Moominpappa at Sea (22 page)

‘You’re much too grown-up to show off like this, it’s unworthy of you. Is it really so important to you to
frighten a poor little island like this? It has a tough enough time right out here as it is. You ought to be happy that it’s here. What fun would you have without its rocks to wash your breakers over? Think carefully, now! Here’s a little tuft of trees, growing all bent for your sake. And a handful of scanty soil which you do your best to wash away, and a few rugged rocks which you polish so smooth that there’s hardly anything left of them. And then you’ve the nerve to frighten them!’

Moominpappa leaned forward and stared sternly at the fuming sea. ‘There’s something you don’t seem to understand,’ he said. ‘It’s your job to look after this island. You should protect and comfort it instead of behaving as you do. Do you understand?’ Moominpappa listened, but the sea made no answer.

‘You’ve tried it on with us, too,’ he said. ‘You’ve pestered us in every way you can, but it hasn’t worked. We’re getting along somehow, in spite of you. I’ve learned to understand you, and that’s what you don’t like, do you? And we haven’t given up, have we? By the way,’ Moominpappa continued, ‘to be perfectly fair, it was jolly decent of you to give us that crate of whisky. I know why you did, you know when you’re beaten, don’t you? But to get your own back by taking it out of the island was a petty thing to do. Now, I’m only saying all this because – well – because I like you.’

Moominpappa was silent. He felt tired, and leaned back against the cliff and waited. The sea said nothing. But a large shiny plank of wood was drifting towards the shore, bobbing up and down on the waves.

Moominpappa regarded it excitedly.

There was another one, and another and another. Someone had thrown a whole boat-load of them overboard.

He climbed up the cliff and started to run, laughing to himself. The sea was saying it was sorry. It wanted them to stay. It wanted to help them to go on building on the island. It wanted them to settle down there and
enjoy themselves although they were surrounded by a vast, never-changing horizon closing in on them.

‘Come outside, all of you!’ he shouted up the winding staircase. ‘Driftwood! Lots of it! Come and help me to salvage it!’

The whole family came tumbling out.

The planks drifted towards the leeward side of the island, carried along by the heaving swell. In no time at all they would drift on past the island. They would have to be quick. They threw themselves into the sea, unconscious of the cold water. Perhaps they had some pirate blood in their veins that made them plunge in like that, the spirit of some ancestor out for ill-gotten gains seemed to possess them. They seemed to be throwing off the melancholy of the island and the loneliness of the sea as they went in and out of the water, carrying and stacking the planks and shouting to each other over the roar of the waves. The sky above them was still sparkling and cloudless.

It’s an exciting job trying to manoeuvre a two-inch plank ashore. It’s unmanageable and heavy with water, and can so easily get away and then hit you with the force of a battering-ram when it is carried in by the next wave. Then it is really dangerous.

And when it is lying on the beach out of the sea’s reach it becomes treasure-trove. Shining and with the warm colour of old tar, it lies at your feet, and you can read the owner’s mark at one end. With the proud satisfaction of the conqueror you begin to think of three-inch nails and the sound of them being hammered in.

‘The wind must be at least force nine now!’ cried Moominpappa. He took a deep breath and looked at the sea. ‘Good!’ he said. ‘Now we’re even!’

When all the planks were piled up on the beach, the family went home to make some fish-soup. Like a living force the storm continued to rage, and Little My could only just keep on her feet.

Moominmamma stopped when she came to her garden, now hidden under a mass of branches. She got down on her knees and looked underneath them.

‘Is the apple tree coming up?’ Moomintroll asked.

‘I’m not quite as stupid as all that!’ said Moominmamma with a laugh. ‘I just thought it needed a little encouragement, that’s all.’

She looked at her withered rose-bushes and thought: ‘How silly of me to put them there! But there are plenty, the island is full of them, and anyway, wild
flowers are even more beautiful than garden flowers, perhaps.’

Moominpappa had dragged a few planks up the stairs and got out his tool-box. ‘I know wood shrinks when it dries,’ he said. ‘But I can’t wait. You don’t mind if there are a few cracks in the kitchen shelves, do you?’

‘Not at all,’ said Moominmamma. ‘Go ahead. Hammer away while you feel like it!’

She had painted nothing that day. Instead she had made a few little sticks to support the flowers and tidied up the desk. She had even tidied up the lighthouse-keeper’s drawer. Moomintroll was sitting at the table drawing. He knew exactly what his little house should look like. There wasn’t a great deal left of the indelible pencil, but somehow he felt sure that the sea would wash one ashore when needed.

Towards evening they all felt a little tired and didn’t say much to each other. Inside, it was very peaceful. They could hear the sea thundering rhythmically round the island, and the sky was as white as if it had been newly washed. Little My had fallen asleep on the stove.

Moominmamma gave them a quick look and walked over to her mural. She pressed her paws against the trunk of the apple tree. Nothing happened. It was only a wall, just an ordinary plaster wall.

‘I just wanted to know,’ thought Moominmamma. ‘I was right. Of course I can’t get into this garden any more. I’m not homesick now.’

At dusk Moomintroll went to fill the hurricane lamp.

The can of paraffin was underneath the stairs with a pile of torn nets. He put a tin under the hole in the top and took out the stopper. When he lifted the can it rattled, making a strange echoing sound. He held it over the tin and waited. He shook the can.

Then he put it down and stood staring at the floor for a moment. There was no more paraffin. It was finished. The lamp had been burning every night in the room upstairs and every night it had shone for the Groke. Apart from that Little My had poured several pints over the ants. What was he to do? What would the Groke say? He daren’t think how disappointed she would be. He sat on the stairs with his nose in his paws.

He felt as though he had let her down.

‘Are you absolutely certain the whole can’s empty?’ Moominmamma asked, giving the lamp a good shake.

They had finished their tea, and the windows were getting dark.

‘Quite empty,’ said Moomintroll wretchedly.

‘It must be leaking,’ said Moominpappa. ‘Perhaps it’s getting rusty. It’s impossible that we’ve used all that paraffin.’

Moominmamma sighed. ‘Now we shall have to manage with the light of the fire in the stove,’ she said. ‘There are only three candles left and I must put them on the fisherman’s birthday cake.’ She put some more wood on the fire and left the door of the stove open.

The fire crackled cheerfully, and the family pulled the boxes in a small semi-circle round it. From time to time the storm whistled in the chimney. It was a lonely, melancholy sound.

‘I wonder what’s happening outside?’ said Moominmamma.

‘I can tell you,’ Moominpappa answered. ‘The island is going to bed. I can assure you that it’s going to bed and will go to sleep at about the same time as we do.’

Moominmamma laughed a little. Then she said thoughtfully: ‘Do you know, all the time we’ve been living here like this, I’ve had the feeling that we’re on an expedition somewhere. Everything is so different all the time, as if it was Sunday every day. I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s a good feeling after all.’

The others waited for her to go on.

‘Of course we can’t always be on an expedition. It has to come to an end sometime. I’m terribly afraid that it will suddenly feel like Monday again and then I shan’t be able to feel that any of this has been real…’ She was silent and looked at Moominpappa a little hesitatingly.

‘But of course it’s real,’ said Moominpappa, amazed.
‘And it’s fine to feel that it’s always Sunday. It’s just that feeling that we had lost.’

‘What
are
you talking about?’ asked Little My.

Moomintroll stretched his legs. He had a feeling too, all over. He could only think of the Groke. ‘I think I’ll go outside for a while,’ he said.

The others looked at him.

‘I want a breath of fresh air,’ he said impatiently. ‘I can’t sit here stewing any longer. I need some exercise.’

‘Now, listen,’ Moominpappa began, but Moominmamma said: ‘All right, go outside if you feel like it.’

‘What’s come over him?’ asked Moominpappa when Moomintroll had gone.

‘It’s growing pains,’ said Moominmamma. ‘He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with him either. You never seem to realize that he’s growing up. You seem to think he’s still a little boy.’

‘Of course he’s still quite small,’ said Moominpappa, somewhat surprised.

Moominmamma laughed and poked the fire. It was really much nicer than candlelight.

The Groke sat waiting on the beach. Moomintroll came towards her without the hurricane lamp. He stopped by the boat and looked at her. There was nothing he could do for her.

He could hear the beating of the island’s heart, and the sound of the stones and the trees moving slowly away from the sea. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

Suddenly the Groke started to sing. Her skirts fluttered as she swayed to and fro, stamping on the sand and doing her best to show him that she was pleased to see him.

Moomintroll moved forwards in amazement. There was no doubt about it, the Groke was pleased to see him. She didn’t mind about the hurricane lamp. She was delighted that he had come to meet her.

He stood quite still until she had finished her dance. Then he watched her shuffle off down the beach and disappear. He went and felt the sand where she had stood. It wasn’t frozen hard at all, but felt the same as it always did. He listened carefully, but all he could hear was the breakers. It was as if the island had suddenly fallen asleep.

He went back home. The others were already in bed, and there were only a few glowing embers in the stove. He crept into bed and curled up.

‘What did she say?’ asked Little My.

‘She was pleased,’ Moomintroll whispered back. ‘She didn’t notice any difference.’

On the fisherman’s birthday the sky was just as clear and the storm was blowing just as hard.

‘Wake up!’ said Moominpappa. ‘Everything’s all right again.’

Moominmamma stuck her nose out from under the blankets. ‘I know,’ she said.

‘No you don’t!’ cried Moominpappa proudly. ‘The island’s calmed down, it’s not afraid any more! The
bushes have gone back to their proper places, and the trees will, too, as soon as they can. Well, what do you say to that?’

‘Oh, how wonderful,’ said Moominmamma, sitting up. ‘It would have been very difficult to have a proper birthday party with lots of trees getting in the way all the time. Think of the dirt they would have brought in with them, too!’ She thought for a moment and then added: