The White Horse of Zennor by Michael Morpurgo

pity. To begin with they over-burdened him with a false sweetness and paid him far too much loving attention; and then because he found the words difficult to spell and his handwriting was uneven and awkward, they began to assume, as many do, that one unnatural limb somehow infects the whole and turns a cripple into an idiot. Very soon he was dismissed by his teachers as unteachable and ignored thereafter.
    It did not help either that William was singularly un-childlike in his appearance. He had none of the cherubic innocence of a child; there was no charm about him, no redeeming feature. He was small for his age; but his face carried already the mark of years. His eyes were dark and deep-set, his features pinched and sallow. He walkedwith a stoop, dragging his foot behind him like a leaden weight. The world had taken him and shrivelled him up already. He looked permanently gaunt and hungry as he sat staring out of the classroom window at the heaving sea beyond the fields. A recluse was being born.
    On his way back from school that last summer, William tried to avoid the road as much as possible. Meetings always became confrontations, and there was never anyone who wanted to walk home with him. He himself wanted less and less to be with people. Once into the fields and out of sight of the road he would break into a staggering, ugly run, swinging out his twisted foot, straining to throw it forward as far as it would go. He would time himself across the field that ran down from the road to the hay barn, and then throw himself at last face down and exhausted into the sweet warmth of new hay. He had done this for a few days already and, according to his counting, his time was improving with each run. But as he lay there now panting in the hay he heard someone clapping high up in the haystack behind him. He sat up quickly and looked around. It was a face he knew, as familiar to himas the rocks in the fields around the farm, an old face full of deeply etched crevasses and raised veins, unshaven and red with drink. Everyone around the village knew Sam, or ‘Sam the Soak’ as he was called, but no-one knew much about him. He lived alone in a cottage in the churchtown up behind the Tinners’ Arms, cycling every day into St. Ives where he kept a small fishing boat and a few lobster pots. He was a fair-weather fisherman, with a ramshackle boat that only went to sea when the weather was set fair. Whenever there were no fish or no lobsters to be found, or when the weather was blowing up, he would stay on shore and drink. It was rumoured there had been some great tragedy in his life before he came to live at Zennor, but he never spoke of it so no-one knew for certain.
    â€˜A fine run, Billy,’ said Sam; his drooping eyes smiled gently. There was no sarcasm in his voice but rather a kind sincerity that William warmed to instantly.
    â€˜Better’n yesterday anyway,’ William said.
    â€˜You should swim, dear lad,’ Sam sat up and shook the hay out of his hair. He clambered down the haystack towards William, talking as he came. ‘If I had a foot likethat, dear lad, I’d swim. You’d be fine in the water, swim like the seals I shouldn’t wonder.’ He smiled awkwardly and ruffled William’s hair. ‘Got a lot to do. Hope you didn’t mind my sleeping awhile in your hay. Your father makes good hay, I’ve always said that. Well, I can’t stand here chatting with you, got a lot to do. And, by the by dear lad, I shouldn’t like you to think that I was drunk.’ He looked hard down at William and tweaked his ear. ‘You’re too young to know but there’s worse things can happen to a man than a twisted foot, Billy, dear lad. I drink enough, but it’s just enough and no more. Now you do as I say, go swimming. Once in the water you’ll be the equal of anyone.’
    â€˜But I can’t swim,’ said William. ‘My brothers can but I never learnt to.