Escape from Shangri-La by Michael Morpurgo Page A

the garden. We raked all that was left of the garden shed into a pile of charred timbers and soggy ashes. She worried on and on about what Mr Goldsmith from next door would say about his fence when he got home from work. And she worried on about Popsicle too.
    We were an hour or so clearing up the worst of it. My wellingtons were covered in mud by this time, so I had to take them off at the back door before I went in. I was padding through the hallway into the kitchen when I felt it. The carpet was sodden under my bare feet. I charged upstairs to find the basin overflowing, and the bathroom awash. I turned off the tap and pulled out the plug.
    Popsicle was in his room, sitting on his bed and staring into space. I sat down beside him.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter, Popsicle,’ I said. ‘It’s just a rotten old garden shed. It was falling down anyway. Dad’s been moaning on about it ever since we moved here. He was going to get a new one. Honestly he was.’ But nothing I could say seemed to bring him any comfort.
    Then he muttered something, something I couldn’t quite hear. ‘Sorry?’ I said, leaning closer.
    â€˜Shangri-La.’ He clutched at my hand as he spoke. ‘Shangri-La, I don’t want to go to Shangri-La.’ I could see in his eyes that he was terrified. He was pleading with me, begging me.
    â€˜What’s Shangri-La?’ There was an echo in my head, an echo of something he’d said before.
    â€˜I don’t know. I don’t know.’ The tears were running down his cheeks, and he didn’t even trouble to wipe them away.
    â€˜If you don’t want to go there,’ I said, ‘then no one’s going to make you, I promise.’ He seemed happier at that.
    â€˜You promise?’ he said. I laid my head on his shoulder, and after a while I felt his arm come round me. That was how my mother found us some time later. She helped Popsicle to wash, and put him to bed.
    We spent the rest of the day mopping up. But there was still water dripping from the lightbulb into a bucket in the hallway when my father came in from work. I explained what had happened, how none of it had been Popsicle’s fault, just bad luck, that’s all. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘now you can have your new garden shed like you wanted.’
    They exchanged knowing glances. I knew then that they were both, in some way, blaming Popsicle for what had happened. My father walked out into the garden to inspect the damage and left the two of us alone. It was then I remembered what Popsicle had said to me earlier.
    â€˜Where’s Shangri-La?’ I asked my mother.
    â€˜Why?’ she said.
    â€˜I just wondered. Read it in a book somewhere.’ I didn’t want to say any more.
    â€˜Well,’ she said, ‘it’s a sort of imaginary paradise, high up in the mountains, the Himalayas, I think. Akind of heaven on earth, you could call it. Just a story of course. Doesn’t exist, not really.’
    But I couldn’t forget the fear in Popsicle’s eyes when he’d spoken of it. Imaginary or not, Shangri-La was real enough to him.
    After the garden-shed fire, I would often find myself alone in the house with Popsicle. My mother was in and out of school getting ready for the new school year; and my father, of course, was as busy as ever down at the radio station, always leaving the house early and getting home late. I was to keep a watchful eye on Popsicle; and above all, they said, I mustn’t let him wander off on his own. As it turned out, he didn’t seem to want to. He seemed to be as content with my company as I was with his. Having Popsicle at home was a boon for me. I was dreading going back to school, because I knew I’d have to face Shirley Watson and the others. Just the thought of them looking at me, laughing at me, made me go cold inside, but Popsicle kept my mind off all that – most of the time anyway.
    We did everything