Morpurgo War Stories. Michael Morpurgo

they? Well, my sister can, but we don’t speak, not any more. Tell you what, Tommo, you can read yours out to me and then I can pretend they’re written to me as well, can’t I? Go on. Tommo. I’m listening.” He lay back, put his hands under his head and closed his eyes. He didn’t leave me much choice.

      I have them with me now, my very last letters from home. I tried to keep all the others, but some got lost and others were so often soaked through that they became unreadable and I threw them away. But these I’ve looked after with the greatest of care because everyone I love is in them. I keep them in waxed paper in my pocket, close to my heart. I’ve read them over and over again, and each time I can hear their voices in the words, see their faces in the writing. I’ll read them aloud again now, just as I read them to Pete that first time in the tent. I’ll read Mother’s letter first because I read it first then.