It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way
out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One
thing was certain, there was no television in there.
“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this
gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”
A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing,
with a rather wicked grin, at an old
rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them.
“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”
It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind
whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon,
slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.
The
inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in
the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms.
Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a
fire but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.
“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully.
He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them
here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer him up at
all.
As
night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the
walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy
blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and
Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find the softest bit of
floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.
The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn’t sleep. He
shivered and turned over,
trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s
snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of
Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry he’d be
eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the
Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.
Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall
in, although he might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive
would be so full of letters when they got back that he’d be able to steal one somehow.
Three minutes to go.
Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to
go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?
One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten… nine — maybe he’d
wake Dudley up, just to annoy him — three… two… one…
BOOM.
The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside,
knocking to come in.
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