Blow Out the Moon Read online

  Copyright © 2004 by Libby Koponen

  All rights reserved.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  The Little, Brown and Company and the logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group.

  First eBook Edition: July 2007

  ISBN: 978-0-316-02573-7

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One: News

  Chapter Two: Telling Henry

  Chapter Three: Two Tea Parties

  Chapter Four: “Bon Voyage!”

  Chapter Five: “Will You Miss Me?”

  Chapter Six: The Liberté

  Chapter Seven: In London

  Chapter Eight: St. Vincent’s School

  Chapter Nine: One Good Thing

  Chapter Ten: Writing to Henry

  Chapter Eleven: Another Good Thing

  Chapter Twelve: The Dolls

  Chapter Thirteen: Something Big

  Chapter Fourteen: Sibton Park

  Chapter Fifteen: Talking to a Real Horse

  Chapter Sixteen: Manners and Matron

  Chapter Seventeen: Lessons

  Chapter Eighteen: Mo, Brioney, and Tuppence

  Chapter Nineteen: Bubby and Bubbité

  Chapter Twenty: Sunday

  Chapter Twenty-one: My First Riding Lesson

  Chapter Twenty-two: May 16th

  Chapter Twenty-three: “That Was My Father’s Legion”

  Chapter Twenty-four: After Lights Out

  Chapter Twenty-five: “Going Home Tomorrow!”

  Chapter Twenty-six: At the Vicarage

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Back at Sibton

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Trying

  Chapter Twenty-nine: Little Women

  Chapter Thirty: Guy Fawkes

  Chapter Thirty-one: Food for a Feast

  Chapter Thirty-two: The Midnight Feast

  Chapter Thirty-three: Drawing In

  Chapter Thirty-four: Marza, a Great Lady

  Chapter Thirty-five: Riding on the Downs

  Chapter Thirty-six: “God Save the Queen!”

  Chapter Thirty-seven: Going Home

  Epilogue

  To anyone who has read this book:

  Acknowledgments

  This book is based on a true story, but some of the real things had been lost by the time we were doing the pictures. So other people made substitutes: Alex White drew the ocean liner card; other children, whose parents wanted their names kept private, made fortune catchers and played cat’s cradle and let the pictures be printed — and the author and publisher thank them. Marza’s daughter gave us permission to use the pictures from later Sibton Park school catalogs: thank you, Barbara Service. Thanks also to Kevin R. Tam for the photographs of the France and the Liberte; BBC Wales Capture Wales and Daniel Meadows, photographer, for the Wellingtons; Jim Gaston for the pens; and Charles Owen & Company, headwear manufacturer, for the English riding hat. All used with permission. Special thanks to Miranda Hickox, who edited an early version of this story when she was nine and read it again and again after that.

  When the author says something is real, it is. The dolls and their tea set, all the letters and stories and school compositions, the Sibton Park clothes list, and the quote from the catalog are real. So are the photographs she took of her friends at Sibton Park and the horse in the field. She took the picture of the window in London later, but it’s the same window. The author’s father, Arthur Koponen, took the pictures of her reading, all the family photographs, and the paddock steps with Sibton Park in the background.

  Some people may be curious about the illustrations from old books: they are real too. The artists were Arthur Rackham (Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens), Kay Nielsen (“East of the Sun and West of the Moon”), Edmund Evans from a design by “Phiz” (“Hansel and Gretel”) and H. P. Thorpe (Pride and Prejudice).

  The author thanks Megan Tingley for her perceptive comments and strong support, Christine Cuccio for good judgement and a major save, Billy Kelly for the beautiful fonts and layout, Renee Gelman, for making it such a beautiful book, and Alvina Ling, who believed in the book from the beginning and read it all over and over, without ever losing her enthusiasm or her temper. Thank you, Alvina.

  To my mother, Sally Rumble Koponen, who always encouraged me to write and saved all my stories — even when we moved.

  Chapter One:

  News

  I’ll start the story one fall afternoon, when I had been sent home from my friend Henry’s house.

  “I suppose you were the ringleader, Libby?” his mother had said. She usually said that when we got caught doing something; I thought of it as a compliment. It wasn’t meant to be one, I know, but the word made me think of the circus.

  Henry stuck up for me: He said he’d wanted to see how much noise we could make, too, and so had everyone else. I’m glad he said that. His mother probably would have sent everyone home anyway, not just me, but it was still a good thing to say.

  The air was colder on the way home, and the sky was orange at the edges and pale in the middle. But there was still time to play outside before dinner, maybe enough time for other people to come over.

  I ran the rest of the way. When I opened our door, my father was there, talking to my sister Emmy. He looked excited.

  “I’m home early because it’s a special occasion,” he said, but he wouldn’t say why, even when Emmy asked in a cute way.

  “Daddy!” I said. (I never try to act cute.) “You shouldn’t have said anything if you weren’t going to tell us. It’s not fair.” But that just made him laugh more. “At least give us a hint.”

  “It’s something that will be a big change for all of us — especially you and Emmy. No more questions. We’re eating soon, and I’ll tell you at the table.”

  When dinner was ready, Emmy turned out the lights and I lit the candles (Emmy and I take turns doing that), while our little brother and sister got in their places.

  It WAS a special dinner: lasagna! We ate while our parents talked: we’re not allowed to talk unless one of them asks us a question. This is a rule most families don’t have, I know. We have it because my father says “adult conversation is very important.” He says most people stop talking to each other when they’re married, and he doesn’t want that to happen to him and my mother.

  So they, mostly my father, talk, and sometimes I listen and sometimes I don’t; that night, I listened even to some of the really boring things, but I still didn’t find out what the news was.

  Emmy and Willy, who sit next to each other, were doing something on their laps — passing something back and forth, I think. I couldn’t see what. Willy was giggling, though. Bubby played with her food. I wrote on the table. This is kind of a strange habit, I guess, but I like to do it. I hold my pointer finger between my thumb and my middle finger, as though my finger is a pencil, and then I write with it.

  My father saw me doing it.

  “It’s too bad no one will ever read all the great novels Libby’s written on the dining room table,” he said. (He knows I want to be a writer when I grow up — everyone who knows me knows that!) Then he and my mother laughed.

  I didn’t. Emmy didn’t laugh, either. We didn’t make a face at each other — those kinds of faces count as talking — but we both hate it when he’s sarcastic. Grown-ups are never funny when they say sarcastic things, and I wish they wouldn’t do it, especially to children. Of course, I didn’t say that. I wrote it on the table, though.

  Finally, he said he would tell us the news.

  “We’re moving to England for six months. I’ve been transferred t
o the London office of J. Walter Thompson. They wanted me to go alone, and come back for a visit after three months, but I said, ‘No, I want to bring my family with me.’ So we’re all going.”

  He said that he would go first, and my mother would bring us over on an ocean liner, and he’d find a place for us to live in London and a school for Emmy and me — and maybe Willy, too.

  “English schools are different,” he said. “It will be an interesting experience for you.”

  The Liberté’s maiden voyage into New York. (You can see the New York skyline in the background.)

  I was still trying to imagine an ocean liner.

  “Will we be on the ship for a long time? Will it have a gangplank and portholes?” I said.

  “Five nights. You’ll sleep in cabins with portholes and bunk beds,” he said (Emmy and I have always wanted bunk beds). “You and Emmy will be in one cabin, Mommy and Willy and Bubby in the one next door. It’s a famous ocean liner called the Liberté.”

  “Like Libby!” I said.

  “Liberté is French for ‘liberty.’ You’ll have a wonderful time on the ship — there are all kinds of things for children to do.”

  He said that in a few years “that form of travel” wouldn’t exist, and how he wanted us to “have the experience.” He couldn’t take the boat with us because there wasn’t time, but on the way home, we’d all go on one together.

  He talked about ocean liners for a long time: I pictured wind and ladies in long dresses going up the gangplank and the sound of a foghorn. Being on one did seem pretty exciting.

  That night, when Emmy and I were having our bath, I tried to figure out how something that big, and made of metal, could float.

  “I just don’t understand why it doesn’t sink,” I said. I had brought a little iron horse of mine into the tub with us.

  “Look — even this little horse goes straight to the bottom every time. And Daddy said the boat is bigger than Great Oak Lane.”

  I thought about it more in bed, while I was listening to the cars go by. I like falling asleep to those sounds: first the engine from far away getting closer and louder — it sounds lonely and adventurous from far away, then loud and exciting when the lights sweep the room. But no matter how much I thought about it, I still couldn’t understand how a huge boat made out of metal could float.

  And then I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in another country. I put my feet up on the wall at the head of the bed, and my hands behind my head, and thought. I couldn’t picture it at all (except for London Bridge, which I imagined as arching over a river, with little towerlike houses on it). But even though I didn’t know exactly what it would be like, it felt exciting — a real adventure, not a made-up one, that I’d be in myself.

  Chapter Two:

  Telling Henry

  The first thing I thought of when I woke up was telling my friends: especially The Gang and Henry. The Gang is Peg and Pat (twins), Kenny, Emmy, and I. We’ve known each other almost all our lives, and we always walk to school together. We meet at Peg and Pat’s.

  That day was like fall and summer at the same time. The light was pale, there were dead leaves on the sidewalk, but my new school clothes felt itchy and hot by the time we got to Peg and Pat’s (we ran).

  As usual, Kenny was there first, waiting, and Peg and Pat weren’t ready: Mrs. Tampone was still brushing Pat’s hair. Pat’s hair is long and shiny and black. It never looks messy — no matter what we do, it stays shining and in place. Even her part always stays straight! Pat’s face always looks clean, too, even when we’ve been playing outside all day — not like ours. (I once heard my mother say, sighing, to another mother, “My children all have that pinky-white skin that looks dirty so quickly.”)

  Pat wriggled and made faces — her mother shook her head and smiled at me, probably because I was the only one watching.

  “Do you do that when your mother brushes your hair?” she said. My mother never brushes my hair. I do it myself; she’s busy with Willy and Bubby in the morning. But I didn’t answer — it was none of Mrs. Tampone’s business, anyway.

  While Peg was brushing their dog’s hair, Kenny kept trying to grab the brush, and Peg told Emmy to tickle him, and she did. Duke jumped up at Kenny, barking hysterically.

  “Lib, help!” Kenny shouted (between laughs). “Two girls and a dog against me!”

  “Neighborly love, neighborly love, “Pat sang (she always sings this when two friends are fighting — when two sisters are fighting, she sings, “sisterly love, sisterly love”).

  Finally the twins were ready and we ran out and Mrs. Tampone closed the door and I could say, “Guess what? — Emmy, don’t tell!”

  “You’re going to be allowed to play outside after dinner,” Kenny said. All the other guesses were just as wrong and I didn’t waste much time on that.

  “We’re moving to England for six months! Our whole family! And we’re going over on an ocean liner called the Liberté — on one of the last voyages that ship will ever make.”

  “And we’ll go to an English school where we might have to wear a uniform because all the English kids will wear one,” Emmy said.

  “Do you think they’ll like you?” Pat said.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” I said.

  “Maybe they’ll say” (here, she kind of stuck her nose in the air and made a face), “ ‘Uh, American girls!’ ”

  “They’ll probably like us,” I said. “And if they don’t, who cares? Come on — let’s run!”

  I wanted to tell Henry.

  At the playground, we split up as usual (at school, we play with kids in our own classes). I looked around the playground for Henry: The paved part was full of little kids and girls. Two in my class were turning a long jump rope and shouting:

  “All in toGETHER girls!

  How do you like the WEATHer girls!

  JANuary! FEBruary …” while other girls jumped into the game.

  I like some of the rhymes, but I don’t play much jump rope. At school, I usually play with the boys. I ran to the back of the playground, where most of them were, and that’s where Henry was — he gave me a huge wave. I waved back as hard as I could (I really, really like Henry) and ran over.

  He was in the middle of a fast dodgeball game. When no one caught it, the ball hit the fence really hard: so hard that the old metal fence shook and squeaked. I watched until the ball came close enough, then jumped up and got it. I threw it to Henry and said, “Can I play?”

  “Sure,” Henry said (to me). And then to the others: “She can be on my team.”

  “Girls don’t play dodgeball!” a boy I’d never seen before said.

  “She does; she’s good,” Henry said.

  I ran in next to him, and when that boy threw the ball straight at me, hard (it hurt my stomach), I caught it and held it and he was out. I threw low and hard, but I didn’t get anyone else out until just before the bell rang and we had to go in. Henry and I walked together.

  “I saw that last catch you made,” he said, smiling.

  “My family is moving to England,” I said. “We’re going on an ocean liner — for six months.”

  His smile went away fast and he didn’t say anything at first. Then: “Six months,” he said, frowning. “That means you’ll be gone until almost the end of the year.”

  When he said that, it felt like we would be GONE. That sounds silly. (It IS silly: Of course, if we were going, we would be gone!) But it was still surprising: Before, I hadn’t thought much about being gone, just about going — the adventure of it.

  “That is a pretty long time,” I said.

  I thought about what it would be like to be away from him and everyone else (like The Gang!) while we walked into the school and up the stairs and to our desks — in opposite corners of the classroom.

  They were in opposite corners because the teacher separated us at the very beginning of the year: She put him at the front left desk and me at the back right one. But we can still tell each
other things. Once, when the teacher said everyone would have partners for a class trip, Henry turned around in his seat and eagerly stretched out his hand to me with a big smile. I knew that meant, “Will you be my partner?” and of course, I nodded.

  I was thinking about that when the final bell rang. Miss Jessup stood up and looked at all of us. She has a puffy face like the kind of dog that has drooping flaps for cheeks and sad eyes. When everyone was looking at her, she said, “Good morning, class. I will now call the roll.”

  Just as she finished, I thought of something — and since she was already facing the flag, and we were pushing our chairs back to stand up, I could signal it to Henry right away, if he looked back at me. He did, but before I could act it out, we had to look serious for the Pledge of Allegiance.

  It IS kind of serious, to me. I looked at the flag, put my right hand over my heart, and said:

  I pledge allegiance

  to the flag

  of the United States of America.

  And to the Republic

  for which it stands,

  one nation

  under God,

  indivisible,

  with liberty and justice for all.

  Liberty! I like saying that. I wish Libby were short for “liberty” instead of Elizabeth. And it was a great name for a ship, too.

  The morning went by even more slowly than usual: She passed out workbooks, snapping each one down as though it was a card she was dealing in an exciting hand, and while we worked, she watched us. She said, “Libby, I don’t see you marking your paper.”

  Someone else wasn’t doing his work, either — Miss Jessup said, “David, you won’t find any answers staring out that window.”

  I looked out — the windows went all the way up to the ceiling, but there was nothing to see: just blank blue sky, and the blinds. The blinds were rolled up, flapping (they sounded like sails) in the same little wind that rustled the papers on Miss Jessup’s desk and lifted some of the girls’ hair.

  At school, time goes by so slowly! I looked up at the clock: It’s very old-fashioned. The numbers are Roman numerals, and the hands have pointed tips like valentine arrows. The minute hand doesn’t move invisibly, as it does on most clocks — it stays still and then every few minutes jumps ahead (to the new time) with a low whirring sound.