Michael Morpurgo: Of Lions and Unicorns: A Lifetime of Tales from the Master Storyteller

For all our grandchildren.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication For all our grandchildren.

ONLY REMEMBERED

My Father is a Polar Bear

Meeting Cézanne

Muck and Magic

Homecoming

My One and Only Great Escape

A Medal for Leroy

The Amazing Story of Adolphus Tips

Billy the Kid

The Wreck of the Zanzibar

Farm Boy

NOT JUST A SHAGGY DOG STORY

The Silver Swan

It’s a Dog’s Life

Didn’t We Have a Lovely Time?

The Rainbow Bear

Conker

The Butterfly Lion

Running Wild

The Dancing Bear

Born to Run

The Last Wolf

THE PITY AND THE SHAME

Half a Man

What Does it Feel Like?

The Mozart Question

The Best Christmas Present in the World

For Carlos, a Letter from Your Father

Shadow

War Horse

Private Peaceful

An Elephant in the Garden

The Kites are Flying

Friend or Foe

THE LONELY SEA AND THE SKY

The Giant’s Necklace

This Morning I Met a Whale

The Saga of Ragnar Erikson

‘Gone to Sea’

Dolphin Boy

Alone on a Wide, Wide Sea

Why the Whales Came

Kaspar, Prince of Cats

Kensuke’s Kingdom

Dear Olly

TALES TOLD AND NEW

Cockadoodle-doo, Mr Sultana!

Aesop’s Fables

Gentle Giant

On Angel Wings

The Best of Times

Pinocchio

The Pied Piper of Hamelin

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Hansel and Gretel

Beowulf

Bibliography of Michael Morpurgo’s Works

About the Author

About the Illustrators

Copyright

About the Publisher

This story is a tissue of truth – mostly. As with many of my stories, I have woven truths together and made from them a truth stranger than fiction. My father was a polar bear – honestly.

racking down a polar bear shouldn’t be that difficult. You just follow the pawprints – easy enough for any competent Innuit. My father is a polar bear. Now if you had a father who was a polar bear, you’d be curious, wouldn’t you? You’d go looking for him. That’s what I did, I went looking for him, and I’m telling you he wasn’t at all easy to find.

In a way I was lucky, because I always had two fathers. I had a father who was there – I called him Douglas – and one who wasn’t there, the one I’d never even met – the polar bear one. Yet in a way he was there. All the time I was growing up he was there inside my head. But he wasn’t only in my head, he was at the bottom of our Start-Rite shoebox, our secret treasure box, with the rubber bands round it, which I kept hidden at the bottom of the cupboard in our bedroom. So how, you might ask, does a polar bear fit into a shoebox? I’ll tell you.

My big brother Terry first showed me the magazine under the bedclothes, by torchlight, in 1948 when I was five years old. The magazine was called Theatre World . I couldn’t read it at the time, but he could. (He was two years older than me, and already mad about acting and the theatre and all that – he still is.) He had saved up all his pocket money to buy it. I thought he was crazy. “A shilling! You can get about a hundred lemon sherbets for that down at the shop,” I told him

Terry just ignored me and turned to page twenty-seven. He read it out: “The Snow Queen, a dramat—something or other – of Hans Andersen’s famous story, by the Young Vic Company.” And there was a large black and white photograph right across the page – a photograph of two fierce-looking polar bears baring their teeth and about to eat two children, a boy and a girl, who looked very frightened.

“Look at the polar bears,” said Terry. “You see that one on the left, the fatter one? That’s our dad, our real dad. It says his name and everything – Peter Van Diemen. But you’re not to tell. Not Douglas, not even Mum, promise?”

“My dad’s a polar bear?” I said. As you can imagine I was a little confused.

“Promise you won’t tell,” he went on, “or I’ll give you a Chinese burn.”

Of course I wasn’t going to tell, Chinese burn or no Chinese burn. I was hardly going to go to school the next day and tell everyone that I had a polar bear for a father, was I? And I certainly couldn’t tell my mother, because I knew she never liked it if I ever asked about my real father. She always insisted that Douglas was the only father I had. I knew he wasn’t, not really. So did she, so did Terry, so did Douglas. But for some reason that was always a complete mystery to me, everyone in the house pretended that he was.

Some background might be useful here. I was born, I later found out, when my father was a soldier in Baghdad during the Second World War. (You didn’t know there were polar bears in Baghdad, did you?) Sometime after that my mother met and fell in love with a dashing young officer in the Royal Marines called Douglas Macleish. All this time, evacuated to the Lake District away from the bombs, blissfully unaware of the war and Douglas, I was learning to walk and talk and do my business in the right place at the right time. So my father came home from the war to discover that his place in my mother’s heart had been taken. He did all he could to win her back. He took her away on a week’s cycling holiday in Suffolk to see if he could rekindle the light of their love. But it was hopeless. By the end of the week they had come to an amicable arrangement. My father would simply disappear, because he didn’t want to “get in the way”. They would get divorced quickly and quietly, so that Terry and I could be brought up as a new family with Douglas as our father. Douglas would adopt us and give us Macleish as our surname. All my father insisted upon was that Terry and I should keep Van Diemen as our middle name. That’s what happened. They divorced. My father disappeared, and at the age of three I became Andrew Van Diemen Macleish. It was a mouthful then and it’s a mouthful now.

So Terry and I had no actual memories of our father whatsoever. I do have vague recollections of standing on a railway bridge somewhere near Earls Court in London, where we lived, with Douglas’s sister – Aunty Betty, as I came to know her – telling us that we had a brand new father who’d be looking after us from now on. I was really not that concerned, not at the time. I was much more interested in the train that was chuffing along under the bridge, wreathing us in a fog of smoke.

My first father, my real father, my missing father, became a taboo person, a big hush hush taboo person that no one ever mentioned, except for Terry and me. For us he soon became a sort of secret phantom father. We used to whisper about him under the blankets at night. Terry would sometimes go snooping in my mother’s desk and he’d find things out about him. “He’s an actor,” Terry told me one night. “Our dad’s an actor, just like Mum is, just like I’m going to be.”

It was only a couple of weeks later that he brought the theatre magazine home. After that we’d take it out again and look at our polar bear father. It took some time, I remember, before the truth of it dawned on me – I don’t think Terry can have explained it very well. If he had, I’d have understood it much sooner – I’m sure I would. The truth, of course – as I think you might have guessed by now – was that my father was both an actor and a polar bear at one and the same time.