by Charlotte Lo
For Peter and Rosie, because books will guide you on your adventures.
“You only get one wish,” said Margot.
I stared at the ten rapidly melting candles on top of my birthday cake. “But I can’t choose,” I said. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead, partly from the heat of the flames, and partly from the pressure. It felt like everyone in the café was staring at me.
My brother, Fabien, put down his knitting and swiped a finger along the icing. “It’s Luna’s birthday,” he muttered, through a mouthful of stolen buttercream. “If she can’t make more than one wish today, then when can she?”
“Exactly,” I said.
Margot sighed. “OK, just do it before I turn ninety.”
I squeezed my eyes tight and thought about the two things I wanted more than anything else in the world: for Mum to let me have a pet, and for Dad to smile again.
Smoke twirled into my nose as I made my wishes, and I opened my eyes. Mum leaned over the cake and sliced it into four even pieces. A baby on the next table clapped at me, and then got distracted by something over my shoulder. I turned and glanced out of the donkey sanctuary’s window at the paddock opposite. Ten donkeys plodded across the grass, their ears pricked to the wind.
“Can I go back outside?” I asked.
“All right, but stay where I can see you,” said Mum.
“I’m coming too,” said Margot.
“And me!” said Fabien.
We ran back into the hot July afternoon. Most of the donkeys were standing in the middle of the field, their manes billowing in the breeze. I held out my hand and called to them. A grey one lumbered over and nuzzled my cardigan. I took out a packet of mints and fed him one. The donkey nuzzled me again, and then three more came over.
I laughed and stroked their faces. Soon we were surrounded by noses and ears and tongues. I tipped mint after mint on to my hand, and the donkeys gobbled them up gently.
Meow.
Purr, purr, purr.
I looked across the paddock, trying to spot the animal that had made the very un-donkey-like noise. A small ginger cat pranced across the grass and wrapped its tail around the leg of a donkey near the back of the field. The donkey bent its head, looked at the cat and licked a long line right down its back.
The cat rubbed its cheeks against the donkey’s legs, and the bell on its pink collar jingled. I gasped as the donkey licked it again, but all the other rescuees ignored it, as if this sort of thing happened all the time.
“You don’t think he’s going to eat the cat, do you?” I asked Margot, pointing at the donkey.
“Don’t be stupid, Luna,” she replied, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “They’re obviously friends.”
“Oh, good,” I replied. I’d never met any real donkeys before, but Granny had. Every Sunday, she used to come over for tea and tell us stories. My favourite was about a donkey called Cecil. He’d been her pet when she was little, and Granny had kept a photograph of him on her bedside table. He was cream with black eyes, just like this donkey. She said he was the fastest donkey she’d ever met, and that she used to ride him to school.
I missed Granny’s stories. Everything changed when she died. Dad barely spoke any more. Instead he just spent all day asleep or watching old Countdown episodes. He was even missing my birthday treat.
The cat padded towards us, and slipped through the fence into the courtyard we were standing in. Fabien scooped it up, and ran back towards the café with it.
“Look, Mum, I’ve found a cat!” he yelled, brandishing the purring animal at her through the window.
The donkey plodded over to me, looking sad to have lost his friend. I clicked my tongue and smiled at him. The donkey stared at me with his chocolate-button eyes, pulled back his lips and smiled too.
“Is he…?” I began.
“Copying you!” said Margot.
She was right. The donkey was definitely grinning back at me.
“Wow,” I whispered.
“Amazing!” said Margot.
The donkey came right over to me. I stretched out my arm and patted his neck. The donkey’s fur was soft and warm like a blanket. I tickled his ears, which were far bigger than my hand, and his breath warmed my face. A yellow collar hung loosely around his neck.
Little Cocoa, 2 years old.
“Little Cocoa,” I read aloud. “Is that your name?”
The donkey nuzzled into me, brushing his face against mine. Yes, Little Cocoa it was.
I stroked his nose and Little Cocoa smiled at me again. There was a piece of hay stuck between his wonky teeth, as though he’d been flossing with it. I wondered why he was at the sanctuary. Surely nobody could have given him away?
“Let’s adopt him,” I said.
Margot laughed. “We live in a flat.”
“He could sleep in the bandstand in the park, or we could buy a stable,” I said.
“In the middle of London?” asked Margot.
“We could move,” I suggested.
“The donkey isn’t even for sale,” said Margot. “The sanctuary rescues them, and then they live here forever.”
“Oh,” I replied glumly. “I bet a donkey would make a great pet. They make me think of Granny.”
“Me too,” smiled Margot, and she draped her arm over my shoulder.
I fed Little Cocoa a mint, and heard a door open in the distance.
“Margot, Luna, time to go,” called Mum, from over by the café.
“Five more minutes,” I pleaded.
Mum hurried over to us, looking flustered. “Fabien brought a cat into the café, and it’s just eaten a lady’s scone. It’s time we went,” she muttered.
I kissed Little Cocoa on the nose, and traipsed after Mum. It had been the best birthday trip ever, because now I knew exactly what pet I wanted. And it wasn’t a cat, or a dog, or a hamster. It was a donkey.
It was dinner time when we arrived back at our flat. I pushed open the door and saw a piece of paper on the mat. Somebody must have pushed it under the door. Fabien picked it up.
“What does ‘eviction’ mean?” he asked.
“Let’s see,” said Margot, snatching the letter away. She scanned her eyes across it and all the colour drained from her usually bright face. “Oh, my God. They’re chucking us out!”
Mum read the letter over Margot’s shoulder, and went all pale.
I turned to Margot, panicked. “Who’s chucking us out?” I asked.
“The landlord,” she squeaked.
“He can’t do that! We live here,” I said.
“It says we haven’t paid the rent for three months,” said Margot.
It was three months ago that Dad had stopped going to work. He’d always hated his job at the prison, and when Granny died he just stopped going. Mum had tried to get more hours at the supermarket, but her manager said there weren’t any. She’d told us not to worry, and that everything would be OK. I guessed that was a lie.
Dad poked his head out of the bedroom, and rubbed his eyes. There were dark circles beneath them like storm clouds. He was still in yesterday’s pyjamas, even though it was late. A line of biscuit crumbs covered his hairy top lip.
“What’s all the commotion about?” he asked.
Margot showed him the letter, and Dad wobbled into a heap in the doorway.
“It’ll be all right,” I said, draping my arm around him, although I wasn’t sure it would.
Fabien fetched his piggy bank and emptied the contents into Dad’s lap. “You can have my savings. There’s forty pounds and sixteen pence.”
“We need a bit more than that,” croaked Mum.
I swallowed, hard. We were going to be homeless.
“We need a plan,” I said as I poured myself a bowl of econom
y chocolate rice pops the next morning.
Margot put down her latest copy of Aeroplanes Monthly magazine. “What we need is money.”
“Do you think the local shop will give me a paper round?” I asked.
“No, and we need more money than that anyway,” she said.
I crunched my cereal miserably. “What if I chain myself to the electricity meter? They can’t make us leave then.”
“You might get fried,” said Margot.
Fabien poked his head around the door. “What’s getting fried? Is it bacon?”
“No, Luna’s head,” replied Margot.
“Yuck,” he said, and then skated across the lino in his worn-out socks. “I’ve found us somewhere to live.”
“Where?” I asked.
He threw a newspaper across the table at me. It was the free one that got delivered every week. I knew Fabien was good at papier mâché, but even he couldn’t make a house out of this.
“Read page five,” he said.
I found the page and read the article aloud.
Bonkers businessman gives away island
Eric Harding, founder of Rhino Technologies, is giving away his Scottish island.
The lonely billionaire has gifted dozens of things over the past ten years, including a helicopter to a man from Norway, a Hollywood sushi restaurant to a monk from Tibet, and a herd of Highland cattle to St John’s School in Hythe. He also arranged for pensioner Betty Eccles to fulfil her lifetime dream of abseiling down Big Ben naked.
When asked to comment on his latest giveaway, Mr Harding said, “My daughter used to love Rook’s Island, but I haven’t visited it since I lost her. I hope somebody will fall in love with it, just like my Cassy did, and bring joy to the island again.”
This is one of Mr Harding’s biggest and most eccentric giveaways, topped only by the donation of his Borneo estate to two university students. When last heard of, the pair had put their accountancy studies on hold to raise orangutans in the jungle. It’s believed they have since branched out into gorilla breeding.
As part of the competition’s terms and conditions, the island can never be sold by the winner. Anyone who enters should therefore be prepared to live in the middle of the ocean for the rest of their natural life.
To enter the competition, simply email [email protected] or write to PO Box 828, London SW19, stating why you want to win.
About the closing date, Mr Harding simply said, “How long is a strand of spaghetti?”
Below the newspaper article was a colour photo of the island, with a big, wonky house and a herd of goats. It looked beautiful, the sun melting into the sea, and the waves all shimmery shiny.
“Look!” I said, shoving the article under Margot’s nose.
She laughed. “Nobody actually wins these things, you two.”
“Someone must!” said Fabien.
“He’s right,” I replied. “Wouldn’t it be amazing to live on our very own island?”
Margot shook her head. “No, I think the whole thing sounds awful. We’d have to move away from our friends. And who wants to live in the middle of the sea?”
“I do,” I replied.
“Me too,” said Fabien. “There are animals!”
The whole thing sounded amazing. We’d have our own beach, and could go swimming in the sea every morning. Even better, the island looked big enough to have a hundred pets. I could probably get a whole drove of donkeys and Mum wouldn’t even notice.
My heart fluttered with excitement. Dad would be so happy if we won the island. It would be like being on a permanent holiday. There was no way he could still be sad then.
I grabbed a sheet of paper, and began to write a letter to Mr Harding in my neatest handwriting. Maybe Margot was right and nobody did win these things, but it was worth a try.
Dear Mr Harding,
I read in the newspaper that you’re giving away your island. That’s really kind of you. I bet you’re the most generous person in the whole world – much more generous than the Queen, or Angelina Jolie, or Mr Phoon from the takeaway (although he does give us free chips on a Wednesday, which is very nice of him)…
I explained all about Dad losing his job, and how we were being evicted, and how I’d finally be able to get my own pet if we won the island. It was the longest letter I’d ever written. My skin got goosebumpy with excitement as I folded it up, and tucked it neatly into an envelope.
“Now I just need to post it,” I said.
Fabien pranced over to me with something blue and fluffy in his arms.
“You can send him these as a present,” he said.
“What are they?” I asked.
“Knitted dolphin slippers, of course,” said Fabien.
I nudged the knitted monstrosities. The “slippers” were grey with blue flecks. The toes were knitted into a pointed nose, and there were strange sticky-out bits, which I assumed were the flippers. On the top, a pair of googly eyes jiggled about.
“I’m not sure if he’ll need new slippers,” I replied carefully.
Fabien’s face dropped. “Don’t you like them?”
“Of course I do!” I said quickly, trying to undo the hurt look on his face. “They’re very … different.”
He beamed. “Limited edition.”
“Thank goodness,” whispered Margot.
Fabien squeezed the slippers into a Jiffy bag, and sealed my letter inside. I hoped they would magically un-knit themselves in the post.
The phone rang.
Everyone ignored it.
The phone rang some more.
Mum packed our gravy granules into a moving box, and then started on the spice rack. We were going to be homeless in two days, and all the council had found us was a room in a bed and breakfast. I’d looked it up on Google Maps, and zoomed into the image of its smeary door. There was a sign on it that said NO PETS ALLOWED in really big, angry letters. This was a disaster. There was probably more chance of me turning into an animal than keeping one there.
“Could somebody please answer the phone?” asked Mum.
I followed the ringing sound to the bedroom I shared with Margot. The door was closed, and there was a sign taped to it that said DO NOT DISTURB – FLIGHT IN PROGRESS. I pressed my ear to the door and the ringing got louder.
“Margot, what are you doing?” I asked, barging in.
My sister was perched on her bed, staring at Dad’s laptop with a joystick in her hands. I craned my neck around the screen and saw a virtual aeroplane bank around a volcano. Underneath Margot’s elbow was a book called How to Fly a Boeing 747: Volume 9.
“I’m flying to Indonesia,” she said. “Just about to start my descent.”
“Where’s the phone?”
“There isn’t one,” said Margot. “We use radios up here.”
“I mean the real phone,” I said. “Can’t you hear it ringing?”
“Oh, now that you mention it…” she replied, and trailed off as her plane flew through a cloud.
I found the phone inside my underwear drawer, although I couldn’t remember putting it there. The display flashed EXTERNAL CALL, which seemed kind of obvious. I pressed the green button, and held the phone to my ear. A dial tone buzzed at me. The caller must have hung up just as I answered.
“Oh, well,” I said, and tucked the phone back under a sock.
The bedroom door swung open again, and I looked up to see Fabien trot inside with an empty box in his arms. He dropped to his knees beside my bed, and scrabbled around underneath, as if fishing for dust mites. I knelt beside him and peered into the box. It was full of knitting needles and half-finished jumpers.
“Aha!” exclaimed Fabien, and he pulled out a ball of sparkling purple wool. “Knew I’d left it here.”
I hugged my knees to my chest. There wasn’t enough room in the bed and breakfast for Fabien’s knitting, or Margot’s flying books, or my stuffed animals. We were going to have to leave everything behind. Poor Fabien. He probably thought it was going
to be a big adventure.
The phone rang again, and my drawer started to vibrate. I pulled it open and grabbed the phone. It was probably just a salesman. Maybe I could put on a grown-up voice and ask for a job. I could sell windows, and help with the rent on a new flat.
I pressed the phone to my ear, and this time it didn’t buzz at me. “Hello?” I said.
“Hello, is this the Butterworth residence?” asked a voice. It belonged to an old-sounding man.
“Yes, this is Luna Butterworth speaking,” I said, making each word sound loud and proper. “Are you selling conservatories?”
“Er, no,” he said.
“Oh. Magazine subscriptions?” I asked.
“Noooo,” he said.
“Package holidays to Spain?” I tried.
“I’m calling about a letter I received from you, regarding a little island of mine,” said the caller.
My heart thumped so loudly that I was sure the man could hear it down the phone. My mouth turned as dry as one of Mum’s pasta bakes, and my knees wobbled into each other. I collapsed on to Margot’s duvet, and almost dropped the phone.
Margot paused her flight and turned to me. “Who is it?” she asked.
I put the phone on loudspeaker.
“Let me introduce myself,” said the man. “My name is Mr Harding.”
Margot choked. “Did he say Mr Harding?”
The caller chuckled. “Yes, I did. To whom am I speaking now?”
“Margot…” said Margot, her eyes full of suspicion.
“And me!” yelled Fabien, before adding, “Who’s Mr Harding?”
“The man with the island,” I sputtered.
Fabien squealed and bounced up like an excited puppy. “Mr Billionaire!”
“Yes, I’m Mr Billionaire,” the voice chuckled. “My assistant only handed me your letter today. I wasn’t sure whether I’d still be able to reach you on this number.”
“You … you read my letter?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. It was a very good letter, although I was sad to hear about your current predicament with your landlord,” he said.
This couldn’t be real. It had to be a joke, somebody from school playing tricks on us. Maybe it was Great-Uncle Stan with a voice distorter. It couldn’t really be Mr Billionaire, could it?