The Ocean at the End of the Lane: A Novel

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 hadn’t they 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-blonde hair, huge gray-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 mousey-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 gray and pink skirt, 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 that grew beneath 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 gray 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 mouse skin. She opened the purse, put her fingers into the opening, came out with a large silver coin: half a crown.
    “Look!” she said. “Look what I got!”
    I wanted a half a crown. No, I wanted what I could buy with half a crown—magic tricks and plastic joke-toys, and books, and, oh, so many things. But I did not want a little gray purse with a half a crown in it.
    “I don’t like her,” I told my sister.
    “That’s only because I saw her first,” said my sister. “She’s my friend.”
    I did not think that Ursula Monkton was anybody’s friend. I wanted to go and warn Lettie Hempstock about her—but what could I say? That the new housekeeper-nanny wore gray and pink? That she looked at me oddly?
    I wished I had never let go of Lettie’s hand. Ursula Monkton was my fault, I was certain of it, and I would not be able to get rid of her by flushing her down a plug hole, or putting frogs in her bed.
    I should have left then, should have run away, fled down the lane the mile or so to the Hempstocks’ farm, but I didn’t, and then a taxi took my mother away to Dicksons Opticians, where she would show people letters through lenses, and help them see more clearly, and I was left there with Ursula Monkton.
    She came out into the