Goodnight Mister Tom

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘That’s because I listened to the others say it in Sundee School,’ he explained. ‘We didn’t…’

  ‘Undo that other bag.’

  He unfastened the straps of the rucksack and slowly began to pull everything out. It felt as though he was stripping naked in front of her. All the things that were precious and important to him were now being placed under her scrutiny.

  She sat ashen-faced and watched him unpack. When he had finished she spoke in a quiet and controlled manner.

  ‘Now I’ll ask the questions and you’ll give me the answers and no back chat. Where did you get them clothes and boots you’re wearin’?’

  ‘Mr Oakley and Mrs Fletcher.’

  ‘You steal them?’

  ‘No. They were presents.’

  ‘You begged.’

  ‘No, I never.’

  ‘Don’t argue. I said you begged.’

  He took hold of the eggs, fruit-cake, wine and bed-socks and slid them across to her.

  ‘Those are your presents,’ he said.

  ‘You begged those too, I suppose.’

  ‘No. I’ve got a present of me own for you,’ he added. It seemed spoilt now. His surprise. It had been Mister Tom’s idea. He picked up two pieces of cardboard that were strung neatly together and untied them. Inside was a drawing. It was of the graveyard and the church with fields and trees in the background. He passed it to her.

  ‘It’s where I lived.’

  She looked at it.

  ‘You steal this?’

  ‘No.’

  Now she would be pleased with him, he thought.

  ‘No. I drew it meself.’

  She looked at him coldly.

  ‘Don’t lie to me.’

  ‘I’m not. I did it meself. Look!’ and he grabbed a sketch-pad that was full of drawings.

  ‘These are mine, too,’ he said, flicking over the first page.

  ‘I haven’t time to look at pictures, Willie.’

  ‘But I did them meself!’ he cried. ‘Please look at them.’

  ‘Willie. You have got a lot to learn. I shall either burn these or give them to charity. I only hope that no one ever finds out what you’ve done.’

  Willie stared at her in dismay.

  ‘I didn’t steal them, honest, Mum. I did them. I can show you.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ she said, banging her fist on the table again.

  The situation was worse than she had ever imagined. It would take a lot of hard work to silence him into obedience.

  ‘And these?’ she asked, indicating the books and sweets, coloured pencils and clothes.

  ‘Presents,’ he mumbled.

  ‘More presents, Willie? Do you expect me to believe that? Do you expect me to believe that strangers would give you presents?’

  ‘They ent strangers, Mum. They’re friends.’

  ‘Friends! I’d like to know who these so-called friends are.’

  ‘George and Zach and the twins and…’

  ‘Are they church-goers?’

  ‘Oh yes. George is in the choir. So am I.’ His face fell.

  ‘Was. But Ginnie and Carrie…’

  ‘Girls?’

  ‘Yes. The twins are girls. Carrie’s working for…’

  ‘You play with girls. After all I’ve said about that, and you mix with girls.’

  ‘But they’se fine and they goes to church. They all does, all except Zach.’

  ‘Jack? Who’s he?’

  ‘Zach,’ he said. ‘Short for…’ and he bit his lip. Some instinct told him that he was approaching dangerous ground. His ears buzzed and his mother’s voice began to sound distant.

  ‘Why doesn’t he go to church?’ he heard her say.

  He tried to evade the question.

  ‘He believes in God, Mum, and he knows his Bible real good.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he go to church?’

  ‘They ent got one of his sort in the village, see, and anyway’ – he faltered for a second – ‘he thinks that there’s more God in the fields and sky and in loving people than in churches and synagogues.’

  ‘In what?’ she asked.

  ‘In fields and,’ he hesitated, ‘and… and… the sky.’

  ‘No. You said than in churches or what? What did you say?’

  ‘Synagogues,’ said Willie. ‘That’s what they call their churches.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jews. Zach’s Jewish.’

  His mother let out a frightened scream.

  ‘You’ve been poisoned by the devil! Don’t you know that?’ and she rose and hit him savagely across the face. He put up his hands to defend himself which only increased her anger. He reeled backwards in the chair and crashed onto the floor.

  ‘But,’ he stammered. ‘Zach ses Jesus was a Jew.’

  ‘You blasphemer!’ she screamed. ‘You blasphemer!’

  Something heavy hit him across the head and he sank into a cold darkness. He could still hear her screaming and he knew that she was hitting him but he felt numb and separated from himself. He had become two people and one of his selves was hovering above him watching what was happening to his body.

  He woke up with a jerk, shivering with the cold. He began to stretch his cramped legs but they hurt. Opening his eyes he looked around in the darkness. He knew immediately where he was. He had been locked under the stairs. He peered through the crack at the side of the small door. It was pitch black. His mother must have gone to bed. He shivered. His boots were gone, so were his jersey and shorts. He tugged at his waist and winced as he contacted a bruise. His vest had been sewn to his underpants. He took hold of the thin piece of material that lay under his body and wrapped it round himself. He could smell blood. He touched his head and discovered several painful lumps. His legs were sore and covered in something wet and congealed.

  The night before, he had been lying in his first and only bed, in his first and only room. He was glad that he had left his paints and brushes there. Mister Tom would take care of them. Mister Tom! He had given him some stamped, addressed envelopes so that he could send him letters. He had also sewn two half-crowns into his overcoat. Would they still be there? Or would his mother sell the coat together with his clothes? He thought of the baby with the tape over its mouth. Maybe if she did sell them it would help the baby. He remembered the books and Zach’s poem. She would certainly burn that, since it had Zach’s name on it.

  He felt as though he was a different person lying there in the dark. He was no longer Willie. It was as if he had said good-bye to an old part of himself. Neither was he two separate people. He was Will inside and out.

  For an instant he wished he had never gone to Little Weirwold. Then he would have thought his Mum was kind and loving. He wouldn’t have known any different. A wave of despair swept through him and he cursed his new awareness. He hadn’t been used to this pain for a long time. He had softened.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ he whispered in the darkness. ‘Mister Tom. I want you, Mister Tom,’ and he gave a quiet sob. His ankle hurt. He must have twisted it when he fell. He placed his hand round it. It was swollen and painful to touch. He let go of it and curled himself tightly into a frozen ball praying that soon he would fall asleep.

  16

  The Search

  The cottage seemed very quiet without William. Tom missed the sound of his boots clattering along the tiled hallway and his chatter at night. In the days that followed his departure he found himself glancing at the table to share something he had read, only to realize that the chair where he usually sat was unoccupied. He felt the old familiar emptiness that he had experienced after the sudden loss of Rachel. At least he could console himself that William was alive. He listened to the news on the wireless with extra attentiveness, particularly when there were reports of bombing near London.

  Hitler had by now invaded Norway and Denmark, and heavy units of the British Fleet had been sent to help the invaded countries but the war still left Little Weirwold unruffled except for those few who
missed William. It was sad that he wasn’t around to witness early spring. Already buttercups were appearing in the fields and, in the woods, wet primroses and violets had burst through the soggy dark earth.

  Tom waited patiently for a letter. After the first week when there was still no word from him he thought William was probably too busy to write for he would probably have his hands full doing chores for his mother. He thought the same the second week but by the third week he began to feel anxious. He himself had written four letters. He knew that Zach had sent several also but there was no reply to any of them.

  One night he awoke violently from a nightmare. In the dream, he had been locked into a tiny space with no air inside. It was as though he was being buried alive. But it was the voice that had woken him. He thought he had heard William calling out to him for help. He woke with a jerk only to find Sammy standing by his bedside, panting. He staggered out of bed and fumbled his way towards the bedroom window. Carefully easing the blackout curtains to one side he peered out. It was still dark. He opened the door, walked across the hallway to the living room and looked at the clock. It was three a.m. Almost time for his fire duty anyway. He’d go and relieve Hubert Pullett early. He pulled his corduroys, thick jersey and boots on over his pyjamas, and stepped outside into the damp night slinging his trench-coat, cap and gas-mask on as he walked. Sammy followed him dragging a bit of old blanket in his teeth.

  The fire post was a makeshift platform on top of the village hall. A ridiculous piece of extravagance, Tom had thought, when it was being built. He climbed up the ladder which leaned on to it. Mr Pullett was sitting with a blanket wrapped round him and was in the process of falling asleep in a chair. He woke up, pleased to see Tom so early. They chatted for a while until Mr Pullett decided to leave for the warmth of his bed. Tom made himself as comfortable and as warm as was possible and Sammy snuggled in between his legs.

  As he stared at the sky he couldn’t rid himself of the dream he had just had. If William was in need of help surely he would write to him. He gazed out at the galaxy of stars and brooded. Two hours later the dawn injected its colours into the sky and Mrs Butcher came and took his place.

  On the way home he caught sight of Miss Thorne’s sister, May, on her ancient bicycle. She was delivering the mail. He ran after her.

  ‘Nothing for you, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She hesitated before moving off again.

  ‘Mr Oakley,’ she added anxiously. ‘I’m afraid I have a telegram. It’s for Annie Hartridge.’

  He looked up startled. The last telegram had brought the news of Michael Fletcher’s death.

  ‘I’m a little worried,’ she went on, ‘what with her baby due so soon. I’d like to wait till the midwife is visitin’ before delivering it but it’s against regulations.’

  Tom frowned thoughtfully.

  ‘You seen Mrs Fletcher?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Didn’t like to disturb her.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her now, suggest she might pop in to see her.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He watched her wobble off and head towards the farming area on the south side of the village. Turning sharply back he walked in the direction of the Fletchers’ cottage.

  Mrs Fletcher had just seen her husband and Edward off to work. The kitchen door was still open and the light from it was casting a pale glow on to the still glistening garden. She was standing at the doorway.

  ‘You ent on dooty, is you?’ she asked, glancing guiltily at the light.

  ‘No, I ent,’ said Tom. ‘I jest wanted to have a private word, like.’

  ‘George and David are asleep. They won’t be botherin’ us. Come on in and have some tea. You’se lookin’ a little on the pale side.’

  He stepped into the cosy warmth of the kitchen. Sam padded after him and curled up on the floor in front of her range.

  She sat down at the table and poured out two cups of tea.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, sliding a cup across to him. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Tom looked surprised.

  ‘There is somethin’ you wants me to do, ent there? Is it Will?’

  Tom shook his head.

  ‘Annie Hartridge has got a telegram.’

  Mrs Fletcher put down her cup slowly.

  ‘David?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I jest thought with you havin’ lost Michael and with her about to have her baby, she might need someone who could help, like.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, and she stood up and hurriedly untied her apron.

  ‘She ent got it yet,’ he added.

  She rolled down her sleeves.

  ‘I’d like to be there as soon as possible. In her state she might pass out or somethin’. I’ll think of an excuse, like extra eggs from the Padfields, booties for the baby, that sort of thing.’

  Tom nodded. It sounded for the best. He watched her put her coat on.

  ‘Them trains to London,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes?’ she said puzzled. ‘What about them?’

  ‘They run on Fridees, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘It’s Fridee today, ent it?’

  ‘Yis.’

  He stood up abruptly.

  ‘I’m goin’ to get on that train, Mrs Fletcher, and what’s more I’m goin’ to get on it today.’

  Tom’s journey to London was as bumpy and intermittent as William’s had been. Dim blue lights lit the tightly-packed carriages and the air was stifling. It was frustrating, too, not to be able to see the stations that they passed, but once it was evening it was too dangerous to attempt to peep through the blacks in spite of the faintness of the blue lights. Sammy, who had not only smuggled himself into the cart but had also jumped off it and followed Tom to the station, was now squashed on to his lap. A makeshift lead, made of rope, hung from between his teeth.

  Tom, who had originally refused to allow Sammy to come with him, was now glad of his company. It was going to be a lonely task searching for William.

  It was nine o’clock when the train pulled into London. He clambered out with Sammy and stood on the platform feeling totally dazed. The noise was deafening. Hundreds of uniformed figures swirled about him shouting to each other. Another train pulled out and a voice over a Tannoy system was calling out platform numbers and destinations. It was a while before Tom could orientate himself enough to hand his ticket in. He must have looked a strange sight, with his thick white hair and weather-beaten face, clad in an old cord cap, overcoat and country boots with Sammy barking nervously at his ankles. Peering through the hordes of young men he finally spotted the ticket man. He slung the haversack that he had borrowed on to his back. It was filled with clothes and food for William, from people in the village.

  He handed his ticket in. The man looked down at Sammy.

  ‘Should ’ave a muzzle, that dog,’ he exclaimed.

  Tom nodded, having no intention of ever getting one.

  ‘Where you from?’ he continued. ‘You ain’t a Londoner, that I know. On ’olidee, are yah?’ and he gave a loud chuckle at the absurdity of his remark.

  Tom looked at him blankly.

  ‘Only a joke,’ muttered the man. ‘Ain’t yah got no sense uv ’umour.’

  ‘Where’s Deptford?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Deppeteforrard?’ imitated the man. ‘Never ’eard uv it. Say it agen!’

  Tom repeated it and the man shrugged.

  ‘Ern,’ he yelled to an A.R.P. Warden who was passing. ‘You know where Deppeteforrard is?’

  ‘Not ’eard uv it,’ said Ern. ‘And I knows most places rahnd London. Used to be a cabby. You got it writ dahn?’

  Tom handed them the piece of paper with the address written on it.

  ‘Oh, you mean Deptford!’ they chorused.

  Tom repeated their pronunciation of it.

  ‘Detferd,’ he said quietly to himself.

  They waved their arms over to the left towards an archway
and directed him towards a bus station. Tom thanked them and headed in the direction they had suggested. The two men watched him and Sammy walk away.

  ‘You don’t ’arf meet some queer ’uns ’ere,’ said the ticket man. ‘I ’ope ’e ain’t a German spy!’ and they gave a loud laugh.

  Tom held on to Sammy’s lead firmly, for in the unlit street he kept colliding into people. He finally got on to a bus that would take him part of the way to Deptford, but it was a painfully slow journey. He stared in amazement at the conductress in her manly uniform. She was a little irritated at first and then realized that he was a stranger to the City.

  ‘You one of ’em refugees?’ she asked kindly.

  ‘Noo,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Where you from, then?’

  ‘Little Weirwold.’

  She didn’t understand him. His accent was too thick for her.

  ‘In the country, is it?’ she shouted, thinking he might understand her better if she raised her voice.

  He nodded.

  ‘What brings you to London?’

  ‘Come to see a little boy.’

  ‘Oh. Grandson, is ’e?’

  Tom nodded. He knew it was a lie, but he didn’t want to go into complicated explanations. Sammy sat obediently on his lap.

  By the time Tom had changed buses and been directed and misdirected it was midnight before he reached the area where Willie lived. Accustomed now to the darkness, he could make out only too clearly the awful living conditions. Small dilapidated tenements stood huddled together, all in desperate need of care and attention. So this was William’s background, he thought.

  Suddenly a loud siren wailed across the sky. He froze. What was he supposed to do? He had read about communal shelters in the newspapers and he knew that people often crowded into the tubes but he had no idea where the nearest tube station was.

  ‘Come on. Move on there,’ said a loud brusque voice. ‘Move on to the shelter.’

  A group of people brushed past him, grumbling and cursing.

  ‘’Oo’s got the cards?’ yelled a woman in the darkness. ‘Alf, have you got me bleedin’ cards?’

  A young girl bumped into him.

  ‘’Ere, mind where yer goin’, Mister,’ she rebuked sharply.