EGMONT PRESS: ETHICAL PUBLISHING
Egmont Press is about turning writers into successful authors and children into passionate readers – producing books that enrich and entertain. As a responsible children’s publisher, we go even further, considering the world in which our consumers are growing up.
Safety First
Naturally, all of our books meet legal safety requirements. But we go further than this; every book with play value is tested to the highest standards – if it fails, it’s back to the drawing-board.
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This book is made from paper certified by the Forestry Stewardship Council (FSC), an organisation dedicated to promoting responsible management of forest resources. For more information on the FSC, please visit www.fsc.org. To learn more about Egmont’s sustainable paper policy, please visit www.egmont.co.uk/ethical.
Also by Michael Morpurgo
Arthur: High King of Britain
Escape from Shangri-La
Friend or Foe
The Ghost of Grania O’Malley
Kensuke’s Kingdom
King of the Cloud Forests
Little Foxes
Long Way Home
Mr Nobody’s Eyes
The Nine Lives of Montezuma
The Sandman and the Turtles
The Sleeping Sword
Twist of Gold
Waiting for Anya
War Horse
The War of Jenkins’ Ear
The White Horse of Zennor
Why the Whales Came
The Wreck of Zanzibar
For Younger Readers
The Best Christmas Present in the World
Conker
Mairi’s Mermaid
The Marble Crusher
For Christine and Dave, Zoé and Orlanda, Fredi and Lotta
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
BEFORE I TELL YOU ABOUT THE POSTCARD I HAD better tell you something about me. My name is Elizabeth Throckmorton and I’ll be eleven on my next birthday. Aunty Ellie (you’ll meet her later) calls me her ‘china doll’ on account of my pale skin and straight black hair. I’m small for my age, so people at school think I’m feeble and fragile which I’m not. I don’t talk much, so they think I’m unfriendly which I’m not. I just get on better with myself than anyone else, that’s all.
Around me at home there’s my family. First there’s Father, who’s a farmer. Father treats me like a boy. I think he always wanted me to be a boy, really. Then there’s Mother, who’s always busy. If she’s not out on the farm she’s scurrying about the house with a broom or a pile of dirty washing. She never stops. She doesn’t seem to have time to talk to me much these days, not since Little Jim was born; but we understand each other – always have done. Not like my big brother Will. We haven’t got much in common, Will and me. When he’s not shooting or fishing, he’s down in the cellar making horrible smells in the chemistry laboratory he’s set up down there. I’d like to like him more – I know I ought to.
Then there’s Little Jim. Little Jim was born about eight months ago. He always needs feeding or changing or picking up or mopping up. I spend a lot of time looking after Little Jim, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate it. He loves to pull my hair out by the roots or to tear my ears off whenever he can. He never does that to Gran. Gran has been living with us in the house for as long as I can remember. She’s nearly eighty now. I know she means well, but she does go on a bit sometimes.
I suppose you could say that it was an ordinary sort of a morning in our house the day the postcard came. The toast burnt and Father shouted and spluttered with his mouth full of cornflakes. I was giving Little Jim his breakfast. Mother was trying to rescue the toast and to see to Gran’s boiled egg, all at the same time. Will was in the bathroom. He’s always