Escape From Shangri-La

by Michael Morpurgo

  I had just come home from school. I was hanging up my coat in the front hall. I remember thinking how odd it was that both cars were parked outside, that my father and my mother must both be home early. They were waiting for me as I walked into the kitchen. She should have been at school. He should have been at work. Something was definitely wrong.

  ‘Where’s Popsicle?’ I said, dumping my bag on the floor.

  ‘Sit down, Cessie,’ said my father. ‘We’ve got something to tell you.’ Then he was looking across to my mother for help.

  ‘It’s Popsicle, Cessie.’ She was trying to tell me something she didn’t want to tell me. ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing terrible,’ she went on. ‘It’s just that . . . just that we’ve had to send him away for a while. We can’t cope with him here, not like he is. He wasn’t taking his pills like he should. He was just getting worse. We had to do something.’

  ‘What do you mean “send him away”?’

  ‘Well . . .’ she began, and she wouldn’t look at me as she spoke. ‘It’s a sort of home for the elderly, a nursing home where he can be looked after properly. He’ll have everything he needs.’

  ‘Shangri-La,’ said my father. ‘It’s called Shangri-La. Lovely place. He’ll be fine there, Cessie. It’s what’s best for him, honestly it is.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ my mother went on, ‘Cessie was asking about Shangri-La only the other day, weren’t you, Cessie? Funny that.’

  There was nothing funny about it, nothing at all.

  8 THE LUCIE ALICE

  FOR DAYS I WOULDN’T SPEAK TO EITHER OF THEM. As far as I was concerned they were both as guilty as each other. I spent much of my time alone in my room brooding over the dreadful thing they had done to Popsicle. They would come up, sit on the bed and try to talk me round. I had to understand that, at the moment, Shangri-La was the best place for him, and it was a perfectly nice place too. You couldn’t hope for better. But I was deaf to all explanations, all excuses.

  ‘It won’t be for ever, you know,’ my mother told me. ‘Just for a while, till he gets better.’

  ‘Don’t think badly of us, Cessie,’ my father pleaded. ‘I know how upset you must be, but what else could we have done? The way he is, he needs proper full-time care. I’ve got to go out to work. Your mother’s got to go out to work. You’ve got to go to school. We just couldn’t leave him alone in the house, not as he is. Remember the fire? It’s no use carrying on like this, you know. It won’t achieve anything, Cessie. It won’t bring Popsicle home.’

  But it wasn’t only the sending away of Popsicle that grieved me, nor even where he’d been sent – that wasn’t their fault – it was how it had been done, covertly, on the sly. I wasn’t stupid. I could understand that Popsicle shouldn’t be left all on his own. I could even understand that in his state of mind he could possibly do himself some accidental damage. But they had packed him off to Shangri-La, to the very place Popsicle most dreaded, and without even telling me. I could have warned them. I could have told them.

  On the principle that I would never again let them have the satisfaction of hearing me play my violin, I waited until I was sure I was alone in the house before I began my practice. I always ended with ‘Nowhere Man’, dedicating it each time to Popsicle, and promising him as I played that somehow I would get him out of Shangri-La. I could never play that tune without crying for him. It was while I was playing it one afternoon that I decided the time had come to stop moping, and to do what I should have done in the first place.

  I packed away my violin and got my bike out of the back of the garage. If I was to rescue him, then I had to get to see him. The first step was to find out where the Shangri-La nursing home was. I asked a postman. ‘Cliff Road,’ he said, ‘on the coast road, going west out of town, top of the hill.’

  It turned out to be a long way out of town, beyond the harbour, beyond the marina, a couple of kilometres at least. The hill was horribly steep, but I was determined to keep pedalling right to the top. Once I reached it, I got off, gasping for breath, and rested. There it was across the road – ‘Shangri-La. Residential Nursing Home for the Elderly’. Beyond the closed white gate was a driveway, and an avenue of trees, every one of them slanted and stunted by the wind. There were lawns and rhododendron bushes and, just visible from the road, a great gabled house, cream-painted with neat, white windows.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone about, so I opened the gate and wheeled my bike up the drive. The porch alone was as big as the front of our entire house. It had fluted pillars all around like a temple, and two stone lions glared at me from either side of the front door. I pressed the brass bell and stood back. I didn’t think I was frightened but I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. No one came. I rang again. Still no one came. I wheeled my bike round the side of the house and peered in at the first window I came to.

  They were sitting around the room, ancient men and ancient women, some with their heads lolling in sleep, their mouths wide open; others staring vacantly into space, their hands trembling in their laps. A few were reading magazines. One of them looked up at me, looked straight at me I thought, but she didn’t see me.

  It was a huge square room with a high ceiling and a chandelier. On the walls there were pictures in gold frames of cart horses and sailing boats and village feasts, and beneath them the room was lined with grey-green chairs with wooden armrests. A television was on in the corner, but no one seemed to be watching it.

  I was searching amongst the faces for Popsicle, but I couldn’t find him, not at first. Only when he stood up and came walking towards me across the room did I know him. His cheeks seemed sunken, his skin sallow. His hand was reaching out towards me.

  ‘Cessie,’ he mouthed.

  A voice spoke from behind me. ‘And what have we here?’ Her grey hair was as starched and stiff as her white uniform. She was a thin-lipped, peaky-faced woman with sharp little eyes. ‘You do this often, do you, peering in people’s windows?’

  I ran for it across the lawn, leapt on my bike and was gone down the drive. I dismounted at the gate, fought with the latch that wouldn’t budge, flung the gate back and at last made my escape. I never looked back, not once.

  I wasn’t going to give up. One way or another I had to see Popsicle. I had to talk to him, to tell him I hadn’t been part of the conspiracy, that I’d known nothing at all about it. So that evening I broke my silence for the first time. ‘I want to visit Popsicle,’ I said. ‘Even in prison you’re allowed visits, aren’t you?’

  They seemed relieved that I was talking to them again.

  ‘Soon,’ said my mother. ‘They said we should let him settle in for a while. But it’s been two weeks now – we could go on Saturday, couldn’t we, Arthur? What d’you think?’

  ‘Why not?’ my father replied, and then he smiled at me. ‘Truce?’

  ‘Truce,’ I said, but I didn’t mean it.

  I had several long days at school to endure before Saturday. Word had got around that Popsicle was up at Shangri-La. It seemed Mandy Bethel’s aunt worked there as a part-time nurse. Ever since I had confronted Shirley Watson, she and Mandy Bethel and the others were giving me a wide berth – thank goodness. But there were some who felt they had to say something. They were meaning to be sympathetic, but sometimes it didn’t come out like that. ‘They’re all really old up there.’ ‘Must be horrible for him – with all those wrinklies, I mean.’ ‘I’ve seen them out in their bus on outings. They look prehistoric, if you ask me.’ And so on. I endured it as best I could, but it wasn’t easy.

  On the Friday morning, we had RE with Mrs Morecambe. It all got silly and out of hand, as it often did with Mrs Morecambe. Her crowd control was never much good, but at least she was always interesting. She was talking about Hinduism, about the transmigration of souls. Some people saw this as an opportunity to wind her up by suggesting what they’d most like to be when they came back in their next life. There were all sorts of ridicidulous ideas: elephants, kangaroos, dung-bee
tles, daddy-long-legs, even a flea. Finally she’d had enough. She banged the table. ‘It is not a joking matter,’ she stormed, her eyes flashing. ‘It’s about time some of you learnt that life is not one long joke, and nor is death either.’ There was still some tittering. ‘You won’t think it’s so funny when your time comes, and it will come. It comes to us all. I’ve got an aunt. She’s up at the Shangri-La nursing home right now. And she won’t ever come out. Just sixty. Been there five years now. Alzheimer’s. She can’t feed herself. Some days she doesn’t even know who she is any more. She hasn’t known me for two years.’ Suddenly everyone was looking at me. Mrs Morecambe went on: ‘Believe you me, getting old is no laughing matter.’ No one was laughing any more.

  Mrs Morecambe called me up after the lesson. ‘It’s not too bad up at Shangri-La, Cessie. They do what they can,’ she said. So she knew too. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’ It was kind of her, but it was no comfort to me. The memory of Popsicle’s pained face through the window haunted me night and day. His worst nightmare had come true, and I was to blame, in part at least. I had promised him he would never have to go to Shangri-La, and I had broken that promise. Somehow I would get him out of there. Somehow.

  I thought about little else. I had the notion that Popsicle and I could steal away together in the middle of the night and make our way down to the railway station. We’d catch the first train out in the morning – it didn’t matter where it was going. I had nearly a hundred pounds in the building society, enough to take us a long way away. He could make ship models, and we could sell them. I’d look after him. He’d be fine. We’d both be fine. We’d find a house somewhere remote, somewhere no one would even think of looking for us.

  I knew all along that it was a dream, but I clung to it all the same, and just hoped that there was some way I could make at least some of it come true.

  I was still hoping, still dreaming as we drove up to Shangri-La that Saturday morning. We turned in off the road and up the drive. ‘See?’ my mother was saying. ‘We told you, Cessie. Isn’t it lovely? Wonderful views, rose gardens. They’ve got croquet too, look. And you should see inside. Library. Television room. Carpets everywhere. Paradise on a hill. Lovely views of the harbour. They don’t call it Shangri-La for nothing.’

  We weren’t the only people visiting. Half a dozen cars were parked on the front drive, and on the front lawn they were playing croquet, with a couple of little children jumping the hoops as if they were hurdles.

  ‘Our future Olympic champions perhaps, Mr Stevens,’ said a voice from behind me, a voice I recognised at once. Striding across the drive was the starched lady in the white uniform whom I’d met on my previous visit, the lady with the sharp little eyes and the thin lips. I tried to hide behind my mother.

  ‘I heard your programme yesterday evening, Mr Stevens. Excellent as usual, quite excellent. And who is this then?’

  ‘This is Cessie, Popsicle’s granddaughter,’ said my mother, stepping aside so that I was now completely exposed. ‘Cessie, this is Mrs Davidson. She’s the matron here, and she’s looking after Popsicle for us.’ I need not have worried about being recognised. Mrs Davidson wasn’t interested in me. She was soon deep in discussion with my mother and father. They’d forgotten all about me.

  ‘It’s early days,’ Mrs Davidson was saying, ‘but your father’s making very good progress already, Mr Stevens. He can be a bit cantankerous, of course, but we’re used to that at Shangri-La. He still won’t take his pills, but there we are. You can lead a horse to water . . .’

  ‘But is he eating better now?’ my mother asked.

  They had all turned away from me and were walking towards the house. I took my chance and made off. I had it in mind that I would find Popsicle before they did and tell him of my plans for his escape. He had to know that I hadn’t abandoned him, and that I never would.

  I must have been preoccupied. I was making my way across the lawn, past the rose garden towards the window where I’d seen Popsicle before, when I walked right into a man in a wheelchair.

  ‘Where you off to in such a hurry, young lady?’ I expected him to be furious, but he wasn’t. ‘Visiting someone, are you?’

  ‘I’m looking for Popsicle, for my grandad,’ I said.

  When he smiled I saw he had very even, very yellow teeth. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Harry,’ he said, ‘and you must be Cessie. Never stops talking about you. Pretty as a picture, just like he said you were. Grand fellow, your grandad. Won’t stand any nonsense from the Dragonwoman.’ I knew well enough who he was talking about. He looked around him and then beckoned me closer. ‘All smiles she is on visiting days. Different story when they’ve gone. Shouts at us like we’re all deaf. Treats us like we’re a bunch of loonies. I’m telling you. It’s not right what she does. Not right at all. Popsicle – he’s the only one that talks back at her. And she doesn’t like it, not one bit. Got it in for him already, she has, but Popsicle doesn’t take no notice.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘He goes down to the gun emplacement on the cliffs. Just sits there, looking at the boats going in and out, birdwatching sometimes, or reading his poetry. Potty about poetry, isn’t he? Best place to think his thoughts, he says.’ He pointed through the trees. ‘Over there he doesn’t like to be disturbed. But he won’t mind, not if it’s you.’ I began to move away, but he hadn’t finished yet. ‘I’ll tell you something else, young lady. He may not have been here long, but your grandad, he’s like a breath of fresh air. Keeps us smiling, he does. And that’s a lot to be thankful for. Off you go now.’

  I found Popsicle standing on top of a concrete bunker. There were holes in the sides where I supposed the guns had once been. He was looking out to sea through a pair of binoculars. He hadn’t heard me, so I climbed up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. The moment he saw me his face lit up.

  He hugged me to him tight for a moment or two, and then held me at arm’s length. He seemed so much happier than the last time I’d seen him, more his old self again. ‘Oh, Cessie, I’ve been hoping you’d come back. Every day I’ve been hoping. That woman, that Dragonwoman, she didn’t catch you when you came before? She didn’t catch you?’ I shook my head. I had everything ready to tell him, my whole escape plan, but I didn’t get the chance even to begin. ‘Good, good. Now listen, Cessie. I’ve got news for you, good news. I’ve remembered something, something important. That boat I made you, it’s more than just a boat.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  His eyes shone with excitement. ‘It’s where I live, Cessie. It’s my home. That boat’s my home. I live on the Lucie Alice.’ I must have looked a bit doubtful. ‘It’s true, Cessie. I live on that boat. Honestly. I woke up a couple of days ago and I just knew it. Don’t ask me how. I reckon it’s the old memory waking himself up at last. About time too, if you ask me. It’s just like the one I made you, the one they went and sunk. I’m not barmy, Cessie, honestly I’m not. For a while I really thought I was, and it frightened the living daylights out of me. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said, but I wasn’t at all sure that I did. I had to ask: ‘But where is it then? Where you live, the boat, where is it?’

  He looked suddenly downcast. ‘That’s the thing, Cessie. That’s the bit I don’t know. I mean, it’s got to be moored somewhere, hasn’t it? I’m still trying to work it out, and I will too. I will. You’ll see.’

  A pair of gulls wheeled above our heads and flew out to sea. ‘Lesser Blackbacks,’ he said. ‘Have a look.’ He took off his binoculars and gave them to me. It was a few moments before I had them in focus. I found them floating out on the thermals over the cliffs. ‘That’s what I’d like to be, free as they are,’ said Popsicle. ‘All my life there’s one thing I’ve hated, Cessie. You know what it is? Being cooped up, shut in, told what to do. That’s why I always dreaded coming up here to Shangri-La. I heard all about it from a friend of mine – Sam he’s called. Sam had an older brother, and he went a
bit barmy in the head. So Sam had to send him up here to be looked after. He hated it up here, and he never came out. That’s not going to happen to me, Cessie. I’m getting out of here, soon as ever I can.’ He was angry now, angrier than I’d ever seen him. ‘There’s fine people in this place, good people, but that Mrs Davidson, that Dragonwoman, she who must be obeyed, I’ve seen her screaming at them, Cessie. Maybe we’re a bit slow. Maybe some of us wet ourselves. But that’s not our fault, is it? And all she does is scream at us. Not right, Cessie, not fair. Little Hitler she is. I’m telling you, Cessie, I’m getting out – and for two pins I’d take Harry and the others with me. Honest I would. Soon as I remember where that boat of mine is, I’ll be gone, out of here for good.’

  That was when I heard my mother’s voice from in amongst the trees.

  ‘Popsicle!’ She was hurrying down towards us, and with her were Mrs Davidson and my father.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you, Mr Stevens. I thought I told you to stay inside to meet your visitors, in the dayroom,’ said Mrs Davidson. There was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there before.

  ‘How are you, Popsicle?’ My mother was helping Popsicle down off the gun emplacement. ‘Mrs Davidson says you’re eating really well these days. That’s good, very good.’ She breathed deep of the air as she looked out to sea. ‘Isn’t this the perfect place?’

  ‘You doing all right, then?’ my father asked.

  ‘Better all the time, Arthur. And d’ya know why? I was telling Cessie. I’ve remembered. I’ve remembered where I live. It’s on the Lucie Alice.’ They were all looking at him, nonplussed. ‘That’s right. It’s a boat, just like the one I made for Cessie. It’s a lifeboat, and I live on it.’

  We didn’t stay talking for very long. Popsicle did his best to explain how it was that he could be so sure about the Lucie Alice; but how, even so, he still couldn’t remember where it was moored. ‘That’ll come,’ he said. ‘That’ll come.’ But I could see what Popsicle couldn’t see, that they all thought he was losing his mind, that Shangri-La was just where he should be, and where he’d have to stay.