Goodnight Mister Tom (22 page)

‘But I learnt at the school and Mister Tom and Miss Thorne helped me.’

‘My, you do seem to have taken up a lot of people’s time. They must be glad to see the back of you.’

‘No, Mum, they ent. They…’ he hesitated. ‘They…’

‘They what?’

‘They like me.’ It felt so good to say that.

‘That’s show, Willie. You’re an evacuee and they were just being polite.’

‘No, Mum!’

‘You are committing the sin of pride, Willie, and you know what happens to people who commit the sin of pride.’

Willie was growing more and more confused. It was as if he was drifting into some bad dream.

Mrs Beech tapped the table gently.

‘That’s enough for now, Willie. We don’t want to quarrel on our first night, do we?’

He shook his head.

Willie? That was the other thing that felt strange to him. Nobody had called him that for six months. ‘Will’ felt comfortable and even his full name, William, sounded fine, although he had always felt like a Willie inside. Suddenly, now, when his Mother referred to him as Willie it was as though she was talking to someone else. He felt like two people. He knew she wouldn’t accept the Will side of him, only the Willie, and he didn’t feel real when she called him that.

She leaned towards him.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Willie,’ and she forced a smile which, for some reason, alarmed him, seeing the shape of it under those dead colourless eyes.

‘It’s a little surprise only,’ she added, ‘we have to creep into the house. No one must see you. It’s,’ she hesitated. ‘It’s like a game,’ and she immediately felt relieved at having thought of the idea.

‘No one must see me?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

She frowned and then put on the smile again. ‘You’ll see. It’s a surprise. It’ll be spoilt if I tell you.’

He nodded. He didn’t really feel sick in his stomach. He was just imagining it, wasn’t he? It was her that was ill, not him.

‘And then you can show me your cake and presents.’

‘Yeh,’ he said, visibly brightening. ‘I can show you me pictures.’

She waved him to stop. She didn’t want him talking again.

‘Yes, of course, but right now I’ve got a headache. It can wait, can’t it?’

They left the café and caught a bus. The windows of the bus were covered in what looked like chicken netting.

‘Why is that there?’ he asked.

‘It’s rude to ask questions and it’s rude to point. Behave yourself,’ she whispered.

‘Missed London tahn, did you, luv?’ said the bus conductress, as she took their fares. It was the first woman Willie had ever seen working on a bus.

‘Borin’ in the country, so I hear. All them cows. Still you know it is safer there,’ and she winked at his mother. ‘You miss them though, don’t you, luv.’

She nodded, put her arm stiffly round Willie’s shoulder and switched on the smile.

‘Yes, and he’s all I’ve got.’

‘Don’t tell me. I’ve five of me own. I’ve given up sendin’ them off. It don’t seem worth it, do it really. Nothin’ much happenin’. Hardly seems as if there’s a war on at all, do it.’

‘No,’ replied his mother politely.

Willie shivered at the iciness of his mother’s rigid body. Having her arm round him made him feel nauseous. His own mother made him feel ill. Perhaps he really was wicked after all.

The bus crawled along slowly in the blackout until at last they reached Deptford. They stepped off and the conductress yelled ‘Good night’ to them.

Mrs Beech led Willie round the back of their street. She told him to hide in an alleyway and watch their front door. As soon as she had opened it and coughed he was to run in. It was a strange game, thought Willie. He slid his hand into his shorts pocket and felt Zach’s poem. It helped him feel less unreal.

He had not been standing long when he heard the cough. Picking up the rucksack and bags he dragged them across the pavement. His mother whispered angrily to him to hurry up. She was frightened. She didn’t want anyone in the street to know that he was back. He stumbled into the front room which was still in darkness. There was a strong dank smell coming from somewhere. It was as if an animal had opened its bowels or peed somewhere.

‘Is it a dog?’ he asked.

‘Is what a dog?’

‘The surprise.’

‘What surprise? Oh that. No, it’s not a dog.’

She turned the light on.

The room was darker than Willie had remembered. He stared up at the grey walls. There were two prayer books on the mantelpiece, and one on the small sideboard, still in the same position. In addition to the newspaper over the windows, it was also criss-crossed with brown tape.

‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

‘What have I said about asking questions!’ she shouted, slamming her hand angrily on the table.

‘Don’t,’ said Willie, startled.

‘Are you telling me not to…’

‘No,’ interrupted Willie. ‘I meant, don’t ask questions. That’s what you say. You say I mustn’t ask questions.’

‘And don’t interrupt me when I’m speakin’.’

They stood, yet again, another awkward silence between them.

Willie turned away from her and then he saw it. A wooden box on a chair in the corner. He was about to ask what it was but changed his mind, walked over to it and looked inside.

‘That’s the surprise,’ she said.

He put his hand inside.

‘A baby,’ he whispered. ‘But why?’ He stopped and turned. ‘It’s got tape on its mouth.’

‘I know that. I didn’t want her to make a noise while I was out. It’s a secret, you see.’

‘Is it?’ he hesitated. ‘Is it yours?’

‘Ours.’

‘A present?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who from?’

‘Jesus.’

He glanced down at the baby. She was very smelly. She opened her eyes and began to cry.

‘I’ll pick her up,’ he said, leaning towards her.

‘Don’t you dare.’

‘But she’s cryin’.’

‘She’s just trying to get attention. She must learn a little discipline.’

‘But, but,’ he stammered, ‘she’s only a baby.’

‘Sit down!’ she yelled. ‘Immediately.’

Willie sat at the table.

‘Has she a name?’

She brought her fist down hard on the table.

‘No! And that’s enough questions from you or you’ll feel the belt round you.’

Willie flushed. The belt! It was still at Mister Tom’s. He’d keep his mouth shut. Maybe she’d forget.

‘Now let’s see what you’ve got in those bags. And take that coat off.’

He hung it on the back of the chair, stuffing his balaclava and gloves into the pockets. He emptied the carrier bag first. He took out his old plimsolls with the tops cut off.

‘They got too small,’ he explained and placed his thin grey jersey, shorts, cap, mackintosh and Bible on the table beside them.

‘I see you’ve still got your Bible,’ she said. ‘You’ve been keeping up with it, I hope, and learning it.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

She leant back in her chair.

‘Recite Exodus
Chapter one
, verses one to six.’

Willie stared at her blankly.

‘I don’t learn them by rote, Mum. I learns the stories like. I can tell you lots of stories, Old and New Testament.’

‘I’m not interested in stories. You learnt by rote before you left here.’

‘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