variety of people on his travels. Some are kind and helpful, others abusive or manipulative. Harry calls himself a pilgrim at one point and, indeed, The Kingdom by the Sea is like a quest story, with Harry having to face life-threatening dangers and gain confidence before coming to the end of his journey.
Perhaps my favourite thing about this book is the ending. Don’t worry, I’m not going to give it away here! Often when I read stories the endings are disappointing. After a good story, the final pages are predictable or unrealistic. Not with The Kingdom by the Sea. As I was reaching the end of the book, I started wondering how it would finish. I was so caught up in Harry’s life and adventures I could only see two alternative endings. In the end, the story ended in a third way – one I hadn’t foreseen but which felt completely convincing.
This is such a brilliant book – it definitely inspired me to be a better writer and, most importantly, was – and is – one of the best reads, ever!
Sophie McKenzie
Sophie McKenzie is the award-winning author of Girl, Missing and Six Steps to a Girl. She was born in London, where she still lives, and worked as a journalist and editor before being able to concentrate on writing full time. In her spare time, Sophie enjoys watching football and going to the movies. Her other books include Blood Ties and The Medusa Project series.
This is a novel: not a geography book. I have taken a few liberties with my beloved Northumberland: most with the refuge towers at Lindisfarne.
He was an old hand at air raids now.
As the yell of the siren climbed the sky, he came smoothly out of his dreams. Not scared. Only his stomach clamped down tight for action, as his hands found his clothes laid ready in the dark. Hauled one jumper, then another, over his pyjamas. Thrust both stockinged feet together through his trousers and into his shoes. Then bent to tie his laces thoroughly. A loose lace had tripped him once, in the race to the shelter. He remembered the smashing blow as the ground hit his chin; the painful week after, not able to eat with a bitten tongue.
He grabbed his school raincoat off the door, pulling the door wide at the same time. All done by feel; no need to put the light on. Lights were dangerous.
He passed Dulcie’s door, heard Mam and Dulcie muttering to each other, Dulcie sleepy and cross, Mam sharp and urgent. Then he thundered downstairs, the crack of light from the kitchen door lighting up the edge of each stair-tread. Dad was sitting in his warden’s uniform, hauling on his big black boots, his grey hair standing up vertically in a bunch, like a cock’s comb. Without looking up, Dad said, “Bloody Hitler! Four bloody nights in a row!”
There was a strong smell of Dad’s sweaty feet, and the fag he had burning in the ashtray. That was all Harry had time to notice; he had his own job; the two objects laid ready in the chair by the door. The big roll of blankets, wrapped in a groundsheet because the shelter was damp, done up with a big leather strap of Dad’s. And Mam’s precious attaché case with the flask of hot coffee and insurance policies and other important things, and the little bottle of brandy for emergencies. He heaved the blankets on to his back, picked up the case with one hand and reached to unlock the back door with the other.
“Mind that light,” said Dad automatically. But Harry’s hand was already reaching for the switch. He’d done it all a hundred times before.
He slammed the door behind him, held his breath and listened. A single aircraft’s engines, far out to sea. Vroomah, vroomah, vroomah. A Jerry. But nothing to worry about yet. Two guns fired, one after another. Two brilliant points of white, lighting up a black landscape of greenhouse, sweet-pea trellises and cucumber-frames. A rolling carpet of echoes. Still out to sea. Safe, then.
He ran down the long back garden, with his neck prickling and the blankets bouncing against his back comfortingly. As he passed the greenhouse the rabbits thumped their heels in alarm. There was a nice cold smell of dew and cabbages. Then he was in through the shelter door, shoving the damp, mould-stinking curtain aside.
He tossed the things on to Mam’s bunk, found the tiny oil-lamp on the back girder, and lit it and watched the flame grow. Then he lit the candle under the pottery milk-cooler that kept the shelter warm. Then he undid the bundle and laid out the blankets on the right bunks and turned back to the shelter door, ready to take Dulcie from Mam. He should be hearing their footsteps any second now, the patter of Mam’s shoes and the crunch of Dad’s hobnailed boots. Dad always saw them safe in the shelter, before he went on duty. Mam would be nagging Dad – had he locked the back door against burglars? They always teased Mam about that; she must think burglars were bloody brave, burgling in the middle of air raids.
God, Mam and Dad were taking their time tonight. What was keeping them? That Jerry was getting closer. More guns were firing now. The garden, every detail of it, the bird-bath and the concrete rabbit, flashed black, white, black, white, black. There was a whispering in the air. Gun-shrapnel falling like rain … they shouldn’t be out in that. Where were they? Where were they? Why weren’t they tumbling through the shelter door, panting and laughing to be safe?
That Jerry was right overhead. Vroomah. Vroomah. Vroomah.
And then the other whistling. Rising to a scream. Bombs. Harry began to count. If you were still counting at ten, the bombs had missed you.
The last thing he remembered was saying “seven”.
His back hurt and his neck hurt. His hands scrabbled, and scrabbled damp clay, that got under his fingernails. The smell told him he was still in the shelter, but lying on the damp floor. And a cautious, fearful voice, with a slight tremble in it, was calling out:
“Is anybody down there?”
Somebody pushed the curtain across the shelter door aside, and shone a torch on him. The person was wearing a warden’s helmet, the white ‘W’ glimmering in the light of the torch. He thought at first it might be Dad. But it wasn’t Dad. It had a big black moustache; it was a total stranger.
The stranger said, to somebody else behind him, “There’s only one of them. A kid.”
“Jesus Christ,” said the somebody else. “Ask him where the rest are. There should be four in this shelter.”
“Where’s the rest, son? Where’s your mam and dad?”
“In the … I don’t know.”
“D’you mean, still in the house, son?”
The voice behind muttered, “Christ, I hate this job.” Then it said, with a sharp squeak of fear, “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“Something soft under me foot. Shine your light.”
“’Sonly a rabbit. A dead rabbit.”
“Thank God. Hey, son, can you hear me? Can you get up? Are you hurt?”
