The Kingdom by the Sea by Robert Westall Read Free Book Online

the pack of blankets and made a pillow out of it.
    They slept.
    The dog growled once. Harry had no idea what time it was, but he heard the German bombers, far away, in the direction he had come from. Dreamily he watched flashes that he knew must be bombs and guns over Tynemouth. But all far away. He turned over and slept again.
    He wakened, warm as toast. The dog slept on, just whuffled in its dream. Its paws moved softly on the hay, as if it was dreaming it was running. Harry got up quietly, so as not to disturb it, and covered it over with the hay again. Seemed the kind thing to do. Then he walked away from the haystack and looked towards the sea, and yawned andstretched and surveyed the lovely morning. The sky was blue, pale blue, from horizon to horizon again. The sea glittered in millions of points of light, under where the sun was. There were white gulls circling over the beach; their calls came faint to his ears. It felt blissy, like the first morning of holiday on the farm at Gilsland, where they had gone every year, even after the war started. It was still cool, and everything smelt good. He wondered what Mr Gilbey, the farmer at Gilsland, was doing at this moment. Would he have finished milking the cows? Harry always got up early and helped with the cows. The smell of them, all steamy and grassy, the smell of the warm streaming milk, spurting into the shining bucket, the slow swish of tails and sound of munching. And Mr Gilbey, singing strange Methodist hymns slowly as he milked.
    “When I… spurt… survey… the wondrous… spurt… Cross.”
    He liked Mr Gilbey; he liked farmers; he liked helping. So when he heard the distant sound of a tractor on the road, he turned to greet it. You always said good morning to people you met in the country, even when you’d never seen them before; it was not like in town.
    The tractor approached, the farmer on it getting slowly bigger. He resolved from a series of coloured blobs, and Harry could see he looked quite like Mr Gilbey, with along-sleeved collarless shirt, and an open waistcoat over it, and a shapeless bulging cap on his head. Harry waved timidly, because it could almost have been Mr Gilbey (though of course it couldn’t be). He smiled as he waved.
    The tractor stopped. The farmer got down, leaving the engine running. Stooped to pick up a large pair of old leather gauntlets from where the driving pedals were, and walked up to Harry briskly.
    “Morning,” said Harry. It was what you said in the country. He wondered what the farmer wanted. He couldn’t be lost on his own farm; maybe he wanted some help with the harvest; Mr Gilbey always did. Maybe he would pay, or at least give harvest meals of sweet cold tea and apple pie.
    “You little sod,” said the farmer. “I’ll teach you to mess around in my haystack.” He raised the hand with the gauntlets in it, and brought it slashing down on Harry’s face.
    Harry fell down. He managed to yelp, “Please, mister,” and then the farmer hit him with the gauntlets again. He tasted blood in his mouth; he held his arms up to protect his face. He rolled around on the ground, trying to get away from the blows. They went on and on and on, on the back of his head, on his shoulders, in his kidneys as he arched his back. His head spun, he couldn’t think any more, he was just pains… he yelled and yelled for mercy.
    And then it stopped. And somebody else was yelling. Harry looked around wildly. The farmer was standing, just standing. He had dropped the gauntlets, and was clutching his big hairy bare arm. And there was blood trickling down through his fingers.
    And Don was standing between him and Harry, crouching, back hunched, teeth bared in a snarl. Don growled, low and awful.
    The farmer looked insane. His small blue eyes were popping; his mouth was wide open, showing gaps in his teeth, and his cheeks were covered with whiskers where he hadn’t shaved for a week.
    Then he gave a yell of rage. “I’ll settle your