The Missing Boat

The next morning, a notice in the library window said MISSING BOAT. Underneath was a photograph of a little ferry with a white roof and an amber lamp at the front.

“Our egg,” said Sami.

A girl with a smear of paint on her sleeve was sitting at the reading table. Her name was Bente. Her grandad was collecting empty coffee cups in a crate. On the table stood a wooden board painted with a blue river. There was a dusty rectangle in the middle.

“That's where it goes,” Bente said. “For the exhibition this afternoon. Grandad used to work on the real ferry.”

The model was about as long as Noor's forearm. Bente had painted the windows and made tiny passengers. Her grandad had fitted a lamp powered by two batteries.

“We tried it out at the landing stage yesterday,” she told them. “It floated perfectly. But the string wasn't tied to the landing stage properly.”

Her grandad had gone home for his long boat hook. By the time he got back, the model had drifted into the reeds. Bente had searched along the path until it was dark.

“I saw it!” Noor put her receipt beside the photograph. “Near the bridge. And there was something red on top.”

Bente sat up. “The boots! I glued them to the roof, as if someone had left them there to dry. Only I made two left boots by mistake.”

“That settles it,” said Sami. “A fish would only need one.”

Bente laughed, but then looked back at the empty river. “Grandad thinks it's drifted towards the lock.”

Outside, her grandad was waiting with the boat hook. Noor showed him exactly where the light had been. He looked from the bridge to the lock, which lay in the opposite direction.

“Then we'll try over there first,” he said.

They phoned Noor's dad to explain where they were going. Sami tightened the straps around the book bag. This time he was carrying a crate with a towel in it too. For a boat, Noor hoped.