Three bedtime stories to read tonight

The digger is asleep.

It's standing on the building site with its bucket down in the sand, and it isn't moving any more.

The dog is asleep.

He's lying by the door with a paw over his nose, dreaming of the garden gate.

The blackbird is asleep.

She's in the lilac bush, round and still, with her head tucked into her feathers.

The bike is asleep.

It's leaning against the wall. The bell has nothing more to say.

The bus is asleep.

It's in the depot with all its doors shut and all its lights off.

The cloud is asleep.

It's up above the roof, and it hardly moves at all.

And in the house, in the room, in the bed, under the blanket, on the pillow, with your teddy in your arms,

you'll be asleep soon too.

Goodnight, digger. Goodnight, dog. Goodnight, blackbird, bike, bus and cloud.

Goodnight, you.

As she passed over the rooftops, the moon found a hat. It was red, it was small, and it was lying in the middle of a slate roof, as if someone had forgotten it there.

“This must belong to somebody,” said the moon. “I'll take it back to them.”

She went to the fox, who lives at the edge of the wood.

“Fox, is this your hat?”

But the fox was curled up in his den with his tail over his nose, sleeping so deeply that not even an ear twitched.

She went to the owl, who never sleeps.

“Owl, is this your hat?”

But the owl was sitting on her branch with her eyes shut, making a little noise that sounded a bit like a snore.

She went to the ducks on the pond. She went to the cat on the wall. She went to the old horse in his field. Everyone was asleep. The moon moved more and more slowly, so as not to wake anybody.

In the end she was tired, and she still had the hat.

Then she saw a window that was still lit. Just one, in the whole village. Behind it, a child was sitting up in bed, still awake.

The moon put the hat down on the windowsill.

“Maybe it's yours,” she said. “And if it isn't, you can look after it for now.”

The child took the hat, put it next to the pillow and switched off the light.

The moon went on her way over the rooftops. Now, at last, the whole village was asleep.

Down by the river there's a boat that does nothing all day. Only when it gets dark does the ferryman come, untie the rope and push the boat out onto the water with his long pole.

He doesn't carry people. He carries whatever is tired.

First comes the wind. It has tugged at flags and chased leaves down the streets all day, and now it's so worn out it barely ruffles the water. The ferryman helps it aboard. The wind lies down on the bench and says nothing more.

Next comes the noise. On loud days it's especially heavy: the building site, the car horns, the shouting in the school yard, all at once. The ferryman has to try three times to heave it over the side.

Then comes the day itself. It sits right at the back, holds its bag close and looks back at the bank it came from.

The ferryman pushes off. The water makes only a small sound, like someone breathing very slowly.

On the other bank, everyone gets out. The wind, the noise, the day. They climb a hill and disappear over the top, and then, on the other side, everything is quiet.

When the ferryman comes back, a child is waiting on the jetty.

“Can I come too?”

The ferryman shakes his head. “Not that way. You'll cross tomorrow morning, in the other direction.”

“And what do I do until then?”

“You do what the river does,” says the ferryman. “The river never goes anywhere. It just stays where it is and waits for the morning.”

The child looks at the water. It's true: the river just stays where it is.

“I can do that,” says the child.

“Everyone can,” says the ferryman. “You only have to let go.”

He ties up the boat, hangs the lantern on its hook and goes home. The child goes home too, climbs the stairs, goes into their room and slips into bed.

Outside, the river stays where it is and waits for the morning. Inside, the child lies still and does exactly the same.