Books: ‘Every war seems a kind of holocaust .. All we have is stories’

The St Albans-born 75-year-old, who was given a knighthood earlier this year for services to Literature and Charity, is referring to his recovery from cancer of the larynx, which was diagnosed last year and for which he underwent radiotherapy at London’s Royal Marsden. During his convalescence, he has written that, “besides Marie Curie,” he thought of his children, grandchildren and great-grandchild as well as all the young people he taught during his ten years as a teacher before moving with his wife, Clare, and their three children to Devon to set up the charity Farms For City Children.

“Those children were all the hope I needed, lying there in the hospital being healed. It wasn’t only the radiotherapy that did the healing. It was the memories of the children, too.” And, of course, he must have thought of the generations of children who have thrilled to his ability to tell wonderful stories, particularly the heart-breaking War Horse. The magnificent, multiple award-winning stage version of that novel has been seen by more than seven million people worldwide, despite the fact that he thought the theatremakers were mad to think they could tell his 1982 story – which later became a Steven Spielberg movie starring Benedict Cumberbatch – with the aid of puppets. “But it wasn’t ridiculous, it was genius.”

Today, Morpurgo is rosy-cheeked and fizzing with energy, when we meet in a swanky Covent Garden hotel – not his choice or mine – and he tells me he has made a remarkable recovery. “I am a cured man – if anyone is ever cured. The doctors are really pleased with me.” Only days earlier he had a check-up and was told he does not have to see his “fantastic” surgeon again for several months. “A wonderful feeling!”

It’s splendid news since he talks up a storm in conversation and is astonishingly busy. He’s just returned from Ypres, which he visits often, is about to do a mini-tour of the latest iteration of War Horse, The Story in Concert, which comes to Edinburgh on November 18, and he has another new children’s story, Poppy Field, in which he reimagines Lt Col John McCrae’s famous poem, In Flanders Field, through the eyes of a young girl, who meets McCrae as he is writing his poem and rescues his discarded draft.

I ask Morpurgo, who exudes courtly charm, about his health because he narrates – alongside award-winning actress Juliet Stevenson – the War Horse story in concert. They will have the assistance of the Royal Scottish National Orchestra playing composer Adrian Sutton’s specially arranged score, with songs by John Tams, and animations by artist Rae Smith, whose designs for the National Theatre production won an Olivier, a Tony and many other awards.

Anyway, he’s in fine voice. When he did the original concert performances, in 2016, with his friend Joanna Lumley, he recalls having “a funny voice. I thought I was getting a bit croaky but it turned out to be something more serious. But here I am back onstage with Juliet and a 65-piece orchestra. It’s an absolute joy to be able to tell one’s stories in this way. In 2016, we performed at the Albert Hall. And now the Usher Hall! What more could a fellow want!” he exclaims. There is, of course, an added poignancy for him to be telling the deeply affecting story of Devonshire lad, Albert, and his beloved horse, Joey, in Scotland shortly after the centenary of Armistice Day.

“The whole four years have been rather extraordinary because people have taken the centenary to heart in the best possible way,” he says, revealing that he was rather dreading that it would descend into nostalgia. “But I think we have matured quite a bit in how we look at it now. There has been so much in the arts and literature to help people comprehend and think about the Great War. It’s been one of those moments when people have taken stock because of its horrors, its violence and its intensity, and the whole business of the war machine.

“There was, of course, this notion that we would never do this sort of thing again. It was just too terrible. The war to end all wars. But, as we know, this is what we do all the time – the sadness of it. That promise being unfulfilled just 20 years later with greater destruction and then the atomic bomb, leading to the age we are in now with the destruction of civilians and razing of cities. Every war seems a kind of holocaust, and that started with the First World War, but we don’t seem to have learnt, despite all the remembering – although it is not remembering because there is nothing left. None of us can remember anything.”

Pausing to stir his coffee, he says softly: “All we have is stories.”

Recently, he has shared the story of his two uncles in his book In the Mouth of the Wolf: Pieter, who was in the RAF, died aged 21, and Frances became a conscientious objector. It was Morpurgo’s way of remembering them and all the millions of “the mouthless dead.” Storytelling is, he believes, “passing it on from generation to generation. There are generations who have grown up with no sense of impending conflict. We grew up under the ‘umbrella’ of nuclear threat, but we have not known what it means to have one big project as a nation: survival. I think we have taken our peace for granted. We do this blinkered thing.”

Never more so than when it comes to “bloody Brexit,” he sighs.

Morpurgo was convinced that people would vote to remain in the EU. “I thought British people valued peace above all else, and the prosperity most had enjoyed for so long. Yes, there was plenty we did not like about Europe, but we would stay and put it right. I was wrong. I am sure that the country was wrong, deluded by lies and statistics, by absurd promises. We are now travelling down a path that takes us away from our friends and neighbours. We’ve told them we don’t like them, that we wish to divorce them. They are hurt, upset, angry. Why wouldn’t they be?

“Men like my uncles taught me that peace must come first, before prosperity. I am certain that that was in their heads and hearts. They helped make Europe a place of peace at last, of free peoples. That’s the Europe, with all its faults, that I believe we belong to. Brexit is leading us into terrible trouble because people are still locked into the mindset, the idea of Empire. We have this false sense of history. We did win so now let’s do the peace. It is so important for me to go on telling stories about real lives, the suffering, the sense of loss of individuals, such as Private Peaceful. I do think, though, that the way forward is to stop looking back as much as we have been.”

Finally, I ask if he suffers from stage fright now that he’s taken to the boards like his parents, who were both actors?

“I love the companionship of having someone onstage with me,” he replies “When you are with a proper actor, it lifts you. You dare do things you wouldn’t otherwise have done. I lose myself in telling the story. I actually went on in War Horse on Broadway. I had one line! Now, I go on once every six months but they’ve cut my line, although I’m not actually a frustrated actor because I do lots of storytelling – always have especially when I was a teacher.

“The major regret of my life, however, is that I didn’t become an actor. I did a bit at school – King’s School, in Canterbury – and realised you have to be brave to be an actor, although you do get to dress up. I love dressing up! I went into the Army so that I could wear a uniform. But, yes, I am regretful because I could have been Robert Redford. There is no doubt about it. I could have been a contender!” Cue much laughter.

War Horse: The Story in Concert is at the Usher Hall, Edinburgh, Sunday, November 18. The concert version, narrated by Michael Morpurgo and Joanna Lumley, is available on CD and vinyl by BMG. Poppy Field, by Michael Morpurgo (Scholastic, £12.99). The National Theatre production of War Horse is at the SEC, Glasgow, January 15-February 2.