‘People like that vicar need to be taken aside and shaken, because if Jesus Christ was about anything at all he was about forgiveness of sins. It worries me so much that, rather than follow what Jesus Christ said and did, the Church just follows the dictates of the institution it has made itself.’ Just occasionally, Michael says, ‘you meet a monk or priest or holy person who truly follows the example of Jesus Christ, and when that happens you immediately recognise a great truth. But it seems to me that in general the Church takes his name massively in vain.’
He worries not only about shortcomings within the Christian churches, but about divisions between Christianity and other religions. Recently he and Clare watched the DVD of A Month in the Country, whose director, Pat O’Connor, has now directed Private Peaceful. Based on a novel by J.L. Carr, the film revolves around a First World War soldier, Tom Birkin (played by Colin Firth), who comes home shell-shocked and stuttering from fighting in the trenches to find that his wife has deserted him for another man. In order to recuperate and collect his thoughts, he goes to spend the summer in the small rural community of Oxgodby in Yorkshire, in whose church there is said to be a medieval mural that has been hidden for generations under thick layers of plaster. Very slowly, as the weeks pass, Birkin peels away the layers until the mural is revealed.
Michael was deeply moved by the film, and by the image at its heart. Every religion, he suggests, has played its part in plastering over the truth. But, if we could just peel away the layers, we might find that the thing of beauty we all long to see is the same for every one of us.
In the absence of clear beliefs, for the moment, he holds hard to a piece of advice impressed upon him by his godmother, Mary Niven. ‘She sometimes says to me, “Michael, never forget that people matter, everyone matters.” She means, I think, that whatever someone has done, they are God’s creature. They matter in His eyes, and they should matter in ours. It’s all about not judging people. I think of it often.’
Mary Niven died in the autumn of 2012, but shortly after Michael and I started working on this book, I went to see her in her flat in Edinburgh. She was ninety-seven, neat, courteous and thoughtful. She had taken the trouble to find out that I had two young daughters, and had bought each a packet of sweets. Her memories were very clear. Looking back to 1945, she talked about the breakdown of Kippe’s marriage as if it happened yesterday. Perhaps because of the war, she had never been a wife or mother, so for Kippe to have abandoned Tony and hurt ‘those two wonderful boys’ remained for her a baffling tragedy. Yet she spoke of it more in sorrow than in anger. ‘I think she hardly knew what she was doing, poor Kippe. Poor lass.’
She had set aside for me a pile of newspaper cuttings, in perfect order, charting Michael’s public life step by step, from the founding of Farms for City Children, through the publication of his books, to the phenomenon of War Horse. She had followed his success every inch of the way, and was justly proud. Yet she was devoted still to the child Michael once was, and perhaps in part remains. ‘Dear Michael,’ she said as I got up to leave. ‘It’s been a muddled life but a marvellous one. Really marvellous.’
I had never thought or even imagined I could be a writer. My ambition as a boy was not to become the next Robert Louis Stevenson, but to play rugby for England. ‘Snug’ was one of the very first stories I ever wrote, and it was the first story of my own I told, in the last half-hour of the school day, to my Year 6 class at Wickhambreaux Primary. It was about one of our cats, called Snug, and was partially true. I told it with a passion and the thirty-five children listened, loved it, wanted to know what happened. They hung on every word. It was the most wonderful half-hour.
‘Snug’ was sent by my Head Teacher to Macmillan Education and went into my first book, It Never Rained. I did not know it at the time, but I had begun to find my own voice as a writer. Every story since has had a true event, a historical happening, a memory, at its heart and I have told it my way.
Snug was Linda’s cat. No one ever actually gave Linda the cat; they just grew up together. I don’t really remember Linda being born, but apparently Snug turned up a few weeks earlier than she did. Dad found him wandering about, crying and mewing after a cat shoot in the barns – they shot them once in a while because they breed so fast. He found Snug crying round the calf pens. His mother must have been killed, or maybe she had run off.
Anyway, Dad picked him up and brought him home. He was so young that his eyes weren’t open yet and Mum had to feed him warm milk with an eye dropper.
By the time Linda was born, Snug was a healthy kitten. Linda used to cry a lot – it’s the first thing I remember about her – come to think of it, she still howls more than she should. Snug took to curling up underneath her cot when she was indoors, and by her pram if she was sleeping outside.
I first remember noticing that Linda and Snug went together when Linda was learning to walk. She was staggering about the kitchen doing a record-breaking run from the sink to the kitchen table, all five feet of it, when Snug sidled up to her and gently nudged her off balance into the dog bowl, which was full of water. We all fell about laughing while Linda sat there howling.
He adored Linda and followed her everywhere. He’d even go for walks with her, provided she left the dog at home. Linda used to bury her face in his fur and kiss him as if he was a doll, but he loved it and stretched himself out on his back waiting for his tummy to be tickled. Then he’d purr like a lion and shoot his claws in and out in blissful happiness.
Snug grew into a huge cat. I suppose you would call him a tabby cat, grey and dusty-white merging stripes with a tinge of ginger on his soft belly. He had great pointed ears, which he flicked and twitched even when he was asleep.
He came in every evening for his food, but he never really needed it, or if he did he certainly never showed it. He didn’t often get into fights, and when he did, they hardly ever left a mark – he was either a coward or a champion.
He’d come in in the morning, after a night’s hunting, full of mice and moles and voles, and lie down on Linda’s bed, and purr himself to sleep, waking just in time for his evening meal, which Linda served him at five o’clock.
No one ever got angry with Snug and everyone who came to the house would admire him stalking through the long grass, or sunbathing by the vegetable patch, and Linda would preen herself whenever he was mentioned.
Linda could never understand why Snug killed birds. In the early summer he used to tease to death two or three baby thrushes or blackbirds a day. Linda very nearly went off him at this time every year. Only last summer he found a robin’s nest at the bottom of a hedge – he’d been attracted by the cheeps. By the time we got there, he’d scooped out three baby robins and there were several speckled eggs lying broken and scattered. Linda didn’t speak to him for a week, and I had to feed him. But they made it up, they always did.
Occasionally Snug wandered off into the barns and fields looking for a friendly she-cat. This must have taken a long time, because he disappeared sometimes for twenty-four hours or so – but never longer, except once.
Mum and Dad were home and Snug was late coming in. We’d had our bath and were sitting watching telly – Tom and Jerry I think it was, because we always went to bed after that. There was a yowl outside the kitchen door, more like a dog in pain than a cat. Linda disappeared into the kitchen and I followed – I’d seen the Tom and Jerry before anyway. Linda opened the door and Snug came in, worming his way against the doorway. His head was hanging and his tail, which he usually held up straight, was drooping. One ear was covered in blood and there was a great scratch across his face. He’d been in a fight and he was badly hurt.
Linda picked him up gently and put him in his basket. ‘Get the TCP and some water … quick!’ she said.
Snug lay there panting while Linda cleaned up his wounds. I supplied the cotton wool and the TCP and when Linda had finished that, the Dettol.
She must have spent an hour or more nursing that cat, and all the time I di
dn’t say a word to her: I knew she’d cry if I talked to her.
Mum came in after a bit to wash up. She bent over the basket. ‘He’ll be all right, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll see, he’ll be right as rain by the morning. Why don’t you see if he’ll take some warm milk?’
Linda nodded. I knew she wouldn’t do it herself; she’d have to turn round. She hated showing her face when she was upset. I put the milk on the stove and Mum cleared up. Linda put the saucer down by the basket and Snug went up to it almost immediately. He drank slowly, crouched over the milk, his pink tongue shooting clean into the saucer.
What happened next, happened so suddenly that none of us had time to react. Mum bent down to put some potato peel in the bin, she lifted it and opened the door to empty it. In a flash Snug was through the door, and we just stood there, the three of us, Mum clutching her bin, me holding the saucepan and Linda, her eyes red with crying.
Linda rushed after him calling into the night. We all tried. Even Dad came away from the telly and called. But Snug would not come.
We tried to convince Linda that he’d be all right. Dad put his arm around her and stroked her hair before we went up to bed. ‘If he’d been really ill, love, he wouldn’t have taken any milk.’ He was a great dad sometimes. ‘He’ll be back tomorrow, you’ll see.’
We went off to school as usual the next morning. No one even mentioned Snug at breakfast. Usually we went along the road to school to meet up with Tom, but this morning Linda wanted to go through the fields. We left the house early and went off through the farm buildings where Snug used to hunt. Linda searched round the tractor sheds and calf pens, while I clambered over the straw in the Dutch barn. It was no good: there wasn’t enough time. We had to get to school.
‘It’ll be all right, Lin,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’ It was the best I could do.
School went slowly that day. Linda was even quieter than usual: she spent play-time looking over the fence into the orchard behind the playground, and during lessons she kept looking out of the window, and I could see her getting more and more worried.
Lunch came and went, and it started to rain: by the time we were let out it was pouring down. Linda grabbed her coat and rushed out. There was still no sign of Snug at home. We searched and called until it was dark and Mum came home from work. The time for his meal passed; still no Snug.
Dad came home a little later than usual. We were in the front room, Linda and I, and we heard him talking quietly to Mum in the kitchen.
We were mucking about trying to mend my train set on the floor when Dad came in. He didn’t flop down in his armchair but stood there all tall and near the ceiling, and he hadn’t taken his coat off. It was dripping on the carpet.
‘Lin,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, love, but we’ve found Snug. He’s been killed, run over. Tom’s father found him down by the main road. It must have been quick, he wouldn’t have felt anything. I’m sorry, love.’
Linda turned away.
‘Are you sure it’s him?’ I said. ‘There’s lots of cats like him about.’
Linda ran out of the room and upstairs and Mum went up after her.
‘It’s him all right, I’ve got him in the shed outside. I thought we’d bury him tomorrow, if Lin wants us to.’ Dad sat down. ‘It’s him all right, poor old thing.’
‘Can I have a look at him, Dad, just to be sure?’ I said. I didn’t feel like crying; somehow I couldn’t feel sad enough. I was interested more than upset. It was strange because I really liked that cat.
Dad took me over to the shed and switched on the light. There he was, all stretched out in a huge cereal carton. He barely covered the bottom of it. His fur was matted and soaked. There was no blood or anything; he just lay there all still and his eyes closed.
‘Well?’ Dad mumbled behind me. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ It was him all right, the same gingerish tummy, and the same tabby markings. He didn’t look quite so big lying in that box.
‘He’s so still, Dad,’ I said. ‘Why isn’t he all broken up after being run over? You’d think he’d be squashed or something.’
‘When you carry him, he doesn’t feel right, but I expect he was thrown clear on impact,’ Dad said. ‘Go on now, you’d better go and see Lin.’
When I got up to my bedroom, Mum was in with Linda and I could hear a lot of crying. I hate that: I never know what to say to people when they’re like that. I went and lay on my bed and tried to feel sadder than I really was. I was more sorry about Lin than old Snug. He’d had a fairly good run after all, lots of food and warmth and love. What more could a cat want? And for some reason I got to thinking of a party the mice would be holding in the Dutch barn that night to celebrate Snug’s death.
I was down early in the morning before anyone else. I’d forgotten to feed the goldfish the night before. I was dropping the feed in the tank, when I heard Snug’s voice outside the kitchen door. There was no mistake. It was his usual ‘purrrrrp … p … p’ – a sort of demand for immediate entry. I wasn’t hearing things either. I opened the door and in he came, snaking his way round the doorpost, as happy and contented with himself as ever.
I screamed upstairs, ‘He’s here! He’s back! Snug’s back!’
Well of course they didn’t take long to get downstairs, and Linda was all weeping over him and examining him as if she couldn’t believe it.
Dad came back from the shed in his slippers and dressing gown. ‘Lin, I’m sorry, love, but it’s amazing: that cat’s the spitting image of Snug. Honest he is.’
Lin wasn’t even listening, and I must admit I felt quite happy myself. It was a Saturday morning, Snug had come back from the dead and I was playing football that afternoon.
Dad and I buried the other cat after breakfast. We dug a hole in the woods on the other side of the stream and wrapped him in one of Dad’s old gardening jackets.
When we got back, I saw Dawnie from school in the garden with Linda. Mum met us by the gate. ‘It was Dawn’s cat,’ she said. ‘It’s been missing for a couple of days and it’s just like Snug. She wants to see where you’ve buried it.’
Activities
Enjoyed this book?
Why not try the following activities and discussion points to explore its ideas and themes even further.
You can enjoy these alone, in a class or in a book club.
Thinking About the Creation of this Text
It is important to understand the difference between an autobiography and a biography. If you don’t know this, do a little research to find out.
Who has written Michael Morpurgo’s biography?
Why do you think the author wanted to write this biography?
Many biographies are written about people after they have died. Can you think of any benefits of writing about the life of someone who is still alive?
Why did you decide to read this biography?
Bit by bit, in this biography we learn about Michael Morpurgo’s family history.
Organise this information on to a timeline. You might want to develop a full family tree (see diagram below to get you started).
Or you might want to be more creative and record different events in Michael Morpurgo’s life in another way, maybe charting his highs and lows or presenting some of his other experiences that you could link together.
Example
If you enjoyed recording these facts, you might want to work with your mum or dad or other relative to gather and record some significant details of your own history.
This could be an account of your own ancestry, but other possibilities could be showing the way you have grown up through games consoles (possibly Sega to Game Boy to PS2, etc.) or through books you have read (from early picture books to now) or presenting your toys from babyhood to present day.
Photographs or drawings would look good on your chosen life chart.
You have read that Michael’s grandparents were extremely patriotic (having a very strong feeling of love for their cou
ntry) and the death of their son Pieter Cammaerts, who was killed in the Second World War, caused great distress for the whole family. His sister Kippe, Michael’s mother, never seemed fully to get over the loss of her brother. We are told ‘a fable of heroism grew up around Pieter’s last moments’.
What was Pieter’s heroic action that the family celebrated?
After many years of hero-worshipping his uncle, how do you think Michael Morpurgo felt when he learned that Pieter had died in a plane that simply overran the runway and there was in fact no extraordinary heroic act?
In the first Morpurgo story ‘Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble’, the writer reconnects with Pieter and gives him a new status as a kindly ghost who stresses how destructive war is. He warns his nephews and their friend against playing war games and being too obsessive about, or influenced by, war.
Does this turn Pieter into a hero of sorts after all? Explain your thinking.
This first story is addressed to Michael’s mother, Kippe. He opens the story by asking her to remember the happy times they shared.
How do you feel as a reader where the narrator of this story is speaking to one specific person that is not you?
In this chapter Maggie Fergusson describes Michael Morpurgo’s school life. In her second paragraph she describes the late-Victorian school building, the Abbey, one of the schools he attended.
Michael Morpurgo Page 22