The Animal Stars Collection
Page 1
The Animal Stars Collection
4 books in one
The Donkey who Carried the Wounded
The Goat who Sailed the World
The Camel who Crossed Australia
The Dog who Loved a Queen
Jackie French
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
The Donkey who Carried the Wounded
The Goat who Sailed the World
The Camel who Crossed Australia
The Dog who Loved a Queen
About the Author
Copyright
The Donkey who Carried the Wounded
Jackie French
Dedication
To Edward Alexander ‘Alec’ Stubbs and his mate Stan Holden, and to the other stretcher-bearers of WWI
—the ‘bravest of the brave’. It has been an extraordinary privilege to write about them.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Maps
Prologue
Chapter 1 The Donkey
Chapter 2 The Donkey
Chapter 3 The Donkey
Chapter 4 Jack
Chapter 5 Jack
Chapter 6 The Donkey
Chapter 7 Jack
Chapter 8 Jack
Chapter 9 The Donkey
Chapter 10 Jack
Chapter 11 The Donkey
Chapter 12 Jack
Chapter 13 The English Lieutenant
Chapter 14 Jack
Chapter 15 The Donkey
Chapter 16 Jack
Chapter 17 Hasan, the Turkish Sniper
Chapter 18 Jack
Chapter 19 The Donkey
Chapter 20 Jack
Chapter 21 The Donkey
Chapter 22 Jack
Chapter 23 Jack
Chapter 24 The English Captain
Chapter 25 Jack
Chapter 26 Hasan, the Turkish Sniper
Chapter 27 Jack
Chapter 28 The Donkey
Chapter 29 Mrs Kirkpatrick
Chapter 30 Richard Henderson
Chapter 31 The Donkey
Chapter 32 Richard Henderson
Chapter 33 The Donkey
Chapter 34 The Donkey
Chapter 35 The Donkey
Chapter 36 The Donkey
Chapter 37 The Donkey
Chapter 38 The Donkey
Author’s Note
Notes
Acknowledgments
Maps
PROLOGUE
South Shields, England, Summer 1904
The sand had been swept clean by the tide when Jack ran down to the beach that morning. Yesterday’s sand castles had vanished in the waves. The carnival’s hurdy-gurdy bellowed out its music. Seagulls squawked and shouted over by the coconut shy and swings. There was already a line of children waiting for a donkey ride.
‘Here thou are, lad.’ The donkey’s owner handed Jack the lead rope, which was bright red with bells on.
Sometimes Jack wondered what the donkey thought of the shiny bells. Nowt much, he reckoned.
‘A penny a ride, remember. Old Eli at the Punch and Judy will be keeping count, so don’t think tha can cheat me.’
‘I don’t cheat.’ Jack stroked the donkey’s velvety nose, then held out the carrot he’d brought from home. The animal crunched it, then butted Jack gratefully.
The owner nodded. ‘Nay, tha’s a good lad. And it’s sixpence at the end of the week for thee.’ He began to limp back across the sand to the brightly painted caravans.
‘My turn now.’ A boy pushed forward. He wore a brown velvet suit. He looks like a mouldy old plum, thought Jack. A daft way to dress a lad! But the rich were like that—more brass than they knew what to do with. And Jack reckoned you had to be rich to have time to play on the beach on a weekday morning.
The boy’s father handed Jack a penny, his other hand holding onto his top hat to stop it blowing away in the wind.
Jack helped the boy into the saddle and began to lead the donkey down the beach.
Sixpence was good money for a twelve-year-old, even if it only came when the fair was in town. He had his job delivering bread, too: running over dew-wet cobbles with the high-topped loaves, their crackled tops still warm, while the baker sat in the cart behind old Dolly, the reins in his hand.
The extra sixpence meant he and Annie could have cheese with their supper, instead of just bread and scrape. Dad didn’t eat much these days, not when the pain was bad. And Ma saved treats like cheese or the odd sausage for her kids.
But Jack would have paid sixpence—if he’d had it to spare, which he didn’t suppose he ever would—just for the pleasure of leading the donkey across the sand, the wind slapping against his face. It were hard at home, sometimes, with Dad huddled in his private agony. Sometimes Jack just longed to be free.
At times he dreamt the sea wind smelt of spices, of far-off lands and strange trees. But mostly it smelt of dead seagulls and vinegar and boiling beef fat from the fish-and-chip shop across the road.
By the time he turned the donkey back there was a longer line of children waiting for their rides, most with ice creams, bought from the Italian’s barrow, in their hands. Jack had only ever tasted ice cream once, when a boy felt sick after the donkey’s jiggling and handed his melting cone-full to Jack. The ice cream tasted sweet and cold and like all the things he’d never had.
Ha! he thought, as he helped a little girl up into the saddle, careful of her frilly petticoats, slipping her buttoned boots into the stirrups. One day he’d travel further than these rich kids ever would. He’d see the strange lands Dad had sailed to before his accident. My life is like this sand, he thought suddenly. It can be filled with donkey doo and other people’s footsteps. Or I can make castles and moats and dams.
Aye, it’d be grand to have lots of different lives, just like the beach changed with each tide. Not stuck in one job like a clerk—in the same room looking at the same figures to add up day after day—but always somat new…
Meanwhile, he led the donkey back and forth along the beach, the children yelling with pleasure or hanging on in happy terror…past the puppets at the Punch and Judy stand…past the bathing tents…past the marquees put up to shelter rich people from the sun and wind and sand.
Sometimes he felt that if he had to smile politely at another posh kid he’d puke.
And then he saw the children.
There were five of them. They were pale as a slice of white bread, with big-eyed faces and faded and ill-fitting clothes—adult’s trousers or skirts cut down to fit a child. A harassed priest shepherded them down the steps to the beach, his long black robe flapping against his ankles.
A treat? Orphans being taken to the workhouse, more like, given a glimpse of waves and sand before the door of poverty slammed shut behind them.
The children paused in front of the Punch and Judy tent, their pinched faces awed and then grinning. The priest stood by them, relaxing into laughter too as Mr Punch stole the baby and the sausages, and the police puppet raced after him with his baton.
Except for one little girl. She watched the donkey, not the puppets. Her face was intent and serious as Jack led the animal past the tent; a boy in green knickerbockers was kicking his heels into the donkey to make it go faster.
Jack switched his attention to the boy. ‘Don’t do that. It hurts him.’
‘I can if I like.’
‘Nah, it’s not fair.’
‘You can’t stop me! You’re just a donkey boy. My papa could make you lose your job.’
And he could and all, thought Jack. He should say nowt, and forget about it. There were plenty of boys who’d do this job for
sixpence. But nevertheless he said, ‘If tha does it once more I’ll put thee off.’
The boy didn’t reply. But he stopped kicking the donkey.
Jack led them back to the waiting line of children. He held up his hand as the next one stepped up to clamber on. ‘Neddy needs a drink.’
He started to help the rider off. The boy shook his head. ‘I want another go. Papa, mayn’t I have another go?’
Jack hesitated. The queue of children—and their parents—would get into a right stew if the boy had another turn along the sand without going back to the end of the line.
Luckily Papa shook his head. ‘Mama is waiting.’ He lifted the boy off (Big sook, thought Jack. Don’t the lad have legs?) and led him away.
Jack pulled the wooden cover off the bucket of fresh water. The donkey drank slowly. Jack grinned. The donkey knew he wouldn’t be forced to take another passenger while his head was in the bucket. He was going to make the most of his break.
‘What’s his name?’
Jack turned. It was the little girl with big eyes. She was five or six, maybe, her hair in tight plaits.
‘Neddy.’ Jack grinned. ‘All donkeys are called Neddy, tha knows.’
‘He should have another name then.’ Her voice was shy, but determined. ‘One of his very own.’
The only thing this child owned was her name, Jack reckoned, and the clothes she stood up in. ‘Oh, aye? What would thou call him then, clever clogs?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her voice was serious. ‘I’d have to get to know him first. Can I pat him?’
Jack nodded. The girl put out a cautious hand and stroked the donkey’s neck. The donkey ignored it, his head still down in the bucket.
‘He’s beautiful.’
Jack glanced at her. She was serious. And suddenly something burnt in the pit of his stomach. For Neddy was beautiful. The rich brats giggled at him, with his short legs and long ears and nose. They saw the horse he weren’t, not the loyal animal he was. Neddy would walk the whole bloomin’ lot of ’em along a beach or fairground every day of his whole life, and not one of them would appreciate him.
Except this girl.
‘Would tha like a ride?’ He spoke before he thought. But as the girl’s eyes brightened he knew he couldn’t back down.
‘I…I’ve no money. Father Murphy, he won’t be able to pay you either.’
‘No matter. Come on, I’ll help thee up.’
She weighed no more than a cobweb as he lifted her into the saddle. Her feet dangled above the stirrups. Her shoes were tied on with string. She grasped the beaded reins, then let them fall. She put her hands on the donkey’s neck instead.
‘He’s warm.’
‘Aye.’ That was one of the things he liked about animals too, their warmth when you hugged them.
The mutters began as he led the donkey away from the queue.
‘What does the lad think he’s doing?’
‘Dirty slum child. She might have fleas. Or worse.’
And then the voices were behind them.
Clop, clop, clop went the hooves on the hard sand. The waves washed in, and back, then further in. Neddy skittered out of the way, and the girl gasped.
‘Don’t worry. Donkeys don’t like the water, that’s all. But we won’t let thee fall.’
‘I’m not scared.’ The girl smiled at him. ‘It’s the most wonderful thing in my life. The grandest ride ever.’
He grinned too. They were past the Punch and Judy now. It was time to turn back. For a moment he wanted to keep walking, give the girl a longer ride. But there was a limit to the patience of the customers waiting in the line. And Father Murphy might worry if he took the girl out of sight.
Then Neddy made the decision for him, turning around at the spot he always did.
The girl sighed. ‘I’ve thought of a name for him. Two names. I can’t decide which one is best.’
‘An’ they are?’
‘Murphy. Because he’s good, like Father Murphy, and this is Murphy’s Fair. The Father’s taking us to the sisters,’ she added confidentially. ‘They have a school and everything. ’Cause Ma died and Pa can’t be having with us, he said…’ Her voice trailed off.
He had to bring back her smile. ‘An’ what’s his other name then?’
‘Duffy.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I just like the sound. Duffy the Donkey. It sounds right.’
She was so serious it almost broke his heart. At least he had Ma and Dad and Annie, and a home. He nodded, as serious as she was. ‘Aye, it’s a grand name. He’s Duffy then.’
‘Or Murphy.’
‘Or Murphy.’ He grinned. ‘Gives him a choice, don’t it? He can be Duffy one day and Murphy the next…’
The girl giggled.
They were back at the queue. He held out his hand, but she slipped off by herself, flashed him a smile and ran back to where Father Murphy waited by the Punch and Judy stall. The priest caught his eye and nodded, with a look of gratitude and understanding on his face, then held his hand out to the girl.
‘It’s about time.’ A man with a mouth screwed up like someone had tried to make him eat a cockroach helped his daughter up into the saddle. She was the same age as the other child, but this one wore white frills, white stockings and white boots.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said automatically.
‘I should hope so!’
Jack took the leading rein and began to walk. But he weren’t sorry at all, he realised. Like Ma always said, you could only do your best. An’ when somat was the right thing to do, you knew it.
Giving that child a ride had been right, he reckoned, the rightest thing he’d ever done.
He wondered, as the waves lapped towards them, if it would always be as easy to know the right thing to do.
Somehow he doubted it.
But all you could do was try.
CHAPTER 1
The Donkey
Lemnos Island, Greece, 1914
It was good to remember, when you were a donkey.
When work was hard you could remember the sweet taste of water in the bucket from Dimitri’s well, or the way the seagulls yelled above in the harbour when the fishing boats came in.
When you remembered good things like that you could forget the way your legs trembled from carrying giant sheaves of wheat to the big stone to be threshed. The wheat stems prickled his skin and the dust hurt his eyes. The grain was even heavier, loaded in panniers on either side of his back. And if he stopped Dimitri hit him with his stick.
Dimitri also hit the donkey if he walked too slowly, or if he turned his head to look at the women sitting on the doorsteps of the small white houses, grinding the wheat in their querns, or at the oxen pulling the ploughs in the fields. The places Dimitri hit hurt, sometimes for weeks afterwards.
Carrying rocks was the worst. Winter was rock-carrying time. The humans were in their sheepskins, muffled against the cold; even their feet and hands were wrapped in hide. But there was no protection for the donkey’s hooves, plodding along the muddy track, and his body ached under the weight of rocks in the panniers.
Remembering good things took your mind off the pain. There was his mother to remember: the days drinking her milk and playing at her side. It had been two years since the dreadful day Dimitri came and took him away. He put that memory aside and thought about his mother’s smell instead, and the laughter in her bray the time Dimitri had dropped a big rock on his foot and screamed and danced about.
There was no choice, when you were a donkey. You did what your master wanted, or he beat you with his stick. That was the way it was on Lemnos. Human or donkey, you worked and you endured.
Only the seasons changed. In winter the wind blew, tasting of salt and rock, and the mud squished under your hooves. The straw was sweet to eat in autumn, but dry and mouldy in spring, when the new leaves came and there was new bark on the trees to nibble. When you weren’t working you ate—straw or, better still, grass from the side of the
road or, best of all, new shoots from the straggly shrubs, or a chew of bark or leaves. The humans ate their bread, and goat meat or mutton at the feasts.
Nothing changed on Lemnos.
Until the big ships came.
CHAPTER 2
The Donkey
Lemnos Island, 15 April 1915
Yesterday the harbour had been empty, except for the gulls peering down at the fishing boats.
The donkey didn’t like the sea. The sea was too big, too wild. The donkey liked water that came neatly, in buckets, or in springs that behaved themselves and bubbled sweet from the earth.
Now suddenly the sea was full of ships and noise, louder even than the church bells from the hill. The ships burped out a choking smoke as well. There were strangers on the island, too, humans with different clothes and voices from those of the people he’d known. Even more interesting, there was the smell of new animals.
The donkey would have liked to be down at the harbour and the bustling shorefront, to yell hee haw! at the mules, horses and other donkeys he could smell.
But there was no time to look or shout. Today Dimitri collected ox manure that the big animals had left along the track on their way to plough the fields. Dimitri scooped the clods into the panniers on either side of the donkey’s back. There was another bag under his tail, too, to collect the donkey’s own droppings to be taken to Dimitri’s field under the hill.
It was a heavy load, and the track was rough. The donkey gazed at his hooves so that he wouldn’t trip. He was so intent that he didn’t notice the strangers walking towards them until one spoke.
‘There’s a donkey! Go on, ask the owner if he’ll sell him. Tell him we’ll pay fifteen shillings for him.’
The donkey looked up. What did all those words mean? Two men in the same dried-grass-coloured clothes as the other newcomers stood staring at him.
‘Phew, he don’t half stink, sir.’