Hippo-Dee-Doo-Dah

 

 

 

You'll find all sorts of animals in this collection of stories - a hippo who longs for water, a chimp that proves to be tougher than a gorilla and a horse only two people can see. There are some amazing people too - the young girl who looks after her mum, some young people who have magical powers they have to hide and a boy who finds a new way to remember his grandfather. All of the stories are about how people are thoughtful with each other or with the animals in their care. And they'll bring sunshine to a grey day. £1 from the sale of each copy, plus a percentage of the author royalties, will be donated to Children's Hospices UK.

 

RRP £8.00

 

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Charming collection of very varied stories suitable for reading aloud to younger children - or independent browsing by primary schoolchildren. Profits ( and that includes the authors' royalties) go to children's hospices. I am a little biased - I wrote one of the stories - but Michael Morpurgo thought the anthology was good enough to write a forward to.  

 

ISBN: 9781907335112  

Listen to 'The Gargoyle' 

An excerpt from the book:

Grandpa’s Heart Stone Yahya lay with his eyes half closed. The setting sun filtered through his long eyelashes treating him to little mosaic flashes of colour that made him smile. Callithrix monkeys chattered in the canopy above and here and there brightly coloured birds flew home to roost. “I love it here,” Yahya said, raising his head and lifting his arm to idly throw a small pebble into the water. There was a gentle splash before dancing ripples spread out in a bright wide circle. Saybah frowned. “Be careful, Yahya, when you throw away a stone you throw away a memory.” 

Yahya was shocked by her seriousness, the moment quite spoilt. “What do you mean?” He studied his grandmother not understanding. 

“See this.” Saybah pulled a small bag from the waist of her long flowery skirt. She opened it carefully and tipped a small collection of stones into the palm of her thin wrinkled hand. “See this? This is the stone I found on the day you were born. It’s as blue as the warm sky that welcomed you. I was so happy to see you arrive safe and well because your poor mother was so sick we never expected you to survive.” 

Yahya said nothing. He waited, and after a long silence Saybah spoke again. “Aids is so cruel, it’s wiped out so many. I’m sure when your grandpa 11 died soon after, it was of a broken heart, for she was always his favourite.” Saybah selected a stone as black and shiny as the most highly polished ebony. “I found this stone on the day your mother died. See the light shining through the darkness? You are that light. You are alive and well so all is not lost.” 

Yahya sat quietly. He was frightened to speak in case he broke his grandmother’s thoughts; never before had she said so much, never before had he felt so close to her. Saybah chose another stone, it was mottled brown with hints of red and yellow. “This is your grandfather’s stone. I found it the day I buried him. He is returned to the brown earth and the reds and yellows are memories of the happy times we shared.” 

Yahya had never thought of memory stones before and excitement filled him. “Can I find some memory stones too?” 

Saybah laughed. “If a stone is a heart stone, it will find you. It will attract your eye and refuse to be abandoned; there is no need to search.” 

Despite his grandmother’s words, Yahya was unconvinced the stones would find him, so he looked for his own. He found plenty, especially in the evening when they sparkled like jewels in the river. He spent ages choosing the brightest and best but when they dried they lost their shine and failed to move him, even after he’d spent ages polishing 12 them. They were pretty but they weren’t special. They were not magical like Saybah’s stones. They weren’t chosen for a reason and especially loved. 

One day, walking to the river, Yahya found an oil palm pod. It was mostly orange but with reds and purples blended in. It was vibrant and beautiful in the light of the evening sun. Yahya picked it up delighting in the colours and texture. The more he caressed the pod, the brighter it appeared to become. It warmed in his hand seeming to call out for him to do something special with it. Yahya studied the pod carefully and suddenly a brilliant idea struck him. He would use it to make a pretty box for Grandpa’s stone, it needed to be kept somewhere special, not rolling about in an old cotton bag. 

The oil palm pod was a bit misshapen and cracked but it still said “Choose me, use me.” Yahya could not put it down. He found a sharp pointed stick and started hollowing it out. When Saybah approached, he hid the brightly coloured palm seed and pretended to be working a bit of Winter Thorn that had fallen from a tree. 

“I didn’t know you liked wood.” Yahya laughed. “Nor did I ’til I discovered the colours are so lovely, it’s like your stones, the more you look the more you see. It’s too hard to work properly though.” 

 Saybah smiled, “Not if you have the right tools. 13 Your grandpa had plenty. Who do you think made all our furniture?” 

Yahya fingered the piece of rough thorn imagining it smooth and shiny. “I didn’t know.” 

“My fault then, for forgetting you were too young to remember. Takes a lot of practice, using chisels gouges and scrapers, so be careful. I don’t want cut fingers to worry about, not at my age. Oh, and he made a polisher too, it’s somewhere at the back of the shed. I’ll show you how that works if you like.” 

In no time at all, Yahya was hooked on wood. “Come and play,” said his friends, but he always found excuses to stay behind. The old tin shed became a sort of heaven, he spent most of his time working and singing there. Each night Yahya emerged for the much loved ritual hour by the river. “What do you do in there?” Saybah asked each night and each night Yahya would reply, “Practising, you won’t peek will you?” 

Saybah kept her word and didn’t go near the shed but Yahya knew she was very curious indeed. 

Yahya practised with every bit of wood he could find. He liked the deep browns of mahogany, the pink reds of the Ekki tree and the orange browns of the Iroko but the wood he found easiest to work with and the best to polish, was that of the Idigbo tree. One day he emerged triumphant. He rushed down to the river to join Saybah.  “I have a present 14 for you,” he said, thrusting a parcel into her hands. 

Saybah undid the wrappings carefully. “Hurry hurry,” urged Yahya. 

 “No, a special moment should be savoured,” Saybah said, and she thought for a while before every move she made, and suddenly, as she removed the last layer, her present was revealed. Saybah burst into tears. 

Yahya looked crestfallen. “Is it not good enough?” He had worked for so long, toiled so hard, He wanted to cry too. He felt so disappointed. 

Saybah was staring at the highly polished box in her hand as tears streamed down her face. “It’s wonderful,” she whispered. The little box shone with subtle shades of yellow and pink browns. The grain of the wood was displayed perfectly. In the centre of the lid, Yahya had inscribed Grandpa’s stone in his very best writing. He had practised shaping the letters for hours too. 

Saybah reached out to hug Yahya. “Happy colours for a happy day,” she said, wiping away her tears. “I shall show everyone. I shall tell everyone. Oh, Yahya, you have made me so proud.” She took the brown stone from her bag and put it in the box. It fitted perfectly, like a kernel in a nut. It belonged. 

Satisfied Saybah was really pleased, Yahya checked the shed before he went to bed. There on the shelf was another box. It was wobbly and not 15 quite smooth but it was special. Inside it rested the rough oil palm seed that had started his long journey towards being a carpenter. Yahya had carved something on that box too. He had simple scratched Yahya box one. He would never throw it away because it was like Grandpa’s stone. It was a very special memory and it has chosen him.

Elizabeth Arnold