The Classic Morpurgo Collection (six novels) by Michael Morpurgo
“What was that for?” he asked.
“Because it’s a great moment,” she told him, “and because you brought the good news. Mind you, if you’d brought bad news, I’d have wrung your neck.”
Cynical old reporters shook their heads and wiped their eyes. Joe himself was so relieved and so happy as he went to thank all the old people one by one, but he could tell that Paddywack just wanted to get away and have some peace and quiet. He could feel him hiding behind his legs, nudging him, and pushing his head into his hand.
He bent down to stroke him. “You hate all this noise, don’t you?” he said. “But at least it’s a happy noise. Don’t you worry, all this fuss and bother will soon be over, and then we can go back to the barge. It’ll be just the two of us then, all right?”
But the fuss and bother was not over as soon as Joe might have hoped. Back in Fairlawns there were doctors and nurses everywhere, examining every one of the old people to make sure that none of them was suffering any serious aftereffects from the whole experience. One or two were finding it difficult to get warm again and were taken off to hospital with suspected hypothermia. When everything had settled down a bit, Mrs Bellamy and Miss Carter insisted – and they would listen to no argument about it – that Joe should stay on in Fairlawns for a few days, at least until he was strong enough to leave. “And we will decide when that will be,” said Miss Carter very firmly.
In fact Joe didn’t mind one bit, and in the end, neither did Paddywack. There could never have been a more adored dog in all the world. He revelled in all the loving attention, luxuriated in the warmth of the fire and was offered biscuits almost constantly. Joe and Paddywack were the heroes of the hour, and both were spoiled rotten by everyone at Fairlawns. It was nearly a week before Mrs Bellamy and Miss Carter declared that Joe was fit enough to be allowed to go home.
On the last night there was a celebration supper, to mark the occasion. Everyone got dressed-up for it. Miss Carter wore pink, as she always did for special occasions. Joe brushed Paddywack until he shone, and Mrs Bellamy tied a spotted handkerchief around his neck. They had candles and wine and music. Miss Carter made a speech thanking Joe and Paddywack for saving Fairlawns. The whole evening was like a long goodbye, and when it was over Joe wanted no more fond farewells. So they left early the next morning while it was still dark, while everyone was still asleep. He crept out of Fairlawns with Paddywack and drove home to the barge.
Joe talked all the way there. “Just you and me now, old son,” he said, “and The Lady Marion.” He looked across at Paddywack, who seemed a bit down. “You miss those old people back at Fairlawns, don’t you? Loved you to bits, didn’t they?” It was a few moments before he spoke again. “I want you to know something, Paddywack. I may not ooh and aah over you like they did, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you just as much. And with me it’s not because you’re beautiful, not because of your big brown eyes. It’s because you stuck by me. That’s what best mates are for, right? My best mate, that’s what you were, and that’s what you are. That’s what we’re always going to be, you and me, best mates.”
Suddenly Paddywack perked up, ears pricked and happy as if he’d understood every word.
“Time to move on Paddywack. This whole town is full of memories, good memories mostly, but without Marion they’ll be sad memories and I reckon they’ll only get sadder. I need new places, new faces. Never go back, never go back. I don’t know if it’s the same for dogs, but I don’t think people were made to stay put at all. I mean, look at us, look at all those houses – little boxes every one of them. Most of us live in little boxes like that all our lives. That’s what I’ve done anyway. We don’t really want to. It’s like we build our own prisons. All right, we may go on holiday from time to time, so we can pretend we’re free for a while, but we always come back to our same little box. I don’t think that’s natural. What about you, Paddywack? Are you the wandering kind? I hope so, I really hope so. Just so long as you don’t wander away from me.”
It took no more than a few days for Joe to install the potato oven in The Lady Marion. He tried to sell the Tattyvan all over town, but being the odd shape it was that didn’t prove at all easy. In the end he had to give it away as scrap. “That van was good to me, Paddywack,” he said. “Still, it was scrap when I got it, and now it’ll be scrap again. That’s recycling, nothing to get fussed about I suppose. But all the same it makes me sad.”
Paddywack wasn’t listening. He was racing off down the towpath towards the barge, scattering ducks and moorhens as he went. He never bothered with the gangplank. He just leaped across on to the deck and made his way at once to the bow, already his favourite place on The Lady Marion, where he stood stock still, on the lookout for anything that moved, swans swimming by or dogs on the towpath, or a flurry of ducks flying over.
That same afternoon Joe started the engine and cast off. The barge moved slowly away from the bank and down the canal, Paddywack still on lookout and Joe at the wheel. Day after day, if the weather was fine, that’s where Paddywack would be, up on the bow, like a ship’s figurehead, searching always for new excitements and new adventures. He loved to watch the world drift by, because the world was always changing around him, there was always something new to see or smell or hope for. Sometimes, if the barge came close enough to the bank and Paddywack felt like a run, he’d leap off on to the towpath and go for a sprint. Any unfortunate rabbit or rat caught out in the open, any cat out hunting, was soon sent scurrying away. And with a bit of luck there could even be another dog to play with or race against. Joe loved watching him as he ran circles round every dog he met.
When they came to locks, Paddywack had a routine – Joe thought it was because he didn’t like being left behind on the barge. Paddywack would jump out and go and sit up by the lock gates. From there he would oversee Joe at work, as he opened and shut the gates, manoeuvring The Lady Marion in and out. Then, as Joe throttled up again Paddywack would spring back on board, and at once resume his lookout post on the bow.
In the evenings they’d tie up somewhere, mostly in a town or a village if they could, and he would sit there beside Joe as he served his customers their baked potatoes, but he was still on lookout. Any cheesy potato skins dropped on the towpath were very quickly discovered and snaffled up. And when the weather was too miserable to travel, then they’d hunker down in the warmth of the cabin and while away the hours with sleep or bacon butties – and knitting, Joe’s new hobby. Paddywack was fascinated with Joe’s knitting. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the clicking needles. “Marion taught me years ago,” Joe told him one evening. “She said it was good for mind-eye coordination, keeps your brain alive, she said. But I never really took to it. But then, after she died, I found her needles one day and her wool. So I thought I’d take it up again, and make more bobble hats like mine. We’ll sell them, like the tatties. Every little helps.”
For a year or more, Joe and Paddywack drifted through the seasons in peace and contentment. Hardly a boat passed them by on the canal without some flattering comment about Paddywack, about how beautiful he looked standing there on the bow, or how graceful and powerful he was as he streaked along the towpath. Joe could have wished for a few compliments about his beloved barge, that he had so painstakingly and meticulously restored. But barge owners, as he was discovering, were rather too proud of their own boats to have much enthusiasm for anyone else’s.
For Joe there were still moments, usually late in the evening, when memories of Marion would come flooding back and his grief took hold of him again. But Paddywack would always be there beside him through these difficult times. He seemed to sense Joe’s need for comfort and company and would settle close to his chair, or rest his head on Joe’s knee. “I bless the day I found you,” Joe told him one night as Paddywack climbed up on to his bunk beside him. “Or did you find me? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, will we, old son?”
It happened on an afternoon much like any other. The Lady Marion w
There was a strange smell in the air, Joe noticed, sweet and sour like the brown sauce he loved on his bacon butties, and Joe wondered where it was coming from. Ahead of them, about 400 metres away was the next bridge. There was a pair of swans swimming side by side towards it, with half a dozen cygnets bobbing along behind them. Joe thought then it might be the swans Paddywack was getting so worked up about. Or maybe it was the sound of the children in the playground that was exciting him. He noticed Paddywack stopping from time to time to lift his nose and scent the air. But then he’d be racing up and down the deck again, barking wildly, his tail whirling. Joe had never seen him so agitated. He called out to him, trying to calm him down, but Paddywack wasn’t listening.
Joe could see what Paddywack was going to do. There was nothing whatever he could do about it. There was no time. All he could do was watch as Paddywack took a running jump and landed in the canal.
By the time Joe had managed to slow the barge down, Paddywack was already clambering out of the water and haring off down the towpath. Joe shouted after him, but he knew it was pointless, that Paddywack was too far away by now to hear him. He could only look on in horror as Paddywack bounded up the steps by the bridge, and then ran straight out into the road. A huge lorry was coming over the bridge. Joe heard the blast of a horn and the screeching of tyres.
“Paddywack!” he cried. “Oh my God, Paddywack!”
It was cold in the water, but I hardly noticed it. I was scrambling out and running, running where my legs took me, knowing Patrick would be waiting for me. I was up the steps then and dashing across the road. I didn’t care about the cars all around me, or the lorry bearing down on me. I knew the way home and nothing would stop me getting there. I was going home. I was going back to Patrick. I raced along the pavement, dodging and weaving as I went. Everything around me was so familiar, the trees, the lamp posts, the houses, then I was in the street where I once lived, where Patrick lived.
The gate was open when I got there, but I hurdled the garden wall anyway as I always used to do. I was leaping up and down outside the front door, scrabbling and scratching at it, and barking, barking, barking. But Patrick didn’t come. No one came. I decided I’d wait. He’d be bound to come back soon. So I sat down by the door and listened for Patrick’s voice, listened for his footsteps. But all the voices I heard were strangers’ voices and all the footsteps, strangers’ footsteps. There were one or two who stopped to stare at me for a while. One of them was a boy with a little terrier on a lead who was trying to pull away from him, straining to come through the front gate and meet me. I knew that terrier at once – we’d chased each other around up in the park in the old days, I was sure of it. So I went after him.
When they crossed the road I crossed with them. The boy tried to shoo me away, but I ignored him. And all the while the terrier was looking back at me, often having to be dragged along. Only when they started up the hill did I recognise exactly where I was. Only then did I know for sure where they were going, and where I was going too. I didn’t need them as pathfinders any more. I knew my own way. I raced past them, through the wide gates at the top of the road, and out into the park, the place Patrick always took me to play. The place I loved best in the whole world. I knew every path, every waste bin, every bench. There were children everywhere, dogs everywhere, and there at the top of the hill ahead of me was the bench I remembered, our bench, Patrick’s bench, my bench. There was someone up there, but I was still too far away to see who it was. I galloped up that hill, faster, faster with every stride.
Only now I wasn’t alone. I had another dog with me, running along beside me, silver-grey and shining. And he was fast, as fast as I was. Neck and neck we raced one another up towards the bench. And there was Patrick waiting for me, just as he always had been.
“You’ve found a friend then?” he said. Patrick was bigger than I remembered him, broader, taller, and his voice had changed. But it was Patrick all right. I leaned myself up against him, and felt his hand on my head, smoothing my ears gently. “A friendly friend too,” he went on. “I had a greyhound a bit like you once. You’re fawn though. He was gold, gold as the sun. He wasn’t as big as you are, and you’re a bit white round the muzzle too. And he was fast, really fast, a lot faster than you.” He turned his attention to the silver-grey dog who’d jumped up and was on two legs now, his paws on Patrick’s chest. “He was faster than you too, you big softie,” he said, shrugging him off. “Go on, now you’ve found someone your own size, go and play with him. Off you go. Go on boy! Go, go, go!”
They were the words I was waiting for. Off I went, off we went together, the silver-grey dog and me, racing round and round the top of the hill. I was loving it and hating it all at the same time. Patrick didn’t recognise me as I recognised him. But I was not forgotten, he had remembered me. I ran up to him and bounded about him, barking at him, trying to make him know me. But it was the other dog he knew, the other dog he loved, not me.
He threw sticks for us, and time and again I dropped them at his feet and sat down to wait for him to throw them again, just as I’d always done. Still he did not know me.
I was racing after yet another stick when I saw Joe come puffing up the path towards us. He was so tired out he could hardly speak. All he could say was, “Paddywack, Paddywack!”
“Is he yours?” Patrick asked him. “Run off, did he?” Joe nodded, still quite unable to speak. “He’s been here for half and hour or so,” Patrick went on. “I once had a greyhound like him, must be over five years ago now. He ran off too.”
By now Joe had recovered a little. “He’s never run off before, I don’t understand it. It’s not like him at all. I’ve been looking all over. Someone down by the pond said I should come and have a look in the park. There’s always dogs up there, dozens of dogs, and dogs like other dogs. He was right, wasn’t he? Thank goodness.”
For a moment Joe and Patrick said nothing more. They looked at us lying there at their feet, panting our hearts out. “Where did you get yours?” Patrick asked.
“I guess we just found each other,” Joe replied. “Strange meeting really, when I think back on it. Just the luckiest thing. Right time, right dog, right place. What about you?”
“Same with me, I suppose,” said Patrick. “When my first dog ran off – Best Mate he was called – I looked everywhere for him. It happened here too, right here in the park. I came back every day for months. I was sure he’d come back. But he never did. He just disappeared. So in the end my dad and me, we went down to the rescue centre. I wanted another greyhound. I like greyhounds. They’re the best. I love to watch them run. They run like cheetah-dogs. In fact they’re the third fastest animal on earth, after a cheetah and a prong-horned antelope – did you know that? I could watch them and watch them. And they’re kind too. I like that.” Patrick glanced at his watch. “Homework. I’d better be going, I suppose. See you,” he said, and he ran off, the silver-grey dog trotting at his heels.
I watched until they disappeared over the hill, under the trees. I found I wasn’t so sad any more. I was just glad I’d seen him.
“Let’s go home, Paddywack,” said Joe. “Bacon butties for tea, and b
As we walked away I looked back over my shoulder, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Patrick, but he was gone.
I miss him, like I miss Alfie, like I miss Becky. But I’ve got Joe now, and Joe’s got me, and we’re fine.
For Ella, Lottie and Charlie, and in memory of their grandfather, Eddie.
Contents
Dedication
A sudden change of heart
“Look at me, I need a smile”
“No leaves, Oona, I can’t eat leaves”
Tiger, Tiger…
A feast of figs
“He is like God here”
Other One
Burning bright
Sanctuary
Elephant’s child
Postscript
Author’s Note
Post postscript
Deforestation
Orang-utans
Tsunami
Tyger Tyger
Acknowledgements
A sudden change of heart
he sea murmured onto the beach. Beneath me, the elephant walked on over soft and silent sand. The further we went along the beach away from the hotel, away from the distant cries of the swimmers in the sea, the quieter everything became. I was loving the gentle rock and roll of the ride. I closed my eyes and breathed in the peace around me. This was a million miles from everything that had happened, from everything that had brought me here.
It was as I was riding up there on the elephant, swaying in the sun, that Dad’s elephant joke came into my mind. Usually I can’t remember jokes, but I always remembered this one, maybe because Dad told it so often. I knew it word for word, just as he’d tell it.
“You know the one about the elephant and the bananas, Will?” he’d begin, and without waiting for an answer, off he’d go. “A man and a boy were sitting opposite one another in this railway carriage – they were travelling between Salisbury and London. On his lap, the man had a huge paper bag full of bananas. But soon enough, the boy noticed that something very strange was going on here. The man wasn’t eating the bananas. Instead, every few minutes, he’d just stand up, open the window, and throw one of them out. Of course, the boy couldn’t understand what he was doing this for. He kept trying to puzzle it out. So in the end, he just had to ask.