Michael escorts the Queen Mother during her visit to King’s School, Canterbury, 12 July 1962.
Two weeks later Michael packed his school trunk for the last time. Bidding him farewell, Fred Shirley held him in a long, silent handshake, ‘as close to a hug as could be allowed’.
‘I think on sober reflection,’ Shirley wrote, penning Michael’s leaving note, ‘he has proved the best, most competent, and to the boys most acceptable Head of School in my time.’
Shirley’s adulation might have been off-putting to both boys and staff; but half a century on those who remember Michael at King’s speak warmly of him. ‘He was much liked and even loved in his fantastically authoritarian appearance and school role,’ says Sebastian Barker. ‘There was something cuddly about him even then.’ Richard Roberts apologises that he can recollect nothing even faintly critical – ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve tried desperately hard …’
The head of the Cadet Corps, Kem Gross, could hardly contain his pride that it was in the army that this golden boy was now to make his mark on the world. He had appointed Michael his Company Sergeant-Major, and he was confident that he would go on to take the Sword of Honour at Sandhurst, and either die a glorious death in some corner of a foreign field or rise swiftly through the ranks to Field Marshal. It was a shock, not just for Gross but for the entire school, when in the summer of 1963 news reached King’s that Michael Morpurgo had abandoned Sandhurst, had got married, and was shortly to become a father.
I wonder whether the Captain of School at King’s still has a key to the cathedral. It seems extraordinary to me now. Peter Campbell and I used to explore there together in the evening after choir practice. Once we climbed a mysterious winding staircase and came out above the ceiling of the nave. ‘It was like a landscape of sand dunes up there,’ Peter says. But my clearest memory of being in the cathedral after dark is of the night I got locked in, again after choir practice in the undercroft. It was terrifying, a ghost lurking in every transept, in every choir-stall.
I was new, a new boy, a young boy, in an old school – the oldest school in the country, they told me. Outside our dormitory window there was a Norman staircase and the medieval monastic buildings of the Green Court; and beyond that there was the great cathedral itself, and Bell Harry ringing out the hours, day and night.
We were expected to know the history of the school and the names of every building: house monitors could stop and test us any time. One of them – we already called him ‘Flashman’ – would go on questioning us until we got something wrong. Then he would give us ten minutes to change into our PE kits, to run around the Mint Yard a dozen times and afterwards report to him in his study, fully dressed again. The last task alone was almost impossible for us new boys as we were still all fingers and thumbs with our uniforms, trying to get to grips with wing collars and collar studs that seemed to have minds of their own.
The uniform was just part of the ritual of the place: boater, pinstriped trousers, wing collar, black jacket and waistcoat – with the middle button always done up if you were a new boy. As new boys, we had to navigate our way through a sea of hazards. We learned quickly enough that the only way to keep out of trouble was to know our place, be on time and have that middle button done up. I longed simply to get through each day, to be in my bed and alone in the darkness. Only then could I put Flashman out of my mind and begin to dream that I was back home again.
But Bell Harry would remind me every hour, on the hour, that I was not. Lying awake, I’d listen for the night-watchman to come on his rounds, pacing the precincts and the city wall. Sometimes his footsteps stopped right outside our dormitory window and I’d hear him calling out: ‘Twelve o’clock. Fine night and all’s well.’
I took some comfort from that. Hoping it would be true for me the next day and praying that I would manage somehow to avoid Flashman and get through unnoticed and unpunished, I would fall asleep at last.
But my prayers weren’t working. As the weeks passed it became obvious that Flashman had it in for me in particular. He used the strangeness of my name as his main weapon, teasing me about it every night. Then one night it got nasty. We were reading in the dormitory before lights out when I looked up and saw him there with his usual three cronies, standing at the end of my bed. I steeled myself.
‘D’you know what someone told me, Morpurgo?’ he began. ‘Someone told me your name’s Jewish. You’re a Jew boy, aren’t you?’
There was real menace in his eyes, naked dislike. I didn’t argue, I didn’t say anything.
‘We don’t like Jew boys, do we?’ he went on. ‘Gone all dumb, have we? Scared out of our little Jewish wits, are we?’
I am sure that worse would have happened had Mr Robbins, the housemaster, not come in at that moment to turn the lights out.
After that, fear of Flashman taught me wherever possible to go round in a protective band of others, a cocoon of friends. Perhaps we were all doing the same, finding strength and comfort in numbers. I wasn’t the only one finding it difficult to settle into this strange place.
I made these friends mostly on the rugby field or in the choir, singing Thomas Tallis or Orlando Gibbons in the cathedral or crashing through a tackle to score – life was getting better. I didn’t excel at either singing or rugby, but did both just about well enough to be up there with those that did.
Schoolwork though was a real problem. I couldn’t seem to make any headway and all too often I found myself in detention or playing catch-up, forever trying to explain why I had not yet done the work I should have done. For some reason, History seemed particularly difficult. It was towards the end of term that Mr Kennedy set us an essay on the murder of Thomas à Becket. I was struggling. We all knew the story, sort of: how the archbishop had been struck down in the cathedral in 1170 by four dastardly knights sent there by his erstwhile best friend, King Henry II. The trouble was that the essay had to be at least two sides long and however large I wrote I hadn’t been able to manage more than half a side. I did what I often did when confronted with a task I found too challenging: I procrastinated and worried about it. My tutor, Mr Skipness, tried to help me. He suggested that for inspiration I should go and stand on the stone in the cathedral that marked the very spot where Becket had been murdered. He told me exactly where it was and how to get there. I couldn’t help thinking at the time that it was a pretty silly idea; but I didn’t say so of course, I just didn’t do it.
It was nearly the end of term and the choir was practising hard for the carol service. Mr Hedred, our hyperactive genius of a choirmaster, gathered us for one last rehearsal in the undercroft of the cathedral, the crypt, our usual place for choir practice. It was a warm, dimly lit place of arches and flickering shadows – everywhere the scent of candles and ancient stone. I was sitting as always next to Peter, my best friend – fly half, and a brilliant one, in our rugby team – among the trebles. Peter had perfect pitch and a more musical voice than mine, which was fine for me because it meant that I could follow him. We sang so well that evening that Mr Hedred ended choir practice early. He told us that we were the best choir he’d ever had, so we were all glowing as we stood up to go. That was when Peter told me that he had finished his Becket essay.
‘Done yours?’ he asked.
‘Course,’ I said.
None of the rest of this would have happened if I hadn’t told that little lie.
That was when I panicked. In desperation I decided I had no choice but to do just what Mr Skipness had suggested. As Peter and the others drifted away through the undercroft towards the door to the cloisters, I wandered off into the shadows and made my way up the steps and into the nave.
There was an echoing emptiness as I stood there, alone at the heart of the cathedral. I tried as hard as I could to calm my fears, thinking that if I turned back now, it wouldn’t be too late to catch up with the others – I could still hear the murmur of their voices. But then ahead of me, somewhere between the nave and the choir, I saw a flickering ligh
t that seemed to beckon me on. Without thinking I walked towards it, down some steps and into a kind of side chapel.
Looking around, I could hardly believe it. It was almost exactly as Mr Skipness had described. There was the small square tile on the floor that he had told me about. This must have been it, the very place where Thomas à Becket had been murdered.
I stood there and closed my eyes. In my mind I pictured the knights bursting into the cathedral, swords drawn, and the archbishop telling them that this was a holy place and to put up their weapons. In horror, I watched as they hacked down one of his servants and then came on towards him. I saw him kneeling down, crossing himself and praying out loud as the first sword struck. The whole horrible deed was played out like a film in my head. I opened my eyes. I couldn’t bear to watch any longer.
The man who stood before me was dressed like a bishop, in a white cloak, his face shaded under a hood. He held a crozier in his hand.
‘You don’t want to think about it,’ he said. ‘And neither do I. It was a painful business, but over soon enough.’
The voice was far and yet near at the same time, the voice of a ghost. I ran. The only way out I could see was a small wooden door which I hoped might take me back to the cloisters. I lifted the latch. It wouldn’t open. I hammered on the door.
‘It’s locked,’ the voice said. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t harm you. Thomas à Becket never harmed anyone in his life. Why should he start now?’
As I turned to face the ghost, he seemed to be floating over the floor towards me, caught up in his own source of light. He lifted his hood so that for the first time I could see his face. He was younger than I thought Thomas à Becket should be, with bright, smiling eyes. He held out his hand.
‘They’ve all gone,’ he said. ‘Everything’s locked up.’ He took me gently by the elbow. ‘But I have my own way out. Don’t worry. Come along.’
As he led me through the vastness of the empty cathedral, he talked, answering all the questions I wanted to ask but didn’t dare.
When we reached the choir he stopped and looked up at the high altar. He sighed.
‘Henry was not a lucky name for me, not one I have any cause to be fond of. Michael, on the other hand, is a fine name.’
‘You know my name?’ I breathed.
‘I know everything about you, about everyone in this place. I’ve lived here, in one form or another, for nearly a thousand years. I’ve always made it my business to keep an eye on the place, to know who’s who and what’s what. I am able to go seen or unseen, as I wish, to look deep into hearts and minds – we can, you know. There’s a lot I like about being a ghost. I’d rather be alive, of course I would; I died too young. But it doesn’t matter now. What’s a few years here or there? We’re all of us a long time dead.
‘Up there just above the altar, that’s where King Henry had me buried. You should have seen the tomb. Never saw so much gold in all my life – all to appease his conscience. He lay right there, flat on his face, and sobbed like a baby asking for forgiveness – as if anyone was fooled by his crocodile tears. And then another Henry, the eighth Henry came along, dug up my bones and took away the gold. He was fond of gold that one, gold and wives. So you can see I have good cause not to like the name Henry very much.’
I was following him up the steep winding stairway and finding it difficult to keep up. I thought that the steps would go on for ever, that he was taking me all the way to heaven. Then I felt the cold night air on my cheeks, and saw the stars and the moon above me.
‘The top of Bell Harry,’ he said. ‘Look!’
Spread out beneath were the evening lights of the city and, right below us, the school: the Green Court, the Mint Yard and Galpin’s, my own house. I could see there was a light on in my dormitory, where Flashman, I was sure, would be waiting for me. Suddenly I didn’t want to go back.
The ghost seemed to anticipate my every thought.
‘You mustn’t worry about Flashman,’ he said. ‘One way or another you’ll find your own way to deal with him. And you’ll finish that essay too. Which reminds me. Whatever you have heard, when those knights came for me – and you’re right, they were dastardly – I didn’t just kneel down meekly and let them get on with it. I fought like a tiger, wielding my crozier like a broad sword. I fought them to the end. The only way to live and the only way to die.’
As he spoke I felt his arm around my waist.
‘You’ll be fine, Michael,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you.’
And with that we lifted gently off Bell Harry tower and floated down over the school, past the Norman staircase, to land right in the Mint Yard, just outside my house. I was so amazed and disorientated that I stumbled when I touched the ground. It took me a while to catch my breath.
‘You all right?’
I turned. It was the night-watchman, standing there in the light of his lamp, smiling at me. But he was Thomas à Becket too. He had the face of the archbishop, the face of a saint.
‘I’d best be off,’ he said. ‘Got my rounds to do. I like to keep an eye out.’
‘What’s it like being a saint?’ I asked. It just slipped out.
‘It doesn’t cut any mustard, not where I come from. It’s what you do you’ll be remembered for, not the honours or the titles or the money. Just do the best you can. That’s what I did. And that’s all that I can tell you on the subject.’
He turned as if to go, but then something else occurred to him: ‘Except to say that you boys, you sang like angels tonight, like angels,’ he said.
And with a wave of his hand he walked away.
A window opened. ‘Hey, Jew boy!’ It was Flashman. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing out there at this time of night? Get upstairs to your dormitory. Now!’
I got up early in the morning to write my essay on Becket and handed it in on time. When Mr Kennedy gave it back to me a couple of days later, he said, ‘Entertaining, Morpurgo. But stick to the facts. Becket did not fight back. He submitted courageously to his fate. It is well known, well documented. You can’t improve on truth, Morpurgo. Fiction is for fantasists.’
As for Flashman, my moment to settle the score came a week or so later. We were out on the rugby pitch when I saw him come charging out of the scrum, ball in hand. I raced after him, chasing him across the pitch, and launched myself headlong at him. The impact knocked the air out of both of us. I was up first and glaring down at him as he lay at my feet. I didn’t have to say a word; I knew from that moment on that neither Flashman nor his cronies would ever bother me again.
On the last night of term, after the carol service, I lay awake in my bed, listening out for the night-watchman. As Bell Harry tolled the final stroke of midnight I heard his familiar footsteps on the walk outside our window.
‘Twelve o’clock. Fine night and all’s well,’ he called out.
And all was well too.
One evening during the Easter holidays of 1962, the Morpurgo family – Kippe and Jack, Pieter, Michael, Mark and Kay, and the aunts, Bess and Julie – drew the curtains in the sitting room and gathered in front of the television to watch a new adaptation of Dickens’s novel, Great Expectations, by the Canadian Broadcasting Company. The television, first rented for the wedding of Princess Margaret in 1960, was controlled by Jack and switched on only occasionally, so this was a rare treat.
There was an atmosphere of cosy excitement as the machine warmed up, and the orphan Pip appeared on the screen, running from the marshes into the graveyard, darkness falling and trees swaying and whipping about him. Then up from behind a gravestone reared Magwitch, his hair cropped and filthy, his face full of rage and terror and hurt. ‘My God,’ breathed Kippe, gripping Michael’s arm. ‘It’s Tony. It’s your father!’ Jack rose from his armchair and left the room.
Since Michael was a small boy Tony Bridge had hovered on the edge of his life. The teatime visits to Poulett Gardens ended after the move to Bradwell, but the Bridge grandparents continued to send Pieter and Mic
hael cards for Christmas, Easter and birthdays, and often, enclosed in these, were newspaper clippings about Tony’s theatrical successes in Canada – silent reminders to their grandsons that Jack Morpurgo was not their father, that their real father was alive and well and not to be forgotten. In one of these clippings, Michael found a reference to the fact that Tony had acted in Canterbury before the war. He knew, while he was a schoolboy at King’s, that he was living in the city where his parents had met and fallen in love, and the knowledge pleased him.
Tony Bridge as Magwitch in Great Expectations, 1962.
Now, having seen him almost in the flesh, Michael began to think more about his father. He questioned Kippe, hard but fruitlessly; and he continued the questioning with Pieter, and in his own head. What was this man like? Why had he been airbrushed from their lives? And how had his absence affected the way Pieter and he had developed? Would he, for example, have felt drawn to the army if he had been brought up by Tony Bridge rather than Jack Morpurgo?
Looking back now on his decision to go to Sandhurst, Michael finds it hard to judge how far his own ambitions had been shaped by Jack’s. Jack had had a ‘good’ war, and was proud of it. In a telling fragment of memoir, written in old age, he describes his delight when, walking through Whitehall with Kippe one morning in 1946, he was recognised as a field officer by the Horse Guards, who ‘sat to attention on their horses and saluted me with their sabres’. These things mattered to him, just as it mattered that, when Michael won his army scholarship in 1960, it was announced in The Times. Pieter, having left school at fifteen, had taken employment as an assistant stage manager with a travelling theatre company, and Jack considered him a failure. But Michael, in going to Sandhurst, knew that he was doing ‘something that could make Jack really proud’. The prospect pleased him.
Michael Morpurgo Page 7