Escape from Shangri-La. Michael Morpurgo

just down the coast. You were looking out the back window and you were waving. Never saw you again after that, nor your mum.’

      Still my father said nothing. He seemed to be in some kind of a trance, incapable of movement, incapable of speech. I had never seen him like this and it frightened me.

      My mother was trying to explain. ‘He heard you on the radio, Arthur,’ she said. ‘And then he went to the radio station. He saw your picture on the wall. Recognised you right away, didn’t you, Popsicle?’

      ‘Bradwell-on-Sea?’ My father spoke at last.

      Popsicle nodded. ‘Remember the house, do you, Arthur? Down by the quay, next to the Green Man. Good pub that. Too good.’

      My father said nothing more. The silence was becoming long and awkward. I suppose I had been anticipating a joyous reunion, huge hugs, tears even. I certainly hadn’t expected this. My father was usually so spontaneous. This wasn’t like him at all.

      ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come, Arthur,’ said Popsicle at last. ‘Not without warning you anyway. I should have written a letter perhaps. That would’ve been better. Well, maybe I’d better be off then.’ And he turned away towards the door.

      ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said my mother firmly. She had Popsicle by the arm now. ‘No one’s going anywhere. If this man is who he says he is, then there’s more than just the two of you involved in this. There’s Cessie and there’s me.’ She sat Popsicle down on a kitchen chair, none too gently. Then she stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, facing my father.

      ‘Well, Arthur, we need to know. Is this your father, or isn’t it?’

      My father took his time before replying. ‘Yes.’ He spoke softly, so softly I could hardly hear him. ‘I remember the bus. The window was steamed up and I had to rub a hole in it to see him. I wasn’t waving, not exactly.’

      ‘Maybe Cessie and I should just leave you both alone for a while. There’ll be a fair bit you want to talk about, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll make ourselves scarce. Come along, Cessie.’

      I was reluctant to go, but it looked as if I had no choice. I was being ushered out of the door when my father called us back.

      ‘Don’t go,’ he said, and he said it in such a way that I knew he needed us.

      My mother was the life and soul of that first gathering around the kitchen table. She brought out the sloe gin. ‘Only for very special occasions, very special people,’ she said, opening the bottle. ‘Five years old. Should be perfect. Not every day a father turns up out of the blue.’

      ‘Nor a grandfather,’ I added. I was allowed a taste, but that was all. Popsicle emptied his glass in one gulp and declared that it was ‘beautiful’. My father was watching him, scrutinising him all the while, but it was a long time before he said anything.

      ‘I went back, you know.’ My father spoke up suddenly. He was looking into his glass. He still hadn’t touched a drop.

      ‘Back where?’ Popsicle asked.

      ‘Bradwell. To our house.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘I went looking for you. After Mum died, I ran off. But you weren’t there. I asked in the pub, but you’d gone, years before, they said.’

      ‘She’s dead, Arthur? Your mum’s dead?’

      ‘A long time ago,’ said my father.

      ‘I never knew, Arthur. Honest to God, I never knew.’ His face seemed suddenly very sunken and exhausted. ‘When? How?’

      ‘I was ten. Boating accident. They were both drowned, her and Bill. No one knows what happened, not really. They looked for you. Well, they told me they did anyway, but no one could find you. They packed me off to a home, a children’s home. Nothing else they could do, I suppose. That’s when I ran off back to Bradwell. They caught me of course. Brought me back. A Dr Barnardo’s place it was, by the sea. Wasn’t home exactly, but it wasn’t too bad.’ He took a sip of sloe gin, and then, looking directly across the table at Popsicle, he went on: ‘Do you know what I’d do sometimes? Summer evenings, I’d sit on the brick wall by the gate and wait for you. I really thought that one day you’d come back and take me away. I was sure of it.’

      Popsicle seemed suddenly breathless. He clutched at the table for support. ‘You all right?’ my mother asked, crouching down beside him.

      ‘I’m fine, fine,’ said Popsicle.

      ‘Sure?’

      Popsicle put a hand to his neck. ‘There’s a thing,’ he said. ‘Be funny if it weren’t so sad. Runs in the family. Father and son, both of us Barnardo’s boys. There’s a thing, there’s a thing.’

      Without any warning at all he slumped forward off the chair. His head smashed against the corner of the table and hit the floor at my feet with a sickening, hollow crack. There was blood at once.

      I had always longed to be in an ambulance on an emergency dash to hospital. When I’d twisted my ankle I’d gone by car and there had been no drama at all, no excitement. But with Popsicle it was the real thing. The ambulance arrived at the house, lights flashing, sirens wailing. Green-overalled paramedics came dashing into the house. They were struggling to save a life under my very eyes.

      As he lay there, crumpled on the kitchen floor, all the colour drained from his face, Popsicle looked very dead. I couldn’t detect any sign of breathing. And there was so much blood. The paramedics felt him, listened to him, injected him and put a mask on his face. They told us again and again not to worry, that everything would be all right.

      They stretchered him out to the waiting ambulance, where the radio was crackling with messages, and around which a dozen or more of our neighbours were gathered. Mandy Bethel was there, Shirley Watson’s scandal-mongering sidekick from school, so I knew the news would be all over the estate in no time. Mr Goldsmith from next door was there too. And Mrs Martin from across the road, who’d hardly even spoken to me before, put her arm round my shoulder and asked me who it was that was ill. ‘My grandfather,’ I said, and I said it very proudly, and very loudly too, so that everyone should hear.

      Then we all climbed into the ambulance with him and we were driven away at speed, sirens wailing. I only wished they hadn’t closed the doors, because I should have liked to have seen their faces for a little longer, especially Mandy Bethel’s. I felt suddenly very important, very much at the centre of things.

      It was only when I was inside the ambulance and looking down at Popsicle, deathly white under the scarlet of the blanket, that I realised this was not a performance at all. Suddenly it was serious and I could think only that I didn’t want Popsicle to die. I didn’t say prayers all that often, only when I really needed to. I needed to now, badly. I had just found myself a grandfather, or he had found me, and I did not want to lose him. So I sat in the ambulance and prayed, with my eyes closed tight. My mother thought I was crying and hugged me to her. That was when she began blaming herself.

      ‘Maybe it was the bath,’ she said. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have made him have a bath. Maybe we should have warmed him up more slowly.’ And later: ‘He was soaked to the skin, he was shivering. And I just left him sitting there, all that time, in those wet things.’

      ‘It wasn’t you,’ said my father. ‘It was me. I shouldn’t have told him about Mum, not straight out like that. I didn’t think.’

      We sat in casualty at St Margaret’s until the early hours of the morning. When I’d come before with my ankle it had been busy, full of interesting injuries. This time there was hardly anyone there to distract me. I tried not to think of Popsicle. I kept picturing him lying there under a white sheet not breathing, not moving. I flicked through all the Hello! magazines, all the National Geographics and the Readers Digests I could find, but I was quite unable to concentrate on any of them. My mother and father both sat grey-faced, like stony statues, and didn’t speak to each other, nor to