A Jar of Moonlight on the Sill

Sam was seven, and he read one page in bed every night. Only one. He read it very slowly, with his finger under the words, so that the book would last a long time.

At eight o’clock sharp, Mom put her head round the door.

“One page,” she said.

“I know,” said Sam.

Then she tucked him in and turned off the lamp. The trouble was that Sam read so slowly that when the lamp went off he was often only halfway down. He hated stopping halfway. It felt like going to bed with one shoe on.

His room was at the back of the house, and his window looked straight at a brick wall. The moon had never once come in.

That mattered. Sam lived on a steep street in a little town by the sea, where the narrow houses leaned together. In that town, the moon is not only for looking at. On full-moon nights the moonlight comes down so thick that it lies on the roofs like shallow silver water. People go up with a ladle and a jar and scoop some. Indoors, a jar of it glows on the table like a quiet lamp. All night it sinks, slowly, the way bathwater goes down, and by breakfast it is gone.

But Sam’s house had a pointed roof, as steep as the street. The moonlight ran straight off it and away down the drainpipe. Nobody was going to scoop anything off that.

* * *

The first jar came at the start of the summer.

Sam woke in the night, and his room was not dark. There was a glow on the windowsill, just outside the glass. He opened the window, and there sat a jam jar full of moonlight, bright to the brim.

It was cool in his hands and smelled faintly of plums. The label said, in wobbly capitals, PLUM — THE GOOD BATCH.

Sam took it back to bed. He found his place, halfway down, and read the rest of the page by moonlight. Then he went back to sleep with both shoes off.

In the morning there was only a silver line at the bottom of the jar, like a tide gone out.

“Did you leave me some moonlight?” Sam said.

Mom looked at the jar, and at the window, and at the brick wall. “Not me,” she said. “Your window’s two floors up. I’d need a very long arm.” She held her arm out to show him it was only the ordinary length.

Sam believed her. Mom did not tell fibs. She had told him the truth about the dentist, and the truth about who ate the last of the cake, which was her.

It happened again at the next full moon, and the one after that. Every time, the jar came while Sam was asleep, and he woke and read his page right to the bottom. And every time, Sam wanted a little more to know who was doing it, so that he could thank them properly.

He kept the empty jars in a row on his shelf, labels to the front.

* * *

His first idea was the gulls.

There were gulls on every roof in that town, shouting at the boats. Next door, Mrs. Bell had a flat roof with a railing round it, just across the gap from Sam’s window. On full-moon nights the gulls stood about on it, up to their ankles in moonlight, looking very pleased with themselves.

So it was the gulls, Sam decided. Then he thought about it a little longer. In the morning he leaned out and spoke to the biggest gull on Mrs. Bell’s railing.

“You can’t hold a ladle,” Sam said. “You haven’t got thumbs.”

The gull looked at him with one yellow eye and did not argue.

That afternoon Mom sent Sam next door with a bag of empty jam jars. Mrs. Bell made jam for the whole street, and the whole street gave her the jars back. She gave Sam a plum tart for his trouble. She was yawning, because she had been up late squinting at her crossword.

“The print gets smaller every year,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”

While Sam ate his tart, he looked around her kitchen. There were jars on every shelf. And by the window, on a hook, hung a soup ladle with a silver rim, as if it had been dipped in something bright that never quite dried.

Sam noticed the tart. You may have noticed the ladle.

* * *

His second idea was to stay awake.

On the next full moon, after the lamp went off, Sam sat up in bed with his eyes wide open. He watched the window. He watched it so hard his eyes went dry. The brick wall did nothing at all, which is what brick walls are best at.

The next thing he knew, it was morning. He was tucked in under the blanket, which he had certainly not done himself. On the sill was a jam jar with a silver line at the bottom.

“You fell asleep sitting up,” said Mom. “I put you back.”

“I missed it,” said Sam.

* * *

His third idea was better. He would pretend.

On the next full moon he let Mom tuck him in as usual. “One page,” she said, and turned off the lamp. Sam lay down and shut his eyes, but not all the way. He left one foot sticking out from under the blanket, because it is very hard to fall asleep with a cold foot.

Down at the harbor a boat bumped the wall, once, and was still.

Then from next door came the small squeak of a little door opening onto a flat roof.

Sam kept very still. Through his eyelashes he saw a broom handle come slowly across the gap between the houses. Tied to the end with string was a wooden spoon. Balanced on the wooden spoon, wobbling a little, was a jam jar full of moonlight.

And at the other end of the broom handle, leaning over her railing in her dressing gown and slippers, with her tongue between her teeth, was Mrs. Bell.

The spoon tipped. The jar slid onto the sill with a tiny clink. Mrs. Bell drew the broom handle back and said, to nobody, “There.”

Sam opened the window and leaned out, as far as Mom would have allowed, which was not very far. Then he said, as softly as he could, “Thank you.”

Mrs. Bell jumped and nearly dropped the broom. Then she laughed without making a sound, so as not to wake the street. “You’re meant to be asleep,” she said.

“I was pretending,” said Sam.

“Well, you’re very good at it.”

“Thank you,” said Sam again, because once did not seem like enough for five jars. “Why don’t you keep one for yourself?”

“It takes both my hands and a broom to get one jar across that gap, and my knees only go up those stairs once a night,” said Mrs. Bell. “And your mother told me about your page, over the jam.” She waved the wooden spoon at him. “Now go and read it.”

So Sam took the jar in and read his page to the bottom. Then he lay awake a little longer, with one foot out, making a plan.

* * *

At the next full moon, at eight o’clock sharp, Mom did not turn off the lamp. She walked Sam next door instead, with his book under one arm and an empty jar from his shelf in each hand.

Mrs. Bell took them up her steep stairs and opened the little door onto the roof.

The moonlight lay an inch deep from railing to railing, silver and perfectly still. It did not wet Sam’s slippers. Walking in it was like walking on the cool side of a pillow. At the far end, three gulls were asleep with their heads tucked in.

Mrs. Bell gave Sam the ladle with the silver rim. He dipped it, and it went in without a sound and came up brimming. He filled his first jar right to the top. Then he filled the second one, and held it out to Mrs. Bell.

“This one’s for your crossword,” he said. “It’s a thank you. A proper one.”

Mrs. Bell took it in both hands. “I have missed doing my crossword by the moon,” she said. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam and Mrs. Bell sat side by side on a bench by the chimney, with a glowing jar each. Sam opened his book. Mrs. Bell opened her crossword. She held the jar over it. “Well, look at that,” she said. “I can see the little numbers.”

Mom leaned on the railing and looked out at the sea, which was full of moon all the way to the edge.

“It’s gone eight,” said Mom.

Mrs. Bell smiled at Sam over the top of her crossword. “One page,” she said.

So Sam read one page, very slowly, with his finger under the words, all the way to the bottom. Mrs. Bell got seven across. Then Sam carried his own jar home in both hands and went to bed with both shoes off.

The moon has still never once come in at Sam’s window. It doesn’t need to. On full-moon nights he goes next door and fetches it himself, two jars at a time.