Read Online The Kingdom by the Sea by Robert Westall - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Westall
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It flew straight and true, and hit the dog on the backside. Don gave a yelp, and fled to a safe distance.
“Hey,” shouted Harry. “That’s
my
dog.”
The figure turned. It was very tall and remarkably thin, with pale bare feet, and trousers that finished raggedly halfway up its legs. All in black it was, with a long thin neck and long thin face, and hair that glinted silver in the last of the light. It looked eerie, like a ghost or a scarecrow. But it said, in a pettish voice, “You should keep your dog under better control then!”
“It’s cos he’s hungry.”
“You shouldn’t keep a dog if you can’t afford to feed it.”
It was a voice like a scolding old granny’s, when she comes to her front door to tell you not to make so much noise playing. But it looked like a man. His hair was cut all ragged behind, and his face was so old, even the wrinkles had wrinkles. But he moved as quick as a kid, a nervous kid.
“What’s yer name?”
“Harry Baguley.” There was no harm in telling this oddball. Nobody would ever believe what
he
said.
“And what you doin’ round here at this time o’ night, Harry Baguley? If your parents had any sense you’d be in bed, or doin’ your homework.”
“They’re dead,” said Harry. “Killed in the bombing.” This bloke was so weird, you really could tell him anything.
“So you’re an orphan?” said the figure. “So am I. I suppose you’d better come in then.”
Harry hesitated; remembered Dad’s warning aboutgoing with strangers. But this bloke sounded reluctant, as if he didn’t want to ask Harry in really. As if he didn’t want to be bothered, but he felt it was his duty.
“Can I bring the dog in?”
“If it shuts up, and minds its manners.”
It was dark inside the strange hut. There was only the light of the burning stove, which appeared to be cut out of a big thick oil drum, and a couple of lighted wicks which floated in a yellow liquid, in rusty tin cans. The smell of burning rotten fish was overpowering. Harry felt a bit sick.
“Sit down.” The man pointed to an unpainted keg, stamped “Danish butter”. Harry sat, and stared round. The walls were hung with all kinds of things. Three ship’s lifebelts, a huge unlit ship’s lantern, the broken rudder of a fishing boat, rusty saws and hammers. The man followed Harry’s eyes.
“All from the sea,” he said, with a strange pride. “All from the sea. I am an orphan, but the sea is my father and my mother.”
Don began nosing around.
“Keep that dog still, or you’ll have to go,” shouted the man suddenly and shrilly Harry, hearing a sudden patter of rain on the roof, grabbed Don’s collar, and said carefully, “What’s
your
name?”
“Joseph Kielty. Everybody knows me round here, formiles around. I used to be a clerk at Smith’s Dock, afore my mother died, God rest her. Then I came here. Do you want some fish stew?”
“Yes, please,” said Harry. He didn’t know which was worse, feeling ravenous, or feeling sick from the smell of burning fish. But when the fish stew was ladled out of a pot on the stove, and given to him with an incredibly battered spoon, it tasted marvellous. Don sniffed at the bowl hungrily, hopefully.
“Have you got something for my dog?” asked Harry cautiously.
“Does he eat raw fish?”
“He’ll eat anything.”
The man produced a large whole fish from somewhere, and lured the dog outside with it, and slammed the door. “I’m not having him making a mess in here.”
They both listened in silence to the sounds of chewing outside the door. Then Harry said, “How long you lived here?”
“Since afore the last war. The last war was none of my business. Neither is this one. I thought the Germans might be going to land here a couple o’ years ago, but they seem to have changed their minds now. Want to listen to the news?”
Without waiting for Harry to say yes, he swung roundand turned on a large old-fashioned radio, with a proud flourish.
“Hey,” shouted Harry. “That’s
my
dog.”
The figure turned. It was very tall and remarkably thin, with pale bare feet, and trousers that finished raggedly halfway up its legs. All in black it was, with a long thin neck and long thin face, and hair that glinted silver in the last of the light. It looked eerie, like a ghost or a scarecrow. But it said, in a pettish voice, “You should keep your dog under better control then!”
“It’s cos he’s hungry.”
“You shouldn’t keep a dog if you can’t afford to feed it.”
It was a voice like a scolding old granny’s, when she comes to her front door to tell you not to make so much noise playing. But it looked like a man. His hair was cut all ragged behind, and his face was so old, even the wrinkles had wrinkles. But he moved as quick as a kid, a nervous kid.
“What’s yer name?”
“Harry Baguley.” There was no harm in telling this oddball. Nobody would ever believe what
he
said.
“And what you doin’ round here at this time o’ night, Harry Baguley? If your parents had any sense you’d be in bed, or doin’ your homework.”
“They’re dead,” said Harry. “Killed in the bombing.” This bloke was so weird, you really could tell him anything.
“So you’re an orphan?” said the figure. “So am I. I suppose you’d better come in then.”
Harry hesitated; remembered Dad’s warning aboutgoing with strangers. But this bloke sounded reluctant, as if he didn’t want to ask Harry in really. As if he didn’t want to be bothered, but he felt it was his duty.
“Can I bring the dog in?”
“If it shuts up, and minds its manners.”
It was dark inside the strange hut. There was only the light of the burning stove, which appeared to be cut out of a big thick oil drum, and a couple of lighted wicks which floated in a yellow liquid, in rusty tin cans. The smell of burning rotten fish was overpowering. Harry felt a bit sick.
“Sit down.” The man pointed to an unpainted keg, stamped “Danish butter”. Harry sat, and stared round. The walls were hung with all kinds of things. Three ship’s lifebelts, a huge unlit ship’s lantern, the broken rudder of a fishing boat, rusty saws and hammers. The man followed Harry’s eyes.
“All from the sea,” he said, with a strange pride. “All from the sea. I am an orphan, but the sea is my father and my mother.”
Don began nosing around.
“Keep that dog still, or you’ll have to go,” shouted the man suddenly and shrilly Harry, hearing a sudden patter of rain on the roof, grabbed Don’s collar, and said carefully, “What’s
your
name?”
“Joseph Kielty. Everybody knows me round here, formiles around. I used to be a clerk at Smith’s Dock, afore my mother died, God rest her. Then I came here. Do you want some fish stew?”
“Yes, please,” said Harry. He didn’t know which was worse, feeling ravenous, or feeling sick from the smell of burning fish. But when the fish stew was ladled out of a pot on the stove, and given to him with an incredibly battered spoon, it tasted marvellous. Don sniffed at the bowl hungrily, hopefully.
“Have you got something for my dog?” asked Harry cautiously.
“Does he eat raw fish?”
“He’ll eat anything.”
The man produced a large whole fish from somewhere, and lured the dog outside with it, and slammed the door. “I’m not having him making a mess in here.”
They both listened in silence to the sounds of chewing outside the door. Then Harry said, “How long you lived here?”
“Since afore the last war. The last war was none of my business. Neither is this one. I thought the Germans might be going to land here a couple o’ years ago, but they seem to have changed their minds now. Want to listen to the news?”
Without waiting for Harry to say yes, he swung roundand turned on a large old-fashioned radio, with a proud flourish.
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