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who he was or where he was going. I looked at his gold button, thinking hard. Then I got the idea. I could write a story for Mama. About the dead boy. And I could give it to her when she came back.
    I found a blank page in my notebook and began to write, with the shoe still in my lap.
    The Curious and Interesting Story about a Boy.
    Once there was a dead boy. Before he died he travelled the seven seas on a large black ship. When he stood on the ship it felt as if he was flying. Surf
sprayed from the bow and alongside the ship jumped a silverfin tuna.
    It was Pirate’s ship. Pirate also had a monkey, but she wasn’t very nice. Her name was Monkey. She tried to bite anyone who came close. It was Pirate who rescued the boy, but not like rescuing him from afire. Instead Pirate asked the boy, ‘Do you want to see my ship?’
    I paused, and read it out loud. The dead boy looked as if he liked the story, and when I glanced at Mama on the wall I felt certain that she would like it too. I sat for a moment pondering what Boxman might tell Mama if he knew about the dead boy. He was good at making up stories. Much better than me.
    In the kitchen Papa’s bucket rang hard against the floor. He was home. The raven, flapping wildly, left the windowsill and took refuge in the nearest pine tree, only to return a moment later.
    I closed the notebook. I would read the boy his story when it was finished.

‘There you are, my girl,’ Papa said
    ‘T here you are, my girl,’ Papa said cheerfully, and winked at me in a way that made his face look all scrunched up and funny. He was busy hanging up the nets and in the middle of the floor sat the bucket, full of shiny black fish.
    ‘Why are you back so early, Papa?’
    ‘There is too much work to do.’ Papa finished the nets, and stood back, inspecting them. Then he pulled off his boots. ‘I didn’t go on my philosopher’s walk. Have you been sitting with the dead boy?’
    ‘Yes, Papa.’
    ‘Did you tell him about Descartes, Minou?’ Papa put his boots next to the rack where Mama’s shoes still sat in neat rows. ‘I have covered quite alot of it myself, but it never hurts to repeat the good bits. Although,’ Papa said, ‘I think there is a distinct possibility that he already knows about Descartes. He looks wise, doesn’t he?’
    ‘Maybe I can tell him about Uncle and how we are all related,’ I suggested.
    ‘Yes,’ Papa agreed, ‘sadly that’s something most people don’t know. There is nothing quite as melancholy as when historical facts are not acknowledged, don’t you think, Minou?’ Then he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘He is in excellent condition, isn’t he, my girl? Nice and frozen.’
    No Name barked at the door and when Papa let him in he ran straight to the ice-cold oven and sniffed it with a whimper.
    I picked him up and held him close to my chest. ‘She is not here, No Name,’ I whispered. ‘But she is coming back.’
    ‘Have you told Boxman about the dead boy?’ Papa went to the fireplace and added more wood to the fire.
    ‘Not yet, Papa.’
    ‘Then you better go and see him now, my girl. The boatmen are coming the day after tomorrow. I don’t think we will be able to straighten his knee.Boxman might have to make a special box for him.’
    Papa and Boxman hadn’t spoken much since the shoe funeral. Boxman no longer came for coffee on the morning of the delivery boat, and Papa no longer waited on the beach with the rest of us, but instead collected his deliveries after Boxman had left. When I asked Papa why, he said, ‘We just have different ways of doing things, my girl. There is nothing to worry about.’
    Papa held the door for No Name and me as we left the house. ‘Remember to tell Boxman about the dead boy,’ Papa reminded me, as No Name and I left the house. ‘Don’t just play and forget about it.’
    The morning was bright and white. No Name tumbled ahead of me as we went along the forest path. The pines stood tall and wide, their