Listen to the Moon by Michael Morpurgo
On the very last day of the holidays Alfie thought that he might at last have found a way to get Lucy into the water. He’d take her shrimping out in the rock pools on Green Bay, after the tide had gone out. They could have shrimps for supper, he told her, just as she’d had with Uncle Billy. Her eyes brightened. She liked the idea. As he had expected, at first she stayed on the shore and watched as Alfie waded into the rock pools up to his knees, scooping the shrimping net through the weed. He knew all the places where the shrimps liked to hide away. With the first few sweeps of his net, he had caught a dozen or so, big ones too, and emptied them into his bucket. He brought them back in triumph to show her.
When he offered her his net, she took it. “It’s easy,” he told her, taking her hand. “C’mon, Lucy, I’ll show you.” He could feel her grip tighten as he led her slowly down towards the sea. But she was doing it, she was doing it, she was coming with him. They stepped in. The water was up over her ankles now, up to her knees, and she was still walking.
Then, out of nowhere, a gull came diving down on them, squawking and screeching. They felt the wind of its wings as it passed overhead. Lucy screamed, broke away from him, and then ran away up the beach. She wouldn’t come back in after that. She sat there on a rock, clasping her knees, watching Alfie from a distance, and glancing from time to time across the bay at the Hispaniola. She was looking for Uncle Billy, Alfie thought, but he was nowhere to be seen that morning. Alfie kept calling for her to come and join him, kept coming back to show her his catch, to encourage her to try again. But she wouldn’t budge. It was hopeless, and Alfie knew it.
That evening he didn’t like to tell his mother how badly everything had gone down on Green Bay that day. He did tell his father though, in a quiet moment. All he said was, with a shrug: “You done all you could, Alfie. Like I said, you can’t make that girl do a thing she don’t want to do. She’s spirited, that one, got a mind of her own. If she don’t want to get on that school boat tomorrow morning, then she won’t. S’all there is to it.”
ALFIE THOUGHT LUCY MIGHT STAY in bed the next morning, the first day of school, and simply not come downstairs, but to his surprise he found Lucy was up and about before him. She had even fed the hens without him – the first time she had ever done that. Dressed in the new school clothes that Mary had made especially for her – another ruse to get her interested in going to school – Lucy sat at the kitchen table with them and ate her boiled egg and soldiers, and drank her milk. And when Alfie left for school she went along with him, her familiar silent shadow following him, Peg trailing behind them as she so often did.
They heard the raucous voices of the children all waiting for the boat down on the quay. Lucy stopped, and for some moments stood there, listening to them. She seemed reluctant to go on. Alfie felt her hand in his, and then they were walking on together, Lucy staring straight ahead, her face set. She was going to do it, Alfie thought, she was going to get in the boat. Behind them Peg was clomping along, snorting and snuffling. By the time they got to the quay, the boat was already there, the children piling in, the boatman, Mr Jenkins, trying in vain to get them to calm down and be still. No one was paying him any attention, which was quite usual.
Lucy hesitated again. And then she spoke. “No,” she said, suddenly withdrawing her hand. “No,” she said again.
Alfie could not believe it. “You spoke!” he said. “Just then, you spoke!” She smiled at him, then turned and walked away. Alfie thought of calling her back, of pleading with her. But he knew there was no point in trying any more, that nothing would change her mind. As soon as he got into the boat, he had to endure all the usual ribald banter, about his “mermaid sister” who’d “lost her marbles”, and was “mazed in the head”, “so dumb she couldn’t even talk”.
Some of them, Zeb being the ringleader of course, began jeering at her as she walked away down the quay. “Miss La-di-dah not coming to school then? Too dumb for school, are we?”
Alfie ignored them for the moment, but promised himself he’d settle things with Zeb later, when Beastly Beagley wasn’t around. The boat pulled away, Mr Jenkins still bellowing at everyone to sit down and behave. The last Alfie saw of Lucy, she was walking away beside Peg along the path towards Green Bay, her hand resting on the horse’s neck. She did not look back.
It took longer than usual to get across the channel that morning, because of the spring tide. There was very little water between Bryher and Tresco. So all the children from Bryher were late for school which meant, and everyone knew it would happen, that Beastly would be in a foul mood. As the boat came into New Grimsby harbour on Tresco, Alfie remembered a dream he had had during the holidays, that the school had fallen down, that Beastly Beagley had turned into a crow and flown away. It had been the most vivid of dreams. But sadly, as he very soon discovered, the school was still there. Beastly was still there, still ringing his bell in the schoolyard. Alfie wondered if he’d been standing there all through the summer holidays, ringing his confounded bell. He smiled at the thought, and Beastly spotted it. “What you grinning about, Alfred Wheatcroft? We don’t do grinning here, lad, or had you forgotten?”
“No, Sir.”
Once they were all lined up in the schoolyard, Mr Beagley called the roll in his usual rasping manner, thumb hooked in his waistcoat pocket, glaring at each child from under his bushy, twitchy eyebrows, as he read out the names. Beside him, Miss Nightingale ticked them off in the register one by one as each of them answered.
“Lucy?” Mr Beagley called out. “Known, I am told, as Lucy Lost.” In the silence that followed, one or two of the children began to titter and giggle. “Lucy Lost? Where are you?” Mr Beagley looked up and down the lines, frowning with menace. “Do you know where she is, Alfred Wheatcroft?” Alfie shook his head. “Well, we shall see about her, won’t we? All absentees are malingerers, and I eat them for breakfast, don’t I, children?”
“Yes, Sir,” they chorused obediently, a ritual response to any Beastly Beagley quip. Alfie didn’t join in. Then Zeb put up his hand.
“P’raps she’s swimmin’ over, Sir, on account of she’s a mermaid. She wouldn’t get in the boat, Sir. She’s too dumb for school anyway!” The laughter was loud and full of hilarity.
“Silence!” roared Mr Beagley. There was silence at once, but a silence interrupted by the sound of someone snorting with laughter, someone, Alfie thought, who was going to be in very big trouble, who was really going to get it in the neck from Mr Beagley. Alfie looked around to see who it was who was snorting, who was in for it. But no one was snorting. No one was even smiling. Instead, he heard, as by now they all had, from behind the hedgerow, the rhythmic clomping of hooves.
Moments later, and to everyone’s astonishment, Peg came walking up the path towards the school gate, tossing her head and snorting as she came. She was soaking wet, as was Lucy Lost, who was riding up on her in bare feet, with no saddle, no bit, no reins, riding her with such easy rhythm that she seemed almost part of the horse itself.
From Mr Beagley’s school log,
Monday 13th September 1915
Thirty-five children answered the roll on this the first day of the Michaelmas term. No absentees.
It should be noted, and indeed the Vicar has been informed yet again, that the tiling above the east window has still not been repaired, and neither has the broken pane of glass in the window itself been replaced, as I had repeatedly requested. I have made it abundantly clear that if those repairs are not carried out before the onset of winter gales, the rain will drive in and will render the back of the classroom unusable. Rooks have again nested in the chimney and blocked it, as I already reported at the end of last term. Again, nothing has been done. I wish to record here that I cannot and will not be held responsible for any consequent disruption to the running of this school, and that in such circumstances, with wind and rain coming in, with the fire in the stove unable to be lit, I should have no choice but to close the school.
There is one new p
Alfred Wheatcroft. Two strokes for impudence.
Patience Menzies. Three strokes for blaspheming.
Billy Moffat and Zebediah Bishop. Two strokes each for riotous behaviour, and for throwing stones in the playground.
Lucy Lost is, I fear, likely to prove a most troublesome and disruptive pupil. She is a surly child, with the wild, unkempt look of a waif and stray. She will need to learn some manners, to do as the other pupils do. She does not speak. It seems she cannot, or will not. I suspect the latter. She does not, or will not, write either. Since she is so woefully backward and so clearly incapable, I have seen fit to place her with the Infants in Miss Nightingale’s class, until she can learn to speak and write as befits one of her age.
In addition, I should say that she has a most disagreeable character. She does not look me in the eye, which in my experience is always the sign of dishonesty or obstinacy in a child, very probably both. I have spoken to her severely about her refusal to speak to me, and have forbidden her expressly from arriving at school on horseback again. I have made it perfectly clear to Alfred Wheatcroft that it is his responsibility to see that she travels to school in the boat tomorrow, as do all the other children of Bryher, that there will be serious consequences for both him and for her if he does not.
In conclusion, I have this morning instigated the custom of raising and lowering the flag each day, and the singing of the National Anthem, in order to instil proper patriotic fervour in the pupils. I shall continue this practice until the day the war ends, until victory is achieved.
After school, Alfie and Lucy had to wait until late afternoon when the tide was low enough to be able to ride Peg safely back across Tresco Channel to Bryher. Alfie had insisted they did the return journey together, and rode up front, Lucy clinging on behind. At one point, in the deepest part of the channel, it became obvious to both of them that Peg wasn’t walking any more but swimming. Alfie felt Lucy’s arms tighten round him, her face pressing hard into his back. Alfie thought at first it must be out of fear, but began to hope, and then to believe, that it was nothing of the kind, that it was done out of gratitude, in affection for him, even out of admiration too.
He had sensed her admiration back at school that morning, when he had stood up in front of everyone and told Mr Beagley that Lucy should not be relegated to the Infants class, that it was not right and not fair at her age. He had been punished for his impudence – two strokes of the cane on his hand. There was, he recalled, bewilderment and horror on Lucy’s face as she watched – she had clearly never witnessed such a thing before. And there were tears in her eyes too, tears for him, and Alfie liked that.
If anyone was truly fearful out there in the middle of the channel, where the sea flowed much deeper and faster than he had expected, Alfie knew it was himself. “S’all right, Lucy, don’t you be frightened,” he told her, or told himself rather. “Peg knows where to go. Just hang on. She’ll get us there, you’ll see.”
And so she did, to Alfie’s great relief. Peg struggled through, and soon they were out of the deep water and trotting through the shallows up on to Green Bay to be greeted on the beach by dozens of waiting islanders, Mary and Jim among them. Uncle Billy was there, up on the deck of the Hispaniola in his pirate’s hat, watching them through his telescope as they came riding in. It was a joyous and triumphant return. There was no one on Bryher, it seemed, who did not by now know the amazing story of Lucy’s first day at school, how she’d ridden across, and how Alfie had been caned by Beastly Beagley for talking back, for standing up for Lucy.
But the second day at school, as it turned out, was to be even more momentous than the first. Everyone knew that the spring tides were over and that there was no way Lucy would be able to ride across the channel to Tresco to school, as the water would simply be too deep in the middle, and far too dangerous. She would either have to take the boat with all the others, or stay behind. The schoolchildren, along with an increasingly impatient Mr Jenkins, were all waiting in the boat for Lucy and Alfie to arrive. It was a boat full of excitement and debate and dispute. Would they come? Would she get in the boat? Would she chicken out? And what would Beastly do if she didn’t get to school?
They all hushed at once, as they saw Alfie and Lucy coming round the corner, both riding on Peg, then dismounting on the path. They left Peg behind, and walked slowly down the quay towards the boat, Mr Jenkins bellowing at them to hurry along, that they were late already, that “Mr Beagley would eat them alive”.
Alfie jumped in first and held out his hand to help Lucy on board. For long moments, she hesitated, standing there, looking first at him, then out across the channel. Everyone was wondering what would happen next, Alfie as much as anyone. “Hurry up, haven’t got all day, Missy,” growled Mr Jenkins. “Is you coming, or ain’t you?” They all saw Lucy close her eyes, and take a deep breath, and another. Then she opened her eyes again, reached out for Alfie’s hand, gripped it tight, and stepped down into the boat. Everyone clapped, and some even cheered. Lucy sat down close beside Alfie, and kept her head down and her eyes shut the whole way across.
He stood beside her in their lines in the schoolyard as the flag was raised, as the National Anthem was sung, and she stuck close to him again inside the schoolroom at Assembly, as Mr Beagley intoned the prayers from the lectern, and Miss Nightingale played the piano. They sang: ‘What a friend we have in Jesus’, Alfie’s favourite hymn – he’d always loved the tune; it was his mother’s favourite too. He was belting it out with great fervour when he became aware that, beside him, Lucy wasn’t singing, and he wondered why, whether she knew any hymns, whether she had ever been to church at all. Then he thought: Of course she isn’t singing. How can she sing if she can’t speak? But, as he was reflecting on this, he noticed that her whole demeanour had changed. She was suddenly intense, like a cat about to pounce, her eyes wide and fixed. She seemed hardly to be breathing. She was, he saw then, staring hard at Miss Nightingale, almost as if she recognised her, as if she was a long-lost relative suddenly discovered, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. She was remembering her, or remembering something – Alfie was sure of this, quite sure.
After the hymn was over, Miss Nightingale stood up from the piano, put the lid down gently, and went and stood, as she always did, beside Mr Beagley for him to say the last prayer. It was as he was beginning that Lucy, quite suddenly and unaccountably, left Alfie’s side, and began to walk towards Miss Nightingale. Alfie reached out to try to stop her, but it was too late. No one moved without permission in Mr Beagley’s Assemblies. But Lucy was. She was moving as if in some kind of trance, gliding through the assembled children like a ghost. No one spoke. Even Mr Beagley was stunned to silence in mid-prayer. Alfie expected him to explode in fury at any moment, but, clearly dumbfounded like everyone else there, he could only stand and stare, as Lucy drifted past him, past Miss Nightingale. She was making straight for the piano.
Lucy sat down, lifted the lid and began at once to play. She played softly, leaning over the keyboard, intent only on the sound of the music she was making; and everyone, from the smallest infant to Mr Beagley himself, listened just as intently. Amazement at this brazen defiance of Beastly Beagley’s authority gave way to wonder at how beautifully she was playing. Miss Nightingale turned to Mr Be
Now Mr Beagley did explode. “How dare you interrupt my Assembly!” he roared, striding across the classroom towards Lucy at the piano. “Go back to your place at once.”
But, lost in the music, Lucy played on. Mr Beagley stood over her, fuming, for some moments before slapping her hands away, and banging down the piano lid. “Piano,” she said quietly and then her whole face broke into a smile. “Piano,” she said again, looking up at him.
Mr Beagley was beside himself with anger. He grabbed Lucy by the arm and jerked her to her feet. “So you do speak!” he raged. “It’s just as I thought. All this playing dumb is fakery, nothing but pure fakery, a deceit, nothing but a way of drawing attention to yourself. I told Dr Crow, I told Mrs Wheatcroft, that I should soon have you speaking and writing, and behaving like every other child in my school. And believe you me, I shall. I shall. Do you understand me? Do you?”
In his fury, he took her by the shoulders, and shook her. Lucy said nothing. She was crying silently, the tears running down her face. He frogmarched Lucy back to her place. Then, returning to the lectern and gathering himself, he spoke to the whole school. “Lucy Lost will now apologise to all of us for interrupting our prayers. Speak out, child, speak out. Say you are sorry. Go on, say it.”
Lucy didn’t speak, but brushed away her tears, and then looked up at him, full in the face.
“Dumb insolence, nothing but dumb, defiant insolence,” Mr Beagley went on. “Two can play at that game, you know. You want to play dumb, then so can I, so can every child in my school. We shall send you to Coventry, all day. You know what this means? No? Well, I shall tell you. No one will speak to you from now until the end of school. That will teach you. It will be the cane – no, the ruler! – for anyone who dares to speak to Lucy Lost, do I make myself quite clear?”