it up, but I couldn’tcleanup thesmellof it, so ifI’ddoneitinmycabinthey’d

sendmetoCoventryagain.Itwas to avoid having to facethem that I sought outMarty’s company more andmore.IthinkitwasbecauseIfelt safewith him.Hewas afair bit older than me, aboutten he was, older even thanthe boys in my cabin andtallertoo–thetallestofallofus, and tall was important. Inever asked him to protectme, not as such. But I knewsomehowhemight, and as it

turnedout,hedid.We were up on deck, the

two of us, watching analbatross gliding over thewaves–likeme,Martylovedalbatross – when a gang ofthese lads from my cabinwere suddenly there behindus. They were northern lads,all of them – sometimes Icouldhardlyunderstandwhatthey said.One of them, theirringleader Wes Snarkey,

startedcallingmenamesandtaunting me, I can’tremember why. I was “nowtbut a poxy cockney!” Martystared atWes for amoment.He just walked right up tohim and knocked him flat.Onepunch.Thenhesaidveryquietly,“I’macockney too.”They all slunk away, andafter that lifegot awhole loteasier for me down in thecabin.Itmighthavebeenjustas hot and sticky, just as

crowded and smelly, but atleasttheymoreorlessleftmealone.AllMarty’sdoing.It was Marty too who

explained it all tome –whywe were on the ship, wherewe were going and why. Idon’t know how much, ifanything, I had understoodbefore. We were going toAustralia,thatwasallIknewfor certain. All of us, Martysaid, had been specially

chosen from all the orphansinEnglandtogooutandlivein Australia – that’s whathe’d been told. Australia, hesaid, was a brand newcountry where there hadn’tbeen a war, where therehadn’t been bombings andrationing, where there waslotsoffoodtoeat,hugeparksto play in, and beaches too.We’dbeabletogoswimmingwheneverweliked.ItoldhimI couldn’t swim, and he said

he’d teach me, that I’d soonlearn.And, he explained,weweren’tevergoingtobesenttoanorphanageagainliketheones we’d grown up in, butinstead we were all going tolive in families who wantedto look after us. So, with allthattolookforwardto,itwasworth being sea-sick for awhile,wasn’tit?Nothingwasworth being sea-sick for, Isaid, and I promised Iwouldnever ever set foot on a ship

oraboatagain,notforalltheteainChina.ItwasapromiseI singularly failed to keep –often.

During that whole longvoyage into an uncertainfuture, Marty cheered myspirits.He became like a bigbrother to me, which waswhy I confided in him aboutKitty, about how she’d beenleft behind and how much I

missedher.Ishowedhimthelucky key she’d given me. Icould never think of her oreven say her name withoutcrying, but Marty neverseemed to mind me crying.ButhedidmindmehummingLondon Bridge is FallingDown, said I was alwaysdoing it, and couldn’t I humanother tune? I said I didn’tknowanyothers.He toldmethat, like as not,Kittywouldprobably be coming out to

Australiaonanothership,thatthere wasn’t room on thisone, which was why theyhadn’t letheron, thatI’dseeher again soon enough. Thatwas Marty through andthrough, always hopeful,always so certain thingswould work out. But Marty,as I discovered later, didn’tjust hope things would getbetter,he’ddoallhecouldtomakesuretheydidtoo.

You need people likeMartyjusttokeepyougoing.Even if things don’t seem tobeworkingoutquiteasyou’dlikethemto,youneedtofeelthey’re going to, that allwillbe well in the end. If youdon’t believe that, andsometimes in my life Ihaven’t, then there’s a deepblackholewaiting foryou, ablack hole I came to knowonly too well later on. Ilearned a lot from Marty on

that ship, about hope, aboutfriendship. Mighty Martyeveryone called him, and itwas a nickname that suitedhimperfectly.

Kookaburras,CockatoosandKangaroos

In my time I’ve sailed intodozens of harbours all overthe world. None is moreimpressive than Sydney.Liverpoolhadbeengrimandgrey when we left, Sydney

was blue and balmy andbrightandbeautiful.Itwasanarrival I shall never forget.We came in to port in themorning in our grand red-funnelled ship, the ship’shornsoundingtoannounceusproudly.AndIfeltpartofallthis new glory. Marty and Istood there leaning on theship’s rail, gazing in wonder–agogisthebestwordforit,I think. Everything about theplace was new and

marvelloustome,thewarmthofthebreeze,thehundredsofsailing boats out in the bay,white sails straining, themajesty of Sydney HarbourBridge,thered-roofedhouseson the hillsides all around,and the sea – I never knewblue could be so blue.Nowhere could have beenmoreperfect. Iknewwithoutquestion that we weresteaming into paradise. Andas the ship crept in, ever

closer, I could see thateveryonewaswavingupatusandsmiling.Wewavedback.AndMarty put his fingers inhismouthandwhistled.Iwasfilledwithsuddenhope.Iwasaglowwithhappiness,andsowas Marty. He had his armaround my shoulder. “I toldyou, Arthur, didn’t I?” hesaid. “A brand-new country.We’llbeallrightnow.”

Inallthebustleandchaosonthedocksidetheygatheredallof us children together, gaveus a roll call, and then,withouttellinguswhy,beganto split us up into groups.When I saw what washappeningIstayedasclosetoMarty as I could. The lastthing I wanted was to getseparated from him. Butthat’s just what they tried todo. Marty grabbed my arm,held on to it, and toldme to

stayrightwhereIwasbesidehim.Quickasaflash,hesaid,“Him and me, Mister, we’recousins.WhereArthurgoes,Igo.WhereIgo,Arthurgoes.”The man ticking our namesoff his list said it was quiteimpossible,thatarrangementshad already been made andcouldn’t be changed.Hewasadamant, and bad-temperedtoo. He shouted at Marty tobutton his lip and do as hewas told. Like everyone else

on the dockside, he spokeEnglish, but it didn’t soundthesamelanguageasithadinEngland at all. I recognisedthewords,someof them,butthe sounds they made weredifferentandstrange.Marty didn’t shout back

and scream. He didn’t jumpup and down. Marty, Idiscovered,hadhisownveryindividual way of dealingwithauthority.Hespokevery

quietly, perfectly politely,fixing themanwith a steadystare. “We’re stayingtogether, Mister,” he said.And we did too, which waswhyIfoundmyself later thatmorning sitting besideMartyon a bus, heading out ofSydney and into opencountry.Thereweretenofusonthatbus,allboys,andasIlooked around me I wasrelieved to see that only oneof the boys from my cabin

was there. It was WesSnarkey, the one Marty hadthumped that day on deck –he’d never given me anytrouble since, so that didn’tbotherme. Lady Luck reallyhad smiled on me – that’swhat I thought at the timeanyway.The driver, who seemed a

chatty,cheerfulsortofbloke,told us he was taking us toCooper’s Station, a big farm

over 300 miles away. Itwould take us all day to getthere.Besttosettledownandsleep,hesaid.Butwedidn’t.Noneofusdid.Therewastoomuch to look at, too manywonders I’d never seenbefore.Forastart,therewerethewide open spaces, hardlya house in sight, hardly anypeopleeither.Butthatwasn’tall that amazed me that firstday in Australia. All theanimals and birds were as

differentandstrange tousasthe country itself. The busdrivertolduswhattheywere– and it turned out theirnames were about as odd asthey were themselves –kookaburras and cockatoosand kangaroos and possums.They didn’t even have thesametreeswehadbackhomein England. They had gumtreesandwattletreesinstead.This wasn’t just a differentcountry we were in, it was

more like a different planet.And the scrubby surface ofthis planet seemed to go onand on, flat on every side asfar as the horizon, whichshimmered blue and brownandgreen.Andthetownswedrove through were like notowns I’d seen before. Theyhad great wide dusty streets,and all the houseswere low.Ifyousawanothercar itwasasurprise.

I was hot and dusty andthirsty on that bus, and Ithought the journey wouldneverend,butIwashappy.Iwas happy to have arrived,happy not to be sea-sick anymore.Tired thoughwewere,we were buoyed up by theexcitementof itall.Thiswasa new adventure in a newworld.Wewereonabusrideintowonderlandandwewereloving it, every singlemomentofit.

Eveningwascomingonbythe time we got to Cooper’sStation,butwecouldstillseeenough.We could see itwasaplaceonitsown,wayoutinthebush,andwecouldtell itwasafarm.Imeanyoucouldsmell it straightaway, themoment we clambered downoff thebus.Therewerehugesheds all around, and youcouldhearcattlemovingandshifting around inside. Andfrom further away in the

gloomtherewasthesoundofa running creek, and ducksquacking raucously. Agramophone record wasplaying from the nearbyfarmhouse, which had a tinroof and a verandah allaround it. I thought at firstthat was where we’d all beliving, but we were led pastit, carrying our suitcases,down a dirt track and into acompound with a fence allaround. In the centre of this

wasalongwoodenshedwithsteps at one end and averandah.“Yournewhome,”theman

told us, opening the door. Ididn’t take much notice ofhim,notthen.Iwastoobusylooking around me. Thegramophoneneedlegot stuckas I stood there. I can neverthink of Cooper’s Stationwithout that stuttering snatchof a hymn repeating itself

remorselessly in my head,“What a friend we have inJesus, have in Jesus, have inJesus,haveinJesus”.Iwasn’ttoknowitthen,butitwastheeerie overture that heraldedthedarkestyearsofmylife.

Cooper’sStationandPiggyBaconandGod’sWork

I think it was from themoment they first shut us inthe dormitory block atCooper’s Station, and weheard the door bolted behindus, that I have hated walls

aboutmeandlockeddoors.Inever lock the doors of myhouseevennow–never.EversinceCooper’sStation,doorsandwallshavemademefeellikeaprisoner.Iwasabouttofind out, as we all were, notwhat it was like to be aprisoner,butwhatitwastobea prisoner. Worse still wewereslavestoo.I’ve had a lot of time to

think things over since. I’m

still angry about Cooper’sStation, about what they didto us there. But we weren’tthe first. Two hundred yearsorsobeforeweweresentoutfrom England to Australia,others had made the samejourney we did. They hadcomeinchainsinthestinkingbowelsoftransportships.Wemayhavecomeinabeautifulship, with pillar-box-redfunnels and an orchestra, butwe were prisoners just like

them. And they must havevery soon discovered, as wedid, that you weren’t just aprisoner,youwerea slaveaswell, and thatwhen you’re aslave they don’t just takeawayyourfreedom,theytakeaway everything else aswellbecause they own you. Theyownyoubodyandsoul.Andthe soul, we were about tofind out, was particularlyimportanttoourowners.

I can’t pretend I had anyunderstandingofallthisthen,lying there clutching mylucky key in the swelteringdarkness of the dormitoryduring my first night atCooper’s Station, but I knewalready that the dream haddied. Marty lay in the bunknexttome,stunnedtosilencelike the rest of us. He criedthat night, the only time IeverheardMartycry.Iknewnow this brand-new country

we had come to was not aparadise after all. It was, aswe were soon to discover, ahellonearth–ahellspeciallydevised for children by MrBacon, Piggy Bacon wecalledhim,whowastobeourgaoler,slave-master,preacherand brand-new father, all inone.I can honestly say that

Piggy Bacon was the onlyperson in all my life that I

everwantedtokill.Buttobefairtohim,hedidatleasttellit to us straight. That firstmorning at Cooper’s Station,after washing from thebuckets lined up out on theverandah, after our breakfastoflukewarm,lumpyporridge,he told us exactly why wewere there. We were allgathered there shiveringoutside the dormitory block.MrsBaconwasathisside inher blue dungarees and

floweryapron, tinyalongsidehisgreatbulk.Hewasagreatthickset bull of a man, red-faced with short, croppedginger hair and a clippedginger moustache, and littlepink eyes – even hiseyelashes were ginger. Healways seemed to me like aman on fire and about toexplode. His vast stomachlooked as if it was only justheld in by his checked shirtand broad belt, a belt every

one of us would have goodcause to fear as the monthspassed. He wore knee-lengthboots which he’d whackirritably from time to timewiththestickheusedtocarry–thesamestickhewouldusefor punctuating his speeches– speeches which, like thisone,always turned intosermons. Sometimes he’dcarry a whip for cracking atthe dogs, at the cattle or thehorses,orusifhefelt likeit.

Stickorwhip,itdidn’tmattertous–wecame to fearbothjustasmuch.Mrs Bacon smiled the

samefixednervoussmilethatday that I so often sawafterwards. We didn’t knowthe reason she was nervous,not then. She seemed shrunkinsideherdungarees–Ithinkshe always wore the sameblue dungarees, only theaprons changed. I sensed

fromthefirstthatMrsBaconwas frightened, that she washiding something. Her facewas drained of all colour. Ineverinmylifesawawomanlook more weary. She stoodthere, her eyes downcast, asPiggy Bacon told us all thewhys and wherefores, thedo’s and don’ts of Cooper’sStation.“Youcancountyourselves

very lucky,” he began, “that

Mrs Bacon and I have takenyou in. No one else would,you know. We did it out ofthe kindness of our hearts,didn’twe,MrsBacon?Outofthe kindness of our hearts,that’s what it was. You arethe little ones no one elsewanted. You are the littleones thrown out of the nest,rejectedandwithnohometogo to, no one to look afteryou,nooneeventofeedyou.But we will, won’t we, Mrs

Bacon?Wewillfeedyouandhouseyou,wewillclotheyouand teach you about hardwork and the ways of God.Whatmorecouldachildeverwant? Mrs Bacon and I areGod fearin’ folk, Christianfolk.Wewere brought up toknow our duty. ‘Suffer littlechildren to come unto me,’thegoodLordsaid.Sowearedoing his will, and this weshall train you to do aswell.A child is born sinful and

must be bent to the will ofGod.Thatisnowourtask.“So we have offered to

take you in, at our ownexpense mind, out of goodChristian charity. We havebuilt you this home for yourshelter–yourshelterfromthestormoflife.Youwillhelpusmake a garden of Eden, aparadise out of thiswilderness.MrsBacon and Iwill be like a mother and

father toyou,won’twe,MrsBacon? And your training inthe ways of the Lord willbegin right now. There willbenoswearing,noidleness–I promise you, you will bekepttoobusyevertobeidle.You will work to earn yourkeep. And you will workbecause the Devil makeswork for idle hands. If youworkweshall feedyouwell.If you work well you mayplay for one hour at the end

of each day, the last hourbeforesundown.“Look out there!” he

roared suddenly, waving hisstick towards the horizon.“Look!Doyousee?Nothing.Nothingbutwildernessasfaras the eye can see, and thatnothinggoesonformilesandmiles north, south, east andwest.Sodon’tyoueverthinkof running off. You’d goround in circles out there.

You’d die of thirst, beshrivelledupbythesun.Thesnakes would bite you, thecrocswouldeatyouup,orthedingodogswouldtearyoutopieces. And even if yousurvived all that, the blackfellowswould soon find you–theyalwaysdowhatIsay–and they’d just bring youright back here to Cooper’sStation. Isn’t that right, MrsBacon?”

Mrs Bacon did notrespond.Shejuststayedtherebeside him, eyes stilllowered,whileherantedon.When she thought he’d

finished she walked awaytowards the farmhouse,followed closely by her dun-coloured dog, a furtivefrightened creature like hismistress, who slunk alongbehind her, his tail betweenhislegs.ButPiggyBaconhad

not finished, not quite. Heglared after her, and thenslapped his boot with hisstick.“It’sGod’sworkwe’redoing,”hesaid.“God’swork.Alwaysrememberthat.”And so toGod’sworkwe

went.

SufferLittleChildren

PiggyBaconkepthispromisetousfaithfully:hedidindeedalwayskeepustoobusyeverto be idle. From that day onanything that needed doingon the farm we children didit. We were the slaves that

triedtocarvehisparadiseoutof the wilderness for him.The work was either smellyor back-breaking and oftenboth at the same time. Therewere thirty milk cows andtheir calves and a hundredbullocks or more on thatstation.Wefedthem,wateredthem, drove them,cleaned upafter them. And before longwe were milking the cowstoo. I ached frommy fingersto my shoulders with the

work of it. Then there werePiggyBacon’s chickens – hehad hundreds of them – andhispigsandhishorsestoo.Mornings were spent

mostly refilling the washbuckets from the pump,shovellingmuck,wheeling itouttothedungheapfromthecalf sheds, or spreading it onthepaddocks.Andalwaystheflies found you, every fly inAustralia. They were all

around you, in your eyes, inyourhair,upyournoseeven,andtheywerebitingonestoo.And if you swallowed one –andyouoftendid–you’dtryto retch it up, but you nevercould. We couldn’t escapethem any more than theanimalscould.Lunchwassoupandbread

brought to our long trestletable in the dormitory andladled out into our bowls by

Mrs Bacon, who scarcelyeverspoketous.Welivedonsoup and bread in that place.Then in the afternoons we’dbe set to clearing thepaddocks of stones, or we’dbe fetching and carryingwater to the troughs, andblocks of salt too. Thesebuckets almost pulled myarms out of my sockets theyweresoheavy.Youhadtofillthem right up too, because ifeverPiggyBaconcaughtyou

carrying a half-empty bucketyouwere in big trouble, andtrouble always meant thestrap. So we filled them upfull to the brim every time.And when all the water-carrying was done, we’d bediggingupweedsorfillinginpotholes in the tracks, orpullingouttreeroots,allofusstraining together on theropes.Our hands blistered, our

feetblistered.Bitesandsoresfestered. None of thatmattered to Piggy Bacon.Onceone jobwasdone therewas always another waiting.We worked hard becausehe’d stop our food just likethat ifwedidn’t.Weworkedhard because he’d strap us ifwe didn’t. We worked hardbecause if we didn’t he’dcancel our evening playtimeand make us work an hourextra at the endof theday. I

so longed for that hour off –weall did– andwehated tomiss it. That promise of anhour’s playtime was whatkept me going when everybone inmy body achedwithtiredness.Feeding up the animals

was the last task of the day,the only work I reallyenjoyed. Chickens, cows,pigs,horses–itdidn’tmatter– I loved to see them come

running when they saw uswith our sacks of feed. Ilovedtowatchthemlovingit.ButthemilkingIneverliked.My fingers couldn’t cope.They swelled easily and Icouldn’t sleep afterwards forthe pain. Marty and I – wealwaystriedtobeinthesamework party – would feed afew by hand if we could, ifPiggy Bacon wasn’t aroundto catch us. The chickenstickledyouwhentheypecked

thecornoutofyourhand,andthe horses’ noses felt warmand soft as they snuffled uptheirfeed–youhadtowatchout in case they snuffled upyourfingersaswell.There was one horse in

particular Marty and I lovedmore than all the others. Hewashuge, agiantof ahorse,shining black all over exceptforonewhitesock.BigBlackJack he was called, and

whenever we were luckyenough to get to feed him,MartyandImadesurehehadall the food and water heneeded, and then some. I’dcrouch there by his bucket,watching him drink deep,listening to his slurping,laughing at his dribblingwhenheliftedhisheadoutofthe bucket. I’d sing LondonBridge is Falling Down tohim, and he’d like that. Hewas Piggy Bacon’s plough-

horse, and Piggy treated himjust as he treated us,workedhim to thebone, tillhisheadhung down with exhaustion.Horses, I discovered, whenthey’re tired or sad, sigh justlike people do. Big BlackJack used to do that often.We’dlookoneanotherintheeyeandI’dknowjusthowhefeltandhe’dknowjusthowIfelttoo.Whatever job we were

doing,wheneverwewereoutonthefarm,wecouldbesurePiggy Bacon would turn upsooner or later. He wouldappear suddenly, out ofnowhere.He only ever camefor one reason, and that wasto pick on someone forsomething.EachtimeIhopedand prayed it was someoneelsehe’dpickon.Butsooneror latermy turnwould comearound. We either weren’tworking fast enough, or hard

enough. A water bucketwasn’t full enough, or he’dfind a field stone we hadn’tpickedup–anyexcusewoulddo. He wouldn’t strap usthere and then. Instead he’dtellushowmanywhacks theparticular crime merited andthen give us all day to thinkabout it.Thatwas the tortureofit,thewaiting.The punishment parade

would take place in the

eveningoutsidethedormitoryhut just before supper andbeforewewere locked in forthenight.He’dcallyououtinfront of the others and thenpronounce sentence on youjust like a judge. And you’dstand there, handoutstretched, trembling andtearful. It happened to all ofus,andoften.Nooneescapedit.ButMartygotitmorethanmost, and you could see thatwhen Piggy Bacon strapped

Marty he did it with realvenom. There was a goodreasonforthat:Marty’slook.It was the same look he’d

usedonthatofficiousmanonthedockside the first daywelandedinAustralia.Thethingwas that Marty would neverbe cowed. He would lookPiggy Bacon straight in theeye,andthatalwayssetPiggyBaconintooneofhisterriblerages.Therestofuskeptour

headsdown,justtriedtokeepout of trouble. Marty foughtback with silent defiance.And he didn’t cry out like Idid, like the rest of us did,whenwewere strapped – hewouldn’t give him thesatisfaction. He just stoodthereunflinching,hisjawset,his eyes stoney, no tears, notrembling. And to add insultto injury, he’d say thankyouafterwards too, his voice asstony as his stare. I’d like to

say we all took heart fromthat, but we didn’t. Weadmired him though –everyone did. But he wasn’tthe only one who foughtback. We soon had anotherhero to admire, a mostunlikely hero too – WesSnarkey.

WesSnarkey’sRevenge

NeitherMartynor Ihadevermuch liked Wes, and Wesmade it quite obvious hedidn’t much like us either. Icould never forget how heandhiscronieshadtormentedmealmosteverynightonthe

ship, and I’m sure he couldnot forget how Marty hadcome to my defence andhumiliated him on the deckthatday.Thatmuststillhaverankled with him. So theresultwasthatwehardlyeverspoke. In fact he hardly everspoketoanyoneduringthosefirst months at Cooper’sStation. In the dormitory, atthe line of wash buckets onthe verandah, eating at thelongtrestletable,outatwork

on the farm, he kept himselfto himself. Even at eveningplaytime when we’d all bekicking a football around,he’d sit there on his own,gazing out at nothing. Of allof us Wes Snarkey was theonlyloner.ButthenonedayIfound out that he wasn’treallyaloneratall.Hehadafriend–abestfriend.Time and again Piggy

Bacon had strapped him for

wandering away from hiswork.Nooneknewwherehewent and he didn’t tellanyone.Onemomenthe’dbethere digging a ditchalongside you, the next he’dbe gone. Strapping Wesdidn’t stop him fromsneaking off, so I knew thatwhatever he was doing,whereverhewasgoing,musthavebeenreallyimportanttohim. We were mucking outthe pigs one day when I

noticedhe’dgoneoffagain.ImadequitesurePiggyBaconwasn’t about, and wentlooking forhim. I foundhimbyBigBlackJack’spaddock.I crouched down behind thetrunkofafallengumtreeandwatched him. He wasstandingbythefence,feedingBig Black Jack with somebread crusts, and he wastalking tohimas if hewas arealperson,notahorseatall.I was close enough to see

everything, and to heareverythingtoo.Weswas tellinghimabout

a horse he’d known inEngland, in Leeds, amilkman’s horse, a piebaldmareshewas,andhoweverymorning he’d sit on the wallof theorphanage in the earlymorning and wait for her tocome, how he’d save hisbreadcrusts to feedher,howone day themilkman had let

him sit on her, and they’dgoneoffdownthestreet,howitwasthebestdayofhislife.“Willyouletmerideyouoneday, Jack?” he whispered,smoothing his neck. “Wouldyou? I could ride you out ofhere and we’d never comeback.”Imusthaveshiftedthenor

maybe itwas a gust ofwindthat rustled the pile of deadleaveswhereIwascrouching.

Whatever itwas,Wes turnedaroundandsawmethere.Westared at one another, notspeaking. I could see he hadtears in his eyes, and on hisface too. He brushed themawayhurriedlywith thebackof his hand then ran offbefore I could say anything.And I was going to saysomething.Iwasgoingtosaythat I liked Big Black Jacktoo, thatwe could be friendsnowifhewanted.

Asithappeneditwasonlya few days later that WesSnarkey became everyone’sfriend, and that was onaccount of Piggy Bacon andhis whip. Down near thecreek,whichwasdriedupformostoftheyear,therewasanold tree stump we couldn’tpull out. We’d been diggingaroundit,andtryingtopullitoutforawholeday.Withallof us hauling on the ropes,and even with Piggy Bacon

lendingahandhimself–andthat hardly ever happened –westillcouldn’tshiftit.Sointhe end Piggy Baconharnessed upBigBlack Jackand got him to do the jobinstead. But no matter howhard Jack strained at theropes, the stump would notbudge. Piggy Bacon shoutedathim,butitdidnogood.BigBlack Jack was doing all hecould, we could see that.Piggy Bacon took a stick to

him then, and whacked himagain and again. He wasbellowingathim.“Useless bag of bones!

Lazy devil! You good-for-nothing, you!” Then PiggyBaconusedhiswhiponhim.In a frenzy of fury andfrustration he whipped himtill he bled. That was whenWes Snarkeywent for PiggyBacon.He ran at him, screaming

likeawildthing,head-buttedhim full in the belly,knockingthewindoutofhimandsendinghimsprawlinginthedust.TheyrolledoverandoverwithWes ending up ontop, sitting astride him andpounding him with his fists.And we were all cheeringthen and leaping up anddown, untilMrsBacon camerunning out from the houseand pulledWes off him, butnot before the damage had

been done, not before bloodhadbeendrawn.Piggy Bacon was never

quite as frightening to usagain after that. His tempercould still be terrifying, andwe still hated him just asmuch. But we had seen thewicked giant felled. We’dseenhisblood.HemadeWespayofcourse.Hemadeusallpay.Wehad no playtime foraweek,andnobreadwithour

soup for a week either.Wesgottwelvestrokesofthestrapthatnight anddidn’t seem tomindabit.Hesatonhisbunknursing his hand afterwardsgrinning up at us, lookinghappy as Larry. He knewhe’dmadenew friendsof allof us, and hewas happy. Sowere we. From that day ontherewas a solidarity amongus. We smiled more. Wejokedmore.AllthishadbeenWes Snarkey’s doing. He’d

had his revenge and it wassweet revenge for us all. Hewasn’t just a friend now, hewasourherotoo.

SaintsandSinners

Sunday at Cooper’s Stationwas the only day we didn’thave to work. We sanghymns and psalms, said ourprayers and heard sermonsinstead. They went on allmorning, outside thedormitoryusuallyorinsideifit was wet – which wasn’t

often.Piggywouldstandonaboxandharangueuswithhissermons in between thehymns. Mrs Piggy, as we’dallcome tocallher, standingdutifully at his side, her doglying at her feet fast asleepand twitching in his dreams,whichbrokethemonotonyofit. It was a welcomedistraction and gave ussomething to nudge oneanotherandwinkabout.

Mrs Piggy would play thesqueezy box to accompanythe hymns, and would singout, her voice surprisinglystrong, leading us all, hereyes closed in ferventconcentration. This was theonlytimeyouwouldeverseeher confident and full ofconviction.Sheseemed tobecarriedawayon thewingsoffaith, lost absolutely in thespirit of the hymns. Herpiping voice rang out

passionate with belief. Afterevery hymn, she would cryout at the top of her voice:“Alleluia! Praise the Lord!”Then she’d lower her headandatonceshrinkbackinsideher shell, inside the MrsPiggyweallknew,timidandtired and terrified, as PiggyBacon launched into yetanother thunderous sermonaboutthesaintsaboveandthesinners below, by which hemeant us, about devils and

hellfire and damnation.Through it all the dog sleptblissfully.Wejustwishedwecoulddothesame.

Butweweren’ttheonlyonesat the Sunday services. Thiswas the only day theAboriginalpeople,who livedin the country round aboutand who sometimes came toworkonthefarm–the“blackfellows”Piggycalled them–

were allowed to come nearthe house. We’d see themoften enough, the childrenmostly,whenwewereoutonthefarm,justcrouchingtherein the distance watching us.Or sometimes we’d catchsight of a group of themmoving through a heat hazeonthehorizon,notwalkingatall, it seemed to me, butrather floating over theground.Ifevertheywanderedin too close Piggy Bacon

would go after them on hishorse and drive them awaywith his whip, calling themallthievesanddrunkards.Buton Sundays Mrs Piggyinvitedtheminforcakesandprayers.Eventhentheydidn’tlike to come too close, butthey’d squat down at a safedistance from us to listen tothehymnsandsermons.Afterwards Mrs Piggy

would go over to them

carrying a tray of cakes andlemonade, and she’d makethe signof the cross on theirforeheads and bless them.None of us had seen thatmanyblackfacesbefore, justanoccasionalonepassingbyin a London street perhaps,and I’d noticed one or twoblack American GIs inuniform driving around injeeps back home. Thesepeople went barefoot inragged clothes and their

childrenranaboutnaked,andthey made you feeluncomfortable because theyseemedalwayssostillastheysquatted there scrutinisingyou, their dark eyes lookingright intoyours.Theystared.We stared. But we hardlyever spoke.You could nevertell what theywere thinking.ButIlikedhavingthemthere.Theywere company. And inthis desolate place of wideskies and wide horizons,

wherewesawsofewpeople,just their presence was acomfort.Hardly anyone besides

them ever came to Cooper’sStation.Atruckcomingdownthelongfarmtrackwasarealevent for us, because it wasthatrare,maybeoneortwoaweek, that’s all – deliveringanimal feed, or fencingwire,or seed perhaps. The driversoftensatontheverandahand

drank lemonade with Piggyand Mrs Piggy. They hadcakes too.We got cakes andlemonade only on Sundays,ourbigtreatoftheweek,oneeachwithacherryonthetop.We’d line up andMrs Piggyhanded one to each of us.She’d bless us and sign across on our forehead too. Iliked that. It was the onlytime she ever touched us. Ialwaystookthecherryoffmycake, put in my pocket and

keptittilllast.SometimesI’dkeepituntilIwasinbed,andI’d lie there letting it meltslowlyinmymouth,myhandgraspingmyluckykeyallthetime.They tried tomake us say

ourprayersatnight.We’dallhave to kneel there for tenminutes in silence. I neverprayed,butIdidwish.Everynight, clutching the keyaround my neck, I wished

myself out of there, wishedmyself back home inEngland,backwithKitty.In that first year, like

everyoneelse,Ialmostfoundmyself likingMrsPiggy,andnot just because of herSundaycakeseither–thoughthat certainly had somethingtodowith it.ThetruthwasIfelt sorry for her,we all did.And in a way I suppose shehad our respect too. Unlike

Piggy Bacon himself, sheworked as hard out on thefarm as we did. She milkedthe cows with us in themorningandevening,andshemade all our meals too. Theporridge and the soup andbreadandthemilkypuddingsmay have been repetitiousand tedious, but it was hotand it was regular. AndMrsPiggydiditall.Then there were the good

days, the only good days,when PiggyBacon drove offin his truck into town, andwe’dbeleftaloneonthefarmjustwithher.Westillhadourwork to do, but she’d do itwith us. And on these rareandhappydaysyou’dseeallthe tension and theexhaustion lift from hershoulders, and even hear herlaugh sometimes. We werethe same. Without PiggyBacon there, we could fool

around, have fun! On thosedays she was a differentperson.Buteverytimeitwouldbe

over all too soon.Unlike hertherewassomerefugeforus,together in our lockeddormitory at night. We hadeach other too. She still hadPiggyBacon.Sometimes, theworse for drink, he’d throwthingsather–youcouldhearthe sound of smashing

crockery in the farmhouse.You’d hear him shouting ather, hitting her too, beatingher. I never saw it happen,butweheardit.“Don’t you dare tell me

how to treat them! I’ll dowhat I like and how I like,you hear me woman?” He’dgoonandonather.We’d lie there listening,

and the next morning we’dseethebruises.Sointimewe

began to feel shewasoneofus, just as much PiggyBacon’sslaveasweallwere.I’veoftenwonderedwhysheendured it, why she stayedwithhim.There’s reallyonlyone answer that makes anysense at all: for the love ofGod, for Jesus’ sake. I neverknew a more devout womanthanPiggyBacon’swife.Shewas married to him in theeyesoftheLord,soshecouldneverleavehim.Aswewere

todiscover,shewasawomanwho didn’t just believe, shereallylivedher faith,andshesufferedforittoo.I only once caught a

glimpse of the depth of hersuffering.MartyandWesandIhadbeentoldbyPiggytogoand dig over their vegetablepatch behind the farmhouse.It was a hot and humidafternoon.The flieswereoutand at us, and the soil was

dried hard and unyielding.We’dbeenatitforhours,andwe’d had enough. It wasMarty’s idea to have a restand get ourselves a drink.Marty’s ideas were oftendangerous. But by now wewere beyond caring, andanywayPiggyBaconhadjustbeen round on one of hisrandom patrols. We thoughtMrs Piggy was out workingon the farm somewhere. Wedroppedour forks and ran to

the water pump outside thebackdoor of the farmhouse.Wepumpedoutthewaterforeach other, all of us takingourturnstolieonthegroundunderneath, letting it splashall over our faces, drinkingourfill.Iwasjusthavingmyturn,revellinginthecoolnessof it, when Marty and Wesstopped pumping. When Iprotested they shushed me,and then crept off, doubledup, along the side of the

farmhouse. I could hearMrsPiggy now, she was cryingher heart out. I followedthem.When theystoodup topeek in at the window I didtoo. Standing on tip-toe Icouldonlyjustsee.She was sitting there,

rockingbackandforthinherchairbythestove,herdogonher lap.On the table near usby the window were all theSunday cakes she’d made.

Shewastryingtostopherselfsobbing by singing. It wasverysoft,butwecouldhearitwell enough to recognise it:What a friend we have inJesus. Verse after verse shesang, but punctuated alwaysby fits of sobbing thatwracked her whole body.Therewasonemomentwhenshe lifted her eyes and criedoutloud:“Why,sweetJesus?Why? Please take this cupfrom me, Jesus. Please take

it.”Thatwaswhen I saw thepurplebruiseonherchin,thelivid marks on her neck andsome blood on her lip too.She was clasping her handsand praying. I rememberthinking then that I wantedPiggy Bacon dead, that onedayIwouldkillhim. Inevermade actual plans to do it ofcourse,butIfeltlikedoingit,and so did Marty, and Westoo.

What he did next could soeasily havemade amurdererofme,ifI’dhadthemeans,ifI’d had the courage, ifcircumstance hadn’tintervened.

MrsPiggytoIda

It was Christmas time – oursecondChristmasonthefarm–abouteighteenmonthsorsoafter we arrived at Cooper’sStation. For lunch onChristmasDay, PiggyBaconandMrsPiggysatatoppositeends of our long trestle tableandatewithus.We’dhadthe

dayoff–inallweweregiventhree days off in the year:Piggy Bacon’s birthday,EasterSundayandChristmasDay. The morning had beenallcarolsandprayers, andofcourse sermons too, just likeanormalSunday,except thatI liked the carols a lot betterthan some of the drearyhymns we usually sang. Wehad sausages and mashedpotatoes and gravy, and thenjam roly-poly and custard

afterwards, and all thelemonade we wanted. Thebest feast of my childhood;I’ve never forgotten it. WithPiggy and Mrs Piggy therewenoneofusofsaidaword,of course, none of us dared.But I don’t think any one ofus wanted to talk muchanyway–wewereallfartoobusyeatingourfantasticfeastto have any time at all forconversation. We weresavouring every mouthful.

Ever since that ChristmasDay I’ve always lovedsausages.Ithappenedafter themeal.

As usual one of us had tostand up and say grace, notjust before but after eachmeal as well. It happened tobe my turn that day, andPiggyBaconmademe say itall over again because I’dmumbled it. “Say it loud tothe Lord,” he told me, “and

he will hear you.” So I did.Then he stood up himself,cleared his throat andannounced that they haddecided to give us each aChristmas present, “A giftfromtheLord,”hesaid,agiftthat we could keep with usand treasure all our lives.Then he showed us what itwas.Dangling there fromhisforefinger on a piece of cordwas a small wooden cross.“From now on every one of

youwillwearthiseveryday.This is the badge of Jesus

and you will wear it withpride,”hesaid.One by one we were

summoned up to receive ourpresent. He hung a crossaroundeachofournecks.Wesaid thank you, shook hishand and went to sit downagain. Except for the thankyousthewholeceremonywasconducted in an awkward

silence.Mrs Piggy,whowasstanding meekly at his sidewith a bunch of crosseshanging from her wrist,handedacrosstohimaseachof us came up. I noticed shekissed each one before shegave it to him. Then I wascalled up. I was standingthere waiting for my cross,looking up into PiggyBacon’s face,when suddenlyhiswhole expression altered.“What’sthis?”heroared,and

lunging forward he grabbedmykeyfromaroundmyneckand with one violent pulljerkeditoff.“That’s mine,” I cried,

reaching out to grab it back.He held it out of my reach,examiningit,puzzlingoverit.“A key?What for? A key

towhat?”“It’smy luckykey,” I told

him.“Kittygaveittome,mysisterinEngland.”

“Luck!” Piggy Baconthundered. “Luck is magic,and all magic is the devil’swork.There is no such thingasluck.It isGodwhomakesall things happen, in this lifeand afterwards too.” I kepttrying to jumpupand snatchit from him, but he was stillholding it too high. “It’s aluckycharm,whichisdevil’smagic, witchcraft, mumbojumbo.Youwillwearacrossornothingatall.”

“Then,”Isaid,surprisedatmy own sudden courage,“then I won’t wear anythingat all.” And I turned andwalkedaway.Hestrappedmethat evening of course, andafterwards I had to bendmyheadinfrontofhimasheputthecrossaroundmyneck.Hesaid that if he ever saw menotwearing it, he’d strapmeagain.“Whataboutmykey?”Iaskedhim.

“I’ve thrown it out,” hesaid. “It’s where allwitchcraft belongs, in therubbish.”ThatnightIcriedmyselfto

sleep.NeitherWesnorMartycould comfort me. Myprecious keywas gone, gonefor ever, and I felt utterlyaloneintheworldwithout it,like my last roots had beenrippedout.AsIlaytherethatnight in the darkness I had

murder in my heart. And Idon’tjustmeanIhatedPiggyBacon.ImeanIreallywantedtokillhim.Imightwellhavedone it too. I had found thecourage now – revenge andfury gives you powerfulcourage – but I just couldn’tthink how to do it. I had noideahowIcouldmurderhim,notyet,butIwasdeterminedtofindsomewaytodoitanddo it soon. Luckily for him,luckily for me too, it didn’t

come to that. Luckintervened, or fate, orcircumstance,callitwhatyoulike, and when it came, itcame from a most welcomeandunexpectedsource.

When I’d first come toCooper’s Station I’d beenterrified of snakes, and ofspiders in particular. Everyday we’d see all manner ofstrange and wonderful

creatures out on the farm,from wallabies to wombats.ButitwasspidersandsnakesI looked out for. We’d seethem everywhere, snakescurledupunderthedormitoryblock or slithering alongbetween the boulders downby the creek. Spiders, wediscovered, loved the toilet,which was a shed with acorrugated iron roof built onto the side of the dormitoryblock. It was baking hot in

there and stank to highheaven,butitwasthespidersIhated,thespidersIfeared.Ifeared them so much that Itried not to go to the toilet.WheneverIcouldIwouldtryto go outside to do mybusiness. Sometimes though,Iwasinahurryandthetoiletwas nearby and I’d risk it.But I’d do it quickly, asquicklyas I could, tryingnotto breathe in, and trying nottolookforspiders.

Theysayyouneverseethebullet that gets you. It’s thesamewithspiders.Iwastoldlateritwasaredbackspider.Iwassittingthereonthetoilet.IthappenedwhenIstoodup.I was pulling up my shortsandI felt itbitemyfoot, feltthe stabbing surging pain ofit, saw it scurrying away. Iscreamed then and ran out. Iremember stumbling to mykneesandMrsPiggyrunningtowardsme.

I’venoideahowlongIlayin bed. Marty told me laterthat they all thought I wasgoing to die. I do rememberrealising Iwasn’t inmyownbed, that there were curtainsandpictureson thewall, anda big cupboard. I remembertooMrsPiggycominginandsittingwithme,andIfelthotandheavyalloverasifIwasweighted down somehow.Andoncewhenshecameshewasn’t alone. She had an

Aboriginal man with her, abushmanwithwhitehair,andhe looked into my eyes andfelt my face and gave me amedicine to take and laidsome kind of a poultice onmyfoot.Themedicine tastedso bitter I could barelyswallow it. But whatever itwas that he put on my footcooleditwonderfully.As I got better Mrs Piggy

would sit beside me playing

her squeezy box and I lovedthat.All thesememoriesmaywellnotbememoriesatall.ItwasMrs Piggy who told meafterwardswhenIwasbetter,when I thanked her forlooking after me, that itwasn’ther thathadcuredmeat all,but a “black fellow”she’d called in. He’d savedmy life, she said, not her.“Anddon’tsayawordtoMrBacon,” she said. “Hewouldn’t like it. He doesn’t

believe in their magic. But Ido.There’sroomforallsortsofmagicandmiracles in thisworld–that’swhatIthink.”I’dspent thebestpartofa

month inmy sick bed in thefarmhouse, soMarty toldmelater. He said that bothWesandhehadagreeditwouldbealmostworth a spiderbiteora snake bite if it got you amonth’s holiday in thefarmhouse. I told them

everything, about how wellI’dbeenfedandlookedafter,aboutMrs Piggy nursing meandhowkindshe’dbeen,andall about thebushmanwho’dsaved my life with hismagicalmedicine.AndI toldthem too about the last thingMrs Piggy had done themorning I was to leave thefarmhouse. She came up tomyroom.Iwassittingonthebedbuttoningmyshirt.

“Here,” she said. “This isyours, I think.” And shehandedme a tiny box, like apillbox.Iopenedit,andtherewasmykeylyinginabedofcotton wool. “Hide it,” shetold me. “And hide it well.”She said nothing more, andwas gone out of the roombeforeIcouldeventhankher.Ineverreferredtoherafter

that as Mrs Piggy, nor didanyone else because very

soon everyone knew howgoodapersonshereallywas,how she’d found my key,looked after it, and given itbacktome.ShewasIdaafterthat, Ida to all of us.We allknew from then on that wehad in her a true friend, butwe didn’t know just howgood a friend, just howimportantafriendshewastobe tous.Wehadmanymoregruelling months to endurebefore we were to find that

out. And now I had my keybackIforgotallaboutkillingPiggy Bacon. So I supposeyou could say Ida didn’t justsave my life, she saved his.Muchgooddiditdoher.Asformykey,IdidasIda

hadtoldme,Ihiditwell.ButI kept it close too. Rightabove my bed there was awindow, and above it awooden lintel with a narrowsplit at one end, but it was

just wide enough. I pushedmykeyindeep,soitcouldn’tbe seen, making quite surePiggycouldneverfindit,andleft it there. But it never leftmy thoughts. Every nightbeforeIgotintobedI’dlookup at my secret place. I toldMarty–nooneelse.

“OnlyOneWayOut”

We could see it happeningright in front of our eyes,every day, every night. Andwedidn’tdonearlyenoughtopreventit.There’salotinmylifeIregret,alottofeelguiltyabout–toomuch.ButIdon’tthink anything troubles memore than what happened to

Wes Snarkey at Cooper’sStation. I still have dreamsabout it, and about him, allthese years later. I shouldhaveseenitcoming.Ishouldhavehadthecouragetostandbeside him, but I didn’t.NordidMarty,andnordidanyofus, except Ida. At least Idatried.It all went back, I’m sure,

to that glorious day whenWes knocked Piggy Bacon

downintheyard,thensatonhim and clobbered him.Wesbecameourherothatday,buthe also replaced Marty asPiggy’s favourite victim. Hewould bawl him out all thetime, pick on him at everyopportunity. Wes foundhimself chosen for the worstjobs,theoneswealldreaded,the dirtiest, the heaviest, thesmelliest: cleaning out thelatrine, digging ditches,carting stones. And Piggy

was as clever about it as hewas vicious. He knew howWes loved to work near BigBlack Jack in the stables.Everyone knew it. Wes hadmadenosecretofhisloveforthe horse, so Piggydeliberately saw to it that hewas never anywhere near hispaddockorthestable.Andhemade sure as well that Wesworked mainly on his own.He deliberately set out toisolate him from the rest of

us.Hardlyadaywentbywhen

Wes wasn’t hauled out infront of all of us at eveningpunishment parade.Sometimes Piggy would justbellowathim.Sometimeshewould take the strap to himand give him a hiding. He’dalwaysfindsomeexcuse,anyexcuse to punish him. WecouldallseeWeswasgettingitalotharderthentherestof

us.AndPiggywasenjoyingittoo – I saw it in his face.WhenhewhackedWesitwasalways done with morevenom, more violence.Thinking back, I’m ashamedtosaytherewasevenasenseinwhichIfeltalittlerelievedbecause while Wes was onthe receiving end, then atleastIwasn’t.Wesgrewinstature inour

eyes with every whack of

Piggy’s belt. He never onceflinched, never oncecomplained,andsofarasweknew he never even cried.For long weeks and months,it was his resistance and hisdefiance in the face of ourhated enemy that kept usgoingandgaveusallhope.Ilonged for the day that he’dhave a go at Piggy again. Iwassurehewould.Ithought,andMarty did too, thatWeswas just biding his time,

pickingtherightmoment.ThenIbegantonoticethat

Weswasbecomingmoreandmoresilent,morewithdrawn,evenwithMartyandme,andwe were his best friends. Ithappened slowly, so slowlythat itwasdifficultat first tobelieve it was reallyhappening. To start with Ithoughtitwasjustbecausehewas never allowed to be inthe same working party as

Marty and me, so we weresimplyseeinglessofhim.Heoften wasn’t with us duringplaytime either – Piggyregularly made him work onlonger than the rest of us.And even when we weretogether, in the dormitory,Wes seemed to be shuttinghimself off from us. We’dbeen a threesome, all palstogether, but now howevermuch Marty and I tried toinclude him – and we did –

we could both feel himslipping away from us andturninginonhimself.Intimehebecamealmosta

strangertous,aloner,justashe’dbeenbeforeduringthosefirst months at Cooper’sStation.Wewantedhimtobeone of us again because weliked him, and also becausewe admired him for how hewas facing down theloathsome Piggy Bacon, and

humiliatinghimeverydayonour behalf. I thought maybehewas dealingwith it in hisownway, bearing it stoicallyand in silence. I thought hecouldtakeit.Iwaswrong.One morning Wes

wouldn’t get up for roll call.He lay in his bed andwouldn’t move. Marty and Itried to persuade him, but heignoredus.Hejustturnedhisfaceawayfromus.Weknew

what would happen. Laterafter roll call, we were allstandingout thereinthecoldof dawn, listening to Piggyinsidethedormitorydoinghisworst. We heard himwhacking Wes, yelling athim. “You asked for it, youlittle devil! I’ll teach you. Ifit’s the last thing I do, I’llteachyou.Nowork,nofood.Seehowyoulikethat!”Everyphrasewaspunctuatedbytheswishandwhackofhisstick.

He was giving Wes a realpasting,andtoourshamewejust stood there and let ithappen.ThenweheardWestalking

back, a steely calm in hisvoice.“Iwon’tworkforyou,not ever again. And I won’teat your rotten food either.You can keep it.” MomentslaterPiggycamestormingoutofthedormitoryhutontotheverandah. He stood there

surveying us all breathlessly,hisfaceabeaconofrage.For days Wes lay there

refusing to get up, and everymorning Piggy would go inand beat him, and every dayhe stopped his food too. TobeginwithMarty and I triedto squirrel away somethingforhim,breadcrustsperhaps.ButWesjustshookhishead.He wouldn’t touch anything.Hetoldusweshouldn’tdoit

because we’d only get intotrouble ourselves. Andanyway,hesaid,therewasnopoint,becausehemeantwhathe’d said: he wouldn’t touchPiggy’s food,even if it camesecretly from us. He wouldstayonhungerstrike,hesaid,until Piggy Bacon treated usproperly and stopped beatingus. He would drink waterthough. So we’d bring himthatasoftenaswecould.Wekept bringing food too but it

wasnouse.He’dmadeuphismind, he said, and nothingwould change it. He wouldsometimes smile at us, butweakly now as if we werekindstrangers.He would say very little,

and as he weakened he saidless and less. But he did saysomething one eveningwhenwe were all three theretogether, Marty and I sittingonhisbed.Hesaid,and I’ve

never forgotten his words:“You know what I think. Ithink there’s only one wayout of this place, and I’vefound it.” Marty asked himwhat he meant, but hewouldn’t say.We both of ustried again and again to talkhim out of his hunger strike,buthewasdeadsetonit.Hewouldn’t listen. I know nowwe should have tried harder.We should have tried muchharder.

“DidWeHavetheChildrenHereforThis?”

In the end we went to theonlypersonwethoughtmighthelp. We went to thefarmhousetoseeIda.Wetoldhereverything:howWeswasbeateneachmorning,howhe

wasonhungerstrike,howhecoulddieifsomethingwasn’tdone soon. Even while shewas listening to us, she waslooking around nervously. Icould tell she just wanted usgone.AndIcouldtelltoothatshe already knew everythingwe’d been telling her. “Youshouldn’t be here,” she saidwhen we’d finished. “Gonow, go quickly, beforesomeone sees you. I’ll seewhat I can do.” And she

closed the door and wentback inside, leaving usstanding there. I told Martythat I was sure she’d find awaytohelpWessomehow.“She’dbetter,”hesaid,“or

else he’ll be a gonner, that’sforsure.”Thatsamenightafterlock-

up, Ida came to thedormitory. It was the firsttime she’d ever come insideat night. We heard the door

unlock,sawthedancinglightof her torch. All of usexpectedittobePiggyBaconononeofhisoccasionallate-nightpatrolssowelaydoggo,feigning sleep. “I’vecome tosee Wes,” she whispered.“Whichbed?”Whenweheardwhoitwas

weallsatup.Itookherthereand showed her. She satdownonhisbedand tried totalk to him. Wes didn’t

respondatall,notatfirst.Hewouldn’t even turn over andlook at her. Everyone wastherebynow,gatheredroundhisbed.Ida put a hand on his

shoulder. “I’ve brought yousome cakes, Wes, and somemilk,” she said. “Please, youmusteat.”Andsheopenedupthecake tinonher lap.“I’veput a cherry on each one foryou. You’ll like them.”Wes

turned over then and lookedupather.“Ican’t,”hesaid.“IfIeat,

he’ll make me work. And Iwon’t work for him. Neveragain.Notever.”She tried. For an hour or

moreshedidallshecould totempt him, to persuade him.ShetoldhimthatGodhelpedthosewhohelpedthemselves,how she understood hissuffering. “And I know that

God does too,” she said,“becausehehastoldmeso.Iprayed. I asked him what todo, and he said Imust cometo you and feed you. Godloves us all, Wes. In oursuffering, we must alwaysrememberthat.”But no amount of gentle

persuasion would change hismind. Even her tears didn’tseemtomovehim.Wecouldhear the tears inhervoiceas

she pleaded with him,smoothing his hair all thewhile.Nothingshesaidordidmade any difference. In theend she simply had to giveup,justaswehadbeforeher.

Wehadoftenheardthesoundof fury from the farmhouselate atnight, butuntil now ithad always been a one-sidedbattle, with only PiggyBacon’s voice raging and

roaring, then afterwards thesoundof Idasobbingand thedogwhining.This time therewere two voices raised, hersas loud and as angry as his.For the first time, Ida wasgivingasgoodasshegot.Wecould hear her every word.“Theboywilldie!”shecried.“Do you want that? Did wehave these children here forthis?” I wasn’t the only onewhofeltlikecheeringheron.

“All children are sinful,born sinful,” Piggy railedback, “and these are moresinful than most. My task isto cleanse them of sin, toprepare them for heaven. Iwon’t spare the rod, becauseit is the only way they willlearn. And the boy has tolearnwhoismasterhere.”“I thought Jesus was

masterhere,”sheargued.“Ordid you forget that? You

punish the boy only out ofpride,andyouknowit.”Andsoitwenton.Sadlythough,itended as it so often ended,with the sound of smashingcrockery,ofblows,andIda’ssharp cries of pain and thedogyelpingandwhining.WeknewPiggywaskickinghim.Thensilence,andsobbing.Marty began the chorus,

and raised to suddencourageweall joinedin:“Forshe’sa

jollygood fellow, for she’sajollygood fellow, for she’sajollygoodfellow,andsosayall of us.” We sang it outloud, again and again, at thetop of our voices to be surethat Piggy could hear us.Heheard all right. He came outof the farmhouse andbellowedatustostoporhe’dcomeoverandwhipthelotofus.So,cowedoncemore,westopped. I felt even then thatour silence was a betrayal.

The shame of betrayal issomething that never leavesyou.AllofusknewthatIdahad

done battle for Wes and forall of us that night. None ofus knew that although shemay have lost the battle, shehadnotyetgivenupthefight.Wesdidn’tknow it either,ofcourse, which is why, Isuspect, he decided to dowhathedid.

He disappeared the nextmorning, but he didn’t goalone. We came back fromwork for our soup and breadat lunchtime as usual, andfound his bed was empty. Iimmediately supposed thatmaybeIdahadcomeoverandtaken him back to thefarmhouse to nurse him andlookafterhim.So I ranoverand found her at the back,digging in her vegetablegarden.Shehadn’t seenhim,

shesaid.Sheleftherdiggingand joined in the search.Everyone was looking forhim now, including PiggyBacon, who was stompingaboutthefarm,shoutingatusto look here and look there,and ranting on about how, ifWes had run off, he wasgoing to find him and thrashthe living daylights out ofhim. Then he discovered, orsomeone did, that Big BlackJack was missing too. Now

he went really berserk,volcanic. I’ve never seenangerlikeit.ThismanofGodlet out a seeminglyinexhaustible explosion ofexpletives, spat and spewedthemout,alltheswearwordshemusthavebeenbottlingupinsidehimselfallhislife.Itwasquiteashow,andwe

loved it, everymoment of it.We kept our distance, ofcourse, each of us secretly

savouring the futility of hisfury, celebrating hisimpotence.Wes had done it.He’descaped.Thiswaswhathe had been talking about toMarty and me that night onhis bed, this was his “onlyway out”. Wes had gonewalkabout with Big BlackJack, and he wasn’t comingback. We were all willinghim to make it. I think thatmaybeIevenprayedforit.

Piggy went after him ofcourse.Herodeoutononeofthe other horses, and wescanned the horizon all dayhoping he wouldn’t comeback with Wes, but fearingthe worst all the time. Thateveningwelookedoutof thewindowsofthedormitoryhutand saw Piggy come ridingin,slumped inhissaddle,hisface covered in dust, his lipscracked – and he was alone.He hadn’t found him. Wes

was still on the run. We alljumped up and down in thedormitory, clapping oneanother on the back, ecstaticin our triumph, not justbecause Wes had succeededyet again in humbling PiggyBacon, but also because weall of us suddenly believedthatwhereWescouldgo,wecould go too. One day,somehow, we could do thesame.

There was another ragingrow that night in thefarmhouse,withPiggycallingWes “a stinking, ungratefullittle horse thief”. And weheard Ida standingup tohimagain.“What did you expect,

treatinghimlikeyoudid?”It cheered our hearts to

hear her fighting back, andour response was quitespontaneous. We burst into

anotherchorusofForShe’saJolly Good Fellow, and thistimePiggydidn’tcomeouttosilence us. We had silencedhim. Our triumph wascomplete, we thought. Butthenweheardthedingodogscalling. We’d heard themoften enough before atCooper’s Station, seen themloping about in the distance,seen one or two lying deadout in the paddock, shot byPiggy Bacon, and left there

hetoldusasawarningtotheothers.Wewereusedenoughto dingoes by now. But onthis night their cries struck aterrible fear in my heart. Itwasanomenof something, Iwassureofit.Next morning we’d had

roll call and breakfast, andwere just about to go out toworkwhenwesawBigBlackJack.Hewasa longwayoff,but itwas definitely him.He

wasn’t alone. There were adozen or more bushmenalongsidehim.With sinking hearts we

looked for Wes. It wasn’tuntil theycameclosethatwesawhim.Oneofthebushmenwascarryinghiminhisarms.But Wes wasn’t clinging onround his neck. His armswere hanging down. He waslimp, and I knew at once hewaslifeless.

“JustWatchMe”

I’veseenseveraldeadpeoplein my lifetime, but WesSnarkey was the first. Youdon’t forget the first. Ithought I’d be frightened tolookathim,butwhenitcametoit,Iwasn’t.Hewaslaidoutonthelongtrestletableinthemiddleofourdormitory, and

westoodallaroundinsilencegazing down at him.When IfirstsawhimIwastooangrytobesad,andIwasangryforall the wrong reasons. I wasangry because Wes hadn’tmade it, angry that he’dended our dream this way,takenawayallthehopewe’dvestedinhim.Iwasn’tangryatPiggyBacon,notyet.Someone began to

whimper then, a stifled

sobbing that soon spreadamong us all. Tears seemedtofillmyentirehead.Onebyone, unable to bear it anylonger, they turnedawayandwentoutside,untilMartyandI were left alone with Wes.Death, I discovered that day,is not frightening, because itis utterly still. And it is stillbecause death, when itcomes, is always over.There’sonlyterrorinitifyoufearit,andeversincemyfirst

death, Wes’ death, I havenever feared it. It is simplythe end of a story, and ifyou’velovedthestorythenitis sad. And sometimes, as itwaswithWes, it isanagonyofsadness.Wes did not look as if he

wasasleep.Hedidnotlookatpeace. He was too still forthat, and too pale. He wassomehow smaller too, Iremember that. He was cold

when I touched his hand.There was a bruise on thesideofhisface,andcutstoo.My thoughts turned then toPiggy Bacon, who we allknew had killed Wes assurelyasifhehadputabulletin him. Beside me Martyechoed the hatred nowburning in my heart.“Bastard!” he said, almostwhisperingitatfirst.Thenhewas shouting it out loud:“Bastard! Bastard!”And that

was the moment we sawPiggy Bacon standing at thedoorofthehut.Martylookedhim straight in the eye andsaid it again, asgoodas spatitathim.“Bastard!”Piggy seemed too stunned

to hear him. He was staringdownatWes.“Happynow?”saidMarty.ThistimePiggyBacondid

takeinwhatMartyhadsaid.Isaw vengeance in his eyes,

andIknewthenMartywouldbe his next target. Ida camehurrying in then, and sawWes lying there. For a fewmoments she stood theremotionless, her whole facefrozen. Then she walkedtowards the table, bent over,and kissed Wes on theforehead. She picked up hishandsandarrangedthem,oneon top of the other, andtouched his bruised cheektenderlywith thebackofher

hand. She straightened upthen,lookedlongandhardatPiggy Bacon, then pushedpasthimandwentoutof thedoor.A doctor came, the police

came.Morecarsupanddownthe farm track that day thanI’d seen in all my time atCooper’s Station. Theycarried Wes out on astretcher, a blanket coveringhim,andputhimin theback

of an ambulance. We stoodtherewatchingtheambulanceuntilitdisappearedinacloudof itsowndust.Thatwasthelast we ever saw of WesSnarkey. To this day I don’tknowwheretheyburiedhim.The bushmen stayed all thatdayuntildusk,gathereddownby thecreek, crouching thereunmoving, their own kind ofvigil.Ida told us later how the

doctors thought Wes haddied. He’d broken his neck.She thought he must havebeen too weak to sit on thehorse through theheatof theday, that he’d probably lostconsciousness and fallen off.He wouldn’t have suffered,she said. It would all havebeen very quick. Questionswere asked afterwards. Lotsof official-looking people insuitsanddogcollarsandhatscameandwent,inandoutof

the farmhouse. One or twoevencameovertoinspectourdormitoryblock,andtowatchus at work out on the farm.Not one of them ever talkedto us. They just looked at usandmadenotes.ForusWes’deathchanged

absolutely nothing, exceptthatwehadlostourhero,andwithout him felt morevulnerable than ever. PiggyBacon strutted about the

place as usual, as if nothinghad happened.HementionedWes’deathonlyonce,useditduring one of his Sundaysermons. It was a favouritesermonof his, about theTenCommandments.OneSundayhe added this, to make hispoint: “I want you all toremember,”hesaid,“that thelast thing that boy ever didwas to steal a horse, myhorse. And look whathappened to him. It was his

fault,nooneelse’s.He’sonlygot himself to blame. ‘Thoushalt not steal.’ Disobey theTen Commandments, andthat’s what happens to you.Let it be a lesson to you, alessonyou’llneverforget.”Inthedaysandweeksafter

Wes died, we saw almostnothingofIda.She’dbringusourfood,butshe’dneversayanything, not a word. She’dnever once look at us. We

neversawheroutonthefarmeither.Shedidn’tevenappearat Piggy’s side any more atSunday services. So we hadto sing our hymnsunaccompanied–no squeezybox to lead us, just PiggyBacon’s trumpeting, tunelessvoice. We did see heroccasionally hanging out herwashing on the line, andsometimes in the eveningsitting alone out on theverandah of the farmhouse,

herdogather feet.But eventhen she seemed not to benoticing what was going onaroundheranymore.IfeverIspoke to her, she wouldn’tanswer me. She’d simplystare straight ahead of her asif shehadn’theardmeatall.Itwasalmostasifshewasina kind of trance. She musthave been like it inside thehouse, too, because therewere no more rows, and sheplayednomoremusiconher

squeezybox.

*

IdachoseaSundaytodoit.We were all standing out inthe heat in front of thedormitory, Piggy up there inthe shade of the verandah inhis preacher’s black suit,clutchinghisBible.Weweresinging What a friend wehaveinJesusagain.We noticed her before he

did. She was telling her dogto staywherehewas.He satdown, then lay down, hishead on his paws. She camedown the steps of thefarmhouse in her apron,striding purposefully towardsus–notatallhowsheusuallywalked.Andshewascarryinga shotgun. Suddenly no onewas singing any more. Idawas standing rightbesidemenow, and she was pointingthe shotgun, levelling it at

PiggyBacon’schest.“Children, go inside and

collectyourthings,”shesaid,and she said it without oncetaking her eyes off PiggyBacon’s face. “Quickly now,children. Quickly now.” Wewere rooted to the spot. Notone of us moved. But Piggydid. He made to cometowardsher,tostepdownofftheverandah.Ida’svoicewasice-cold.“Don’tthinkIwon’t

usethisifIhaveto,”shesaid.And then to us, “Hurrychildren. Bring everythingyou need. You won’t becomingback.”“Have you gone mad,

Ida?” Piggy was trying tobellowather,butitcameoutmore like a squeal of fury.“Whatareyoudoing?”“I’m setting them free,”

shetoldhim,“that’swhatI’mdoing. And it’s true, I have

been mad. All this, thisbuilding we put up, thisorphanage, everything we’vedone,anddoneinthenameofthe Lord, too, has been agreat madness. But I’m notmad any more. You don’tshow God’s love to littlechildren by hurting them, byworking them till they drop,and certainly not by killingthem. It’s over. I’m lettingthemgo.”

We didn’t wait any more.We rushed up the steps pastPiggy Bacon and into thedormitory. Jubilant at thecompletely unexpected turnof events, we threw all theclothes and belongings wehad into our suitcases, andran out again, eager not tomissthedramaunfoldingoutthere. I was leaping off theverandah steps, suitcase inhand,whenIrememberedmyluckykey.Therewasnoway

Iwasgoingtoleaveitbehind.I rushed back in again andclimbed up on to my bed. Icould just spot it deep insidethe crack in the lintel, but Icouldn’t get at it to hook itout – my nails just weren’tlong enough. I don’t think Icould have managed toretrieve it at all if Martyhadn’tcomebacktofindme.He lent me his penknife andout it came, easily. I hadmyluckykey.

Backoutside,PiggyBaconwas standing there, hoveringbetween bewilderment andfury.Idastillhadtheshotgunaimed at him, her finger onthe trigger. “Now children,”she said, “I want you all tostand way back, right back.Go on now.”We did as shetoldus.WhenIlookedatheragain she was holding theshotgun on Piggy with onehand, andwith theotherwastaking something out of the

pocket of her apron – itlooked tome like a wet rag,nothing more. Piggy seemedto realise at once what shewas doing, long before wedid. He kept begging andbegging her not to do it, butby now she was walking upthe steps of the dormitory,sideways, keeping the gunpointingathimallthetime.“Stay where you are,” she

warnedhim.

“Don’tdoit,Ida,”hecried.“Please,youcan’t.”“Just watch me,” she

repliedcoolly.ThatwaswhenI caught awhiff of it.Dieseloil. And suddenly we allknewwhat shewas going todo. “I’m going to burn thisplacetotheground,”shesaid,“so there’ll be nowhere forthem to stay. Then you’llhave to let them go, won’tyou?” And with that she

disappeared into thedormitory. We saw hermoments later through thewindow,lightingtheragwitha match, saw the curtainscatch fire. Then she wascoming out, and there wassmoke billowing out of thedoor behind her. She camedownthestepsandthrewtheshotgundownatPiggy’sfeet.“There,” she said. “It’s

done.”

“ForShe’saJollyGoodFellow”

There was a frozen momentbefore Piggy Bacon moved.Thenhebentandsnatcheduptheshotgun.“It’snotloaded,”Ida said quietly. Piggy brokeopenthegunandlooked.I’venever ever seen a man snarl

like Piggy did then. Youcouldseethebeastinhiseyesas he charged up the stepsinto the dormitory. He triedfirst to beat the flames outwithablanket.Wecouldhearhim choking and splutteringinside. There was moresmokenow,butalreadyfewerflames. My heart sank. Thecurtains were on fire, butnothing else seemed to havecaught. Piggy Bacon yankedoff the curtains, cursing

loudly.Moments later he came

rushing out, and ran to theline of wash buckets on theverandah. At this point Idatried to stop him, but hepushed her aside angrily andsent her sprawling. With abucket in each hand, thewater spilling out over, hedisappeared inside again.Therewerenomoreflamestobe seen after that. The next

time we saw him he camestaggering out bent doubleand coughing his lungs out.Butwhenhestooduphewassmiling. Ida was lying therecrying on the verandah,sobbingasifherheartwouldbreak.Suddenly Marty began

singing, quite softly at first,but very deliberately: ForShe’s a Jolly Good Fellow.Soonwewereallsinging,and

singing it out loud. It hadbecome in that moment oursong of defiance.We sang itrightathimtoshowhimjustwhatwe thoughtofhim, andjust as much we sang it forIdatomakeherfeelbetter,tothankherforwhatshe’dtriedto do for us, to showsolidarity. Piggy screamed atustostop,butwedidn’t.Wekeptonandon,allofusfiredwith new courage, and newfury too. Then I did perhaps

thebravestthingIeverdidinallmy life,beforeor since, Iwent up those steps andhelped Ida to her feet. I gotthe strap for it, ten strokes,but thenwe all got the strapthat day. Marty got fifteen,becausePiggysaidhewastheringleader.Thatnightinthedormitory

was the worst I canremember.Thewholehutstillreeked of smoke, a constant

remindertousofhowIdahadso nearly succeeded in herbrave attempt to set us free.We felt completely deflatedanddefeated.Hopeshadbeenlifted so high that thedisappointment,whenitcameassuddenlyasithad,wasallthe more cruel. I cried intomypillow.Outsidethecryofthe dingoes echoed mysadness. Very few of usdidn’t cry ourselves to sleepthatnight.

Itwasstillnight-timewhenI was woken. Marty wasshaking me awake, his handovermymouth.“Getup,”hewhispered. “Get up. Getdressed.We’regettingoutofhere.”Iwas still half-asleep, still

half-dressed, trying to gathermy thoughts. “But thedoor’slocked,” I said. “Piggyalways locks the door, youknow he does.” Marty

shushed me, took me by thearm and we tiptoed towardsthe door of the hut, carryingourboots.Only one of the others

stirred as we passed, he justsat up,and looked blankly atus. “You woke me,” hemoaned. Then he lay down,and went straight back tosleepagain.Marty turned the handle,

and miraculously the door

opened.Martytookgreatcareas he shut it behind us. Wecrept out on to the verandah,satonthetopstepandputourboots on. He answered myquestionbeforeIcouldaskit.“Idadid it,”hewhispered.“Itold her we were going tomake a break for it tonight,but we needed the doorunlocked. I thought she’d doit, but Iwasn’t sure.But shedid,didn’tshe?Comeon.”

We ran then, but not outinto the bush as I’d thoughtwewould.Instead,Martywasleadingmeinthedirectionofthe farmhouse. I waswonderingwhathewasupto,where he was going, when Irealised we weren’t headingfor the farmhouse at all, butrather for the stables. BigBlackJackjumpedabitinhisskinwhenhefirstsawus.Buthe seemed happy enoughwhenMartyputhishalteron

him and led him out. Ida’sdog barked then from thefarmhouse, which sentshivers up the back of myneck. “Shut up, dog,” Martyhissed, and shut up he did,justlikethat.IknewthenthatIdahaddonethatforustoo.We climbed up on to the

backofoneof thefarmcartsandmountedJackfromthere– hewas a big horse, it wastheonlywayupforus.Marty

rode in front, me behind,hanging on. Then we justwalked him away into thenight. We didn’t go up thefarm track,becauseweknewthat way must lead to asettlementora townofsomekind, andwewanted to keepwell clear of people. Ifanyone saw us, they’d beboundtotakeusback.Sowedeliberately went the otherway, down a gully and outintothebush.Wedidn’tlook

back.Ididn’teverwanttoseteyesonthatplaceeveragain.ButIdidsayasilentgoodbyeto those we were leavingbehind in the dormitory, andto Ida who had risked somuchtogiveusourfreedom.NeitherMartynor Ispoke,

not for a long time, not untilwe’dputatleasthalfanhourbetween ourselves and PiggyBacon. By then we weretrotting, andwecouldn’t talk

becausewewere laughingsomuch. We had done it; wehad escaped! And Big BlackJackwashuffingandpuffingunderneathus,laughingalongwith us, I thought, revellingin his new-found freedomeverybitasmuchaswewere.But after a while I got tothinking about all the otherswe’d left behind at Cooper’sStation,thatmaybeweshouldhave taken them all with us.(All these years later I still

feelbadaboutthat.Whyisityou never forget what youfeelbadabout?)Marty started singing

London Bridge is FallingDown then, softly at first,thenIjoinedin,andsoonwewerebellowingitoutoverthebush.I kept asking Marty

questions,themostimportantfirst. “Where are we going?Whichdirection?”

“Away,” he said.“Anywherejustsolongasit’saway.”“You been planning this?

Youneversaidanything.”“That’s because I didn’t

think of it until punishmentparadeyesterdayevening,”hesaid. “It was while he washitting me. I knew I’d benext, that he’d go after mejust like he didwithWes. IfI’d stayed he’d have killed

me.Soonerorlater,he’dhavekilled me. I know he would.Then I just got lucky. I sawIdaby the stables just beforelock-up, told her what Ineeded.Shedidn’tevenhaveto thinkabout it.Shedidsayone thing though: I had toremindyouaboutyour luckykey, to be sure you took itwith you. Hope you have,because I’m not going back,notforalltheteainChina.”

Myheartwasinmymouth.I hadn’t given it a secondthought. But I felt in mypocket, and there it stillwas.“Gotit,”Itoldhim.“That’sgood,”Marty said,

“becausewe’regoingtoneedit.We’regoingtoneedalltheluckwecanget.”It was fear of getting

caught,andsheerexhilarationthatwewerefree,thatkeptusgoing that night. We knew

thatwemustn’tstop,notforamoment,oreven slowdown,becausePiggywouldbe sureto be coming after us just assoon as he discovered weweremissing,andthatwouldbe at roll call at dawn. Wehad until then to get as faraway as possible. Big BlackJack didn’t want to trot forlong, but he plodded onsteadily,never tiring, andwesat up there the two of us,rocking our way towards the

grey light of dawn.Wewerejust so happy to be out ofCooper’sStation.Wetalkedalot as we rode, and welaughed, laughed as hard aswe could. I remember I feltcocooned by the night,swallowed up in itsimmensity, protected.At onepointwe saw some lights onthe horizon. It looked like asettlement of some kind, sowe kept our distance. Wesang to the stars, all the

millionsofthemupthere.WesangFor She’s a JollyGoodFellow till we were hoarsewithit.Theyseemedsoclosethose stars, close enough tohearus.Itwas cold, very cold that

night.We had no water.Wehadnofood.Butnoneofthatworriedus.Notyet.Weweretoohappy tobeworried.Noteven the cry of the dingoesbothered us. Only when the

sun came up, and the bushcame alive all about us, onlythen did we begin to feelalone in this wild andunfamiliarplacewithnothingbut scrub and trees formilesaround in every direction.We’dbeenfollowingadried-up creek for a while when Ifelt the first heat of the sun.ThatwaswhenIfirstthoughtI wanted to drink. We hadstopped talking to oneanother now. There was no

more laughter. I wasbeginning to realise just howvast this place was and justhow lost we were. I didn’tlike to say it though. BigBlack Jack was walking on,purposeful and surefooted asever. He seemed to knowwherehewasgoing,andthatmademefeelbetter.WhenfinallyMartydidsay

something though, it justconfirmed my own worst

fears. “I don’t like this,” hesaid. “We’ve been herebefore, when it was darker.We were coming the otherway then. And I keepthinking something else too,somethingWestoldmeonce,and Wes knew all abouthorses. He said that a horsewill never get itself lost. It’llalwaysknowthewayhome.Ithink maybe Big Black Jackis taking us back, back toCooper’sStation.”

WideastheOcean

How easily we fell intodespair,thetwoofus.Aswelefttheshadeofthegumtreeshow quickly the heat of thesun sapped our strength, andourspiritstoo.Thedesireforwater was fast becoming acraving. The need to find itbecame obsessive. Within

justa fewhoursallwecouldtalk about, however hard wetried not to, was water. Ididn’t care any longer ifBigBlack Jack was walkingstraight back to Cooper’sStation, right up to thefarmhouse, nor if PiggyBacon might be tracking usdown and coming after us.Every shimmering wateryhorizon we saw raised ourhopes,butwesoonfoundwecould not trust even the

evidenceofoureyes.Miragesmocked us time and again.We tried our best to ignorethem.But amirage is only amirage once you’vediscovered it’s a mirage.Until then it’s a pool of coldclear water just waiting foryou, a pool of hope. Morethan once this cruel hoax setMarty and me arguing withone another. But in the endwe didn’t even have theenergyforthat.

The deep gully we werefollowing was sandy, but upon the banks there werepatches of brambles andscrub, and here and thereclusters of stringy bark gumtrees.Wherethereweretrees,we thought there must bewater.Littledidweknow.Sowe rode down the dried upgully,hopingall thewhile todiscoverahiddenpool in theshadows, but everywhere wefound nothing but earth

turnedtodust.Therewasn’tasign of moisture. And allthrough this futile search thesun rose ever higher, blazedhotter.Gatheringenough thoughts

to decide anything was sodifficult. Butwe didmanageto concentrate enough tomake one decision betweenus.We invested in it all ourlast hopes.We could see theground ahead of us on one

sideofthegullyrisingsteeplyinto a granite cliff. From thetop of this cliff we thoughtwe must be able to see formiles around, that from uptherewe’dbeboundtospotariver perhaps or a pool. ButBigBlack Jack refused tobediverted from the gully, andwe knew already he was fartoo strong to argue with. Hewent where he wanted to goand thatwas all therewas toit.Sointheendwehadtoget

off him and lead him up theslope to the highest point ofthecliff.ThewholeofAustralialay

beforeus, it seemed,aswideas the ocean, and just asinhospitable too. We couldseethegullywindingitswaythrough the bush, othergulliesjoiningittomakeonegreat swathe of sand throughthe scrub, but there was noglintofwateranywhere,nota

shimmer to be seen. Now Ireallywas beginning to hopethat PiggyBaconwould findus, and take us back toCooper’s Station. I didn’tcareaboutthebeatingIknewhe’d give us. I thought onlyof the wash buckets on theverandah, of plunging myhead in and thendrinkingallofthemdryonebyone.Marty was not lost in

reverie as I was. He had not

given up so easily. He waspointingexcitedlyatwhathesworemustbeaplacewheretherewaswater,andcertainlyin the distance there seemedto be a patch of muchgreener, lusher vegetationaroundsomeverytalltrees.Itwas miles away and did notlookatallpromisingtome.Ididn’t say so though. “If it’sgreen, then there’s got to bewater somewhere,” Martysaid. “Got to be. Come on.”

Even if there had been aconvenient rock from whichtomount,Idon’t thinkeitherof us would have had thestrength to do it. We couldonly manage to walk nowwiththegreatesteffort.SoweledBigBlack Jackdown thehillandintothegullyagain.We found Marty’s

promised oasis, but doing itdrained us utterly of the lastofourwillpower.Therewere

trees, and it was green, butwe could find no water. Bynow the sun had worked itsworst on us. My head wasswimming so much I oftenthought I would faint. I keptstumbling, and sodidMarty.Breathing heavily now andlathered up, Big Black Jackwandered away from us intothe deepest shade, put hishead against the trunk of atree and rested on three legs.Likeus,he’dhadenough.He

could do no more. He wastellingusinhisownwaythatwe should do it too, that weshould never have venturedout in the heat of the day inthefirstplace.We lay down nearby. I

curled up against Marty’sback for comfort. “We’ll beallright,”hesaidtome,butIknew how far wewere fromall right. Even so it cheeredmealittletohearhimsayit.I

triednottothinkthatifIsleptImightneverwakeupagain,but I thought it all the same.Sleep, when it came, was sowelcome.It was evening when I

wokeand Iknewatoncewewere not alone. They werecrouching a few paces away,a dozen of them perhaps,bushmen, men and boys.They were studying usintently, as still as the rocks

around them. I shook Martyuntil he sat up and tooknotice. “It’s the same ones,”hewhispered,“thesameonesthat brought Wes back. Irecognisethem.”“Say something,” I said.

“You’ve got to saysomething.”“Drink,”Martymimeditas

he spoke. “Water. We needwater. Understand?” Thatwaswhen the tallest of them

came forward and croucheddown close to us. Irecognised him then. It wasthe old bushman who hadcome to Ida’shouse that dayandtreatedmyspiderbite.Hesmiled at me like a strangeryou’ve met before who ishappy you’ve rememberedhim. He held out his cuppedhands.Hishandswerefulloffruit, red fruit, green fruit,like plums but rounder. Weatethem.Wedrankthem.We

devoured them. I don’tremember the taste, but Iremembersavouringthejuiceof each one, sucking outevery drop of it. They gaveBig Black Jack some too,whichhesnuffledupeagerly.Then they motioned to us

tostandup,tomountup.Wetried, but they soon saw wecouldn’t do it without theirhelp. I was lifted upeffortlessly and sat astride

Big Black Jack. So wasMarty, who was sittingbehind me now and hangingon.Oneof thebushmentookthereins,andledusalongthegully. They were all aroundus, the children among themsmilingupatusnow.WhenIsmiledbacktheylaughedoutloud, and I knew they werenotlaughingatme,butoutofsheer delight. It touches meeven nowwhen I think of it.Itwasalittlemoment,andat

the same time a greatmoment,oneIhavetreasuredalways.“They’re taking us back,”

Marty whispered in my ear,“liketheydidwithWes.”“Only we’re not dead,” I

said.Within an hour or so they

brought us through somescrubby trees to a hiddenpool,abasinofdark rock.Acool evening breeze rippled

the surface of the water.Weneeded no invitation and nordid Big Black Jack. Hetrotted to the edge and wasdrinking even before wemanaged to tumble off him.Wewerealongsidehimthen,all three of us, one muzzleand two mouths drinking inallwecould.ThenBigBlackJackwasshakinghisdribblesall over us, and the bushmenwere laughing. They dranktoo, but they were in no

hurry. They did not gulpgreedily as we had. Insteadthey scooped it up one-handedandsipped.Innotimea fire was going. Theyspearedsomefishandcookedthem. I tried to eat slowlyasthey did, but it wasn’t easy.And there was more fruitafterwards,more berries.BigBlack Jack browsed nearby.We could hear his jawsgrinding,his teeth crunching.Hewaseatingwelltoo.

I expectedwewould sleepthen because night wascomingonfast,butwedidn’t.Insteadtheyliftedusupagainon to Big Black Jack, andtogether we moved on intothe gathering dark. When Ilooked up I found that thestars were up there againfilling the sky from end toend. I thought then of thenight before, of how happywe’d been to be free, howwe’d sung to the stars. And

now we were being takenbacktoCooper’sStation,andtherewasnothingwhatsoeverwe could do about it. Iwondered why the bushmenweredoing it,whetherPiggywas paying them for huntingus down and bringing usback. But I thought thatcouldn’tberight,thatafterallthesewerethepeopleI’dseenhim driving away from thefarm with his horse whipwhentheystrayedtooclose.I

didwhisper toMarty thatwecould try to tell them wedidn’twanttogoback,buthethoughtitwaspointless.“Theywouldn’tunderstand

awordwesaid,”he toldme.“Sowhat’sthepoint?”AllnightlongIdreadedthe

morningandthefirstsightofCooper’sStation,dreadedthethought of standing there onpunishment parade, handoutstretched, trying to hold

back the tears. The more Ithought about it, the more Ifeared the coming ofmorning. That was why Itookmyluckykeyoutofmypocket and clutched it tight,so tight that it hurt me. Iwanted to squeeze the luckoutofit,tohaveallofitnowbecauseIneededitnowmorethaneverbeforeinmylife.But I began to worry that

maybe even my lucky key

would not be enough. So Iprayed as well. I thought ofIda, then of all she had doneforus,ofthetroubleshe’dbein if Piggy found out she’dunlocked the door for us. IfeltforthelittlewoodencrossI wore around my neck. Itouched it, remembering her.And then holding it I prayedfor her. But if I’m honest, Ithink I prayed mostly formyself. Whether it was thekey or the cross that did it I

shall never know. I’ve beentrying to work that one outeversince.Istillam.

“CoupleofRaggedyLittleScarecrows”

It wasn’t until a few moredays had passed that MartyandIcouldbegintohopethatthe bushmen weren’t takingus back to Cooper’s Stationafter all. Neither of us couldbelieve these people were

lost. They seemed to knowevery root, every tree, everygully in this maze of awilderness. The fruit theyfound was never a surprise,northerootstheydugup,northepoolstheyledusto.Theyknew exactly where theywere. They belonged in thisplace.They found their way

through the bush with suchobviouseasethatitwasquite

impossible to think theycouldevergetlosthere.Soifthey were not lost, and wewere not being deliberatelyled around in circles, and ifafterallthistimewehadstillnot yet reached Cooper’sStation, then it stood toreason we weren’t goingthere. So where were theytaking us then? Marty and Iaskedeachotherthatquestionmore than a few times. Butwehadnoanswers.

With every hour thatpassed, the bush around uslooked less and less familiar.We were in much greenercountry. There were hillsaboutus,andmorefarmsandsettlements in the valleys –whichthebushmenseemedtowant toavoidasmuchaswedid. We knew now, forwhatever reason, that theywerenottakingusback.Andthelongerwewerewiththemthemoresurewebecamethat

these people were absolutelyno threat to us. They mightnot talk to us. They mightkeep their distance. Theymight still stare at us morethan we liked, but there wasnever the slightest hint ofhostility towards us. On thecontrary they seemed veryprotective of us, and asfascinated by us as we wereby them. And the childrenfound us endlessly funny,particularlywhenwe smiled,

sowe smiled a lot. But thenwe felt like smiling. Theyshared their food with us:berries,roots,fruitandbakedwallabyonce.Wehadall thewaterweneeded.Martydidtryonceortwice

to askwherewewere going,but was simply given morefruit or berries as an answer.Sohegaveup.ButuponBigBlack Jack, as we rodethrough the night, or resting

in the shade, the two of usspeculated at length. Maybewe weren’t being takenanywhere.Imean,theyneverlooked as if theywere goinganywhere in particular. Theyjust looked as if they werequite happy simply going,simplybeing.Ormaybe theywere adopting us into theirtribe and we’d wander thebushwiththemfortherestofour lives. Maybe they werestill making up their minds

what to do with us. Perhapswe’d just wake up one dayand find them gone. Wereally didn’t mind. All wecouldbe sureofwas thatwewere a long, long way fromCooper’s Station now, andfurther every day.Whereweweregoingwasn’t important.Sometimes at nightwe’d seelights in the distance, moresettlements probably, but wenever once thought ofrunning off. We were safe

withthem.Wehadnoreasontoleavethem.I can’t say exactly how

many days and nights ourjourneylasted–itcouldhavebeenfiveorsixdaysperhaps.I do know that it lasted longenough for Marty and I tobegin to believe it might bepermanent, that we hadindeedbeenadopted in someway. I certainly wasbeginningtofeelcomfortable

among them, not becausethey became any lessreserved – they didn’t.Distance seemed to beimportant to them. Thechildren though were adifferentstory.Weverysoongot beyond just smiling andlaughing. We splashed eachother in the pools. Weskimmedstones,threwsticks,ambushed one another. Onetook to riding piggyback onMarty’s back, and the

smallestof themwouldoftenrideupwithusonBigBlackJack lovingeverymomentofit.Wewerefindingourplaceamong them, beginning tofeel accepted. That’s why,when our journey finallyended, we felt all the moreabandoned,evenrejected.We had been travelling

through hilly country for aday or two now, and BigBlack Jack was finding it

veryhardgoing, andnot justbecause of the hills either.We knew already thatkangaroosmadehimnervous,buttherehadn’tbeenmanyofthem until now. Now theywereeverywhere,andhewasnot happy. In the half-darkwe could see their shiftingshapes, and so could BigBlack Jack. We could feelhimtensingbeneathus.We’dtalktohimtotrytocalmhim,smooth his neck, pat him

gently,butnothingseemedtowork. His ears would betwitching frantically. He’dtoss his head and snort atthem.Worst of all, he’d juststop without any warning.Fallingoffwasalltooeasy.Itamused the children hugely,butwaspainfulforus.In theend Marty and I decided itwould be better altogether,and safer too, to give BigBlack Jack a rest, and walk.So during the last couple of

nights of our journey wewalked with the bushmen,one of us leading Big BlackJack.Heseemedhappier thatway. He puffed less andsnorted less. The last nightwewerewiththemIfeltasifI really was one of them,sharing the silence and thestars.The next morning at sun-

upwewerecomingtothetopof a high hill. It had been a

long steep climb. Below uswasawidegreenvalleywithastreamrunningthrough,andtrees,moretreesthanI’deverseeninmylife.Infrontofuson the crest of the hill thebushmen had stopped andwere talking amongthemselves.Ithoughtwe’dberesting here for a while, andwasonlytoohappyaboutthatbecause my legs were tired,and I was longing for foodand for sleep. I sat down to

investigateathorninmyfootwhichhadbeentroublingme.Beside me Big Black Jackwas cropping the grasscontentedly.SuddenlyMartycalledout.

“They’re going! They’releavingus!”Sureenough,thebushmenwerewalking awayfrom us back the way we’dcome, the children lookingover their shoulders at usfrom time to time as they

went. We called after themagain and again, but theydidn’t stop. Then theyrounded the side of the hillandweregone.“Why?”Marty said. “Why

here?Why did they leave ushere?”We stood there in silence,

each of us trying to makesome sense of what washappeningtous,ofwhytheyhad treated us this way. We

felt utterly bewildered. Theparting had been sounexpected, so sudden andstrange. No goodbyes, noteventhewaveofahand.That was when Big Black

Jack began snorting again. Ilookedaroundforkangaroos.There were none, not that Icould see anyway. But BigBlack Jack had stoppedeating in mid-chew. He hadhisheadupnowandhisears

pricked. He whinnied loudand long, so that the valleyrang with it. He was liftinghisnose,sniffing theair,andlistening. We could hearkookaburras and galahs, allthe cackle of the bush atdaybreak, but certainlynothing out of the ordinary.But thenweheard the soundof whistling, of someonesinging, a woman singing,and with it the tread of ahorse in among the trees

below us, of a saddlecreaking. Big Black Jackwhinniedagain.A great bay horse was

coming out of the trees andupthehillstowardsus,onitsback a rider in a wide-brimmed straw hat. But itwasn’t the horse or the riderthat we were looking at somuch as the cavalcade thatwasfollowingalongbehind,acavalcade of creatures, all of

them infants: wombats,wallabies, joeys. And as therider camecloser I could seetherewasakoalaclingingonroundherneck,lookingatmeover her shoulder. She roderight up to us, let the horsestouch noses and check eachother over. Meanwhile shetookoffherhatandlookedusup and down. I haven’tforgotten the first words shespoketous:

“Strewth,” she said. “Lookwhat the cat brought in. Butmaybe it wasn’t the cat,right?How’dyougethere?”“It was the bushmen,”

Martytoldher.“I thought as much. Are

you waifs and strays then?Theyonlybringmewaifsandstrays. They know I collectthem,see.Theydon’teat thelittleones,notunless they’vegot to.Goodpeopletheyare.

Just about the best, I’d say.Whereareyoufrom?”“England,” I said. There

wasawombatrootingaroundmyfeetnow.“S’all right. He won’t

bite,” she told me. “You’vecomefairwaysthen.”“We were at Cooper’s

Station,” Marty said. “Weescaped.”“I know Cooper’s Station.

Mr Bacon’s place, right?Where’s he’s got all thoseorphan kids.” She looked usupanddown.“Heusedtobethepreacher

in town before they movedout there,” shecontinued.“Ifthere’sonethingIcan’tabideit’s fanatics of any kind, andreligiousonesaretheworstofall. Running away from thatplace seems a pretty sensiblethingtodo.You’llbelooking

forsomewheretostaythen.”Marty and I looked at one

another. Shewas turning herhorsenowandwalkingawayfrom us, her little animalsfollowingher.“Well,areyoucoming or aren’t you?” shecalled out. “If you are, thenbringthepooroldblackhorsewith you. He needs feedingupbythelooksofhim.Cometo that, sodoyou.Coupleofraggedy little scarecrows,

that’swhatyouare. I’ll soonfattenyouup.Comealong ifyou’re coming. Don’t spendtoo long thinking about it.Haven’tgotallday.”Martyand Ididn’tneed to

think twice about it. Wefollowed along behind thecavalcade, and like us BigBlack Jack had a new springinhisstep.“Thatluckykeyofyours,”saidMarty.“Youstillgotit?”

“Yes,”Ireplied.“Just don’t ever lose it,

that’sall,”hesaid.

Henry’sHorribleHatHole

Big Black Jack knew it too,just as we did.We all knewwe were coming home. Hestepped out with new heart,snorting inhisexcitementallthewhileattheprocessionofcreatures in front of him.

Clearly size mattered to BigBlack Jack when it came tokangaroos – the little joeyhoppingalongsidetheladyonthe horse wasn’t a worry tohim at all. Nothing worriedhim now, nothing worriedany of us. Ifwe had been inhell at Cooper’s Stationbefore, now we were ridingintoparadise.We were looking all the

while for a house of some

kind. But all we could seewere trees and greenpaddocks, and beyond themthewinding river, and in thedistance thebluestmountainsI ever saw.Suddenly there itwas, a long low shack of aplace, a chimney at one endand a verandah all around.There was a pond nearbywhichcackledwithgeesethatcame out to greet us as wearrived, followed by a flurryofhens andchicks.Thiswas

toturnouttobeourhomeforthenextsevenyears,thefirstreal home I ever had, thehome of my childhood. AndI’vebeengrateful allmy lifeeversince,toIdaandtothosebushmen who brought usthere,whomust have sensedallalongwhatweneeded.ShecalledittheArk,andit

didn’t takemuch to seewhy.The place was alive withevery conceivable domestic

animal:goats,sheep,acoupleof pigs, a mournful-lookingdonkeycalledBarnaby, threemilk cows and their calves,and of course, her entirefamilyofwildcreatures.Thedomestic animals all hadnames, but I only rememberBarnaby and a cow calledPoogly – not a name youeasilyforget.She didn’t give names to

the wild ones, she said,

because they were justpassing through, except forone. Henry was a wombat.Henry,shesaid,wasprobablystill asleep, and didn’t muchlikestrangers.He’dbeenwithher for seven years. He’dcome and just stayed. Helived in a hole under theverandah steps, andcollectedhats.Infacthestolehats,anyhathe could find,whichwaswhy she kept her hat on allthe time. Henry slept on his

hoard of hats down there inhisholeandwasveryhappy,probablythehappiestwombatin the entire world, she said,which wasn’t difficult, sheadded, because wombatsgenerallyarenotthehappiestofcreatures.“Youcanhavealooklater

for yourself,” she told us,“just don’t breathe in whileyou’re doing it. It’s horribledown there. Stinks to high

heaven. Not a great one forpersonalhygiene,ourHenry.”She introduced her entire

menagerie of animals beforeshe even introduced herself.She did that over a gloriousbreakfast of eggs, and toastand jam,andmilk,whichwewolfed down, still unable totakeinourextraordinaryturnof luck. She waited untilevery last crumb was gone,every last drop. We

discoveredsoonthat thiswasalways the thing with her.She could sense intuitivelytheneedsand fearsofus all,ofallher“children,”whichiswhy, from thevery first day,wealwaysfeltsoateasewithher,whywecametoloveandtrust her as we did, whetherwewereboysorjoeys.She’dsaved all of us. We didn’tlove her because we owedher, but because of the kindofpersonshewas.

She wanted to hear ourstory. So Marty told hereverything – he was alwaysbetter at words than me. Iwatched her as she listened,saw the sadnessandanger inher face. Icouldseeshewasolder under her hat than I’dfirst imagined. When you’reyoungyoucan’tworkouttheageofanadult– they’re justquite old, old, or very old.She was old, and (I’mguessingnowbecauseInever

asked her of course) aboutfifty-five. Her hair was longto the shoulders, and grey,going to white around hertemples, and this belied theyouth in her face. She wasquicktosmile,andwhenshedid her whole being seemedto light up. She laughedeasily too. I’ve forgotten somuch about her, so muchabout everything, but I canhearherlaughstill.Itwarmedme then. It warms me now

when I think of it, becausethere was love in herlaughter, never mockery,unless it was self-mockery.And there was a directnessabout the way she looked atyou,andthewayshespoketoyou.“Well,you’vetoldmeyour

littletale,”shebegan,“soI’lltell you mine. Then we’llknow one another better,won’twe?

Andsoshetolduswhoshewas andwhat shewas doingliving there in the Ark withall her creatures around her,andHenrydownhishathole.We listened agog, becauseshe was a wonderfulstoryteller. She could paintpictures in your head withwords, and she could touchtheheartofyoutoo.“MegsMolloy,that’sme–

Margaret really – but Aunty

Megs will be fine. Just callmethat,everyonedoes.Idoalittle of everything, a bit offarming,writeabitofpoetry–lovethat–andImakeboatstooinmyshed,becauseMickmadeboats.You’llseephotosof him about the place. Hewas my husband, but I losthim in the war, which wassadforme,butsadderstillforhim. His ship was sunk insomeconvoy, sohe’spart oftheseabednow.It’sasgooda

place to end up as any, Ireckon.Hemademodelboatsall his life, sailed them too,all kinds, a destroyer in theend.Boatswerehislife,boatsandme.SonowImakeboatsbecausehe taughtmehowtodoit,andIloveit.ButIdon’tget all maudlin about Mick,not often anyway. Life’s tooshort.“Besides there’s too much

needs doing round here.

YearsagowhenMickandmefirstcamehere,hediscoveredadeadwallabyupontheroad–knockeddownandkilledbysome stupid truck. He saw alittleheadstickingoutofherpouch, and alive, alive o! Sohebroughtithome.Thatwasnearenoughtwentyyearsagonow. That little fellow wasthe first of hundreds,thousands nowmaybe. Fromthat day on one of us wouldchecktheroadeverymorning

at dawn, and whenever wefoundanorphan,apossum,ajoey, a wombat, we’d bringhim home. And in time thebushmen must have got tohear about it, because theywould bring along littlefellows they’d found andleave them with us. Theydon’t say much, but they’vegot their hearts in the rightplace.“But we wouldn’t ever

keep them. We wouldn’tcuddle them either. None ofthat.We’d just feed the littlefellows and look after them.Tried never to tame them,never even touch them ‘lesswe had to. Once you tamethemthey’llnevergobacktothe wild. So we just keptthem till they were strongenough.Thenwe’dall takeahiketogetherupintothehills,and if one or two stayed upthere, that was fine with us,

thatwasjustwhatwewanted.They were back where theybelonged.“Whenthewarcamealong

and Mick joined the navy, Iwent on doing it just thesame. And when he didn’tcome back, I carried on.Seemedtheright thingtodo.So here I am writing mypoetry, making my boats,looking after whoever orwhateverIfindout therethat

needsme.Thenthismorning,I find something I’ve neverfound before – a couple ofraggedy little scarecrows leftbehind for me by thebushmen.SoIsaidtomyself:they’ve done that for a goodreason.Andnow I know thereason. So I know why youwere there, and now youknow why I was there. Justlike all the little fellows outthere,youcanstayaslongasyouneedto.”

The two of us walked outafterwards to see Big BlackJack in his paddock.Hewastrying to make friends withAuntyMegs’ horse and withBarnaby.ButBarnabywasn’thavinganyofit,andhedidn’tmuchlikeiteitherwhenJackstarted checking out AuntyMegs’ horse. I could hearAunty Megs singing frominside the house and I felt Iwastheluckiestpersonalive.I didn’t pinch myself, but I

wondered more than oncethat first day whether MartyandIwerelivinginsidesomewonderful shareddream, thatmaybewe’dwake up and beback at Cooper’s Stationagain.But when I woke up the

next morning, I woke up toseeMarty still fast asleep inthebedopposite,andhighona shelf all around the roommodelsofsailingboats,andI

knew the dream was not adream at all. I heard ashufflingundermybed then,peered underneath and saw awombat looking back up atme.Hehadoneofmy socksin his mouth. Aunty Megswas at the door then with aglass ofmilk for each of us.“I see you’ve met Henrythen,”shesaid.“Forgottotellyou.Hestealssockstoo.”

IMustGoDowntotheSea

ItturnedoutthatHenrydidn’tjust pinch hats and socks,he’dstealjustaboutanythingthat he fancied. Sowe neverleft our clothes lying around,nor shoes, nor towels.AuntyMegstoldustoshoohimout

of the house whenever hecame in; but somehow,sooner or later, he’d alwaysfindawaybackinagain.AndAuntyMegswasright,hedidsmell. Ifhewas in thehousewe’d smell him before wesawhim,andthestinkofhimlingered long in the air afterwe’d put him out. But welovedhimallthesame,justasAunty Megs did. I think itwas because of the way helooked up at you. His eyes

said:“OK,soIstink.OK,soI’m a thief. But nobody’sperfect,arethey?Sogivemeabreak,willyou?Deepdownyou know you love me,everyonedoes.”FeedingHenryhisbottleof

milk was the chore that wasnever a chore. Marty and Iwould often squabble overwhich of us should do thislasttaskoftheday.Whoeverwon would sit on the

verandah steps right aboveHenry’s hole.He’d climb upon to your lap, roll over onhis back and wait for it.Aunty Megs said he’d justnever grown up, that she’dtriedandtriedtobreakhimofthe habit, but he’d hangaround her feet making herfeel so guilty that shecouldn’tresisthim.SoHenrystillgothismilk,andithadtobeoutofabottle.

We did have tasks at theArk. We milked the cows,and the goats – learned tomake butter and cheese too.We chopped wood, we fedthe hens, got chased by thegeese when we tried to shutthem up in case the dingoescameinthenight.Butnowitwas work we wanted to do,because we wanted to helpout, and because both of usloved being with AuntyMegs. Our hands blistered,

our backs ached, but wedidn’t mind. Every morningshe’d take us down to themainroadamileorsoaway,and we’d walk along theverges,oneofusontheright,oneofusontheleft, lookingforanycasualties.Mostdayswe’d find something butmoreoftenthannotthey’dbedead already. But from timetotimewe’dgetlucky.I remember thefirst timeI

discovered a joey crouchedtrembling by the side of hisdead mother. I couldn’tcontain my excitement, andyelled for Aunty Megs, whocame running over to pickhim up. She was very strictabout handling them. Sheneverallowedustofeedthemor handle them. If theywerevery small she’d keep themfor a while in a box by thestove in the kitchen. Wecould crouch over them and

look, but not touch. But assoonastheywereoldenoughthey’d live outside in thecompound with the others.Marty and I would spendhours out there watchingthrough the wire, but AuntyMegs was the only oneallowed in. And she nevertalked to them,never strokedthem.Shejustfedthem.She’d never let us come

withhereitherwhenshewent

offforherridesintothebush,theorphananimals,her“littlefellows,” trailing behind her.If we came, she said, we’donlyconfusethem.Therewasnopointinsavingthematall,sheinsisted,unlesstheycouldbereturnedbackintothewildagain successfully.Shemadeit perfectly clear that thiswasn’t an exercise insentimentality, wasn’t just tomakeherselffeelgood.Itwastogivethemasecondchance

of life, a chance they alldeserved. It was a chanceeveryone deserved, she said,animalsandpeoplealike.Aunty Megs had a station

wagon she kept in the farmshed, which was half hen-house and half garage. Andbecausethehenslikedsittingon the station wagon it wasjust about the messiest carI’veeverseeninmylife.Butwelovedit.Goingintotown,

ten or so miles away, was areal treat. She often sangwhen she was driving. Sheused to sing a lot – it madeher feel happy, she said.She’d teach us all her songs,andwe’dsingalong,allthreeof us making a dreadfulracket, but we loved it. Sheknewallthewordsandalltheverses of London Bridge isFalling Down, which wasmore than I did before Imether.

We didn’t go into townoften,justonceaweekorso.She’d stride down the streetin her straw hat, and we’dfollow along behind.Everyone knew her and shekneweveryone.Theywereallrather curious about us atfirst. She didn’t explain whowewereorwherewe’dcomefrom. She just said we wereher“boys”and thatwas that.Anditwastrue.Wewereherchildren, and she was our

mother – the only motherwe’deverknownanyway.Itwason the firstof those

trips into town that she tookus into the police station.She’dbeen thinking,she toldusonthedrivein,anditwastime someone did somethingabout it. She wouldn’t sayanything else. She led us uptothedeskandsaidwehadtotell the sergeant right thereand then all about Cooper’s

Station, everythingwe’d toldher. So we did. Thepoliceman wrote it all downand shook his head a lotwhile doing it. Aunty Megstoldussometimelaterthattheplace had been closed down,thatall thechildrenhadbeenfoundotherhomestogoto.Iwas pleased about that,cockahoop that Piggywouldn’tbebeatinganymorechildren. But most of all Iwas very sad for Ida. I

rememberfeelingthatIreallydidn’twanttoknowanythingto do with that place, Iwanted to forget all about it.Just the name, Cooper’sStation,was enough tomakemethinkaboutit,andIdidn’twanttohavetothinkaboutiteveragain.Butwhatyouwanttothink

about isn’t necessarily whatyoudothinkabout.Thetruthis that the memories of all

that happened at Cooper’sStation have come back tohaunt me all my life, evenduring those happy, happyyears we spent with AuntyMegs. They were happybecauseIwasasclosethenasI’ve ever been to carefree. Iknowwhen I read what I’vejustwrittenthatitsoundsasifI’m wallowing in nostalgia,making an idyll of the Ark.It’s difficult not to. AfterCooper’s Station anything

would have seemed likeheavenonearth.Aunty Megs may have

beenthekindestpersonintheworld,butshecouldbefirm–wesoondiscovered that.Shewasappalledwhenitbecameclear – as of course it verysoondid–thatneitherMartynorIhadbeentoschool,andso neither of us could readproperly nor write. So fromthen on she’d sit us down

everymorning at the kitchentableand teachus, regularasclockwork. I won’t pretendthateitherofuswerewillingpupils–wejustwantedtobeoutside messing around,climbing trees, riding BigBlack Jack, making camps,talkingtoHenryorPooglyortrying to cheer up poor oldBarnaby. It took hourssometimes to get an ee-awoutofBarnaby.Anee-awwereckoned was as good as a

laugh, so we always stayedwithhimtillwegotone.Andwhenitrainedwe’dfarprefertobeoutwithAuntyMegsinher big garden shed whereshe made her model boats,where we’d make them withher–shetaughtusthattoo.But lessons, she said, had

tocomefirst.Wedidn’targuewith her, not because wewere ever even remotelyfrightenedofher,butbecause

both of us knew that shealways had our best interestsat heart. She made no secretofheraffectionforus,norherwish to give us the bestupbringing she could. “Oneday,” she told us, “you’llhavetoleavehereandgooutinto the big world out thereand earn your living likeeveryoneelse.Todothatyouneed to learn. Themore youlearn now, the moreinterestingyour lifewill be.”

So the two of us buckleddown to our lessons, oftenreluctantly perhaps, butwithoutprotest.As part of her teaching

Aunty Megs told us stories,tales she’d learned from thebushmen, folk tales fromEngland. She’d read uslegends. By the stove in theevenings she’d read us anovel, a chapter a night,Treasure Island by Robert

Louis Stevenson (we askedfor that again and again).There were the Just SoStories by Rudyard Kipling,Little House on the PrairieandHeidi. She loved Heidi,and shewas going to read itto us, she said, even thoughsheknewitwasagirl’sbook.But our favourites were theWilliam books by RichmalCrompton. Sometimes she’dbe laughing so much shecouldn’t go on. (Later when

we could read properly, weread a bit of one of them toBarnaby,buthedidn’tfinditfunnyat all.Not a singleee-aw.)But most of all Aunty

Megs loved poetry. It wasMick, she said, who hadgivenheraloveforthesoundof words. He’d read to heroften, usually poems aboutthe sea. Sea Fever andCargoes,andTheYarnofthe

Nancy Bell, which alwaysmade us giggle, and Mick’sfavourite – The Rime of theAncient Mariner. She’d sitback in her chair and readthem to us, and every timeher words would take usagain down to the sea. FiftyyearsormorelaterIstillloveallof them,andTheRimeofthe Ancient Mariner is theone I lovebest. I know it byheart, start to finish. Everytime I read it, and I read it

often, Icanhearhervoice inmyhead. Shewrote her ownpoems too she told us, butthat she did in private, andhowever much we badgeredher to read them to us, shenever did. “My poems arelike a diary,” she said, “andfornoone’seyesbutmine.”Aunty Megs was an

intenselyprivateperson.Youalways knew when you’daskedonequestiontoomany,

likewhenMartywaslookingat the photo on themantelpiece of Mick in hissailor’s uniform holding thehandofalittleboy.Whenheasked her who he was, shedidn’t reply. When he askedoncemore,shesaid.“Nooneyouknow,andnooneIknoweither.” And the suddencoldnessinhervoicemadeitvery clear she was going tosay nothing more about it.We always thought it must

have been her son of course,butweneverdaredtoaskhereveragain.There really was so much

that was wonderful at AuntyMegs’,somuchthatchangedmy life. For a start we’dfoundamother,andmaybeasa result Marty and I becamelike real brothers there. Welearnedtogetherhowtobuildboats, only model onesmaybe,butthesemodelboats

were the beginning of ourlifetime love affair with thesea. We’d listen to AuntyMegs readingher seapoems,and talk long into the nightabout how we were bothgoing to go to sea and besailors like Mick had been.And I learned The AncientMariner by heart and recitedit for Aunty Megs on herbirthday. She listened withher eyes closed, and whentheyopenedafterI’dfinished

they were full of tears andfull of love. Marty said itwasn’tbad,butthatI’dmadeamistakeandleftoutaverse.SoIthrewthecushionathimand he threw one atme.Weboth missed, and then allthree of us were laughing.Henry came bustling in thento seewhat thenoisewasallabout, took one look at us,decidedweweremad,pickedup the cushion, turned andwalkedrightoutagain.Iwas

happier in that moment thanI’d ever been in all my life,happyasLarry.

ScrambledEggsandBakedBeans

We’d been living at the Arkfor about four or five yearswhen Aunty Megs had heraccident. Marty and I hadbeen swimming in the river.Wedidthatmostdays,whentheweatherwasright,ifthere

was enough water in theriver. Swimming wassomething else Aunty Megshad taught us. “Almost asimportant as poetry,” she’dsay. “Best exercise there is.Couldsaveyour lifeonedaytoo!”We came wandering back

uptothehouse,butwhenwecalled for Aunty Megs shewasn’t there.Aquicklookatthe empty compound told us

what she was doing andwhere she was. She’d goneoff on one of her rides intothe bush, hoping to releasesomeofherlittlefellows,herfamily of animals. Normallyshe’dbegone for anhour ortwo, no more. But afterseveral hours there was stillno sign of her. We decidedweshouldn’twaitanylonger,thatwehadtogooutlookingforher.

I was leading Big BlackJackoutofthepaddockwhenwe saw her horse comegalloping riderless down thetrack from the hills. Wedidn’t waste any time then,butrodebackupthewayherhorse had come, calling forAuntyMegsaswewent.Weknew roughly where it wasshe usually went to releaseher animals – the same areashe’dfoundusallthoseyearsbefore. So that’s where we

headed now, both of us onBigBlackJack,AuntyMegs’horsefollowingalongbehind.After a while we heard hersinging, singing out loud –later she told us the singinghelped to take her mind offherpain.We found her out in the

openbeyondthetrees,sittingwith her back up against arock, her family of animalsscattered all around her. She

was holding her arm tight toher chest, and had a nastygash down one side of herface. There was so muchblood all over her. Her shirtwas soaked with it, bothhands and her neck. Shesmiledupatus.“AmIgladtosee you,” she said. “Don’tworry about the blood. Gotplentymorewhere that camefrom.Justgetmeupandtakemehome,there’sgoodboys.”

She was already too weaktowalkveryfar,soweknewthat somehow we had to getherontoherhorse.Itwasn’tatalleasy.Wehadtofindtheright tree stump to use as amountingblock,thenhelpherupintothesaddle.Icouldseeher shoulderwas paining herdreadfully. I led the way onBig Black Jack while Martyrode up behindAuntyMegs,holding her steady in thesaddle all the way home.

Then I rodeon into town forthe doctor. It turned out sheneededadozenstitchesinherfaceandthatshe’dbrokenhercollarbone.Heputaslingonher, and told her also thatshe’d lost a lot of blood andhad to rest up for a while, amonth at least, maybe more.Shesaid,“Phooey.”The doctor stood there

then, wagging his finger.“Don’tyouphooeyme,Megs

Molloy,”hetoldher.“Thisisserious. You’re to keep thatsling on and stay still. Theseboys of yours’ll look afteryou. You stay put, you hearme? Doctor’s orders.” Andthenhe turned tous.“And ifshetries togetupandgoofflookingforher littleanimals,you have my permission tolock her in.” I think he wasonlypartlyjoking.MartyandItookhimathis

word. Nowwewere lookingafter Aunty Megs, whichmade a change. We made adeal with her. You tell uswhattodoandwe’lldoit,wesaid.Butshehad tostayput,stay still, rest as the doctorhad told her. She agreed,reluctantly. So that’s whathappened. She only had totell us what to do for a fewdays until we got into somekindofroutine.Afterthatwejust got on with it. We took

turns at everythingwe didn’tmuchlikedoing–whichwasmostly the cooking and thewashingupandthelaundry.Aunty Megs taught me

from her sofa how to makescrambled egg on toast. Shewasverydetailedandspecificin her instructions. Sheallowed no deviation. Beatthe eggs, bit of salt, bit ofpepper, some milk. You hadto spread the butter on the

toast,keepitwarm.Thenyoucookedtheeggs,andtheeggshad to be cooked just right,not for too longor they’dgoall lumpy and tasteless. I didit better than Marty whoalways forgot the toast andburnt it. I still cook themeanest scrambled eggs intheworldalltheseyearslater.It’s still my favourite meal.During Aunty Megs’convalescence scrambledeggsalternatedregularlywith

baked beans, or bubble andsqueak, or corned beef hash.Andwe could fry bacon too.Poor Aunty Megs. Thinkingback, it wasn’t the best ofdiets for a patient, anypatient. But she nevergrumbled.She laughedaboutit instead and told us in thenicest possible way thatneitherofusshouldevertakeupacareerincatering.Outside thoughMarty and

I really came into our own.WedideverythingthatAuntyMegshaddone.Therewasnotimeanymoreforswimmingor fishing or climbing trees.Most mornings we’d go off,as she had done, up to themain road, searching for anysurviving orphans. We fedthose we had in thecompound,andeverysooftenwerodeoffintothebush,theanimal cavalcade followingbehind, hoping one or two

might stay up there. Wemilked the cows and thegoats, fed thehens, tookpot-shots with AuntyMegs’ gunat any dingoes that came tooclose.Weeven learned tobebrave with the geese, and tokeepHenryoutofthehouse–we were only partiallysuccessfulinthat.Welearnedto cope. And, to be honest,we liked it, everymomentofit, even the laundry and theshopping.

We’drideoffonceaweekinto town, one of us on BigBlack Jack, the other onAuntyMegs’horse.We tookit in turns to ride Big BlackJack because neither of usmuch liked Aunty Megs’horse.Hewaseasilyspooked,a bit nervous too, and notonlybykangarooseither,butby just about everything.Whenever I rode him intotownIfeltthesameashedid,always on edge, always

twitchy. I could never forgetthat it was his fault AuntyMegswas lying there with abroken collar bone. He’dheard something rustling inthe trees, she told us, andhe’d reared up in suddenterror – that’s how it hadhappened. I could neverforget that, so I could nevertrusthim.Then there were the

visitors who came to call,

usually for tea. Aunty Megsdidn’t like these visits anymorethanwedid.Shesworeshe’d never fall off a horseagain, nor ever get ill. Itwasn’t that she didn’t likepeople. She did. But thetroublewastheyclearlylikedhermorethanshelikedthem.Now she was incapacitated,they came visiting all toooften and there was nothingmuchshecoulddoaboutit.

When the vicar turned up,shedidn’t like itonebit,anddidn’t trouble to hide herfeelings either. I was therewhen he came. She waspretty blunt with him. “I’mnot at death’s door yet,” shetold him. “Just broken acollar bone, that’s all. Noneed for the last rites.” Hewasn’t amused and went offquite quickly after that. AndMarty and I didn’t like theintrusion of these visitors

much either. We felt thatsome of themwere checkingup on us to see if we werelooking after her properly.They’dbringbasketsoffood,and all of them, withoutexception,would ask if therewasanythingtheycoulddotohelp.WeloveditwhenAuntyMegstoldthemthatherboyswere looking after herwonderfully, that everythingwasjustfine.

It was about this timethough that I first began tonotice a change in Marty.He’dgrownupalotrecently.He’d alwaysbeena lot tallerthanme, but now he seemedmucholdertoo.UntilnowI’dhardly noticed the four-yeardifference between us. But Idid now. He was becomingtheman of the house.Martywould sit with Aunty Megsforhoursonend, listening tothestoriesofhowher family

andMick’shadcomeovertoAustralia from Ireland acenturybefore,drivenoutbythe potato famine, she said.They had found this valleyandsettledhere.Marty lovedlookingthroughAuntyMegs’photograph albums with hertoo.Hewanted tohearaboutMick in particular, and shelovedtotalkabouthimtoo.I remember sitting there

watching them, and feeling a

little jealousofMartyfor thefirsttime.Martyseemedtobeable to talk toher inaway Icouldn’t. He wasn’t just oneof her “boys,” he wasbecoming more of a friend.Andshestilltreatedmemorelikeaboy,likeachild.Uptonow that had been fine, butsuddenly it wasn’t.Sometimes I couldn’tbear tositthereandwatchthem,andI’d go off to bed early. Itmade me feel very alone

again. I’d sulk about it fromtimetotime,butwithMartyIcouldneversulkforlong.Hewouldn’tletyou.Onewayoranother he’d talk me round,getmesmilingagain.Oncewewerealoneinour

roomatnighthewouldbethesame oldMarty again.We’dshare our deepest secrets inthe dark. We’d talk into theearly morning sometimes. Itwasduringoneof those long

nights thatMarty toldmehisworst fear, which thenbecamemyworstfeartoo.“D’youknowwhatIthink,

Arthur?”hesaid.“SometimesI think this is our real home,that we really are herchildren,thatwe’llbeabletostay here for ever. Then Ithink: but we’re not herchildren, are we?We’re likeher family of animals outthere, her little fellows, her

orphans. We’re orphans too,aren’t we? She hasn’t saidanything, but sometimes Ithinkshewantsustogo,justlike she wants them to go.That boy in the photo withMick.He’s her real son. Shewon’t say anything abouthim.Buthemusthavegone,and when he went he didn’tcome back, did he? But Idon’twant to go, not ever. Ifeel like I’m a part of herproperfamily,thatyou’remy

brother, that Mick’s my realfather too. I’m going to bejustlikehimoneday.Iam.”Then he added, “You’ve

still got that lucky key ofyours?”Ihad,thoughIdidn’twear it any more – maybebecause I thought I didn’tneed to. For some time I’dbeenkeepingit in thedrawerinmybedside table. I’d lookat it fromtime to time,but itno longer seemed quite so

important to me as it hadbeen at Cooper’s Station. Imust have thought that Icouldn’t get any luckieranyway, so I justdidn’tneedit anymore.As for thecrossPiggy Bacon had made uswear,Imusthavelost it.ButI can’t remember how orwhere.Marty chucked his inthe river one day and Iwondered then if he wasthrowing away his luck, ourluck.

From that night on Icouldn’t get out of my headwhat Marty had said aboutAunty Megs wanting us toleaveoneday.Whenwewerealone, the two of us talkedabout nothing else. Wedecided to wait until AuntyMegs was up and aboutagain,andthenwe’daskher.But even after her shoulderwas better and things werebacktonormalagain,andshewas doing the cooking and

we were eating somethingelse besides scrambled eggsandbakedbeans,westillkeptputting it off. In the end weput it off forgood.The truthis, I think, that neither of usreally wanted to know theanswerbecausewefearedtoomuchwhatitmightbe.Itwastobeanothercoupleofyearsbeforewefoundout,andthenwe didn’t have to ask her.Aunty Megs wasn’t one tobeat about the bush. When

she told us, she told usstraight.

“You’remyBoys,Aren’tYou?”

Aunty Megs had been quietfor a few days. Shewas likethat. There’d be times whensheseemedverypreoccupied.She wouldn’t sing. She’d sitalone on the verandah andreadherpoetry.She’dgo for

long rides.Marty said itwasbecause she was missingMick. And it was true thatwhen his birthday cameround or the anniversary ofhis death, that’s when shewent most noticeably quiet.But this time there was adifference. There was anervousness about her we’dnever seen before. It wasalmostasifshewasavoidingus.

Inretrospect,ofcourse,weshould have guessed whatwas coming,butwedidn’t. Iput it down toHenry.Henryhadgonemissingacoupleofdaysbefore.Weweren’t thatworried, because Henry wasalways going off onwalkabout into the bush,sometimes for a few hours,sometimesforafewdays.Healways came back. I’d justbeenoutside to see ifhewasdown his hole. I came in for

supper and was washing myhands in the sink. “He’s notback,Aunty,”Isaid.“Well,maybehe’sgonefor

good this time,”AuntyMegswasservingupasshetalked.“Maybe Henry’s finallydecidedit’stherighttimeforhimtogo.‘Bouttimetoo,I’dsay.” She took a deep breathbefore she spoke again.“Well, I reckon this is asgoodatimeasanytotellyou

boys.”“Tell us what?” I asked,

sittingdownat the table.Myplate was piled high in frontofmewith tatty pie –AuntyMegs’ meat and potato piewith crusty pastry. I waslonging to get at it, but wealways had to wait tilleveryone was served. AuntyMegs was very strict aboutsuch things. “I’ve beenwriting letters,” shewent on,

“to a friend of mine inSydney – an old friend ofMick’s from the navy,Freddie Dodds. It’s taken awhile,butnowit’sallsetup.”Upuntilnowshehadn’tbeenlooking at us, but now shewas. “I decided to wait tillyouwerebotholdenough,tillyou were both ready, andnowIreckonyouare.Freddiesays you can start work in acoupleofweeks’time.”

My appetite for tatty piehad suddenly gone. Now weknew. Our worst fears wereabouttoberealised.“Freddie Dodds runs a

boatyard, makes boats justlike we do in the shed, onlybigger of course, the realthing. He wants to take youon as apprentices. It’s allfixedup.Aproperpaidjobinthe yard and a place for youtolive.”

While she was talkingHenrynudged thedooropen,andcamewanderingin.Noneof us paid him any attention.“I’m not going to ask youwhatyouthink,”AuntyMegssaid. “But I am going to tellyou why I’m doing this. IfI’ve learned anything in thislife, I’ve learned that youcan’t cling on. After Mickdied, after I didmy crying, Ihad to let him go. With allthoseanimalsoutthereinthe

compound,Imustn’thangonto them. They’re not mine.They have a life to live outthere. And you’re not mineeither. I have to let you go.Youhavealifetolive.”Marty was on his feet,

upset likeI’dneverseenhimbefore. “But we’re not dead.And we’re not a couple ofbloody joeys either. Thisplace, it’s our home. I don’twanttogotoSydney.Idon’t

wanttogoatall.”Aunty Megs went to him

then, andputher arms roundhim and held him. “Do youthink Iwant you to go?” shesaid.“DoyouthinkIwanttobe here on my own? You’remyboys,aren’tyou?TheArkisyourhome,alwayswillbe.It’llbehereforyouwheneveryou want to come back, andI’ll be here too. I’m yourmother,aren’t I?”She turned

to me then. “Don’t just sitthere,comeandgiveyouroldmother a hug too.” Thehugginghelpedstemthetearsafter a while, but then thenumbing reality set in. Wewere going. In a couple ofweekswe’dbeleavinghome,leavingAuntyMegs.We lived out those weeks

as if every daywas our last.They passed in a blur ofriding and fishing and

swimming.We groomedBigBlack Jack every day till hiscoat glistened as neverbefore. Henry was fed hisbottle several times a day,spoiledrottenevenmorethanusual. And all the whileAunty Megs was growingquieter and quieter. We sohopedshewouldweakenandlet us stay, but she remainedresolute.Everynightshewasdarning or mendingsomething.Shecouldn’thave

her boys going to Sydneylooking like a couple ofraggedyscarecrows,shesaid.And,while she was doing it,and because we knew sheloved us to do it, we recitedpoemsforher.MartydidTheYarn of the Nancy Bell,always his favourite becauseithadarollickingrhythmanda gruesome twist to it at theendwhichweall loved.AndI’d do my party piece, TheAncientMariner.

The last time I did it, shelooked up at me and said:“Thank you, Arthur dear, Ishan’t forget it.” I haven’tforgotten it either. She cameinto our room on the lastevening, and put a book ineach of our suitcases –minewasTheRime of theAncientMariner, Marty’s, The Yarnof the Nancy Bell. I havethem by me now, as I amwritingthis.Theyarestillmymosttreasuredbooks.

Outofa leather shoelace Imadeanew tie formy luckykey that night, and hung itaround my neck. I wasn’t atall sure I really believed inthat kind of thing any more.At fifteen it seemed tome itmight be a bit of a childishsuperstition,butIwasn’tsureenoughofmyself toabandonit. Besides, the key was mylast link to my sister, to theKitty I remembered, orimagined. Memory or

imagination? Already Icouldn’t be at all sure thatKitty had ever existed. Onlythekeytoldmeshehad.Andthekeyhadbeenluckyforus.Hadn’titbroughtustoAuntyMegs all those years before?So I kept my key. And I’mgladIdid,verygladindeed.

ThelastIsawofAuntyMegsshewasholdingherstrawhaton her head and standing

there, disappearing into thecloud of dust left behind bythe bus. For Marty and methis was the first time we’dbeen on a bus since the daywe first arrived in Australiaten years before. Then wewere leaving Sydney. Nowwe were going back. As Iremember Marty said justabout the same thing to methathe’dsaidthen.“We’llbeallright.”

We sat silent the wholeway, neither of us believingthis was happening. Both ofusknewwewereleavingourchildhoodbehindusforever.It felt just like we wereheading off into the bushagain,intotheunknown.Together we might have

been,buteachofusfeltveryaloneonthatjourney.WhenIfelt the tears welling insideme,Itriedtocheermyselfup

by thinking of Henry’shorriblehathole,or tryingtogetanee-aw outofBarnaby.But sooner or later I’d thinkof Aunty Megs, and themomentthathappenedI’dbeoverwhelmed by a sadnessI’d never felt before, asadness so painful it gnawedatmy stomach. I’veonlygotto think about her even now,andIcanfeelthesamepang,faint perhaps now like adistant echo, but still there.

That’showmuchIlovedher,loved our glowing time withher.

FreddieDodds

Memory is a great andpowerful magician. It playstricksonyouthatyousimplycan’t understand, no matterhow hard you try to workthem out. In my case itobliterated my earlybeginnings almost entirely,theluckykeyaroundmyneck

being the only clue that I’deven had a beginning at all.And of my sister Kitty, thememory magician left menothing but a shadowyphantom,whichbecamemoreshadowy with every passingyear.YetIcanrememberthenightmare years of Cooper’sStationandPiggyBaconasifthey all happened yesterday.Butfortunatelyformysanity,those healing, life-affirmingyears with Aunty Megs and

Marty at the Ark are evenmore vivid to me than thenightmare time that precededthem.I’m guessing now of

course, but for me I thinkmaybe it’s partly at least aquestion of intensity. Duringthoseperiodsofmyearlylife,maybe before I built up myprotectivewall aroundme asmostofusdoaswegetolder,I felt everything so strongly,

sodeeply.Good,badorugly,itstayswithme.Butthatstilldoesn’texplainwhysomuchthathashappenedsincethoseearlyyearshasbeen lost inahaze, that I seem to haveforgotten as much as I’veremembered. It’s as if timeitself had taken its timeduring my childhood, butonce I got off that bus inSydney it picked up speed,and from then on it was arollercoasterofa ride,anda

bumpy one too, that broughtmefromthentonow,leavingme with only fleetingmomentsofclarity, thehighsandthelows,withsomuchinbetween, but lost to me forever.FreddieDoddswasthereto

meet us off the bus inSydney. He drove us to theboatyard down atNewcastle.Mr Dodds – I never heardanyone call him Freddie

exceptAuntyMegs–wasthemost silent person I everknew. He wasn’t unfriendly.On the contrary, he smiled agreatdeal,andhewasn’teveroff-hand or cold. He justdidn’t say much, not to us,not to anyone. But he was akind man through andthrough, and he ran hisboatyard like a kindly ship’scaptain. He was the sort ofcaptain that led by example,not by shouting at people.

Everyone knew what theyhad to do and how to do it,and that included Marty andme.We started out as general

dogsbodies, sweeping up,fetchingandcarrying,makingtea–wemadeanawfullotoftea. And we werenightwatchmentoo.Thatwasmostly because of where welived.Itpaidourrent.MartyandIlivedonaboat

just down the creek from theboatyard, a stone’s throw,nomore. It wasn’t much of aplace, a bit of an old wreckreally, a forty-five foot yachtbuilt in the 1940s that hadseen better days, and wasfalling apart and beyondrepair.Butwedidn’tmind.Itwashome.Wehadaplaceofourownandwelovedit.NoWorriesshewascalled,

and thenamewasperfect for

her.And shewas perfect forus too.We’d sit up there ondeckintheevenings,thetwoof us, a cooling breezecoming in off thewater, andup above us a sky full ofstars. I’ve loved stars eversince. Down below we wereassnugasacoupleofbugsina rug. Seventh heaven.What’smorewewereearningmoney. Not much, but itmade us feel good, made usfeel suddenly grown up. But

however grown up we mayhave felt, we both missedAuntyMegsandtheArk,andBarnaby and Big Black Jackand Poogly andHenry. HowwelaughedaboutHenry.The other blokes in the

yard didn’t treat us like thatof course. To them we werejust a couple of kids,particularlyme,becauseIstilllookedlikeakid.Oneortwoofthemwouldtrytogiveme

ahardtimetobeginwith,butMartywasagoodsixfeettallnowandbigwith it.Hekeptaneyeoutforme,theycouldsee that. So they’d rib me alittle from time to time, butthat’salliteverwas.Wesoonsettled inandbecamepartoftheplace.Ibecameabitofamascot,Ithink.We’d hardly ever see Mr

Dodds. He’d be up in hisoffice designing the boats.

The place was full of hismodel boats, mostly yachts,and we’d only ever go upthere to collectourmoneyatthe end of the week, or topick up a letter from AuntyMegs perhaps. She didn’twriteoften,butwhenshedidher letters were full of newsabout Henry and Barnaby. Itseemed now like news fromanotherworld.It was while we were up

there one day that he sawuslooking at the models of theyachtshe’dmade.“Megstellsme you can make modelstoo,”hesaid.Andheshowedus a design he was workingon. “Do you think you canmakethisupforme?”“Course,” said Marty at

once. I thought he was mad.Wehadn’t got a cluehow towork from a design. We’dalways had Aunty Megs

alongsideusintheshedbackhome. Now we were on ourown. I didn’t thinkwe coulddoit.Butwedid.Welearnedfastbecausewehadto.Afterworkwe’d sit down togetherat the map table in NoWorries,andmakethemodelof Mr Dodds’ latest design.Eighthheavennow!One way or another I’ve

lived on boats more or lessever since, with a few

prolonged and mostlyunpleasant interruptions. Idon’t knowwhat it is,why Ilovelivingonboatssomuch.PerhapsIjustfeelsafe,likeIam a part of the boat andshe’sapartofme.AndIlovethe sound of the sea, thelapping of water above me,themovement belowme, theclapping of the mast in thewind,andthebirds.Ilovethebirds.EversinceNoWorries,I’vewokenuptothesoundof

seabirds. I could do withoutgulls mind. Dirty beggars.They always chose to parkthemselves on No Worries.There were dozens of boatsallaroundtochoosefromandthey always chose ours.Andthey didn’t just leavelittlemessages.Oh no!Martydidn’t like cleaning up afterthem, so I had to do it. Ididn’tmuchlikeMartywhileI was doing that, and I’vehatedgullseversince.

ButifIthinkaboutit,andIoftenhave,myloveoftheseamustgobacktoAuntyMegs,and to Mick, her husband.He’dbeenasailor.He’dbuiltmodel boats. Then she did itbecausehehad.Thenwedidit because she did it. Shetaughtusallthatpoetryofthesea too, gave us our books,The Yarn of the Nancy Bell,and The Ancient Mariner,whichwebothknewbyheart.So it’s hardly surprising, I

suppose, that Marty and Itook to the sea like ducks towater.Luckily Mr Dodds liked

that firstmodelwemade.Sowe did the next one for himafter that, and very soon wefound ourselves workingalongsideall theotherblokesintheboat-buildingshed,notdogsbodiesanymore,butlikethem,boat-buildersproper.Each of Mr Dodds’ boats

wasarealmarveltome.Theyweremostlyyachts,thirty-to-forty footers. You’d see herfirst as a sketch on his desk,then developed on thedrawing board. Marty and Iwould make the model, andthe next thing you knew – ittookmonths,but itneverfeltlike it – the next thing youknew, there she was in thewater.Amiracleeverytimeithappened, a man-mademiracle, that’s what it was.

For me it was like givingbirth – as close as I ever gotanyway! And Marty and I,andalltheblokesintheyard,wewereallsoproudofthem,liketheywereourchildren.But their real father was

MrDoddsofcourse.Ilearnedmore about boats from MrDodds than I ever did fromanyone else in all my life.There was never anythingflashorfancyabouthisboats.

They weren’t built for speedor looks. They were built tosail. And that’s the otherthing I learned from FreddieDodds. He didn’t just teachushowtobuildboats,hetoldushowtosail themtoo.Andthatwastochangemylifeforever,andMarty’stoo.

OneJanuaryNight

I suppose therewere about adozen of us working in MrDodds’ boatyard, includingMarty and me, and by andlargewewereaprettyclose-knit team. One or two cameand went, but for the mostpart, people liked it andstayed. And that was largely

because Mr Dodds treatedeveryone right. The moneywasn’t great – you couldcertainlyearnmoreelsewhereinthefancierboatyards–butwith Mr Dodds you got tobuildthewholeboat,andbestof all you got to sail it too.We had job satisfaction –that’s what they call it thesedays.Once a boat was finished,

Mr Dodds would ask two or

threeofustotakeheroutonsea-trials. He would oftencomealongtoo.Everyonegothis chance, but not everyonewanted to do it.Marty and Idid though. Any opportunityto go out on sea-trials, andwe’dtakeit.Wewereseasickof course, but after a whilewe’d find our sea legs andour sea stomachs, and oncewe’dsettledintoit,itwasrawexcitement – hard work wediscovered – but always a

purepleasure.So, thanks to Mr Dodds,

bothofusgot toknowboatsfrom the keel up, from theinsideout.Webuiltthemandwe sailed them too. Andwhen we sailed we learnedfromMrDoddshowtosailinharmony with the wind andthesea.Hetoldusoncethatitwaslivingatsea,survivingatsea, that taught him all heknew about boat-building.

You have to understand thesea, he said, to listen to her,to lookout forhermoods, toget to know her and respecther and love her. Only thencan you build boats that feelathomeonthesea.Everytimewewentouton

anewboatwithMrDodds,Ilearned that each boat webuilt was different, had apersonalityofherown.Onceshe’s in the water she

becomes a living creature, auniquecreature.Yourideherlike you ride a horse. Youhave to know all her littlequirks and fancies and fears,how she likes to ride thewaves,howshelikestodancewith the sea. That’s whatsailing is, a dance, and yourpartner is the sea. And withthe sea you never takeliberties. You ask her, youdon’t tell her. You have toremember always that she’s

the leader, not you.You andyour boat are dancing to hertune.I’mnotsurehowmuchMr

Doddseveractuallytoldusofall this.Hewas justaboutasmonosyllabicoutatseaashewasbackintheboatyard.Butonewayoranotherwepickeduphissailingphilosophyandhis boat-building philosophy,and it’s stayed with me eversince. Everything I learned

fromhimaboutthesea,aboutboats, has proved right. Hewas my sailing mentor, mytutor of the sea, a fine manandafineseaman.Thebest.Hemusthavethoughtwell

ofMartyandmetoo,becauseafterabouttwoorthreeyears– Marty would have beenabout twenty-one by now,and I was seventeen – hecalled us up into his officeand told us he thought we

were ready to do one or twolonger trips now, and on ourown, just the two of us.Wewereyoung,hesaid,buthe’dtaught us well,he’d preparedus.A lot of the others didn’twant to do the long trips –mostof themhad families togohometo.Fromnowonhedidn’tjustwantustotrialhisboats,hewantedustodeliverhisboatstotheirnewowners.Asaresult,MartyandIwentallover–acrosstoHobart,up

to the Whit Sunday Islands,and three times over to NewZealand.ItwasononeofthoseNew

Zealand trips, to Auckland,that Marty first put an ideainto my head, an idea that’sbeen there ever since. WeweresailingjustoffDunedin.“You know what?” he said.“IfwewantedwecouldkeepgoingallthewaytoEngland.We could go and find your

sister.YoucouldfindKitty.”We never did, of course.

But the idea stayedwithme.Meanwhile, Iwasbeingpaidfor what I loved doing best,and I was doing it with mybest friend on earth. Ninthheaven now. The two of uswere becoming sailorsthrough and through. Andabout that time, and partlybecauseofthesailingIthink,I stopped thinking of Marty

as my elder brother, mybigger brother. The agedifference between us thathad meant so much at onetime, and even set us apart alittle for a while when wewere younger, all butdisappeared. On board theboats there was no skipper.We worked alongside eachother, with each other, notyounger and older brothersany more, but more liketwins. We seemed to know

instinctively what the otherwas thinking, what he wasabout to do. Our world hadbeentheseaworldforsolongnow. We’d shared so much.We’d been shaped by thesameteacher.Onceayearforacoupleof

weeks’holidaywe’dgobackhometoAuntyMegs,usuallyat Christmas. Sadly Henrywasn’t around anymore, butBarnaby was. Donkeys live

longer than wombats.Barnaby still wouldn’t ee-awhowever much we tried tomake him. We’d sit on theverandah the three of ustogether, and watch the sungodown,andwe’dtellherallabout the places we’d beenand the boats we’d sailed.And on our last night wewould all three of us reciteThe Ancient Mariner, for afew verses each until wefinished it. When we had to

leave at the end of theholidays,we neverwanted itto end. We never wanted tocomeaway.Then one January night

just after we’d come backfrom staying with AuntyMegs, our world turnedupsidedown.We’dhavebothbeen inourearly twentiesbythen.Onewayoranother,it’sbeenupsidedownmostofmylifeeversince.

Thinking back, we shouldhave read the signs. Justbefore Christmas, Mr Doddshad laid off a couple of theblokes, and he hadn’t beenhimself for some time. He’dbeen hiding away in hisoffice, hardly showinghimself. I thought he wasprobably just preoccupiedwith some new design – weall did. But there was noChristmas bonus that year,andnoChristmaspartyinthe

boatshedeither.Weknewtheboatbusinesseverywherewasgoing through a hard time,butwedidn’trealisejusthowharduntilthatJanuarynight.IwasasleeponNoWorries

when ithappened.Martyhadgone out for his lastnightwatchman’s checkaround the boatyard. It musthave been about midnight, Iguess. The two of us alwaystook it in turns, and Marty

was on duty that night. Allyoudidwaswalkaround theyardwith a torch for half anhour. Itwasa routineneitherof us liked much, but fordoingitwewerelivingonNoWorries almost rent free, sowecouldn’tcomplain.The first I knew of it,

Marty was shaking meawake.Icouldseetheflamesstraightaway through theskylight. I thought at first it

wastheboatthatwasonfire.When we got up on deck ofNoWorriesyoucouldseethewhole boatyard was on firefromendtoend.Bythetimewe got down there, the firefighters were already there.Therewasnothingtheycoulddo,nothinganyonecoulddo.Luckily there were no boatsinside. They were all out onthe apron or in the water.Marty kept saying over andover that he’d only been

down there an hour beforeand checked the place. Hecouldn’t understand it. I sawMrDoddsstandingtherestillin his pyjama tops watchinghis whole world going up inflamesbeforehiseyes.Thepolice tookMartyand

me in and questioned usseparately.ItoldthemwhatIknew, which was nothing ofcourse,exceptthateachofuswould go out last thing on

alternate nights to check theboatyard,thatwe’dsharedthenightwatchman duties foryears and years. When theyasked me whose turn it hadbeen that night I told themthat it had been Marty’s. ItwasonlyafterI’dsaiditthatIrealised what they might bethinking. I regretted it atonce.Butitwastoolate.They arrested Marty that

night on suspicion of arson.

Theywouldn’tletmeseehimeither.WhenItoldMrDoddswhat the police had done, hejustlookedatme,thenturnedawaywithout saying aword.Itwasn’t at all the reaction Ihadbeenexpecting.I’dneverknown him to be heartlessbefore. I couldn’t understandit.It turned out they were

dead right about the arson,justwrongaboutMarty.Iwas

wrong about Mr Doddstoo,couldn’t have been morewrong. He walked into thepolice station the nextmorning, and confessed to itall. Brilliant designer andboatbuilderthathewas,goodandkindmanthathewastoo,it seemedhehadgothimselfinto a serious financialmess.Itwasaninsurancescam.Thepoormanwas trying to savehisshirt.Butoncehe’dheardthey’d arrested Marty, he

couldn’t go through with it.Like I said, he was a goodman. But they sent him toprisonforsevenyears.Martyand I went to visit him, buttheytoldushedidn’twanttosee anyone. We never sawhimagain.Wetriedagainandagainbutherefusedtoseeuseverytime.So thatwas the endof the

boatyard,theendofthegoodtimes, the happy times. One

night was all it took for ourwhole world to fall apart.Thatonenightinaprisoncellfor Marty was a night henever got over. I never gotover it either. I felt I hadbetrayed Marty, that I’dlockedhiminthatpolicecellassureasifI’dturnedthekeymyself. I toldhimhowbad Ifelt but he never blamedme.“Forget it,” he said. Icouldn’t. Marty was neverquite the same after that

night.Nothingwas.

AnOrphanJusttheSame

They let Marty and me liveonforawhileonNoWorries.By day we’d be out lookingfor work in other boatyards.But times were hard. Therewasjustnoworktobehadinany of the boatyards in

Newcastle or Sydney, noranywhere else so far as wecould discover, and boat-buildingwasallwecoulddo.Letters came from AuntyMegssayingwecouldalwayscomehomeforawhile ifwewanted to, that there wasalways a place for us there,and plenty of work too. Ican’t believe how stupid wewerenottohavetakenherupon her offer. I rememberreading her letters over and

over again, trying to decidewhether to go. But for allsorts of reasons,Marty and Idecided against it. He said,and at the time I thought hewas right about it too, thatyou should never go back,that it’d be like giving up.And we both loved the sea,loved boats. We weredetermined to find work thatkept us near the sea, or evenonitpreferably.

Those months we trudgedtheharboursandboatyardsofSydneylookingforworktooktheir toll on us both, but onMarty in particular. He wasalways theonewhohadkeptme going through our mostdifficult times, ever sincewewerelittle.Nowhejustaboutgave up. I was the one whohad to get him up in themorning when he wanted tojust lie there. With everyfruitless day, with every

rejection, I watched himsinking deeper into thesilence of despair. I tried topullhimoutofit,tojokehimout of it, tried to keep himpositive.Butitwasnogood.Everynightnowhe’dwant

to stay out drinking late.TimeandagainIhadtodraghim out of bars, and morethan once he got into fights,usuallyoversomegirl.Drinkdidthattohim.Itdidn’tmake

him happy; it made himangry. Money, the little wehad saved, was fast runningout.Worse, I could feel thatthetwoofuswerebeginningto drift apart. Before we’dalways done everythingtogether.Butnowhe’dgooutin theeveningsonhisown.Icould tell he didn’t want mearound.Weneverfellout,notassuch.Hewasjustgoinghisown way and there wasnothingIcoulddoaboutit.

There was one morningwhen I couldn’t get him outof bed nomatter what I did.So I left him there andwentoff job hunting on my own.As usual I didn’t findanything, but I was gone allday.WhenIcamebackhometoNoWorriesintheevening,Marty had gone. I thoughthe’d gone out drinking, thathe’d be back later. Evenwhen a couple of policemencamethenextmorning,early,

andwokemeup,Iwasn’tthatworried. I just thought he’dpicked another fight andended up in a police stationforthenight.Irecognisedoneof the policemen – he’dinterviewed me on the nightofthefire.I was half-asleep when

they told me, so I didn’treallyunderstand,notatfirst.ItwasaboutMarty, theytoldme, and I had to come with

them. I still couldn’tunderstand. “We’ve got awitness who saw it happen,”said thepoliceman Ihadmetbefore, “someone who knewhim. But all the same, weneedyou to comeand takealook.”Then they told it to me

straight. Marty had beendrunk. He’d been doing thedinghy dance, leaping fromboat to boat in the harbour,

messing around. He’d fallenin, and just never came upagain. They’d tried to findhim, but it was dark. Thenthismorningabodyhadbeenfound. I’m still trying tobelieve it happened. Evennow,all theseyears later, theshockof it and thepainof itgoesthroughmeeverytimeIthinkofit.Theytookmetoseehimin

thehospital. Itwasn’tMarty.

It was just his body. I feltnothing then. I tried to feelsomething; I stayed therewith him for hours. But youcan’t feel emptiness. Theybrought me back to NoWorries, and I found AuntyMegs sitting on her suitcasewaiting for me. It was thestrangest thing. She’dwokenup a couple of nights beforeand had known at once thatwe needed her. When I toldher,allshesaidwas,“I’mtoo

latethen.”Therewere just the twoof

us there for Marty’s funeral.Weburiedhisashesuponthehill where the bushmen hadleftus thatday,whereAuntyMegs had first found us. IrecitedafewversesfromTheAncientMariner,endingwiththelineIknewhelovedmostofall:“Aloneonawide,widesea”. I’m glad I did that,because thatpoem isnot just

aboutaseavoyage,it’saboutthe journey through life, andabout the loneliness of thatjourney.Itwastherightthingtoread.Aunty Megs took me in

again.Shetookcareofmeallshe could. But now thereweretwospiritsinthathousewithus,MickandMarty.Shehad photos of them on themantelpiece,sidebyside.Butthey were omnipresent,

particularly, I remember,when we were sitting insilence together as we oftendidofanevening.Somuchwasthesame.But

somuchwasn’t.Henry’sholewas still there under theverandahsteps,stillfullofhisbeloved hats. Barnabywandered the paddockshadowing Big Black Jack.The two had clearly becomequite inseparable. But Aunty

Megs’oldhorsehadgone.AuntyMegsand I stilldid

everythingthethreeofushadalways done together. Shedidn’t have the cows anymore,justonenannygoatforhermilk.Butwestillwentuptothemainroadtorescuetheorphan marsupials, her littlefellows.Westillkepttheminthecompound,andfromtimeto time we’d make the longjourneyuptoMarty’shill,as

wecalleditnow,toseeifoneortwoofthemwouldgobacktothewild.Ihadneverbeenquitesure

ofAuntyMegs’ age, but shemust have been aboutseventy-five or eighty bynow,andI’dhavebeeninmylate twenties. As the yearspassed she stayed just asactive in her mind, just asspirited. But as she said, her“poor oldbodydoesn’twork

like it should”.Shedidn’tgooutwalkingmuchthesedays.Her legs pained her. Shenever said anything muchabout it, but I could see it.She moved more slowly,morestiffly.But she could ride all day

though, and it wouldn’tbother her a bit. On thecontrary, shewas happier upon a horse than anywhereelse. She told me once that

God had given her four legsto gallop with and a tail towhack the files with, thathe’d justmadeabigmistakewith the rest of the humanrace, that’s all. And gallopshedidtoo.Nothingshelikedbetter. She said it made herfeel alive. And I knew whatshe meant, because that’sexactly how I’d felt outsailing with Marty on MrDodds’ boats, with the windin my face, and the sails

straining above me and thesalt spray on my lips. Mylonging for the seanever leftme.Aunty Megs had a good

quick end, the best you canhave,thedoctorsaidwhenhecame. She’d gone out withher torch tocheckher familyof animals in the compoundas she always did in the lateevening. I was sitting,stargazing on the verandah

whenshecameback.Shesatdownbesideme,andsaidshethought she smelt rain in theair. Then she fell silent. Ithoughtshe’dgonetosleep–she’doftendothatoutontheverandah on warm evenings.And in fact that’s just whatshe had done. She’d gone tosleep, but it was the longsleep,thefinalsleep.The whole town came up

to Marty’s hill the day she

was buried, and there weredozensofbushmentheretoo.I don’t think I quite realiseduntil then justhowmuchshewas loved. I put her ashesnext to Marty’s, a photo ofMick with them. Wheneveryone left I stayed upthereandrecitedthewholeofTheAncientMarinerforthemboth.AsIwalkedawayIfeltlikeanorphanalloveragain,a grown-up one maybe, butanorphanjustthesame.

ThingsFallApart

If there’s onepart ofmy lifeI’d like to forget entirely itwas the next fifteen years orso. I suppose you could callthem my years in thewilderness. I shan’t enjoywriting about them, but I’vegot to do it. Like it or not, Ican’tjustmissitout.Luckily

forme,quitealotofitislostin a fog of forgetfulness.Perhaps that’s what happenssometimes. Perhaps it’s anautomatic survival systemthat helps you muddlethrough. Maybe the memoryjust says: that’s enough. I’moverloading with pain hereand I can’t cope, so I’mswitching off. But it doesn’tswitch off entirely. So youremember, but thankfullyonly dimly, through the fog.

Sometimes, though, the fogdoes clear, and you see theicebergs all around.You canhear them groaning andgrindingandyoujustwanttosail through the field oficebergs and out the otherside, or you just long for thefog again. I’ll tell you aboutthe icebergs now. And likemost icebergs are, they wereunexpected and veryunwelcome.

After Aunty Megs died Istayed on living at the Ark,doingwhatshe’ddone,livingaswe’dalwayslived.Ididn’tneed much in the way ofmoney. I had milk and eggsand vegetables. I lived a bitlike a hermit. I rarely wentintotownandnoonecametoseeme.Iwasn’tunhappy,notevenlonely.ButthenofcourseIwasn’t

alone. I had the animals, and

like Dr Doolittle I talked tothem. I think I talked to BigBlack Jack more than I evertalked to anyone else all mylife. He was probably overthirty years old by now, so Ididn’t ride him much anymore.We’dgooutforwalks,thethreeofus–Barnaby,BigBlack Jack and me. He’dwalkbesideme,hiswhiskeryold face close to mine andwe’dtalk.Well,I’dtalk.AndI talked to the family of

animals in the compound aswell. Aunty Megs wouldn’thaveapprovedofitofcourse.You talk to them, you onlygentle them she’d said.Gentle them and they won’tsurvive in thewild.But theyseemed to likeme talking tothem,andtheywentoffwhenIreleasedthemjustthesame,andmostofthemdidn’tcomeback. So it was fine.Everything was fine, for ashortwhileatleast.

Then thestrangest, saddestthing happened. I went outinto Big Black Jack’spaddock one summermorning, early, carrying abucketofwatertofilluptheirtrough. I did it everymorning, and usually BigBlack Jack and Barnabywould come wandering overfor a pat and a few words,and a drink of course. Thisparticularmorningtheydidn’tcome. So I went looking for

them.IfoundBigBlackJacklying stretched out dead onthe ground, with Barnabystanding over him, his headhanging. It took me allmorning to bury Big BlackJack, Barnaby watching meallthetime.Heneverdrankadrop after that, never ate athing,juststoodbywhereI’dburied Big Black Jack andpined away. He was deadwithinacoupleofweeks.

IwasoutthereburyinghiminthepaddockwhenIheardacar coming down the farmtrack.Themaninthesuitsaidhe was a solicitor fromSydney. He was perfectlypolite and proper.He simplytoldmethatI’dhavetomoveout. There wasn’t any greathurry, he said. I could stay acouplemoremonths.Thenhetold me something thatshouldn’t have surprised me,but it did nonetheless.Aunty

Megshadhadason(theboyinthephotoI’dseenallthoseyears before, the boy shewouldn’t ever talk about).There’d been a falling outyears and years ago, thesolicitorsaid,andtheyhadn’tspoken since. Aunty Megshadn’t left a will, soeverything she owned, thehouse and the farm and thefurniture, it all went to herson. That was the law. Thesonitseemedwantednothing

to do with the property. Hejust wanted to sell it. OfcourseIcouldstayifIboughtit.ItoldhimIdidn’thavethemoney for that.Then Iaskedhim what would happenaboutalltheanimals.Hesaidthey belonged to the son aswell,everythingdid.Ididn’tstaytwomonths.I

didn’t stay two weeks. Istayedjustafewdays.That’sall it took. I gave the nanny

goat to the next-door farmer,andwalkedout into thebushevery day with an ever-decreasing cavalcade of littleanimals following me. Thelastonetogowasajoey.I’vealways wondered if I rushedhim, whether he was quiteready.Hewasverysmall,butvery independent minded.Whenhehoppedoffbehindabush, I turned and walkedaway quickly. I lookedaroundonceonly,andhewas

gone.Ihopehewasallright.I left the next morning,

passed by the hill, Marty’shill,AuntyMegs’hill, tosaymylastgoodbyes.IpromisedMartyIwouldgolookingforKitty one day, and I toldAunty Megs that all herfamily of animals were backin the wild now, where theybelonged.ThenIwentonmyway. I had a small suitcase,with a few clothes in it and

one photo of us all together.And I had my lucky keyroundmyneck.Ididnotlookback.I went to Sydney again

because I had only onethought in my mind now: togotosea.Igotlucky–orsoitseemedatthetimeanyway.Ifoundajobstraightawayona fishing trawler. I didn’tthink twice. I just signed on.We’dbefishingtheSouthern

Ocean, for tuna mostly. Ididn’t carewhat itwas for. Iwas just so happy to be outthere again, to feel theheaving seas about me, towatch the birds sailing thewind above me, to see thestars.Youcanseethembetteratseathananywhere.Then we began fishing.

Mostpeoplehavenever seena tuna that wasn’t in a tin. Icertainly hadn’t, not before I

wentfishingforthem.Iftheyhad,ifthey’dseenwhatIsawduring the months and yearsthat followed, they couldnever take the tin off thesupermarket shelf, let aloneeatthefishinside.Atunaisabeautifulshiningcreature,forme the most magnificent ofall fish, and huge too. Dayafter day out on that trawler,I’dwatchthemlyingthereonthedeck,suffocatingtodeath,bleeding to death, thrashing

about in their pain.And theyweren’t alone in theirsuffering: albatross, turtles,dolphins, sharks – they wereall dragged up out of theocean, and caught up in theslaughter.No one seemed to mind

what we were doing, just solong as we brought enoughtuna back to port. And Ididn’t just stand by andwatch. I was as guilty as

everyone else. Massacre,murder,call itwhatyouwill,Iwas part of it. I playedmypart. But it paid well, and IwasatseawhereIwanted tobe.Itookthemoney.Istayedat sea.But Iwasn’tproudofmyself, and the longer Istayed the more troubled IbecamebywhatIwasdoing.None of the others seemedbothered about it. On thecontrary,themorewecaught,the happier they were. They

weren’t bad blokes. Theywere just trying to earn alivinglikeme.Weallgotonwellenough.

When we weren’t fishing orsleeping or eating, we weregambling.I likedgambling.Iliked it a lot. I liked it toomuch. Itmademe feel like Iwasoneof them.Iwasgoodat it too.Andbesides, itwastotally absorbing. It tookmymindoffeverythingelse.But

each game was only a briefrespite. Soon enough I wasback up on that deck doingmykilling.I stuck it out as long as I

could, but after a few yearsI’dhadenough.Justthesightof another dying tuna mademe feel physically sick. Onenight, on the way back toport, Iwas lying inmybunkunable to sleep.Every time Iclosedmyeyes I could seea

tuna thrashing about on thedeck in its death agony. Iknew I couldn’t do anothertrip. I clutchedmy luckykeyand swore to myself that assoonasIgotbacktoSydney,I’d do what I should havedone years before, what I’dpromisedMartyI’ddo.I’dgoto England and look for mysister, Kitty. I had everyintention of doing it too, buttheotherswantedanightouton the town, and I went

along. By the time I left thecasino in the early hours ofthe morning, every dollar Ihad earned was gone. Therewas no way I could pay theplanefaretoEngland.Ifinditdifficulttoexplain

tomyselfalltheseyearslaterwhy I did what I did next. Ithink I must have had justthree things onmymind – Ineeded money, and I stillwantedmorethananythingto

be at sea. And I didn’t everwant to go fishing again. Iremember walking down astreet inSydney,mysuitcasein my hand. I happened tolook up and saw a facesmiling down at me from aposter. The man was inuniform,anavaluniform,andhe looked just like Mick inthatphotoofhimbackat theArk. He wore the sameuniformtoo,thesamepeakedcap, the same Royal

Australian Navy badge. Thesailor inside the recruitingoffice – that’s what it was –beckoned me in. It was assimpleasthat.Andasusual,Ithought my lucky key haddone it again. I’d join thenavy,I’dhaveregularmoneyin my pocket, I’d be at sea.Perfect.Isignedonthedottedline, and within a couple ofmonths I was back on boardship, a very different kind ofship,adestroyer.

I never read newspapersmuch, hardly ever watchedtelevision either. I didn’t paymuch attention to the worldoutside,notinthosedays.IfIhad, maybe I would haveseen it coming. A couple ofyears later and we weresailing off to war – theVietnamwar.Anotherkindofmurder, but people this time,notfish.

TheCentreWillNotHold

MostoftheworldisnowtooyoungtorememberthewarinVietnam. Wars becomehistory all too soon and areforgottenalltoosoonaswell,before the lessons can belearned. Which is why we

have more wars, and alwaysmore wars. But they are notforgotten by those whofoughtinthem.Idon’tforgetthe anger of our guns, theshudderthatwentthroughtheship when she was hit, thesilence that followed and thecries of woundedmen. Theycalled it “friendly fire”afterwards. We werebombarded by our own side,an“unfortunate”mistaketheytold us. It felt a little more

than unfortunate at the time.Good men died for nothingthatday,andIwasluckynottobeoneofthem.These were times I do

remember,only toowell,butdon’t want to have to thinkabout. I don’t want to writeabout themeither,butIcan’tpassbyVietnamasifitneverhappened,asifI’dneverbeenthere, been part of it. Notbecause I’m proud of it. On

thecontrary.Therewerelongmonthsof

boredom at sea, long nightssweating below deck. I canstill remember howexcitement turned to fear inmy stomach when the gunsfirst fired. I can still seeDickie Donnelly fromAdelaide – we only justcelebrated his eighteenthbirthday – lying there on thedeck, his eyes looking up at

the sky above him and notseeing. There wasn’t a markonhim.Itmusthavebeentheblast that killed him. I washolding his hand when I feltthe last breath of life go outofhim.But, apart from Dickie

Donnelly, most of the dyingin that war was done faraway, on the shore. Idiscovered it’s a whole loteasiertodoyourkillingwhen

you’remilesawayfromyourtarget. You’re in your ship,way out at sea, and you justfire the guns. You don’t seewheretheshellsland.Soyoudon’tthinkaboutit,

becauseyoudon’thaveto,atleast not to start with, notuntil you come face to facewith it. After DickieDonnelly,Icouldn’tputitoutof my mind. This was whatour shells were doing to the

enemy,totheVietcong,totheNorthVietnamese.They’dbeyoung lads, just like Dickie,with mothers and fathers,sistersandbrothers,anenemyI’d never even seen. And Iwasfiringthegunsthatdidit.All I’d ever done while I’dbeenat sea, it seemed tome,waskilling.Icouldn’twait for thewar

toend,togetoutofthenavy.SickenedandsadIturnedmy

back on the sea, for ever Ihoped.Ihadcometohatethesea, the place I’d alwaysloved, where I’d alwayslonged to be. Forme the seahadbecomeaplaceofblood.I went inland after the

navy, bummed my wayaround, picking up anyworkI could find. I went goldmining inWesternAustralia,worked on a cattle station inthe Northern Territories,

spent most of my timebrandingcattle.Ididseasonalwork picking grapes invineyards outside Adelaide,in the Clare Valley it was.And after that, I was ajackaroo for a while on asheep station near Armidalein New South Wales. AfterthatIneverwantedtolookatanother sheep in my life.Back-breaking work,smellywork. At times I felt like Iwas back on Cooper’s

Station.I couldn’t settle anywhere,

not for long. I kept movingon, moving on. I wasn’tleaving anywhere. I wasn’tgoing anywhere. I was justdrifting. I still wore Kitty’skey around my neck, nevertook it off, not once.But I’dlong since stopped believingitwaslucky.Iworeit,mostlyout of habit, and maybebecause I still thought that I

might one day be able to goback to England and findKitty, find out if she’d everexisted even, find out whatthekeywasfor.But I never did it, and I

knowwhy. I was frightened,frightened of discovering theworst – that she never hadexisted, that I’dmade her upsoasnottofeelentirelyalonein this world. I still thoughtaboutthekey,though,whenI

caughtsightofitinthemirroras I was shaving. I thoughtabout it every time I touchedit. But any real hope I hadharboured of actually everdoing anything about it wasfast fading, along with mysanity. My centre would nothold.I don’t know why it

happened when it did. Noneofitreallymakesmuchsensetomeevennow.Iftherewas

a physical cause thattriggered my troubles – andwhen it comes to health, Idon’t think body and mindcan be separated – then itmightwellhavebeen lackofsleep. No matter howexhaustedIwasafteraday’swork, I couldn’tget to sleep.I’d lie there, not tossing andturning,justthinking.Andnomatter how hard I tried, mymindkept comingback to it.It was always the killing. It

wastheshiningtunalyingonthe deck bleeding, fightingfor life, Dickie Donnelly’slastbreathwarmonmyhand.But there was another

picturetherethathauntedme,thatwouldnotgoawayeverytime I closed my eyes. I’dseen it first as a black andwhite photo in amagazine, Ithink, then in a film on thetelevision.Itwasanimageofa young girl in Vietnam,

running down the road awayfrom her village. She hadbeen burned by napalmbombing, dreadfully burned.She needed help. She wascoming towardsme.Shewasnaked and she was crying.Andshekeptcomingtowardsme, holding out her arms tome, and suddenly her facewouldbeKitty’sface.IknewI’d been part of thewar thathaddonethattoher,toagirljust like Kitty and to

thousands and thousands ofothers too. Every night shewas there, and every night Icouldn’tsleep.I’d be late forwork in the

morning,orI’dfallasleeponthejob.I’dgetthesack.TimeandagainIgotthesack.Anymoney I did earn I’d gambleaway the same day I got it.I’dhitcharideanywhereandhad no idea where I waswhen I arrived nor why I’d

gone there. I felt myselfslippingintoadeepdarkholeofdespair.Icouldn’tfindanyway of stopping myself, andin theendIdidn’tevenwanttostopmyself.Itseemedaloteasier just to give up and letgo.SoIdid.

I woke up in hospital. Theytoldme I’ddrunk a bottle ofwhisky, and taken a lot ofpills. The doctor said I was

lucky. Someone had foundme in time. I didn’t think Iwasluckyatall.Hewantedtokeep me in hospital, for myown safety, he told me. I’dhad a breakdown, he said. Itwasan illness likeanyother,and I’d have to behospitalised until thetreatment was over. Igathered pretty soon that itwas the kind of hospital youcould leave only when thedoctor said you could. I

looked out of the hospitalwindow and saw the sea. Iasked where I was. “Hobart,Tasmania,”hesaid.Whenhewent out he locked the doorbehindhim,justasMrPiggyhadatCooper’sStation.Iwasaprisoneragain.So there Iwas, over forty-

five years old by now, rockbottom, suicidal and losingmymind in somehospital inHobart,andIdon’tremember

to thisdayevenhowIgot toHobart.ButIstillhadKitty’skey around my neck. Thedoctor asked me a lot aboutmy childhood. I showed himmy key, and told him aboutKittytoo.HeaskedifIhadn’tmade Kitty up entirely.Hadn’tIinventedherbecauseIsomuchwantedhertoexist,wantedtohaveafamily?Hewasa strangeman,my

doctor. He never smiled, not

once.Buttobefairtohimhedidn’tgetangryeither.AndIgavehimenoughcausetogetangry. Thinking back, Itreatedthepoormanabitlikea punchbag.He didn’t seemto mind, just let me rant on.Nothing rattled hisprofessional calm. I had thestrong impression he didn’tbelieve a word I told him.And I don’t think he caredmucheither.Soafterawhile,I didn’t tell him anything

more. We’d sit there havinglongsilencestogether,andI’dgazeoutofthewindowattheseaandwatchtheboats.Itwas during one of those

silent sessions that I felt thestirrings of a new longing. Iwanted to build boats again,andtosailthem.I’dsitinmyroom and recite The AncientMariner aloud over and overagain. Itmademe feel Iwasout there at sea, and it

reminded me of Marty andAuntyMegs.AndIremembertoo that I’d sing LondonBridge is FallingDown veryloudly in the shower. I lovedmy showers, and singingmadethemevenbetter.Iwassad and alone, very alone,grieving for everyone I hadloved,everyoneIhadlost.Then one morning there

was this new nurse on theward who smiled at me, not

because shewas trying to bekind but because she waskind. She treated me like aperson not a patient. MywholeworldlitupeverytimeIsawher. Iwasmesmerised,and not just by her gentlebeauty and her shining blackhair. It was the sound of herlaughter, her sheerexuberance that lifted myspirits and made me feellonely without her. When Itold her about Kitty’s key,

about Cooper’s Station andMarty, and Aunty Megs andVietnam, she listened, andshe wanted to know more.When I recited The AncientMariner to her, she listened.Bit by bit, every time I sawher, I felt myself comingtogether again. I made amodel boat for her, a linerwith three red funnels. Iwasbeginningtoseeawayoutofmy darkness. And once Icould see the light, then I

knew I could climb uptowardsit.So that’s what I did, and

when I walked out of thathospital a couple of monthslater, my nurse was waitingforme. Zita, she was called.And Iknewas shedrovemeaway that morning that shewas all I’d been looking forall these years. I foundmorethan happiness with Zita. Ifound myself again, then a

home too, and an entirefamily.Bestofall,Inowhadareasonforliving.

OhLuckyMan!

What Zita had done was torestoremy faith, andnot justmyfaithinmyself,butinthewider world around me too.When you’re down and outyouget to thinkingonlyhowbleakandbrutaltheworldis.Themore you believe it, themoreyouexpect things tobe

like that, and the more theyprove to be like that. It’s aself-fulfilling prophecy.That’s the spiral I was in.What Zita has shown mesincethedayIfirstmetheristhattheworldisnotlikethat,mostpeoplearenot likethat,I’m not like that. She didn’tdo it by telling me, bypreaching to me, but just bybeing who she is. Genuinelygoodpeoplearelikethat.Thesunshinesoutof them.They

warm you right through.Zita’s like that. As the songgoes – and songs do get itright sometimes – when shesmiles, the whole worldsmiles too. She was half myageandshechosemetolove.Ifshehadn’ttoldmefirst,I’dnever have dared to tell herback.Ohluckyman!Shecamefromafamilyof

smiling people.That’swhereshetookmethedaywedrove

awayfromthehospital,toherfamily home down by theseashore in Hobart. Therewasawholetribeofthem,themostextendedfamilyI’devermet, Greeks all of them,Cretans, dozens of them andloud with laughter – whenthey weren’t crying that is.Theyarepeopleofextremes,wonderful people. Theywelcomedmeatonce asoneof their own, and thatmeanteverythingtome.IwasZita’s

man, so I was part of thefamily, no questions asked.They were all open-heartedand whole-hearted. Thechildrenclimbedonmykneesthat first lunchtime. Theytugged me by my fingerstowards the sandpit or theswing or the beach. They’dfoundanewgreatbigpuppyto play with. I laughed withthem in the sunshine, just asI’dlaughedwithMartyattheArkallthoseyearsbefore.

From thatdayon IknewIhad a proper home and aproper family of my own.And I danced, for the firsttime in my life I danced.Cretan dancing. Zita taughtme, tutored me through theawkwardstagewheremyfeetsimply refused to step to themusic, told me to feel themusic, to let themusic do it.It worked. But I’ll neverdancelikeaCretan,likeZita.You can see the music

floating through her. She’s awondertowatch.But there was more. Zita

hadn’t mentioned it before.Maybe she left her father totellmehimself.“Zitashesayyou likes boats, Arthur,” theold man said after lunch aswe walked together by theseashore. He had a trulywonderful white moustachewhich he stroked often, notout of affectation but rather

out of affection, I think.There was a glint in his eyethat demanded and expectedan answer. You didn’t haveconversations with Zita’sfather. He talked, youlistened.“Me too,” he went on. “I

likes boats. I grow up withboatswhenIwaslittleboyonCrete. Now I have my ownboatyard.StavrosBoats.NowI build my own boats – big

ones,littleones,fatones,thinones,anythingthatsell.AndIbuildgoodboatstoo,thebestboats.Weallbuildboats, thewhole family. You can helpus,yes?”Hedidn’twaitforareply. “That’s good, that’sgood.” He stopped then andturned tome.“IwantZita tomarry a good Cretan boy,youngandstrong.Butshesayshewant tomarry you. Zita,she like her mother – youdon’t argue with her. So

you’renotCretanboy–that’snotyourfault.Andyou’renotyoung – that not your faulteither. She like you and youlikes boats – that’s goodenoughforme.”I was like the cat that got

thecreamandfellonhisfeetallatonceandthesametime.Anditgotbettertoo.Withinamonth or two I was marriedto Zita, and I was designingall the old man’s boats for

him, and making models forthechildrentoo.Welivedalltogether in the huge familyhomeadjoining theboatyard,where everyone had theirown chair on the verandah –even me, my wedding giftfromZita’sfather.Thencametheicingonthe

cake. I know you’re notsupposed to mix metaphors,that cats that get the creamand icing on the cake hardly

seem compatible. But todescribe this suprememomentofmylife,Ineedallthe metaphors I can lay myhands on – there’s anotherone! Before I knew it, Zitaand I had a little girl of ourown, Allie – Alexis really,butI’venevercalledherthat.Everyoneelsedoes,buttomeshewasalwaysAllie.“She’sgotyournose,”Zita

toldme.Luckilyformethat’s

allshe’sgotofme.Therestisperfect. I have to say thatbecause it’s Allie who’swritingmystorydownatthismoment, typing this all outformeonherwordprocessor.Butithappenstobetrue.Shetypes as fast as I can speak,which is amazing. But thenshe’salwaysbeenamazingtome, ever since she was bornnearly eighteen years ago. Itseemslikeyesterday.

Down in the old man’sboatyard, I was adapting MrDodds’ designs for ocean-goingyachts,fordinghies,formotorboats too.For the firsttime now I had theopportunitytoimagineaboat,to dream it up first in myheadlikeastory, thensketchit and design it and build it.But all the while I kept MrDodds’ principles in mind:that aboat shouldbebuilt todancewiththesea,notjustto

go fast or look sleek. I hadone or two arguments withmy new father-in-law aboutthis, but as soon as he foundmydesignsweresellingwell,hewasmorethanhappytoletmedowhatIwanted.One boat I conceived,

designed and built all withmy own hands. I never letanyoneelsegonearitorevensee it till I’d finished it, andthen the first person to see it

wasAllie.IcalledherKitty.Itcame into my head – it justseemed a good idea at thetime. And Allie liked sayingitoverandover.Sothenamestuck. Kitty was brightyellow, and built to sail theroughest waves in Allie’sbath, to survive closeencounterswithallherplasticducks and loofahs. Based asusual on one of Mr Dodds’designs,Kittywassturdyandsound, the most bath-worthy

boateverbuilt.Alliecouldn’tturn that boat upside downeven if she wanted to – andshe tried often enough. TurnKittyoverandshe’djustpoprightbackupagain.When she grew bigger, I

built her a bigger boat,KittyTwo, Icalled thisone, tosailonthepond,yellowagainandfully rigged. Mr Dodds’designs,Idiscovered,workedeverybitaswellintheseaor

thepondorthebath.Andjustas soon as she couldwalk, Imade her first real sailingboat, a dinghy, Kitty Three.This onewas big enough forthe three of us to go sailingtogether in her. Once, onChristmasDay,Allie insistedon taking the tiller so I lether.Asshetookusouttoseathat day, she began singingher favourite song LondonBridge is Falling Down!Can’t think who taught her

that!Alliewasanaturalsailor–

itcameI’msurefromstartingso young. I hardly had toteachheratall.Shetooktoitinstinctively,andlovedeveryminuteofit.Shewonherfirstrace when she was six. Shejust lived forher timeon thewater.Everydayafterschoolshe’d be down at theboatyard, not only watchingeither, but building. For her,

theboatyardwasthenextbestthingtothesea,andsheoftenhad a canny way of makingtheonethingleadtoanother.She learned boats the

properway,MrDodds’way,my way: from the keel up,from the inside out.And shelearned the sea, because shewas always out there. I’d gowith her when I could ofcourse, but if I couldn’t thenshe’d pester someone else in

the yard. She wasn’t at alleasytosaynoto,notforme,not for anyone. Even the oldman, her grandfather, whowasnoone’s soft touch,wasputty in her hands. Zita usedto sayAllie had us all roundher little finger, and thatwasjust about right.But shewasclever with it too. She knewshe had to put in the hoursdown at the boatyard.Whateverneededdoingshe’ddo it.Shewas thesamekind

ofdogsbodyMartyandIhadoncebeeninMrDodds’yard.She was a hard worker, andtheblokessawthatand likedit,whichwaswhyonewayoranothershe’dusuallymanagetogetoneofthemtotakeheroutsailing.Itwasseeinghersoatone

with her boat, so happy, thatinspired me to take it upseriously again myself.Watchingthejoyonherface,

the sheer exhilaration, wasinfectious. I discovered Ididn’t just enjoy sailingbecause she was with me, Ibegan to love it again foritself, thewayIhadbefore.Iwaslovingitbecauseitmademe feel alive again likenothing else. True, the sightof a passing fishing trawler,the unmistakeable lines of awarshipon thehorizoncouldstilltroubleme.Butitwastheheady, happy days with

Marty I remembered most.And now I was out thereagain alone or with my owndaughter. Zita came outwithus only rarely on what shecalled picnic days, when thesea was listless, when therewas so little wind the sailshung there limp above us.Shelikeditbestlikethat,butAllieandIwereboredoutofourminds.It was on one of those

picnicdaysthatithappened–Alliewould have been abouttenbythenIthink.Thethreeofuswerelazingthereinthesunafterlunch.Ihadmyeyesclosed when I felt Alliefiddling with my lucky key.She loved doing that. “Tellme about the key again,Dad,” she said, “and yoursisterKitty.” I’d told her thestory hundreds of timesbefore, trying to make it alittlebitmoreinterestingeach

time, as you do. This timewhenI’dfinished,shetookitoff me and put it round herneck. “You know what weshould do when I’m a bitolder,Dad?WeshouldsailtoEngland and find her. Couldwedothat,Dad?”That was exactly what

MartyhadsaidIshoulddoallthose years ago as we weresailingpastDunedinoffNewZealand.

“Could we, Dad?” Allieaskedagain.“It’s a long old way to

England,” I told her. “Halfway round the world. Andwhat if we can’t find Kittywhen we get there? I’ve noideaatallwhereshe’dbe.”“Wecould findher,”Allie

said. “Course we can, andwe’ll findoutwhat thekey’sfor. I think it’s abox.Got tobe, hasn’t it? S’only a little

key. And we’ll open it up.What’sinside,d’youthink?”AndthenIsaid it. Isaid it

quitedeliberately.I’dthoughtabout it, and I meant it. “Idon’t knowwhat’s inside,” Ireplied. “But we’re going tofind out, Allie. I’ll have tobuildabiggerboatofcourse,butIcanandIwill.We’llsailto England and we’ll findKitty.Ifshe’stherewe’llfindher. It’s something I

should’ve done a long timeago.”“Do you promise me,

Dad?”shesaid,lookingupatme wide-eyed withexcitement.“I promise you, Allie,” I

replied.AnditwasapromiseIwasdeterminedtokeep.I looked across at Zita

then,andsheknewImeantittoo.

Icouldseeshewassuddenlyfearful. But I couldn’tbacktracknow. I’dpromised.Everything had been decidedin thosefewmoments.WhenAllie was older, we’d do it.We’dsailtoEnglandtogetherandfindmysister,Kitty,anddiscover what my lucky keywas really for. On the wayback home that evening, Iwas already designing theboatinmyhead–KittyFour,she’dbecalled.

KittyFour

It could have been just apipedream. It would havebeen if Allie hadn’t kept meup to the mark. She didn’tpester me – not exactly. Butshe did prod me, and everyprodwas a reminder, and alltheremindersservedtocrankmeup,togetmegoing,make

me feel guilty if ever I wasthinkingofback-sliding–sheknew me too well, she stilldoes.Sheknew thedreamofthe boat, the dream of hergreatoceanadventure,wouldnever come to anythingunless she made it happen,unless she made me do it. Ihad my own reasons fordelaying the commitment,and they weren’t justbackslides. I hadgood soundreasonstoo.

Both she and I needed farmore experience of oceansailing before we couldembark on such a voyage –Zitawas adamant about that.There was no way she’d letus go, she said, unless shewas quite surewewere bothreadyforit.Theoldmansaidthesame.“Yous not going till I say

yous ready,”he said.Andhealwaysmeantwhathesaid.

Zitaalsomadeitabsolutelyclear that Allie couldn’t gountil she was eighteen – andthat was years ahead. Butyearshaveanuncannyknackof passing. The boat I wasbuilding in my head was athirty-three footer – the idealsize for ocean sailing, MrDodds used to say, becauseit’s compact. “Size,”heoncetold me, “is not all it’scracked up to be. Look atwhat happened to the

Titanic.” And while I wasbusy dreaming up mycompact thirty-three footer, Iwas out there practising hard– encouraged by Allie, whowas herself entering andwinningeveryraceshecould.Iknewwhatshewasabout.

Witheverynewsilvercuponthe mantelpiece she wasproving to us all just howgood a sailor she was. Zitawas proud of her and her

grandfather was too, tooproud I sometimes felt, butthengrandfathersareentitled.But neither was happy abouttheprospectof the twoofusgoing off around the world.They made that very clear.AndalreadyAlliewastalkingof not just going to EnglandandstoppingofftheretofindKitty,butofdoingthewholething, the entirecircumnavigation.

As for me, I won nosilverware, but I was intraining. Four times I wentcrewing on the Sydney-Hobart race, and of course,everyone at home was thereto see me off, follow myprogress on the television,andwastheretowelcomemewhen I came home. I hadsome hairy moments – theSydney-Hobart racespecialisesinprovidingthose.NoboatIsailedineverwon.

But for me that wasn’t thepoint. I was learning againeverything I’d learned withMr Dodds and Marty, andmorebesides.Icouldfeelmyconfidence and strengthgrowingwitheveryrace.Bestof all though, and thanks toAllie’s persistence anddoggeddetermination,theoldman himself was cominground. He was still cautious,but he was beginning toencourageusnowinourgreat

endeavour.Alliehaditinherblood, he said. Cretans werethe greatest and bravestsailorsintheworld.When I told him I needed

some time off work to dosomelongersailsonmyownhearranged,justasMrDoddshad done before, for me todeliver Stavros boats far andwide. I sailed again to NewZealand,solothistime.Itooka boat to Bali once, with

Allie, and another to HongKong, solo again this time.OneachtripIwastestingmyendurance, learning how todeal with minor and majorcatastrophesalike,andallthetime I was learning the seaagain, learningthewindsandthe tides. I was ready. I wasas ready as Iwas ever goingtobe.By nowAlliewas sixteen.

The two of us had done lots

of sailing together, ocean-going,longtrips.Iknewhowgood a sailor she was – farbetter thanmealready, that’sforsure.Sheonlyhadtofeelthe wind and to look at thewaves to understand whatdance they wanted to do,whatsailswereright;shehadalreadymastered all the newgizmos of modern sailing.That side of it seemed tocome as naturally to her asthe sailing itself. When she

wasonboardIspentmostofmytimecookingorwatchingalbatross or dolphins, orstargazing. I just wasn’tneeded.Butshewasstillonlysixteen.StillZitawasn’tatallhappy about it. And still wedidn’thaveaboat.Wehadadesignthoughby

now,and just as importantly,wehadthemeanstobuild it.Theoldmanhaddoneadealwith me. He’d sponsor the

whole thing, he said, pay foreverything down to the lastcan of baked beans. But hewanted the Stavros Boats’name and the logo up thereon the sails, and along thesides.Andheinsistedwehadto get as much publicity aspossible.“We can sell many many

boatsonthebacksofthis,”hesaid.“Justsolongaswecancall

the boat Kitty Four” I toldhim.“You calls it what you

like,” he said. “Just make itthe safestboatyoueverbuiltin your life. And you bringsmy little Allie back to mesafe and sound, you hearme?”Bynowofcourseeveryone

downattheboatyardwaspartof the great project. We allbuilt the keel together.

Everyone rallied around andhelped, all of us fired byAllie’s energy andenthusiasm. They all knewherwell–afterallshe’dbeenhanging around the boatyardeversinceshewasknee-high.They’dwatched her grow upand now they wanted to bepart of her dream,wanted tohelpmakeitcometrue.Theyall knew the story about thekey I wore aroundmy neck,and about my sister, Kitty.

Everyone in theboatyardfeltthey were part of the samestory. Better than that, theyweremakingithappen.Neverwasaboatbuiltwithsomuchcare and affection as KittyFour.Weallwantedtobuildthesafestboatthateversailedthe ocean. Knock her downand she’d come back up.Turnheroverandshe’drightherself again. She had to beunsinkable; we’d make herunsinkable.

Allieworkedalongside therestofusintheshed,lateintothe night formonths on end.Zitaallowedherdo itonly ifshe kept up with her schoolwork. She was very strictabout it. So Allie did both.KeepingZitaonsidewasthemost difficult part of thewhole thing. As the skeletonofthekeelbegantolooklikethebeginningsofarealboat,asAllie’seighteenthbirthdaycameevercloser,asplansfor

the trip began to crystallise,she worried more and more.Both Allie and I did all wecould to allay her fears, toconvince her that we’d befine. But night after night,she’d lie awake besideme. Itried to reassure her abouthow safe the boat would be,how we’d make sureeverything was just as itshouldbe,abouthowgoodatseaAllieandIweretogether.We’d been in big seas,we’d

managed, we’d coped, we’dbe fine. Telling her thoughwasn’tenough.It was Allie who came up

with the idea that at lastenabled Zita to feel a littlehappieraboutit.Shegavehera part in it all, a vital part.Shetoldherweweregoingtoneed someone to run thewhole communications sidefor us back home, all theemails, Satphone, the

website.Alliesaidshewouldteach her everything sheneededtoknow.Thatseemedtomakeallthedifference.Aswe finished thekeeldown inthe boatyard, Allie and hermother worked together athome. They converted thebox-room to acommunications room, fittedit all out, bought all thecomputers and gizmos theyneeded.

Wewereall there togetherto seeKittyFour go into thewater for the first time. Zitalaunched it for us. “I namethisboatKittyFour.Mayshetake you both to England.May you find Kitty, Arthur,and all you’re looking for.And most of all, may shebringyoubackhomesafely.”Isawalotofgrownmencrythat morning, and I was oneofthem.Sowastheoldman.Allie held my hand tight as

wewatched.“Thank you, Dad,” she

whispered.“She’sgoingtobethebestboat,thebestboatintheworld.Iknowsheis.”That evening as we

celebrated I knew somethingwasn’tquiteright.Ifeltdizzyfirst, thentherewasapaininmy head that wouldn’t goaway. I’d always felt fit as afiddle before, so when Ifaintedthenextmorning,Zita

calledthedoctor.Sothesagabegan–thetests,thewaiting,more tests, more waiting,then the results, the verdict.The doctor gave it to mestraight, because I askedhimto. I had a brain tumour –malignant, advanced,aggressive. There wasnothing they could do.Surgerywouldn’thelp.Radiotherapy wouldn’t help.Chemotherapywouldn’thelp.

Nothingwould help.When Iasked how long I’d got, hesaid,“Months.”“Howmany?”“Fiveorsix,difficulttobe

preciseaboutit.I’msorry.”“SoamI,”Isaid.Since that day I’ve had so

muchtothinkabout,somuchtogetsorted.ItoldZitathatIdidn’t want to talk about it,didn’t want anyone to know

outside the family, that I justwantedeverythingtogoonasnormal as possible, for aslong as possible. WithoutZita, without Allie, andwithout Kitty Four I wouldhavefallenapart.Iknowthat.We finished her together,

fitted her out just as Alliewanted her. I wanted to seeher in all her yellow glory –yellow she had to be, Alliesaid, because all the other

Kittys had been yellow, andthey’d been yellow becauseall the foods she most lovedas a little girlwere yellow –custard and butter andbananas. I was there on thequaysidetoseeAllietakeheroutforthefirsttime,sawherdancing through the waves,and I knew I’d never built afinerboat.TherewassomethingelseI

had to do as well before I

went. I had to talk it all out,writeitalldown,everythingIcouldrememberrightupuntilnow. To start with I couldmanage towritewell enoughonmyown,butasthingsgotworse,asmysightgaveuponme, I’ve had to dictate it. Iprefer it that way anyway.Telling a story is so mucheasier forme thanwriting it.Some of it I’ve dictated toZita,butsometimesIcantellshe finds it hard to endure.

That’s why Allie and I arefinishingittogether.Sointheendwedidn’tsail

around the world together,butwehavesailedaroundmylife together. Allie told meyesterday that she’s talked itoverwithhermotherand theold man and they’ve giventheir permission. She saysshe’sgoingtosailtoEnglandon Kitty Four on her ownnow,thatwhenshegetsthere

she’s going to do all she cantofindmysisterKittyandtellherallaboutmeandfindoutabout my key, Kitty’s key.And then she’s going to sailbackallthewayhomeagain.Zita and her grandfather arestill a bit sticky about it, shesays,but they’ll come round.They will too. She’s quite agirl,myAllie,quiteagirl.There’s times I think she

onlytoldmethattomakeme

happy. But when Allie sayssomething she alwaysmeansit–she’sverylikehermotherthat way, very like the oldman. So I think maybe shereallywill do it.The thoughtthatKittyandAlliemightoneday meet up makes me veryhappy – my real worldmeetingmydreamworld.It’sjustapityIwon’tbetheretosee it, that’s all. Ormaybe Iwillbe.Whoknows.

AsIsaidatthebeginning,Iknew the endingofmy storybefore I began telling it. Butmaybe it isn’t quite theending, not yet. I’ll live onforawhile inZita’smemoryandinAllie’smemory.I’llbepartof their lives for as longastheylive,justasMartyandAunty Megs have alwaysbeenpartofmine.This storyofminewillhelpmeliveonalittle longer.AndIwant that.Iwantthatverybadly.Living

a little longer issuddenly themost important thing in theworldforme.But this is the end of the

story, the story of me.Whatwillhappentomesoonistheend of everyone’s story. Nota happy ending, not a sadending. Just an ending. Timetosaygoodbye.

By Arthur

Hobhouse,(brotherofKitty,

and Marty, son ofAunty Megs,husband of Zita,fatherofAllie.)

PS This story isdedicated to Zita.Kittys key andmy

copy of TheAncient Marinerare for Allie tokeep.

PartTwoTheVoyageoftheKittyFour

WhatGoesAround,ComesAround

I always likedmessingaboutwith boats, and in boats too.As Dad said, I’d been doingthat just about all my life,fromthebathtotheSouthernOcean. I think Iwas born tosail,andImeanthat.Sowhen

I set out onmy great sailingadventure, it was because Iwanted to do it. I’d beendreaming of doing it foralmost as long as I couldremember. I didn’t do it justbecause I promised Dad Iwould.Thatwasonlypartofit.Yes,Dadhadbuilttheboatfor us to sail to Englandtogether, to find Kittytogether. And yes, it’s truethatItryveryhardtodowhatIsayI’mgoingtodo,tokeep

my promises. So of course Iwent inmemory ofDad, butmostly I went because Iwantedtogo.

HewasjustablokeImetona train, the night train fromPenzance toLondon, andwegot talking,asyoudo.Tobehonest, I didn’t pay muchattentiontohimatfirst.Ihadmylaptopout,andIwasbusywriting emails to Mum and

Grandpa. Besides, I didn’twant to talk. I was tired. Iwantedtogetmyemailsdoneand thenhaveagoodnight’ssleep. But we just gotchatting. No, that’s not quitetrue.He started chatting, andI listened. I think I listenedbecause he was funny, andbecause he was Australian,the first Australian boy I’dtalked to face-to-face inmonths. He rattled off hisentire life history in about a

minute, before the train evenleftthestation.He was called Michael

McLuskie. Born in Sydney,went toschool inParramatta.Hatedit.Spentallthetimehecould on the beach, surfing.Left school.Decidedhe’dgoroundtheworldsearchingoutallthebestsurfingbeacheshecouldfind.CametoEngland,toCornwall,toNewquayandSt Ives.Bigmistake.Noone

toldhimtheydidn’tdoproperwavesinEngland.Youcouldfindbiggerwavesinateacup,he said. He’d spent the lastcouple of months sitting ondrizzly grey beaches waitingforwaves, and nowhe’d runout ofmoney.Hewas goinghome, to sunshine, toAustraliansurf, therealkind,the rolling kind, thethundering curling kind, theridingkind.

“Yousurf?”heasksme.“No,”Itellhim.“Isail.”“Samething.”“No,it’snot.”“Have a Mars bar,” he

says.And that’s how it all

began,with an argument andaMarsbar.Sixyearsonandwe still argue from time totime,notthatoften.Butwhenwe do, we often patch it up

by sharing a Mars bar. Ithelps us remember that trainjourney,thetimewefirstmet.It makes us smile, and it’sreallyhard toargue ifyou’resmiling. I knowbecause I’vetried.“So what about you?”

Michaelsays.“Whataboutme?”“Well, I’ve told you the

story of my life, so nowyou’vegottotellmeyours.”

“You’re just chatting meup,”Itellhim.“Yes, I am,” he replies,

“buttellmeallthesame.It’salongjourney.”Hewas right about that. It

was going to be about eighthours through the night, andtheseatswereuncomfortable,sosleepingwouldn’tbeeasy.And besides, he was verypersuasive.“What happened to your

arm?”hesays.I’d almost forgotten I had

myarminasling.I’dalreadygotusedtoitlikethat.“It’salongstory,”Itellhim.“I’m listening,” he replies,

flashing me his wide whitesurfer’s smile. “And you cantellmeyourname too ifyoulike.”I told Michael my story

(and my name) that nightbecause I liked him. There,

I’ve said it, and that’s thehonest truth of it. To beginwithIthought,I’lldowhathedid, just rattle through mywhole life history, get it allover with as quickly aspossible.ButonceI’dstartedit didn’t work out like that,and thatwasbecausehekepttrying to draw more out ofme.Ibeganmystoryjustasthe

train jerked into motion,and

began to groan and grind itsway out of the station. As itturned out, I didn’t finishuntilthenextmorning.AndIthink I knowwhy I confidedin him as much as I did. Itwas because he listened sointently,seemedsorivetedbyeverywordIsaid.ItwaslikeI was telling my story to alittle kid at bedtime. He justdidn’t want me to stop, andhekeptaskingquestions,keptwantingme toexplain things

more. So it wasn’t just metalking, it becamemore of aconversationbetweenus thansolo storytelling. And I hadso much I wanted to showhim, so much evidence: allthe emails on the laptop, atypescript of Dad’s story(rather battered by now) andDad’s copy of The AncientMariner, both of which I’dhadwithmeonKittyFourallthe way from Australia. Heloved the emails particularly,

andhetoldmewhytoo.Itallbecameso realwhenhe readthem, he said, as if he wasthereontheboatwithme.Sothat’showI’lltrytotell

you my story then, just as Itold it to Michael that firsttime, but without hisinterruptions.

TwoSend-offs,andanAlbatross

DaddiedjusttwoweeksafterI’dfinallyfinishedtypingouthisstory.Sohehadhiscopyof itonhisbedside table.Hecouldn’t read it by this time,but he knew what it was allright, and hewas very proud

of it. The last time he wasconsciousIsanghimhissongoverandoveragain,tillIwassure he’d heard it. “LondonBridgeisfallingdown,fallingdown, falling down, LondonBridge is falling down, myfairLady.”He didn’t open his eyes.

But he squeezed my hand.He’dheardit.We gave him a good

Cretansendoff,thekindhe’d

haveliked,allofusthere,thewhole family, and we sangour songs and danced ourdances.Thenwewent out ina flotilla of boats, Mum andme in Kitty Four, and wesprinkled his ashes far out atsea,justashe’dwantedustodo. I read a few verses fromTheAncientMariner. I knewhisfavouritelines,soIendedwiththem.

Heprayethwell,wholovethwellBothmanandbirdandbeast.

Heprayethbest,wholovethbestAllthingsbothgreatandsmall;ForthedearGodwholovethus,Hemadeandlovethall.

Justas Iwasfinishing thatlast line an albatross camewinging over us and floatedabove us on the air. Dad’sspiritwasinthatbird.Iknewit and so did Mum—we

didn’thavetosayanythingtoknow what the other wasthinking.Aswewatcheditflyaway

I told her about the promiseI’dmadetoDad:thatoncehewas gone, I’d do the voyageweweregoingtodotogetheron my own. I’d sail toEngland,doallIcouldtofindKitty, and then sail homeagain.Iexpectedanargumentfrom her—I knew how

nervousandupsetshe’dbeenabout the whole project, andthatwaswithtwoofusdoingit. But she just said veryquietly: “I know all aboutyour promise, Allie. He toldme, and besides I know hisstory, don’t I? He was soproud of you. You go. Youdoit.It’swhathewouldhavewanted. But when it’s done,you come back home, youhear?”

Fitting upKitty Four, andplanning the whole trip, andalltheseatrialsneededtotestout the equipment, tookseveralmonths.Mumwasn’tgoing to let me go until shewas quite sure everything onboardwasjustasitshouldbe.Grandpa was the same. Hechecked and double-checkedeverything.And all this timeMum was beginning thesearch for Kitty. She surfedthe net, but that got her

nowhere.She sent off emailsto public record offices inLondonandalloverEngland.Nothing.Shewrotetooneortwo friends who lived thereasking for their help.Everyone did what theycould,butnoonecouldfindatrace of a Kitty Hobhouseborn in London, probably inBermondsey, at about thesame time as Dad—though,like him, we could never bequite sure of when exactly

thathadbeen.We set up a Kitty Four

websitesopeoplecouldchartmy progress at sea, andfollow me all the way toEngland. And there was alinkto thewholestoryof thesearch for Dad’s missingsister asking anyone whomight have any informationabout Kitty Hobhouse to getin touch. Maybe someonewould read it. Hopefully

someone would knowsomething.Wehad hundredsof hits, huge interest, lots ofgood luck messages; but noone, it seems,hadeverheardof a Kitty Hobhouse ofBermondsey,London.Mum didn’t give up. She

and Grandpa used the presstoo. There were front-pagearticles in the newspapers,national as well as local.“Allie’sEpicVoyage.”“Allie

Searches for Long LostAuntie.” I did radiointerviews, TV interviews.Grandpa liked the TVcoverage best of coursebecause the boatyard’s namewas up there behind me:“StavrosBoats” inhugeblueletters—bow to stern, thewhole length of the boat, onmy cap, on my wet weathergear, on just abouteverything. Grandpa wasalways there to stage the

interview—henevermissedatrick.Mum thought the press

coverage might be our bestchance of tracking Kittydown.Butnoonephoned,noone got in touch, no oneemailed. I got to thinkingabout what Dad had toldmewhenhewasabitdownonce:that it had all been so longago, that sometimes hewonderedifKittyhadexisted

atall,thatshecouldbejustafigment of his imagination,that someone else could justas easily have given him hislucky key. So we could belookingforafigment.As usual Mum stayed

positive. Kitty was real, shewas sure of it. Kitty was asrealasherkey,shesaid.Shewould keep looking while Iwas gone. Sooner or later,somethinghadtoturnup.All

throughDad’sillnessshehadbeen the same. Everyonearound her only kept hopingbecause she did. Whatevermade Dad feel better shemadesurewedid.Mostofallhelovedtoseeusdancing,allof us together, the wholefamily. “Let’s do it like wealways do it,” she’d tell us,“sothathefeelsthejoyinit.”Evenwhen he died, shewasthestrongestofusall. ItwasMum’s strength and

determination that was tokeepme going over the nextfive months. I could neverhavedoneitwithouther.Mum was my coordinator

back at home on shorethrough email, and throughSatphone in an emergency.We would keep in touchevery day. Any technicalproblems, I’d let her know.She’dtalktotheblokesintheboatyard,and they’ddowhat

theycouldtotalkmethroughrepairsandmaintenance.Anyinjuries and health problems,she’d ask the doctor. We’dthought of everything, wehoped.We were as ready aswe could be. All set to go.But I wasn’t happy. Therewas a side to all this I wasreally beginning to dislike.Over the last weeks before IleftI’dbecomeabitofalocalcelebrity, and I was findingthe constant intrusion getting

onmynerves.Ijustwantedtobegone.ButIknewthey’dbethere,andlotsofthem,ontheday I left. I wanted to slipaway without anyonenoticing, butGrandpawasn’thaving any of it. He wantedmetohaveapropersend-off,a Cretan send off. The presswas important, he said. Hewas proud of his little girl,proud of Stavros Boats, andhewantedtheworldtoknowit. And what Grandpa said,

went. So that’s how ithappened.I’d never seen so many

cameras flashing in all mylife. “This way, Allie.”“Smile, Allie.” I showed myteeth – it was all I couldmanage.Butthatapart,itwasa send-off I’ll never forget.Thewholefamily turnedout.Bouzoukis played on thejetty. They danced, theywaved, they cried. Everyone

from the boatyardwas there,along with half of Hobart itseemed to me. All I wantednowwastobegone.Iwantedthe hugging and the tears tobeoverwith.Ijustwantedtogetonwithit.Myfirstbigworrywasthe

dozens and dozens of motorboats and speedboats andjetskis and yachts that wereescorting me down theDerwentRiverandout to the

open sea. They were allaround me, some of themveryclose, tooclose.Eyesinthe back of my head wouldhave been useful. I tried towave them away, but theyseemedtothinkIwaswavinggoodbye to them and justwaved back even moreenthusiastically.ButoncewewerepasttheIronPotandoutin StormBay they all turnedback,andIwasonmyownatlast. We had a good breeze

behindusandKittyFourwassailing like a dream. I’dalways loved Kitty Four—she’d been a dream for solong – but I never loved hermore than I loved her now.Shewasgoingtobemyhomefor five months. We’d bedoing this together, just herandme,andDad,who’dbuilther to sail the way she did,and made me the person Iwas,andthesailorIwastoo.

I sat there in the cockpit,the sun and the spray onmyface,inseventhheaven—Dadwasalwayscountingheavensin his story, so I can too—singing London Bridge isFalling Down and drinkingmy first hot chocolate of thevoyage.Iwasonmyway.

JellyBlobbersandRedHotChiliPeppers

1600hrsMon10Jan043’23”S148’02”E

outpastTasmanIsland.greatstart. lumpy bumpy sea.

lumpy bumpy boat. nice ofeveryone to see me off,exceptforthatblokeinhisjetskiwhonearly tookmybowoff he came so close.Anyways, he missed, so stillin one piece. Kept cryingwhen I looked back and sawyouallwaving,sothat’swhyI stopped waving after awhile. wasn’t beingunfriendly Grandpa. EverytimeIlookupatthesailsandseeStavrosBoatsI’llthinkof

you. AndMum every time IusethelaptopI’llbethinkingof you. See you all in mydreamstoofromtimetotime,that’sifIgetanysleepwhichisn’tlikely.

Like I said to Mum I’ll bewriting emails whenever Ican – you do the same,pleeeze – to let you knowwhere I am, how I’m doing,how the boat’s behaving,

whattheweather’sdoing.

I’mreallylovingthisalready,the emailing Imean. I talk alot to myself anyway whenI’m sailing because it’s goodto hear the sound of a voice,any voice, reassuringsomehow, makes you feelthere’s someone else around–silly Iknow.So these’llbelike talking emails. I sing alot too, but I’ll keep my

singingtomyself.You’ll justhave to imagine me up ondeckbeltingoutmyWhitneyHouston special in a force 8or 9 – and ieeeiiieeei willalways love you. I foundmyself humming LondonBridgeisFallingDowninthecockpit just now, like Daddid.I’vegotDad’scds–louisarmstrong, bob dylan, thebeatles,buddyholly.I’vegot“What a Wonderful World”on right now, one of Dad’s

favourites when we were atsea together. Got my ownstufftoo–Coldplay,RedHotChili Peppers, few others.Couldn’t take much, notenoughroom.piledhighwithjunk down here, hardly anyroom for little old me. feellike a really big sardine in areally small can. Still it’shomeforafewmonthssoI’dbettergetusedtoit.justhopethe pc keeps going. lotdepends on that. And that’s

down to the generator.Towingtheturbineat6knotsat present, so lots of amps.Amps = happy pc = happyme.

Justwant to thank all of youfor everythingyoudid togetme this far. Kitty 4 iswhereshe loves to be and so am I,anddon’tworryboutme toomuch. Got Dad’s lucky keyaround my neck so I’ll be

fine.

Wind gusting 30 knots. Lotsof jelly blobbers all aroundcome to say goodbye too Ispect.Sawmyfirstalbatross.Now I know Dad’s out herewith me, going all the waywithme.Seeyou.

2000hrsTues11jan44’13”S151’12”E

Hiy’all.G’day.Settlinginortrying to. Forgot howuncomfortable Kitty 4 reallyis.Didn’tdearoldDadrealiseyou’vegottoliveinaboataswellassailher?

Not enough room to swing amouse down here. Sea keptme awakemost of the night.Never shuts up, not for onemoment. Banging andcrashingallnight,andifIgot

up never stopped chuckingme about either. Noconsideration.Ithinkshewasjust reminding me who’s incharge out here. Gave upafter awhile andwentupondeck,hadsomehotchocolate,yummy, and looked at thestars, zillions of them. Can’tbe any more beautiful placein the whole world than thesea at nightwhen someone’sswitched on the stars. Hopeheaven really is up there.

Thought of Dad. Think ofhim often. Miss him, andwhen Imisshimbadly I talkto him. Tried to get somesleep again but I couldn’t.Too keyed up. I still can’treally believe I’mdoing this,afterall theyearsofbuildingandplanning,aftereverythingthat’s happened. I lay therelisteningoutforproblems,foranystrangecreaksorgroans.Kitty4talkedtomeallnight,tellingmeshewasfine,thatI

wasn’t to worry. But once Istart worrying I can’t stop.S’notreallyworrying,it’sjustthatmybrainkeepschurningthings round and round andwon’tletmesleep.

Forecast was spot on. Windfrom the north 50 knots.Funnyhowyou forget thingsso quickly. You forget howbusyyouhavetobe.Somuchtobethinkingabout,somuch

to be doing and when it’sdone there’s alwayssomethingelse.WhichiswhyI’ve got to stop this and getsomesailoff………

Back again. Read a bit ofDad’s story again in thenight, the beginning bit withhim being sea-sick. I’mlucky.Don’tdo sea-sickness.Love reading his storybecause I can hear his voice

ineveryword.

Kitty 4 sailing beautifully.Big rolling beam seas don’tmake it an easy ride, not forher, not for me. Still findingsealegs.Nothangingonhardenough, always banging myhead. Big lump above myright ear. I’ll hang on tighternext time. Huge tanker outthere. Ugly great monster.Sawanalbatrossagain, think

it may be the same one. Itried to take a photo of him,but discovered the digitalcamera doesn’t work. It didwhenItrieditoutbackhome.I wanted to send pics onemail, but now I can’t. Veryfed up. Sorreeee. Thanks foralltheemails.Yes,GrandpaIamtakingthevitamins.HopeI sleep better tonight. Seesoon.A.

1600hrsThurs13jan45’41”S156’19”E5knots

Love your emails. I lovey’all.Miss y’all. I read themover and over. Yes Mumhead’s fine, no concussion.YesGrandpacourseI’llkeepthe Greek flag flying all theway, right up there with theAussie one. Kitty 4 is a realbeaut. Got y’all to thank forthat,andDadandMrDodds.

She’sarealmarvel.NothingIcan teachher.She’s teachingme. Got to be honest, it’s awhole lot easier living aloneonthisboat.Dadwasthebestsailor in the world, but theuntidiest. And he alwayshated me tidying up afterhim. He liked his own messhe said, knew whereeverything was. So I’d haveto wait till he went up ondeckthenjusttidyeverythingawayquicklywhilehewasn’t

there. When he came backhe’d never even notice I’ddoneit.SoundfamiliarMum?He just loved living in a tip,that’s all and I didn’t. Butgive Dad his due, he was abrilliant cook (never washedup but he cooked like adream).

He’d do all the cooking andletmesail theboat.All rightso it was baked beans with

everything. But he made thebestbread, learned it offyouMum,thetastiestbreadIevertasted. Can’t be botheredmuch with cooking at themoment. Just open a tin ofsomething, anything, wolf itdown then have my hotchocolate. That’s what I livefor, hot chocolate. I sit thereall cold andwet and drink itdown.Itshiversthecoldrightoutofme,warmsmeupfromthe inside up, reaches toeses

and noses, all my freezingcoldbitsandpieces.

DecidedthismorningtolearnThe Ancient Mariner all theway through before I get toEngland. Think Dad wouldlikethat.Knowthefirstversealready. Here it is. Notcheating,promise:

ItisanancientmarinerAndhestoppethoneofthree.

Bythylongbeardandglitteringeye,Nowwhereforestopp’stthoume?

Up on deck earlier goingalong nice and easy, brilliantsunshine. Saw the albatrossagain.It’s thesameone,sureofitnow.Hebroughtsomeofhisfriendswithhimtocheckmeout.Seemstolikemecoshestayedaroundforawhile,theyalldid.HecamesocloseI could see right intohis eye

andhecouldseeintomine.Ican’t get it out of my headthat maybe it’s Dad keepinganeyeout forme,doing thiswith me just as he alwayswanted to.Whenhe flewoffa few minutes ago I missedhim, and the whole oceanseemed so empty and hostiletoo. I felt alone for the firsttimesinceIleft.

Waves10metresandhigher.

Winds 30-40 knots all thetime. Set the storm jib, noteasy with the whole worldpitching and rolling aroundme. Been up on deck doingtoo many sail changes, fifthtoday. Got to think aheadmore. Got to limit the sailchanges.Eachonetakesalotoutofme.WhenIget tiredImakemistakes.Tooktheskinoffmyknucklesthelast timeIdidit.Stupid.Littlewoundsdon’t heal out here easily.

I’ve got two ginormousblisters already. Must lookafter them else they’ll festerandfesteringisn’tgood,leadstoallsortofnasties.

Wind patterns all over theplacedownhere.Gottolearnto predict the unpredictable,Allie–IcanhearDadsayingit now.Doingmy best, Dad.Halfway to Stewart Island,halfway to N.Z. Hot

chocolate to celebrate.Listened toColdplay.Oneorthe other cheered me up –don’tknowwhich.Anynewsabout Kitty,Mum?Be so sogood if we could find her.Loveyou.A

AndNowtheStormBlastCame

1700hrsSat15Jan46’50”S162’49”E

Biggest storm last night,worstI’vehad.Gustsover80knots, waves 10 metres plusbut the self-steering brought

usthrough,easyaspieasDadused to say. Can’t say Ienjoyed it much but Kitty 4tookitallinherstride.Madeforitsheis.Satdownbelow,wind howling all around andlearnt another verse of theAncientMariner–candothefirst eleven verses nowwithoutlooking:

Andnow theSTORM-BLAST came,andheWasTyrannousandstrong:

Hestruckwithhiso’ertakingwingsAndchasedussouthalong

Littlestrangeand little funnytobesittingdownheresayingthat over and over. I had toshout it out loud so I couldhearmyself.Butitpassedthetime, kept me happy, mademe think about somethingelsebesidesthenexttoweringwave out there. It was“Tyrannous and strong” all

right. that Coleridge blokeknew what he was talkingabout.

Better now, heavy seas stillbut not anything like it waslastnight.

Averaging 5-8 knots, so thatmeanswe’vedoneabout700miles so far. Yippee! Heehee!!!WelldoneKitty4well

doneme!Good to know justhow well Kitty 4 handlesherself, feel she could copewith anything. I’ve alwayshadconfidenceinher,butlastnight she really proved shecould take it.She’s sobrave,socleverandI’msoluckytobedoingthiswithher.Lucky,lucky,lucky.

Lotsofbirdsabouttodayandbest of all my albatross is

here too. Just making surewe’reallrightafterthestorm,that’swhat I think.He reallyis thekingofbirds.He’sgotto have a wing span of 3metres,massive,magnificent,MASSIFICENT,betterword,myword. inventedwordsarebetterwords,meanmore,saymore. maybe that’s the firsttime anyone has everwrittenthat word. I like that, doingsomething for the first time,like going places no one’s

been before. At sea you dothat all the time. Imean yousailupawaveandeveryoneof them is unique, a newdiscovery, never seen before.Youseecloudsnoone’sseenbefore, andbirds too.Courseother sailors have seenalbatrossbutnotherenotnownot exactly the way I’mseeing mine. Difficult to putfeelings into words but justwant to say that’s what’s sogreataboutbeingherecosit’s

like no one’s ever been herebefore,thatI’vediscovereditall for the first time. That’swhat it feels like anyway.Goingonabit.SorrybutIdolove it, makes me feel sogood,soluckytobealive.

Youshouldseemyalbatross.he doesn’t fly, he doesn’tneed to. he just finds anairwaveand floats–andyoudon’t see his feet at all.

They’re tucked up neatlyunderneath him. There’shundreds of little birds allaroundhim, recognisedsomestorm petrels I think – Dadwas better on birds thanme,knew them all, knew somuch. They dash aboutshowing off, wing tips justnot skimming the sea. Andthey’re so fast, here, gone,swirlingaway.Wonderful.

Drying out after the storm,both of us, Kitty 4 and me.Soaked through, sodden.nowhere’s dry, down in thecabin or up on deck. Notcomplaining,justdripping.

Reported sightings oficebergs littleway south. gotto be careful, really careful.icebergs worry me silly. Solots of cold sleepless nightsahead up there on watch.

Wish the self-steering coulddo lookout as well. That’swhatI’lldooneday,inventaself-steeringsystemthatdoeslookout as well. Easy. Noproblem. Make my fortune.Coolorwhat?Call itStavrosself-steering, all rightGrandpa?

1641hrsSun16Jan2005

SorrytohearaboutyourcoldGrandpa. You’re alwaysgoingonaboutmetakingmyvitaminsandyougoandgetacold. Stay in the warm. lookafteryourself.promise?

Fognowandrain,sogotourlights on all the time.Icebergs don’t see lights butother ships might. All youcandoislistenandhope.Nottooworried I tell myself cos

there’salotofwaterouthereandvery few ships. Still youthink about it. It niggles atyouall the time.Didabitoffishing,butnoluck.82milesnow to the Snares south ofStewart Island. Cookedmyselfagreatfeastcosit’ssomiserable up there. No fish,so baked beans (of course)sausages and eggs and…and…and…wait for it twomugsofhotchocolate.Feelalotbetter.Fogliftedalittleso

IcouldlistentoDad’sBeatlesCD,playedhisfavouritesong– here comes the sun –thoughtitmightmakethesuncomeout.Greatsong,butstillnosignofsunupthere.Readsome of Dad’s story. I lovethe partswhen hewas at hishappiest, when Marty andDad were living with AuntyMegs.Lovethebitaboutthatwombat“Henry’shorriblehathole,” always makes melaugh.

No albatross today. Probablycan’t find us in the fog.Thought I saw a dolphinthough v close to the boat.Can’t be sure. Sea goes veryquiet in fog. Even thewavesseemtowhisper.Can’tspendtoo much time down below.Toorisky.Gottokeepaneyeout.Got to keep listening. v.tiring.wanttosleep.mustn’t.gottogo.Missy’all.Thinkofyou. Love you. A. P.S. AnynewsaboutKitty?

1015hrs17Jan41’57”S167’31”E

Fog’s lifted but feeling a bitlow. Not enough sleep. Alllastnightonwatchandgottothinking about Dad again, Imean about him being herewith me. Maybe it wasreading his story that upsetme, remembering all the sadthingsthathappenedtohim.Ishouldn’t be sad because I

know thathehadgood timestoo, specially during the bestpartsofhislife,andwithyouand me Mum. But I justcouldn’t stop thinking abouthow much he wanted to behere doing thiswithme, thathemadesomuchofthisboatwith his own hands. Maybeit’sbecauseI’vealwaysbeenso used to being on KittyFourwithhim.

Maybe I was just imaginingthings,but Idon’t thinkso. Ijustfelthewastherewithmeall night. I even thought Iheard him humming LondonBridge. I thought maybetelling you about it mighthelpmemake some senseofit. But it hasn’t. Mum, I’mreally beginning to believehe’s still here with me onKitty 4, like we really aredoingthistriptogetherjustaswe’d always planned we

would.Butthere’ssomethingmore. I need to believe it. IthinktheonlywayI’mgoingtogettoEnglandistobelievehe’s with me. at the sametime I know I’ve got to stopfeelingsosadabouthim,stopmissing him so much. So Imustn’treadhisstoryagain.Iwon’t think of the past. Justfocus on the here and now,it’s the only way. Not goingcrazy, Mum, promise. We’llmake it. Dad and me and

Kitty 4. We’ll make it. Noworries.xxxA

1250hrsTues18Jan47’31”S170’36”E

HiMumhiGrandpa.Feelinga whole lot better. Not sadany more. Slept really well.Didn’t want to get up at all.Always the same. Tell youwhy.

1.Youdon’twanttogetupthere and getwet again soonasyoustickyournoseoutuptop.

2. Socks. You can alwayssmellwheretheyareandyoudon’t want to go near themeveragain.

3.Bootsalwayswaitingforyouwhereyouleftthem.Step

right in, theysay,andit’llbelovely andwet and cold, heehee.

But once you’re in yourboots, in your wet weathergearwhichisalwaysstillwet,itdoesn’tseemtomatteranymore.It’sdone.Imakeanicehotchocolatetowarmmyselfthrough. Then suddenly I’mupthere in thecockpitoutof

thestenchofsocksanddieseland damp, and the ocean isheaving all around, and it’sthe best place in the wholeworld to be. And thismorning, guess what, myalbatross was back. He wasthere waiting for me. And…And…And…he’s broughtdolphinswithhim,dozensofthem dancing all aroundme.Never been so happy in mylife. What was it you calledme once, Mum? Moody?

Moi? OK you were right.Waves go up and down –why shouldn’t I?? Even myblisters are all better. Loveyoulots.Allie

JustStayingAlive

1830hrsSat22Jan

DUNEDINNZ!

HiMum,hiGrandpa.Sorree.Sorree, sorry you haven’theard much from me for awhile. Been a bit busy just

staying alive. Can’t say Iwasn’twarned.Gribweatherforecastsweretheworstever,so I knew it was coming.Trouble was I couldn’t getout of the way of it. EllenMacArthur would have beenable to go round it, dodge it,or race ahead of it. She cando fast, I can’t. Kitty 4doesn’t do fast.But shedoesdo brave. And it wasn’t justgrib that warned me, myalbatross did too. Not

kidding. For twowhole daysbeforethestormheneverleftus. He was telling us, I’msure he was. He just hungthere aboveus lookingdownon us. He’d never stayed soclosebeforenorforsolong.

The storm came suddenly,50-60 in squalls and hugebluewavessohighyoudidn’twant to look but you had to.And blue so deep you could

seerightintoit.Justbeforeithappened I was doing a sailchangeandclippedon, thankgoodness. You know howyoucanfeel thunder isaboutbefore you hear it, like thesky is taking a deep breathbefore it lets rip. It was likethat. There was a strangesilence and a stillness allaround. Like the sea waswaitingforittohappen.ThenIlookedupandsawthiswallof water 15 metres high at

leastanditwasbreakingrightover me, and my albatrosswasskimmingalongthecrestofitlikehewastellingmetohangon.So Ihungon.Kitty4 was knocked down, rolledthrough 140 degrees. Themast was under the water. Ithoughtthatwasit,thatshe’djust go on rolling and turnturtle and thatwouldbe that.Endofstory,Ithought.Butitwasn’t the end of the story.Shelaythereonhersidefora

few moments like she washavingabitofarestandthenshejustflippedrightbackupagain, a bit like Kitty in mybath back home when I waslittle. Everything wascrashingabout.Iwaschuckedaboutlikeawetragdoll.Notasinglebitofmethatwasn’tbruised.Butnobrokenbones,and what’s a bruise or twowhenyou’restillalive.

And that was just thebeginning.Wentonfornearlythirty hours. By the time itwasoverKitty4had takenareal battering – shewas in amuch worse state than mewhichiswhyMum,Grandpa,I’m here inDunedin.Had toput in for repairs. The lightfittingonthemastheadneedsdrainingforastart.Neededanew set of steering lines costhey had chafed badly.Can’tdo without my self-steering

gizmo. It’s my magicpathfinderthroughthewaves,like my best friend. Got tolookafterhim.And there’samainsail that’s torn, so thatneeded fixing too. In a wayI’mgladIgotknockeddown,glad I had to come intoDunedin.Taughtmealesson.Been a chance to reorganise,tie everything down properlythat flew around. thought I’ddone that already but thestormfoundmeout.Won’tbe

my last knockdown on thistrip. Be better set up nexttime.

And anyway I needed to dosome shopping too, moreplastersandantisepticcream.baked beans and hotchocolate supplies were low.Everyone v. kind here inDunedin, v. helpful. Lots ofpress people came to seemeso lots of posing byKitty 4.

Maybe you saw some of it.Don’tworryGrandpaImadesure I hadmy Stavros Boatscap on. you’re going to beselling loads of boats inDunedin after this, all overNZ.AndguesswhatI’vegotfreebedandbreakfast forallthe timeI’mhere–gift fromthetown.Isn’tthatthebest?

2015hrssameday

Just spoken to you on thephone. So good to hear yourvoices.Mademecry though.And like I said Mum don’tworry, I promise I wouldn’tbe going on with this if Ithoughttheboatwasn’tuptoit. She’s fine. She won’t getthereinahurry,butshe’llgetthere,bobbing all the way.Best bobbing boat in theworld. I’m fine. Like I toldyouthebruisesdon’thurtlikethey did. pretty dramatic to

lookatthough.gotoneallthecolours of the rainbow rightacross my ribs. spectacular.Been having lots of sleep inmy nice warm bed and I’vehadlotsoflonghotbaths.I’mtaking on all the warmth Ican. Like a camel taking onwaterbeforeajourneyacrossthedesert, I’mgoing toneedit,Iknowthat.Toldyoumostofmynewsonthephone,butmust tell you about myalbatross.

Saw him last night, but onlyinmydreams.DreamtofDadtoo. Can’t remember all thatmuch of it, never canremember my dreamsproperly, but I think Iremember Dad and thealbatross seemed to be oneand the same somehow.Oneor the other of them, and Idon’t know which, wassinging London Bridge isFalling Down. Weird orwhat?

All being well should be onourwayagainsoon.Weatherpattern looking better, sothat’sgood.Bouttime.Iwantsome nice easy sailing. Ohyes,andIcandoup toverse20oftheAncientMarinerbyheart now. v pleased withmyself! Been learning acoupleofverses aday in thebath since I’ve been here.Don’t think I understood tillnow why Dad loved it somuch.I just lie theresoaking

in my bath saying the linesoverandover:

GodsavetheeancientMariner!Fromthefiendsthatplaguetheethus!Why look’st thou so? – with mycrossbowIshottheALBATROSS

That’s verse 20. Sad but sobeautiful. I’ll know it allwordperfectbythetimeIgettoEngland.Promise.A

P.S. Still no news of Kitty?Keep thinkingandhopingnonewswillsoonbegoodnews.

1002hrsSat29Jan48’12”S173’45”E

6 knots. heading south inbrilliant sunshine, reef in themainsail. The mend isholding well which is goodnews. It’s all good news

becausemyalbatrossisback.It’slikehe’sbeenwaitingformeouthereallthetimeIwasin Dunedin. Seen plenty ofthem about, but they just flybyontheirwaytosomewhereelse. He’s the only one whohangs about. He’s like myguardian angel. So I’ve gotDad’sluckykeyandI’vegotaguardianangeltoo.I’mwelllooked after Mum. I keepthrowing him some scrapsbecause I really want him to

stay. The trouble is that assoonas I throwhimfoodhisfriends come back and bullyhimoff it. I’vedecidedtodosomemore fishing fromnowon–neverdiditwithDad,hedidn’tlikeit.It’stooeasyjustto open a tin. Besides I lovefish, full ofprotein andgoodfor me. Keeps me strong.Don’t like the idea of killingthem,butdolikeeatingthem.So I’m going to keep a lineout and baited whenever I

can. I’ll get lucky sooner orlater.

1122hrsSun30Jan49’02”S175’38”E

More fog. Can’t see a thing,except abit of seaaroundusandmyalbatross.fliesinandoutof the fog like aghost, awelcomeghostthough.Doingless than 2 knots, not even

enough to charge the batterywith the turbine and there’snot enough sun for the solarpanel to be much use either.needaminimumof4knotstokeep going and that’s witheverything off except thelaptop and the instruments.Can’t afford to use diesel tomotor out of it. Can’t affordtouselaptopanymoreeither.SoI’mturningyouoff.ByeeeMum.ByeGrandpa.A

0735hrsWed2Feb49’52”S173’54”E

756 miles since Dunedin.Antipodes islands behind us.TheHorn ahead of us. Longwaytogostill.Notworryingabout it, Mum, just thinkingaboutit,gettingmyselfready.Desalinator not working aswellasitshould.Watertastesa bit salty. But otherwise noworries.Clothesabitsmelly.

Gladit’sonlymeonKitty4.Must have a big wash soon,me and my clothes. Beenputtingitoff.

Doing 7 knots sometimes,averaging 4.5. So I’m doingwell. I thought my albatrosshad deserted me yesterdaybut he hasn’t. He’s up therenow,helpingusalongputtingwind in our sails with hisgreat wide wings. He just

comesandgoesashepleases.I feel adopted.Out of all theships and boats in theSouthern Ocean I feel he’schosen us. He likes me tosingtohimtoo,alwaysseemstocomecloserwhenIdo.SoI’ve done him my WhitneyHouston,alltheBeatlessongsIknow–Dadtaughtmemostofthem–andwhenIrunoutIwhistlehim“LondonBridgeis Falling Down”. He seemstolikethatbest.Stillnofish,

but I’ll keep trying. There’sgot to be millions of fishdown there, all of themdeliberatelyignoringmyline.Whyis that?Whathave theygot against me? My smellyclothes? My singing?Thought I saw the back of awhale yesterday. Too big foradolphin.Gotallexcited,butifhewasonehedidn’tshowhimself again. Hope hedoesn’t have a nibble at mybait. Not really the kind of

fishI’mafter.Bitbig.Thisishowsailingshouldbe.We’redancing ourway towards theHorn.

I’m having big doubts aboutKitty, like Dad had. Maybehedidmakeherupafterall.Ireally want to believe hedidn’t. I’ve been trying tokeep my hopes up, but it’sdifficult.TogoallthewaytoEngland and find out there’s

noKittyafterallwouldbesosad, for Dad and for me.Think positive. Must believethebest.WhenIdothatIgetto thinking about what I’mgoingtosaytoKittywhenwemeet. I can’t wait to see thelook on her face when I tellherwhoIam.And tohavearelation on Dad’s side toowould be really something.Got somany on your side –no offence Grandpa. But weneed some balance here. I’m

onlyhalfGreeky’know.AndI know you don’t want tohearthisbutI’vealwayslikedcheddarcheesebetathanfeta!Now you know and you’llhate me forever. S’agapo, Iloveyou,Grandpa.xxxA

“HeyHoLittleFishDon’tCry,Don’tCry”

Dad used to love old blackand white Spencer Traceymovies, any Spencer Traceymovie. If it was on wewatched it. And one film inparticular he loved. It was

calledCaptains Courageous.Tracey plays this oldfishermanon awhaling ship.He looks after a young boywho’sveryspoiltandteacheshim what’s what, right fromwrong, fair from unfair. Hesingshimanoldfishingsong,and I loved this song. Itwasone of those songs that juststayed inmy head. I used tosingitallthetime,outontheboatwithDad, in thebathathome,whereverIwashappy.

And now here I was in theSouthern Ocean on my wayto the Horn on Kitty Fourcatching and killing my firstfish(I’veneverlikedthatpartofit),tearspouringdownmycheeks and singing outSpencer Tracey’s fishingsong:“Hey ho little Fish, don’t

cry, don’t cry. Hey ho littleFishdon’tcry.”That first one I couldn’t

bring myself to eat, so Itossed it overboard for myalbatross who had beenwatching me, probablyhoping I’d do just that. Hedidn’thavetobeaskedtwice.He was in the sea in a flashand swallowed it down. Hedidn’t actually lick his lips,but he looked pretty pleasedas he sat there in the seawaiting for more. When Icaught my next fish, I ate itmyself, despite lots of hurt

looks frommyalbatross.ButI did chuck him the head,whichhegobbleddownmorethanhappily.Whenever I caught a fish

after that my albatrossseemed to be waiting, so Ialways threwhim thehead. Igot less squeamish aboutboning andgutting them too,and I learned how to cookthem better each time. Thetruth is that I began to enjoy

the whole process, from theexcitement of seeing the linegotauttotheeatingitself.Sonow unless it was reallystormy I’d have a line outasternofmemostofthetime.Routine was all important

to living on Kitty Four. Itkept my spirits up. Routinechecks of everything up ondeck—regular adjustments tothe halyards and the steeringlines. Regular meals and hot

meals too, if the weatherallowed. The weather ruleseverything at sea, so sailingtheboatcamefirst.ButItriedto live as normal a life aspossible, tried not to allowtheseatodictatehowIspenteverymomentofmyday.SoI learned my AncientMariner.Iwrotemyemails.Itidied the cabin. I playedmyCDs. I mended what had tobe mended—there wasalwayssomething.Ifittedthe

spare membrane to mytroublesome desalinator,superglued what had to besuperglued. Iwashedclothes,not as often as I should, andhung themout todry. I likedto keepmyself clean too—tobegin with I hadn’t caredabout it,but the longer Iwasat sea the more important itbecame. So I washedwhenever I could—I alwaysfeltsomuchbetterforhavingmade the effort.And on fine

nights, however hard it wasblowing, I’d always do thesamething.I’dgoupintothecockpit if possible with mycup of hot chocolate and I’dwatchthestars.I’ddoalotofmy singing up there too—everything from LondonBridge toHey ho Little FishtoYellowSubmarine.Itwason just suchanight

thatIfirstsawit.Iwassittingtheregazingupatthezillions

of stars, wondering ifGrandpabackhomewasalsositting there with histelescopedoingtheverysamething at the very samemoment, remembering howhelovedtotellmewhateachofthemwascalled,howhe’dhelpmetoholdhis telescopemyself. I was rememberingallthiswhenIsawashootingstar pass overhead, muchlowerandbrighterandslowerthan shooting stars usually

were. I watched inamazementasthislightarcedacross the sky, knowingalready it couldn’t be ashooting star. It had to be asatelliteofsomekind.Iwentdown below at once andemailed home to see ifGrandpa knew what it couldbe. Until now I’d never hadanemaildirectfromGrandpa—they had always comethrough Mum. But the nextday he emailed me back

himself.“Ichecked.Gottobethe ISS. International SpaceStation.”I saw it up there again a

fewnightslaterevenbrighterthis time, even closer, and Igot to thinking: thoseastronautsup therearecloserto me at this moment thanany other human being onearth. I’m sailing the seasdown here. They’re sailingthrough space up there. I

wondered then if with alltheir high-tech gizmos theycould see me. I felt likewaving. So I stood there inthe cockpit and waved andshouted till my arms ached,tillmythroatwassore.Iwasjustsoexcited,sosohappytosee them up there. That waswhen the idea first came tome to try to make contactwith them, proper contact.Wouldn’t it be wonderful, Ithought, tomeetupbyemail

or even by phone, so wecould actually talk to oneanotherastheypassedover?Isent an email to Grandpa. Itwas just a crazy idea to startwith, just a lovely dream.Grandpa emailed back. “Noworries. I’ll fix it.” I thoughthe was joking. Meanwhile Ihadaboattosail.Iwasstillabout1000miles

fromtheHorn.Iwasdownto57°S.Therewas iceabout in

the south, lots of it. It wascold you couldn’t forget, thekindthatgotintoyourbones,deep into your kidneys. Feetand hands went numb, sowhenIcutmyself,andIoftendid,Icouldn’tfeelit.Myearsandmynose achedwith it. Iused to warm my socks andgloves on the kettle, but thetroublewas thatmy toes andfingers were always colderthan my socks and gloveswerewarm.Sotheblissnever

lasted for long. I’d neverknowncoldlikeit.I’ddoallIcould to stay down below inthewarm fug I’d created formyself. But sooner or laterI’dalwayshavetogobackupthere again, and the snuggerI’d make myself, the colderthe blast that hit me when Igotupintothecockpit.Itwastooroughforfishing

now, and far too coldanyway,butmyalbatrosswas

usuallystillthere.He’dgoofffor a dayor two, but I knewhe’d always come back, andhe did. I had such faith inhim, that he’d stay with meand see me safely round theHorn. And I knew why too,knew it for sure, though I’dstoppedwritingaboutitinmyemails because I thought itmight upset Mum, andbecauseIknowitsoundedatbestabitcrazy.ButIknewIwasn’t hallucinating, that I

wasn’tmad. I now knew forsure that it was Dad’s spiritsoaring up aboveKitty Four.He was an albatross, ofcourse he was, but he wasDadtoo.It was a different world I

wassailingindownthere,thewildestplaceI’deverbeen.Icould see and feel the swellbuildingallthetime.Southof60° between Cape Horn andthe Antarctic peninsula

there’s no land to break upthe ocean swells, so thewavestraveluninterruptedforhundredsofmilesandthey’rejust massive—I kept usingthe word “awesome” in myemails, and that was aboutright.IknewKittyFourcouldhandle them,but I alsoknewIcouldn’tleaveitalltoher.Ihad to be out there avoidingthe breaking waves,especially the hollow ones,the ones that look as if

they’regoingtoswallowyouup. Sleep was almostimpossibleinseaslikethis,inweather like this. The windscreamed all the time. Itwasaconstantpounding.Iwasonedge, listening to the boat,trying toworkout ifshewasjust complaining, or whethershewastellingmesomethingwas really wrong. Like me,she was finding this veryhard. We were both beingtestedasneverbefore.

Belowinthecabinwasmywhole world for hours onend. It was cramped, butdown there I felt warm andsafe.Mybunkwasa tight fit—ithadtobebecausefallingout was very painful anddangerous too. But it wasn’tcomfortable. I’d lie theresurrounded by all the stuffthat was keeping me alive—the medical box, generator,stove, charts, almanacs,sextant, pc, spares for

everything, harnesses, lifevests and sails—and kepttellingmyselfthatKittyFourandall this equipmentwouldgetme through. Andwhen Iwent up on deck there wasmy albatross telling meexactlythesamething.Itwasscary,itwasheartthumpinglyscaryattimes,butIneverforone moment thought wewouldn’t make it. Andwhenever I felt like humancompany, I’d sing to myself

or listen to a CD, or emailhome.InmyemailsItriedtohide just how scary it reallywassometimes.Therewasnopoint in upsetting Mum andGrandpa unnecessarily. Tellthem some of it, I thought,but there’s no need to tellthemeverything.Iwasfindingthekeyboard

slow to use nowbecausemyfingers were becoming veryswollen.Icouldn’tfeelthem,

and they looked likeabunchofwhitebananas.IwasdoingallIcouldtolookafterthem,smotheringthemwithlanolin,butstillthecrackscame,stillmy cuticles split around mynails—what nails I had left.My hands were not a prettysight,butIdidn’tmind.Ijustwanted them to work, to beabletodowhatItoldthemtodo—cook, tie knots, pullropes,email.

I’ve never forgotten themorningIsawCapeHornupthere on the laptop screen atlast. Sometime before I lefthome I’d seen the movieMasterandCommander,seenthe frigate battling its waythroughferociousseasofftheHorn. It was terrifyingenoughsittinginacomfyseatnext toDad in the cinema inHobart. Soon now I’d begoingroundtheHornmyself,doingitforreal,butDadwas

still besideme.Hewas therein theboathe’dmadeforus,in the albatross that guardedus,andinmyhearttoo.Itookout The Ancient Marinerwhich by now had becomelikeaBibletome.Itgavemenew determination, a newcourage every time I read itoutloud.

Theicewashere,the ice was there, The ice was allaround:

It cracked and growled, and roaredandhowled,Likenoisesinaswound!

AtlengthdidcomeanAlbatross,Thoroughthefogitcame;AsifithadbeenaChristiansoul,WehaileditinGod’sname.

Every time I spoke thosewords now, I felt thatsomehow I was living insidethe poem, that it had beenwritten just for Dad andme,

just for this moment as weapproached the Horn on the9thMarch.

AroundtheHorn,andwithDolphinsToo!

2005hrs9Mar55’47”S74’06”W

Dear Mum, dear Grandpa,deareveryone.Feels like this

really is the bottom of theearth down here. The sky upthere is black with rainsqualls and the wind’sscreaming like I’ve neverheard it before. this is not afunnyplacetobe.don’tthinkI’ll hang about. Kitty 4doesn’t seem to care though.she just bounces along, twostorm jibs up twin poled, 6knots,ridingeachwavelikeitwasjustaripple.Ifthiswasatalking boat – bout the only

thing she can’t do! -she’d beshoutingatthewaves–bringit on baby, gimmemore, seeif I care, you think you canbeatme?nowayhosay!Andyou should see the wavesshe’dbeshoutingat.Bout15metresfrombottomtotop,sowhenyou’redowninatroughand look up they look as ifthey’reabout50metres.Andthey’re long, that’s whatmakes them different.They’ve travelled all around

theworldjusttomeetushere–aren’ttheynice?aren’ttheykind?–buildingall the time.Up to 200 metres long, Ipromise you. Awesome,magnificent, majestic,amazing, exhilarating,overwhelming(runningoutofadjectives so I’ll stop).They’rewavemonstersthat’swhat they are, andwhenonedecides to break it’s like anavalanche that goes on andon, and Kitty 4 does

snowboarding then surfingthrough the middle of it,ragingwhitewaterallaround,the air snowing foam. Sobeautiful, so wonderful.Should be scary but it’s not.Too excited to be frightened,toomuch to think about, toomuch to do.Andmaybe I’mtoo Cretan to be scared,Grandpa!

And besides, I keep thinking

that every wave brings usnearertotheHorn.TheHornis dead ahead by myreckoning, only 230miles togo – can you believe that?WeshouldbegoingarounditonFridayifallgoeswell.It’sstrange, I’m not worried atall.Maybe that’sbecausemyalbatrossisstillupthere,stillwith us. He hovers over thebow,likehe’sleadingus,likehe’s showing us the way.Wind doesn’t seem to bother

him at all. I mean why isn’the just blown away? Howdoes he do it? He looks likehe’s playing with the wind,like he’s having fun with it,teasing it. He’s not just theking of the birds, he’s themaster of the wind too.Against the black of theclouds he looks whiter thanhe’s ever been, white as anangel, a guardian angel. Ikeep saying it I know, butthat’s what he looks like to

me. Had the last of mysausagesandbakedbeansformysupper.Gottogoeasyonthe hot chocolate. run out ifI’m not careful. One littleproblem, caught my littlefinger in a rope, think it’sbrokensoI’vestrappeditup.can’t feel itmost of the timeso that’s good. I can hearwhat you’re saying Mum.Yes, I’ll be careful. Got 9more fingers. So no worries.Lovingthis.Loveyou.Allie.

1825hrs11Mar56’00”S67’15”W

Done it done it done it!Woweee! We’re goingaround the Horn and withdolphins too, and myalbatrossofcourse.I’mgoingtotellyouhowitwas.Iknewthe Horn was there, but Icouldn’t see her. Every timeweclimbedawaveinthelastfour hours I was looking for

her, but shewas never there.So from time to time, I’d godown to check the screen.TheHornwas always on thescreen but never where sheshould be when I went backup into the cockpit again. Itwasso so frustrating.Kitty4didn’tseemtowanttostayonthe top of a wave longenough for me to catch myfirst glimpse of land. Then Idid. I whooped and yelledand sang and danced, well

sort of, not a lot of room fordancing in the cockpit. Andmy albatross swooped downlow over the boat almosttouching me as he flew by.Then he soared up high andwentofftowardstheHorn,tohavea look Iguess.He’llbeback.

I’vebeendreamingaboutthismoment, Mum, Grandpa,eversinceIfirstreadaboutit,

ordidDad talkabout it first,can’t remember. And nowI’mdoingit.I’mhere.Kitty4is poled out, full main. Nosqualls about.Westwind15-20 knots. Got to change theflags soon, Chilean toArgentinian. Aussie andGreek one still up thereGrandpa, looking a bitbattered and torn, like me.But they’re still flappingaway up there, like they’rereally happy, really proud

we’ve made it. Me too, metoo. I’m flapping withhappiness.

TherocksoftheHorndonotlookatallinviting–wouldn’twant to be any closer, blackandjaggedwhenyoucanseethem through the sea mist.grey and grim and dismal.been so lucky with theweather.Nothard to imaginewhatthisplacecanbelikein

a Force 10 when it’s reallyangry. Underneath us, theseabed must be littered withall those ships who didn’tmakeit,thosewhodidn’tgetsolucky.Ithoughtalotaboutthat when I was sitting therehalf an hour or so ago,drinking a celebratory hotchocolate – who needschampagne when you’ve gothotchocolate?

I think I just had a momentI’ll never forget. I sowishedyou were with me, and Dadmostof all. Iwas just sittingtherelookingattheHornandsipping the last of my hotchocolate when a shaft ofevening sunlight brokethrough the mist and lit theHorn.Itsetheronfireandalltheseaaroundhertoo.Neverin my life saw anything sobeautiful. Don’t mind tellingyou,Ihadalittleweep.Itwas

the joy of just being here atthis moment, of being alive,grateful to y’all, to the Hornfor letting us sail by, to myalbatrossforstickingwithus,to dear old Dadwho’smadeit all happenandwho’sbeenwith me all through this andisherewithmenow.

I love this place so much Ialmostdon’twanttoleaveit,don’t want the moment to

pass. But moments alwayspass, don’t they? It’s passedeven as I was writing this.Gone.I’dbetterbegonetoo.

I’llbegoingupnorthtowardstheLionIslands,justsouthofthe Falklands, a little over300 miles away. Stop in theFalklands for a few days,have lots of longhot baths –beendreamingofthose–andlots of big breakfasts and a

warm dry bed for a fewnights.Been a bit lax onmywashing lately – blame it onthe weather – whole plasticbags of it waiting. onewhiffwould kill, promise. So I’llget allmywashing done.Besogoodnottoberockingandrolling every hour of everyday, not to be banging myheadall the time.Begoodtoseepeople again.Begood tobedry.AndyesMumI’lldowhatyousayandgetmylittle

fingercheckedout.

Went up into the cockpit afew minutes ago and myalbatross is back from theHorn, done his explorations.He’ssittinginthesea,andbythe look in his eye he’d likeanotherfish.Soonasweturnnorth I’ll put the line outagain, and hope to catch afishortwo.Thatshouldkeephim happy. It should be

flatter that side, so better forfishing. Then up to theFalklandsforabitofarest.Ineed it. Kitty 4 needs it. sheneedsagoodclean–coveredinbarnaclesandslime.Slimyshe may be but she’s doneHobart to the Horn in 60days. Not another boat likeher in the whole world. Justgave her a smacking greatkisstotellherIlovedher.PutLouisArmstrong on theCD.“What a Wonderful World”.

Itistoo.

2115sameday

Just got all your congrats,thankyou,thankyou,andandand your grate grate newsMum about Kitty, you saidsomethingwouldturnupandit has, but only because younever gave up. Love you somuch. It’s incredible,

brilliant,wonderful,grate!SoI’vegotawholenewfamilyIneverknewabout!AndKittyis real, really real, not afigment of Dad’simagination. Tell that blokewhoemailedyouthathe’sthebestvicarintheentireworld.When I get to England I’mgoing to go to St James inBermondsey to see thebaptism records for myself,seetheplacewheretheywerebaptised.Ikeeplookingatthe

family tree you sent me,Mum,Ican’tbelieveit!Newgrandparents! Ellen andSidney Hobhouse. And themarriage certificate too –Ellen Barker (spinster)Sidney Hobhouse (cobbler).NowIknowforsurethatDadwas a baby once! He was ahappening,wasn’t he?!!Andso was Kitty. Like you sayMum we mustn’t get ourhopes up too much.We stillhave to findKitty, andwhen

wedoitmaybetoolate,shecouldbedead,butatleastweknow she is or was a trueperson,ahappening, just likeDad, real just likeDad.Willyou thank the vicar blokefrom me too for helping uslikethisandtellhimIwanttomeet him when I come toLondon. So Dad was rightaboutBermondseytoo.Isthatfar fromLondonBridge?Hehad a bettermemory than hethoughthehad,dearoldDad,

didn’t he? Best day of mylife, I’ve rounded the HornandI’vefoundanewfamily.This calls for another hotchocolate,maybe two.KnowIshouldn’t,knowI’llrunout.Butwhocares?A

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx–zillionsofthem.

DrMarcTopolski

Thinking back I should havestayed longer in theFalklandIslands. I didn’t, mostlybecause thehopefulnewsI’djusthadaboutKittymademeimpatient to be on my wayagain. The Falklands is ableakandbarrenplace, that’sfor sure, and the people are

tough—they have to be. Buttheywerekindnessitself.Myarrival caused quite a stir.Lots of people werefollowingmytripnowonthewebsite, so they knew I wascoming. Ihad lotsofhelpinghands, and a place to stay inStanley which was a homefromhomeforme.MrsBettsmotheredmelikeahappyhenwho has just found a lostchick. I had all the baths I’dbeen longing for, all the

breakfasts too. Ididacoupleof interviews, but then shemadesure Iwas leftalone torecover.And Kitty Four waswell looked after too.Withinaweekshewastidyandtrimagain, not a trace of slime,and the barnacles gone. Shewas ready to go. The solarpanel was fixed—I’d beenhaving a lot of trouble withthat. She was filled up withdiesel, and I had all theprovisionsonboard Ineeded

to getme toEngland, all thepackets of hot chocolate Icould ever want! I was justwaiting for the right wind,and the right tide. But anonshore windwas blowing agale, and itwent on blowingfor days on end, apparentlyquite common in theFalklands. So I couldn’tleave. If I’d tried I wouldhave been crunched againstthejetty.

Mrs Betts offered to showme the island a bit while Iwaswaiting. So offwewentinherlittleMorrisMinorvan,bumping our way across theisland. She tookme all over,told me about the daughtershehadwho’d left the islandand was living in NewZealandandhadababynow,buthowshe’dneverseenhergrandchild. I told her a bitabout Dad. She knewsomething about him already

fromthenewspapers,andshemade me recite The AncientMariner just to prove to herthat I could—she’d heardabout that too, from thewebsite I guessed. I knewalmost forty verses by then,so she got the lot. We sawpenguins and we saw sheep,all huddling against the coldof the wind. She tookme totheBritishwarcemetery,andtoldmeabout thewar they’dhad there when the

Argentinians invaded theisland twentyyearsbefore. Itmade me so sad to see allthose graves. Standing there,thewindwhippingaboutus,IthoughtofDadandVietnam,of young men dying a longway fromhome. “Theywerefine boys,” Mrs Betts saidsuddenly. “But then so weretheArgentinians.Andtheyallhadmothers.”That evening, my last on

the Falklands, I read her thelast part of The AncientMariner,becauseshesaidshewanted to know whathappened. She had tears inher eyes when I’d finished.“So in a way it’s a kind ofhappy ending,” she said.Then she looked atme hard.“I’ll be thinking a lot aboutyou, Allie. I want yourjourney to have a happyendingtoo.AndIwantyoutofind Kitty. You deserve a

happyending.”She offered me her phone

thentoringhome.ShesaidIshould, that adaughterneedsto speak to her mother, thatemailsweren’tenough.Sofortenminutes I talked toMumand Grandpa, who keptsnatchingthephonefromoneanother.Welaughedalotandcried a lot too, which meantwedidn’t sayasmuchasweshould have. Grandpa kept

going on about a “bigsurprise” thathecouldn’t tellme about yet, and then hewould almost tell me, andMumwouldsnatchthephoneoff him again, and I couldhear her telling him off, thathe’dpromisedtosaynothing,notuntiltheycouldbesureofit. Iwascertain Iknewwhatitwas.“You’ve found Kitty,

haven’tyou?”

“No, it’s not that,” Mumsaid. “But we’re stilllooking.”“Then what’s the

surprise?”Iasked.“Nothing, nothing,” she

told me. But I knewsomethingwasgoingon.

I had a big send-off the nextday, and aswe said goodbyeMrs Betts gave me a digital

camera. “A going awaypresent, because yoursdoesn’twork,dear,”shesaid.“Thisonedoes,Ipromise.”Andsoitdidtoo.Thefirst

photoItookwasofMrsBettswaving goodbye from thejetty. I was in such highspirits. I was on Kitty Fouragain. I’d had all my homecomfortswithMrsBetts—butI’dmissedKittyFour,missedthe smell of her, missed the

movement of the seaunderneathme.Thiswasmyreal home. Thiswaswhere Iwanted tobe. IknewIhadalotoftomorrowsaheadofmebefore I reached England,about sixty-five days away.ThenI’dgotoLondon,gotoStJamesinBermondsey,andfindKittyifIcould.AsIlefttheFalklands,Ihadneverfeltbetter about the outcome ofthewholeexpedition.

ButnowIwasbackatseaIhadonegrowingdoubt,anditwas a doubt that nagged meevery hour of every day thatfollowed. My albatrosswasn’t there. I had dolphins,dozens of them all aroundme. But the last I’d seen ofmy albatross was the daywe’d sailed into theFalklands. I’d just presumedthat he’d be out there, thathe’dbe justwaitingforus toputtoseaagain.

I was wrong. The dayswent by. I began to feel soalonewithouthim.Myemailsbecameshorterandshorteratthis time, partly because Ididn’t want Mum to knowhow miserable I was, andpartlybecauseIwantedtobeup there in the cockpit asmuch as possible so that Iwould be there when hecame.Buthedidn’tcomeandhe didn’t come.Andby nowI’d worked out why of

course.Albatrossrarelycomethis far north. They aresouthern ocean birds, I knewthat. But I went on hopinghe’d come back anyway. Itried to keep myself as busyasIcould,triedsohardnottodwellonmyloneliness.ButIcouldn’t sleep at nights nowfor thinking about myalbatross. Iwas beginning tobelieve, in the darkness ofthoselongnights,thatIreallywas on my own now, that

Dadhadgone too,gonewiththealbatross.Ihadbeenrightaboutthatthen:theywereoneandthesame.Havingbeensohopeful, so sure ofeverything, I was suddenlyoverwhelmedwithmisery.There was a lot of kelp

about, ugly-looking stuff, thebubblykind, the thistly kind,and some of it in very thicklong strands of up to twentymetres.Anditwasallaround

theboat.Ifelthemmedinbyit, threatened. It looked likewrithing sea snakes comingto get me, reaching out tograbme. Itwould rise up oneither side as we ploughedthrough it. I longed not tohave to look at it, to gobelow, but I couldn’t. Itwasn’t just because I waslooking formy albatross thatI needed to be up on deck. Ihadotherreasons.

There were suddenly a lotoffishingboatsarounddownthere,Icouldseethemeasieratnightall along thehorizon—and fishing boats wereevery bit as dangerous asicebergs. Get caught in themilesofnetstheytrailbehindthem and I knew that wouldbe the end of everything. Ihadn’t ever felt this lowbefore.Tomake itworsemypcwasplayingup,andforthefirst time on the trip I could

neither sendnor receive.Thewind died. The sea stilled.Therewasgreysea,greyskyall around, and I wasmarooned in a sea ofserpents. I sang to keep myspirits up. I could think ofnothingelse todo. I sang tillmy throat ached, every songI’deverknown.ButonesongI sang again and again,London Bridge is FallingDown. Itwasacryofpain,Ithink,butalsoacryforhelp.

Howfastthingscanchangeat sea. I came up into thecockpit one morning to findthe kelp all gone, the fishingboats nowhere to be seen.And the wind was up andgusting.Itwaslikethewholeearthhadsuddenlywokenuparound me.Where there hadbeen grey, there was blue,endlessblue,beautifulblue.Ibreathed in deep and closedmy eyes. When I openedthem, he was there floating

down towards me on thewind. An albatross, myalbatross. He didn’t careabout north or south.He justwanted to come with me.When I’d finished all mycrying and whooping I toldhimexactlywhatIthoughtofhim leaving me in the lurchlike that for so long.Albatross can’t smile ofcourse, that’s what mostpeople think. But they canand they do. They smile all

the time. And when I threwhimafishI’dcaughtforhimthat evening he was smilingallright.Iknowhewas.I was down below in the

cabinacoupleofhours later,baking the first bread I’dmade since leaving theFalklands, and still revellinginthememoryofmyreunionwith the albatross.His returnhad not only cheered me, ithadclearlyhadsomemagical

effect on my pc which wasnowworkingagain,perfectly.Then the phone rang, theSatphone. It had rung only afew times on the whole trip,andthenithadalwaysbeenacoastguard calling, andalways much nearer land. Ipicked it up, worried theremightbesomethingwrongathome, or maybe it was justMum panicking because shehadn’tbeenable to reachmeonemail.

“Hi there,” itwas aman’svoice. “This is Dr MarcTopolski. You don’t knowme”—he had an Americanaccent—“but yourGrandpa’sbeen speaking with NASA.They phoned right up andsuggestedImight liketotalkwithyou.”Ididn’tunderstandwhathe

was on about, not at first.“I’mnot ill,” I said. “I don’tneedadoctor.I’mfine.”

“Sureyouare,Allie.Thingis, Allie, that I’m up hereright above you in theInternational Space Station,andyou’re rightdownbelowus, and your Grandpa saidyoucanseeussometimesandhow you’d like to get intouch. And I thought thatseemed like a fine idea,because we’re both kind ofexplorers, aren’twe?And soI thought like you did, thatmaybe we could like get

together on email or byphone, from time to time,whatever you like, a kind ofongoing conversation. Mightbe fun.Might be interesting.Whatdoyousay?”Icouldn’tsayathing.I had that first amazing

phonecallfromspace,somyemails tell me, on the 29thMarch. Grandpa’s surprisewas a surprise all right, thesurpriseofmylife.

“OneSmallStepforMan”

0715hrs29March45’44”S50’13”W

G’day best Grandpa in theworld. No question. You arethecoolestGrandpathateverlived, the greatest, the

greekest.Justhadthesurpriseyou told me about, the oneyou made happen. I can’timagine anything moresurprising happening toanyoneeveranywhere.Thankyou,thankyouGrandpa.He’sgoing to send me a pic ofhimself and the crew upthere, and we’re going tohave what he calls “anongoing conversation”. Ithink it’s the most amazingthing that’severhappened to

me. He sounds like GeorgeClooney, but don’t you daretell him I said that. I thinkAmericansmust all gargle instuff that makes their voicesso husky. And…and…and,what you don’t know is thatmyalbatrossisbackwithmetoo!SoIgotanalbatrossandan astronaut all in one day.Notbadeh?Don’tknowhowlong my albatross can stay.He’s already way too farnorth.I’mgoingtotrytofeed

him lots of fish to keep himwith me, which is silly Iknowbecausehecancatchallthefishhewantsforhimself,albatross are quite good atthatstuff,butheseemstolikehangingaroundformine too.Can’t believe how many ofyou are looking out for menow out here, all of you athome,my albatross and nowDrTopolski.Nooneeverhada supporters’ club like thatbefore. Grib forecast is

horrible,soI’vegotlotstodoandinahurry.I’llgetbacktoyoulatersoonasIcan.Lovey’all, specially you greekGrandpa.Axx

1112hrs31March42’29”S48’30”W

HiMum,g’dayGrandpa,nothad a lot of time to doanythingexceptsail theboat.

Sohavehadno time towriteemails to you or to DrTopolski.Justbeenthroughastorm like no other. Twoknockdowns, but I’m stillaliveandkicking,stillheretotell the tale so no worries.Most of the time there wasnothing to do but hunkerdownbelowandhope,gettingquitegoodatthat.didalotofbadsingingandquitealotofclutching Dad’s lucky keytoo. 70 knot gusts rising to

80.viciouswind.Massiveflattopwaves,windflattened,theworst kind, the reallydangerous kind. Breakingwaves of greywater, a spraystorm all around me. I justtriedtokeepthewindandtheswell on thequarter asmuchas I could. Not alwayspossiblewhichiswhenthingswent very badly wrong,nearlycatastrophic.Wecamebeam on twice into a rollingbreaker, and she just went

over. Both knockdownshappenedinthespaceofhalfan hour. Not a half hour Ieverwanttorepeat,Ipromiseyou!NothingIcoulddo,butIknew she’d pop right upagain.

Kitty 4 is a real star, a reallifesaver,alltheblokesintheboatyard should be so soproudofher.Wishyoucouldhaveseenhowshewaslifting

herself up out of the water,giving two fingers to thestorm and the wind and thewaves, like she was sayingteeheeheeyou can’t sinkme.She was magnificent,awesome. And do you knowthebestthing?WhenIlookedupthroughthecabinwindowafter each knockdown wasover, there wasmy albatrossuptherelikehewasonangelwings hovering over me,protecting me. We make a

pretty good team, him andme.Managedtotakeapiccieof him with Mrs Betts’brilliantcamerajustwhenthestorm was dying down.Sending it to you and DrTopolski. When the worstwasover, Imanaged to cookmyself my first hot meal intwodays,baconandsausagesand baked beans, a wholeplateful–itwassoyummysogood – and washed it alldown with a mug of hot

chocolate – of course. Stillfrozeninmyfingersandfeet,but I can feel a warm glowinsideme nowwhich wasn’ttherebefore.Loveyouloads.Allie.

2112hrs3April38’54”S46’03”W

Hi everyone. Tootling (Dadloved that word) along 5

knots. gentle swell. Phew.Got some time now to tellyouboutDrTopolski.We’veemailed each other twicenow,andwe’vespokenagaintoo and we’ve seen oneanother at night at the sametime.Here’showithappened.DrTopolskiphonedfromtheISS and said they werepassingovermypositionandcould I see them. I went upondeckand there itwas.Hewanted me to shine a

spotlightandputupaflaretoseeiftheycouldseeme.SoIdidandtheysawme.Canyoubelieve that, they really sawme.Icouldseehim,hecouldseeme.Icouldhearhim–hecould hear me – we laughedlikeacoupleofkids,notcosit was funny but cos it wasjustamazing,amazing.

In his emails he has beentelling me about the space

walk, EVA he calls it, he’sgottodoinacoupleofdays.Neverdoneonebeforeandhewasreallylookingforwardtoit.He’sgottocarryoutsomekindofscientificexperiment.He toldmea littleofwhat itwas about, but I didn’tunderstand it really – didn’ttellhimthat!

He’sup therewithaRussianphysicist, Dr Uri Malakov

and another American, MikePetersen, he’s thecommander. The three ofthem have been up therenearly four weeks. Verycramped living quarters,that’s what he told me. “Iguess that’swhat you’d kindof expect in a Space Station.Butatleastwecanflyaboutabit whenever we feel like it.Weightlessness is the best,when you’ve gotten used toit.”

He’s told me a lot abouthimself,he’sgotawifebackhome in Vermont and acouple of kids, ten andtwelve, both girls. He’s ascientist, a physicist, as wellas an astronaut, pretty brainysort of bloke, I’d say. I’vebeen telling him a whole lotaboutusonmyemailstohim,about Dad and our trip toEngland to find Kitty. He’sreallyinterested,saidhe’ddoanything he could to help,

and I think he means it too.Decidedhe soundsmore likeJohnny Depp than GeorgeClooney,butI’vegothispic.He doesn’t look like either.LooksmorelikeTomHanks,got a kind face, a good face.He said he loved my emailsandpics,speciallytheoneofmy albatross. He reckonswe’ve got so muchincommon, each of uscircumnavigating theearth inourownway,eachofusina

tin can not exactly built forcomfort.Itoldhimhe’sdoinghis circumnavigation just alittlefaster thanme,andhe’sgot wide wide space aroundhim and I’ve got wide widesea.

He says my albatross is themost beautiful bird he’s everseen. That’s one thing hemisses up in space, he says,you look out of the window

and you never see any birds.He wants me to send him alot more pics of birds, so Iwill. He’s emailed me somebrilliant shots of the earth –we do live on such anawesome amazing planet.I’ve got lots of pics too ofhim floating about in hisspace station with Uri andMike. So cool. Have to dothat one day. He’s got moreroom up there than I havedown here but he’s got to

shareit.Nicepicsofhimandhis wife too, she’s calledMarianne,andhistwokidsinthe snowoutside their home.Helookslikehisvoice,kind,thoughtful, intelligent. HopehisEVAgoeswell.

Fishing’s been good today. Icaught six and kept two formyself.Threw the rest tomyalbatross, my lip-smackingalbatross.Everydayhe stays

withmeIknowisabonus. Ishall so miss him when hegoes, but I keep tellingmyself that this far north hecan’t stay around muchlonger and I’d better getmyselfreadyforthedayhe’snot thereanymore.NomorenewsaboutKittythen?She’sgot to be somewhere, right?Seeyou.Axxx

1216hrs5April(GPSonthe

blinkforsomereason,sonotsureofpreciseposition)

Hello from the Atlantic. It’sme again.DrTopolski’s sentme an email all about hisEVA.Hesoundedsoexcited.SaidUri took lots of pics ofhim doing his slow-motionspacedance.He’llsend themondownwhenhecan.Here’spartofhisemail:

“Iwas six hours out there inspace. I was busy, but I hadplentyoftimetolookaroundme.Thatwaswhen Iguess Ireallyunderstoodforthefirsttime the immensity of space,andthetimelessnessofit,thestillnessof it.Andourplanetseemed to be suddenly soprecious, so utterly beautiful.I thoughtofmyfamilydowningreenVermont,andofyouout there on that blue, bluesea.”

I emailed him back askinghimwhyhedid it,whyhe’dbecome an astronaut in thefirstplace.He said itwasallNeil Armstrong’s fault, thefirstmanonthemoon.Whenhewas littlehe’dsat there infrontofhisTVwatchinghimstep down on the moon’ssurface. Said it was listeningto him speak from themoonthatdiditforhim.“Onesmallstep for man, one giant leapformankind.”He’dwantedto

go into space ever since, andhe was loving it, except hecould do with a little moreprivacyhesaid.

We sent emails back andforth comparing notes really.I’m down here at sea level,(well ground level), only thesea keepsmoving so it’s notlevel, and he’s up 350kmabove ground.They’re goingat 5miles a second up there

inspace.I’mdoing5nauticalmilesanhourdownhere.I’vegotmylaptop,myfiveGPSs(two of them are still on theblink) and some basicsoftware. He’s got all themost amazing gizmos in theworld, most of it operatedfrom NASA. He’s floatingaround up there, I’m beingbashed about down here.Don’t tell him this, but I’vedecided I’m definitely betteroffdownhere.Exceptforhis

spacewalk,he’sbeenshutinup in his space station forweeks. And at least I canbreathe good clean sea air,and to be honest, I couldn’tlive in suchaconfinedspaceforsolong–I’dgobananas.Imean you couldn’t even talkto yourself without beingoverheard could you? Andhe’s got another monthcoopedupupthere.ThinkI’llstick to sailing. But we’reboth adventurers, he said,

bothexplorers,andjustaboutthe luckiest people alivebecausewe’reouttheredoingwhatwelovebest.“Isn’tthatgreat?”hesaid.He’s right. Itisgreat.Iamlucky.HeaskedafterKitty,aftermyalbatross,abouttheweather,abouthowI’mdoingdownhere.Hesaysit’s hard to imagine how lifemustbeforme,buthewantsto know all about it says hewants to see diagramsofmyyacht, inside and out. So I’ll

send them soon as I can.WhenhepassedoverIletoffa flare again, buthe couldn’tsee it this time.He’sbecomea real friend to me, like noother. A friend I’ve nevermet.

Can now wiggle my littlefinger again Mum. So I’vegot all ten in use again now.Hands still sore, butotherwise I’m fit as a fiddle

another Dad-ism. Why is afiddle fit? Always wonderedthat.

There’s some flying fisharound, the first I’ve seen.Myalbatrossdoesn’tseematall interested in them. He’ssitting there now waiting forme to put my line over theside again. I’ll do it rightnow.Gottokeephimhappy,haven’tI?

1202hrs 11 April 28’ 54”S44’53”W

Hi Mum, Grandpa. Haven’theard from the ISS fora fewdays.Hopeall’swellwithDrTopolski up there. Moreflying fish about. Gettingcloser to the Tropics all thetime. Feel like I’m beingboiled alive down here. Amonth or so ago I couldn’tfeelmyfeetandfingers,now

I’m sitting here pouringsweat. I want to open thehatch but I can’t because thespray comes in and soakseverything. So I wear verylittle, only way. Visibility isv. poor. Brazilian coast toport, but I’m keeping wellaway from it, much as I’dlove tosee it.Lotsof fishingboatsoutthere.Can’tsleepinthis heat either – above 30.can’twaittogetfurthernorthintothecoldagain.WhenI’m

hot I want to be cold.WhenI’m cold I want to be hot.What’s the matter with me?Stillallofitwillbeworthitifwe can find out where Kittyis.AsIgetcloser–andIamgetting closer now – I thinkabout it more and more. Ihope for itmore andmore. Ikeep looking at her key,Dad’s key, keep wonderingwhat it’s for. GPS up andrunningagain.

152014April25’85”S41’31”W

The worst thing that couldhappen has happened, thesaddest thingsinceDaddied.And it was me that did it. Ishould have known. I shouldhavethought.MyalbatrossisdeadandIkilledhim.Ididn’tmean to, but that doesn’tmakemeanylessguilty,doesit?Icameupintothecockpit

at dawn and looked aroundfor my albatross as I alwaysdo.Andhewasn’t there.Myheart sank because I alwaysknew that one morning, I’dfind him gone. I saw therewere a few flying fish lyinginthescuppers.I thinkthat’swhat reminded me to checkthefishingline.Icouldseeatonce the line was taut, so Ithought I’d caught a fish. Itwasn’t a fish I’d caught, itwas my albatross. He was

beingdraggedalongasternofthe boat, hooked anddrowned.Ipulledhiminandsatwithhimsoddenandlimpon my lap, his great wingsstilled for ever. Mum, hecame with me all this wayand I’ve killed him, I’vekilled my albatross. but I’vedone something a lot worsethan that. It’s not just thealbatross whose wings I’vestilled.Ifeeldeepinmyheartthat I’ve stilled Dad’s spirit

too.A.

AloneonaWideWideSea

It was only in the days andweeksfollowingthekillingofmy albatross that Iunderstood what Dad reallymeant in his story when hesaid that his “centre wouldnot hold”. I know only from

the emails I sent home eachday after this that I sailednorth for a month. I think ImusthavesailedonalmostasifIwasinatrance.ItwaslikeI was on automatic pilot. Isailed efficiently. To get asfarnorthasIdid,Imusthavedone. I did everything thathad to be done, but I did itwith no excitement, no joy,felt no fear and no pain, notevenanygrief.Iwasnumb.Ijust sailed the boat. I told

themIwantedtheKittyFourwebsite down for good. Irecorded only my dailylongitude and latitudeposition.Ididn’twanttohaveany communications withanyone any more. I ignoredall the pleading emails thatcame in and I didn’t answerthe Satphone either. TherewasnothingmoreIwantedtosay to anyone. I no longercaredaboutKittyorthekey.Ino longer cared about

anything. I even ignored allthe messages of sympathyandencouragementthatcameinfromDrTopolskiupintheISS.After ten days or so I did

send one email that wasn’tjust longitude and latitude.Looking back now I’m notsurequitewhyIdidit,unlessit was an attempt to explainmy silence to everyone athome, and up there in space.

Maybe I couldn’t find anywordsofmyown,butIthinkitwasmorethanthat.BynowI knew all of The AncientMariner so well. The wordsechoed in my head withoutmy evenwanting them to bethere.SometimesI’djustfindmyself sitting in the cockpitand the words and the lineswould speak themselves outloud.And themore I reciteditthemoreIlostmyselfinit,and came to believe that I

wasinsomewaytheAncientMariner, that my journey,like his, was cursed becauseof what I’d done. Here’ssome of what I emailed on28thApril:

AndIhaddoneahellishthing,Anditwouldwork‘emwoe:Forallaverred,IhadkilledthebirdThatmadethebreezetoblow.Ahwretch!saidthey,thebirdtoslay,thatmadethebreezetoblow!

…Water,water,everywhereAndalltheboardsdidshrink;Waterwater,everywhere,Noranydroptodrink.

Iknownowofcoursehowworried everyone must havebeenathomewhentheyreadthis. I know now Grandpawantedtocallthewholethingoff,tomobiliseamajorair—searescueatoncetopickmeup.ButMumhadstoodfirm.And the only reason she had

stoodfirmwasthatshecouldsee my reports were stillcoming in each day. Shecould see on the chart that Iwasmakinggoodprogressonmyjourneynorth.IknowtoothatDrTopolskiwasinclosetouch with them during mylong silence, and encouragedMum in her decision to givemetimetoworkthingsoutonmyown.Istilldon’tunderstandwhy

Icameoutofthedarknessofmy despair when I did. Wecan’t ever really know thesethings, I suppose. ForDad itwasthemomentwhenanursewaskindtohiminhospitalinHobart when he was at hislowest ebb, and helped himthrough. But even so hewouldn’t have come out ofhis black hole unless he hadreallywantedto.Iftherewassuch a moment of revelationforme,themomentIfoundI

wantedtostartlivingagain,Iknow exactly when it was,theexactday,theexactplaceithappened.I was in the cockpit of

KittyFourwhenIsawhim.Aturtle. A leatherback turtle.He surfaced right beside theboat, and just swam alongwith me. He looked at mequizzicallylikehewasaskingmewhat Iwasdoing there. Itold him I was going to

England to find Kitty. I toldhimeverything,andhestayedandlistened.Iwasn’talone.Iheardmyselfsingingaloudinthe wind. I hadn’t sung forweeks. I went through mywholerepertoirefromLondonBridge to Here Comes theSun to What a WonderfulWorld to IWill Always LoveYou, and Ibeltedout the lastone with tears pouring downmy cheeks. When I’dfinished, the turtle gave me

onelastlookandleft.Ididn’tmind. I hadn’t cried eversince my albatross died.Something was gatheringinside me, finding itselfagain, during these songs. Itwasmycentre.Maybe keeping myself as

busy as I had been with thesailingwasthebest therapyIcouldhavehad to liftmeoutof the sadness I had beenliving through.Maybealso it

was because I could see thattheendofmyjourneywasinsight now. I was only 2500miles and twenty-three daysout from Falmouth. But onething I’m quite sure of. Thatdaysittingtheretalkingtotheturtle, singing and crying inthe cockpit of Kitty Four, IfeltIwasnotaloneanymore.Mum was there with me,Grandpa, Dr Topolski,everyone at home, and Dadtoo.Theywereall therewith

me,willingmeon.Therewasstill grief in those tears Icried, but it was a suddensurgeofjoythathadreleasedthem.Iwentdownintothecabin

then to email home at once,andIsawtherewasanemailwaiting for me from DrTopolski. He was back onearth now. They’d broughthim down a week before, inKazakhstan,abitofabumpy

landing, he said, and he wasback home with his familynowonleaveforawhile,andhe’d been doing someinvestigations. He hadn’tforgotten about me. On thecontrary, he’d been in touchwithMumandGrandpaa loteversincehegotdown.He’dcome up with something“pretty interesting” aboutKitty, but, tantalisingly, hewouldn’tsaywhatitwas.Hedid tell me that his whole

family knew about me, thattheywere all thinking ofmeevery day, that they had amap of the Atlantic oceanpinneduponthekitchenwalland were charting myprogress, moving the brightyellowpinthatwasmealittlefurther north and little closerto England every morning.Heknew that I’d been goingthrough a hard time, he said,but he wanted me to know,“There’s a whole bunch of

people here in Vermont andallovertheworldjustrootingforyou.”EverydayafterthatI felt as if I was rechargingmyselfsomehow.I was sailing into trade

windswhich didn’tmake forcomfortable sailing, but Ididn’t mind. It wasn’t onlythe winds that were blowingus along now anyway—andKittyFourwasflying—itwastheemailsthatcameinallthe

time fromeveryone at home,and from Dr Topolski too,everyone contributing to mynew sense of wellbeing, ofeuphoria almost. I never sawmy turtle again, but I’venever forgotten him. I canstill seehis facegazingupatme,akindface,oldandwise.Sometimes I think that turtlesavedmylife.With every day that

broughtmeclosertoEngland,

I kept asking them aboutKitty, but all I got backwasthat there was no real news.Theyhadoneor twohopeful“irons in the fire,” whateverthat meant. It didn’t soundveryhopeful.Tobehonest, Ithought they were juststringingme along, trying tokeep my spirits up, knowingperfectly well that the lastthing I needed to hear wasbad news about Kitty—thatthey couldn’t find any trace

ofher,orworse,thattheyhaddiscovered she was dead.Often I’d sit there down inthe cabin, Dad’s lucky keycupped in my hand,wondering what had been soimportant about this key.What did it mean?Why hadKittygivenittoDadthatdayall those years before whenthey were parted?What wasso special about it? He hadalwayscalledithisluckykey.I’d hold it and squeeze it

tight,andeverytimeI’dwishonit,justasDadusedtowishon it. Iwished I’d findKittyaliveandwellinEnglandandthat I’d find out at last whatthekeywasfor.I’d be lying if I said that

myneweuphoriadidn’tfromtime to time give way totimes of sadness. There wasstillanacheinsideme,leftbythe loss ofmy albatross, thatwouldnotgoaway.Ithought

ofhimsooften.Everybird Isaw remindedme of him, ofthe majesty of his flight, ofhisgraceandhisbeauty.AndsittinginmycockpitinacoldgreyNorthAtlantic, I lookedoutandsawanalbatrossofadifferentkind,analbatrossofthe north, a gannet, divingdowntofish,splicingthesea.He was magnificent, but notas magnificent as myalbatross.

“LondonBridgeisFallingDown”

Itwas a good thing Iwas sobuoyed up now and sodetermined, because in thoselastcoupleof thousandmilesjust about everything thatcould go wrong did gowrong.Firstofall, theNorth

Atlantic turned out to beevery bit as vicious andhostile as the SouthernOcean. Kitty Four took aterrible battering. And itwasn’t just one storm, itwasa whole succession of them.We’d sail out of one andstraight into another.We gotknocked down three times inthree days, and the last timewasverynearlytheendofthestory.

Not many single-handedsailors go over the side andlive to tell the tale. I did. Itwas my own fault ithappened. As Dad used tosay, I was a silly chump. Iwas in thecockpit inastormand I wasn’t harnessed inproperly. Yes, I was tired. Ihadn’t slept for a couple ofdays. But that’s no excuse. Iwas just a chump and verynearly a dead chump. I wascaught completely unawares

when thewave came.As theboat lurched violently I wascatapulted overboard.Somehow Imanaged to graba safety wire and just clungon to it. ButKitty Four wasonhersideandIwasdunkedin the ocean. I rememberhearing the roarof thesea inmyears,andIknewthatwasalways the last sound adrowning sailor ever hears.Then Kitty Four rightedherself. She flipped up and I

foundmyself flungback intothe cockpit still inonepiece,just. But I was nursing abroken arm—I knew it wasbrokenatoncebecauseitwascompletely useless—and Iwas cursing myself loudly.You’realuckychump,averyluckychump,Ithought,whenI’d stopped my cursing. Mysurvival was down to Dad’skey,Ihadnodoubtaboutit,itwas entirely down to Dad’sluckykey.

Ididn’tfeelanypaininmyarm at first. It was too coldafter my dunking in thefreezing waters of the NorthAtlantic. But when I’d driedoff and warmed up downbelow in the cabin, then itbegantohurtlikehell.IknewI’dneedhelp, so IpickeduptheSatphoneand ranghome.Grandpaanswered.Itoldhimall I needed was a doctor totell me what to do, and I’dmanage. No arguments,

Grandpa said, he was goingtohavemeairliftedoff.“Youcan’tsailaboatwithabrokenarm,” he said. I don’t thinkI’d ever shouted at Grandpabefore (or since) but I didnow.I toldhimthatwewereonly fiftymiles or so off thecoast of England, off theScilly Isles, which was lessthan a hundred miles fromFalmouth;thatKittyFourandI were going to finish thisthing together, and that I’d

neverspeaktohimagainifhedidit.MumandGrandpahadalittletalkaboutit—andfiveminutes later I had DrTopolski on the phone. Itturnedouthewasadoctorofmedicine as well as a doctorof physics and engineeringand just about everythingelse. He “examined” me byasking me dozens ofquestions.Thenhe talkedmethroughhowtomakeasplint,howtobandage it tomyarm

—not easyone-handed, but Ididit.Ofcourseitwasn’tjustme

that was beaten up andhurting.ItwasKittyFourtoo.Not theboatherself, shewasfine. She’d just rocked androlled, and bobbed up again,like she always did. She’dbeenbuilttobeindestructibleandunsinkable, and shewas.Itwas all the bits and piecesthatwerebeginningtofailas

we neared the EnglishChannel. Neither thegenerator nor the desalinatorwas reliable any more. Theself-steering was in pieces.I’dtriedmendingit,butwithonearmIcouldn’tdoit,soitmeantIhadtobeupthereinthe cockpit almost all thetime. In fact I’d have had tobe there anyway, becausethere was a lot of shippingaboutnow,morethanI’dhadon the whole trip, and for a

little yacht, for any yacht,that’s dangerous. I could seethem,butinseaslikethisI’dbe lucky if they saw mebeforetheyranmedown.I didn’t tell anyone how

bad things were reallygetting. IknewhowGrandpawouldreact,howupsetMumwould be. Instead I wrotechirpy emails, soundeddeliberatelyupbeatand jokeyon the Satphone. I think

maybe that having to soundchirpywasverygoodforme.ThetruthwasthatIwasnowreallyworriedthatImightnotbe able to make it. My armpained me every time Imoved. Every sail change Imade was sheer agony. Icametoadecision.I emailed home saying I’d

putintoScilly,andnotgoonto Falmouth. After all ScillywasEngland.Itwasasgooda

port as any to end the firsthalf of my voyage. Mumphonedmeback.Shesaidsheand Grandpa had thoughtabout it and theywere flyingover to England as soon aspossible, and they would letmeknowwhenthey’dlanded.I said Ididn’twantany fuss,and that they weren’t to tellanyonewhathadhappened. Iwas already dreading awelcoming flotilla comingouttomeetme.Grandpasaid

that evenwithnowebsiteupthere, therewashuge interestinthepaperseverywhere.“Just don’t tell them I’m

coming into Scilly,” I toldhim.“Promiseme,Grandpa.”He promised, but I wasn’tconvinced. I knew thetemptationofhaving“StavrosBoats”onthetelevisionnewsin big letters, and his littleAllie, the apple of hisGreekeye, standing on deck and

waving, would be too muchto resist. To be honest Iexpected the worst, but I’dcometotermswithit.Maybeitwouldbequitefunanyway,and even if I didn’t like it, Icould stand back and smilethrough gritted teeth—afterall, I’d done that before inHobart.So therewewere the next

day tootling alongwith a bitofalimp,buthappyasLarry

(I do sound like DadsometimesIknow,butIlovethe phrases he used. Iinherited them.They’reminenow.) All the storms werebehind us. The forecast wasset fair all theway to Scilly.Sunshiney day, clear skies,andnotasignofawelcomingflotilla—amazing, Grandpahad kept quiet. I had justsighted land, not much land,but land all the same, and itwas the land Iwanted to see

—theScillyIslands.Itoastedthe occasion with a mug ofhot chocolate. The Scillieslooked like little greydumplings lying there low inthe sea, about ten miles off.Wewere going nicely, aboutfive knots. It was earlymorning. I was so nearlythere. I’d seen a whale, orperhaps a basking shark, inthe distance the day beforeandwas looking out for himagain. What I saw instead

was a school of porpoisesplaying off my starboardbow,givingmequiteashow.This was the kind ofunexpected, spontaneouswelcomeIreallywanted.But I was enjoying it so

much that Iwasn’tkeepingagood look-out all around.That was when a sickeningshudder shook the boat. Sherearedupandrolled,andthencrashed down into the sea,

whereshestoppeddead,asifthelifehadsuddenlygoneoutofher.The tillerwas light inmy hand, so I knew at oncethat we’d lost the rudder.Then I saw pieces of itfloating away astern of us. Ithoughtatfirstwemusthavehit thewhale, butwe hadn’t.ThedarkshapeIsawlurkingjust beneath the surface rosethenandshoweditself.Itwasa dirty orangewith flat sidesandsharpedges.Acontainer,

a lousy stinking container. Icursed that container shipwherever she was, then Icursed all container shipswherever they were. Cursingover, I checked below. Atleast we weren’t holed. Wehadn’t lost buoyancy. Wewere rudderless andhelpless,but still afloat. I hoped wecould drift in on the tide atfirst, but a quick look at mychart confirmed what Ialreadyknew,thattherewere

rocks all around Scilly,thousands and thousands ofthem.Ihadnochoice.Iusedthe

Satphone and called out thelifeboat.Within half an hourthey were alongside andthrew me a line. So with abusted rudder and a bustedarm I arrived on the ScillyIsles, came into St Mary’sHarbour, towed inignominiouslybythelifeboat.

Because of that, of course,therewasalotofinterest,andverysoontheyfoundoutwhoI was. No flotilla, thankgoodness, but any hope Imighthavehadofslippinginunnoticed was gone. TheywhiskedmeuptothehospitaltohavemyarmlookedatandtoldmeIhadtostaytherethenight,butIsaidIdidn’twantto.I’dhadabetteroffer.MattPender,thelifeboatcoxswain,said he could put me up at

home with his family. Soafter my arm was set andplastered he came to fetchme,andwewentstraighttoapubwheretheyfetedmeasifI was Ellen McArthur.“Proper little hero” theycalled me. Everyone made afuss of me and I loved it. Itried phoning home, but noone answered. They’dprobablyleftalready.Ididn’tmind.Iwassohappytohavegot toEngland, so happy the

boat was in one piece, justabout.I did some TV and radio

interviews the next day, gotthem overwith. Then IwentdowntothejettytotidyKittyFour before shewent off forrepairs. There were crowdsall around her, dozens ofpeople photographing her,and shewas just bobbing upanddownlovingitall,takingherbows.

Iwaitedabouttilleveryonehad gone before I went onboard. Then we had a quiettime together, justKittyFourand me. I emailed Mum,emailed Dr Topolski, toldeveryone that repairs wouldtake a couple of weeks atleast, that I would catch theferry the following day fromScilly to Penzance, and thenthe night train to LondonPaddington getting in atseven o’clock on the

Wednesday morning. If theywere there by then, theycouldmeetme,andwecouldgo off to Bermondsey andstart looking for Kitty rightaway. I told them somethingelse too, something I knewneitherofthemwouldwanttohear. I’d decided that onceKittyFourwasrepaired,oncemy arm was better, I wouldbe sailing Kitty Four home.I’ddothewholethingjustasI’d planned, the whole

circumnavigation, andnothing anyone could saywould stop me. “I mean it,Grandpa,” I wrote. Before IleftKittyFour Igotanemailback.“Whatever you say, Allie.

See you at Paddington sevena.m. Wednesday morning.There’s a big clock there onplatformone.Meetyouthere.Love Mum and Grandpa.”They’dgiveninjustlikethat.

Icouldn’tbelieveit.Mattandthewholelifeboat

crew came to see me off onthe ferry to Penzance. I’dnever been hugged so muchin all my life. I liked it, Iliked it a lot. I had to waitaround a while until I couldget on the night train forLondon. So Iwas quite tiredbythetimeIgotintomyseat.Iwasgettingoutmylaptop.Iwantedtosendanotheremail

to Mum.When I looked up,there was this bloke sittingopposite smiling at me. Wegot talking as you do. HisnamewasMichaelMcLuskie.Therestyouknowalready,

just about all of it, anyway.Whatyoudon’tknowiswhathappened when I’d finishedtelling him my story, whenwe got into PaddingtonStationthenextmorning.Thetraincame intoplatformone,

and we got out together,Michael carrying myrucksack as well as his. (Hewasn’t just good-looking, hewas thoughtful too, still is—mostly.)IcouldseeMumandGrandpa under the clockwaiting, looking around forme.“That them?” Michael

asked.“That’sthem,”Isaid.“So it’s true, all if it,

everythingyoutoldme.Noneofitmadeup?”“Noneofit.”“Then,” he said, looking

straight at me, and meaningeverywordhesaid,“thenyouarethemostincrediblepersonI’veevermet,andI’d like tosee you again, if that’salright.”I don’t know to this day

whatmademesayit.“Look,”I said. “I’m hungry. Why

don’t you come and havebreakfastwith us,withMumand Grandpa and me?” Hedidn’t say no, which waswhy,afterMumandGrandpahad each hugged me againand again, and afterwe’d allcried and laughed Cretanstyle under the clock atPaddington,we all piled intoa taxi, and went off to theirhotelforbreakfast.They seemed, I thought, a

little nervous. Grandpa keptlooking away whenever Icaught his eye. I thought hewas cross with me becauseI’d insisted on doing thewhole circumnavigation.He’d always been so muchagainst it. Mum couldn’tseem to findhervoiceat all,justsattherepattingmyhandfondly. I exchanged glanceswith Michael who shruggedwithhiseyes,asonlyhecando.

It was one of those hugemodern hotels,made entirelyofglass,andwasrightontheriver. We walked into thebreakfast room which wasfull of laid up tables, all ofthememptyexceptforalargeround tablenear thewindow.Sitting around it were whatlooked like a family with acoupleofkidsandallofthemwere looking at me veryintently, which was odd, Ithought. And Mum and

Grandpa weren’t leading ustooneoftheemptytables,asI expected they would.Instead they were leading usdirectly towards the roundone by the window. “Andthis,”Mumsaid to them,nottryingtodisguisetheprideinher voice, “this is Allie, mydaughter Allie. Arthur’sdaughter,Allie.”Still they stared, and then,

one by one the stares turned

to smiles. “I think you hadbetter introduce yourselves,”Mumwenton.“ShallIstart?”Iknewwho

hewas before he opened hismouth.Irecognisedhimfromhis photograph. “I’m Marc,Marc Topolski. From upthere, remember?And this ismy family, Marianne, Mollyand Martha, known in theneighbourhood back home inVermont as the M&Ms.” I

couldn’t speak, partlybecause Iwas so choked up.But therewasanother reasontoo.Even as he was talking, I

was looking at the old ladysittingnexttohim.Hersmilewas Dad’s smile, from theeyes,fromtheheart.“And I’mKitty,” she said.

“Yourdad’ssister.”She could hardly speak

either,butsmiledthroughher

tears.“YougotArthur’skey,dear?” she said. “The one Igavehim?”Itookitofffromaround my neck and gave itto her. There was a smallwooden box on the table infront of her, carved andpainted with red and whiteflowers.Sheturnedthekeyinthe lock. It fitted.Shesmiledupatmeagain.Sheturnedit,then she went on turning it,again and again, whichseemed strange. Then she

opened the lid, and Iunderstood everything. Thebox played music. It was amusical box.And the tune itplayedwasLondonBridge isFalling Down. We listeneduntil it slowed right down,andthenfinishedmid-tune.“And that,” said the old

ladypointingoutattheriver,andInoticednowthatshetoohad a kind of Americanaccent, “that is London

Bridge, and it isn’t fallingdown. I was born just downthe road in Bermondsey. It’swhereyourdadwasborntoo.My mother and father werekilled in a bombing raid inthe war. This musical boxwas all that was left of ourhome. We were in the sameorphanage together, Arthurandme.Welovedlisteningtothis, over and over. We’dlisten to it for hours. Thenthey took your dad away. I

gave him the key, and I toldhimIwouldn’tplayour tuneagainuntilhebroughtthekeyback.ThenIwouldwinditupfor him and we would listento it together—I was theeldest you see, I always didthewindingup.Ineverhearditagainuntiltoday.It’syoursnow, Allie. And if you havechildrenoneday,thenmaybeyou’llpassitontothem,andyou’ll tell them the story ofhowintheendthekeyfound

the musical box and themusicalboxfoundthekey.”I was still unable to make

sense of it all. “But how didthey find you?” I asked. “Idon’tunderstand.”“That was your astronaut

friend here,” said my AuntyKitty.“Hewentontelevisionin the US when he camedown from his space travelsand told the whole worldabout you, this amazing

eighteen-year-old girl fromAustralia called AllieHobhouse, sailing single-handedlyaroundtheworldonalittleboatcalledKittyFour,sailingallthewaytoEnglandto find her father’s long lostsistertofulfilapromiseshe’dmade to her father on hisdeathbed.Thefather,hesaid,was calledArthurHobhouse,his sister, Kitty Hobhouse.Anyonewhocanhelp,phonein. So I did. You see, when

they sent your dad off toAustralia all thoseyears ago,alifetimeago,theysentmetoCanada. Igot lucky. I landedup with a lovely family inNiagara-On-the-Lake. I livetherestillrightbytheshoreinthesamehouseIwasbroughtupin.Youmustcomeandseeitsometime.”I noticed then a copy of

Dad’s story in front of her,right by her bowl of

cornflakes.“Have you read it yet?” I

asked.“I only just got it,” she

said. “Trouble is, my eyesaren’t very good at readingany more. Maybe you couldreadittomeafterbreakfast.”So that’s what I did, an

hour or so later. I read it tothem, sitting thereoverlooking London BridgeandtheThames.

***“‘The story of Arthur

Hobhouse’,” I began.“‘Arthur Hobhouse is ahappening. I should begin atthe beginning, I know that.But the trouble is, I don’tknow thebeginning. Iwish Idid…’“

Nowyou’vereadthebook

Nowyou’ve read thebook, Iwantyoutoknowsomething.The two stories we wrotewere never intended to bepublished. We each of uswrote our story simply as arecordofwhathadhappened,

first to my father, ArthurHobhouse, and then tome. Ithought long and hard aboutwhether to publish. This isafter all a family story.Howmuchyoutelltheworldaboutyour family is a delicatematter for everyoneconcerned. But the family ishappy about it, as I am,because our stories, Dad’sand mine, had already beenacted out in public, to someextentat least.Andcertainly,

had this not happened, ourstorycouldnotpossiblyhaveended as well as it did. Inother words our privatefamilystorywasnevertotallyprivate in the first place. Itwasinthenewspapers,ontheradio, on television. But thewhole of our story has neverbeen fully told. And that’swhy we all thought that itshould be. Dad would havewantedit,Iknow,becausehebelieved thatwe liveononly

as longasour story is told. Ibelievethattoo.

Afterword

It is estimated that between1947 and 1967 somewherebetween 7000 and 11,000British children were sent toAustraliaalone.Itwas at one time thought

convenient to pack up yourtroublesome people, whether

theywere convicts or simplyunwanted or orphanedchildren,andshipthemofftowhatwerethenthecolonies–mostlyCanada,NewZealandandAustralia.The firstwhiteAustralians

were convicts settled thereforcibly in 1788. It was aformofbanishment.The banishment of

children, which went on forcenturies and reached its

modern peak in the yearsafter the SecondWorldWar,was in many ways just ascruel, but it was sometimeswellmeant.Childrenwhohadnothing could be providedwith a new land, a newfamily, some prospects ofliving a happy life, awayfrom the seething slums ofBritain’scities.Andmanyofthemdidgetlucky,landedupin the right place withgenuinely kind people who

looked after them and caredfor them. However just asmany did not. One formerchild migrant said, “Most ofushavebeenleftwithbrokenhearts and broken lives.”*Cruelty, abuse andexploitation were tragicallyalltoocommon.Anotherwrotethis:

“Forthevastmajorityofformerchildmigrants the most often askedquestion is ‘Who am I?’ Most of us

were born in the British Isles ofBritish parents. Our culture, heritageand traditions are British. Ournationality, our rights and ourprivileges were our inheritance.Unable to make a reasoned decisionwe were transported 20,000kilometres to the other side of theworld. Our crime for the most partwas that we were the children ofbrokenrelationships.Ouraverageagewas eight years and nine months. Inthis one act,wewere stripped of ourparents and our brothers and sisters.Wewerestrippedofourgrandparentsand extended families. We werestripped of nationality, culture andbirthright. Many of us were strippedofourfamilynameandevenourbirthdate. We were stripped of ourpersonhood, human rights and our

dignity. We were referred to asmigrant boy number ‘so and so’ ormigrantgirlnumber ‘soandso’.Andsowearrived,strangersinalostland,lostandwithnowayback.”*

It was because ofharrowing accounts like thisthatIwrotemystory.

MichaelMorpurgo

If you or your family are

interestedinlocatingaformerchild migrant, or you are aformer migrant seeking yourfamily, you can obtain adocument describing theavailableresources(includinga contact database andfinancial support) from theUKDepartmentofHealth.

Asaclickablefile:www.dh.gov.uk/assetRoot/04/09/00/30/04090030.pdf

Asatext-onlyfile:www.dh.gov.uk/assetRoot/04/09/00/31/04090031.pdf

* Source: The House of Commons HealthSelectCommittee’s reportOn theWelfareofFormerBritishChildMigrants,1998

Acknowledgements

MythankstoAlexWhitworthandPeterCrozier,marinersextraordinaireandquiteancienttoo,whoseemailswhilecircumnavigatingthe

worldintheiryachtBerrimillain2004informedandinspiredthisstory.ThanksalsotoGraham

BarrettandIsabellaWhitworthforalltheirwonderfulhelpand

encouragement.AndofcourseImustn’tforget

SamuelTaylorColeridge…

AbouttheAuthor

MICHAEL MORPURGO isone of Britain’s best-lovedwriters for children, andwasrecently awarded an OBE inthe Queen’s 80th BirthdayHonoursList for his servicesto literature. He has writtenover 100 books and wonmany prizes, including the

SmartiesPrize,theWhitbreadAwardandtheWriters’GuildAward. In 2005 he won theBlue Peter Book Award forhis novel Private Peaceful,whichwasalsoadaptedintoastageplayby theBristolOldVic and has been toured togreatacclaim.

From 2003 to 2005 Michaelwas the Children’s Laureate,arolewhichtookhimallover

the UK to promote literacyand reading, and in 2005 hewas named the BooksellersAssociation Author of theYear.

Michael lives in Devon withhis wife Clare. Both havebeenawardedMBEsfortheirwork in founding the charityFarmsforCityChildren.

‘Michael Morpurgo’s nameon a book is a guarantee ofquality.’ DailyTelegraphmichaelmorpurgo

Visitwww.AuthorTracker.com forexclusiveinformationonyourfavoriteHarperCollinsauthor.

Copyright

First published in hardback in Great BritainbyHarperCollinsChildren’sBooks2006Firstpublished inpaperback inGreatBritainbyHarperCollinsChildren’sBooks2007HarperCollinsChildren’sBooks is a divisionofHarperCollinsPublishersLtd77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith,LondonW68JB

TheHarperCollinsChildren’sBookswebsiteaddressiswww.harpercollinschildrensbooks.co.uk

1

Copyright©MichaelMorpurgo2006

MichaelMorpurgo asserts themoral right tobeidentifiedastheauthorofthiswork

EPub Edition © 2006 ISBN: 978-0-00-736998-0

Some Photographs were unavailable for theelectronicedition.

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UnitedKingdomHarperCollinsPublishersLtd.77-85FulhamPalaceRoadLondon,W68JB,UKhttp://www.harpercollinsebooks.co.uk

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