Michael Morpurgo - My Friend Walter

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Also by Michael Morpurgo

Arthur: High King of Britain

Escape from Shangri-La

Friend or Foe

The Ghost of Grania O’Malley

Kensuke’s Kingdom

King of the Cloud Forests

Little Foxes

Long Way Home

Mr Nobody’s Eyes

The Nine Lives of Montezuma

The Sandman and the Turtles

The Sleeping Sword

Twist of Gold

Waiting for Anya

War Horse

The War of Jenkins’ Ear

The White Horse of Zennor

Why the Whales Came

The Wreck of Zanzibar

For Younger Readers

The Best Christmas Present in the World

Conker

Mairi’s Mermaid

The Marble Crusher

For Christine and Dave, Zoé and Orlanda, Fredi and Lotta

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication For Christine and Dave, Zoé and Orlanda, Fredi and Lotta

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

BEFORE I TELL YOU ABOUT THE POSTCARD I HAD better tell you something about me. My name is Elizabeth Throckmorton and I’ll be eleven on my next birthday. Aunty Ellie (you’ll meet her later) calls me her ‘china doll’ on account of my pale skin and straight black hair. I’m small for my age, so people at school think I’m feeble and fragile which I’m not. I don’t talk much, so they think I’m unfriendly which I’m not. I just get on better with myself than anyone else, that’s all.

Around me at home there’s my family. First there’s Father, who’s a farmer. Father treats me like a boy. I think he always wanted me to be a boy, really. Then there’s Mother, who’s always busy. If she’s not out on the farm she’s scurrying about the house with a broom or a pile of dirty washing. She never stops. She doesn’t seem to have time to talk to me much these days, not since Little Jim was born; but we understand each other – always have done. Not like my big brother Will. We haven’t got much in common, Will and me. When he’s not shooting or fishing, he’s down in the cellar making horrible smells in the chemistry laboratory he’s set up down there. I’d like to like him more – I know I ought to.

Then there’s Little Jim. Little Jim was born about eight months ago. He always needs feeding or changing or picking up or mopping up. I spend a lot of time looking after Little Jim, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate it. He loves to pull my hair out by the roots or to tear my ears off whenever he can. He never does that to Gran. Gran has been living with us in the house for as long as I can remember. She’s nearly eighty now. I know she means well, but she does go on a bit sometimes.

I suppose you could say that it was an ordinary sort of a morning in our house the day the postcard came. The toast burnt and Father shouted and spluttered with his mouth full of cornflakes. I was giving Little Jim his breakfast. Mother was trying to rescue the toast and to see to Gran’s boiled egg, all at the same time. Will was in the bathroom. He’s always down last. Humph is our black and white sheepdog with a killer instinct for letters and postcards, and it was Humph that heard the postman first. He rose with a terrible growl from his catching position under Little Jim’s high chair and fairly flew out of the kitchen door. He returned seconds later, his tail high with triumph, a postcard in his mouth, wet and punctured as usual. Mother told him to drop it. Humph looked at her blankly, pretending not to understand. He had learned that if you hold out long enough you get one of Little Jim’s rusks in exchange for the post. And sure enough he got one this morning.

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Father said, picking the postcard off the floor. ‘What do you make of this, then?’

‘Of what, dear?’ said Mother, wiping her hands on her apron and coming to look over his shoulder.

‘Can’t hardly make it out,’ said Father, peering at it closely. ‘’S funny writing, don’t you think? Anyway, seems we’re all invited to some sort of family reunion. Never heard of such a thing, have you?’

‘What’s it say?’ I asked, looking at the picture on the back of the postcard. It was of the Tower of London with a Beefeater standing outside looking very serious.

‘It says: “To the family Throckmorton” – that means you too, Jimmy.’ Little Jim waved his arms up and down like a tin drummer boy and then rubbed his soggy rusk in his ear. ‘It says: “You are invited to attend a grand reunion of our family to be held at the Tower Hotel, London, on the fourteenth of July at noon. Have your name writ upon you so we may know one another”.’

‘Very mysterious,’ said Mother. ‘I wonder who sent it. Can’t spell, whoever it is. Should be “written” not “writ”. And it’s not signed at all. Just look at the writing, Bess. Worse than yours.’ And she turned the card round to show me. The handwriting was all squeezed up and tall. I could hardly read a word of it.

‘Rum business if you ask me,’ said Father. ‘Could be a hoax for all we know.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mother said. ‘People have family reunions all the time. I think it’s a lovely idea. I’d love to go, but the fourteenth – I think something’s happening on the fourteenth.’ And she went over to look at the calendar by the phone. ‘Oh dear, I thought so. We can’t go, not on the fourteenth. You’ve got to see the accountant in the afternoon, dear. Little Jim’s got his diphtheria jab in the morning at the doctor’s. And you were coming with us, Gran, for your check-up, remember? What a pity.’ Gran was about to protest. ‘It would be too much for you anyway, Gran. You know what the doctor said about overdoing it. And Will’s still away at camp with the school. Where did they say they’re having it?’