The Kingdom by the Sea Read Free

the dog’s collar.
    Not breathing, not daring to hope, he pulled the dog to him by the collar, and read the medal.
    The dog was called Don, and lived at 12 Aldergrove Terrace.
    Harry shut his eyes, and he couldn’t even have told himself whether he closed them in gladness or horror.
    Aldergrove Terrace had been a very posh and very short terrace. Three weeks ago, Aldergrove Terrace had been hit by a full stick of German bombs. Anybody in Aldergrove who was still alive was in hospital… permanently.
    He opened his eyes, and looked at his fellow survivor. The dog was a sort of small, short-legged Alsatian. It looked quite fit, but rather thin and uncared-for. It certainly hadn’t been combed in a long time, and people had combed their dogs in Aldergrove every day. It had been that sort of place.
    He pulled the dog towards him again, almost roughly. It willingly collapsed against his leg and lay staring out to sea, its mouth open and its tongue gently out. He stroked it. The sandy fur was nearly dry, and he could feel the warmth of its body seeping out damply against his leg.
    They stayed that way a long time, a long contented time, just being together. Long ago, they’d had a dog at number nine, but it had got old and died. It was good to have a dogagain, and the way the dog delighted in his hand, he knew it was glad to have found somebody as well. He dreamily watched the little waves breaking on the sand; glad he wasn’t alone any more.
    And then the dog stood up, and shook itself, and whined, watching him with those warm eyes. It wanted something from him.
    “What is it, boy?” The sound of his own voice startled him. He hadn’t spoken to anybody since he ran away from the wardens. “What do you want, boy?”
    The dog whined again, and then nudged with its long nose at the bundle of blankets, sniffing. Then it turned, and nosed at the attachè case, pushing it through the sand.
    The dog was hungry. And he had nothing to give it, nothing in the world. And suddenly he felt terribly hungry himself.
    It threw him into a panic of helplessness. It was getting dark as well, and he had nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. He put his face in his hands, and rocked with misery. And then he remembered his father’s voice saying, angrily, “Don’t flap around like a wet hen. Think, son,
think
.”
    It was the boat he noticed first; the boat he had been leaning against. The owner had turned it upside-down, to stop the rain getting in, like they always did. But that had been a long time ago. This boat hadn’t been used for years;the black, tarry paint was splitting, peeling, blistering. There was a half-inch crack, where the stern met the side. That meant…
    Safety. A hiding place. A roof for the night, if it started to rain. There was a gap on this side, between the boat and the sand. Only six inches, but he could make it bigger. He began to scrabble at the sand with his hands. The sand came easily; it was soft and dry. Soon he managed to wriggle through the hole he had made. Inside, it was dark, apart from the cracks in the stern, where some light came in. But it smelt sweetly of the sea and old tar, and dry wood. The dog wriggled through to join him, licking his face, sure it was a game. He pushed it away and reached out and dragged in the bundle of blankets and the attachè case. There was plenty of room; it was a big boat, a fishing boat. He squatted by the entrance, like an Indian in his wigwam. He’d solved one problem, and it gave him strength.
    Now, food. He racked his brains. Then remembered there had always been a big fish and chip shop in Front Street. It wouldn’t sell much fish now, because the trawlers were away on convoy-escort. But it still sold chips and sausages cooked in batter. All the fish and chip shops did.
    But… money.
    He searched desperately through his pockets for odd pennies and ha’pennies.
    And his fingers closed on the milled edge of a big fat two-shilling piece. Yesterday had been