Only Remembered by Michael Morpurgo
‘Alfie, I don’t have time for this,’ said Margie. ‘Wake up. I can’t leave the house until you’re out of bed.’
Her voice was unforgiving; one thing that Alfie noticed about the way his mother had changed over the last four years was how harsh she’d become. She never played with him any more – she was always too tired for that. She didn’t read to him before bed; she couldn’t, as she had to be back in the hospital by eight o’clock for the night shift. She talked about money all the time, or the lack of it. And she shouted at him for no reason and then looked as if she wanted to burst into tears for losing her temper.
‘Alfie, please,’ she said, pulling the sheets back so the cold got to him. ‘You have to get up. Can’t you just do this one thing for me?’
He knew he didn’t have any choice, so he rolled over onto his back once again, opened his eyes, and gave a tremendous yawn and stretch before climbing slowly out of bed. Only when his feet were both planted on the floor did Margie stand up straight and nod, satisfied.
‘Finally,’ she said. ‘Honestly, Alfie, I don’t know why we have to go through this palaver every day. You’re nine years old now. A little co-operation is all I ask for. Now get some breakfast into you, have a wash and go to school. I’ll be back around two o’clock so I’ll cook us something nice for our tea. What do you fancy?’
‘Sausages, beans and chips,’ said Alfie.
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ said Margie, making a laughing sound that wasn’t really a laugh at all. (She didn’t laugh very much any more. Not in the way she used to when she said she’d run off with the postman.) ‘Tripe and onions, I’m afraid. That’s all we can afford.’
Alfie wondered why she asked what he fancied when it didn’t seem to matter what his answer was. Still, he felt pleased that she would already be home when he finished school. It was usually much later before she got back from work.
‘We’ll have a bit of tea together,’ she said, softening slightly. ‘But I’m on a night shift again, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to look after yourself this evening or you can pop over to Granny Summerfield’s if you like. You won’t get into any trouble, will you?’
Alfie shook his head. He’d tried talking her out of night shifts before but he never had any luck; she got a quarter extra in her pay packet when she worked after eight o’clock at night, and that quarter, she told him, could be the difference between them keeping a roof over their heads and not. He knew better than to bother trying any more. Margie stared at him for a moment, her hand reaching out and smoothing down his hair, and her expression changed a little. She didn’t seem angry now. It was as if she was remembering the way things used to be. She sat down on the bed next to him and put her arm around his shoulders, and he cuddled into her, closing his eyes, feeling sleep returning.
After a moment he looked up and followed the direction of his mother’s eyes until he found himself staring at the framed portrait of his father, Georgie, that stood on the table next to his bed. He wasn’t wearing a soldier’s uniform in it; instead he was standing in the yard at the dairy with a very young Alfie sitting on his shoulders, a big smile spread across his face, and Mr Asquith standing next to both of them, looking at the camera with an expression that suggested that this was an indignity he could do without. (Alfie always said that Mr Asquith was a very proud horse.) He couldn’t remember when it had been taken but it had been standing on the table by his bed since the day Georgie had left for Aldershot Barracks four years earlier. Granny Summerfield had put it there that same evening.
‘Oh Alfie,’ said Margie, kissing him on his head as she stood up and made her way towards the door. ‘I do my best for you. You know that, don’t you?’
After she left for work, Alfie went downstairs, ran outside for the scoop that sat behind the back door, and filled it with ashes from the base of the kitchen range. Then he ran down to the privy at the end of the garden as quickly as he could, trying not to feel the ice in the air or spill any of the precious cinders. He hated going there first thing in the morning, particularly now, in late October, when it was still so dark and the air was so frosty, but there was no way around it.
It was freezing inside, seven different spiders and something that looked like an overfed beetle crawled over his feet as he sat there, he could hear the scurrying of rats behind the woodwork, and he groaned when he remembered that he’d forgotten the squares of yesterday’s newspaper that he meticulously cut up every night before going to bed – but fortunately Margie had taken them outside earlier, pinned a hole through their centre and hung them from a piece of string off the hook, so he didn’t need to go back indoors.
When he had finished his business, he poured the ashes down the toilet and hoped that the compost heap around the back of the out-house – the worst place he had ever seen in his entire life – would not get clogged up again. It had happened a few months before, and Margie had to pay the night-soil men two shillings to clear it all away; afterwards, uncertain whether they would have enough money for the rent, she had sat down in the broken armchair in front of the fireplace and cried her eyes out, whispering Georgie’s name under her breath over and over again as if he might be able to come back and save them from possible eviction.
Alfie ran back inside, washed his hands and sat down at the kitchen table, where Margie had cut two slices of bread for him and left them on a plate next to a small scraping of butter and, to his astonishment, a tiny pot of jam with a muslin lid held in place by a piece of string. Alfie stared at it and blinked a couple of times. It had been months since he’d tasted jam. He picked it up and read the label. It was handwritten and contained only one word, written with a thick black pen.
Gooseberry.
Sometimes the parents of the soldiers in the hospital brought in a little something for the Queen’s Nurses, and when they did, it was usually a treat like this: something they’d made themselves from the fruit they grew in their gardens or allotments. That must have been where Margie had got it. Alfie wondered whether his mother had eaten some herself or whether she’d kept it specially for him. He stood up and went over to the sink, where his mother’s breakfast things were sitting, still unwashed, a small pool of cold brown tea sitting at the base of her mug. In the old days, before the war, Margie would never have left things like this; she would have rinsed them out and turned them upside down on the draining board for Georgie to dry later. He picked up the plate and examined it. There were a few crumbs on the side and a trace of condensation from where the heat of the toast had clashed with the coldness of the porcelain. He looked at the knife. It was almost clean. He gave it a sniff. It didn’t smell of butter and there wasn’t a trace of jam on it. If she’d used any, it would have left a bit behind.
She’d saved it all for him.
Alfie filled the kettle, put it on the range, threw a few sticks on top of the still-red embers inside and waited for the whistle before making himself a cup of tea. He always felt like a grown-up waiting for the leaves to brew. He didn’t much like the taste of it, but it made him feel important to sit at the table in the morning with a steaming mug and a slice of toast before him, the newspaper propped up against the milk jug. It was how Georgie had always done things. Before he went away.
Charlie Slipton from number twenty-one didn’t deliver the papers any more. He’d left for the war in 1917 and been killed a few months later. Alfie had written the name of the place where he died in his notebook but still couldn’t pronounce it correctly. Passchendaele. Now the papers were delivered by Charlie’s youngest brother, Jack, who had just turned ten and never spoke to anyone. Alfie had tried to make friends with him but eventually gave up when it became clear that he preferred to be left alone.
Looking at the newspaper now made him think of that horrible day a year ago when they’d heard about Charlie’s death. It was a Sunday morning, so both he and Margie had been at home when there was a knock at the door. Margie, who had been baking bread, looked up in surprise, running the b
‘Who do you think that is?’ asked Margie, rinsing her hands in the sink before walking into the hallway and standing before the door for a moment as if she might be able to see straight through to the other side. Alfie followed her, and after a moment she stepped forward, reached for the latch and opened it.
There were two men standing outside, both wearing military uniforms. One was quite old with a grey moustache, a pair of spectacles and dark blue eyes. He wore a very fine pair of leather gloves, which he was in the process of removing when the door was opened. The other man was much younger and had cut himself shaving that morning; Alfie could see a bead of blood clotted on his cheek. He had bright red hair that stuck out at all angles and looked as if it would put up a good fight against any brush that tried to tame it. Alfie stared at him in wonder. He’d never seen hair that red before, not even on Mr Carstairs, his teacher at Damley Road School, who everybody called ‘Ginger’ even though his hair was really more like a burned orange.
‘Don’t,’ said Margie, holding onto the front door as she stared at the two men, her hand clutching the frame tightly. Alfie saw how white her knuckles became as she gripped it. ‘Don’t,’ she repeated, much louder this time, and Alfie frowned, wondering what she could possibly mean by this single word.
‘Mrs Slipton?’ said the older man, the one with the moustache, as the redhead stood to his full height and looked over Margie’s shoulder to lock eyes with Alfie. His expression turned to one of sorrow when he saw the boy, and he bit his lip and looked away.
‘What?’ asked Margie, her voice rising in surprise at being addressed by the wrong name. Alfie stepped forward beside his mum now, and he noticed all the doors opening on the opposite side of the street and the women coming out and putting their hands to their faces. The curtain at number eleven twitched, and he could see Granny Summerfield staring out, her hands pressed to the side of her head. Mr Asquith trotted by with young Henry Lyons on the bench-seat. Henry couldn’t fill a milk jug to save his life; everyone said so. He’d start pouring and half the churn would end up on the side of the road. But the dairy needed a delivery man, and Henry was deaf so couldn’t go to war. Alfie was sure that Mr Asquith stared in his direction as he passed, looking over the boy’s shoulder in search of his true master.
‘Mrs Slipton, I’m Sergeant Malley,’ said the man. ‘This is Lieutenant Hobton. May we come in for a moment?’
‘No,’ said Margie.
‘Mrs Slipton, please,’ he replied in a resigned tone, as if he was accustomed to this type of response. ‘If we could just come in and sit down, then—’
‘You’ve got the wrong house,’ said Margie, her words catching in her throat, and she almost stumbled before putting her hand on Alfie’s shoulder to steady herself. ‘Oh my God, you’ve got the wrong house. How can you do that? This is number twelve. You want number twenty-one. You’ve got the numbers backwards.’
The older man stared at her for a moment; then his expression changed to one of utter dismay as the redhead pulled a piece of paper from his inside pocket and ran his eyes across it quickly.
‘Sarge,’ he said, holding the paper out and pointing at something.
The sergeant’s lip curled up in fury and he glared at the younger man as if he wanted to hit him. ‘What’s wrong with you, Hobton?’ he hissed. ‘Can’t you read? Can’t you check before we knock on a door?’ He turned back then and looked at Margie and Alfie, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so very, very sorry.’
And with that the two men turned round but remained on the street, looking left and right, their eyes scanning the numbers on the doors before turning in the direction of Mr Janáček’s sweet shop, where the windows were still boarded up from when they’d been smashed a couple of years before and the three words painted in white remained.
No Spies Here!
Margie stepped back into the hall, gasping, but Alfie stayed in the doorway. He watched as the two soldiers made their way slowly along the street. Every door was open now. And outside every door stood a wife or a mother. Some were crying. Some were praying. Some were shaking their heads, hoping that the men wouldn’t stop before them. And every time Sergeant Malley and Lieutenant Hobton passed one of the houses, the woman at the door blessed herself and ran inside, slamming it behind her and putting the latch on in case the two men changed their minds and came back.
Finally they stopped at number twenty-one, where Charlie’s mother, Mrs Slipton, was standing. Alfie couldn’t hear what she was saying but he could see her crying, trying to push the soldiers away. She reached out with both hands and slapped Redhead across the face, but somehow he didn’t seem to mind. The older man reached forward and whispered something to her, and then they went inside and stayed there, and Alfie found himself alone on the street again. Everyone else was indoors, counting their lucky stars that the two soldiers hadn’t stopped at their door.
Later that day, Alfie heard that Charlie Slipton had been killed and he remembered the afternoon when Charlie had thrown a stone at his head for no reason whatsoever. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. That was the thing about the war, he realized. It made everything so confusing.
Alfie didn’t read much of the Daily Mirror but he liked to look at the headlines, and he picked it up now to see what was going on in the world. More news about the Marne; there was always something going on there. Details of casualties and fatalities from a place called Amiens. A report on a speech by the Prime Minister, Mr Lloyd George, who Alfie was sick of reading about because he gave speeches every day.
And then, finally, he did what he always did in the morning. He turned to page four to read the numbers. The number of deaths on our side. The number of deaths on their side. The number of wounded. The number missing in action. But there was only one number that Alfie really cared about: 14278. His dad’s number. The number they’d assigned him when he signed up.
He ran his finger along the list.
14143, Smith, D., Royal Fusiliers
14275, Dempster, C. K., Gloucestershire Regiment
15496, Wallaby, A., Seaforth Highlanders
15700, Crosston, J., Sherwood Foresters (Notts & Derby Regiment)
He breathed a sigh of relief and put the paper down, sipping his tea, trying to think of something else.
John Boyne
ANNE HARVEY – Writer, biographer and actress
Eleanor Farjeon, one of the most famous twentieth-century children’s writers, wrote many novels, books of short stories, plays and poetry for adults. She also wrote the lyrics for the hymn ‘Morning Has Broken’, and an award in her name is presented annually for excellence in the world of children’s literature.
Eleanor always said that the greatest love and most special friendship in her life was with the writer Edward Thomas, whom she first met in a café in the Strand, London, in 1912. The two instantly liked each other, met frequently, and in between wrote to each other. Eleanor became friends with his wife, and close to his three children, and when he began writing poetry, typed his poems for him.
Edward Thomas burned many letters before he went to France as a soldier with the Artists Rifles, but 200 letters that he sent to Eleanor form her memoir Edward Thomas: The Last Four Years. The Book unfolds important moments in their friendship. Eleanor was one of the first people to ask him: ‘Haven’t you ever written poetry, Edward?’ His answer was ‘Me? I couldn’t write a poem to save my life’!
She writes that later, she asked him why he had joined the army, and what he was fignting for:
‘He stopped and picked up
In that action he had expressed to her his love for his country felt by so many men who subsequently joined the army.
Eleanor Farjeon was known for her generous present-giving to friends and family, and she ordered, from the London store Fortnum and Mason, a box of Cox’s Orange Pippins and a silver-wrapped Easter egg to be sent to Edward in France, for Easter Sunday – 8 April 1917.
Edward Thomas was killed during the Battle of Arras on Easter Monday – 9 April 1917 – and Eleanor was puzzled to receive a letter from him after this, dated 3 April – six days before the battle. ‘Edward’s last letter of all came after his death. It was begun in ink, six days before the battle, and finished in pencil five days later . . .’
He also tells her:
And after describing the weather, and the concern that the good weather might also help the enemy, he explains how he has been strengthening the dug-out and keeping it free from drip-drip. He ends with:
Eleanor realized that he had been confused over dates, but included this strange happening in the most moving of the sonnets she wrote for him.