The Boat That Followed Kit
Kit had a small red rowing boat called Puddle, and Puddle followed her everywhere.
When Kit walked along the quay, Puddle climbed out of the water after her. It shook itself dry, like a dog after a swim. Shake, shake, splosh! Then it went bumping along the cobbles behind her. When Kit stopped, Puddle stopped. When Kit said, “Good boat,” Puddle wagged its rudder.
Kit lived in a harbour town where the houses were stacked up a steep hill like boxes on a shelf. Hers was the yellow house at the bottom, by the water. Her granny lived in the blue house at the very top, up a hundred steps.
Nobody in the town thought Puddle was odd. And the baker, halfway up the hundred steps, kept a big striped towel by the door, just in case.
Today was Granny Mags’s birthday.
Kit had made her a lemon cake, tall and yellow, with sugar on top. Kit wanted to carry it all the way up the hundred steps without dropping it. Not one crumb.
She looked at the cake. Then she looked at Puddle. Kit was a girl who thought things through.
“Puddle,” said Kit, “you go bump on every step. Bumps are not good for cakes. You will have to stay.”
She tied Puddle to the post with a good thick rope. Then she straightened the yellow ribbon in her hair and picked up the cake.
Puddle creaked. It was the saddest creak Kit had ever heard. Creeeeak.
“Stay,” said Kit, and she started up the steps.
Puddle wriggled, and the knot came undone all by itself. Up the steps it came, dripping.
Bump, bump, bump.
Kit looked back. Puddle stopped and wagged its rudder.
“Oh, Puddle,” said Kit.
She thought it through again. If she went quickly, Puddle could not keep up. So up she went, quick, quick, with the cake in both hands. But Puddle bumped quicker.
Bump-bump-bump-bump!
Kit stopped outside the bakery to catch her breath. Puddle stopped too. The baker opened the door and reached for the striped towel.
Too late. Shake, shake, splosh! Puddle shook itself dry all over the baker.
The baker stood on the step, dripping, holding a perfectly dry towel.
“That towel was for you, Puddle,” said the baker, and used it anyway.
But Kit had held the cake up high, and not one drop had touched it.
Just past the bakery, the steps went round the tightest corner in the whole town. Kit went round it easily. Puddle did not.
Puddle bumped into one wall. Then it bumped into the other wall. Then it stopped, stuck, with its front round the corner and its back end not.
Creeeeak.
Kit sat down on a step and thought it through.
“You’re stuck because you’re long,” said Kit. “And I’m stuck because I’m carrying a cake.”
First she put the cake down on a dry step. Then she tipped Puddle up, up, up, until it stood on its end, as tall as a door. Standing up, Puddle was not long any more. It shuffled round the corner, and Kit let it down gently on the other side.
Kit picked up the cake. Then she looked at the wooden seat in the middle of Puddle. It was just the right size.
“You’re a boat,” said Kit. “Boats are for carrying things.”
She set the lemon cake on Puddle’s seat.
“Your job,” said Kit, “is to carry the cake. Gently.”
Puddle wagged its rudder. Then it went up the steps, slow and careful.
Bump, bump, bump.
Kit counted the last steps out loud. “Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred!”
Granny Mags was waiting at the gate of the blue house.
“Happy birthday, Granny!” said Kit. “Puddle carried the cake.”
“So I see,” said Granny Mags. She patted Puddle. “Good boat.”
Then she went inside. She came out with a cushion. She went in again and came out with two more. Granny Mags had a great many cushions, and she brought out every single one.
They filled Puddle right up with cushions. Then Granny Mags and Kit climbed in and had the birthday tea in the boat, under the washing line.
Granny Mags had two slices of cake. Kit had two slices. Puddle wagged its rudder the whole time, and all the cushions jiggled.
“My first birthday in a boat!” said Granny Mags. “I’m so glad you both came.”
When the sun went down orange over the harbour, Granny Mags tucked one more slice of cake into Kit’s pocket, for breakfast. Then Kit and Puddle went home.
At the tight corner, Kit tipped Puddle up again, and it shuffled round. Then down they went, very slowly, because everyone was tired.
Bump… bump… bump.
On the quay, Kit led Puddle back into the water. She did not fetch the thick rope. She took the yellow ribbon out of her hair and tied Puddle to the post with that.
A ribbon was all Puddle needed. Puddle never pulled, not when it could see Kit’s window.
“Goodnight, Puddle,” said Kit.
Puddle wagged its rudder, just once, very slowly.
Kit put Granny’s slice of cake on the windowsill for breakfast, and climbed into bed. She and Puddle had carried the cake all the way up the hundred steps, and not one crumb had dropped.
Up in the blue house, Granny Mags was asleep among her cushions. Down in the yellow house, Kit was asleep too. And just below Kit’s window, tied up with a yellow ribbon, Puddle rocked, and rocked, and rocked itself to sleep.
