The Silver Star

The Night Ship

Adventures only happened in storybooks, films or on TV. Okay, sometimes adventures happened in real life. But when they did, they never happened to Samuel Ferris – and never would, he was certain of it. Danger and excitement, he decided, would never come closer than the vivid, action-packed posters smothering every millimetre of his bedroom walls.

Sam sighed. He was bored. Really, really bored. Stretching out a hand, he flicked his bedside clock round to read the time on the luminous dial.

"11:46!" he whined.

"Yes, and high time you were asleep, young man,” Mum complained, striding past his bedroom door with an armful of washing. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

"Don’t remind me,” Sam moaned, “maybe that’s why I can’t sleep.”

"Try counting sheep.”

"Sheep!" he jeered, scowling. "Sheep are for infants.”

"It’s only a suggestion,” said Mum, placing the folded washing in the linen cupboard on the landing. She jabbed a long blond curl over her ear, shut the cupboard door and shook her head in mild despair. Sam’s sleepless nights had been a problem for most of his life. And after nearly twelve years, it felt like they’d been a problem for most of hers too. "Why don’t you try counting something you like – robots, dragons, pirate ships?”

"Okay,” Sam grumbled half-heartedly. “I’ll have a go.”

Pulling the star-patterned duvet over his head, he tried counting robots. A keen sci-fi fan, Sam owned more than his fair share of toy robots (and unfinished robot kits), most of which lay scattered untidily around his bedroom. Keen as he was, he soon discovered counting them inside his head wasn''t as easy as it sounded. They kept walking into each other and falling over or flashing their eyes and running out of batteries. So he started again, using dragons instead. This worked perfectly - until dragon number 22 sneezed and roasted dragon number 21. Then a huge fight broke out and most of the dragons flew away sizzling like a panful of frying sausages.

"This isn''t going to work,” Sam groaned.

"Have you tried pirate ships yet?" asked Mum, from his bedroom doorway.

"I don’t like pirates, Mum,” retorted Sam, "you know that.”

"I didn''t say pirates, did I?" she replied. "I said pirate ships. There doesn''t have to be anyone on board, does there?”

"Suppose not.”

"Come on Sam, use your imagination,” Mum urged. "Think of what it must have been like to explore the seven seas with the wind in your sails, the Jolly Roger flapping from the ship''s mast –“

"Oh, good grief,” muttered Sam, as Mum went off into the realms of fantasy. He slid the duvet back over his head while Mum continued describing how wonderful she thought a life at sea must have been. Like she knew! Unlike Dad - a marine conservationist. Not that Dad ever discussed the sea or his work when he came home, which wasn’t very often. Then again, Sam never asked. He was too busy with his mechanical kits to bother with fish stories.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sam tried again. Breathing slowly, he concentrated hard. (Something which proved quite difficult to do with his Mum still nattering away). But eventually, it worked.

Somewhere above him, his mother’s chatty voice softened into the sound of rushing waves, the flap of sails, the strain of ropes and rigging, the creak of a wheel and the piercing shriek of seagulls circling a towering mast. And surely that had to be the tang of seaweed, oak barrels, fish and tarred wood he could taste on the salty air. Certainly, he could feel the wind ruffling his wavy fair hair and see the occasional waft of sea spray sparkling in the sunshine like a billion miniscule diamonds.

"Goodnight,” Mum whispered.

Sam didn''t answer.

She bent down, carefully tucked the duvet under his chin and kissed his forehead. Normally Sam wouldn''t let her do this. Nearly a year ago, on his eleventh birthday, he’d made it perfectly clear he was