Flamingo Boy by Michael Morpurgo

  “What’s going on here?” Henri demanded.

  “They want to buy our chickens and eggs. I told them no,” Nancy said. “But they don’t listen.” Henri lifted me down off Cheval, dismounted himself, and then helped Lorenzo down too. Lorenzo did not hesitate. Before anyone could stop him, he walked right up to the soldier who was threatening Henri, shouting at him, pushing him. He grabbed the rifle and threw it to the ground. Nancy was trying to hold on to him, to restrain him, but Lorenzo was so agitated, so angry, that Henri had to help her with him. By now, the soldier had picked up his rifle and had turned it on Lorenzo.

  Then came a commanding voice from behind me, and one that I recognised. It was the giant soldier from town, the one with the white hair who limped and carried a stick. He was hurrying across the farmyard, reprimanding the soldier as he came, waving his stick at him. The rifle was lowered at once.

  The giant soldier came over to us, and saluted. “We have our orders,” he said. “We have been sent into the countryside to find food. We need food for the army, for our soldiers, you understand.”

  “I understand well enough,” Nancy told him, “but you must understand also that we need our chickens for ourselves. Neither they nor their eggs are for sale. I have told your soldiers this.” Nancy was calming Lorenzo as best she could, but he was still shouting, still upset.

  “You have nothing we can buy, madame?” the soldier said. “We will, of course, pay a fair price.”

  Henri intervened. “You heard my wife,” he said quietly. “We will not sell you anything, no matter what price you pay. You are not welcome here. You can see your soldiers have upset Lorenzo, my son. Now please go.”

  I remember looking up at the two men, from one to the other. Both were determined; both were proud. A flock of flamingos flying overhead broke the silence. We all looked up.

  “Flam flam!” cried Lorenzo joyfully, clapping his hands, jumping up and down.

  The giant soldier was looking directly at me now, then at Maman and Papa. He was nodding. “Ah yes, I remember now, the carousel family,” he said. “I see. So you are two families living out here. And you two children are not brother and sister after all. I understand.” He nodded slowly. None of us spoke. The silence about me was filled with sudden tension. There were fearful looks exchanged that I did not understand, but that made me suddenly fearful too.

  The soldier saluted again, and turned away. “Kommen Sie!” he ordered his men, and they all drifted away across the farmyard. It was a small victory, and it should have felt good, but the giant soldier now knew who we were and where we were. We had been hiding away on the farm, and our enemy had discovered us.

  Henri was trying to usher us all into the farmhouse when it happened. A shot rang out behind us. I looked up to see an egret above us stuttering in its flight, then falling, gliding on wings outstretched, floating down into the farmyard, where it bounced once, and was still.

  We saw the soldier who had shot it. He was bowing to his friends, accepting their applause, joining in their raucous cheering. Then they were running back towards the fallen egret to retrieve it. But Lorenzo was there before them, on his knees beside the bird, stroking its feathers.

  I ran after him, and was trying to console him, when the soldiers arrived, breathless and elated. They would have pushed us aside had the giant soldier not been there to control them, to bring them to their senses. They were contrite almost at once and silent. No one spoke. The wind ruffled the dead egret’s feathers. Lorenzo was bending over him, trying to breathe life into him. But he could see it was hopeless, and soon stopped. He looked up at us in despair, showing us the blood on his hands.

  “Grette grette,” he moaned, rocking back and forth.

  We could not understand a word the giant soldier was shouting at his men as he formed them up to march them away, but his anger was evident. He was still reprimanding them as they marched off down the farm track.

  Long after they had gone, Lorenzo stayed there, kneeling by the egret for hour after hour, stroking its feathers, wailing a lament, the same note over and over again, and rocking himself over the body of the dead bird. Nancy tried everything to persuade him to come inside, so did Henri, but he would not be moved. I knew better than to try. I stayed with him because I felt he wanted me to. The rain came later in the day, driving in over the marshes, thunder rolling and rumbling about the skies. Even then, Lorenzo knelt there, mourning the egret.

  That evening, with thunder and lightning raging, Lorenzo and I buried the egret in the corner of a field, both of us soaked to the skin, and shivering. Maman and Nancy came out time and again to call us in from the storm. But Lorenzo was kneeling by the grave, still grieving, and would not be moved. I could not leave him to grieve and mourn on his own.

  In the end, it was Cheval neighing wildly from the field behind the barn that ended Lorenzo’s vigil. Henri came running over to us.

  “Renzo, you have to come!” he cried, shouting out against the storm. “Cheval is mad with fear. You know how he hates thunder. I have tried and tried to catch him, but he won’t let me get near him. He has iron shoes on his feet, Renzo, and, with this lightning about, it’s dangerous for him. You must come. Cheval needs you. I need you. I can’t catch him. You can’t do any more for the egret. Tomorrow the storm will be over, and we can all come out and put flowers on his grave, all right? But you must come now, Lorenzo. No one else can catch Cheval.”

  Lorenzo laid his hand on the newly turned earth, and thought for a few moments. “Grette grette,” he murmured. “Grette grette.” Then, his mind suddenly made up, he was up on his feet, and running towards Cheval’s field, calling to him. Henri and I followed, and watched from the gate as he walked out into the field towards Cheval, who was careering round and round, crashing time and again into the fences, his neighing shrill with terror.

  Lorenzo was out there now in the middle of the field, holding out his hand. “Val Val,” he called softly, “Val Val. Moi. Renzo. Moi.”

  Almost at once the horse was calmer. Within moments, he was standing there, looking at Lorenzo, breathing heavily, tossing his head, whisking his tail. And there he stayed as Lorenzo walked slowly towards him, humming as he came. When Lorenzo stopped and waited, Cheval looked at him, and then after a while came trotting over to him. They stood for long moments, foreheads touching. It was a miraculous sight to see. A short while later, Lorenzo was leading Cheval by his mane, out of the field and back into his stable. There he rubbed him down and fed him, before Nancy took Lorenzo firmly by the hand, and at last managed to persuade him to come back into the house.

  “Sausage, Renzo,” she said. “Hot bath, Renzo.”

  “Sausage sausage,” said Lorenzo as he walked off with Nancy.

  “Hot bath for you too,” Maman said to me.

  As we were led away from one another, Lorenzo pulled free of Nancy, and came back to me. We touched foreheads.

  “Zia Zia,” he said. I knew then we were friends for life.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Out of Sight, Out of Mind

  “Strange to think of it now, isn’t it, Vincent? Aujourd’hui, today, we have cars and lorries and tractors everywhere – on the roads, on the farms. But in those days it was still mostly horses, and on a farm like this just one working horse. So, when we found Cheval had gone lame the day after all that charging around in the storm, everyone knew life was not going to be easy. Henri thought it was a torn tendon that could take weeks, even months, to heal, if it ever did. Without Cheval, Henri said, all of us were going to be needed more than ever on the farm.

  We all watched as Lorenzo examined Cheval’s leg, then, without a word, led him away into his hospital shed, and shut the door behind him. I wanted to go in with him, but Nancy caught my hand.

  “He likes to be alone with them, remember?” she said. “He’ll make him right again, you’ll see.”

  “Maybe our Honey could do some of his work,” Maman suggested. “She’s a big strong horse.”


  It sounded like a good idea, but we all soon discovered that Honey had no intention whatsoever of becoming a farm horse. She would pull a caravan all day in blistering heat or driving rain. She would endure all the flies and the rutty tracks, but she would not be used to pull a dung cart out into the field. She would not be used to round up the bulls and the horses and the sheep. It was beneath her dignity. Papa and Maman and I knew well enough that she was difficult and grumpy, but we never imagined just how obstinate she could be. She would let Henri mount up, but then she would not move, no matter how much Papa shouted at her or slapped her backside. Not even the sight of a raised stick would get her going. We could all see it was no use. We would just have to work the farm ourselves without a horse, until Cheval was fit again.

  I hardly saw Lorenzo over the next few days. Mostly he was inside his hospital shed, with the door closed. He came out rarely, and then only to gather flowers to put on the egret’s grave. I would see him kneeling there for a few minutes, and then he would disappear back into his shed. He spoke to no one. I don’t think he even knew we were there. Grieving or healing, Lorenzo wanted to be left alone.

  My lessons with Nancy were soon abandoned. All of us were needed out on the farm now, Maman told me. With no horse to help, everything had to be done by hand, on foot, so it all took much longer. We were fetching and carrying to every corner of the farm, endlessly pushing wheelbarrows – that’s what I remember most. I had never been so tired in all my born days. But I was happy enough to do it.

  For a while, it felt good to be busy, working alongside everyone, not to be thinking of the ruins of the carousel lying spread out in the barn. Still no one mentioned the carousel, but it was on my mind every time I passed by the barn, pushing another wheelbarrow. I could not bring myself to go in there again, and I never saw anyone else go in either. It was the first thing I thought about every morning, and the last thing at night. That old saying – we have it in French also – “out of sight, out of mind” did not work.

  As the days passed, I found I was missing Lorenzo more and more. I had not spoken to him for days on end, and was feeling miserable and lonely, and sorry for myself, I suppose. I was a child with no brothers or sisters, so I had been used to being alone, happy enough with my own company, but not any more.

  I remember I had been sent out to gather herbs and berries on my own. The mosquitoes would not leave me alone, whining about my head, biting my face, my hands. Very soon I had had enough of herbs and mosquitoes, enough of being on my own. I decided I would go looking for Lorenzo. I went to the hospital shed where I knew he must be, and called for him softly from outside the door.

  “Renzo, can I come in?” I whispered. “Renzo? Renzo?” There was no reply.

  I opened the door and went in. The little black calf we had been looking after was still there, lying down in the corner, beside the two orphan lambs we had been feeding. They bleated loudly at me, and ran over to the door, butting at my legs to be fed. But there was no sign anywhere of Cheval, or of Lorenzo. Outside in the farmyard I called for him again and again. I was about to run into the house to raise the alarm, to tell Nancy, or whoever I could find, that Lorenzo was missing when I saw some horse droppings on the cobbles, and then more of them further on down the farm track. I knew then that he had gone to Camelot. I ran as fast as I could go, brushed my way through the rushes, on to the bridge, under the gateway and into the castle courtyard. I was right. There he was; there they both were.

  Lorenzo was sitting on the stone in the middle of the courtyard, watching Cheval trotting round and round, freely, easily, with no sign of lameness at all. He smiled when he saw me, and then leaped up on to the stone, and clapped his hands.

  “Val Val! Rousel rousel!” he cried. It took me a while to comprehend what he was talking about. Then he was singing – more shouting than singing, it was. I recognised it at once, from the rhythm rather than the tune. It was his favourite music from Maman’s barrel organ, “Sur le Pont d’Avignon”. Now I understood! Look, idiot, he was trying to tell me, listen! Cheval is just like Horse on the carousel, going round and round, with the music playing.

  He was beckoning me to join him on the stone. So I climbed up to be beside him. We stood there, looking out over the marshes and the pink lakes, towards the blue of the sea beyond, both of us bellowing out “Sur le Pont d’Avignon”. Suddenly he stopped singing.

  “Flam flam!” he breathed. “Flam flam!” It took me a while to see them standing there in the shallows, because they were so still. “Hundred twenty-two,” Lorenzo said. “Hundred twenty-two.” I turned to see him standing there stiffly, balanced on one leg, his neck extended forward, his head turning. He honked softly, smiling as he did so. “Zia Zia,” he said lovingly. “Guin Guin.” We touched foreheads.

  Walking back with him that day up the track to the farm, each of us taking turns to lead Cheval, the world seemed mended and whole again, despite the Germans in the town, despite the destruction of our carousel. All was right again, our troubles and fears set aside, forgotten.

  That evening we all celebrated together over a meal in the caravan. It was Maman’s favourite dish, and mine too, an omelette of ham and tomatoes and onions and courgettes, and for Lorenzo all the sausage he could eat. He was even offering it around he was so happy. We were all so relieved to have him back with us, and to have Cheval well again.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Missing, Gone!

  “If Lorenzo brought us joy and laughter, he also brought us worries. I had understood well enough by this time that, for Nancy and Henri, Lorenzo’s habit of wandering off could be serious, that we all had to be aware of where he was and what he was doing. We might have five pairs of eyes between us now, but this was still never easy, not on the farm.

  There were times, almost every day, when someone would say: “Where’s Lorenzo? Anyone seen Lorenzo?” There was no panic: looking for Lorenzo was routine. We’d go off, calling for him around the farmyard, down to Camelot, or out on to the marshes.

  Sooner or later, one of us always found him, usually me because I knew best where he might be. If he heard us calling, he would always answer, “Renzo Renzo!” He would never hide from us. He just liked wandering off.

  But, just lately, Nancy told me she had noticed a change in Lorenzo. He was more tired than usual, preoccupied, just not himself. She would find him curled up asleep during the daytime, and that was unusual for Lorenzo. She asked me to keep a special eye on him, so I said I would. I didn’t really understand why she was so worried. Lorenzo seemed happy enough when I was with him. He didn’t seem any different to me. So I forgot all about what Nancy had said. I just put it out of my mind, I suppose.

  One morning, after a night battling mosquitoes, we were woken early in our caravan by the sound of footsteps running across the yard. My first thoughts were that the German soldiers had come back. But then I recognised Henri’s voice, frantic with worry, and Nancy’s too. I knew at once that it must be about Lorenzo. Papa opened the door.

  Nancy was calling out to him: “He’s missing, gone! He hasn’t slept in his bed. He’s been gone all night! He’s never gone off at night-time before. Never.”

  We were out there searching for hours. He was not sitting on the upturned rowing boat by the lake. I ran down to Camelot and called for him there. There was no reply. I rode out with Henri on Cheval all around the farm, splashed through the shallow pink lakes out to the islands where the flamingos gathered and nested. They took off in their hundreds at our approach, honking at us in indignation. We had disturbed their peace. We rode around all the lakes, searched every field, went in amongst the herds of horses and bulls, fearful he might have been trampled, then set off down the farm track, along the canal, towards town. Hiding away as I had been on the farm, it was a long time since I had been there. But we had forgotten all about that. We had to find Lorenzo. Nothing else mattered.

  Once there, Henri asked everyone we met whether they had seen Lorenzo. German soldiers were fo
rming up outside the mairie. The giant soldier was with them, inspecting them. He stood a head higher than any of them – you could not miss him. He looked up, and saw us. He lifted his hand in recognition. Henri asked in the cafés, outside the shops. No one had seen Lorenzo.

  By the time we rode back up the farm track along the canal, I could tell Henri was fearing the worst. He didn’t say anything, but he was walking Cheval ever more slowly, and deliberately so, stopping often to search the banks now, and the canal itself. He was not calling for Lorenzo any more. Now I was fearing the worst too.

  As we came into the yard in front of the house, we saw Nancy and Maman outside. They were clinging on to one another and sobbing.

  “You found him?” Henri cried out. “You found him? Tell me, tell me.”

  They could speak no words through their tears. All Maman could do was wave us towards the barn. The doors were wide open. Henri dismounted and ran inside. I followed him.

  Coming out of bright daylight into sudden darkness, I could see very little at first, but on the ground in the centre of the barn there was an oil lamp glowing, flickering. I was beginning to make out the remains of the carousel spread out on the floor. They were as I remembered them, but then I looked again. Something had changed. I could see they were not as we had left them, not scattered randomly any more.

  Lorenzo was nowhere to be seen, but Papa was there, crouching down. He turned to us, his finger to his lips. I looked where he was looking. The most extraordinary sight met my eyes. Lorenzo was lying there on the ground, knees drawn up, thumb in his mouth, fast asleep, and all around him, in a great circle, lay the remains of the carousel, no longer strewn about and scattered everywhere, but gathered, the pieces fitted together: Horse together, Bull together, Elephant together, Dragon together. And the rides were all in the right order too. Every one of them was where it should be. The winding gear lay in the middle, twisted, but pieced together, the cranking handle beside it. Maman’s barrel organ was there, the generator too – all broken, but recognisable. It was all recognisable, even the coronet of flying flamingos that had once crowned the carousel.