Читать книгу A Medal for Leroy - Michael Morpurgo, Michael Morpurgo - Страница 9

I couldn’t wait to be gone. They clinked their teaspoons on their cups and talked, and talked, and went on talking, on and on, about what I neither knew nor cared. Auntie Pish was doing most of the talking and Maman looked about as fed up as I felt. I kept looking up at the photo of Papa on the mantelpiece, at the poppies all around it. Maman was twiddling her ring, something she often did, particularly when she was with the Aunties. That was when I remembered the medal I had found in the box when we’d moved house a few weeks before.

Maman must have guessed my thoughts, or read them perhaps. Suddenly she put her hand on mine, and interrupted Auntie Pish, who was not used to being interrupted.

“Sorry, Auntie Mary, but I’ve just remembered…” she began. Auntie Pish did not look at all pleased. “Auntie Martha. Roy’s medals – the ones I let you have, remember? He’s got one of his own at home, haven’t you, chéri? But I know he’d love to see the others sometime. Do you mind?”

“Of course I don’t. They’re upstairs,” Auntie Snowdrop replied. “I’ll fetch them at once, shall I?”

“Yes, Martha,” Auntie Pish said, “you go and fetch them. And while you’re about it, bring us the last of the rock cakes from the kitchen, will you? I see we have empty plates. Don’t be long.”

Auntie Snowdrop folded her napkin neatly, got up and went out. Auntie Pish shook her head. “She’s always polishing those medals,” she grumbled. “I don’t know why she bothers – it only makes her sad. She still gets so upset and depressed: won’t get up in the morning, won’t eat her food, hardly speaks to me for days on end. If it wasn’t for choir practice I sometimes think she’d give up the ghost altogether. I mean, Roy died over nine years ago now. The war was a long time ago. We have to put it all behind us, that’s what I keep trying to tell her. It’s water under the bridge, I tell her. Well I mean, there’s no need for any more sadness, is there? No point. What’s done is done. You can’t bring him back, can you?”

Maman looked long at Auntie Pish before she spoke. Then she said very quietly: “Happiness, I think, is like Humpty Dumpty in that poem I used to read to Michael. ‘All the King’s horses, and all the King’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again…’ Once it is broken, you can’t just put happiness together again. It is not possible.”

Auntie Pish didn’t know what to say, and for a change she said nothing. She cleared her throat and drank some more tea. Auntie Pish silenced. It was a rare and wonderful moment. It cheered me up no end. I almost felt like clapping, but then we heard Auntie Snowdrop coming slowly back downstairs. She came into the sitting room, carrying a wooden pencil box, holding it out in front of her, with the greatest of care, in both hands. Her eyes never left it as she put it down on the coffee table.

“Well, open it then, Martha,” Auntie Pish told her impatiently. “It won’t bite.” Auntie Snowdrop slid back the lid and took it off. There were three medals lying there on cotton wool, the King’s face looking up at me from each one.

“You see how shiny I keep them?” Auntie Snowdrop was touching them with her fingertips. “Your Papa, I always thought he looked a bit like the King – except for the moustache, of course. I never liked his moustache. He said it made him look older, more like a proper fighter pilot. I never wanted him to go to war, you know. I told him. But he wouldn’t listen to his old Auntie. This was his pencil case when he was a boy. He had it all through his school days.” Then she looked up at me and fixed me with a gaze of such intensity that I’ve never forgotten it. “You’ll never go to war, will you, Michael?” she said.

“No, Auntie,” I told her, because that’s what I knew she wanted me to say.

“Good. You don’t need to, you know,” she said, “because you’ll have all these medals when I’ve gone, so you won’t ever need to go to war to get them, like your Papa did.”

“Oh Martha,” Auntie Pish said. “Don’t go on so. You’ll upset the boy.”

“And you will keep them polished for me,” Auntie Snowdrop said, quite ignoring her sister.

“Course I will,” I said.

“He’s a good kind boy,” Auntie Snowdrop said, reaching out and touching my hair. “Just like his Papa was. He has the same face, same lovely hair, just the same.” She glanced up at the photo, and then back at me again. She took my hand, gripping it tight as she spoke to me. ”But always remember, Michael, it’s not the face that matters, not the skin, not the hair, it’s what lies beneath. You have to look deeper, Michael, behind. Look through the glass, through the photo, and you’ll find out who your Papa really was. Remember what I said now, won’t you?”

We were driving back to London an hour or so later when Maman told me. “Auntie Snowdrop’s not very well. She’s going to have to go into hospital in a week or so for an operation – I think Auntie Pish is very worried about her.”

“She didn’t sound like it to me,” I said. “She was horrible to her, she’s always horrible to her.”

“I know,” Maman replied. “But you have to remember, chéri, those two, they’ve been together, lived together, all their lives. They need one another. I doubt they could ever live without each other, not now. Auntie Pish is an hour or so older, that’s all. No twins were ever less identical, that’s for sure. Your Papa used to say to me that they were like two sides of the same coin. And he knew them better than anyone.”

I looked down at the snowdrop I’d been given when we left and remembered how long and tight Auntie Snowdrop had hugged me when we said our goodbyes, how she’d stood there waving us off, how frail she had suddenly seemed.