Goodnight Mister Tom

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘It’s the script of Christmas Carol.’

  ‘Oh? What you doin’ with it then?’

  ‘I’ve bin asked to be in the play.’

  ‘’As you?’ said Tom, leaning forward.

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘I take it you’se goin’ to do it then?’

  Willie smiled, his cheeks burning with excitement.

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘Reckon we’ll both be needin’ that tea extra sweet tonight, eh, boy?’

  13

  Carol Singing

  ‘Bah! ’Umbug!’ he cried as he paced the floor. It was at least the fiftieth time in the past hour that Willie had uttered the words. He paused and read the nephew’s lines, put down the script and began pacing the floor again.

  ‘If I could work me will, every idiot who goes abaht wiv Merry Christmuss on ’is lips should be boiled wiv his own puddin’, and buried wiv a stake of holly through his heart. He should!’

  Willie sat down on the end of his bed and gave a sigh.

  ‘I nearly got it,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I got to be a bit more grumpy.’

  He rose.

  ‘Nephew!’ he said brusquely. ‘You keep Christmuss in yer own way and let me keep it in mine.’ He stopped and hit the open palm of his hand with his fist. ‘No! It don’t feel right. I’m a bad tempered man and I don’t like bein’ interrupted like.’ He began again. ‘Nephew, you keep Christmuss in yer own way and let me keep it in mine.’

  A loud knocking at the front door made him jump.

  ‘Blow it!’ he grumbled. ‘Jest when I wuz gettin’ it.’

  He frowned and walked towards the trap-door. Immediately he realized how Scrooge must have felt when he was interrupted.

  ‘Nephew,’ he repeated angrily, ‘keep Christmuss in yer own way and let me keep it in mine.’ He gave a loud grunt and looked into his imaginary accounts book. ‘That’s it!’ he yelled. ‘I got it! I got it!’

  A rally of louder knocks came from downstairs. Willie threw himself down the ladder and opened the door. It was George. He looked over Willie’s shoulder.

  ‘Who else is in there?’ he asked.

  ‘No one,’ answered Willie.

  ‘Who you yellin’ at then?’

  Willie looked at him blankly for a moment.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, realizing what George was talking about. ‘I was jest goin’ over me words, like.’

  ‘I could hear you from here.’

  Willie blushed.

  ‘Only from the front door, mind. Don’t s’pose no one else did. You comin’ then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Haven’t you remembered? It’s Thursdee, doughbag. We got Carols. Thought you’d be there first seein’ it’s Mr Oakley’s first practice, like.’

  ‘Oh, yeh,’ said Willie hurriedly, and he flung his scarf on. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘No. We’s all jest a bit early.’

  Willie slammed the front door behind him. He ran after George along the pathway towards the back entrance of the church. Already there were people seated in the benches on either side of the altar. Tom was sitting at the organ, a large scowl on his face.

  Willie caught his eye and smiled at him. He knew that the scowl meant he was just a bit shy.

  Edward Fletcher and Alec Barnes came in at the front door and joined the men right of the altar. Edward’s voice had now evened out into a wobbly tenor. Alec, a large, dark-haired sixteen-year-old, was looking very embarrassed. Everyone wanted to know if his father had been using the King children as ‘slave labour’ or not.

  Behind Alec sat Mr Miller and Hubert Pullet, the son-in-law of Charlie Ruddles. He was a poker-faced, pale man in his fifties. Next to him sat the twins’ father, a handsome freckle-faced man with thick wavy red hair. Ted Blakefield, a local thatcher, sat beside him. The oldest member of the choir was Walter Bird, still wearing his tin hat and the only one with a gas-mask.

  George sat in the second row, to the left of the altar, next to two older boys, while Willie joined the younger ones in the front.

  Tom stood up and gave two short taps with his hand on the top of the organ.

  ‘We’ll begin with “Hark the Herald”,’ he said, smoothing out the pages of his music. He waited until everyone had found their places before playing the short introduction.

  After the first few notes he stopped. No one was singing. He leaned around the organ.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he inquired.

  ‘We was jest listenin’ to you playin’, like,’ croaked Walter. ‘You kept in toon, didn’t you?’

  Tom grunted.

  ‘I ent ’ere to listen to meself. One more time.’

  The men suppressed a grin between themselves. Still the same short-tempered Mr Oakley, they thought.

  Tom played the introduction once more and they joined in.

  ‘You call that singin’?’ he interrupted gruffly. ‘Sounds like a dirge.’

  ‘A dirge, Mr Oakley?’ interspersed Mr Miller, his balding head shining with perspiration.

  ‘A dirge,’ repeated Tom. ‘This is to be a Carol Service, not a funeral. Lift them up with yer voices. Don’t bury them.’

  George gave a short laugh and slapped his hand sharply over his mouth. Tom glared at him.

  ‘Put a bit of that laughin’ in yer singin’, boy,’ he said. That was what Rachel would have suggested, he thought, and he sat down and turned to the beginning of the carol.

  ‘Once again.’

  They lifted up their books and sang with even more fervour.

  ‘Gettin’ better. Good cure for insomnia, though. Send at least the first four pews to sleep. Now,’ he said, turning over several pages, ‘let’s wake them up with “Glory to the new born King”. ’Tis good news.’

  Willie took a deep breath and pictured in his mind a rainbow, its rays of coloured light pouring down from massive clouds.

  ‘In the triumph of the skies,’ he sang, ‘Glory to the new born King.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tom when they had finished. ‘William, you’se gettin’ the idea, but you’re singin’ up to the ceiling. Sing it out front.’

  He turned to everyone.

  ‘All of you’se, sing it out through them doors and through the village.’

  Mr Miller wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  ‘I don’t think I can sing any better, Mr Oakley.’

  ‘Don’t let Hitler hear you say that,’ replied Tom. ‘Now, one more time.’

  They sang it through twice and then as a contrast followed it with a gentle rendition of ‘Silent Night’. The rehearsal ended with a rousing version of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.

  ‘I think that’ll do for tonight,’ said Tom, closing the Book of Carols.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Edward.

  ‘It’s nine o’clock,’ cried Alec in alarm. ‘I’ve to do the milkin’ tomorrow mornin’. Goodnight, Mr Oakley. Thank you,’ he yelled, running out of the church.

  Willie left his bench and stood by the organ. George joined him.

  ‘It were a real good rehearsal, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘Real good. Weren’t it, Will?’

  Willie nodded.

  George said his goodnights and left the church with the others.

  Willie could hear their voices drifting away into the distance, singing ‘Hark the Herald’, and laughing over something. He leaned on the organ.

  ‘I’ll play you somethin’ I ent played in years,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t know if I can remember it all. It were one of Rachel’s favourites.’

  Willie rested his chin into his cupped hands and listened.

  Unlike the jaunty tunes of the carols, these notes were long and lingering. They throbbed and shook the frame of the organ, sometimes dying to the gentlest and saddest of sounds, only to crescendo and fall again. Willie had never heard anything so beautiful. As Tom lifted his fingers from the organ the music seemed to sink and fade into the very walls of the church. Tom sat back and flexed his fingers several times until his knuckles cracked.<
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  ‘Bit out o’ practice, like,’ he said.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ said Willie, his eyes welling with emotion, ‘it were real fine.’

  ‘Hmph,’ he grunted. ‘Thank you, boy. Must admit I enjoyed it meself.’

  14

  New Beginnings

  Lucy stood by the pencil sharpener and peered through one of the windows on the long wooden-panelled wall that separated the two classrooms. She had felt miserable when she had heard that Willie was to leave her class. It was Monday morning in the third week of January. Her first day without him. She pressed her cheek against the glass and gazed wistfully into Mrs Hartridge’s class.

  ‘Lucy,’ said Mrs Black. ‘This is the third time you’ve sharpened your pencil in the last fifteen minutes. There won’t be anything left of it, and looking through the window won’t help either.’

  Lucy blushed and hurried back to her table.

  There were usually fifteen pupils in Mrs Hartridge’s class ranging from nine to fourteen years of age. On this particular Monday there were only ten present. Three children who had a two-mile walk to the school hadn’t arrived because of the snow, and Harry Padfield and Polly Barnes were helping out on their parents’ farms.

  Willie sat in the front row and shared a double desk with Patsy Finch, a dark-haired, easygoing nine-year-old with light brown eyes. Although their desks were joined they had separate benches which folded up and down. Each desk had an inkwell hole and a long groove for pencils and pens. Some of the pupils had white porcelain inkwells, which were filled with pale blue watery ink, and then slotted into the holes.

  It was Willie’s first proper desk. He felt so exhilarated with it that he tingled every time Mrs Hartridge asked them to take a book out or put a book away.

  To his left in another double desk sat eleven-year-old Fred Padfield and Zach. Fred had been moved from the third row to the front for being lazy. Zach sat on his left by one of the windows. Carrie and Ruth Browne, one of the evacuees at the vicarage, sat behind them and behind Willie and Patsy sat Ginnie and Herbert Woods, one of the absent children. George, who was now twelve, sat behind Ginnie in the third row and the eldest in the class sat in the fourth row.

  A long funnelled stove stood opposite the corridor between the four rows of desks. On it was perched a large saucepan of simmering milk and surrounding it was a square fire-guard where several pairs of steaming socks were hanging. To the left of the stove was the door which led into a hallway.

  There were three large windows in the classroom. Two at the back and one on the left. The panes were criss-crossed with wood and had looked very pretty when the first snow had settled in the corners. On the right of the room beside the panelled wall stood the nature table.

  Mrs Hartridge sat at a high oak Dickensian desk with a fixed seat. Underneath the desk, facing the class, was a door which opened, revealing a row of shelves with books on them. Behind the desk and around the walls were low bookcases filled with books. A blackboard on an easel stood diagonally in front of Zach and Fred and behind that was a tall cupboard with paper and scissors, paints and brushes, old magazines, textbooks and chalk and crayons inside.

  On the left wall and at the back of the class were two paintings, a Nature chart, the names of the monitors for that week and a picture of Christ in a white robe surrounded by children of every nationality.

  At a quarter to nine Willie had walked in, accompanied by Zach. The twins had followed soon after. By five minutes to nine George had arrived, looking very pale and swollen-eyed and wearing a black armband. He smiled weakly at Willie. His brother Michael had been reported ‘Missing, believed dead.’ A memorial service had been held for him the previous day and the village had given the Vicar money towards a plaque to be placed in the church.

  Willie had stood awkwardly while the others moved into their seats. Mrs Hartridge had smiled at him and asked him to sit next to Patsy. They had stood up for prayers and sat down.

  ‘I’m sure we would all like to welcome William Beech to our class,’ she had said, turning to him. ‘We know what excellent progress you’ve made and how hard you’ve worked.’

  Willie had tried to cover his embarrassment by scowling but Patsy had smiled so sweetly at him that the scowl didn’t last long. Mrs Hartridge gave him a history and geography textbook, a spelling and arithmetic book, a nature and English book, a jotter, a pencil and, what thrilled him most of all, his own pen. It had a long slim wooden handle with a nib fastened at the end.

  ‘Take care of it,’ she had said. ‘I’ll see how your writing is this week and if it’s good enough you can begin writing in ink next week.’

  Willie had laid the pen carefully in his desk and now his first lesson had begun. First they all had to chant their twelve times tables. Willie managed to get up to six. He had practised them long enough. By the time the class had reached twelve only Carrie and Ruth were still chanting.

  ‘Same two again,’ said Mrs Hartridge. ‘Hands up who managed to eleven.’ Three hands were raised. ‘Ten?’ Two more went up. ‘Nine? Eight? Seven? Six?’ Willie raised his hand. ‘Well done, William. I know you’ve only learnt up to six. Five?’ George raised his hand at three but she didn’t scold him.

  ‘Today we’re going to do long multiplication. George and Frederick, I’d like you to revise your tables. William, I’d like you to begin seven times table and I’ll give you some sums of your own. For the rest, take these down,’ and she walked over to the board and chalked up four sums.

  After arithmetic they had an English language lesson which was on nouns. Willie’s head was spinning. He turned to look at Zach and saw Carrie passing him a note. Zach glanced surreptitiously at it on his knee. Checking to see if Mrs Hartridge was looking, he turned back and nodded. She looked a little scared. Then he saw Zach mouth ‘Good luck’ to her and return quickly to chewing the end of his pencil and scribbling something in his jotter.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, William,’ said Mrs Hartridge as she went over the nouns. ‘It’s only your first day. If you’re stuck and you need help, don’t be afraid to ask. That’s what I’m here for.’

  Willie nodded.

  How beautiful she was with her violet blue eyes and her single long flaxen plait. She was wearing a cream-coloured woollen blouse, a russet-coloured cardigan and a green woollen skirt flecked with browns. She was plumper than usual, round and comfortable.

  ‘Pencils and books away. Time for break. Patsy!’

  Patsy was the milk monitor for the week. Mrs Hartridge had taken to heating it now the weather was so cold. She poured it into cups and Patsy carried them two at a time to each desk.

  ‘Those of you who don’t have gumboots or galoshes are to stay in,’ she said as she handed out the dried socks, but today everyone had.

  Willie saw Zach winking at Carrie. Slowly she left her desk and walked up to Mrs Hartridge’s desk where she was sorting out some books.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Hartridge.’

  ‘Yes, Carrie,’ she said, surprised. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Carrie took hold of one of her flame-coloured plaits and tapped it nervously on her shoulder.

  ‘It’s jest that…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I speak to you on yer own, like? It’s very important.’

  ‘Now?’

  Carrie nodded.

  ‘All right. We’ll go somewhere private.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Hartridge.’

  ‘When you’ve all finished your milk go outside.’

  Patsy collected the empty cups and took them on a tray down the hall and into a kitchen where Mrs Bird washed them up.

  Zach, Ginnie, George and Willie fled into the playground.

  ‘I say,’ said Zach. ‘It’s wizard to have you in our class.’

  ‘And don’t worry about everythin’ bein’ new,’ said Ginnie. ‘We’ll help you.’

  ‘Ta,’ said Willie. He was about to grumble about how he felt bottom of the
class when he remembered that George’s tables were worse than his and that he had just lost his brother. He bit his lip and kept silent.

  ‘Where’s Carrie?’ said Ginnie. ‘I saw her going up to Mrs Hartridge.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re having a little conflab,’ said Zach.

  ‘She would have told me if anything was wrong,’ said Ginnie.

  ‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong. Yet.’ He added mysteriously.

  Ginnie was astounded.

  ‘Do you mean you know what it’s all about?’

  Zach nodded. ‘I’ll say I do.’

  ‘But, but I’m her sister!’

  ‘She thought you might try and stop her.’

  ‘Stop her? Stop what?’

  ‘Well,’ said Zach hesitantly, ‘I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Find out what?’ exclaimed Ginnie in exasperation.

  ‘Go on,’ said George. ‘Stop huggin’ it all to yerself.’

  ‘Yeh. Tell us,’ joined in Willie.

  Zach took a deep breath.

  ‘She’s asking if she can take the exam for the high school.’

  ‘She never has,’ gasped Ginnie. ‘She wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘She jolly well has.’

  ‘But they ent even puttin’ in any of the boys for it, they hasn’t fer two years.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She’s a girl!’ cried George.

  ‘I say, is she really?’

  ‘I think it’s jest fine,’ said Willie.

  ‘You would,’ retorted George. ‘You think anything he ses is fine.’

  ‘No, I doesn’t. It ’aint his idea anyway. It’s Carrie’s.’

  ‘Let’s not quarrel,’ said Ginnie, who was feeling a little hurt that Carrie had confided in Zach and not her.

  By the end of break there was still no sign of Carrie. Rose Butcher rang the bell and everyone queued up in the playground and filed in. Carrie was sitting at her desk, looking very flushed. Before they could ask her any questions Mrs Hartridge had pinned a map on to the board and told them to take out their geography books.

  ‘Turn your desks round to face each other,’ she said. ‘Ginnie, go to the cupboard and hand out two sheets of paper to each desk. When you have the paper, tear each one in half.’