Goodnight Mister Tom

by Michelle Magorian

  As soon as the record had come to an end and the needle swung indolently and repeatedly in the centre of it, he pushed himself firmly to his feet and grabbed his balaclava and coat.

  ‘I must leave, get back,’ he choked out, hoarsely.

  Geoffrey nodded and showed him to the door. He squeezed Will’s shoulder gently.

  ‘Better to accept, than pretend that he never existed,’ he said quietly.

  Will didn’t want to hear. His eyes were blurred and his body hurt all over. He stumbled into the darkness and instead of leaving through the gap in the hedge he found himself free of it and headed blindly in the direction of the woods and river.

  Tripping and falling over the roots of trees, he scratched his face against unseen branches. A disturbed owl screeched loudly and flew above his head but he hardly heard it. At last he finally reached the river. He stood by it staring at its glassy surface, his chest and shoulders pounding, his gut aching. He felt again Zach’s presence next to him, felt him staring up at the starry night and coming out with some strange fragment of poetry.

  ‘No, no,’ he whispered, shaking his head wildly. ‘No, no. You’re not here. You’ll never be here,’ With one angry sob he picked up a dead branch and struck it against a tree trunk until it shattered. Wildly he picked up any other branches he could find and smashed them, hurling the broken bits into the river not caring if he hurt any animals that might be hibernating nearby for he felt so racked with pain that he no longer cared about anything else but the tight knot that seemed to pierce the very centre of him. He was angry that Zach had died. Angry with him for going away and leaving him.

  With an almighty force of venom he tore one tiny rotting tree up by its roots and pushed it to the ground. Catching his breath for a moment he stood up stiffly and looked up through the branches of the trees.

  ‘I hate you, God. I hate you. You hear me? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.’

  He stood, yelling and screaming at the sky until he sank exhausted and sobbing on to the ground.

  He had no idea how long he had lain there asleep. It felt like a year. Slowly he crawled to his feet rigid and shivering. He hauled himself up the bank and stumbled through the woods.

  Tom was waiting for him by the gate. He was about to give Will another five minutes before heading out towards Spooky Cott when he heard light footsteps coming along the road. He peered through the darkness and caught sight of a blond tuft of hair sticking out of Will’s balaclava. His face was covered in earth and tearstains and his lips and eyelids were swollen and puffy.

  ‘Come on in,’ he said, breaking the silence, and he put an arm round Will’s shoulders as they walked along the pathway to the cottage. Just as he was opening the front door Will turned quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d be worried, like. I had to be on me own, see. I had to. I forgot about you. I didn’t think. Sorry.’

  ‘You’re home now,’ said Tom. ‘You look fair whacked. You’d best get washed and go to bed.’

  It wasn’t until Will was asleep and Tom was lying in his own bed that he allowed the full impact of Will’s words to sink in.

  ‘He called me Dad,’ he whispered croakily into the darkness. ‘He called me Dad.’ And, although he felt overwhelmed with happiness, the tears ran silently down his face.

  ‘Will!’ cried Aunt Nance, opening the back door. She was speechless for a moment. ‘Come in! Come in!’

  Will stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘Mulled wine?’ she began and then stopped herself. Mulled wine was Zach’s nickname for hot blackcurrant juice.

  ‘Yeh. Please,’ answered Will, and he sat down and watched her making it.

  ‘We’ve missed you coming round,’ she said, handing it to him and joining him at the table. She lit half a cigarette lovingly as if it was the last one left in Great Britain, took a deep drag and began coughing violently.

  ‘I’ve left Zach’s room as it was,’ she said, recovering.

  Will nodded and blew into his drink.

  ‘Doctor Little and myself, we didn’t want to touch anything until you’d been, until you wanted us to. All right?’

  Will looked up and smiled.

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘Good,’ and she sat back, feeling relieved.

  ‘Can I ride his bike?’

  Mrs Little wasn’t quite sure if she had heard correctly.

  ‘What?’ she queried. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Can I ride his bike?’

  ‘Zach’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you want.’ She stared at him for a moment. ‘You’ll probably have to lower the seat.’

  ‘Yeh. I know.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could ride.’

  ‘I can’t. Not yet. But I will.’

  ‘It’s in the Anderson. It’ll probably need oiling and pumping up.’

  ‘Has you got any oil?’

  ‘Yes. And there’s a pump attached to it.’

  She rose from the table and opened a door leading to a pantry. In a large box below the bottom shelf was a collection of tools and string. She bent over it, moving the bits and pieces from one side to another.

  ‘Ah,’ she cried, waving a spanner in the air. ‘I’ll lower the seat for you.’

  ‘No,’ said Will, rising to his feet. ‘I want to do it meself.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeh.’

  ‘I tell you what, you do the dirty work and I’ll hold the bike steady for you.’

  He was about to refuse but changed his mind.

  ‘Right-ho,’ he said and then blushed, for that was one of Zach’s expressions.

  They dragged the bicycle out of the shelter and wiped the moistness off with an old dry rag, oiled it and reset the back wheel, as it was leaning heavily against the frame. The chain, which was loose, hung impotently against the pedals. Will took hold of it and placed it firmly and gently back into place. One of the inner tyres had a hole in it. With the help of Aunt Nance and Zach’s puncture kit, he patched it up. He wiped the mudguards and scraped the rust away from around the handlebars. It was a strange feeling working on the bicycle, like touching a part of Zach.

  He wheeled it round the cottage and through the long, overgrown grass. He was just struggling with the gate when Mrs Little came running after him, carrying a small canvas shoulder-bag of Zach’s.

  ‘I’ve made you a few jelly sandwiches,’ she gasped breathlessly, her thin chest heaving, ‘and there’s a bottle of ginger beer inside.’ He gazed at the bag uncertainly.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said at last.

  Taking the bag, he put it over his head so that it hung loosely and securely across his back. Mrs Little pulled at the gate to let him out and watched him wheel the bicycle down the lane.

  As Will approached the cottages he could feel his ears burning. He turned left and avoided looking around in case anyone noticed him. He was playing truant from school, a thing he had never done in his life. Unnoticed by him, Emilia Thorne was standing by the school window and she observed him, saying nothing.

  Will carried on until he was well out of sight of the cottages and when he had found a reasonably smooth stretch of road he swung his leg over the saddle and sat still for a moment. He placed the toe of his boot on one of the pedals. Gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath, he pushed it down and wobbled forward. The bicycle curved and swooped into a near-by hedge. He picked himself up and climbed back on to the seat. Again the bicycle skidded over to one side so that he grazed his knees on the rough road. Undaunted, he clambered back on again and each time he swerved and fell, he only grew more determined.

  In spite of the hoar frost that covered the hedgerows and surrounding fields, learning to ride was hot work and soon his overcoat was left dangling from the branch of a near-by tree.

  At times he managed to keep the bicycle balanced for a few yards only to swerve into another clump of brambles or icy nettles. He could hear his Dad’s words over an
d over again inside his head. ‘Takes yer time, everythin’ ’as its own time.’ But whether it was because it was Zach’s bicycle or because the colours were so intense, he felt frustrated and impatient. He wanted to learn now. When, at last, he managed to ride it for a reasonable distance he rewarded himself with Aunt Nance’s blackcurrant jelly sandwiches and the ginger beer. Perspiration trickled down his face and into his shirt and jersey. Soon the crisp January air was freezing it into a cold clammy sweat. He hung the bag on a branch and pushed the bicycle forward. The break had been a good idea for when he set off again it seemed easier, far less of a struggle.

  Soon he began to grow confident. He put his coat back on, leaving it undone and slung the bag over his head and shoulder. He understood now why Zach loved riding so much. There was a marvellous feeling of freedom once you’d got the hang of it.

  As he rode, his coat flapping behind him, the crisp wind cooling his face, he suddenly felt that Zach was no longer beside him, he was inside him and very much alive. The numbness in his body had dissolved into exhilaration.

  ‘Yipee. Calloo Callay,’ he yelled.

  The bicycle shuddered over the small rough road jangling his bones in such a way that he wanted to laugh.

  ‘Wizzo,’ he cried, steering the bright machine with a new dexterity round a corner. He stopped abruptly. A steep hill had conquered his unused bicycle legs. He wheeled it up to the brow. It was wonderful to stand at the top with the bicycle leaning gently against his body. He looked down at the wide stretch of fields and woods and tiny icy streams. The sky was pale and cloudless. A small patch of sunlight was eking its way through the woodland’s dark branches. He breathed in deeply. ‘Zach isn’t dead,’ he murmured. ‘Not really. Not the inside of Zach,’ and he gazed happily down at the fields. ‘No one can take memories away and I can talk to him whenever I want.’

  He watched the sun gradually sinking into the roots of the trees.

  ‘Now, Zach,’ he said out loud. ‘What shall I do now?’

  ‘I should return slowly and leisurely back,’ he replied to himself, ‘and pop in to see Annie Hartridge.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Will.

  ‘And oh, I say,’ continued the imaginary Zach. ‘Jolly well done. Learning to ride my bike,’ and Will patted himself on the back.

  He turned the bicycle and cycled back down the hill, controlling the fast decline with his brakes. It was even more pleasurable to ride after his little sojourn on the hill. He was more relaxed, more at peace with himself.

  He was winding his way round a corner when he caught sight of Annie Hartridge’s cottage. He wheeled the bicycle to her front door and leaned it against the wall.

  ‘I’ll knock,’ said ‘Zach’ and he took hold of the brass knocker and banged it vigorously against the door.

  Annie opened it, holding a telegram in her hands. She was crying.

  ‘Oh hello, Will,’ she said, half-laughing.

  ‘Come in, do come in.’ She closed the door behind him. ‘I’ve just had the most wonderful news. Mr Hartridge is alive. He’s in a Prisoner of War camp in Germany. We can write to each other and I can send him Red Cross Parcels, food parcels. Oh Will!’ she cried. ‘I’m so happy. I can’t believe it. I want to write to him right now.’

  She looked at Will’s grubby face and followed his body down to his feet.

  ‘What have you been doing? You’re covered in grazes and scratches.’

  ‘I’ve been learning to ride Zach’s bike,’ he said absently. Annie was speechless for a moment.

  ‘Did you manage to stay on it?’ she said at last.

  ‘Eventually,’ he answered, plunging his hands into his shorts pocket and leaning on one leg.

  ‘Why you…’ but she stopped. She was about to say that he looked and sounded a little like Zach. He had an extrovert air about him, that was unusual in Will.

  During the weeks that followed the bicycle-riding incident everyone noticed a dramatic change in Will, especially Emilia Thorne. She had decided to do her own version of Peter Pan. She cast Will to play Peter Pan but to her surprise he stood up in the hall, and in front of everyone said, ‘I’d like to play Captain Hook, may I?’

  Miss Thorne had been a little taken aback. Captain Hook was a comic flamboyant role.

  ‘Let’s try you out,’ she said, after recovering her breath.

  Will surprised her and everyone in rehearsals. Unbeknown to the others, while working on his lines up in his room, he would place a cushion in front of himself and say ‘Zach, how do you think I should say this line?’ or ‘How do you think Hook’s feelin’ in this bit, when the crocodile appears for the third time?’

  Then he would sit on the cushion and not only answer his questions as Zach but even deliver the lines as him.

  The play was a great success. Will had people laughing helplessly at his angry Hook outbursts of temper and his cowardly flights from the crocodile. It was so obvious that the audience loved Will, that when several of the children pushed him forward to take a separate bow the hall erupted into cheers.

  Tom was terribly proud of him but then he had been for a long time. He met him outside the tiny back door which led to the communal dressing-room behind the stage, and they walked home chatting in animated tones all the way back to their graveyard cottage.

  As Will lay back in his bed that night he felt a little sad, in spite of all the applause. He was sad that Zach hadn’t been there to share it. He realized now that the Zach he had been talking to for the last few weeks was a person created from his own imagination and a handful of memories. It was just that the Zach part of himself, the outgoing, cheeky part of himself, had been buried inside him and it was his friendship with Zach that had brought those qualities to the surface.

  He snuggled down deep into the blankets and was just about to fall asleep when he gave a sudden start.

  I’m not half a person any more, he thought. I’m a whole one. I can live without Zach even though I still miss him.

  He turned over and listened to the wind howling through the graveyard. He was warm and happy. He sighed. It was good to be alive.

  23

  Postscript

  Squatting down with a trowel in his hand Will surveyed what was now the garden. Since the Dig for Victory campaign, he and Tom had pulled up all the flowers and had been planting vegetables in every available space. It was a shame really. The flowers had looked so colourful. All that remained now were neat brown rows with tufts of greenery sticking out of them.

  He pushed the sleeves of his jersey up. He was wearing Zach’s old red one with the hundred darns. Sticking the trowel firmly into the earth he began to dig a small trench. As he loosened the earth, several startled worms slithered away. He watched their gleaming bodies heading for the cabbage patch.

  Will sat back on his heels and took a handful of seeds from a paper bag. Picking them tenderly one by one, he placed them in the trench. He was so absorbed in his task that he was oblivious to footsteps approaching the gate. He heard it clanging as it bounced to a close and looked up. It was Carrie. She was running down the pathway, her face flushed.

  ‘Did you get them?’ she panted.

  He nodded. ‘They’se in my room. You want them now?’

  She glanced down at his earth-stained hands. ‘I could go and get them myself. You going to be long with that?’

  ‘Just got two more rows. Then I’m finished.’

  ‘Can we go down the river?’

  Will looked surprised. ‘Ent you got no more chores?’

  She shook her head and grinned. ‘I climbed out the window. It was the only way. As soon as I finish one job she finds me another one. If she sees me with so much as my fingers on a book she jes gets hoppin’ mad.’

  ‘I thought she was better now.’

  ‘She is, but she still thinks readin’ is being idle.’

  She squatted down beside him and stared intently into his eyes.

  ‘If I don’t read a book soon I think I’ll ex
plode.’

  Will laughed. ‘Well, don’t do it over me plantin’.’

  ‘Have you another trowel? I could give you a hand, then we could clear off quick. If she finds me here I’ll have to go back home.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Look, you go up to my room. If she comes round she’ll see I’m on me own. We can go up to the river on the tandem. I’ll lower the other seat.’

  Carrie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Wizard!’ and she sprang to her feet and made towards the cottage. ‘Oh,’ she cried despondently, swinging round. ‘How can I ride, wearing this?’ and she tugged at the pale green wollen dress she was wearing. ‘Won’t the crossbar make it go up?’

  Will frowned for an instant and then hit on an idea.

  ‘You can wear a pair of my shorts!’

  Carrie looked doubtful. Will was a head smaller than her.

  ‘Or Zach’s, they’d fit you.’

  ‘I daren’t,’ she said, feeling quite excited at the prospect. She’d been asking her mother for ages if she could wear shorts but had been told that she’d turn into a boy if she did and no man would want to marry her. Her father had said it was all right by him but he had already let her have her own way about the high school and didn’t want to cause any more friction.

  ‘Why not?’ said Will.

  ‘You don’t think I’ll turn into a boy if I wear them?’

  Will looked up at her. Her hair stuck out in little wispy curls round her forehead and ears. Two pale green oval eyes stared down at him above permanently freckled cheeks.

  ‘Carrie, you don’t look anythin’ like a boy and who cares if you do.’

  ‘Yes, anyway,’ she said, suddenly feeling appalled at the thought, ‘I don’t want to get married. Imagine having to do housework all the time, every day. Yuk!’ and with that she turned and ran into the cottage.

  Will found her sprawled across his bed engrossed in a book. She jumped, raised her eyes guiltily and slammed the covers automatically to a close. She laughed.

  ‘I thought you were Mum!’

  Will strode across to a box in the corner where several of Zach’s old clothes were folded neatly inside. He lifted up a pair of red corduroy shorts with patches on the seat and found a green pair underneath that were less threadbare.