Windrush

Ione Knight, 10

Rhodes Avenue Primary School, London

In the middle of the ocean a ship roared through the crystal clear waves. On the bow a girl was writing in her diary inhaling the smell of vanilla and rolling sand dunes from the pages.

Dear diary,

Today is my fifth day on The Windrush. Everything is so different now. Mama and Papa say this is our chance but I am not so sure. “Asha,“ they say , “ We will earn money so we can visit Grandfather.” As I sit here now many others surround me and I miss the quiet of our little village and the rich roasted coffee that Grandfather always makes early in the morning.

I miss Yanka, my best friend in the whole world. She stayed behind in her tiny orphanage the last I saw of her, a speck far away. I miss the bouncy Ms Abby who sold pomegranates in the dusty village square and always pressed tiny oranges into my hand.

But most of all I miss Grandfather and his paintings of wildflowers and pieces of driftwood from the bay. Grandfather once even found a small pebble size piece of jet which he carved into the shape of a rose and gave to me.

Now as I sit here I finger it slowly wishing I could be back with Grandfather, Yanka and sweet Ms Abby. They each gave me parting gifts when I left and each one I treasure in my heart. Yanka, kind, dear Yanka gave me a speckled feather from the tiny chicken coop in the village square. If I used Papa’s favourite ink pot, I could pretend I was a rich lady with ink and a quill. Ms Abby gave me a tiny paper bag full of dry fruit like oranges and lemons that should last the whole trip to London.

I try to remember the song a rich lord had hummed once when visiting from London. Lord Albert I think his name was. Oranges and Lemons say the Bells of St Clemens. Yes! That was it. Quietly, I whistle it now. Grandfather taught me how to whistle.

Ah Grandfather, how I miss you. He gave me a healing necklace of aquamarine so I would always be in good health.

Farewell for now,

Asha x

The girl on the bow closed her diary slipping all her trinkets into the diary’s spine and closing the book for maybe the last time. Her hand reached for a small paper bag but as she did so her diary slipped from her grasp and fell into the clear ocean.

In the middle of the ocean, a diary bobbed.