The Night the Tide Came Up the Lane

Once there was a fishing village of crooked white houses beside a cold grey sea. At the very top of the lane lived a boy called Bo, with his grandma.

Bo could not sing a note. When he sang, the gulls on the roof flew off to find a quieter roof. But Bo could whistle anything. He could whistle the kettle, and the gate, and the wind in the chimney. He whistled so well that the kettle sometimes whistled back.

Grandma kept her slippers by the front door. Every morning she opened the door, looked down the lane to the water, and said, “Good morning, Sea. Mind the boats today.”

One evening, the tide forgot to stop at the beach.

It came up the slipway. It rolled up the lane, past the well and the baker’s. Then it sat down on Grandma’s doorstep, cool and splashy and very pleased with itself.

Bo opened the door. There was the sea, lapping at the step like a big wet dog. A bucket bobbed about in it. So did the baker’s doormat. The tide reached over the step, picked up Grandma’s left slipper, and floated it round and round, very proud.

“Grandma,” said Bo. “The sea has come to visit.”

Bo was not a bit surprised. Grandma talked to the sea every morning. It seemed only fair that the sea should come up and talk back.

“Well,” said Grandma. “That will not do. The boats cannot come home till the tide is back on the beach. And I cannot shut my door with the sea on the step.”

“I’ll take it back,” said Bo. “Before bedtime.”

First, Grandma tried. She pulled on her big boots and pointed down the lane.

“Home you go,” said Grandma.

The tide swished around her ankles and filled both her boots right up to the top. Glug, glug.

Grandma stepped back inside. Squelch, squelch. “Well!” said Grandma.

Next came the baker, paddling up the lane with a tray of warm buns. “It took my doormat,” said the baker. “Perhaps it is hungry.”

The baker held out a bun.

“Home you go,” said the baker.

The tide took the bun. Then it took the tray. Then it filled the baker’s boots, just to be sure. Glug, glug.

“Well!” said the baker.

By now the lamps were lit in all the windows. Out on the water, the boats were waiting. It was nearly Bo’s bedtime.

“If only someone could sing to it,” said Grandma. “A song is good for settling.”

“I can’t sing,” said Bo. “But I can whistle.”

He sat down on the step with his feet in the water, and listened. Then he whistled the tune the sea makes on the pebbles every morning. It was long and low, a hush and a shush, over and over.

The tide stopped swishing. It lay quite still. It was listening.

Then, as gently as Grandma took a pie out of the oven, the tide lifted Bo off the step. It held him up, flat and steady, like a raft.

“Mind you’re back for bed,” said Grandma.

Bo did not say “Home you go.” He whistled it.

And the tide went.

Down the lane they floated. It was the best way down the lane Bo had ever been, and he had been down it on a sledge.

At the baker’s door, the tide set down the doormat, with the tray on top. It kept the bun. At the well, it set down the bucket, right way up.

Windows opened. People leaned out in their nightcaps and waved. Bo waved back and kept on whistling. Grandma’s left slipper bobbed along beside him like a little boat. The tide was not ready to give that back yet.

Past the lamps they went, past the nets, and down the slipway to the shore.

At the end of the slipway, the tide set Bo down on the dry stones. Then it gave one small splash, and there at his feet was Grandma’s slipper. Wet, but there.

The tide rolled back across the beach and settled where it belonged. Shhh, it went on the pebbles. Hush, shush. And one, two, three, four, the fishing boats floated home into the harbour, their lanterns swinging.

Bo walked back up the lane with the slipper. The lane was dry all the way.

Grandma was waiting at the door. On her doormat, neatly in the middle, sat a starfish, like a thank-you note.

“Well,” said Grandma, and this time she smiled.

She put the starfish in a bowl of seawater, to go back to the beach in the morning. She put the wet slipper by the door, next to the dry one. Then she looked down the lane at the sea, quiet now under the moon.

“Goodnight, Sea,” said Grandma. And she shut the door.

She dried Bo with a warm towel, from his hair right down to his toes. She tucked him into bed, right up to his chin.

“I’m glad you’re home,” said Grandma. “And I’m glad the sea is home too.”

Bo yawned. Then he whistled the sea’s tune, very softly. Long and low. A hush and a shush. Slower and slower, until the whistle was hardly there at all, and Bo was fast asleep.