Authors: Michael Morpurgo
Out of the Ashes
This book is dedicated to all those farmers and farming communities who suffered during the foot-and-mouth outbreak of 2001.
This story is not a story at all. It all happened. I know it did because I was there. I lived it. I saw it with my own eyes. It was a time of my life I can never
forget.
I wrote it just as a private diary. Dad gave me a lovely leather-bound diary for my thirteenth birthday last year. It’s peacock blue with a brass clip. I’m one of those few
unlucky people whose birthday falls on Christmas Day, so whilst I might not get as many presents as my friends, mine are usually very special. And this was my most special present of all last year,
mostly because Dad had had my name, Becky Morley, printed in gold on the front, and underneath, ‘My diary 2001’. And best of all, he’d done a drawing on the first page of Ruby
– Ruby’s my horse. She’s bay, with a dark mane and tail, part Connemara, part thoroughbred. I used to think she was the most important thing in the world to me. Below the drawing
Dad had written ‘Ruby, the only one who’s allowed to read this – except Becky. Love Dad’. It was a wonderful drawing too – Ruby at full gallop. It’s always
amazed me how well Dad can draw. He’s got great big farmer’s hands, like spades, and yet he draws a lot better than me, better than anyone I know.
From January 1st 2001 onwards, I wrote something in my diary about once a week, sometimes more. I could write as little or as much as I wanted, because the pages weren’t dated, no
saints’ days, no holidays, just empty pages. So I could do drawings too, when I felt like it. My diary year, like everyone else’s, began on January 1st, but it ended on April 30th,
because the story was over. There just didn’t seem any point in writing any more.
Some time afterwards, I showed it to Mum. After all we’d been through together I wanted her to read it. Once she’d finished she gave me a long hug, and we cried our last tears. At
that moment I felt we had both drawn a line under the whole thing and made an end of it.
It was her idea, not mine, that my diary should be published. She was very determined about it, fierce almost. ‘People should know, Becky’ she said. ‘I want people to know
how it was. I certainly don’t want their pity, but I do want them to understand.’
So here’s my diary, then, with some of my drawings too. Not a word has been changed. The spelling has been corrected, and the punctuation. Otherwise it’s just as I wrote
it.
Ruby, the only one who’s allowed to read this – except Becky. Love, Dad.
Dad was a bit bleary-eyed this morning. After last night I’m not surprised. We were up at the Duke of York seeing the New Year in, along with most of the village –
Jay, Uncle Mark, Auntie Liz, everyone – the place was packed.
But New Year 2001 for us didn’t begin in the pub. I stood with Mum in the dark of the church and watched Dad and the others ringing in the New Year. He’s a lot bigger than all the
other bell ringers, and he rings the bell with the deepest dong. It suits him.
Afterwards, in the cold night air we all tramped through the graveyard to join the party at the Duke. An owl hooted from up in the church tower, and Dad called out: ‘And a Happy New Year
to you too!’
Dad was laughing a lot like he always does, and drinking too, but no more than anyone else. Mum kept telling him that he’d had enough and that he’d only have a thick head in the
morning. I hate it when she nags him like that, especially in front of other people. But Dad didn’t seem to mind at all. I think he was too happy to care. He was singing his heart out. He
sang ‘Danny Boy’ and everybody cheered him. He loves to sing when he’s happy. Everyone was happy last night, including me. Jay and me went outside when the pub got too stuffy and
smoky and we lay on the village green looking up at the stars. It was cold, but we didn’t mind. The owl kept hooting at us from the graveyard. Jay said she saw a shooting star, but she was
just making it up. She’s always making things up, particularly what she calls her ‘experiences’ about boys, and sometimes that makes me annoyed because I think she’s trying
to put me down. But last night she was just having fun. I feel she is more like my sister than my best friend. I know her so well, too well probably.
Jay was beside me later on when we all linked arms and sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ (I can never remember the words) before we went back home in the pick-up, Bobs in the back, barking his
head off at the moon. He always barks and howls on moonlit nights – ‘like a ruddy werewolf,’ Dad says.
When we got back I went to see Ruby in her stable to wish her a Happy New Year. I gave her lots of sugar lumps and a kiss on her nose. Then I did the same to Bobs so he didn’t feel left
out – not sugar lumps, just a kiss. When I got up to bed Dad was already snoring, as loud as a chainsaw.
This afternoon I took Ruby for a ride. Bobs came along. Bobs always comes along. Up through Bluebell Wood and down to the river. Two herons lifted off as we cantered across the water meadows.
Love herons. The river was low enough, so I rode Ruby across into Mr Bailey’s wood the other side. Bobs had to swim, paddling like crazy, head up and looking very pleased with himself.
We’ve got this brilliant arrangement with Mr Bailey. He lets me ride in his woods and in return I let him have horse manure for his vegetable garden. Unlike us, he keeps the tracks through
his woods clear; so, as long as I look out for badger holes, I can let Ruby have her head. She galloped on well today, puffing and snorting like she does when she’s really enjoying
herself.
As I came out of the wood I saw Mr Bailey feeding his sheep. He waved at me and called out, wishing me a Happy New Year, which surprised me because he can be a bit grumpy. (He wasn’t in
the pub last night. He’s a Methodist. He doesn’t like pubs.) Normally we only wave at each other at a distance. So I rode over to say hello, just to be friendly. He told me he’d
be lambing down his ewes in a week or so (he calls them ‘yors’). ‘Don’t want any snow,’ he said. ‘Worst thing you can have at lambing time is snow.’
Then he asked me if I’d made any New Year’s resolutions, and I said I hadn’t. ‘You should, Becky,’ he told me. ‘I always do. I don’t always keep them,
mind. But I try. And trying’s what counts.’ So I thought about it on the way back home, and I made two New Year’s resolutions. First: to write in my diary like I’m doing now
every single day. Second: to be nicer to Mum, if she’ll be nicer to me.
Both my New Year’s resolutions have been broken. It’s ten days since I wrote a word in my diary, and Mum and I still aren’t getting on at all. Now come my
excuses. I didn’t write in my diary partly because I couldn’t think of anything much to write about, and partly because Mum kept on pestering me to do it. She kept saying it would be
good practice for my English (that’s her trouble, she can’t stop being a teacher) and that Dad would be disappointed if I didn’t write in it every day. She pesters me about
everything, not just about my diary.
Here’s a list of my terrible crimes:
1. I haven’t written my thank you letters for my Christmas/birthday presents. I’m doing it.
2. I left Ruby’s gate unlatched and she got out. Once. By accident.
3. I still haven’t tidied my room. So?
4. I take long showers and use up too much water. I like showers.
5. I forgot to take my wellies off – once – when I came in off the farm. I was in a hurry to go to the loo.
6. I should spend less time with Ruby and more time on my homework – if I want ‘to get on in life’.
What she doesn’t understand is how much I love Ruby. Dad understands. He’s the same about his cows and his pigs and the sheep. He loves them to bits. He’s got twenty-five
Gloucester cows and he knows them all by name – so do I. He names them all after flowers: Marigold, Tulip, Rose, Celandine. The boss cow is called Primrose. Primrose is always the first into
the milking parlour, the first through every gate. She’s got dreamy eyes and great curved horns. Dad loves her a lot – he’s always slipping her sneaky peppermints.
In his dairy Dad makes the best cheese in the entire world – that’s what he says and he’s right. Double Gloucester, and it’s the only Double Gloucester cheese made from
Gloucester cows in the whole country. He’s very proud of his cheese, very proud of his cows, and so am I. He’s always in his dairy checking on his cheeses in the cheese store.
Don’t know why. Sometimes I think he just likes being with them.
But it’s Hector Dad loves best, our old Gloucester bull. He was born on the farm twelve years ago, and he’s so gentle you can lead him around with your little finger. Dad used to put
me on his back when I was little – I’ve got a photo of it in my album.
Then we’ve got pigs – all ‘J’s, Jessica, Jemima and Jezebel. Black and white Gloucester Old Spots. There’s three families at the moment, all different sizes of
piglets and all very cute – except when they get into the garden and start digging up the lawn with their snouts. Just a couple of days ago Mum saw them out of the window at breakfast and
went chasing after them with a broom. She was in her dressing gown and wellies. Dad nearly killed himself laughing and so did I.
