Escape from Shangri-La. Michael Morpurgo

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      3 BARNARDO’S BOYS

      POPSICLE SHUFFLED FORWARD, HESITANTLY, offering his hand as he came, but my father didn’t take it, not at first. Even when he did, it was obvious to me that he had little idea whose hand he was shaking. But he knew he should know. He wanted help. He needed someone to tell him who this was. So I told him.

      ‘He’s your dad.’ I said it straight out. It seemed the only way.

      ‘You don’t recognise me, do you, Arthur?’ Popsicle held on to my father’s hand for a moment longer. ‘Why should you? Been fifty years, near enough. Last time I saw you was in Bradwell, in the village. You were catching a bus across the road from the church, a green bus, I remember that. You and your mum were off to live in Maldon, just down the coast. You were looking out the back window and you were waving. Never saw you again after that, nor your mum.’

      Still my father said nothing. He seemed to be in some kind of a trance, incapable of movement, incapable of speech. I had never seen him like this and it frightened me.

      My mother was trying to explain. ‘He heard you on the radio, Arthur,’ she said. ‘And then he went to the radio station. He saw your picture on the wall. Recognised you right away, didn’t you, Popsicle?’

      ‘Bradwell-on-Sea?’ My father spoke at last.

      Popsicle nodded. ‘Remember the house, do you, Arthur? Down by the quay, next to the Green Man. Good pub that. Too good.’

      My father said nothing more. The silence was becoming long and awkward. I suppose I had been anticipating a joyous reunion, huge hugs, tears even. I certainly hadn’t expected this. My father was usually so spontaneous. This wasn’t like him at all.

      ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come, Arthur,’ said Popsicle at last. ‘Not without warning you anyway. I should have written a letter perhaps. That would’ve been better. Well, maybe I’d better be off then.’ And he turned away towards the door.

      ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said my mother firmly. She had Popsicle by the arm now. ‘No one’s going anywhere. If this man is who he says he is, then there’s more than just the two of you involved in this. There’s Cessie and there’s me.’ She sat Popsicle down on a kitchen chair, none too gently. Then she stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, facing my father.

      ‘Well, Arthur, we need to know. Is this your father, or isn’t it?’

      My father took his time before replying. ‘Yes.’ He spoke softly, so softly I could hardly hear him. ‘I remember the bus. The window was steamed up and I had to rub a hole in it to see him. I wasn’t waving, not exactly.’

      ‘Maybe Cessie and I should just leave you both alone for a while. There’ll be a fair bit you want to talk about, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll make ourselves scarce. Come along, Cessie.’

      I was reluctant to go, but it looked as if I had no choice. I was being ushered out of the door when my father called us back.

      ‘Don’t go,’ he said, and he said it in such a way that I knew he needed us.

      My mother was the life and soul of that first gathering around the kitchen table. She brought out the sloe gin. ‘Only for very special occasions, very special people,’ she said, opening the bottle. ‘Five years old. Should be perfect. Not every day a father turns up out of the blue.’

      ‘Nor a grandfather,’ I added. I was allowed a taste, but that was all. Popsicle emptied his glass in one gulp and declared that it was ‘beautiful’. My father was watching him, scrutinising him all the while, but it was a long time before he said anything.

      ‘I went back, you know.’ My father spoke up suddenly. He was looking into his glass. He still hadn’t touched a drop.

      ‘Back where?’ Popsicle asked.

      ‘Bradwell. To our house.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘I went looking for you. After Mum died, I ran off. But you weren’t there. I asked in the pub, but you’d gone, years before, they said.’

      ‘She’s dead, Arthur? Your mum’s dead?’

      ‘A long time ago,’ said my father.

      ‘I never knew, Arthur. Honest to God, I never knew.’ His face seemed suddenly very sunken and exhausted. ‘When? How?’

      ‘I was ten. Boating accident. They were both drowned, her and Bill. No one knows what happened, not really. They looked for you. Well, they told me they did anyway, but no one could find you. They packed me off to a home, a children’s home. Nothing else they could do, I suppose. That’s when I ran off back to Bradwell. They caught me of course. Brought me back. A Dr Barnardo’s place it was, by the sea. Wasn’t home exactly, but it wasn’t too bad.’ He took a sip of sloe gin, and then, looking directly across the table at Popsicle, he went on: ‘Do you know what I’d do sometimes? Summer evenings, I’d sit on the brick wall by the gate and wait for you. I really thought that one day you’d come back and take me away. I was sure of it.’

      Popsicle seemed suddenly breathless. He clutched at the table for support. ‘You all right?’ my mother asked, crouching down beside him.

      ‘I’m fine, fine,’ said Popsicle.

      ‘Sure?’

      Popsicle put a hand to his neck. ‘There’s a thing,’ he said. ‘Be funny if it weren’t so sad. Runs in the family. Father and son, both of us Barnardo’s boys. There’s a thing, there’s a thing.’

      Without any warning at all СКАЧАТЬ