Michael Morpurgo - Little Manfred

As we walked together up the beach, he introduced himself to us as Mr Soper. Then he added, “Marty. You can call me Marty, if you like. I don’t even know your names, do I?”

“She’s Charley,” said Alex, seemingly quite happy now to chat away, “which is a boy’s name, but she’s a girl. She’s my sister, and I’m Alex and I’m seven and a quarter. That man by the boat, who speaks funny, who is he?”

“Walter?” Marty replied. “Walter is a very old friend of mine from Germany. He came over to England to go to Wembley for the World Cup Final – he’s a big football fan, like me. But also he came to see me, and I thought it would be a grand idea to come here to see if he could find the place again, the farm where he stayed at the end of the war. It’s the first time he’s been back in England since he left, and that was nearly twenty years ago.”

“Wowee!” said Alex, beside himself, as I knew he would be, with excitement – about Wembley, about the football match. “You were really there? At the match? At Wembley? Wowee!”

Marty nodded. “I was,” he replied with a smile. “We both were, Walter and me. So I came away happy. But he was not so happy – which is quite understandable when you think about it.”

“You were at the match yesterday? You actually saw it?” Alex still couldn’t believe it. “That goal of ours,” he went on, “it did go over the line, didn’t it? The ref was right, wasn’t he?”

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