Escape from Shangri-La. Michael Morpurgo
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me. ‘Go on, hop to it. And he’ll need a towel too, from the airing cupboard – the big green one. We can’t have Mr Stevens sitting around in those wet clothes till your father comes home, can we now? He’ll catch his death.’
‘Not Mr Stevens, please. Popsicle. I’m Popsicle,’ my grandfather said quietly. ‘I’d like it very much if you’d call me Popsicle. It’s what everyone calls me. It’s what I’m used to.’
My mother had been interrupted in full flow, but she was only momentarily taken aback. ‘Popsicle it is then,’ she said, and she bustled me out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll look out some of Arthur’s clothes for you,’ I heard her telling him as I went up the stairs. ‘They’ll be a bit on the large side, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll have those wet things of yours dry in a jiffy.’ She was talking to him as if she’d known him for years, as if he was one of the family.
I was thinking about that as I ran the bath, but it wasn’t until I was fetching the towel from the airing cupboard that it began to sink in, that I began to understand what all this really meant. Until then I had believed it, but I hadn’t felt it. I had a new grandfather. Out of nowhere I had a new grandfather! A flush of sudden joy surged through me. As I watched him coming slowly up the stairs, hauling himself up by the banisters, all I wanted to do was to throw my arms round his neck and hug him. I waited until he reached the top, and then I did it. He looked a bit bewildered. I’d taken him by surprise but I think he was pleased all the same.
‘Do you have a loofah, Cessie?’ he asked me. ‘I don’t have baths very often. Bit difficult where I live. Bit cramped. Never enough water either. But when I do have a bath I always have my loofah.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s a sort of backscrubber. Reaches the parts you can’t reach otherwise.’
‘I don’t think we’ve got one,’ I laughed. ‘But you can have a duck, if you want. I’ve got a yellow plastic one called Patsy. Had it ever since I was little.’
‘What more could a fellow want?’ He smiled at me as I handed him the towel. ‘Tell you what, Cessie, why don’t you give us a tune on that fiddle of yours, eh? Same tune you were playing when I was out in the street. I liked that. I liked that a lot. You could do me a sort of serenade in the bath.’
So, with my bedroom door open, I serenaded him with Handel’s Largo. I could hear him humming away and splashing next door in the bathroom. I was playing so well, I was so wrapped up in it, that at first I didn’t notice my mother standing at the door of my room. I could tell she’d been listening for some time. When I stopped playing she said, ‘You play so well, Cessie. When you mean it, you play so well.’ She came over and sat down on my bed. ‘I don’t know what it is. I don’t feel right in myself,’ she said. ‘Shock, I suppose. I can’t explain it. It’s like someone’s just walked over my grave.’ I sat down beside her. She seemed to want me to. ‘It is him, you know,’ she went on. ‘I can see your dad in his face, in his gestures. You can’t fake that.’ She was hugging herself. ‘Maybe I’m frightened, Cessie.’
‘Of him?’
‘No, of course not. Of what might happen when your dad gets back. I don’t understand. I just don’t know what to make of it. I mean he’ll talk occasionally about his mum, and, very occasionally, about his stepfather too. But in all the time I’ve known him I don’t think he’s ever said a single word to me about his real dad. It’s as if he never existed, like he was almost a non-person. Perhaps I should have asked, but I always felt it was . . . well . . . like forbidden territory, almost as if there was something to hide, something he didn’t want to remember. I don’t know, I don’t know; but what I do know is that any minute now your dad’s going to walk in this house, and I’m going to have to tell him his father’s here. It’s going to be a big surprise, but I’m not sure what kind of surprise, that’s all.’
‘I’ll tell him, if you like,’ I said. I didn’t make the offer just to help her out. I offered because I wanted to be quite sure I was there when he was told, that this wouldn’t be one of those private, important things they went out into the garden to discuss earnestly. Popsicle may be my father’s father, but when all was said and done, he was my grandfather not theirs.
My mother put her hand on mine. ‘We’ll do it together, shall we?’
That was the moment we heard the front door open, and then slam. My father always slammed the door. It was part of his homecoming ritual. He’d toss the car keys next.
‘Anyone home?’ We heard the car keys land on the hall table. He was walking into the kitchen. ‘Anyone home?’
I don’t know who was squeezing whose hand the harder as we walked together along the landing past the bathroom door. We went down the stairs side by side, holding hands, and into the kitchen, holding hands. My father had his back to us. He was by the sink pouring himself a can of beer. He turned round and took a couple of deep swigs. I had never noticed how big his ears were, but I noticed now. I had to smile in spite of myself. My mother was right. You could see Popsicle in him. He was younger of course, and without the long, yellow hair, but they were so alike.
He smothered a burp and patted his chest. ‘Pardon me,’ he said. ‘Throat’s as dry as a bone.’
‘It’s all that talking you do,’ my mother said, clearing her throat nervously.
‘What’s up?’ He was looking at us, from one to the other. We looked back. ‘Nothing the matter, is there? You all right, Cessie?’ I looked away.
My mother began clearing the table, busily. She wasn’t a very convincing actress. ‘So,’ she said, ‘so you won’t be wanting a cup of tea then, not after a beer.’
My father was looking down at the kitchen table. He was counting the mugs, I was sure of it. ‘Seems like tea’s over and done with anyway. You been having a party, have you?’ I smiled weakly. I could think of nothing to say.
‘Cessie’s done her violin practice.’ My mother was prattling now. ‘And I have to say that she’s playing the Largo quite beautifully.’ She was bent over the table, wiping it down, but with far too much enthusiasm. As I watched her I could see she was never going to be able to bring herself even to look at him, let alone to break the news. I was bursting to tell him, but I didn’t know how to begin. I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t just blurt it out, could I? I couldn’t say: ‘Your long lost father’s come back to see you. He’s upstairs having a bath, with Patsy.’
I was still trying to work out how to tell him, when we heard the bathroom door open, and slow, heavy footfalls coming down the stairs.
‘Who’s that?’ My father had put down his beer. He knew now for sure that there was some sort of conspiracy going on.
‘Are you in there? Are you in the kitchen?’ Popsicle was talking all the time as he came down the stairs, as he came across the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘The clothes are fine. Jacket’s bit big in the sleeve. I may look like a right old scarecrow, but at least I’m a clean old scarecrow now, and warm too. Warmed right through, I am. Best bath I’ve had in years. And it’s been a very long time, I can tell you, since I had a bath with a duck. Friendly sort of a duck too, never leaves you alone. Always nibbling at something.’
The kitchen door opened. My father looked at his father. My grandfather looked at his son.
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