Did connie recognize micheal morpurgo ?
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The best Christmas present in the world
A short story by the children's laureate, Michael Morpurgo
Michael Morpurgo
Mon 22 Dec 2003 21.48 EST
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I spotted it in a junk shop in Bridport, a roll-top desk. The man said it was early 19th century, and oak. I had always wanted one, but they were always far too expensive. This one was in bad condition, the roll-top in several pieces, one leg clumsily mended, scorch marks all down one side. It was going for very little money, and I reckoned I was just about capable enough to have a go at restoring it. It would be a risk, a challenge, but I had to have it. I paid the man and brought it back to my workroom at the back of the garage. I began work on it on Christmas Eve, mostly because the house was resonating with overexcited relatives and I wanted some peace and quiet.
I removed the roll-top completely and pulled out the drawers. Each one confirmed that this would be a bigger job than I had first thought. The veneer had lifted almost everywhere - it looked like water damage to me. Both fire and water had clearly taken their toll on this desk. The last draw was stuck fast. I tried all I could to ease it out gently. In the end I used brute force. I struck it sharply with the side of my fist and the drawer flew open to reveal a shallow space underneath, a secret drawer. There was something in there. I reached in and took out a small black tin box. Sellotaped to the top of it was a piece of lined notepaper, and written on it in shaky handwriting: "Jim's last letter, received January 25 1915. To be buried with me when the time comes." I knew as I did it that it was wrong of me to open the box, but curiosity got the better of my scruples. It usually does.
Inside the box there was an envelope. The address read: "Mrs Jim Macpherson, 12 Copper Beeches, Bridport, Dorset." I took out the letter and unfolded it. It was written in pencil and dated at the top December 26 1914.
Dearest Connie,
I write to you in a much happier frame of mind because something wonderful has just happened that I must tell you about at once. We were all standing to in our trenches yesterday morning, Christmas morning. It was crisp and quiet all about, as beautiful a morning as I've ever seen, as cold and frosty as a Christmas morning should be.
I should like to be able to tell you that we began it. But the truth, I'm ashamed to say, is that Fritz began it. First someone saw a white flag waving from the trenches opposite. Then they were calling out to us from across no man's land, "Happy Christmas Tommy! Happy Christmas!" When we had got over the surprise some of us shouted back. "Same to you Fritz! Same to you!" I thought that would be that. We all did. But then suddenly one of them was up there in his grey greatcoat and waving a white flag. "Don't shoot, lads!" someone shouted. And no one did. Then there was another Fritz up on the parapet, and another. "Keep your heads down," I told the men. "It's a trick." But it wasn't.
One of the Germans was waving a bottle above his head. "It is Christmas Day, Tommy. We have schnapps. We have sausage. We meet you? Yes?" By this time there were dozens of them walking towards us across no man's land and not a rifle between them. Little Private Morris was the first up. "Come on, boys. What are we waiting for?" And then there was no stopping them. I was the officer. I should have stopped them there and then, I suppose, but the truth is that it never even occurred to me I should. All along their line and ours I could see men walking slowly towards one another, grey coats, khaki coats meeting in the middle. And I was one of them. I was part of this. In the middle of the war we were making peace.
You cannot imagine, dearest Connie, my feelings as I looked into the eyes of the Fritz officer, who approached me, hand outstretched. "Hans Wolf," he said, gripping my hand warmly and holding it. "I am from Düsseldorf. I play the cello in the orchestra. Happy Christmas."