In the Mouth of the Wolf. Michael Morpurgo

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      First published in Great Britain 2018

      by Egmont UK Limited

      The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

      Text copyright © 2018 Michael Morpurgo

      Illustrations copyright © 2018 Barroux

      The moral rights of the author and illustrators have been asserted.

      Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of the material

      reproduced in this book. If any have been inadvertently overlooked, the publishers will

      be pleased to make restitution at the earliest opportunity.

      All images used with thanks.

      Two images of Christine Granville here © The Estate of William Stanley Moss

      ISBN 978 1 4052 8526 1

      eISBN 978 1 4052 9274 0

      65511/1

      A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

      Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

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      For Nan and Francis,

      Niki, Jay, Christine and Paul.

      And Kia.

      In memory of Yves Barroux.

      For Marie-Thérèse and Sophie-Laure.

      T

      hey gave me such a jolly party today. Everyone

      from the village came.

      Ninety years old, I am. I’m walking a bit stooped

      these days, and my knees and hips are more rickety than they should be, but I can walk up into the village, and I still like a good meal, and a glass of good red wine –

      I had plenty of that this

      evening. Sleep does not

      come so easily as it did,

      but I mustn’t grumble. I

      have my memories, and

      friends all around me,

      and family too, those who

      are still alive. What more

      could an old man want?

      1

      A better memory would be good. I’m fine with faces and places. It’s the years that get muddled, jumbled up. I spend my time trying to unjumble them.

      The village mayor made a generous speech, and said how honoured they were to have Monsieur le Colonel Francis Cammaerts – such a great man, and such a great friend to the people of Le Pouget,

      and of France – living here in their little French village, and his family too. The school children stood in the courtyard, with their Union Jack and Tricolour flags, and sang ‘Sur le Pont d’Avignon’ and ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’ as well, and everyone clapped and sang ‘Happy Birthday to You’, in English and in French.

      3

      A little girl stepped forward to present me with some flowers. Red, white and almost-blue irises. Lovely. The mayor said she was the newest girl in the school, that she had recently come from Punjab to live in the village. She spoke with quiet dignity, and in good French. ‘I am Jupjaapun Kaur. From all the children in Le Pouget I wish you a most happy birthday.’ I repeated her name again and again to be sure I was pronouncing it right.

      She smiled at me, and told me that Kaur means princess. The flowers, she said, came from her garden.

      I was so glad at that moment that we’d come back to live in France, but sad that not all of us were here, that Nan and our Christine were not with us. Several others too. I miss them more today than ever. But I have Paul, and I have Niki. And Jay.

      A wonderful son and two dear daughters, and little Kia, who is no longer little at all – grandchildren grow up even faster than your own children. I should be thankful.

      4

      And I am, I am. But I am in the dusk of my life, a dusk that is streaked with joys, and sadnesses.

      I was suddenly tired and longing for the solitude and quiet of my little room, and bed. I waved them all goodbye. Jay helped me into the house, and into bed, hugged me and left. What children I have, what friends they are to me!

      So here I am now, in my bed. Night has fallen. The bright moon shining in through the window, and the church bell striking midnight. My scops owl hoots his birthday greeting to me. I smile in the moonlight and settle back on my pillows. I know I won’t sleep.

      This is a night for remembering. I want to remember everyone who wasn’t here at my party, all my good companions in life who held my hand, stroked my brow, helped me through. I want to see them again, be with them again, live all my life with them again, from my sandpit days to now. Ninety years.

      P

      apa, are you there, Papa? You missed a good party. I think of you, and you are sitting there in your

      tweed suit, with your bird’s nest of a beard, wreathed in pipe smoke. I always wanted to be like you, Papa, smoke a pipe, write fine poetry, stories and plays, be wise. You were so wise about most things – but not

      everything. For a start, you had far

      too many children. Four

      daughters, all of them

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