Mr. Pip

1

When I was young,

my mother wove me a sleeping mat.

She said that if I got lost

in a bad dream,

all I needed to do was roll over

and feel the very seam.

That seam was the current

that would carry me home.

But what if home was a bad dream?

Our teachers told us that the place

we lived was called Bougainville,

part of a small group

of South Pacific islands

owned by Papua New Guinea.

But according to my mother, our island

was a woman and we lived in her heart.

She said no-one could own that.

But Papua New Guinea said our heart

I'm a mining company.

My dad used to work at the mine,

but when all the trouble stated,

he left to find work in Australia.

Mum and Dad argued a lot about that.

We were going to join him later

Mum said we'd go on the next boat.

That's what she said after every boat.

Higher. It's high as I can get it.

...supplies are running low.

News of war came to

our little village in bits and rumours.

We heard that some of our people

declared war on the mine

and shut it down.

We heard that Papua New Guinea

was sending in the army.

We heard they were going to

seal off our island

so no-one would be able

to get in or out.

First, they closed the mine.

They cut off our supplies

and closed down the schools.

All the whites left.

All except Pop-Eye, that is.

Mum said he stayed

because Ms wife Grace

would never leave the island again.

Pop-Eye! Pop-Eye!

Pop-Eye! Pop-Eye!

Argh!

We thought Pop-Eye's tribe

had forgotten him.

Or that maybe he was being punished

for an old crime.

Whatever his reason,

it was easy to see that Grace was mad.

Pop-Eye was more of a mystery.

Pop-Eye! Pop-Eye!

Mind your own business.

The PNG government

mean to starve us out,

but Abraham said,

'God will provide the lamb.'

Amen!

We still have what we always had.

We have our fish...

Amen!

...our pigs, our chicken, our fruits,

and we have our faith.

Amen!

#All good gifts around us

are sent from Heaven above

I' Then thank the Lord

# I thank the Lord

For all His love. I

Mum.

Mm?

Me like ask him you something.

We speak English in this house.

Do you miss Dad?

Why do you ask that, girl'?

There's not going to be another boat,

is there?

...

Does it make a difference?

Sometimes I miss him.

Sometimes when you look along the beach,

there is your father, Matilda.

He's walking towards me.

And me'!?

And you, yes.

Your father is walking towards us both.

Get up.

Come on, lazybones! You've got school.

What are you talking about?

School's been closed for months.

We haven't got a teacher.

You do now.

He's coming! Sit down, sit down!

Thank you for coming.

I wasn't sure you would.

Wasn't sure I would.

Look, I'll be honest.

I... I have no wisdom.

I'm not a teacher,

but I will try my best.

That is my promise to you children. Yes?

Yes, Mr Watts.

Yes, Mr Watts,

Yes, Pop-Eye!

Oh, I know that some of you

call me 'Pop-Eye',

and... that's fine.

I actually quite like Pop-Eye.

Yes, Mr Pop-Eye.

I want this to be a place of light,

no matter what happens.

So, the first thing we must do

is clear this space for learning.

I have been saving some batteries

for a special occasion.

So lets open all the windows

and clean all the rubbish off the desks.

'My father's family name being Pirrip,

and my Christian name Philip...

...my infant tongue could make

of both names

nothing longer or more explicit

than Pip.

So, I called myself Pip,

and came to be called Pip.'

Yes. Well, I welcome questions.

And if you do have a question,

perhaps you'd be kind enough

to tell me your name.

Daniel, sir.

It's nice to meet you, Daniel.

Should we call you Pop-Eye,

or Mr Watts, or Mr Pip'?

Those words were not mine, Daniel.

They belong to Mr Dickens-

words that I think can make

a difference in our lives.

And tomorrow,

I will introduce you to Mr Dickens.

That's a white man's name,

No, Matilda. You heard wrong.

Pop-Eye is the last white man

around here.

There's no others.

But Mr Watts says there is.

Hey, Leola!

Mr Watts! Mr Watts! Mr Watts!

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's your name?

Mabel, Mr. Watts.

Very pleased to meet you, Mabel.

My mother was thinking Mr Dickens

might have some malaria tablets.

My dad wants some kerosene.

What about some beer?

Where is Mr Dickens?

He's right here.

The line you heard yesterday

was the first line of Great Expectations

by the greatest English writer

of the 19th century,

Charles Dickens.

Now, when you read the work

of a great writer,

you are making

their person's acquaintance,

so you could say

that you've already met Charles Dickens

on the page, so to speak.

Although you won't know him for a while.

When will we know mm

Well, I hope some of you will know him

by the lime we finish the book.

The book is 59 chapters long,

we'll read a chapter a day...

6th February, 1990.

I'm sorry?

We'll know Mr Dickens

on the 6th of February next year.

Alright, well,

I'll take your word for it, uh...

My name is Matilda.

Matilda. That's a lovely name.

Where did you get such a pretty name?

The Australians at the mine gave ii

to Dad to give Mum to give me.

In a way, you could say that Mr Dickens

got Pip's name from his father too.

Who knows what else

you might have in common?

Right. Who wants to meet Mr Dickens?

Me!

'I give Pirrip as

my father's family name

on the authority of his tombstone

and my sister,

Mrs Joe Gargery,

who married the blacksmith.

As I never saw my father or my mother,

and never saw any likeness

of either of them,

for their days were long before

the days of photographs,

my first fancies regarding

what they were like

were unreasonably derived

from their tombstones.

The shape of the letters

on my fathers

gave me an odd idea that he was

a square, stout, dark man,

with curly black hair.

From the character and turn

of the inscription,

"Also Georgiana Wife of the Above,"

I drew a childish conclusion that

my mother was freckled and sickly.'

'To five little stone lozenges,

each about afoot and a half long,

which were arranged in a neat row

beside their grave,

and were sacred to the memory

of five little brothers of mine,

who gave up trying to get a living

exceedingly early in

that universal struggle.

I am indebted for a belief

I religiously entertained

that they had all been born

on their backs

with their hands

in their trousers pockets,

and had never taken them out

in this state of existence.

At such a time I found out for certain

that this bleak place,

overgrown with nettles,

was the churchyard.'

Who are you?

What are you doing here?

I came to see my brothers,

I'm sorry.

I never really knew them.

I actually used to think

they'd been born like that,

on their backs with their hands

in their trouser pockets.

Just never taken them out.

I prefer to think of them that way.

You there!

Get down.

Stay there.

Wait.

Come here!

No, don't... Stop!

Hold your noise.

Keep still, or I'll cut your throat.

Don't cut my throat, sir.

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