Long Way Home. Michael Morpurgo

      

      First published in Great Britain in 1975 by Macmillan Education Ltd

      This edition published 2012 by Egmont UK Limited

      The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

      Text Copyright © 1975 Michael Morpurgo

      The moral rights of the author have been asserted

      First e-book edition 2015

      ISBN 978 1 4052 2669 1

      Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1736 6

       www.egmont.co.uk

      A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

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       For Clare

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

       CHAPTER 3

       CHAPTER 4

       CHAPTER 5

       CHAPTER 6

       CHAPTER 7

       CHAPTER 8

       CHAPTER 9

       CHAPTER 10

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CHAPTER 1

      THE CAR PURRED COMFORTABLY AND GEORGE was bored with looking out of the window. He glanced down as Mrs Thomas changed gear, and he noticed that she had rather fat legs. She wore thick stockings that wrinkled at the ankles. He didn’t like fat legs. Mrs Thomas had been his social worker for as long as he could remember, but he’d never noticed her legs before. She half turned her head, and George looked away quickly, hoping she hadn’t seen him staring. He felt his face flush, but it went away quickly.

      ‘They’re really very nice people, George,’ she said. ‘I’ve known them for years now. I know you’ll like Mr and Mrs Dyer. They work on the farm all by themselves, you know. Must be very hard work, I should think. Could do with some help, I expect. You’ve never lived on a farm before, have you, George?’

      ‘No,’ said George.

      ‘There’ll be a lot for you to learn. They’ll keep you busy, I shouldn’t wonder.’

      ‘I told you, I don’t want to go.’

      ‘But George, there’s hardly anyone left at the Home – no one your age, anyway. They’re all on holiday.’ She changed gear badly again and the Mini juddered along painfully at twenty miles an hour in top gear.

      ‘I don’t care,’ George muttered.

      ‘And anyway it’s good for you to get away sometimes – good for everyone. We all need a change, don’t we?’

      ‘When can I come back?’

      ‘Try not to think of that, George. You’ll enjoy it, really you will.’

      ‘When?’ George insisted, turning to look at her.

      ‘Well, term starts again early in September – you’ll have to go back for that; but they’re nice people, George, it’s a lovely place and I know they’re looking forward to having you.’

      Mrs Thomas had known George all his life – ever since he first came to live at the Home when he was three years old, and this was a conversation she had been through with him every time she’d taken him to new foster parents. She knew her credibility must be wearing very thin. Every time they were going to be ‘nice people’ in a ‘good home’. Every time he said he didn’t want to go. And every time he was back in the Home within a year, sometimes within a month. He’d run away twice – back to the Home. In all there had been six sets of foster parents, but for one reason or another none of them had worked out: either they hadn’t liked him because he was too quiet and sullen, or more often he just hadn’t taken to them. It all made anything she said sound hollow and weak, but she had to say something.

      ‘September? But that’s over four weeks away.’

      Mrs Thomas tried to ignore the despair in his voice and concentrated on the road; there was nothing else she could say about it, nothing that would help.

      ‘Would you like the radio on?’ she asked. But George said nothing; he was looking out of the window again. She leaned forward and switched it on anyway – anything was better than this silence.

      ‘Do I have to, Mrs Thomas?’ George was pleading now. ‘Do I have to go?’

      ‘Let’s give it a try, George,’ she said. ‘It’s only for the holidays after all, and you never know, you may have a wonderful time. Just give them time to get to know you – you’ll be all right.’ She knew George well enough by now to know that he’d lapse into a long silence until they arrived. She was bad at small talk and he had never responded to it, so she reached forward again and turned up the radio, filling the car with the raucous sound of a Radio One jingle and obliterating the silence that had fallen between them.

      Tom pushed away his cereal bowl and began to butter his piece of toast. ‘What time’s he coming?’ he said, pushing the butter angrily into the holes in the toast.

      ‘I don’t know, dear. Some time mid-morning, I think,’ said his mother.

      ‘Every year we do it, Mum. Do we have to do it every year? There must be other people . . .’

      ‘We’ve been through all this before, Tom,’ said his mother, leaving the stove with a plate of sausages.

      ‘You said you wouldn’t make a fuss this time – we agreed.’ A door banged upstairs. ‘Please, Tom. Dad’s coming down – don’t go on about it.’

      The door was pushed open, and Tom’s father came into the kitchen in his dressing-gown and slippers. ‘Those calves, they’ll have to be moved,’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘I hardly shut my eyes last night with all that mooing.’ He pulled the newspaper out of the back door letter-box, shook it open and sat down.

      ‘And I suppose you’ll