Harry had an awful vision of the chicken that Mam had forgotten about one over-merry New Year’s Day, and left far too long in the oven. He nearly threw up there and then.
“They suggest we try the hospital,” said Mr M. very low and gentle. “They said they’d know at the hospital. The mortuary’s there too.”
Mr M. was gone a long time at the hospital. Harry stared at the nurses passing in their starched uniforms. They just didn’t seem to mean anything. He stroked Don’s ears. That helped a bit.
Then Mr M. came back, and his voice was all weird. “They were here,” he said. “All three of them. William Baguley, Mary Baguley and Dulcie Margaret Baguley in the children’s ward. I’ve seen their records. Those were their names, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” said Harry, “those were their names.”
“They were all quite badly hurt. Your dad had a broken leg, and your mam crushed ribs, and Dulcie had a lot of cuts from glass. They all had a lot of cuts from flying glass. But they’ve gone. Dulcie was the last. She was discharged a month ago.
“But,” said Harry. “But.” He didn’t believe a word of it. This was all just bits of writing on paper. He’d seen the house burning with its evil blue flames.
“Town Hall,” said Mr M. briskly. “The Town Hall will know what happened to them. They told me how to get to the Town Hall.”
It was as well they had; Harry could never have told him.
At the Town Hall, Mr M. was much quicker. “They’ve been rehoused. Number eleven, Chestnut Road, the Ridges estate. Do you know it?”
That proved it was all a lie. Mam and Dad would never go and live on the Ridges. The Ridges was where the slummy people lived. Mam and Dad would have died before they would go and live at the Ridges. But Mr M. was off again, driving like mad, full of excitement, the excitement of the chase.
Harry stared dully out of the windscreen, as the jungle-like front gardens and broken fences of the Ridges closed in around him. People on the Ridges smashed up their front fences for firewood… it was all a dream, a terrible mistaken nightmare. It must be three other people, pretending to be his family on the Ridges for some criminal reason. Half the people on the Ridges had been in prison for nicking and all that.
“Number eleven,” said Mr M. “Come on.” He had to nearly drag Harry out of the car. They walked with Don up the cracked ugly front path, past a garden full of weeds. His dad would never have had a garden full of weeds.
Mr M. knocked. There was the sound of footsteps coming.
The front door opened slowly.
Dad was standing there. He was leaning on a stick, and he had terrible scars, on his face and bare arms. He didn’t look at all well, and he had on a very baggy and awful pair of old trousers.
But it was Dad. He looked at Mr M. enquiringly then he looked down and saw Harry.
“You little bugger,” he said angrily. “Where’ve you been? You’ve had us worried out of our minds.”
Mam had burst into tears and hugged him; then made a cup of tea in some very crude and ugly cups. Then they all sat round, except Dulcie, who stood by Mam’s chair for a cuddle, with her thumb in her mouth, and listened with eyes like saucers.
“We was running down the garden to the shelter,” said Dad, “when the bomb hit. It must have blown us clear into next door’s garden, and knocked us senseless. First thing I remember was waking up in hospital.
“But Jack Brightman the warden came to see us. They found us in Simpson’s garden - number seven - so they just thought we were the Simpsons, and got an ambulance and got us into hospital…”
“What about the Simpsons?” asked Harry.
“They were away on holiday. It was Smith’s Dock holiday week.”
Now at last Harry remembered. Remembered the warden that terrible night saying that the Simpsons were safe in hospital. Remembered thinking there was something funny about the Simpsons being at home at all. But not being able to work it out…
“And what the hell have you been up to?” asked Dad angrily. “Where the hell have you been?”
“The wardens said you were dead,” said Harry. “So I just went away.”
“Ran away,” said Dad, his voice full of disgust. “A big lad like you, running away?”
“Running away,” said Mam. “I’ve cried myself to sleep every night, worrying what had happened to you.”
“Running away!” said Dulcie. “An’ you weren’t even scratched. You were in the shelter. Cowardy cowardy custard.” She snuggled tighter into Mam’s arm, like she owned her. The scars on her face didn’t make her look any prettier, and her dress was grubby.
Suddenly, Harry really hated her. Her always running to Mam telling tales, her always sucking up to be Dad’s little pet.
“Mam,” said Dulcie. “I’m frightened of that big dog. He’s staring at me. He wants to bite me.” She started to snuffle a bit, like she always had.
“That’s my dog,” yelled Harry. Don was just sitting peacefully, with his tongue out because he was thirsty.
“Your dog?” said Dad in an awful voice. “What makes it your dog?”
“I found him. He was the only friend I had.”
“Well, you can just bloody well lose him again,” shouted Dad. “You’re not bringing a great dog like that here. We can hardly feed ourselves, let alone a great humping dog like that.”
Harry looked at Don, at that faithful face. That had gone through so much with him. And Don looked back at Harry, as ever, his great brown eyes warm with adoration.
“He’ll have to be put to sleep,” said Dad, with great finality. “You’ll never find the owner now, you bloody little fool. Fancy picking up a great hungry animal like that. Have you got no sense?”
It was too much. On the one side, there was Don, and the open air, and the great winding sunlit coast of Northumberland. His whole kingdom, that he’d found for himself, made for himself. And on the other side, these shabby angry bossy people in their disgusting Ridges house, full of whining self-pity for what they had suffered. Narrow, narrow…
He stood up. He said, “If Don goes, I go.”
“Go where?” gasped Mam, turning very pale, and clutching her neck. “What does he mean, Dad, go?”
Dad glared at Harry, and Harry glared back at Dad. There was a long, long silence, in which an awful lot was said.
Harry and Dad would never be quite the same ever again.
Oh, some things would get better, no doubt. Dad would get back to work, when his leg was better. Dad was a good worker, and made good money, and they wouldn’t stay long on the Ridges. But…
Dad had never seen a gannet dive. He had never seen the dawn come up over the breaking waves of Druridge Bay. He would never understand. None of them would ever understand, not even Mam.
Harry had grown, and they hadn’t. Harry had grown too big for his family, as if he’d drunk from some magic bottle like Alice in Wonderland. And Dad knew it. And hated it.
It was Mr M. who broke it up. Gently.
“I’d be glad to look after the dog for you,” he said. “He’ll be company for me.”
“Right, that’s settled then,” said Dad. “I’m beholden to you. And for bringing this young fool home.” But he didn’t sound beholden; he didn’t sound grateful. He sounded pretty angry underneath.
Mr M. knew. Mr M. got up to go. His shoulders dropped a bit, but his face was very kind.
“I’ll see you to the car,” said Harry, glaring at his family, daring them to try to stop him.
They went out to the car. The car that was still waiting to take them back to the glorious kingdom. Don got cheerfully on to the back seat, but looked puzzled when Harry didn’t get in. Mr M. got into the driver’s seat, and wound down the window, and sat staring into space.
“I told you,” said Harry. “I told you we shouldn’t have come back.”
Mr M. looked up at him, amazed.
“I want to stay with you,” said Harry. It was the truth.
Mr M.’s face
lit up a little, through the bleakness.
“I’ll write and let you know how the dog gets on,” he said.
“I’ll write every week,” said Harry. “Twice a week.”
“Steady on,” said Mr M. “Once a month will do. Don’t make your father jealous. He’s a good man really. He’s been through a lot.”
“So’ve you.”
“I shall get over it,” said Mr M. “Thanks to you. And Don here. We’ll look after each other. I think we’ll manage.”
And Harry thought he might. But he added, “I’ll come and see you both. As often as I can. I’ll hitch-hike in the holidays. Like the soldiers do, when they go on leave.”
“You’re welcome. If you can manage it. Go steady though. Don’t make trouble for yourself.”
“I’m nearly thirteen. I’ll soon be able to do what I like.”
“None of us can ever do that,” said Mr M. warningly. “Not even when we’re grown up.” Then he said, “Cheerio,” with a tremble on his lips, and put the car into gear and drove away.
As they turned out of the road, Harry caught a last glimpse of Don’s face, peering at him through the back window.
Then he went back inside. He paused in the hall, hearing Dulcie’s voice.
“Who was that man? I didn’t like him, and I didn’t like that dog.”
“Funny sort of feller,” said Mam. “He talked very posh. Not our sort. Not our sort at all.”
“I wonder if he’s married,” said Dad. “Or if he’s one of that sort…”
Harry walked in. “He was married,” he said. “But his wife died. And his son was killed on board the Repulse off Malaya.”
That shut them up. But he stared at their faces, and wondered how he was going to keep his own mouth shut, over all the years.
The years before he got back to his kingdom by the sea.
About The Author
ROBERT WESTALL was born in October 1929, in Tynemouth, England. His first book, The Machine Gunners, was published in 1975, for which he won the Carnegie Medal. Amongst many more prizes and accolades, he won the Carnegie for the second time in 1980, with The Scarecrows. He died in 1993.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Why You’ll Love This Book by
Sophie McKenzie
What an amazing book! I mean, what an amazing book!
I love The Kingdom by the Sea for lots of reasons. For a start, there’s the way it begins … grabbing you on page one and never letting go. The story is set in the North East of England during the Second World War. Page one plunges the main character, Harry, into the middle of an air raid. Sirens, noise, confusion and exploding bombs. By the end of the first chapter, Harry has lost everything - his home, his family, even his rabbits. Reading it the first time, I was already completely hooked.
As Harry goes on the run he has to deal with some of life’s biggest challenges - finding food and shelter on a daily basis. He finds a purpose - trying to get to the island of Lindisfarne - and someone to care for - Don, the dog. As he travels around, he grows up - and this is another fantastic part of the book; the way without either us or him realising it, Harry changes and learns how to look after himself.
There’s a perfect balance in the story between exciting action where Harry faces terrible dangers, and Harry’s thoughts and feelings about his situation. You get completely inside Harry’s head and the book is really emotional, without ever being sentimental. And that’s another thing I love - the beautiful style in which the story is written. Every word counts. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted.
Harry meets a variety of people on his travels. Some are kind and helpful, others abusive or manipulative. Harry calls himself a pilgrim at one point and, indeed, The Kingdom by the Sea is like a quest story, with Harry having to face life-threatening dangers and gain confidence before coming to the end of his journey.
Perhaps my favourite thing about this book is the ending. Don’t worry, I’m not going to give it away here! Often when I read stories the endings are disappointing. After a good story, the final pages are predictable or unrealistic. Not with The Kingdom by the Sea. As I was reaching the end of the book, I started wondering how it would finish. I was so caught up in Harry’s life and adventures I could only see two alternative endings. In the end, the story ended in a third way - one I hadn’t foreseen but which felt completely convincing.
This is such a brilliant book - it definitely inspired me to be a better writer and, most importantly, was - and is - one of the best reads, ever!
Sophie McKenzie
Sophie McKenzie is the award-winning author of Girl, Missing and Six Steps to a Girl. She was born in London, where she still lives, and worked as a journalist and editor before being able to concentrate on writing full time. In her spare time, Sophie enjoys watching football and going to the movies. Her other books include Blood Ties and The Set-Up, the first in The Medusa Project series.
More than
a story
Spotlight on Robert Westall
The Robert Westall Walk
Lindisfarne
Pillboxes
Key events in WWII
Want to know more?
Seven Stories
Want to read more?
More than a Story section © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2009
Photographs © the Estate of Robert Westall, used by permission of Lindy McKinnel Thanks to Lindy McKinnel for her help with this section.
Spotlight on Robert Westall
Robert Atkinson Westall was born in North Shields, Northumberland, on October 7th 1929.
He spent his childhood on Tyneside and his wartime memories later inspired many of his novels for children.
“Stanley and I set off on our bikes to look for the War … We worked out ways of fooling German bombers. If they machine-gunned us from the air, we’d pretend to fall down dead, then get up and run again, then pretend to die again. This would ruin their estimate of civilian casualties.
We lived on our bikes, looking for Defences, which seemed in perilously short supply. Every little bit of barbed wire went down in our notebooks, even the thin strands round farmers’ fields, which didn’t really count but we put them down just the same. Then real Defences appeared: single pom-poms on the Bank Top; armed trawlers. We inspected them daily, looking for improvements, and making sure the crews knew their job.”
Excerpt from ‘A State of War’, a memory from the author’s childhood in his own words.
He studied Fine Art at Durham University, before serving two years’ National Service in the army. He completed a post-graduate degree in Sculpture at the Slade School of Art in London. He was a teacher for many years, and later a journalist.
Robert, usually known as Bob, first began writing articles for newspapers and periodicals. However, when his son Christopher reached the age of twelve, he felt the need to share what it had been like for him, aged twelve, during the war, so that their experiences would stand side by side.
Westall wrote the memories to read to Chris, then put the notebooks away in a drawer, with no thought of publication. When Lindy McKinnel later read the notebooks, she encouraged him to submit them to a publisher. This eventually became The Machine Gunners.
The Machine Gunners tells the story of a group of children living in the North of England during the Second World War. One boy can’t believe his luck when he is scavenging for war souvenirs and finds a fully-operational machine gun in a crashed aeroplane, complete with dead pilot. The consequences of such a find are far-reaching.
The Machine Gunners won the prestigious Carnegie Medal in 1975. It was the first of many accolades. Westall won this award for a second time in 1981 for The Scarecrows. In 1989 he won the Smarties Prize for Blitzcat, and in 1991 he won the Guardian Award for The Kingdom by the Sea.
As well as books set in the war, Westall is equally renowned for his ghostly novels. Cats are also a recurring theme in his work.
Robert Westall died April 15th 1993 aged 63. He wrote about fifty books, some of which were published posthumously.
His partner, Lindy McKinnel set up The Robert Westall Charitable Trust, which contributed to the founding of Seven Stories, the Centre for Children’s Books, in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
Novels by Robert Westall
The Machine Gunners (1975)
The Wind Eye (1976)
The Watch House (1977)
The Devil on the Road (1978)
Fathom Five (1979)
The Scarecrows (1981)
Futuretrack 5 (1983)
The Cats of Seroster (1984)
Urn Burial (1987)
The Creature in the Dark (1988)
Ghost Abbey (1988)
Blitzcat (1989)
The Promise (1990)
The Kingdom by the Sea (1990)
Stormsearch (1990)
Yaxley’s Cat (1991)
The Christmas Cat (1991)
The Christmas Ghost (1992)
Gulf (1992)
Size Twelve (1993)
The Wheatstone Pond (1993)
Falling into Glory (1993)
A Place for Me (1993)
A Time of Fire (1994)
The Night Mare (1995)
Harvest (1996)
The Robert Westall Walk
Robert Westall used his childhood home of Tyneside as the backdrop for many of his books. Much of the countryside that Harry passes through, and the landmarks that he mentions, are real places that Westall drew upon for inspiration.
Modern day Tyneside has changed since the since the war - there is even a road in North Shields called Robert Westall Way! But it is still possible to visit the area and, with a little imagination, summon up sights and sounds of the author’s youth. The Robert Westall Walk is a trail which starts at his birthplace at 7 Vicarage Street - marked by a blue plaque - and travels approximately two and a half miles to its finish in Front Street, Tynemouth, through the landmarks of Westall’s own boyhood and those of his characters.
The Kingdom by the Sea Page 15
