On the front porch, Doug stood beside his grandfather, hoping to borrow some of that far sight, beyond the hills, some of the wanting to cry, some of the ancient joy. The smell of pipe tobacco and Tiger shaving tonic had to suffice. A top spun in his chest, now light, now dark, now moving his tongue with laughter, now filling his eyes with salt water.

He surveyed the lake of grass below, all the dandelions gone, a touch of rust in the trees, and the smell of Egypt blowing from the far east.

‘Think I’ll go eat me a doughnut and take me a nap,’ Doug said.

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Laid out in his bed at his own house next door with a powdered–sugar moustache on his upper lip, Doug contemplated sleep, which lurked around in his head and gently covered him with darkness.

A long way off, a band played a strange slow tune, full of muted brass and muffled drums.

Doug listened.

It was as if the faraway band had come out of a cave into full sunlight. Somewhere a mob of irritable blackbirds soared to become piccolos.

‘A parade!’ whispered Doug, and leapt out of bed, shaking away sleep and sugar.

The music got louder, slower, deeper, like an immense storm cloud full of lightning, darkening rooftops.

At the window, Douglas blinked.

For there on the lawn, lifting a trombone, was Charlie Woodman, his best friend at school, and Will Arno, Charlie’s pal, raising a trumpet, and Mr Wyneski, the town barber, with a boa–constrictor tuba and – wait!

Doug turned and ran through the house.

He stepped out on the porch.

Down among the band stood Grandpa with a French horn, Grandma with a tambourine, his brother Tom with a kazoo.

Everyone yelled, everyone laughed.

‘Hey,’ cried Doug. ‘What day is this?’

‘Why,’ Grandma cried, ‘your day, Doug!’

‘Fireworks tonight. The excursion boat’s waiting!’

‘For a picnic?’

‘Trip’s more like it.’ Mr Wyneski crammed on his cornflake–cereal straw hat. ‘Listen!’

The sound of a far boat wailed up from the lake shore.

‘March!’

Grandma shook her tambourine, Tom thrummed his kazoo, and the bright mob drew Doug off along the street with a dog pack yipping at their heels. Downtown, someone threw a torn telephone book off the Green Town Hotel roof. When the confetti hit the bricks the parade was gone.

At the lake shore fog moved on the water.

Far out, he could hear a foghorn’s mournful wail.

And a pure white boat loomed out of the fog and nudged the pier.

Doug stared. ‘How come that boat’s got no name?’

The ship’s whistle shrieked. The crowd swarmed, shoving Douglas to the gangplank.

‘You first, Doug!’

The band dropped a ton of brass and ten pounds of chimes with ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,’ as they thrust him on the deck, then leapt back on the dock.

Wham!

The gangplank fell.