Goodnight Mister Tom

by Michelle Magorian

‘With you!’ she repeated. ‘But you’re…’ She was about to say, a bad-tempered, frosty old… but she stopped herself.

  ‘I’m what?’ asked Tom.

  ‘You’re… so busy.’

  Too busy, she thought. He never helped or joined in any of the village activities and had ignored all the signs that a war was approaching. She leaned over the table and gasped. They were both carrying their gas-masks. She blinked and looked again. There was no mistaking it. The buff-coloured boxes were hanging over their shoulders. Mr Oakley, of all people, was carrying a gas-mask!

  ‘We ent got all day,’ said Tom sharply. ‘I’ll leave the boy here. I got shoppin’ to do.’

  Willie paled. Tom took a look at his face and groaned inwardly. How had he allowed himself to be landed with such a sickly, dependent boy, but Willie was sick with excitement, not fear. Even though he couldn’t read, the sight of books thrilled him.

  ‘’Ow many’s he allowed to have?’

  ‘Three,’ answered Miss Thorne.

  ‘Let him choose two with pictures and…’ He paused for an instant. He never liked asking anyone favours.

  ‘Yes?’ said Miss Thorne.

  ‘Choose one that you think would be suitable for me to read to him, like. He ent learnt yet. And I’ve forgotten what young ’uns like, see.’ He cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘One has to do one’s dooty, don’t one?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mr Oakley,’ she replied hastily. She watched Tom leave the library.

  ‘Now,’ she said, producing a pale blue card, ‘What’s your name? Your address I know,’ and she beamed wickedly at him.

  Meanwhile, Tom stepped out of the coolness of the bank. It was ominously close. People were still huddled in groups in the square, talking anxiously. Out of the corner of his eye he saw some wirelesses in a shop window. He paused in front of them.

  ‘Echo,’ he read, ‘Bakelite.’ There, on display, was a small ten-by-four-inch wireless. It was run on batteries that had to be recharged. Ideal for someone like him who had no electricity. It was made of light wood with two large circular openings, one with a fretted front, the other fitted with a dial. Something to think about if he had to leave the boy on his own like. Lot of money, though.

  ‘I must remember to get some Number Eights,’ he muttered to himself. Torch batteries were being bought up at an alarming rate. ‘And some underwear for the boy.’ He peered down at Mrs Fletcher’s crumpled list. ‘Wool,’ he read.

  Tom stopped at the corner of the small road near the corset shop and glanced down at the tiny alleyway where the artist’s shop stood. He hadn’t time, he thought, and he set off briskly towards the blacksmith’s, his rucksack and his bags already bulging. He had also a box of groceries to pick up and some wooden and cardboard boxes that he thought would be useful for Willie’s room.

  Within half an hour he was back at the library. He peered through the glass at the top of the door. Willie was kneeling on a chair absorbed in books, his elbows resting on a long wooden table. Miss Thorne towered beside him, pointing at something on one of the pages. Tom hesitated for a moment and then walked hurriedly on to the small road back towards the artist’s shop.

  ‘Forty-odd years,’ he muttered, staring into its window. ‘Is that how long it is?’

  He pushed the door ajar. It gave a loud tinkle. Even the same bell, he thought. He paused for an instant and then stepped inside.

  Willie felt a hand touch his shoulder. It was Tom. He was carrying a parcel.

  ‘Ready to go now,’ he said quietly.

  Willie had his finger on a large letter. ‘That’s an “O”, ain’t it, mister?’ Tom bent down to look. The book was filled with pictures of a marmalade coloured cat. ‘That’s right,’ said Tom. ‘You knows yer alphabet then?’

  ‘I nearly knows it.’ He looked up quickly. ‘Mister Tom,’ he asked timidly, ‘will you help me?’ He looked down at the book, clenched his hands and held his breath. Now he’d be for it. Don’t ask help from anyone, his mum had said. He waited for the cuff around the ear.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘I expect I can talk to Mrs Hartridge or whoever’s your teacher and ask what you need to practise.’

  Miss Thorne interrupted him. ‘Don’t go working him too hard. Looks like he could do with some of our country air.’

  ‘He’ll git plenty of that,’ snapped Tom. ‘There’s veg to plant and Dobbs to look after, and weeding.’

  Miss Thorne said no more. Poor boy, she thought, away from his loving home and now dumped with an irritable old man.

  Tom picked up Willie’s three books and gave them to him to carry. The one Miss Thorne had chosen was Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories.

  ‘It’s not very educational, I’m afraid, Mr Oakley.’

  ‘Did I say I wanted somethin’ educational?’

  ‘No, Mr Oakley.’

  ‘Then don’t put words in my mouth.’

  ‘No, Mr Oakley,’ and she suppressed a smile.

  After they had left, she stood in the doorway and watched them walking down the main street past the square.

  ‘What an odd couple,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Wait till I tell May!’

  ‘Run,’ roared Tom, and he and Willie tore down the pathway to the cottage. They were only just in time. The sky gave one almighty shake and split open. Rain and hail bounced on the tiled roof with such venom that Tom and Willie were quite deafened. They had to shout to make themselves heard. Sam growled and barked out of the front window.

  Tom put the blacks up, lit the lamps and began unpacking the parcels.

  ‘These are pyjamas, William,’ he said, lifting up two blue-and-white striped garments. ‘You wear them in bed.’

  ‘Pie-jarmers,’ repeated Willie copying Tom’s way of speaking.

  ‘That’s right. Now,’ he said, ‘you going to sleep in the bed tonight?’

  Willie looked startled.

  ‘Bed’s for dead people, ain’t it?’

  Tom stood up.

  ‘Come with me.’

  Willie followed him across the passage to Tom’s bedroom. He hovered in the doorway.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Don’t dally.’ Willie took a step in. ‘See this here bed. I’ve slept in it fer forty yer or more and I ent dead yet, and that basket at the end is Sammy’s bed, when he’s a mind.’

  They returned to the front room and, after a light tea of eggs and toast, Willie changed for bed and positioned himself by the armchair, next to Tom. The rain continued to fall heavily outside rattling the windows unceasingly.

  ‘I’ll have to fairly shout this story,’ yelled Tom above the noise.

  Willie sat in his crisp new pyjamas. It had felt strange the previous night going to bed without wearing his underpants; but this odd suit felt even stranger.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ he said. ‘Ain’t you goin’ to read from the Bible?’

  ‘Didn’t you like it from me head then, like last night?’

  ‘Yeh,’ said Willie, ‘yeh, I did.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think you’d understand all them long words anyways.’

  ‘No, Mister Tom,’ said Willie, feeling deeply relieved at not having to pretend any more. ‘Can I have Noah’s Ark again?’

  Tom related the tale for the second time and followed it with the daring exploits of Pecos Bill from the comic Willie had chosen.

  After a cup of cocoa Willie brushed his teeth over an aluminium bowl and then dashed out into the garden to the little wooden outhouse, wearing his mackintosh and a new pair of gumboots while Tom sheltered him with an umbrella.

  They carried the mattress upstairs between them. Tom placed a rubber sheet on it and made the bed over it, Willie helping him when he was able.

  ‘There,’ he said when they had finished. ‘You can wet the bed till Kingdom come.’

  ‘Mister Tom,’ whispered Willie. ‘Ain’t you angry wiv me?’

  ‘No,’ he grunted. ‘When I first had Sammy he peed all over the blimmin’ place. Takes time to settle into a new place and
its ways.’

  He turned down the blankets and Willie climbed in between the sheets. Sammy sat on the bump where his feet were.

  ‘I put yer comic and library books on yer table.’

  ‘Thanks, Mister Tom,’ and he bent down to pick up the book with the marmalade cat in it. Tom watched him tracing words with his fingers.

  ‘Ten minutes.’

  But Willie didn’t hear. He was lost in the coloured pictures. A loud knocking came from downstairs. Sammy leapt off the bed and started barking. Tom quickly checked that the blacks were firmly on Willie’s window and disappeared down the ladder, holding a squirming Sammy in his arms. Willie raised his head for a moment to listen.

  ‘Good evenin’, Mrs Fletcher,’ he heard Tom say in a surprised tone. ‘Come in.’

  He turned back to his book and soon Tom reappeared to blow the lamp out. The room was blanketed in darkness until the blacks were removed.

  ‘Goodnight, William,’ he said, tousling Willie’s hair. ‘Pot’s by the bed if you wants it.’

  Willie was exhausted. His head whirled with the names and faces of all the people he had met that day. He was just thinking about the boy in the Post Office when he fell instantly into a deep sleep.

  5

  ‘Chamberlain Announces’

  ‘Mornin’,’ said Tom, appearing at the trap-door.

  Willie opened his eyes and looked around. The sun was gliding in long flickering beams across the wooden floor.

  ‘Mornin’,’ he answered.

  ‘So you slept in the bed last night. Good.’

  Willie gave a tight smile which faded rapidly when he realized that the trousers of his new striped suit were soaking.

  Tom strode across the room. ‘Come and take a good sniff of this day,’ he said, pushing open the window. Willie blushed and clung on to the top of the blankets. ‘Never mind about them sheets and jarmers. I got a tub of hot water waitin’ for them downstairs.’ Willie climbed out of bed and joined him at the window.

  ‘Reckon that storm’s washed a few cobwebs away.’

  They rested their elbows on the sill and leaned out. It was a tight squeeze.

  Beyond the little road at the end of the graveyard stretched green and yellow fields and on the horizon stood a clump of woods. Tom pointed to some trees to the right of it.

  ‘The big Grange is over there. Nope, can’t see it. When the leaves fall from the trees you’ll jest be able to make it out. And over there,’ he said pointing to the left of the fields to where a small road wound its way up a hill, ‘is where one of yer teachers lives. Mrs Hartridge’s her name.’

  ‘Mister Tom, how many teachers is there?’ asked Willie.

  ‘Two. Mrs Hartridge teaches the young ’uns and Mr Bush the old ’uns.’

  ‘How old’s old?’

  ‘Eleven, twelve up to fourteen. Sometimes a clever one goes to the Grammar in the town. See them woods,’ he said. ‘There’s a small river flows through there to where the Grange is. ’Tis popular with the children round here.’

  They stared silently out at the gentle panorama until their reveries were interrupted by loud barking from the graveyard. Sammy was running up and down the pathway and yelping up at them.

  ‘Wants attention, he does,’ murmured Tom, drawing himself away from the window. ‘We’se got another busy day, William. Got to start diggin’ a trench fer the Anderson this afternoon. That’ll put muscles on you.’

  They stripped the bed between them and carried the sheets downstairs. Tom gently washed Willie’s body again and smoothed witch-hazel onto the sore spots.

  An assortment of clothes were lying on the table. Mrs Fletcher had brought them round the previous night. David, her youngest, had grown out of them and although he was younger than Willie he was a head taller. Tom handed him a white shirt from the pile and tied one of his own ties, a brown tweedy affair, around his neck. Willie’s grey trousers seemed more crumpled than ever, but with the braces attached to them they at least felt comfortable. He tucked the long tie into them. Tom handed him a new pair of grey woollen socks and Willie pulled the garters over them.

  ‘I put some oil on them boots last night,’ he said as Willie stood, his feet encased in them. ‘Yous’ll have to do them yerself tonight.’

  Tom had to be in the church early, to see Mr Peters, the vicar. He went on ahead while Willie staggered on after him. It was difficult for him to move in his new boots. They cut into his ankles and he couldn’t bend his feet to walk in them, but apart from the slight discomfort, he felt very protected and supported in them. They clattered on the flagstoned pathway and it pleased him to hear himself so clearly. His bony legs, which usually felt as if they would collapse beneath him, felt firmer, stronger.

  He found the back door of the church already open and Mister Tom talking to a tall, lanky man with piebald black and grey hair.

  ‘Ah, William,’ he exclaimed, turning towards him. ‘Mr Oakley tells me that you’re going to give us a hand. Those are the hymn books,’ he continued, indicating a pile of red books on a table by the main door. ‘Put four on each bench and if there are any over, spread them across the rows of chairs at the front and at the back. Do you think you can do that?’ Willie nodded. ‘Good.’ He turned back to Tom. ‘Now, where’s the best place acoustically for this wireless of mine?’

  Willie walked over to the table and picked up some books, feeling totally bewildered. Mum had said red was an evil colour but the vicar had told him to put them out so it couldn’t be a sin. He had also said that he was good. Mum had told him that whenever he was good she liked him but that when he was bad, she didn’t. Neither did God or anyone else for that matter. It was very lonely being bad. He touched the worn, shiny wood at the back of one of the pews. It smelled comfortable. He glanced at the main door. Like the back door, it was flung open revealing a tiny arched porch outside. Sunlight streamed into the church and through the stained glass windows, and a smell of grass and flowers permeated the air. A bird chirruped intermittently outside. P’raps heaven is like this, thought Willie to himself.

  He laid each book out neatly on the benches, his new boots echoing and reverberating noisily around him, but the vicar made no comment and carried on talking quite loudly, for someone who was in a church.

  He was arranging the books in the back row so that they were exactly parallel to each other, when two boys entered. They were both three or four years older than him. They sat on the second row of choir benches to the left of the altar.

  Suddenly it occurred to Willie that the church would soon be filled with people. He hated crowds and dreaded the Sunday service and its aftermath, which was usually a good whipping. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Mister Tom.

  ‘Stay with me, boy,’ he said in a low voice and Willie gratefully followed him into one of the pews.

  Within minutes, the tiny church was flooded with men, women and children. Four more boys sat by the altar. On the right of the altar were three men. Willie recognized Mr Miller from the corner shop and the young man behind the mesh in the Post Office.

  In the pew opposite Willie were two ginger-haired girls trying to smother their giggles. Their long carrot-coloured hair had been fought into plaits while the remainder stuck out in frizzy uncontrollable waves. They wore pale lemon and green summer dresses with short puffed sleeves and a cross stitching of embroidery round their chests. Their faces and arms were covered with the biggest freckles Willie had ever seen. Like him, they too carried their gas-masks over their shoulders. A lady at their side glared down at them. She must be their mother, Willie thought. Sitting next to her was a tall man with bright red hair and a young, dark-haired girl.

  Mr Peters and his wife stood by the main entrance greeting the congregation as they entered. Their three teenage daughters, cook and assortment of evacuees filled two of the pews in the front.

  A hacking cough from the porch heralded the arrival of Nancy Little and the Doctor. Willie gave a short gasp. She was wearing trousers to chu
rch! He watched the vicar’s face waiting for the thunderous ‘thou shalt be cast into the eternal fires’ glare but he only smiled and shook her hand. He was surprised to see Miss Thorne behind them.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ he whispered urgently, tugging at his sleeve. ‘Does that book lady live here?’

  Tom nodded.

  A short dumpy woman in her forties accompanied her. ‘That’s her sister, Miss May,’ he said in a low voice. ‘They lives in one of them cottages with the straw rooves. Thatched, that is. They got a wireless.’

  Willie turned to find the Fletchers with two of their sons moving into their pew. Mrs Fletcher leaned towards them.

  ‘Mr Oakley,’ she whispered. ‘I begun the balaclava.’

  Tom frowned her into silence. It was Willie’s birthday on Thursday and he wanted it to be a surprise.

  The wireless stood on a small table below the pulpit. The vicar fiddled with one of the knobs and the church was deafened with ‘How to make the most of Tinned Foods’, before it was hurriedly turned off. The twins had caught the eye of one of the boys sitting in the front row of the choir. He was a stocky boy of about eleven with thick straight brown hair. With heads bent and shaking shoulders the three of them buried their laughter in their hands.

  Mrs Hartridge and her uniformed husband entered. Willie gazed at her, quite spellbound. She was beautiful, he thought, so plump and fair, standing in the sunlight, her eyes creased with laughter.

  ‘Them be the Barnes family,’ whispered Tom as a group of men and women came on in behind them. ‘They own Hillbrook Farm. Biggest round here fer miles.’

  Mr Fred Barnes was a brick-faced, middle-aged man whose starched white collar seemed to be causing him an obstruction in breathing. Three healthy-looking youths and two red-cheeked young women were with him. His wife, a short, stocky woman, was accompanying two evacuees, a boy and a girl.

  ‘Trust ole Barnes to pick a strong-lookin’ pair,’ muttered Tom to himself.

  Lucy and her parents sat in front of Tom and Willie. She turned and smiled at them but Willie was staring at the colours in the stained glass windows and didn’t notice her.