Long Way Home. Michael Morpurgo
father, but it had been better this holiday so far – hardly one serious quarrel until now. He’d managed to control his temper and even his father seemed less inclined to provoke a row. He looked down at his mother and saw in her face that weary, beseeching smile he’d seen so often when she was trying to bring a truce between them.
‘I’ll be there, Mum,’ he said, pushing his chair in.
‘You’ll be nice to George, dear, won’t you?’ she went on. ‘Give him a chance to settle, eh?’ Tom nodded.
‘Where do you want those calves, Dad?’ he asked, bending down by the door to pull on his boots.
‘They’ll have to go down on the water-meadows until the winter, I reckon. And Tom, don’t forget to check the electric wire down there, will you? We don’t want them running around in the woods.’ His tone was gentler now. Tom felt it and warmed to it. The trouble was that he was too close to his father – they were too alike in many ways. He stamped his feet firmly into the bottom of his boots. ‘What about the milk this morning? Did you do all right?’ his father asked.
‘Not bad,’ said Tom, ‘just under two gallons. My wrists are still aching – they’ll never get used to it. I took my transistor over like you said and she seemed to like it, but I wish they wouldn’t give the news so often – Emma doesn’t seem to like it. I think she’s bored with it.’
‘Sensible cow,’ his father laughed.
‘Can I come?’ Storme was pushing the last crust of toast into her mouth. She always left the crusts till last, always had done. ‘I’ve finished,’ she said, wiping her mouth and chewing hard.
‘You can open gates if you like,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll see you down there.’
It was as if there had never been a row – better in a way, he thought. He hardly ever thought about his parents unless he’d had a quarrel. He smiled at them and shut the kitchen door behind him. It was blazing hot already and he stood for a moment squinting in the sunlight, then he scuffed his way across the yard, climbed the gate by the Dutch barn and sauntered slowly down the track towards the water-meadows. He kicked at a large piece of silver-black flint that lay in his path, unbuttoned his shirt and wondered about George.
George looked out of the window of the Mini; there was nothing else to do. The grass and the white heads of the hogweed leaned over into the lane ahead of them and bent suddenly in the wind that the car made as it passed. The radio prattled on: ‘Well, well, welcome all you lovely people out there on this sunny, sunny day. And for a sunny day, let’s all of us listen in to the new sunny sound of “Tin Pan O’Malley” in their amazing, chart-topping new release . . .’ Mrs Thomas turned down the volume a little and smiled at him. He liked Mrs Thomas; she was one of the few people he’d known all his life. He was glad she’d stopped trying to talk to him, but she was always good that way.
The familiar dread of meeting new people welled up inside him. He bit at his knuckle until it brought the tears to his eyes. If only she’d turn round and go back.
‘How much further?’ he asked.
‘Not far now,’ she said. ‘Two or three miles – won’t be long.’
George studied the grooves his teeth had made in his knuckle and the music changed to the hiss of static as they passed under a mesh of electric wires.
George looked out of the window again for the first glimpse of yet another home.
THE CAR RATTLED OVER A CATTLE GRID, AND MRS Thomas slowed down to a crawl, struggling with the gear lever.
‘This is it, George,’ she said. ‘Just down the bottom of the drive,’ and the car bobbed and rocked in the craters and ridges of the farm track that led downhill towards a cluster of buildings. George was thrown violently against the door as the Mini keeled over in a rut.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mrs Thomas, who was clinging to the wheel rather than driving. ‘You all right? It’s worse every time I come here.’
George rubbed the side of his head and stiffened himself for the next crater. It was then that he caught sight of a dark-haired girl, sitting on a gate-post in front of the buildings.
Storme watched the car rocking down the track towards her leaving a trail of dust rising into the air behind it. She hadn’t been waiting long. She’d become bored with standing in the sun, holding gates for Tom; and anyway she always liked to see the foster children first – a sort of sneak preview so that she could run in and tell everyone what he was like. She jumped down off the gatepost and tried to make out the features of the boy in the passenger seat, but there was too much dust and the car was still too far away.
‘Who’s that?’ George asked.
‘That’s the girl I told you about, remember? That’s Storme. Looks as if she’s been waiting for you.’
The car ground to a halt in the gravel and Storme came towards the car, waving the dust cloud away from her face. She bent down by Mrs Thomas’ window.
‘Is that him?’ she said.
‘Hullo, Storme,’ said Mrs Thomas, smiling at Storme’s bluntness. ‘This is George. George, this is Storme.’
Storme peered across Mrs Thomas and scrutinised George, who stared back. Like a parcel, he thought, it’s just like a postman delivering a parcel.
‘Your mum and dad?’ Mrs Thomas felt for George. ‘Are they in the house?’
‘Think so,’ said Storme, who was beaming at George by now. ‘You drive up. I’ll go and tell everyone he’s here.’
George watched her run off shouting at the top of her voice. ‘Always the same,’ he muttered. ‘They always stare at you.’
‘Come on, George,’ said Mrs Thomas. ‘She’s only young. She’s interested, that’s all; and after all, you are a new face.’
The car bumped across the farmyard scattering ducks and chickens in all directions and disturbing a sparrow that was having a dust-bath in one of the ruts. The car pulled up with a jerk. She turned off the engine.
‘Do try to enjoy yourself, George,’ she said before she opened the door, but George wasn’t listening. He was absorbed by a white duck that was waddling away from the car, sideways like a crab, keeping one eye on him and the other on the chorus of indignant hens in front of her. The main flock of ducks huddled together in noisy confusion against a brick wall: this one quacked out her own special defiance. George winked at her. She seemed offended and waddled off, bottom-heavy and cumbersome, towards the pond.
And then he was standing beside the hot car and Mrs Thomas was smiling thinly and making the introductions. Storme was clutching her mother’s hand, pulling her forward, and her father trailed along behind. They were all smiling at him. No one said anything. There were some sheep bleating in the distance and a chicken jerked its way between George and the car, pecking at the dust and warbling softly to herself. George felt hot and wondered what to do with his hands.
‘I saw him first, Mum. I told you I would,’ said Storme, still beaming at him.
‘Hullo, George,’ said the smiling lady in the apron. ‘You’re a bit early. Caught us on the hop – but no matter, it’s lovely you’re here.’
‘Better early than late, lad,’ the man said, taking George’s suitcase from Mrs Thomas. George’s white duck had come back and was standing by the car, watching. George was relieved to have something else to look at. ‘Tom’s not here at the moment,’ Storme’s father went on. ‘Still out with the calves, I shouldn’t wonder.’ George stared back at his duck and wondered if ducks ever blinked.
‘Shall we go and get him?’ said Storme, trying to make George look at her. She wondered what he saw in the duck.
‘That’s