Goodnight Mister Tom

by Michelle Magorian

  ‘It’s all go, isn’t it?’ she said.

  Tom nodded and headed for the lobby where he had left his haversack. Two ambulances drew in and in the general confusion that followed, he picked up the haversack and strode towards the swing doors. He glanced quickly at the receptionist. To his relief, it was a different woman on duty. As soon as he was outside, and the drivers had turned their backs, he ran into the dark unlit courtyard, round the corner and down to where he had left Sammy.

  Sammy leapt up excitedly and began to bark. ‘No!’ whispered Tom urgently placing a firm finger on his nose. ‘Down, boy. Quiet!’

  He laid Will on the bottom step and feverishly undid the haversack. Quickly he put some warm underwear and socks on him.

  ‘You keep guard, Sammy,’ he whispered and he untied him and put the lead into his pocket. The next garments to go on Will were a brown patched pair of corduroy shorts, a grey flannel shirt, a navy roll-neck jersey and a green balaclava. The balaclava at least hid his bald head. Unfortunately he had no boots or overcoat for him. He hid the blanket in a dark corner and wrapped his own overcoat round Will. Slinging the haversack on to his back he walked towards the open courtyard with Will in his arms, Sammy following. A firm step, he thought to himself as he strode across it. At any moment they might discover Will’s absence. He carried on out through the gates and down the street. Suddenly a voice called out sharply to him.

  ‘Oy. Mister!’

  He turned. It was Alf. He had forgotten about the Warden’s Post. Drat it.

  ‘You got the boy then?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Good on you. Takin’ him back to the country?’

  Tom nodded again, waved good-bye and strode firmly down the street wanting desperately to run or look behind and not daring to do either.

  After much climbing on and off buses the three of them arrived at the large station. They spent the remainder of the night in a shelter nearby. There were no trains going to Weirwold the following morning but there was one going two-thirds of the way to a village called Skyron. Tom hurriedly bought tickets, tied the lead round Sammy’s neck and headed for the platform. His tickets were clipped by the same ticket man.

  ‘Got yer grandson, then?’ he remarked cheekily. ‘Deep sleeper, ain’t he. You’ll spoil him carryin’ him like that. I’d wake him up and make him walk, lazy tyke.’

  ‘He’s ill,’ said Tom.

  ‘Oh,’ said the ticket man, startled. ‘Not contagious, I hope.’

  ‘No.’

  He handed the tickets back and they ran along the platform. The train was due to leave within minutes.

  ‘That dog should have a muzzle,’ yelled the ticket man after them.

  They climbed on to the train and sat by a window in an empty carriage. Not long now, thought Tom, and they would be out of London. A tapping on the window interrupted his thoughts. He looked up to find a policeman looking down at him through the glass. He pointed to Will. Tom quickly covered his stockinged feet with his coat.

  ‘Air raid keep him up, eh?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Have a safe journey.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  At last the train drew out of the station. They were joined by an elderly woman who sat crocheting for most of the journey and who chatted about the weather and rationing and how she missed butter. She left them half-way to Skyron. For the rest of the journey, they had the carriage to themselves.

  Skyron was a large village not much bigger than Weirwold. Tom walked through it and headed for the open road where he began to hitch for a lift. They had three lifts. One in an army lorry, one in a vet’s broken-down old Morris, and one in a trailer. Tom walked the final five miles to Weirwold. It was a cool crisp day but the sky was clear and sunny. As soon as he saw the river, he felt overwhelmingly happy. How untouched and different it was to London. The water sparkled beneath the sun’s keen gaze. He stood on the top of a hill and drank in all the fields that lay below. He now understood Will’s bewilderment at suddenly confronting so much open space after his background in Deptford. He glanced down at Sammy who had begun to limp slightly. His small tongue was hanging out of his mouth like a piece of old leather.

  ‘Not long now, Sammy,’ he said encouragingly.

  By the time they reached Weirwold he was carrying both Will and Sammy in his arms. He tramped over the old cobbled streets as twilight fell, on through the square, past the closed shops and towards the blacksmith’s.

  He knocked firmly at his door. A window opened from above.

  ‘Mr Oakley!’ cried the brawny, dark-haired man. ‘You’se back from London.’

  Mrs Stoker, the blacksmith’s wife, appeared at his side.

  ‘Has you really bin to London?’ she asked in awe.

  He nodded.

  ‘You look fair done fer,’ and she disappeared and reappeared at the front door.

  ‘You must be starvin’,’ she said. ‘I’ll make you a meal.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Mrs Stoker, but I want to start out for Little Weirwold soon,’ he replied.

  ‘Put the boy by the fire,’ she said.

  Tom placed him in an armchair by the hearth. Mr Stoker eased the armchair nearer and pushed back the overcoat to allow the warmth of the flames to reach his limbs. As he did so he let out a gasp. Mrs Stoker turned to look at him.

  ‘Oh, my luv,’ she said. ‘He’s in a bad way. Good job you went for him, Mr Oakley.’

  By now the news had spread fast about his journey to London.

  ‘Well, you keeps that to yerself, mind,’ said Tom.

  The Stokers decided not ask any more questions. What you don’t know you can’t tell on, and that was that.

  After a rest and some tea, Mrs Stoker lent him some blankets for Will and gave him a bag filled with sandwiches.

  It was dark by the time Dobbs was harnessed for the journey. Tom tucked Will up with Sammy in the cart and clambered up to his seat to take hold of the reins.

  ‘Come on, me ’ole gal,’ he yelled in delight as Dobbs jogged forward. ‘Take us home.’

  Will awoke to the sound of Tom singing. He opened his eyes to discover a starry sky above him. Sammy was slumped in an exhausted stupor by his feet. He pushed aside a few of the blankets and looked up to where Tom was sitting. He struggled to his knees but his legs were too wobbly and he sank back into the pile of blankets.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ he croaked. ‘Mister Tom.’ Tom stopped the cart and turned round.

  ‘Woken up, eh?’

  Will blinked his eyes until Tom came clearly into focus.

  ‘You ent dreamin’. Lie back boy. We ent long from home,’ and he tucked the blankets round him again.

  ‘But,’ stammered Will. ‘How did I git here?’

  Tom shook the reins and Dobbs moved forward.

  ‘I kidnapped you,’ he said over his shoulder and then he suddenly realized the enormity of what he had done and he burst into laughter. ‘Yes, that’s what I done boy. I kidnapped you!’

  Will lay back and fell asleep. He next woke to find himself being carried through the Littles’ front door and into their sitting-room with its large array of books and cosy armchairs. Tom put him down on the sofa by the fire and Mrs Little called her husband. Doctor Little leaned over Will and with the gentlest of hands pushed his balaclava back and examined him.

  ‘You seem pretty well patched up, Will,’

  Mrs Little gave him some hot milk and toast but he fell into another deep sleep before he had even attempted to touch it.

  The Littles listened to Tom’s story.

  ‘I know I done wrong,’ said Tom. ‘But I couldn’t let him be taken to a home.’

  ‘Country air,’ put in Mrs Little. ‘Familiar surroundings. People who love him. Best thing for him.’

  Her husband looked at her over his ever-sliding spectacles.

  ‘They’re bound to track him down sooner or later.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ expostulated Mrs Little huskily. ‘They’re too busy to go ch
asing evacuees. They didn’t even know he’d returned to London.’

  Doctor Little turned to face Tom.

  ‘The sores will heal. They healed before. It’s the wounds inside that will take the longest to heal.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll give him me support when he needs.’

  ‘Me too!’ cried a voice behind him.

  They turned to find Zach standing at the doorway in his pyjamas. He ran across to the sofa and looked down at Will’s inert body.

  ‘I knew you’d bring him back,’ he said fiercely, tears in his eyes.

  ‘You look tired, Tom,’ said Mrs Little. ‘Sit down.’

  Tom thanked her and sank gratefully into an armchair.

  Zach continued to gaze silently at Will.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ said Zach earnestly. ‘If you need any help…’ but it was useless continuing.

  Tom was asleep.

  18

  ‘Recovery’

  Will felt himself being shaken violently into consciousness. He opened his eyes and peered around the darkened room. He could see no one, nor could he even see a window. He raised himself on his elbows and strained his eyes, searching for something recognizable and familiar. As he gazed at one of the walls, it lurched forward in his direction. He turned to look for the door so that he could leave but found himself facing another wall. This too was moving towards him. He glanced quickly behind. A third wall was closing in on him and as it leaned nearer, the ceiling shuddered and began to descend. He leapt out of bed and flung himself at one of the walls in a desperate attempt to find a door-knob. By the time he had slid his body along the fourth wall, hé realized with horror that there was no door. He was trapped. He pressed himself against the walls to prevent them moving any closer but they only pushed him backwards. Terrified, he let out a scream only to find himself surrounded by four tall figures dressed in white.

  ‘If you scream,’ said one of them. ‘We shall put you to sleep for ever.’

  ‘No!’ he shrieked. ‘No! No!’

  But the black airless tomb began to smother him and he screamed again.

  ‘We warned you,’ said the four figures. ‘We warned you.’ He watched them, paralysed, as they produced a long hypodermic needle.

  ‘Turn over,’ they said. ‘Turn over, turn over, turn over.’

  He backed up against one of the walls. Two arms burst through the hard surface and gripped him from behind. Helpless, he watched the cold steel tip of the needle glinting as it travelled towards him. He struggled to break free but was forced down by a multitude of hands.

  ‘No! No!’ he cried. ‘Please. Let me be! Let me be!’

  As the needle entered his right buttock he woke with a frightened start. He was in his bed in the attic bedroom. His pyjamas and sheets were sticking to his drenched skin and blankets lay scattered about the floor. The blacks were up and a nightlight stood burning on his little side table. He heard footsteps coming up the steps. It was Tom. He hoisted himself up through the trap-door and sat on his bed.

  Will clung on to him fiercely. Tom put his arms round his soaking body and held him firmly.

  ‘You keep breathin’, boy,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t you go holdin’ it in.’

  ‘They said they were going to put me to sleep if I screamed,’ gasped out Will.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The tall people in my dreams. I were frightened. I couldn’t help screamin’. I had to.’

  ‘You scream as much as you likes. No one’ll hear you except p’raps me and Sammy. You might reach the vicarage but yous’ll have to be pretty loud for that. No. You yell away. Give them ’ole bones in our front garden a good rattlin’!’

  Will smiled weakly.

  ‘Now, we’d best get you dried and warmed up.’

  He carried him down the ladder to the front room. Hanging in front of the range were several sheets on a wooden clothes-horse. Tom stripped Will and, after he had sponged and dried him he put some clean pyjamas on him and wrapped him in a blanket. He left him with Sammy curled up in the large armchair.

  By the time Tom had remade the bed Will had fallen asleep. His small stubbled head lay flopped over one of the arms of the armchair. Tom picked him up and carried him back up the ladder. It was the fifth time that he had changed the sheets and had soothed Will after a horrific nightmare.

  Will was relieved when daylight filtered into his room. He dreaded the terrors of night.

  Zach meanwhile visited the cottage regularly but Will was usually asleep when he called and Tom didn’t want to disturb him. Day after day a tremendous fatigue swept through and drained his entire body. Eating took a supreme effort and the smallest task, be it cleaning his teeth or holding a book, exhausted him into another deep sleep.

  One night he was so feverish that Tom stayed by his bed keeping watch. Sammy had been left downstairs in the front room with the door closed firmly behind him.

  Will moaned and cried out, pushing the blankets away from his legs. He arched his back and gritted his teeth like a baby having an hysterical tantrum and with flailing limbs he appeared to be fighting some powerful force. The sweat trickled down him in never-ending streams. Tom felt quite helpless. There was nothing he could do except stay with Will and go with what was happening. He hugged him when he woke and encouraged him to talk about his nightmares as much as possible.

  By four o’clock in the morning Will had soaked every sheet in the cottage and was now reduced to wearing yet another of Tom’s shirts. He grew increasingly hotter until, at one point, Tom was sorely tempted to run over to the Littles to fetch the Doctor. He quickly dismissed the idea. He didn’t dare leave in case Will should wake from one of his nightmares during his absence.

  It was during one particular dream that Will suddenly froze on the bed. He spread his legs and arms outwards as if backing up against a wall, tipped his head back, and let out the wildest and most terrifying scream Tom had ever heard. It shook him to his very bowels. He couldn’t remember how long the scream lasted. It sounded like a baby crying in despair, an old forgotten scream that must have been swallowed down years before.

  He found himself being dragged back to the day when Rachel had given birth to their son. Tom had been a young man of twenty then and still very deeply in love. He remembered how he had paced the floor in the living room listening to her moans from the bedroom and then the sudden silence. He had turned to find the midwife standing at the door shaking her head sadly. He remembered how he had run across the hall and into their bedroom, how he had clasped Rachel’s hand. She had smiled so tenderly at him. He tried to ignore how thin and pallid she was and had glanced down at her side to where a tiny red-faced baby lay.

  ‘Ent he beautiful,’ she had whispered and he had nodded and watched helplessly as the old familiar colour of scarlatina spread across both their faces.

  ‘Yous’ll have to git blue,’ she had whispered to him for during her pregnancy he had brought her a new pot of paint for each month of her being with child. The ninth was to be blue if she had given birth to a boy, primrose yellow if it had been a girl.

  After they had died he had bought the pot of blue paint and placed it in the black wooden box that he had made for her one Christmas, when he was eighteen. As he closed the lid so he had shut out not only the memory of her but also the company of anyone else that reminded him of her.

  He glanced down at Will who had suddenly become quiet. He gave a start and opened his eyes. His lips had turned blue. Tom raised him to a sitting position and stroked his back as if he was a baby with wind.

  ‘Keep breathin’, boy,’ he murmured. ‘Keep breathin’.’

  Will released his breath and as he gulped in a fresh lungful of air he began to vomit violently.

  It was after this incident that he began to sleep more easily. He had reached the climax of his nightmares and they no longer haunted him.

  One morning, several days later, he awoke feeling refreshed.

  A smell of bacon and eggs drifted thr
ough the floor-boards and although the blacks were up and his nightlight was still on he could hear the sounds of birds and the old familiar whirring of a tractor in the distance.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ he yelled. ‘Mister Tom.’

  In seconds Tom’s head appeared through the hatchway and Sammy scampered across the floor and jumped on to his bed.

  ‘You’se lookin’ good,’ he remarked. ‘You got colour in yer cheeks.’

  He walked over to the window and removed the blacks. Sunlight danced into the room. Tom propped the window up and extinguished the nightlight.

  Will pushed his legs over to the side of his bed and stood up with a wobble only to sit down suddenly again.

  ‘They ent had much use,’ commented Tom, noticing the anxious frown on Will’s face. ‘They’ll git stronger. Remember…’ but Will finished the sentence for him.

  ‘Everythin’ has its own time,’ and he laughed.

  It was good to see Will smile again. It made Tom feel lively, rejuvenated.

  ‘Breakfast in bed, sir?’ he said cheerily. ‘I takes it yer hungry.’

  Will nodded and grinned.

  Tom propped the pillows up and left him sitting happily with a book. Sammy snuggled in next to him. It was like the old days.

  Downstairs, Tom began to prepare a royal breakfast. As he broke an egg into the frying pan he started singing. He too felt released. While he was singing he heard a tap at the window. He looked up to find Zach peering in.

  ‘Come on in,’ he said.

  ‘I say,’ blurted out Zach excitedly as he ran breathlessly into the room. ‘He’s better, isn’t he?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘You can see him after he’s eaten his breakfast.’

  ‘Oh gosh, I can’t wait till then. He’ll take an age with that lot,’ he said, indicating the toast and mushrooms, egg and bacon. ‘You know what he’s like. He chews his food.’

  ‘That’s usual, ent it?’ remarked Tom in surprise.

  ‘Oh no. I just give mine a few bites and swallow it but he chews and chews. Couldn’t I sort of drape myself inconspicuously on a chair while he’s devouring that lot?’