Once, a long time ago, there was a boy called Ben. He lived in a big, grey orphanage on the edge of a big, grey town, where the orphans ate grey food and wore grey clothes and went barefoot even in winter – which was miserable but also quite lucky, because if Ben had worn shoes, most of the things in this book would probably never have happened.
Every Sunday, the orphans were made to go for a long walk along the canal that ran through the town. And one Sunday, when he was four years old, Ben cut his foot on a piece of glass and it hurt so much that he stopped right in the middle of the towpath and began to cry. Now you might have thought the other orphans would stop for him, but the orphanage had strict rules about being late, and the orphans were scared of getting into trouble. They just carried on walking until Ben was quite alone except for one other orphan.
Sam was eleven years old, tough as the boots he didn’t have, and really couldn’t care less about trouble. In fact, the people who ran the orphanage said that, most of the time, Sam was the trouble.
‘Stop crying and show me your foot,’ he ordered. Ben, whose awe of Sam was absolute, did as he was told.
‘I’m going to pull the glass out,’ said Sam. ‘Are you brave?’
‘Yes,’ said Ben, then howled at the pain.
Sam grinned, threw away the glass and crouched down so Ben could climb on his back.
‘Jump on!’
They came to a bend in the canal. A new narrowboat had arrived, and a man sat in her hold, painting a lion on a wooden pub sign. Sam stopped to watch. Ben slid off his back and hopped to the edge of the water.
The boat was red and green, with her name, Sparrowhawk, painted in gold on a scarlet panel. Above the letters, a bird of prey flew, tough and graceful, orange eyes glinting and blue-grey wings outstretched. Ben reached out to touch it.
‘Careful you don’t fall in,’ said the man. ‘What happened to your foot?’
The man’s name was Nathan Langton. He walked with a stick, and he had a beard and a soft felt hat and an old dog called Bessie who farted a lot. He cleaned Ben’s foot and bandaged it, then gave the boys tea and let Ben play with his paints while Sam explored the boat.
After the boys had gone, Nathan sat for a long time on the edge of the canal, thinking.
The following day, he visited the orphanage to bring the boys a paintbox. He saw that Sam’s face was bruised from the beating he’d received for being late, and that the bandage on Ben’s foot had come off.
He went back to his boat and thought some more.
Ever since his leg was crushed between the Sparrowhawk and a boatyard quay, Nathan had earned his living by painting. Shop signs, pub signs, planters, pots … whatever people wanted painted, Nathan painted it. In fine weather, he worked outside in the hold. When it rained, he worked in the cabin.
‘Could do with a change, anyway,’ he muttered to himself.
He covered the hold with a sloping roof into which he cut two windows, he put in a door on to a small foredeck and laid a floor. He built a wooden bench with drawers beneath it for his clothes, a bookcase for his collection of Dickens novels, shelves for his pots and brushes, he put in a stove and set up an easel.
It was the first beautiful room Nathan had ever had, and he loved it.
After he had built the workshop, Nathan went to work on the cabin. When he had finished, he went shopping. And then he returned to the orphanage for the boys.
A month after Ben and Sam first visited the Sparrowhawk, they came back and called it home. In the cabin they found boots, soft with wear and almost the right size, socks to go with them, warm sweaters, trousers and jackets. Best of all, built into the wall one above the other, they each had their very own berth, Sam on top and Ben below. Nathan had painted their names on wooden panels hung above the pillows, with a bird for each of the boys – a quick bright kingfisher for Sam, a robin with a bandaged foot for Ben.
‘We can change it if you like, now your foot’s better,’ Nathan said.
But Ben adored the robin, just as he adored the Sparrowhawk.
Sam was freckled and sandy-haired and full of mischief. Ben was dark-haired, with big, grey eyes and a slow, shy smile. The two boys couldn’t have been more different, but they loved each other like brothers and they loved Nathan as a father. As the Sparrowhawk drove out of town in the morning sun, Ben hugged Bessie close and felt his heart swell fit to burst.