Big Yellow Digger's Last Scoop

Big Yellow Digger had been digging all day.

Scoop, lift, tip. Scoop, lift, tip. A hole for the new tree. A trench for the new pipe. A pile of earth as tall as the shed, which Ivy had climbed twice and been told to get off twice.

Now the sun was down, and the builders had gone home, and the gate was shut, and Big Yellow Digger stood at the end of the garden with his arm bent and his scoop resting on the ground, like a very large dog with its chin on its paws.

"Is he asleep?" asked Ivy, from the back door.

"Nearly," said Mum. "Engines take a while."

Ivy went down the garden in her pyjamas and her wellies to check. Big Yellow Digger ticked. That was the sound an engine made when it was cooling, tick, tick, tick, slower and slower, like a clock that was running out of being a clock.

"You did a lot of scoops today," said Ivy.

Tick.

"The tree's going to like its hole."

Tick.

Ivy looked at the scoop. There was still a little earth in it. Not much. A last scoopful that had never been tipped.

"You missed one," said Ivy. "You've still got one to do."

Tick... tick.

"Come on," said Ivy. "One more and then you can sleep. I'll help."

She did not know if a digger could hear. But she put her hands on the cold yellow arm anyway, and she said the words, the way the builders said them.

"Scoop."

The scoop was already full. Ivy decided that counted.

"Lift."

Very slowly, so slowly that Ivy could not have said if it was really moving or if she was imagining it, the arm came up. Up, and up, until the scoop was high over the garden, higher than the shed, with its little bit of earth and, Ivy saw now, something else. Something pale, caught in the earth. A stone, she thought. Or a shell. Or a star, if stars came down and got dug up by mistake, which Ivy felt was possible.

"Tip."

The scoop tipped. The earth went pattering down onto the pile. And the pale thing went up, not down, up and up, small and bright, until it was somewhere above the chimney and Ivy could not tell it from the others.

"There," said Ivy. "All done."

The arm came down again, gently, and the scoop settled on the ground, empty, and Big Yellow Digger gave one last long tick, and then no more ticks at all.

Ivy patted the roof. It was nearly cool now.

"Night, Digger."

She went back up the garden to the door, where Mum was waiting, and she did not say anything about the star, because some things are between a girl and a digger.

In bed she lay on her back and thought about the day's work. Scoop. Lift. Tip. Scoop. Lift. Tip. Her arm was tired, from helping. Her eyes were tired, from watching. Scoop... lift...

And she tipped over the edge into sleep, with the window open, and the garden quiet, and one more star than there had been that morning.