Goodnight Mister Tom

by Michelle Magorian

  Willie scraped the toes of his boots together.

  ‘Bad, was it?’

  Willie nodded.

  ‘Best tell me then.’

  He raised his head. It was difficult to look at Tom without his lips trembling.

  ‘I’m with the babies.’

  ‘Oh, and whose class is Zacharias in then?’

  ‘Mrs Hartridge’s.’

  ‘Why ent you? You’re near enuff the same age, ent you?’

  ‘Yeh, but he can read.’ He paused. ‘And write.’

  ‘And the ones that can’t are with Mrs Black, that it?’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘I see.’

  Tom stood up and looked out at the freshly-weeded graveyard.

  ‘Mrs Black’ll teach you to read. Did you learn anythin’ today?’

  ‘Gas drill,’ he mumbled.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Gas drill,’ he repeated, only louder. ‘We did gas-mask drill.’

  He blew the top of his tea and sipped it.

  ‘There ain’t even enuff pencils.’

  Tom had seen some of the roughnecks that gentle old Mrs Black would have to deal with. Most of her time, he reckoned, would be taken up trying to keep discipline.

  ‘We’ll begin this evenin’,’ he said sharply. ‘That do?’

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘Learnin’ to read and write. I’ll teach you to write yer own name fer a beginnin’.’

  Willie’s eyes stung as the ground moved in a gentle haze beneath him. He beamed. ‘Aw, mister,’ was all he could manage to say.

  Tom was surprised to find a lump in his own throat.

  ‘Go and have a run with Sammy,’ he growled huskily. ‘I’ll get supper.’

  Sammy, who had sensed Willie’s misery and had until now remained motionless, began to bark and run after his tail.

  ‘Go on with you, boy,’ said Tom.

  Willie rose and clattered down the hallway. He ran through the gate, down the lane and across to the dirt track faster and faster, leaping and jumping. He wanted to yell for joy but when he tried he couldn’t get any sound out. He felt annoyed at first but then he realized that he was running far better than he had been the previous day and that he wasn’t even trying. It takes time and practice, that’s what Mister Tom had said.

  After supper had been cleared Tom put a piece of paper and a pencil in front of him. On the paper were several straight lines and in between each pair was a series of dots.

  ‘Now, William,’ said Tom. ‘You jest join up the dots from the top downwards and when you done that, yous’ll have written yer name. Now jest takes yer own time.’

  Willie held the pencil nervously and then pressed it hard onto the paper. The lead snapped. Tom sharpened it again.

  ‘Easy now,’ he said, handing him back the pencil. ‘You got plenty of time.’

  Willie stared frantically at the paper.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’

  Tom looked sharply at him. Willie was frightened. His face had turned quite pale and beads of perspiration had broken out across his forehead.

  ‘I won’t beat you, if that’s what’s bothering you. Come on, let’s have a go,’ he added reassuringly. ‘I’ll sit beside you and tell you how yer doin’.’

  Willie placed the lead on to the paper and slowly followed the dots down and up, down and up, making the letter W.

  He sat back and looked at it.

  ‘It’s bad, ain’t it? Ain’t it, Mister Tom?’

  Tom peered at it. He was surprised.

  ‘No,’ he said with honesty. ‘No, it ent,’ and Willie knew by the certainty in his voice that he was telling the truth.

  ‘Ain’t it?’ he queried.

  ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘It certainly ent. You carry on. You’se doin’ fine.’

  Willie returned to the dots and apart from the occasional wobble he wrote ‘William’ in a remarkably smooth hand.

  ‘That’s good,’ said Tom.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Do it again.’

  Willie carried on following the dots between the lines and then stopped.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ he said. ‘I can look at my name and draw it. Is writin’ like drawin’?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Show me what you mean.’

  Willie found a clean unlined space, looked at what he’d done, drew two straight lines and wrote William in between them.

  ‘Those lines are almost straight,’ gasped Tom. ‘Where you learn to do that?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Willie. ‘I jest looked at ’em and done it.’

  Tom was speechless for a moment. When he had recovered, he picked up a pencil and ruler, drew two straight lines, wrote ‘Beech’ in between them and handed the pencil to Willie.

  Willie drew the two lines again and, while carefully scrutinizing the new word, copied it.

  ‘That’s very good,’ remarked Tom.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘You’ve jest written yer name, boy.’

  ‘Have I?’ and he stared down at the letters. He couldn’t understand why those shapes were his name. Tom took his hand and made him point to the letters, going from left to right, sounding out each one. Willie joined in the second time round.

  ‘Good,’ said Tom. He was about to suggest that he had a break when Willie pointed to the letters and sounded them out on his own. He became stuck at the double ee sound.

  ‘Wot was that one agin, Mister Tom?’

  ‘ee.’

  ‘B… ee…’

  ‘Wot’s that?’

  ‘ch.’

  He started again and succeeded in sounding all the letters through.

  ‘You picked that up very quick,’ said Tom. ‘Very quick.’

  ‘It’s copyin’, though, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Mister Tom,’ said Willie after some thought, ‘ain’t that bad?’

  ‘Copyin’?’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘Not when yer learnin’,’ said Tom, ‘only if yer bein’ tested, like.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I thought it were bad.’

  There was a knock on the front door. Sam started barking.

  ‘Now who can that be?’ said Tom.

  ‘Mister Tom?’ said Willie. ‘Does that mean that, if I copy, I won’t go to hell?’

  ‘Hell!!’ said Tom in amazement as he strode out of the room. ‘Don’t be daft, boy. Whatever put such a thought in yer head.’

  Willie felt enormously relieved and returned to his writing. He was interrupted by voices in the hallway. He turned, and George and the twins walked in.

  ‘Before you ses anythin’,’ said Carrie as Willie stood up, crimson, ‘we’ve jest come to tell you that we’re miserable about you not being in our class and that we still wants you to come round with us like.’

  ‘Yes,’ interjected Ginnie.

  ‘And,’ said George, ‘yer not to feel bad about not bein’ able to read and that. Anyway, it ent all that good when you can. You jest gits given more lessons.’

  Carrie, at this juncture, gave him a poke.

  ‘What we wanted to tell you,’ she continued, ‘was that we’se goin’ up the woods on Saturdee and we was wonder-in’ if you’d come with us like.’

  Willie opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by another loud knock. Tom was hardly out into the hallway when in burst Zach.

  ‘Will,’ he said breathlessly and stopped in midstream. ‘I say, what’s going on here? Is this a party?’

  Tom closed the door and was about speak when a further rally of knocks was hammered on it and Charlie Ruddles, the warden, strode angrily in.

  ‘The front door wuz open, Mr Oakley, and I saw a definite chink of light from where I wuz situated.’

  ‘Oh, and where would that be, Mr Ruddles?’ asked Tom, a little perturbed at so many dramatic entrances in one evening. ‘Would that be from lying on the hall fl
oor with yer nose under the door?’

  The twins at this point turned hurriedly away and bit their lips. Charlie stood back aghast.

  ‘I won’t go into the legalities, Mr Oakley. There were a definite chink. Don’t you know there’s a war on!’ and with that he slammed the door and everyone except for Willie, who was feeling somewhat stunned, erupted into gales of laughter.

  9

  Birthday Boy

  Willie leapt out of bed. It was the beginning of his sixth day in Little Weirwold. He pulled back the blankets, peeled back the cotton and rubber sheets and struggled down the ladder with them in his arms. Sammy was yapping and jumping up and down, waiting for him at the bottom.

  ‘Mornin’,’ said Tom, appearing at the back door. ‘Happy Birthday!’ He expected Willie to ask if there had been any post but there was no response.

  Willie dressed and helped Tom wash his sheets and pyjama trousers. They had decided, the previous evening, after Cain and Abel and How the Camel Got his Hump, that every day Willie would get up a little earlier than usual to practise writing and reading before leaving for school.

  When he had finished his chores he sat down at the table and copied out ‘I am William Beech’ over and over again until Tom, after much effort, finally persuaded him to go for a run and exercise Sammy. He had only just disappeared down the graveyard path and out of sight when the postman arrived at the back gate.

  ‘A birthdee boy, is it?’ said young Matthew Parfitt.

  ‘Anything from London?’ asked Tom.

  Matthew shook his head. ‘’Fraid not. I got parcels though and cards and this.’ It was a basket with fresh eggs, a newly-baked loaf of bread, a pat of butter and some rashers of bacon inside. ‘’Tis a birthdee breakfast from the Padfields.’

  Tom took the cards and parcels, together with the basket, indoors. It was a shame that there was nothing from the boy’s mother, but then it was only Thursday and perhaps since war had been declared the post was being delayed. He hurried into the front room.

  Willie returned flushed and breathless, followed by Sammy. He flung open the door and was about to say something when he caught sight of the table.

  On top of a red-and-white checkered tablecloth were two of the best plates, cups and saucers. In the centre stood a jam jar with flowers in it and surrounding Willie’s place were parcels and envelopes.

  ‘Happy birthdee,’ said Tom.

  ‘Are they fer me?’ he asked in astonishment.

  ‘’Tis where you usually sit, ent it? Go on, open them. I’ll read out who they’re from.’

  Willie picked up a soft brown-paper package and with trembling fingers slowly untied the string. Inside lay a green woollen balaclava, a green sleeveless pullover and a pair of navy blue corduroy shorts.

  ‘Like to try them on?’ said Tom.

  Willie climbed out of his thin grey ones and stepped into the navy pair. Tom fixed the braces on to them. The shorts were a little loose round the waist.

  ‘Soon fill out, though,’ said Tom. He put the pullover on over Willie’s shirt. ‘Stand back and let’s have a look at you.’

  The top was also a little long, but not so that it looked foolish. The shorts hung comfortably down to the base of his knees. He beamed.

  ‘Feel good, do the?’

  ‘Yeh. They got pockets too,’ he said, plunging his hands deep into them. He glanced at the balaclava. ‘Wot’s that?’

  ‘’Tis a balaclava. Keeps yer head and ears warm when the wind’s nippy.’

  ‘Can I put it on now?’

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘Who give it me?’ he asked as he pulled it over his head.

  ‘I did, but Mrs Fletcher made it.’

  ‘Ta,’ said Willie gratefully and he touched the soft wool of the pullover.

  ‘Ent you goin’ to open the rest?’

  The next parcel contained some Chiliprufe underwear from May Thorne, who Willie had never even met. Emilia, her sister, had given him an illustrated copy of The Wind in the Willows. Inside she had written ‘To William on his ninth birthday. For Mr Oakley to read to you until you can read it yourself.’

  Willie held it tightly to his chest. ‘Is it fer me to keep?’

  Tom nodded.

  His own book. His very own book. The only other book he owned was the Bible and that was old and dusty and had previously belonged to someone else. This book was new. The pages were crisp and white and were filled with the most marvellous pictures of animals wearing clothes.

  He placed the book carefully to one side and continued to open the other parcels. There was a white china egg-cup with a gold rim from Connie and Walter Bird, a boy’s comic annual with lots of pictures and games in it from Doctor and Nancy Little, and a game of snap from the vicar and his wife. In addition to the parcels were seven birthday cards.

  Willie was completely overcome. He sat down and stared at the gifts quite speechless. Tom, meanwhile, took a large parcel out of the cupboard and placed it in front of him.

  ‘That’s me present from me to you.’

  ‘But you give me this,’ he said, indicating his pullover, ‘and these shorts.’

  ‘This is something different like.’

  Willie unwrapped the parcel and gave a start. There, before his eyes, lay one large and one small sketch pad. Pages and pages of untouched paper. There were two paintbrushes and three pots of paint. One brush was a medium-sized one, the other was thin and delicate. The paints were red, yellow and blue.

  ‘If you mix them,’ said Tom, ‘you can also git orange, green and brown.’

  Wrapped up in tissue paper were a pencil, a rubber and a sharpener. Something was carved at the end of the pencil. It looked familiar. He traced it slowly with his finger. ‘William Beech’.

  He looked lovingly at the paints and brushes and swallowed a pain that had risen at the back of his throat.

  ‘I take it you like them,’ murmured Tom. ‘I chose them meself, like.’

  He glanced out at the window at the oak tree where Rachel and his son were buried. She used to hug and kiss him when he gave her presents. She loved painting, wild flowers and pretty lace, sweet jams, freshly brewed beer. Since her death he had never wanted to touch anything that might remind him of her. Trust a strange boy to soften him up. The odd thing was that, after he had entered the paint shop, he had felt as if a heavy wave of sadness had suddenly been lifted from out of him. Memories of her didn’t seem as painful as he had imagined.

  ‘Thanks, Mister Tom,’ said Willie huskily. ‘I’ll look after them real proper.’

  After a birthday egg-and-bacon fry up, Willie ran off to school. Tom met him outside at lunchtime as there were no classes for him in the afternoon. They visited the people who had given him presents so that he could thank them personally. It would save the agony of trying to write letters and Tom thought it would be a good opportunity for Willie to meet them. As for Tom, everyone was very surprised to see him, for he rarely visited anyone.

  They strolled back home down the tunnelled lane and called in at the Littles’ cottage and the Vicarage on the way. Willie had looked around for the twins and George, but they were nowhere to be seen. Even at the Littles there was no sight of Zach.

  P’raps they’ve gone blackberryin’, he thought and for a fleeting moment he wished that he was with them.

  ‘How about stayin’ outside this afternoon?’ suggested Tom suddenly. ‘It’s a fine day.’ His words were immediately contradicted by the appearance of a dark shadow across the sky. ‘Drat them blimmin’ clouds,’ he muttered. Sam scampered on ahead of them and waited at Dobbs’ field. Willie couldn’t wait to begin drawing. He’d start with the gnarled old oak tree in the graveyard. That would be fine. But before they had reached the back gate a few drops of rain had already plopped warningly on their heads.

  ‘I’ll have to draw inside,’ said Willie to himself.

  Tom grunted and then suddenly hit on an idea. ‘How about the church?’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course, you could dr
aw in there.’

  ‘Yeh,’ agreed Willie. ‘Yeh, I could.’

  He wrapped his mackintosh carefully round the small sketch-pad and fled down the pathway to the church, arriving in the nick of time, for as he closed the heavy arched door behind him, a slow drizzle of rain swept across the village and surrounding fields.

  He stood quite still for a moment. It felt odd to be alone in a church. He would have felt nervous if it hadn’t been raining. The sound it made rustling outside in the trees made him feel comfortable and protected. He stared up at the windows and then caught sight of the pulpit. Slinging his mac over the back of a pew he sat down and rested his feet on the one in front. He placed the sketch-pad on his knees, flicked open the first page and began to draw.

  He didn’t hear the rain suddenly stop. He was conscious only of the pulpit and his sketch-pad. The rest of the church had ceased to exist for him. Neither did he hear Zach repeatedly calling him from outside or the sound of his footsteps running up the tiny pathway to the back door.

  The door opened slowly and Zach peeped in. He had never seen the interior of a church before. He slipped quietly in and glanced up at the windows and walls until his attention was drawn to a mop of fair hair sticking out from behind one of the back pews. He was just about to speak when he became aware that Willie was absorbed in some task. He took a few paces forward and leaned over Willie’s small thin shoulders. His shadow fell across the pad. Willie jumped and turned round hurriedly placing his arm over the picture, but it was too late. Zach had already seen it.

  ‘I say,’ he gasped, full of admiration, ‘that’s magnificent.’

  Willie shyly flapped the cover of the pad over the drawing.

  ‘You must show the…’ but he checked himself. ‘Didn’t you hear me call you. I practically tore my throat out yelling for you.’

  Willie shook his head.

  ‘Er…’ said Zach thoughtfully, feeling a little stumped for words, ‘Er, Mr Oakley says that he’d like to er… converse with you. Er… talk about the time of day. That sort of thing. He’s waiting for you now.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Willie in surprise and he picked up his mackintosh. ‘Is it still rainin’?’

  ‘It finished an age ago,’ groaned Zach. ‘Hurry up or the…’ he stopped. ‘er… or… it might start again.’