Free Out of the Ashes by Michael Morpurgo

 
An introduction I want you to read
    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.

 
Monday, January 1st
    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