A Whale for the Window Box

How it begins

The whale was smaller than a cucumber and considerably louder.

Mrs. Green found it between the geraniums.

It sneezed seawater onto her glasses.

"Oh," she said.

The whale looked embarrassed.

Mrs. Green had expected greenfly. She had prepared a small bottle of soapy water and a firm opinion about garden pests.

Neither seemed appropriate now.

She put down the bottle.

"Are you lost?"

The whale opened its mouth.

From somewhere inside it came the sound of a distant harbor bell.

Mrs. Green lived three streets from the sea.

For a whale, this was a considerable distance.

She fetched a mixing bowl and filled it carefully.

The whale drank half.

Then it grew.

Not much.

Enough for Mrs. Green to reconsider the bowl.

She called Captain Shore.

He had retired from fishing years ago but still wore his cap to answer the telephone.

"What sort of whale?"

"Small."

"How small?"

"Cucumber. Previously."

A pause.

"I'm coming."

By the time he arrived, the whale occupied a roasting tin.

Mrs. Green had removed the potatoes first.

Captain Shore looked through the window box.

Then into the tin.

"Ah."

"Is that a useful ah?"

"Not yet."

The whale sang again.

This time, all the water in the kitchen leaned toward the harbor.

Tea climbed one side of a cup.

Mrs. Green caught the cup before it fell.

Captain Shore unfolded a map on the table.

"The drains lead to the old mill stream."

"Is that safe?"

"If we clear the grate."

"Can it fit?"

They both looked at the roasting tin.

The whale had found the tap.

Mrs. Green turned it off.

"We should probably stop discussing this over refreshments."

Outside, a neighbor called that the tide seemed to be rising in her birdbath.

Captain Shore picked up his map.

Mrs. Green fetched her largest watering can.

It was going to be a very unusual gardening morning.