Listen to the Moon
The stunning novel set during World War One from Michael Morpurgo, the nation’s favourite storyteller and multi-million copy bestseller.May, 1915.Alfie and his fisherman father find a girl on an uninhabited island in the Scillies – injured, thirsty, lost… and with absolutely no memory of who she is, or how she came to be there. She can say only one word: Lucy.Where has she come from? Is she a mermaid, the victim of a German U-boat, or even – as some islanders suggest – a German spy…?Only one thing is for sure: she loves music and moonlight, and it is when she listens to the gramophone that the glimmers of the girl she once was begin to appear.WW1 is raging, suspicion and fear are growing, and Alfie and Lucy are ever more under threat. But as we begin to see the story of Merry, a girl boarding a great ship for a perilous journey across the ocean, another melody enters the great symphony – and the music begins to resolve…A beautiful tour de force of family, love, war and forgiveness, this is a major new novel from the author of PRIVATE PEACEFUL – in which what was once lost may sometimes be found, washed up again on the shore…
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First published in hardback in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2014
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Copyright © Michael Morpurgo 2014
Michael Morpurgo asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Source ISBN: 9780007339631, TPB ISBN 9780007339648
Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780008104856
Version: 2014-09-18
For Philip and Jude
Contents
WE ALL COME FROM SOMEWHERE. But, in a way, I come from nowhere. Let me explain. My grandma simply came up out of the sea a long time ago, like a mermaid, except that she had two legs instead of a fish tail. She seemed to be about twelve years old at the time, but no one could tell; and that was because there was no clue as to who she was, nor where she came from. She was half starved, mad with fever and could speak only one word: “Lucy”.
This is her story, as I later heard it told to me, by those who knew her best, by my grandpa, by other relations and friends, and, most importantly, by herself. Over the years I have pieced it all together as well as I could, using only the evidence of those who saw it with their own eyes, those who were there.
I want to thank the Museum of the Isles of Scilly for its help, for access to school logbooks and other sources, and especially the family of the late Dr Crow MD of St Mary’s, for allowing me to quote from his journal. My family, and many others also, too numerous to mention – on the Scilly islands, in New York and elsewhere – have helped me greatly and patiently in my research, in piecing everything together.
You could say this story has been a lifelong fascination for me, an obsession almost. I have certainly been working on it, on and off, for most of my life. I simply could not get it out of my head, which in a way, I suppose, is not surprising. It is my grandma’s story – much of it told, as you will discover, in her own words, as she dictated it to me. So, in that sense, it is my story too, my family’s story.
Grandma made us who we are – with a little help from Grandpa, it should be said. I am who I am because of her, because of him. I have done what I’ve done, been who I’ve been, lived where I’ve lived, written what I’ve written, because of them. So I have written it for them, and also because it happens to be the most unlikely and unbelievable story I have ever heard.
IT WAS MACKEREL THEY WERE looking for that day, because it was Friday. Mary always liked to cook mackerel for their supper on Fridays, but Alfie and Jim, his father, both knew she wouldn’t do it, and they wouldn’t have it, unless they brought her back enough mackerel to make a proper meal for all four of them. Alfie and his father had prodigious appetites, which his mother loved both to grumble about and to satisfy.
“I swear the two of you got hollow legs,” Mary would say in open admiration, as she watched them wolfing down their mackerel yet again – three of them each she liked to put on their plates, if the catch had been good enough.
There was Uncle Billy to feed too. He lived in the boat shed on Green Bay on his own, because he liked it that way. It was just across the field from Veronica Farmhouse, where they lived, a stone’s throw away. Mary would bring him his supper every evening, but, unlike Alfie, he would as like as not complain if it was mackerel again. “I like crab,” he’d say. But then if Mary brought him crab it was, “Where’s my mackerel?”
He could be contrary, could Uncle Billy. But then Uncle Billy was contrary in many ways. He was different from other people, different from anyone. As Mary often said, that was what made him special.
The fish were hard to find that morning. It helped keep spirits up in the boat to talk about supper, to think about it, about how Mary would cook the mackerel for them that evening: dipped in egg, rolled in oats, then seasoned with salt and pepper. She fried it always in butter. The smell of it would be wafting through the farmhouse and they’d be sitting down at the kitchen table, ready and waiting, mouths watering, savouring the sound and smell of the fish sizzling in the pan.
