Listen to the Moon. Michael Morpurgo

sure, we shall in time win this war, and then I shall be home, and we shall be together again.

       Ever, with my fondest love to you both, and to Old Mac and Aunty Ducka too. You are all dearer to me than you will ever know.

       Papa

      “Oh, Merry,” said Mama, tearful again now. “Why did I listen to him? I told him when he went to England that we should go with him, to be near him. But oh no, he wouldn’t hear of it. He can be so obstinate sometimes, your papa. ‘You have to stay home in New York, where it is safe,’ he said. ‘The war is being fought at sea too, you know,’ he said. ‘It is far too dangerous for you to cross the Atlantic. There are enemy submarines out there, warships. And, after all, Merry has to go to school, and she has to do her piano lessons. When all’s said and done,’ he said, ‘it’s best you stay in New York, and stay safe.’ Oh, why did I listen to him, Merry? Why?”

      I remember only too well the arguments before Papa went. There had been so many of them, so much begging and pleading, first that he should not go at all, but then, if he really had to, that he should at least take us with him. But he was determined to go, and equally determined that we should stay. Mama and I went down to the docks that day to see him off together. I may not have wanted him to leave, but in my heart of hearts I was so proud that he was, so proud to see him looking grand and smart and neat in his uniform. Even his moustache looked neater. And he stood taller in it somehow too. I remember how he held me to him on the dockside that last time, remember the words he whispered in my ear.

      “And be good to Mama, Merry. Don’t be a nincompoop with her.” I loved it when he called me a nincompoop, or a ninny. It’s what he always said when he was trying to tick me off, but he always said it with a smile. I loved being ticked off by Papa, and loved the smile that went with it. “Whenever I see the moon, Merry,” he went on, “I will think of you and sing our Mozart tune. You do the same, so that whenever we look up at the moon, wherever we are, we shall listen to the moon, and hear one another and think of one another. Promise me.” I promised, and I kept that promise too. And watched him walk away, with that long, loping stride of his.

      How often afterwards did I look up at the moon and hum our tune, how often did I listen to the moon and think of him. I kept that promise.

      That day when the letter came, I crouched down in front of Mama and took her hands in mine. “Silly old school, silly old piano lessons,” I told her. “You were right all along, Mama. We shall go. They have schools in England, haven’t they? And they’ve got piano teachers over there too, and probably a lot less whiskery than Miss Phelps. Let’s go, Mama. We have to go. We can’t just leave Papa alone in hospital. Didn’t he say how much he wants to see us? It’s his way of telling us to come, I know it is.”

      “Do you think so, Merry? Do you really think so? What about the house, and the horses? I mean, who’ll look after everything?”

      “The same people who look after everything all the time, Mama,” I told her. “When we go up to the cottage in the summer, doesn’t Old Mac see to the garden and the horses, Mama? He loves the garden, and he loves Joey and Bess to bits, you know he does. And they love him too. And while we’re up in the cottage in Maine, having a grand time sailing and fishing and picnicking and all, doesn’t Aunty Ducka keep everything in the house just fine? We have to go, Mama. Papa wants us. He needs us.”

      “You’re right, Merry,” said Mama, holding out her arms to me and hugging me close. “It’s decided then. We shall go to England and see your papa as soon as possible.”

      We sat down that evening and wrote a letter back to Papa, writing alternate sentences as we often did in our letters to him. It ended with me writing in capital letters,

      WE ARE ON OUR WAY, DEAREST PAPA.

      It took several weeks to arrange passage across the Atlantic. At school, when it became known I would be leaving soon, and going to England, most of my friends and teachers seemed more put out than sad, the teachers warning me how unwise and reckless it was to go anywhere near Europe these days, “with that terrible war going on over there”. They’d been the same when they heard Papa had joined up and gone to France the year before.

      “Surely he doesn’t need to go,” said my teacher, Miss Winters, who seemed more upset than anyone by it. “I mean, after all, Merry, I thought he was Canadian, not British. So there’s no call for him to go. This war is a quarrel between the British and the Germans. What has Canada got to do with it, for goodness’ sake? I don’t understand it.”

      I tried to explain Papa’s decision to join up to her as he had explained it to me: that all his old school and college friends from Toronto, in Canada, were going, that although he had lived and worked for some time in America, he was Canadian through and through, and proud of it. He belonged now with his friends, he had told me, with the boys he grew up with. If they were fighting, he should be too. He had to go. He had no choice.

      Miss Winters had always been most vociferous in her opinions, something I had always admired in her, and she was again now when I told her I would be leaving school and going over to England. “Well, I’ve got to say what’s in my heart, Merry. I think it’s just plain wrong, I really do, you going off and leaving us all of a sudden like this, and you doing so well in your lessons. Your reading and your writing too are coming on so well, and they have never been easy for you, I know. You going like this, it’s a crying shame! Don’t get me wrong, Merry, I know why you and your mama think you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, we all do; and believe me, we’re mighty sorry your papa got wounded over there. But truth be told – and there are times you have to tell the truth as you see it, as you feel it – I don’t think your papa should have gone over there to fight in the first place. I mean, what does all this fighting, all this killing and wounding, ever achieve? It’s no way for civilised folk to sort out right from wrong. Never was, never will be. I can tell you one thing for certain sure, Merry, we aren’t going to send our American boys over there to France to fight in that war, not if I have anything to do with it, that’s for certain sure.” For certain sure was one of Miss Winters’ favourite expressions. “I want you to promise me one thing, Merry,” she went on. “Once your papa’s all well again, you’ll come right back here to New York with him, where you belong, and finish your education with me. You hear me now?”

      She was near to tears by the time she’d finished. I liked Miss Winters a whole lot. All my life I’d had difficulties with reading and writing. Every other teacher I’d had, sooner or later, lost patience with me, because I couldn’t read properly what was up on the blackboard or in school books like the others could, because I would take forever to write my letters and words, and even then they weren’t right. All this only made things worse. Everything would go haywire in my head, letters and words would jump over one another, jumble together, and I would panic. I was often accused of not paying attention, of being lazy and stupid.

      Miss Winters though had always explained things carefully, helped me through my difficulties, and given me time to think, to work things out. She was full of encouragement. “Your writing and reading may not be the best, Merry,” she told me once, “but you play the piano wonderfully well, and you draw like an artist, like a true artist.” She had a way of making me feel good about myself, about my drawings and paintings in particular. And she was the only teacher in the school who really meant what she said, who wasn’t afraid to show her true feelings. We’d often hear her voice tremble and break with emotion, especially when she was reading Longfellow’s poems. She loved those poems so much, which was why, I guess, we did too, most of us. Compared to her, the rest of my teachers were all so stiff and proper and buttoned up. Goodbyes with them were all very formal. Miss Winters though hugged me tight and long, reluctant to let me go. “God bless, Merry,” she whispered in my ear. “You take care, you hear me.”

      Of all my friends, I knew it was only Pippa I’d really miss, Pippa Mallory. She had been my best friend since the very first day at school five years before, probably to the exclusion of any other close friendship. She was the only one who had never once teased me about my reading and writing, who had not, at one time or another, made me feel stupid. We had been almost