Lucky Button

by Michael Morpurgo

  Every time the old man spoke of Nannerl, it was Valeria that Jonah had in mind. He pictured her playing with little Wolferl, making her music, smiling at him. She had become part of the story for Jonah.

  “One afternoon,” the old man went on, and it was a while now since Jonah had thought of him as a ghost at all, “as we were sitting quietly by the river, watching for the kingfishers that Wolferl loved to see, Nannerl asked me where my mother was. ‘I have none,’ I told her.

  “‘And your father?’ she asked.

  “‘I have none,’ I replied.

  “‘No sister, no brother?’ Nannerl said.

  “‘None,’ I told her.

  “Wolferl turned to her. ‘Er hat keine Familie?’ he said, tears in his eyes. ‘Keinen Bruder?’ She shook her head. ‘Du bist unser brother, unser friend,’ said little Wolferl, and he threw his arms round my neck. ‘Mein Freund. Mein Bruder,’ he cried. I was touched to my heart by the warmth of their affection.

  “Nannerl then asked me all about myself, about where I lived before I came to Bourne Park. So I told her about the Foundling Hospital, my dear Mrs Ma and Mr Pa, and Paradise, my childhood home.

  “It was Wolferl who asked me then, through Nannerl, the most difficult question. She translated for him. ‘Wolferl asks: we have the family name of our mother and father – Mozart – and also we are given by them our first names, Wolfgang and Maria. How did you have your names if you do not have a father or a mother?’

  “So I told them then how, like all the other children at the Foundling Hospital, I was given a number; that mine was 762; that each of us had a name chosen for us; and that neither Nat nor Nathaniel Hogarth was my real name. I had no real name, for I did not know who my mother and father were. When Nannerl began to explain what I had said, to my amazement, Wolferl began to weep, his hands over his face. Then wiping his eyes he looked up at me, took my hands in his and said, ‘Du bist die Nummer eins für mich, für uns, unser Freund, unser Bruder.’

  “Nannerl translated again for me. ‘You are number one for me, for us, our friend, our brother.’ Now I could scarcely forbear from crying myself.

  “We spent long happy days together. The three of us roamed the great parklands around the house. Left almost entirely to our own devices, we went back to the house only for meals and music practice, during which he would still tap my leg with his foot, often in rhythm with his playing. From the glances he gave me as he played I knew he still liked to have me always there beside him. Whenever I was with them the family treated me as if I was one of them, the only proper family I had known since Mrs Ma and Mr Pa. And now I had a sister; I had a brother. But still I would lie awake at night, full of longing for the one true family I never had.

  “Nannerl it was who warned me one day that Wolferl was sometimes inclined to wander off, and this frightened them greatly. I knew, of course, that this was part of the reason I had been asked to be always with the little boy. Right now, she explained, little Wolferl was so attached to me, his new friend and brother, that he seemed content to stay close and remain with me and with her too; but that we should always be sure to keep him in sight, just in case he began to wander away.

  “She was right. He did begin in time to stray more from my side, expecting us to follow him, and this, of course, we did. Between us we kept an eye out for him, and went running after him if he ever strayed too far. More and more, though, he liked to tease and frighten us by hiding, but he was never able to conceal himself for long. His giggling would always give him away in the end.

  “All was well, until late one sunny afternoon. We were lying on our backs on the riverbank, drowsy in the humming heat, having been out all afternoon in the boat. I had closed my eyes and must have fallen asleep. Suddenly Nannerl was shaking me, shouting at me to wake. ‘Gone!’ she cried. ‘Wolferl, er ist weg. Gone!’”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hero of the Hour

  “I FEARED THE WORST. There was the boat, far out in the middle of the river, one oar floating away, but no sign of Wolferl. And then I saw his head further downstream. He was floundering in the water, screaming, arms flailing, sinking, coming up, sinking again. I did not think twice – and I am no hero, I assure you – but ran down to the bank and plunged in. I felt at once the cold of the river gripping me, the weeds tugging at my legs, the flow pulling me. I struck out towards him, kicking myself free of the weeds.

  “From where I found the strength I do not know, but I kept swimming, and at last managed to reach him and take hold of him. But such was his panic and distress that I struggled to bring him back to the safety of the bank. I feared that in his terror he would drag us both under. Then, just when I thought all was lost, Nannerl was there to help. Together we hauled little Wolferl out of the river and onto the bank, where he sat and coughed the water out of his lungs. And when at last he had recovered, what did he do, this little friend of mine? He lifted his head, looked at us wickedly, and laughed out loud, as if it had all been the biggest, most enjoyable adventure of his life.

  “He was shivering with cold and too weak to walk, so I carried him up through the field of cows and calves towards the house, Nannerl running on ahead calling for help. Even now, little Wolferl, in between his shivering and coughing and spluttering, was pointing at the cows and making again the rude noises he always made whenever he saw them.

  “Everyone came running out of the house, Herr Mozart, Frau Mozart, my master, Mr Wickens, and every servant, maid and groom at Bourne Park, it seemed. Herr Mozart relieved me of the burden of little Wolferl at once, as Nannerl continued to tell them all that had happened. Crying through her smiles, Frau Mozart engulfed me in her warm embrace. Sir John ruffled my hair and told me I was a credit to the Foundling Hospital, and to the name of his dear friend William Hogarth; and everyone clapped and cheered me all the way into the house. I was the hero of the hour, and I confess I enjoyed all the attention greatly.

  “I shared a hot bath with Wolferl, which shivered the cold out of us, and came downstairs hand in hand with him. The whole household was there waiting for us in the hall, applauding. Nannerl ran up the stairs to greet us, threw her arms round my neck, and whispered to me that she would love me for ever for what I had done. Best of all, Sir John – at the request, he said, of the Mozart family – now relieved me entirely of all my stable duties and told me that, for as long as the Mozart family were staying at Bourne Park, I should live in the house with them, and sleep in little Wolferl’s room; that he himself had insisted upon it.”

  “You saved Mozart’s life?” Jonah breathed, unable in his excitement to stop himself from interrupting again. But this time the old man did not seem to mind at all. In fact he seemed positively to bask in Jonah’s admiration.

  “Indeed I did, Jonah,” he said, smiling. “Good thing I could swim, eh? If Mr Pa had not taught me as a child, then Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart would never have composed all his glorious music, and the rest of my story – the rest of my life – could never have happened as it did.

  “So,” he went on, “I found myself, a foundling boy, a mere apprentice, suddenly dressed not as a stable boy, but in fine clothes and buckled shoes, living in a grand manner, and treated royally. Every day I continued to enjoy my new-found glory. I was the hero not merely of the hour, but of all the days that followed. I became, for servant and master alike, an honoured guest, one of the Mozart family, best and trusted friend of the little boy whom everyone called ‘Das Wunderkind’, the wonder child; and, of course, I continued to be his page-turner too. I did wonder sometimes what Mr Pa and Mrs Ma would think if they could see me now, and my mother too, who remained in my mind, in my dreams, still the woman on the chestnut stall in Chiswick.

  “During these heavenly days, the Wunderkind and his sister would give concerts every evening, and I would be there beside them at the harpsichord. They insisted I took my bows too when the applause came, loud and long, as it always did. Wolferl taught me to bow low and gracefully. We would practise often out in
the fields, bowing to the cows, accompanied by his usual rude noises of course. One special concert they dedicated to me, to thank me. My master invited guests from miles around. Wolferl wrote a song for Nannerl and me to sing together, having rehearsed us in our part. Nannerl then sang alone, from the Messiah: ‘Every valley shall be exalted’. They knew this was one of my favourite arias. Can you imagine, Jonah, how happy I was that evening? Seventh heaven? No, seven hundredth heaven!

  “But the time came – and of course I knew it was coming and was dreading it – for the Mozart family to leave for London, where Wolferl and Nannerl would be performing their grand concerts. Preparations for their departure were in hand, their trunks packed. I hated to contemplate their going and tried not to dwell on it, but as the day of their departure came ever closer, I could think of little else.

  “On the morning they were to leave, I was there in the great hall, with everyone else from the household, waiting to bid them farewell, unsure I could hold back the tears welling inside me. So that I should not betray my emotions, I turned away to look out through the open doors and the pillars of the portico, where the carriage stood ready outside, Fiery Frederick pawing the ground, Mr Wickens standing at his head, waiting. In the hall the family were already taking their leave. Many of the household were in tears, but little Wolferl, to my great consternation, and Nannerl too, seemed quite happy to be going.

  “Sir John then made a speech on behalf of us all, wishing them safe and well on their journey, and thanking them for honouring the house by their stay. Herr Mozart, his wife at his side, replied in German, rather stiffly, formally; but Frau Mozart, who seemed to think he had not said enough, spoke a few words in broken English. ‘We shall not forget this place, nor your kindness, nor the river!’ There was much laughter at that, of course. Then they came walking past the household towards the door, saying their farewells. I was the last in line. But they seemed hardly to notice I was there. Indeed they passed me by without so much as a glance. Never in all my life had I felt more heartbroken.

  “But just as they were leaving, little Wolferl turned. He was smiling at me, and his family were too. Then everyone burst out laughing – the Mozarts, the whole household, my master. I did not understand. It was a joke of some kind, a conspiracy, that much was obvious. But what it was I had no idea.

  “Then my master, Sir John, hushed everyone, and spoke up. ‘Master Hogarth,’ he said, ‘you should know that two days ago Wolferl and Nannerl came to Herr and Frau Mozart and myself, and said that on no account would they play their concerts in London unless their dear friend Nat could be with them at their side. They told us that they considered him to be their brother now and best of friends, and that they would not leave this house without him. After what you have done, Herr and Frau Mozart and I were at once in agreement. So, Master Hogarth, it seems you are to go with them, be with them at their concerts – and, above all, continue to keep young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart safe. Only when they finish their tour in this country in a year or so will you return here to continue your apprenticeship at Bourne Park.’

  “Even as he was speaking, much to the joy and merriment of all who were there, Wolferl ran up to me and dragged me off through the great front door. I could scarce believe what had been said, what it really meant, nor what was happening to me. In a daze of bewilderment I found myself sitting with the family in the carriage, Wolferl on my lap, and being driven away down the drive through the parkland by Mr Wickens, with Fiery Frederick snorting and farting all the way – the beginning of a veritable symphony of vulgar sounds that accompanied us much of the journey to London, to Wolferl’s great and giggling delight, and to Herr and Frau Mozart’s considerable embarrassment.

  “My stay with the Mozart family in London was to last for over a year. I could not count the number of concerts we played. Everywhere little Wolferl performed, the people came in their hundreds to listen, to wonder at this wonder child. He loved to perform, loved the playing, the fame and the adulation – he would bow again and again, laughing and giggling all the time, in sheer delight of the moment, at the pleasure he had given. But also, I always felt, he was laughing at himself, because even then at that tender age, he knew fame for what it is. He never let it touch him. As soon as the concert and the applause and the adulation were all over, he was himself again, a little boy, a friend, a son, a brother. ‘Fame is like a fart, Nat,’ he told me once. ‘Over quickly and a bit smelly.’”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mr King and Mrs Queen

  AT THAT THE OLD MAN slapped his leg and began heaving with laughter, and then Jonah was too – he could not stop himself. It was a while before the old man had recovered sufficiently to continue his story.

  “Ah, that boy,” he said, shaking his head. “How he made us laugh. How wise he was, how vulgar, and what heavenly music he played, what sublime music he wrote. Through it all, throughout the whole tour, I was there with little Wolferl and Nannerl, sitting beside them, turning the pages of the music they played.

  “Wolfgang was composing more and more now, every day scribbling frantically on his score, his little fingers drumming, singing the notes as he wrote with scarcely pause for thought. The strain of all this – of practising, of playing concert after concert, and of being on almost constant display – was hard for a child to endure. His health suffered, with endless coughs and fevers, and he would have to spend long days in bed recovering. I would sit with him as he composed even in bed, bring paper and pen and ink to him, listen to him humming his compositions, and Nannerl and I would sing softly to him sometimes when he was sleepy.

  “Whenever he was well enough we would take the air and go walking, all of us together, through the parks of London, along the banks of the River Thames, into the great cathedrals of Westminster and St Paul’s. It was during one of these walks that Wolferl said he would like to see the Foundling Hospital that by now I had told him so much about. So it was that one early morning I found myself standing outside the school, memories of the place echoing in my mind. The foundling children were filing silently out of the chapel. When I looked at little Wolferl I saw he was crying, his head on Nannerl’s shoulder. His heart was so filled with pity he could scarcely bear to look at them.

  “‘I wish to go in,’ he declared suddenly – these days he was more and more confident speaking in English. ‘I wish to go to the Kirche. Komm.’

  “Once inside, he clutched my hand tightly as we walked down the aisle. ‘Keine Mutter, keinen Vater. So traurig. Sad. Sad.’ He looked up then and saw the organ pipes.

  “‘This is where Handel played,’ I told him, ‘where he conducted his Messiah, where I sang when I was little.’ Nannerl translated for me, but we could see Wolferl had his mind elsewhere. He left us where we were and climbed the stairs up to the organ. We followed him, and Nannerl helped him up onto the seat.

  “It was the most beautiful sound I ever heard. He was playing ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth’.

  “‘Handel? Ja? Ist gut?’ he cried. ‘Do I play well?’ He knew it by heart, note for note.

  “As we walked away afterwards out of the chapel, he began speaking to me in great earnest. ‘So, every child in this school wants a mother and a father. Richtig? Is this right?’

  “‘Yes,’ I told him.

  “‘Und du auch?’ he asked.

  “Not understanding, I turned to Nannerl for help. She was always my go-between when I did not understand.

  “‘And this is what you wish also?’ she said.

  “‘Yes,’ I told her. ‘More than anything. But it is not possible. Mr Hogarth told me so. Foundlings may not know the name of either our mother or father, or our foster parents. It is forbidden.’ As Nannerl translated for Wolferl all I had said, I was plunged into a great sadness. Here at the front door of the Foundling Hospital my mother had handed me over as a babe, leaving only a token behind. There on the steps I had stood and watched Mrs Ma walk away and leave me.

  “As we left the school in silence,
Nannerl’s hand crept into mine and she squeezed it tight. Wolferl walked on ahead, all the way home to Chelsea, hands behind his back, deep in thought.

  “For days on end after this visit it rained cats and dogs, and we were kept indoors. Wolferl would, for hour after hour, sit at the harpsichord intent on his composing. When he was doing this we all knew to be silent, not to intrude. He composed feverishly, in a frenzy of excitement, humming, singing, whistling, until it was done.

  “One evening he came rushing up to me, waving his score at me. He thrust the pages into my hand. ‘Für dich, mein lieber Freund,’ he said, kissing me on both cheeks. ‘Meine erste Symphonie. My first symphony. I will write more, when I am older. But this is for you. Look! Dein Name. It has your name on the music. Look! Look!’

  “I could just read his scratchy writing. Symphonie Nummer Ein. I could not see my name.

  “Nannerl helped me to understand. ‘It means Number One Symphony, Symphony Number One. Wolferl wants to say by this that you are number one to him, to all the family. You are not foundling number 762, but the brother I love, we all love, who saved my Wolferl’s life. You are our number one friend.’

  “‘I shall play this for you, ja?’ Wolferl cried, and with that he ran back to the harpsichord, sat down and played his first symphony. “Besser mit einem Orchester,” he said, as he played. ‘Better with an orchestra. You will see, mein Freund. Ich werde hundert Symphonien schreiben. I shall write concertos, operas, dances, marches. You will see! But this is die erste Symphonie, für dich, for you.’