Boy Giant. Michael Morpurgo

had fallen quite silent.

      The old lady and her companion were standing side by side in the palm of my hand. There was no fear in their eyes, only intense curiosity. Beckoning me closer she reached out her hand to touch my face. Then she was brushing the hair away from my forehead. A sudden smile came over her.

      ‘Not Gulliver,’ she said softly. ‘Son of Gulliver.’ Then she turned and proclaimed it out loud to the crowd. ‘Son of Gulliver! He is Son of Gulliver!’

      There was a gasp of amazement at this, from all around. So now I was a son of this Gulliver. And I knew what ‘son’ meant. One of the aid workers in the refugee camp – Jimbo he was called – had shown me photographs on his phone of a boy about my age, obviously his son, holding a cricket bat – he liked cricket too, and Jimbo was the one who used to call me ‘son’. ‘Hello, son,’ he’d say to me sometimes. ‘You all right, son?’

      So now I was ‘Son of Gulliver’. I could think of nothing else to do but look as pleased as the old lady was, as her companion was, as everyone seemed to be. I called out, ‘Son of Gulliver! Son of Gulliver! Owzat!’

      The old lady seemed happy with that. They all were, so I thought I must have said the right thing.

      From then on, that’s who I was to these people, ‘Son of Gulliver!’ But the children usually preferred to call me Owzat. I still did not understand who Gulliver was, nor why I should be his son. That, and everything else about this strange place, which had to be England – I was sure of it by now – was still a complete mystery to me. But I did not mind this, nor how confusing and strange everything was.

      Another confusion was the language they spoke. I had already heard many of them speaking amongst themselves in another language that did not sound at all like English. So they must speak in two languages. Strange again, but what did it matter? All I knew was that I was amongst people who were kind, and I was safe. What else could matter?

      But something else did matter. I was suddenly feeling weak with hunger and I was dying of thirst.

      

      It was as if the old lady could read my mind. At that very moment she clapped her hands, and at once everyone seemed to know exactly what to do. Within moments they were all fetching and carrying, all the horses and carts on the beach were on the move, and the little people, children too, were busily unloading them.

      They reminded me of the armies of ants on the march that I had often watched back home in my town. Every one of these little people seemed to have a task to do, and they all understood their part in it.

      The task, I was very pleased to see, was to bring me all the food and water I could ever have wanted.

      Once I had lowered the old lady and her companion down on to the sand again, I watched as the little people brought me fish and bread and grapes and nuts, all I could eat, and some berries and then some water, which came in barrels too. A barrel of water was no more than a mouthful to me, but there were lots of barrels, and they kept coming, and I kept drinking.

      They came and laid at my feet all the food and drink I needed. And I needed a great deal. They never once tired and every one of them would say something in greeting as they presented me with yet another gift of some fish or a grape or a barrel of water. ‘Hello, Son of Gulliver,’ or ‘Owzat!’ or ‘Welcome.’

      I saw such a kindness and open-hearted generosity in their eyes. I could not help thinking what a difference this was from the other world I had left behind me, from the world of suffering, and sadness, from the ruined town that had once been my home, from the family and friends I had lost, from the sprawling refugee camp where we had to live. How strange it was to be surrounded now by all this warmth and loving care and attention. How I wished Mother and Hanan and Father could be here with me to see how good and kind people could be.

      I thought then of Mother standing there on the shore watching me leave in that overcrowded boat, and my mind went back to the terrible journey across the sea, the fear that had gripped my heart, the cold in my bones, the endless skies, the endless sea, the frantic efforts we had made to save ourselves, to bail that water out from the bottom of the boat, cupping our frozen hands and scooping out what we could, but watching helpless and, as the waves came again over the side, how the boat had sunk lower and lower into the water, and how one by one the others who had been with me were no longer there, how I had been left on my own, lying in the cold of the water for days and nights on end praying to be saved, calling out for Mother, and keeping her last words in my head, the words she told me never to forget, ‘Fore Street, Mevagissey’.

      Without my meaning to, those words spoke themselves out loud again on the beach in front of all the little people. ‘Fore Street, Mevagissey. Fore Street, Mevagissey.’

      I began to cry then, whether in grief or relief or joy I did not know. I do know that many a little hand reached and tried to comfort me, and I remember that brought me such joy and helped drive away my sorrows and in time stopped my tears. I had food, drink, and hundreds of little friends, I thought.

      What more could I need? I was safe with these little people, safe at last, and for some reason much loved too. And that meant the world to me, the whole world.