14

As nothing had ever been stolen before on the island left off the map of the world, it never crossed the harbormaster’s mind, or anyone else’s, that it was strange that the egg timer had disappeared. Everybody bent over backward to say that perhaps it had been forgotten, or that it had never been there in the first place. And, of course, it didn’t occur to the harbormaster that anything had happened to the sea dragon’s egg, for the hen’s egg was much the same size and color.

Mr. Tiger had known something was wrong the moment he’d woken up, for his tail twitched and his whiskers prickled him.

“Egg timers don’t go missing,” he growled to himself as he ate his breakfast at Mr. Glory’s café.

His pocket watch was of no use. The red rogue wind was wreaking havoc with its tick-tock timings. Perhaps, he thought, Betsy might have heard or seen something unusual. He was about to ask when he was distracted by Mum’s clicking knitting, which often ties tigers’ thoughts in tangles.

She cast off the final stitch.

“Put this on, Betsy,” she said.

Betsy did. Whatever it was supposed to be, it looked a mess. It was far too long, it was incredibly itchy, it went over her head and her face, and she couldn’t see where she was going. Worse still, she couldn’t hear a word of what was being said. Everyone sounded as if they were talking underwater. Betsy pulled down the headpiece.

“Mum,” she said. “This doesn’t fit.”

“It’s not meant to. Not yet,” said Mum.

“It looks perfectly well made,” Mr. Tiger purred. “I can’t see any dropped stitches.”

“There are none,” said Mum. “I made sure there were no holes.”

Not even Dad said a word about the garment not fitting or looking stupid.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we’d better get on with it.”

“On with what?” asked Betsy. “You don’t mean I have to go out in this?”

Dad nodded.

Betsy had no idea why anyone thought this was a good plan. Everyone would laugh at her.

Mr. Tiger picked up his walking stick, Dad sat Betsy on the edge of Mum’s tin bath, and they made a strange little procession as they went down to the quayside.

First, Dad helped Mum into the sea and then lifted Betsy off the tin bath.

“Wait a minute,” said Betsy. “If I go in the water wearing this, I’ll drown.”

“No, you won’t,” said Mum. “Pull it up—right over your head.”

Betsy was about to say a whole load of buts when she found herself being handed down to Mum and disappearing under the water.

Then something happened.

Something that Betsy couldn’t ever have imagined happening. The knitted garment that had been itchy and scratchy and too big began to shrink until it fitted her like skin.

All the stitches became translucent, and looking down, she realized that her legs were encased in a mermaid’s tail.

Mum beamed.

“You see?” she said. “I was just waiting for the right knitting needles.”

Usually when Betsy was underwater everything sounded strange and bubbly. Now it was tin-can clear.

Her vision underwater was as crystal sharp as if she were on land.

“Oh, crumble cakes,” said Betsy. “This is fantastic, Mum!”

It took Betsy a little time to swim like a mermaid and get used to the fact she didn’t have to go up for air.

We, the letters of the alphabet, would like to give a warning here and say that no such suit as the one that Betsy has can be found on the map of the world, and no one on the map of the world should try to do this. For a start, we doubt if their mothers are mermaids or if any of them have the right knitting needles.

On with the story.

Being underwater and not having to worry about goggles or breathing meant there was a whole glorious world that Betsy had never noticed before. The shells glimmered, the fish shimmered, and everyone knew Mum, even the shrimps.

“Is that your daughter?” said a seahorse. “Well, I never—she looks just like you.”

A dozing octopus woke and waved its tentacles as they swam past. “Oh, Myrtle, what a suit you have knitted. Will the dear darling be living here with us now?”

“No,” said Mum.

“Good to see you both,” said a turtle. “Have you heard the news?”

“What news?” said Mum.

“The news swimming toward you,” said the turtle.

And that was when they saw him: a merboy with bright blue hair.

“Aunty Myrtle,” he called. “It’s Floss—Floss Grimm, your nephew.”

“I know perfectly well who you are,” said Mum. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing here.”

Floss Grimm didn’t reply. He was staring at his cousin.

“Wow, Betsy—I’ve never seen a suit like that. You look terrific—you swim just like a mermaid.”