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Authors: Michael Morpurgo

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BOOK: Dear Olly
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Later in the day, the sun lifted the mist off the mountainside and Hero flew away over the mountain. On the far side was a broad valley and a dark lake beyond. The smoke of many fires rose into the air from the valley floor. He flew lower. People, thousands upon thousands
of people living in a ramshackle city of huts and tents, a refugee city, spread out all over the valley from the foothills to the lakeside, a place of wretchedness, a wasteland of human misery that echoed with the howling cries of the hungry and the sick, the lost and the grieving.

Hero flew out over the lake to feed, and the feeding was easy – for it was almost evening by now and the flies were down. He dipped down to drink and, as he did so, he heard from some way off a sound he knew so well – the sound of children’s voices. As he left the lake behind him, Hero saw below him a courtyard of long low buildings, and there were children laughing. They were all sitting on the ground, watching a clown, a clown in a battered bowler hat, red check trousers, a yellow spotted jacket, and floppy shoes. He was juggling and tripping over his feet at the same time, staggering about, almost dropping the balls, but never quite. The children were squealing with joy.

Hero landed and perched on the courtyard wall and looked on. The balls
were going higher and higher and higher, and then, one by one, the clown made them disappear until there was only one left. This one he popped into his mouth and swallowed, licking his lips and rubbing his tummy with delight. The children cheered and laughed, until he hushed them to an attentive silence. Then he crouched down and began to tell them a story. As he did so another swallow came down to join Hero on the wall, and another and another, until the whole wall was lined with them. Hero knew at that moment that he had flown as far as he would go. He had all he needed here. He had arrived.

The children listened open-mouthed in wonder as the clown finished his story. He lifted his battered hat and bowed to them. They clapped and begged for
another. It was then that the clown looked up and noticed the swallows. “Look!” he cried, pointing straight at Hero. “Look, children! Swallows. You see those birds up there on the wall? They’re swallows.”

Two hundred heads turned and looked. “They’ve come a very long way, children,” the clown went on. “Some of them perhaps all the way from England, from my country. All those thousands of miles just to see you. Now that’s something. That’s really something, isn’t it?”

Matt’s Story

T
here was thunder about the mountain that evening, and the children were uneasy. They would be difficult to settle. Matt was hot in his clown costume, but he didn’t mind. The courtyard had rung with laughter as he’d told them his story of the Sultan and the Cockerel – their particular favourite – and that was all that mattered. The new girl, just brought in that morning – Matt couldn’t remember her name – sat cross-legged at his feet, beaming up at him. She had gappy teeth, and Matt remembered Olly being like that, and all the business of the tooth fairy. Home seemed a million miles away, on another planet. The swallows on the wall reminded him that it wasn’t.

Evenings were when Matt really came into his own. He was busy enough by day about the orphanage, working alongside Sister Christina and the dozen or so nurses and nuns, helping out wherever he could – in the kitchen, cleaning down in the dormitories and the hospital, sometimes teaching under the tree in the courtyard.

In the few months he had been there Matt had become the great fixer, their handy handyman. As Sister Christina once told him teasingly: “You understand all the truly important mysteries of life, Matt – generators, Land Rover engines, wiring, plumbing, drains.” Matt had made himself
quite indispensable about the place. And he had never been so happy. For the first time in his life he felt completely fulfilled at the end of each day. Dawn to dusk, he worked his heart out and loved every moment of it. But dusk was best. “Matt’s happy hour”, as Sister Christina called it, or “Funny Man time”, to the children.

And so it was, an hour of clowning antics and joking and juggling and story-telling in the court-yard before the children were taken off to their dormitories for the night. Settling two hundred children to sleep is difficult at the best of times, but as Matt was discovering daily, all these
children had lived through unimaginable horrors and terrors, and the coming of night seemed to be the time when their memories returned to haunt them, the time they most missed their mothers and fathers.

For Sister Christina, too, and for everyone who worked at the orphanage, “Matt’s happy hour” had become the one time of the day they could all look forward to. No-one liked to miss it. They laughed because they rejoiced to see the children so happy and bright-eyed, but also because Matt somehow managed to touch the child in each of them as well. Day in, day out, they were dealing with children so wounded in body and soul, that it was sometimes very difficult for them to keep their own spirits up. To them “Matt’s happy hour” was manna
from heaven, a blissful haven of fun at the end of the day. They loved him for it, as did the children, and for Matt the warmth of that love meant everything.

With the story over, the children drifted slowly across the courtyard to their dormitories. Matt had one on his back and half a dozen more clutching on to his hands, his arms, his baggy red check trousers, in fact anything they could hang on to.
He helped settle them into their beds, cuddling where a cuddle was needed, whispering goodnights, calming fears. As he had expected, it took longer than usual that evening for the air was heavy and humid. But that was not the only reason. That afternoon they had heard an explosion. It was some way away—probably another landmine, Sister Christina had told him—but close enough to send a shiver of apprehension through the orphanage. All the children knew well enough what such sounds meant, and what horrible damage such sounds could do to the human body.

Matt came at last to Gahamire’s bed. He was sitting up, waiting for Matt as usual. Gahamire grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down beside him. He snatched off his battered bowler hat,
put it on, mimicking one of Matt’s sad faces and then bursting into laughter.

The transformation of Gahamire had been dramatic and wonderful. Only two months before he would do nothing but sit and stare vacantly at Matt as he clowned and frolicked in the courtyard. He would spend all day sitting on his own, rocking back and forth, never speaking a word to anyone. Then one day, as Matt was flat on his back under
the Land Rover changing the oil, he felt someone squatting down beside him. It was Gahamire. Matt reached out and touched his nose with an oily hand, and Gahamire’s face cracked into a smile. “Funny Man,” he said, and he’d stayed to watch.

Since then, Gahamire had latched on to Matt, and would never go to sleep at night until he had been to say goodnight to him. Matt had a whole routine.

“We’ll do gorillas again, shall we?” said Matt. Gahamire nodded and waited. “Well,” Matt went on, “you know where they live, don’t you? On the top of that mountain. They’re up there now, going off to sleep just like you. We’ll go up there one day and see them, shall we? And how does the big gorilla say goodnight?”

Gahamire beat his chest and the two
of them made gorilla faces at each other and giggled.

“And how does the big gorilla scratch himself?” Gahamire rolled on his b ck on his bed, and grunted and groaned and scratched himself.

“And how does the big gorilla pick his nose?” And Gahamire stuck his finger up his nose and wrinkled up his face in disgust.

“And how does the big gorilla go to sleep?” Gahamire snuggled down at once and closed his eyes.

“Night, night, big gorilla,” said Matt, and he got up to go. But Gahamire still had him firmly by the hand and wouldn’t let him go.

“What is it?” said Matt.

“My home. My home is by a mountain, a big mountain,” said
Gahamire. “I go. I go up the mountain to find my mother.”

“Of course you will, Gahamire. Sleep now.”

Matt was strangely restless that night. His thoughts rambled and raced. He thought of the swallows again on the courtyard wall, of the nest in the garage at home, of Olly, of his mother. He should write more often. They’d be worrying. He’d write a card tomorrow. He thought of Gahamire, and wondered if his mother could possibly be alive. So far as anyone knew, both his parents were dead. Such happy reunions did happen. Not often, but they did. He fell asleep, smiling in the hope of it.

It was at breakfast that they discovered Gahamire was missing. As the others were searching through the
compound, Matt made his way to the Land Rover, got in and drove off. Sister Christina called after him. “Matt! What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“To the mountain. He’s gone to the mountain. I’ll find him.” He roared out through the gates and was gone up the dusty track before anyone could stop him. Matt was quite sure of it. Hadn’t Gahamire told him he would go looking for his mother? And like an idiot, hadn’t he dismissed it as mere wishful thinking?
He took the most direct route to the mountain, the way he thought Gahamire must have gone, across the road and up the steep rutty track beyond. Here, he stopped the Land Rover, turned off the engine and called out. There was no reply, only his own echoes dying in the trees all around. Ahead of him the mountain rose steeply on either side of the track, thickly wooded all the way up. He couldn’t see the top as the whole range was covered in a blanket of mist. Matt drove on slowly, his eyes peeled, stopping every now and again to call for him, to listen for him. “It’s me, Gahamire. It’s Funny Man. Are you there? Are you there?”

For an hour or more he drove on like this, stopping and calling, and starting again. But still no voice answered him. And then, out of the corner of his eye, a sudden shiver of movement. Matt stopped the Land Rover. A sha owy face, then eyes, wide white eyes in amongst the trees. He had found him.
He turned off the engine. Gahamire was cowering in the undergrowth, rocking back and forth and moaning, his face wet with tears. Matt approached him slowly, talking as he came. “It’s all right, Gahamire, it’s only me. It’s Funny Man.”

Gahamire looked up at him. “The men, they come to my village. They kill and they kill. My mother hid me under the altar in the church. Then she went away—”

But Matt never heard the rest of what Gahamire said, for that was the moment the landmine exploded under his foot.

Matt came to consciousness only a few moments later. His head was full of pain and noise. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. Gahamire’s face seemed to be swimming in amongst the trees above him. Matt couldn’t decide if Gahamire
was wailing or humming. He couldn’t work out what he was doing lying there.

“I’d better get up,” Matt said. But Gahamire held him down hard by his shoulders. “You stay still, Funny Man. You stay still.” Matt tried to fight him, but he seemed to have no strength. He felt himself being swirled away down into a murky darkness and wondered if he would ever wake up again.

When he did, some hours later, he was in the Land Rover. He knew the smell of it, the sound of it. He felt no pain, only bewilderment. All about him was a haze of faces and voices. Then Sister Christina was talking to him. Her voice sounded far away.

“Matt. Matt. You’re going to be all right.” Gahamire was beside him, holding his hand. “Don’t you worry,”
Sister Christina was saying. “We’ll have you in hospital in just a jiffy. It’s the French hospital. It’s not far.”

It was the look on Gahamire’s face that told Matt it was serious. He panicked then and struggled to raise himself to see what he could, but Sister Christina held him fast where he was. It took all her strength to do it. She tried to calm him, to reassure him. Only then did it occur to Matt that he might be dying. “You’ll tell my mother?” he said. “You’ll tell Olly?” Then he knew nothing more.

When he woke, he could feel a dull ache in his leg. He was covered in a white sheet. There was a nurse at his bedside.

“Hello Matt,” she said. She spoke in a heavy accent. “I will fetch the doctor for you.”

Matt’s head was swimming. He felt himself drifting off to sleep. When he opened his eyes again the doctor was standing by his bed. He had long black hair and a beard. Matt thought he looked like a pirate. The nurse took his hand and held it, and Matt wondered why. The doctor spoke almost perfect
English, but he seemed uneasy. “You came through the operation very well. How do you say it? Strong as an ox? You’ll be up and about in ten days.”

“What’s the matter with me?” Matt asked. “What happened?”

“A landmine,” the doctor said. “I have to tell you, Matt. Your right leg. We did all we could, but I’m afraid we could not save it. It’s not so bad, Matt. They’ll make you another one, not so good as before, maybe, but you’ll be able to get around, do what you want, live a full life. It will take time, though.”

“But I can wriggle my toes,” said Matt. “I can feel them.”

The doctor crouched down. “I know you can, but it’s not real, it’s in your head. I’m very sorry, Matt.”

“And my other leg?” Matt asked. “Is
my other leg all right?”

“It’s fine,” said the doctor. “Everything else is fine. You had a bump on the head. So you’ve got a wonderful black eye, that’s all.”

They gave him morphine to keep the pain down, and for days Matt lay there drifting in and out of sleep, woozy even when he was awake. He found it difficult to remember anything at all clearly. Sometimes he was awake when Sister Christina brought Gahamire in to visit him. If he was, then they would play draughts together, or just talk for a while, or Gahamire would ask for a story or a trick or a funny face, and they’d laugh. It was so good to laugh. And when he became tired, Gahamire would know it and climb on to his bed and sleep with
him, his head in the crook of Matt’s arm.

Now, he spoke often to his mother on the phone, and to Olly. He could hear they were trying their best not to cry. They were unreal to Matt, like voices from a dream. They asked lots of questions, all of which came down to the same thing: “How are you?”

Matt had thought it out already. He was very firm about it on the phone to his
mother. “I don’t want Olly to see me, Mum, not yet, not till I’m ready, not till I’m up on my feet again.” She said she understood, that she’d explain it to Olly, that she’d be there to meet him at the airport, and would take him to the hospital in London where he could recuperate, where he could have his new leg fitted.

When the time came for Matt to leave the hospital, the ambulance took him on a short detour back to the orphanage, so that everyone could say their goodbyes. The whole place had been decked out with flags and bunting, and everyone was singing:
For he’s a jolly good fellow.
Then Gahamire came up and presented him with his battered bowler hat. “You come back, Funny Man,” he said. And Matt found he could neither answer nor
smile. All he could do was wave. Then they closed the ambulance doors and drove him away to the airport.

Alone in the aeroplane, Matt cried at last—for his lost leg, and because he was being torn away from the orphanage, from Gahamire and the children, from the place and the people who had made him so happy.

As she had promised, his mother was there at the airport to meet him. There were tears, of course, but Matt made her laugh in the end. “It’ll be cheaper on shoes and socks, Mum,” he quipped. “Come on, cheer up. It’s only one leg. I’ve still got the other one.”

Once in Roehampton Hospital in London, there were endless weeks of convalescence to endure. Matt’s bedside was surrounded with cards and flowers, and with more grapes and kiwi fruits and peaches than he could eat in a lifetime. And there wasn’t a day when he didn’t have a visitor. But each day seemed like a month to Matt. Although the doctors seemed pleased enough with his progress, he was not. The healing was slow, so slow.

Matt passed his time by writing letters, some to the orphanage, and every day to Olly Every letter to her ended with a promise that she could come and visit soon—just as soon as he was up and about and walking on his new leg—or “Peg” as he now called it. In every reply—and she replied to every single letter and spoke to him often on the phone – Olly begged to be allowed to see him. But it was two long months before she finally received the letter she’d been waiting for.

Dear Olly,

Peg is a strange creature, but I’m really beginning to get used to her, even to like her in a funny sort of way. She’s a bit skinny—not the right word really—compared to my other one, but there are some advantages—not many, I admit, but it’s one leg less to wash in the bath and I don’t have to cut so many toe nails! It’s weird—sometimes I can really feel my old leg, my former leg, my previous leg. Honestly. Sometimes I want to scratch it. My stump still gets sore, which is a real pain, but it’s better every day now.

Like I told you, I promised myself I would be on my two feet and
walking, no crutches, no wheelchair, before you saw me. Well now I am. So you can come up and see me if you want to. We’ll go for a walk on Putney Heath—that’s just down the road. There’s a hot-dog stand there with sausages as long as cucumbers and lovely dribbly, juicy onions. And they’ve got the creamiest ice-cream I’ve ever had. How about it? I had another letter from Gahamire yesterday with a picture of two giraffes nose to nose. They look as if they’re kissing. I’ll show you. See you soon.

Love, Matt

BOOK: Dear Olly
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