My Friend Walter. Michael Morpurgo
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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.
‘Well, I’m blowed,’ Father said, picking the postcard off the floor. ‘What do you make of this, then?’
‘Of what, dear?’ said Mother, wiping her hands on her apron and coming to look over his shoulder.
‘Can’t hardly make it out,’ said Father, peering at it closely. ‘’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?’
‘What’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.
‘It says: “To the family Throckmorton” – 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. ‘It 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”.’
‘Very mysterious,’ said Mother. ‘I 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.
‘Rum business if you ask me,’ said Father. ‘Could be a hoax for all we know.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mother said. ‘People have family reunions all the time. I think it’s a lovely idea. I’d love to go, but the fourteenth – I think something’s happening on the fourteenth.’ And she went over to look at the calendar by the phone. ‘Oh 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. ‘It 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?’
‘The Tower Hotel, it says here,’ said Father. ‘Up in London. Somewhere near the Tower of London, I suppose.’
‘That’s where they cut off all those heads,’ said my brother Will, doing up his trousers as he came in the door. He growled at Humph as usual, who growled back as usual. ‘I’ve been there,’ said Will. ‘I’ve seen the very place where they cut off their heads. I’ve seen the axe. Sharp as a razor it was. Mind you, one of them Beefeaters said it sometimes needed three or four swipes if your neck was a bit thick.’
‘Will!’ said Mother. ‘That’s quite enough. Now sit down and eat your breakfast.’ She turned to me. ‘But you can go, Bessy. If we could find someone to take you, you could go.’ I shook my head. I didn’t like parties at all and there’d be lots of strange people. ‘Bound to be lots of other children there,’ Mother went on. ‘You’d like to meet your cousins, wouldn’t you? I wonder if Aunty Ellie got an invitation. She’d take you, I know she would.’
The telephone rang, and Mother was right beside it. It was Aunty Ellie; and yes, she’d had an invitation. No, hers wasn’t signed either, and yes, she’d take along anyone who wanted to go. Everyone told me I should go. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ said Gran. ‘Be interesting,’ said Mother. So I went.
As it turned out the party wasn’t a bit interesting, not to start with, anyway. Once at the hotel, I trailed around after Aunty Ellie through a sea of relations that I had never met who peered at the name on my label – as the invitation had said, everyone wore labels so we could find out who we all were – and they asked me where I lived and where the rest of my family was and where I went to school and what hobbies I had. I would tell them I liked reading books and painting pictures and following butterflies – for some reason that seemed to make them laugh. I can’t think why. I ate two flakey sausage rolls which were delicious, some apple tart which was not, and drank glasses of orange juice. I glared back at a few distant cousins who glared at me, and then because my legs were tired and because I couldn’t really cope with my third sausage roll and a sticky bun and an orange juice all at the same time, I looked for somewhere to sit down.
I left Aunty Ellie chatting to an aged great uncle who wore striped braces to hold his trousers up over his huge stomach, and went to sit by myself on an empty sofa. Everyone seemed to have a lot to say to everyone and there must have been some good jokes (although I didn’t hear any) because they were all laughing a lot and loudly. I had finished my sausage roll and was wondering which end of my sticky bun to bite into when I noticed there was someone else sitting beside me. It startled me because I’d thought until that moment that I was alone.
Sitting on the far end of the sofa was an old man with a silver-topped cane. He was swathed in a long black cloak which covered him from head to toe. He was smoking a pipe, a long elegant silver pipe; and he was leaning forward over the top of his cane studying my label and then my face. ‘So you are Elizabeth Throckmorton?’
I nodded.
‘I have been searching for you.’ He looked at me more closely and smiled and shook his head. ‘Long ago I knew someone of the same name,’ he said. ‘She was older, I grant you, yet the likeness is unquestionable. You have her eyes, you have her face.’ His voice was strangely reedy and high-pitched, and he spoke with a burr much as we do in Devon. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but it was hard to know what to say, and so I said nothing. The old man began to chuckle as he looked around the room. ‘If Sir Walter himself could be here,’ he said, ‘I wonder indeed what he would think of his family.’
‘Sir Walter?’
‘Sir Walter Raleigh!’ he said rather sternly. ‘You have heard of him I trust?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t he the one that laid his cloak in a puddle so Queen Elizabeth could walk across without getting her feet wet?’
The old man looked at me long and hard and then sat back on the sofa and shook his head sadly. ‘Is that all you know about Sir Walter Raleigh? Well, you should know more. Do you not know that he is an ancestor of yours?’
‘Of mine?’
‘A distant relative I grant you, but everyone in this room has the blood of Walter Raleigh running in their veins, albeit thinly.’ He drew on his pipe and sighed as he looked around him. ‘It is hard to believe it, but it is so.’ He turned to me again. ‘He lived close by for some time, you know.’
‘Close by?’ I said.
‘In the Tower of London. If ever a man served his country well it was Walter Raleigh – and how did they repay him? They locked him up and cut off his head.’
‘Cut off his head? But why?’
‘That is indeed a long story and a hard one for me to tell.’ He leaned forward again and spoke gently. ‘But since you have some connection with him by blood, perhaps you should go and see where he lived all those years ago. Thirteen years he was there. Thirteen long, cold years in the Bloody Tower. You should go there child. You should see it.’ He gripped my arm so tightly that it frightened me, and looked at me earnestly. ‘He is part of your history. He is part of you. Will you go?’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, and he seemed happy with that.
He looked past me. ‘I long for something to drink, child; but there is a crush of people about the table.’
‘I’ll fetch it,’ I said. ‘Tea?’
He smiled at me. ‘Wine,’ he replied. ‘Red wine. I drink nothing else. I shall be here or hereabouts when you return.’ When he stood up he was a lot taller than I