The Kingdom by the Sea by Robert Westall

right in a minute,” gasped Harry, gritting his teeth, and taking three more steps. “It’ll wear off.” But it didn’t.
    “You’ve either sprained your ankle or broken it. I’d better get you home, and your mam can call the doctor.
    “No… no,” said Harry.
    “What you mean, no, no? I can carry you easy. You’re no weight at all. I’ll give you a piggy-back. Just tell me where to go.” Artie picked up the fallen binoculars, gave them a quick once-over, and hung them round his neck. “I’ll go along the beach to that low place where there’s a path. The dog’ll follow us along the cliff.” He slung Harry on his back as easy as if he was a sack of potatoes.
    And so they went, the smell of Artie’s hair in Harry’s nostrils, the smell of tobacco and sweat, the best most homely smell in the world. Except they were going to…
    “There’s our cottage,” said Harry, as the pillbox came in sight. “I can walk from here,” he added miserably. “Put me down.”
    “Not on your nelly, son,” said Artie. “I’ll see you safe home with your mam, and tell her what’s happened…” His head was down, with the effort of carrying Harry. He didn’t seethe “cottage” fall apart bit by bit, as they got nearer; the slates off the roof, the peeling painted brickwork that Harry saw.
    “We’re here,” said Harry bitterly. Artie put him down and looked up.
    “A bloody pillbox! Is this your idea of a joke? Stop mucking about, Harry lad. It’s getting late.”
    “This is where I live.”
    “With yer mam and dad?”
    “I haven’t got any mam and dad.”
    “Well, this beats all,” said Artie, sitting back on his heels and scratching his head. “You’re a good plucked ‘un,” he added, surveying the swept floor, the big pile of dry sea-coal and wood, the heap of newspapers and the row of bottles of water. “What you sleep on?”
    “My stuff’s hidden in the roof. Can you get it down for me?”
    When Artie had got it, he said admiringly, “You’d make a bloody good spy. You’ve got everything to your convenience here.”
    “I manage.”
    Artie’s eyes flared in alarm. “Aye, but you can’t manage now. That ankle could be broken. You could be suffering from concussion. You should be seen to by a doctor, mebbe in the hospital.”
    “If you split on me, it’s the end of everything. They’ll take Don away…”
    Artie looked quite demented. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me, son! I might come back in the morning an’ find you dead.”
    Harry said wildly, “I’d rather be dead than in a hospital.”
    “Don’t talk so wet.”
    “Look, Artie, give me one chance. If my ankle’s no better by tomorrow morning, you can fetch the doctor…”
    They looked at each other a long, long time.
    Then Artie said at last, “Till the morning then. I’ll do up your ankle wi’ a tight wet bandage Keep it wet from the bottles. Lucky I always carry two clean hankies. You’ve got nowt here that would do. By God, that ankle’s swelling up like a football… I’ll not sleep a wink tonight, worrying about you…”
    He was as good as his word. He was back by dawn, with a flask of hot tea and plenty of bully-beef sandwiches. He prodded the ankle doubtfully. “It’s gone down a bit. I think. Doesn’t feel so hot. Try walking on it.”
    Harry walked. He had to clench his teeth, and sweat broke out on his forehead, but he walked. He would have walked if it had killed him.
    “Ye’ve been lucky,” said Artie. “I think it’s just a sprain.I’ll tie it up tight again, and you don’t move a muscle, right? I’ll be back to bring you your supper after work.”
    For four nights, and days, Harry obediently lay still. Mostly he slept; the rest of the time he crawled out into the sunshine and watched the beach and the sea. He felt oddly relaxed. It was like having a real dad looking after you. By the fourth night, he could walk quite well again. He said, “I’ll be up to see you at camp