Goodnight Mister Tom

by Michelle Magorian

  He concluded the dance with a double spin, springing sideways in the air and kicking his feet sharply together and as he did so he landed in a heap on the bed.

  George, the twins and Willie broke out into applause. Zach collapsed on the bed and grinned sheepishly at them.

  They were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Little. She stood and glared at them, brandishing a hefty piece of ceiling plaster in her hand.

  ‘Zach,’ she said, looking directly at him, ‘I presume you are responsible for this.’

  He looked up at her from the bed, his cheeks flushed with the exertions of his performance, the taps on his shoes exposed to her scrutiny.

  ‘Sorry, Aunt Nance,’ he began earnestly.

  ‘I know it’s difficult,’ interrupted Mrs Little, ‘but we don’t want to treat real casualties just yet so keep the noise down, will you?’

  Zach nodded and she opened the door out on to the landing and closed it behind her. They sat silently and listened to her footsteps fading away down the staircase. Zach undid his shoes.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Ginnie quietly. ‘You can show us again, another time.’

  ‘Not if this wretched drizzle continues and we have to stay indoors,’ he said. ‘It’s awful having to creep around all the time.’

  ‘You was fine,’ broke in Willie. ‘You was real fine.’

  Zach beamed.

  ‘Come on, slowcoach,’ urged George.

  Zach hurriedly unpacked a soft flat parcel.

  With a flourish he pulled out a jersey of many colours. The body and sleeves were knitted in coloured squares, red, yellow, green, black and orange. He struggled out of his old jersey and put it on. He even had to turn up the sleeves.

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’ he remarked. But the others could only stare at him in speechless amazement.

  ‘You ent goin’ to wear that, is you?’ said George

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Well, ’tis a bit bright, ent it?’

  ‘You’ll have Charlie Ruddles after you with blackout curtains,’ said Carrie. Ginnie giggled.

  Zach turned to Willie.

  The jersey had a polo-neck collar in red. The cuffs and the waistband were ribbed in the same colour. Willie thought that next to Zach’s deep complexion and black hair the red looked pleasing.

  ‘I think it’s fine,’ he said quietly, and Zach knew he was speaking truthfully.

  There were socks in the case, a scarf, cape and coloured tights, scraps of material and a pair of old black ankle boots with a label hanging on them. It read ‘Found these in the theatre wardrobe. No use to them. Too small. Have had them re-soled. Hope they fit you. If too big you can always stuff the toes. Love, Mummy.’

  He closed the case and passed the cakes around.

  ‘Where shall we meet tomorrow night?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s wrong with here?’ said Carrie.

  Zach pointed his thumb downwards.

  ‘There’s always something going on here in the evenings. If it’s not First Aid it’s the Knitting Socks for Icelandic Seamen Club.’

  ‘Well, there ent much room in our place,’ said George. ‘I share with David an’ he’s bound to keep comin’ in to see what we’se doin’ and Edward hasn’t had a room of his own ever. Now that Mike’s gone he guards it like it were a blimmin’ gold mine.’

  Zach turned to the twins.

  ‘How about your place?’

  The twins looked at each other.

  ‘We’ve a room between us,’ said Ginnie, ‘but there’s Sophie.’

  Sophie was their eight-year-old sister.

  ‘She’d be nosin’ in on us,’ said Carrie.

  Willie remained silent. He had a room. It was terribly private and precious, though. Dare he risk inviting them and asking Mister Tom’s permission? After all, he was still wetting his bed. He would hate the others to find out.

  ‘Zach,’ he began huskily. He cleared his throat. ‘There’s my room.’

  ‘Of course,’ he cried. ‘I’d forgotten. Could we meet at your place?’

  ‘I’ll ask Mister Tom,’ he said flushing slightly.

  ‘Well, that’s that settled,’ said Zach with finality. Willie was not so sure. ‘What’s the next game to be?’

  ‘Not Tarzan again,’ said George. ‘I’ve had enuffof bein’ an ape.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Zach, ‘I’ve got another idea brewing. How about Sherlock Holmes? You could be Moriarty, George.’

  ‘The arch enemy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Zach, surprised. ‘How did you know?’

  George raised his eyes. He was always the arch enemy and Carrie was invariably his evil assistant.

  ‘Does that mean I has to die or be rescued again?’ said Ginnie.

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ said Zach, a little perturbed. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, Will, you could be…’

  ‘Dr Watson,’ chorused George and the twins.

  Willie was always Zach’s faithful assistant and it was quite obvious, as soon as Sherlock Holmes was mentioned, that Zach would be the famous deerstalkered detective.

  ‘How about sittin’ in a tree waitin’ for badgers,’ suggested George. ‘Or seein’ if Spooky Cott is really haunted?’

  Spooky Cott was the name given to a deserted cottage. It was surrounded by an undergrowth of tangled bushes and trees. Over the years, several people had reported hearing strange sounds emanating from it. George and the twins dared not venture near it except in the broadest of daylight and even then they usually fled at first sight of it.

  ‘At night?’ asked Ginnie, and she shivered.

  ‘Yes, with a torch.’

  ‘Blackout regulations.’

  ‘Drat,’ said George.

  ‘What about a show?’ suggested Zach.

  ‘We’ve got the school Nativity play,’ said George, ‘and Miss Thorne is already producing something for the Women’s Guild.’

  They sat in silence, racking their brains for an idea.

  Suddenly Zach yelled.

  ‘I say, we could have a newspaper, a sort of Gazette!’

  ‘Yeh,’ said Willie, who really liked the idea, but the others thought he was only supporting Zach because he was his special friend. Carrie glanced at Ginnie, and George looked at Carrie and back to Zach.

  ‘Come to think of it, it ent a bad idea. I could do the animal bits.’

  ‘And I could do news from abroad and about the war,’ said Carrie.

  ‘Some war,’ groaned George. ‘It don’t seem like it’s even begun.’

  ‘And I could do a cookery and household tips column,’ piped in Ginnie.

  ‘What’ll you do, Zach?’ asked Carrie.

  ‘I’ll think of something, even if I have to put on a show myself.’

  ‘Village news,’ she cried. ‘Extraordinary events in Little Weirwold.’

  ‘Willie can do the illustrations and I think you’d better be Editor, Carrie,’ suggested Zach.

  ‘Me?’ she said. ‘Why me?’

  ‘’Cos you’re the brainy one,’ said George.

  ‘Let’s vote for it then,’ said Zach, and immediately everyone raised their arms.

  ‘Goodness,’ gasped Ginnie, catching sight of the clock. ‘We’ll have to go. We’ll be in trouble if we don’t run for it.’

  She, Carrie, and George grabbed their coats and fled out of the room and down the stairs.

  ‘When shall we meet?’ whispered Zach urgently after them.

  ‘Can’t tomorrer,’ said Carrie.

  ‘We’s babysittin’,’ said Ginnie.

  ‘Sophie sittin’,’ they added in unison.

  ‘How about Thursday then?’

  ‘Choir practice,’ said George.

  ‘Friday?’

  Friday was agreed.

  They hurriedly whispered their good-byes to each other and after the front door had been closed Willie followed Zach back into his bedroom.

  ‘Now,’ said Zach, jumping onto the bed, ‘I can read my letter,’ and he pulled
out the crumpled envelope from his shorts.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ he said, glancing at Willie who had sat down beside him.

  ‘No,’ answered Willie, ‘course not.’

  He wriggled back further on the bed till he was leaning up against the wall. He could hardly believe that Zach was his special friend. Zach said he was a good listener and that he was a sensitive being. Willie had thought being sensitive was being a sissie. Zach didn’t think so. He admired him for it. Admired him!

  He glanced over at Zach. He was lying sprawled across the pillow leaning on his elbow, his head propped to one side, reading the letter. There seemed to be pages.

  His own mother had written to Little Weirwold only once since his arrival eight weeks ago, and the letter had been addressed to Mister Tom. He had read it out to him but he knew that he’d missed out bits.

  He had actually written a letter of his own to her. His first ever. He’d even addressed the envelope, bought the stamp by himself and posted it. I expect she’s been too busy to answer, he thought, what with the war and everything. For a brief moment he thought of his home in London and brushed the memory aside.

  There was a knock on the front door downstairs and the sound of Mrs Little opening it.

  ‘That’s Mister Tom,’ said Willie, moving off the bed. Mrs Little called up to him.

  ‘I got to go.’

  ‘Bother,’ said Zach.

  They were at the top of the stairs when Zach touched his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t forget about the room, will you,’ he whispered.

  Willie shook his head and ran down the stairs.

  Tom was waiting for him at the bottom. Willie put his gaberdine and cap on and slung his gas-mask box over his shoulder.

  The sky was almost black when he and Tom stepped outside. A strong wind tore through the trees whipping the branches fiercely to one side while the rain swept across their faces. Tom put up the umbrella.

  ‘Best hang tight to my arm, boy,’ he yelled and together they leaned forward and tramped through the long wet grass to wrestle with the Littles’ gate.

  Willie clung firmly to him. He pulled his cap down over his eyes but the wind whistled bitterly through his ears.

  They passed the Bush family’s cottage and struggled by the Vicarage. The leaves flew and scattered around in fragments, brushing their bodies and sticking to their wet cheeks.

  They fought with the long gate into Dobbs’ field and Tom checked that she was sheltered. The wind tried to wrench the umbrella from his hands. He hung grimly on and wrestled with it until he could lower it in front of them. Half running, half walking, they fled through the back garden, narrowly missing the Anderson, and threw themselves into the passage-way, the leaves swirling in after them.

  They slammed the door behind them and panted and smiled in the darkness. It was as if someone had suddenly turned off the sound.

  Tom opened the sitting-room door and the silence was broken by Sammy as he came bounding out, leaping up at the pair of them barking excitedly. Willie hung his gaberdine and cap on his peg while Sammy stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on his stomach. Willie ruffled his fur.

  ‘Has he bin fed?’ he asked.

  ‘No lad, I left it fer you.’

  Willie grinned happily. It was one of his jobs to feed Sammy in the evenings.

  After he had fed him he wiped his boots dry with an old rag, put the kettle on and sat down at the table with pencil and paper.

  ‘’Tis late fer that,’ said Tom.

  ‘Just ten minutes,’ pleaded Willie. ‘Mrs Black ses if I can do me letters and me capitals better, I can start joined up writin’ soon.’

  ‘No longer, though.’

  ‘Ta,’ and with that he began writing.

  Tom made the tea and took down two large white mugs from hooks hanging by the window. One had a letter T on it, the other a letter W.

  Since Willie was so desperate to be accepted in Mrs Hartridge’s class Tom had been helping in every possible way. He had stuck labels in various places so that Willie would associate an object with a word, until after a time Willie labelled them himself. He glanced at all the bits of paper hanging higgledy-piggledy on the furniture and walls. He hoped that Willie would manage to get into Mrs Hartridge’s class before she left. It had been announced only a month ago that she was expecting her first child and would probably be leaving after the spring term.

  He glanced at Willie who had now finished writing. He was sitting quietly, drinking his tea.

  It wasn’t until after he had gone to bed that Willie asked about the room. He had remained subdued for the rest of the evening, glancing at Tom and looking away. It was Tom who finally eked it out of him.

  He had gone up as usual to turn Willie’s lamp down and had found him sitting up in bed with one of his library books lying open on his knees. Instead of tracing the pages with his finger as he usually did, he was staring vacantly into space. He came over to him, closed the book and put it on his table.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, crouching under the eave and seating himself comfortably at the foot of his bed, ‘what’s it all about, eh?’

  Willie looked at him, startled.

  ‘What’s eatin’ you? You bin in a brown cloud ever since supper.’

  Willie took a deep breath.

  ‘You see,’ he began, ‘Edward won’t let George in his room ’cos of the war and Zach ses they’re knittin’ boots in the sittin’ room and the twins ses they might, only…’

  ‘Slow down,’ said Tom, ‘and gets to the point.’

  ‘Mister Tom,’ he said breathlessly, ‘could I have George and Zach and Carrie and Ginnie up here in this room?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. They bin thrown out of their homes?’

  ‘No. It’s jes there ain’t much room at George’s and Zach ses…’

  ‘No need to explain. This is your room. You does what you like, only…’ he warned pointing his pipe in Willie’s direction, ‘if there’s any mess you has to clear it up. Understand?’

  ‘Yeh. Course,’ said Willie.

  ‘When is they wantin’ to come?’

  ‘Fridee.’

  ‘Frideh ’tis then.’

  He stood up and kissed his forehead.

  ‘Night, lad,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Mister Tom,’ said Willie, as he turned to turn the lamp down.

  ‘Yis?’

  ‘They don’t know about, you know,’ and he patted the blankets with his hands.

  ‘The bed-wettin’? You ent ashamed of that, is you?’

  Willie nodded.

  ‘Ent no need to mention it. I’ll makes yer bed up before the evenin’ so’s they won’t see the rubber. That do?’

  ‘Yeh. Ta.’

  The room was blanketed in darkness until Tom removed the blackout curtain.

  ‘Night,’ he said again and he disappeared down the steps, closing the trap-door after him. Willie leaned his head back on his upraised hands. He glanced at the slanting window pane. The rain was running down the glass in tiny sparkling rivulets. He snuggled down into the warm blankets. He never thought that he would ever come to love the rain, but he did now. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the patter, patter, patter of it gently and rhythmically hitting the tiled roof above his head.

  11

  Friday

  Mrs Fletcher was bending over the last of a bed of weeds, hoping finally to rid herself of them before her husband returned from the potato harvesting. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps and loud barking. She looked up vacantly. It was Tom Oakley. Easing herself gently to her feet she leaned slowly backwards. Her spine gave a soft cracking sound.

  ‘Back early, ent you?’ she remarked. ‘You’se ent finished, has you? I ent started tea fer Ben yet.’

  ‘He’s stayin’ on,’ said Tom. ‘I decided I’d come home early tonight. Boy’s got friends comin’ round. Your George fer one.’

  ‘So he said.’

/>   Tom grunted.

  ‘I jest thought I’d be around like, in case he needs anythin’. Tends to git over-excited.’

  A strand of auburn hair fell across Mrs Fletcher’s eyes. She brushed it aside.

  ‘Don’t seem so long since his birthdee, do it?’

  ‘Two months,’ commented Tom absently, and he gazed down the road remembering how he watched Willie’s thin little hunched body stumbling after Sammy on that first day.

  ‘You heard from his mother yet?’

  ‘I had a letter last week. Mostly about him bein’ bad and me watchin’ him, like. I wish he would be bad. He says “Yes” or “dunno” to every blessed thing I ses.’

  Mrs Fletcher laughed.

  ‘I wish George would.’

  She picked up a bucket filled with weeds.

  ‘What about this six shilluns contribution then?’

  ‘That’s what she wrote about. Ses she can’t pay yet but it’ll be on its way. Ses it means she won’t be comin’ to see the boy fer Christmas.’

  ‘Shame on ’er,’ tutted Mrs Fletcher.

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Tom. ‘He’s changed quite a bit in these last few weeks.’

  So has you and all, thought Mrs Fletcher.

  ‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘I almost fancy he’s grown a bit. It won’t do him no harm to be out of his mother’s apron-strings fer a bit longer. She puts the fear of the divvil into him anyways.’

  He leaned across the gate in a confidential manner.

  ‘Do you know, Mrs Fletcher, last week he laughed. It were a bit of a nervous one like, but he actually laughed. It were the first time I ever heard him do it. Didn’t think he had a sense of humour in him.’

  Mrs Fletcher looked steadily into his eyes. His forehead had lost its old furrowed look. The deep pitted wrinkles above his eyes had softened outwards. Behind his scowling manner was a kindly old man and if it hadn’t been for the arrival of a rather insipid little boy, she might never have known, nor might anyone else for that matter.

  A breeze shook a half-naked tree, causing a handful of leaves to cascade into the garden.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Fletcher, ‘now that you’re here you might as well take the jersey and socks. I finished them last night.’