Authors: Michael Morpurgo
My Friend Walter
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Also by Michael Morpurgo
Arthur: High King of Britain
Escape from Shangri-La
Friend or Foe
The Ghost of Grania O'Malley
Kensuke's Kingdom
King of the Cloud Forests
Little Foxes
Long Way Home
Mr Nobody's Eyes
The Nine Lives of Montezuma
The Sandman and the Turtles
The Sleeping Sword
Twist of Gold
Waiting for Anya
War Horse
The War of Jenkins' Ear
The White Horse of Zennor
Why the Whales Came
The Wreck of Zanzibar
For Younger Readers
The Best Christmas Present in the World
Conker
Mairi's Mermaid
The Marble Crusher
First published in Great Britain in 1988 by William Heinemann LtdThis edition published 2007 by Egmont UK Limited
239 Kensington High Street, London W8 6SA
Text Copyright © 1988 Michael Morpurgo
Cover illustration copyright © 2007 Oliver Burston
The moral rights of the author and cover illustrator have been asserted
ISBN 978 1 4052 2926 5
eBook ISBN 978 1 7803 1156 2
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
For Christine and Dave,
Zoé and Orlanda, Fredi and Lotta
CHAPTER 1
BEFORE I TELL YOU ABOUT THE POSTCARD I HAD better tell you something about me. My name is Elizabeth Throckmorton and I'll be eleven on my next birthday. Aunty Ellie (you'll meet her later) calls me her âchina doll' on account of my pale skin and straight black hair. I'm small for my age, so people at school think I'm feeble and fragile which I'm not. I don't talk much, so they think I'm unfriendly which I'm not. I just get on better with myself than anyone else, that's all.
Around me at home there's my family. First there's Father, who's a farmer. Father treats me like a boy. I think he always wanted me to be a boy, really. Then there's Mother, who's always busy. If she's not out on
the farm she's scurrying about the house with a broom or a pile of dirty washing. She never stops. She doesn't seem to have time to talk to me much these days, not since Little Jim was born; but we understand each other â always have done. Not like my big brother Will. We haven't got much in common, Will and me. When he's not shooting or fishing, he's down in the cellar making horrible smells in the chemistry laboratory he's set up down there. I'd like to like him more â I know I ought to.
Then there's Little Jim. Little Jim was born about eight months ago. He always needs feeding or changing or picking up or mopping up. I spend a lot of time looking after Little Jim, but he doesn't seem to appreciate it. He loves to pull my hair out by the roots or to tear my ears off whenever he can. He never does that to Gran. Gran has been living with us in the house for as long as I can remember. She's nearly eighty now. I know she means well, but she does go on a bit sometimes.
I suppose you could say that it was an ordinary sort of a morning in our house the day the postcard came. The toast burnt and Father shouted and spluttered with his mouth full of cornflakes. I was giving Little
Jim his breakfast. Mother was trying to rescue the toast and to see to Gran's boiled egg, all at the same time. Will was in the bathroom. He's always down last. Humph is our black and white sheepdog with a killer instinct for letters and postcards, and it was Humph that heard the postman first. He rose with a terrible growl from his catching position under Little Jim's high chair and fairly flew out of the kitchen door. He returned seconds later, his tail high with triumph, a postcard in his mouth, wet and punctured as usual. Mother told him to drop it. Humph looked at her blankly, pretending not to understand. He had learned that if you hold out long enough you get one of Little Jim's rusks in exchange for the post. And sure enough he got one this morning.
âWell, I'm blowed,' Father said, picking the postcard off the floor. âWhat do you make of this, then?'
âOf what, dear?' said Mother, wiping her hands on her apron and coming to look over his shoulder.
âCan't hardly make it out,' said Father, peering at it closely. â'S funny writing, don't you think? Anyway, seems we're all invited to some sort of family reunion. Never heard of such a thing, have you?'
âWhat's it say?' I asked, looking at the picture on
the back of the postcard. It was of the Tower of London with a Beefeater standing outside looking very serious.
âIt says: “To the family Throckmorton” â that means you too, Jimmy.' Little Jim waved his arms up and down like a tin drummer boy and then rubbed his soggy rusk in his ear. âIt says: “You are invited to attend a grand reunion of our family to be held at the Tower Hotel, London, on the fourteenth of July at noon. Have your name writ upon you so we may know one another”.'
âVery mysterious,' said Mother. âI wonder who sent it. Can't spell, whoever it is. Should be “written” not “writ”. And it's not signed at all. Just look at the writing, Bess. Worse than yours.' And she turned the card round to show me. The handwriting was all squeezed up and tall. I could hardly read a word of it.
âRum business if you ask me,' said Father. âCould be a hoax for all we know.'
âNonsense,' Mother said. âPeople have family reunions all the time. I think it's a lovely idea. I'd love to go, but the fourteenth â I think something's happening on the fourteenth.' And she went over to look at the calendar by the phone. âOh dear, I thought so. We can't go, not on the fourteenth. You've got to
see the accountant in the afternoon, dear. Little Jim's got his diphtheria jab in the morning at the doctor's. And you were coming with us, Gran, for your check-up, remember? What a pity.' Gran was about to protest. âIt would be too much for you anyway, Gran. You know what the doctor said about overdoing it. And Will's still away at camp with the school. Where did they say they're having it?'