‘You’re from London, ent you?’ she said.
He stood up and removed his hands from his pockets. ‘Yes, miss.’
‘You’re a regular wild bunch, so I’ve heard,’ and she smiled.
The young man was in uniform. He stood with his arm around her shoulder.
‘How old are you, then?’ she asked.
‘Eight, miss.’
‘Polite little lad, ent you? What’s your name?’
‘William Beech, miss.’
‘You can stop calling me miss. I’m Mrs, Mrs Hartridge.’ The young man beamed. ‘I’ll see you on Monday at school. I expect you’ll be in my class. Goodbye, William.’
‘Bye, miss, Mrs,’ he whispered.
He watched them walk away. When they were out of sight he sat back down on Elizabeth Thatcher, tugged at a handful of grass and pulled it from the earth. He’d forgotten all about school. He thought of Mr Barrett, his form master in London. He spent all day yelling and shouting at everyone and rapping knuckles. He dreaded school normally. Mrs Hartridge didn’t seem like him at all. He gave a sigh of relief and rubbed his chest. That was one ordeal he didn’t think would be too terrifying to face. He glanced at the oak tree. It seemed a sheltered, secluded sort of place. He’d go and sit beneath its branches.
As he walked towards it he tripped over a hard object. It was a tiny gravestone hidden by a clump of grass. He knelt down and pushed the grass to one side to look at it. He pulled away at it, plucking it out in great handfuls from the soil. He wanted to make it so that people could see the stone again. It looked forgotten and lost. It wasn’t fair that it should be hidden. He became quite absorbed in this task until he heard a scrabbling noise. He turned. Sniffing and scratching among the leaves at the foot of the tree was a squirrel. He recognized its shape from pictures he had seen but he wasn’t prepared for one that moved. He was terrified and remained frozen in a crouched position. The squirrel seemed quite unperturbed and carried on scuffling about in the leaves, picking up nuts and tit-bits in its tiny paws. Willie stayed motionless, hardly breathing. He felt like the stone angel. The squirrel’s black eyes darted in a lively manner from place to place. It was tiny, light grey in colour with a bushy tail that stuck wildly in the air as it poked its paws and head into the russet and gold leaves.
After a while Willie’s shoulders relaxed and the gripping sensation in his stomach subsided a little. He wriggled his toes gingerly inside his plimsolls. It seemed as though he had been crouching for hours although it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes.
The little grey fellow didn’t seem to scare him as much, and he began to enjoy watching him. A loud sharp barking suddenly disturbed the silence. The squirrel leapt and disappeared. Willie sprang to his feet, hopping on one leg and gasping at the mixture of numbness and pins and needles in the other. A small black-and-white collie ran around the tree and into the leaves. It stopped in front of him and jumped up into the air. Willie was more petrified of the dog than he had been of the squirrel.
‘Them poisonous dogs,’ he heard his mother’s voice saying inside him. ‘One bite from them muts and you’re dead. They got ’orrible diseases in ’em.’ He remembered the tiny children’s graves and quickly picked up a thick branch from the ground.
‘You go away,’ he said, feebly, gripping it firmly in his hand. ‘You go away.’
The dog sprang into the air again and barked and yapped at him, tossing leaves by his legs. Willie let out a shriek and drew back. The dog came nearer.
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said a deep voice behind him. He turned to find Tom standing by the outer branches. ‘He ent goin’ to do you no ’arm, so I should jest drop that if I was you.’
Willie froze with the branch still held high in his hand. Sweat broke out from under his armpits and across his forehead. Now he was for it. He was bound to get a beating now. Tom came towards him, took the branch firmly from his hand and lifted it up. Willie automatically flung his arm across his face and gave a cry but the blow he was expecting never came. Tom had merely thrown the branch to the other end of the graveyard and the dog had gone scampering after it.
‘You can take yer arm down now, boy,’ he said quietly. ‘I think you and I ’ad better go inside and sort a few things out. Come on,’ and with that he stepped aside for Willie to go in front of him along the path.
Willie walked shakily towards the cottage, his head lowered. Through blurred eyes he saw the tufts of grass spilling up between the small flat stones. The sweat trickled down the sides of his face and chest. His armpits stung savagely and a sharp pain stabbed at his stomach. He walked through the front door and stood in the hallway, feeling the perspiration turn cold and clammy. Tom walked into the front room and stood waiting for him to enter.
‘Don’t dither out there,’ he said, ‘come on in.’
Willie did so but his body felt as if it no longer belonged to him. It seemed to move of its own accord. Tom’s voice grew more distant. It reverberated as if it was being thrown back at him from the walls of a cave. He sat down on the stool feeling numb.
Tom picked up a poker and walked across to the fire. Now he was going to get it, he thought, and he clutched tightly onto the seat of the stool. Tom looked down at him.
‘About Sammy,’ he heard him say. He watched him poke the fire and then he didn’t hear any more. He knew that Tom was speaking to him but he couldn’t take his eyes off the poker. It sent the hot coke tumbling in all directions. He saw Tom’s brown wrinkled hand lift it out of the fire. The tip was red, almost white in places. He was certain that he was going to be branded with it. The room seemed to swim and he heard both his and Tom’s voice echoing. He watched the tip of the poker spin and come closer to him and then the floor came towards him and it went dark. He felt two large hands grip him from behind and push his head in between his knees until the carpet came into focus and he heard himself gasping.
Tom opened the front window and lifted him out through it.
‘Breathe in deep,’ Willie heard him say. ‘Take in a good sniff.’
He took in a gulp of air. ‘I’ll be sick,’ he mumbled.
‘That’s right, go on, I’m ’olding you. Take in a good sniff. Let yer throat open.’
Willie drank in some more air. A wave of nausea swept through him and he vomited.
‘Go on,’ he heard Tom say, ‘breathe in some more,’ and he was sick again and again until there was no more left inside him and he hung limply in Tom’s arms.
Tom wiped his mouth and face with the scarf. The pain in Willie’s stomach had gone but he felt drained like a rag doll. Tom lifted him back into the cottage and placed him in his armchair. His small body sank comfortably into the old soft expanse of chair. His feet barely reached the edge of the seat. Tom tucked a blanket round him, drew up a chair by the fire and watched Willie fall asleep.
The tales he had heard about evacuees didn’t seem to fit Willie. ‘Ungrateful’ and ‘wild’ were the adjectives he had heard used or just plain ‘homesick’. He was quite unprepared for this timid, sickly little specimen. He looked at the poker leaning against the range.
‘’E never thought… No… Surely not!’ he murmured. ‘Oh, Thomas Oakley, where ’ave you landed yerself?’ There was a sound of scratching at the front door. ‘More trouble,’ he muttered. He crept quietly out through the hallway and opened the door. Sammy bounded in and jumped around his legs, panting and yelping.
‘Now you jest shut that ole mouth,’ he whispered firmly, ‘there’s someone asleep.’ He knelt down and Sammy leapt into his arms lathering his face with his tongue. ‘I don’t need to ’ave a bath when you’re around, do I?’ Sammy continued to lick him until he was satisfied just to pant and allow his tail to flop from side to side. Tom lifted him up and carried him into the front room. As soon as he saw Willie asleep in the chair he began barking again. Tom put his finger firmly on his nose and looked directly into his eyes.
‘Now you jest ta
ke a rest and stop that.’ He picked up his pipe and baccy jar from the little table and sat by the range again. Sammy flopped down beside him and rested his head on one of Tom’s feet.
‘Well, Sam,’ Tom whispered, ‘I don’t know nothin’ about children, but I do know enuff not to beat ’em and make ’em that scared.’ Sammy looked up at him for a moment and flopped back onto his foot. ‘I don’t know,’ he said anxiously, ‘I ent ’ad much experience at this ’ere motherin’ lark,’ and he grunted and puffed at his pipe. Sammy stood up, wriggled in between Tom’s legs and placed his paws on his stomach.
‘You understand every blimmin’ word I say, don’t you? Least he ent goin’ to bury bones in my sweet peas,’ he remarked, ruffling Sammy’s fur. ‘That’s one thing to be thankful about.’ He sighed. ‘S’pose I’d best see what’s what.’ He rose and went into the hallway with Sammy padding after him. ‘Now you jest stay there,’ he said sternly and Sammy sat obediently on his haunches, though Tom knew it would not be for long. He took some steps that were leaning on the wall beside the coats and placed them under a small square trap-door above him. He climbed up, pushed the trap-door open and pulled down a long wooden ladder which fixed firmly into place on two strong clips along the opening.
The ladder was of thick pine wood. It was a little over forty years old, but since his young wife Rachel had died soon after it was made, it had hardly been used. He moved the steps to allow room for the ladder to reach the hall floor. A thick cloud of dust enveloped his head as he blew on one of the wide wooden rungs. He coughed and sneezed.
‘Like taking snuff,’ he muttered. ‘S’pose we’d best keep that ole ladder down fer a bit, eh, Sammy?’
He climbed down and opened the door opposite the front room. It led into his bedroom. Inside, a small chest of drawers with a mirror stood by the corner of the front window. Leaning up against the back wall was a four-poster bed covered in a thick quilt. At the foot of the bed, on the floor, lay a round basket with an old blanket inside. It was Sammy’s bed, when he used it, which was seldom. A blue threadbare carpet was spread across the floor with bits of matting added by the window and bed.
Beside the bed was a fitted cupboard with several shelves. Tom opened it. On the top two shelves, neatly stacked, were blankets and sheets and on the third, various belongings of Rachel’s that he had decided to keep. He glanced swiftly at them. A black wooden paint-box, brushes, a christening robe she had embroidered, some old photographs, letters and recipes. The christening robe had never been worn by his baby son for he had died soon after his mother.
He picked up some blankets and sheets and carried them into the hall. ‘I’ll be down for you in a minute, Sammy,’ he said as he climbed up the ladder. ‘You jest hang on there a bit,’ and with that Sammy was left to watch his master slowly disappear through the strange new hole in the ceiling.
2
Little Weirwold
Willie gave a short start and opened his eyes. In a chair opposite sat Tom who was drinking tea and looking at a book. Sammy, who had been watching the slight twitching movements that Willie had made in his sleep, now stood at his feet.
Tom looked up. ‘You feelin’ better?’ he asked. ‘You’se lookin’ better.’ He poured him out a mug of hot, sweet tea and handed it to him. ‘’Ere, you git that down you.’
Willie looked apprehensively at his feet which were now being sniffed by Sammy.
‘’E won’t harm you,’ said Tom. ‘’E’s a spry ole thing, but he’s as soft as butter, ent you, ole boy?’ and he knelt down and ruffled his fur. Sammy snuggled up between his knees and licked his face. ‘See,’ said Tom, ‘e’s very friendly.’ Willie tried to smile. ‘You want to learn somethin’ wot’ll make him happy?’ He nodded. ‘Hold one of yer hands out, palm up, like that,’ and he showed the inside of his rough brown hand. Willie copied him. ‘That’s so he knows you ent going to harm him, see. Now, hold it out towards him and tickle his chest.’ Willie leaned nervously forward and touched Sammy’s fur. ‘That’s the idea. You jest keep doin’ that.’
Willie stroked him. His fur felt silky and soft. Sammy gave his fingers a long lick.
‘’E likes you, see. When he licks you that’s his way of sayin’ “I likes you and you makes me happy”.’
Willie held his hand out stiffly while Sammy lathered it with his tongue.
‘Why does he sniff?’ he asked, as Sammy crawled under the blanket to get to his legs.
‘’E likes to know what everythin’ smells like so’s he knows who to say hello to and who not.’
‘Stop it!’ said Willie as Sammy put his nose into his crutch. ‘Naughty dog.’ Immediately Tom dragged him from under the blanket and he began barking and chasing his tail. ‘You’m gettin’ over excited, Sam. ’E needs a good romp in the fields,’ and he looked at Willie, and I reckon you do an’ all, he thought.
Willie pushed the blanket to one side, wormed his way to the end of the armchair and slid onto the floor.
‘Smells like rain,’ said Tom leaning out of the front window. ‘You got gumboots?’
Willie shook his head. ‘No, mister.’
‘Best put yer mackintosh on, anyways.’
The three of them trooped out into the hallway. Willie stared at the ladder.
‘That’s your room up there. Sort of attic.’
‘Mine?’ He didn’t understand. Did Mr Oakley mean he was going to have a room to himself? Tom handed him his mackintosh and nodded. Sammy leapt up excitedly.
‘Hang on a minute, Sam. We’se jest goin’.’
Tom looked at Willie’s mac on the way out and noticed how thin it was.
They walked down the pathway and out of the gate, Sammy leading, Tom striding after him and Willie running to keep up with them. It was late afternoon now. The sun hung in a fiery ball above the trees. A mild breeze shook the leaves and a few dark clouds scudded across the sky. Sammy ran backwards and forwards barking ecstatically.
‘That dog’s half mad,’ Tom said to Willie but found that he was talking to the air for Willie was several yards behind, still trying to keep up, his cheeks flushed with the effort.
‘You’re a quiet ’un. Why didn’t you tell me I was goin’ too fast?’ But Willie could not answer and only gasped incoherently.
Tom slowed down and Willie walked more easily beside him. He stared up at the gruff old man who was so kind to him. It was all very bewildering. He looked down at Tom’s heavy brown ankle boots, his thick navy overcoat and the green corduroy cap with the tufts of white hair sticking out at either side. A small empty haversack dangled over his shoulder.
‘Mister,’ he panted. ‘Mister!’ Tom looked down. ‘Can I carry your bag, mister?’
Tom mumbled something to himself and handed it to him. Willie hung on to it tightly with both hands.
The narrow road sloped gently upwards. Willie could just make out, in all the speed of their walking, the wild hedgerows flashing in low green lines beside him. It felt very unreal, like a muddled dream. When they reached the top of the hill Willie saw a row of small thatched cottages standing on either side of the road ahead. He tugged at Tom’s sleeve.
‘Mister,’ he gasped, ‘they got straw roofs.’
‘That’s thatch,’ said Tom.
‘Wot’s…’ but he bit his lip and kept silent.
Tom glanced down. ‘I got some pictures of them at home. We’ll have a look at them tonight.’
Willie squeezed the bag more tightly.
Across the road a plump, middle-aged woman with greying auburn hair was peering out of a window. She disappeared for an instant and opened her front door.
‘’Ello, Tom,’ she said, looking with curiosity at Willie.
He grunted. ‘Evening, Mrs Fletcher. How are the boys, then?’
‘Boys are doin’ nicely.’
‘William,’ said Tom, ‘go and keep an eye on Sam. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Willie nodded shyly and went after Sammy who was eyeing the flowers in someone’s windo
w box.
‘Skinny ole scrap, ent he?’ said the woman, sticking a loose grip firmly into her bun.
Tom gave another grunt.
‘I didn’t believe it was true when I heard,’ she continued. ‘I ent got room meself but Mrs Butcher got two to contend with. Girls, mind you, but they’re regular tearaways and Mrs Henley, she had three last week and they keep runnin’ away. Homesick, like,’ and she sighed and patted her chest.
‘How’s the knittin’ coming on?’ said Tom, changing the subject.
‘What you on about?’ she said, leaning back and looking at him. ‘Since when have you been interested in my knittin’?’
‘Since now,’ he replied shortly. He pushed his hands into his pockets and scraped one of his boots against a piece of stone. ‘Busy, are you?’ he asked.
‘No more ’n usual.’
‘Could do with a thick jersey. Not fer me mind,’ and he looked at Willie trundling on ahead.
‘You ent gotta clothe ’em, you know. They shoulda brought that with them.’
‘Well, he haven’t,’ said Tom gruffly. ‘Can you knit me a jersey or can you not, that’s what I’m askin’?’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘And,’ he continued, ‘you don’t know where I can get some good stout boots, small-like, and I don’t want no commentary, jest want to know.’
‘I’ll ask around.’
He mumbled his thanks and strode on up the road.
Mrs Fletcher stood quite motionless and stared after him, until she was sure he was out of earshot. ‘Madge,’ she cried, running into the next cottage, ‘Madge, you’ll die when I tell you…’
The road leading through the row of cottages extended into a long stretch of open country with lanes leading off it. A small shop inside the last cottage stood at the corner.
‘Won’t be long,’ said Tom, and he took the haversack from Willie and left him and Sammy sitting on the stone steps. Willie stared in amazement at the fields, his thin woollen socks heaped around his ankles. As Tom came out he became conscious of them again and quickly pulled them up. Sammy sniffed at the food in the bag and Tom tapped him tenderly on the nose and slung it on his back.
Goodnight Mister Tom Page 2