The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman Page A

practical jokes on my sister and me, of the apple-pie-bed variety, which left us baffled. Eventually we had marched outside the house with placards saying ‘We hate Gertruda’ and ‘We do not like Gertruda’s cooking’, and put tiny frogs in her bed, and she had gone back to Sweden.
    I took a book and went out into the garden.
    It was a warm spring day, and sunny, and I climbed up a rope ladder to the lowest branch of the big beech tree, sat on it, and read my book. I was not scared of anything when I read my book: I was far away, in ancient Egypt, learning about Hathor, and how she had stalked Egypt in the form of a lioness, and killed so many people that the sands of Egypt turned red, and how they had only defeated her by mixing beer and honey and sleeping draughts, and dying this concoction red, so she thought it was blood, and she drank it, and fell asleep. Ra, the father of the gods, made her the goddess of love after that, so the wounds she had inflicted on people would now only be wounds of the heart.
    I wondered why the gods had done that. Why they hadn’t just killed her, when they had the chance.
    I liked myths. They weren’t adult stories and they weren’t children’s stories. They were better than that. They just
were
.
    Adult stories never made sense, and they were so slow to start. They made me feel like there were secrets, masonic, mythic secrets, to adulthood. Why didn’t adults want to read about Narnia, about secret islands and smugglers and dangerous fairies?
    I was getting hungry. I climbed down from my tree, and went to the back of the house, past the laundry room that smelled of laundry soap and mildew, past the little coal and wood shed, past the outside toilet where the spiders hung and waited, wooden doors painted garden green. In through the back door, along the hallway and into the kitchen.
    My mother was in there with a woman I had never seen before. When I saw her, my heart hurt. I mean that literally, not metaphorically: there was a momentary twinge in my chest, just a flash, and then it was gone.
    My sister was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal.
    The woman was very pretty. She had shortish honey-blond hair, huge grey-blue eyes, and pale lipstick. She seemed tall, even for an adult.
    ‘Darling? This is Ursula Monkton,’ said my mother. I said nothing. I just stared at her. My mother nudged me.
    ‘Hello,’ I said.
    ‘He’s shy,’ said Ursula Monkton. ‘I am certain that once he warms up to me we shall be great friends.’ She reached out a hand and patted my sister’s mousy-brown hair. My sister smiled a gap-toothed smile.
    ‘I like you
so
much,’ my sister said. Then she said, to our mother and me, ‘When I grow up I want to be Ursula Monkton.’
    My mother and Ursula laughed. ‘You little dear,’ said Ursula Monkton. Then she turned to me. ‘And what about us, eh? Are we friends as well?’
    I just looked at her, all grown-up and blonde, in her grey and pink dress, and I was scared.
    Her dress wasn’t ragged. It was just the fashion of the thing, I suppose, the kind of dress that it was. But when I looked at her, I imagined her dress flapping, in that windless kitchen, flapping like the mainsail of a ship, on a lonely ocean, under an orange sky.
    I don’t know what I said in reply, or if I even said anything. But I went out of that kitchen, although I was hungry, without even an apple.
    I took my book into the back garden, beneath the balcony, by the flower bed under the television-room window, and I read – forgetting my hunger in Egypt with animal-headed gods who cut each other up and then restored one another to life again.
    My sister came out into the garden.
    ‘I like her so much,’ she told me. ‘She’s my friend. Do you want to see what she gave me?’ She produced a small grey purse, the kind my mother kept in her handbag for her coins, that fastened with a metal butterfly clip. It looked like it was made of leather. I wondered if it was