Goodnight Mister Tom (3 page)

‘Now you jest shut that ole mouth,’ he whispered firmly, ‘there’s someone asleep.’ He knelt down and Sammy leapt into his arms lathering his face with his tongue. ‘I don’t need to ’ave a bath when you’re around, do I?’ Sammy continued to lick him until he was satisfied just to pant and allow his tail to flop from side to side. Tom lifted him up and carried him into the front room. As soon as he saw Willie asleep in the chair he began barking again. Tom put his finger firmly on his nose and looked directly into his eyes.

‘Now you jest take a rest and stop that.’ He picked up his pipe and baccy jar from the little table and sat by the range again. Sammy flopped down beside him and rested his head on one of Tom’s feet.

‘Well, Sam,’ Tom whispered, ‘I don’t know nothin’ about children, but I do know enuff not to beat ’em and make ’em that scared.’ Sammy looked up at him for a moment and flopped back onto his foot. ‘I don’t know,’ he said anxiously, ‘I ent ’ad much experience at this ’ere motherin’ lark,’ and he grunted and puffed at his pipe. Sammy stood up, wriggled in between Tom’s legs and placed his paws on his stomach.

‘You understand every blimmin’ word I say, don’t you? Least he ent goin’ to bury bones in my sweet peas,’ he remarked, ruffling Sammy’s fur. ‘That’s one thing to be thankful about.’ He sighed. ‘S’pose I’d best see what’s what.’ He rose and went into the hallway with Sammy padding after him. ‘Now you jest stay there,’ he said sternly and Sammy sat obediently on his haunches, though Tom knew it would not be for long. He took some steps that were leaning on the wall beside the coats and placed them under a small square trap-door above him. He climbed up, pushed the trap-door open and pulled down a long wooden ladder which fixed firmly into place on two strong clips along the opening.

The ladder was of thick pine wood. It was a little over forty years old, but since his young wife Rachel had died soon after it was made, it had hardly been used. He moved the steps to allow room for the ladder to reach the hall floor. A thick cloud of dust enveloped his head as he blew on one of the wide wooden rungs. He coughed and sneezed.

‘Like taking snuff,’ he muttered. ‘S’pose we’d best keep that ole ladder down fer a bit, eh, Sammy?’

He climbed down and opened the door opposite the front room. It led into his bedroom. Inside, a small chest of drawers with a mirror stood by the corner of the front window. Leaning up against the back wall was a four-poster bed covered in a thick quilt. At the foot of the bed, on the floor, lay a round basket with an old blanket inside. It was Sammy’s bed, when he used it, which was seldom. A blue threadbare carpet was spread across the floor with bits of matting added by the window and bed.

Beside the bed was a fitted cupboard with several shelves. Tom opened it. On the top two shelves, neatly stacked, were blankets and sheets and on the third, various belongings of Rachel’s that he had decided to keep. He glanced swiftly at them. A black wooden paint-box, brushes, a christening robe she had embroidered, some old photographs, letters and recipes. The christening robe had never been worn by his baby son for he had died soon after his mother.

He picked up some blankets and sheets and carried them into the hall. ‘I’ll be down for you in a minute, Sammy,’ he said as he climbed up the ladder. ‘You jest hang on there a bit,’ and with that Sammy was left to watch his master slowly disappear through the strange new hole in the ceiling.

2
Little Weirwold

Willie gave a short start and opened his eyes. In a chair opposite sat Tom who was drinking tea and looking at a book. Sammy, who had been watching the slight twitching movements that Willie had made in his sleep, now stood at his feet.

Tom looked up. ‘You feelin’ better?’ he asked. ‘You’se lookin’ better.’ He poured him out a mug of hot, sweet tea and handed it to him. ‘’Ere, you git that down you.’

Willie looked apprehensively at his feet which were now being sniffed by Sammy.

‘’E won’t harm you,’ said Tom. ‘’E’s a spry ole thing, but he’s as soft as butter, ent you, ole boy?’ and he knelt down and ruffled his fur. Sammy snuggled up between his knees and licked his face. ‘See,’ said Tom, ‘e’s very friendly.’ Willie tried to smile. ‘You want to learn somethin’ wot’ll make him happy?’ He nodded. ‘Hold one of yer hands out, palm up, like that,’ and he showed the inside of his rough brown hand. Willie copied him. ‘That’s so he knows you ent going to harm him, see. Now, hold it out towards him and tickle his chest.’ Willie leaned nervously forward and touched Sammy’s fur. ‘That’s the idea. You jest keep doin’ that.’

Willie stroked him. His fur felt silky and soft. Sammy gave his fingers a long lick.

‘’E likes you, see. When he licks you that’s his way of sayin’ “I likes you and you makes me happy”.’

Willie held his hand out stiffly while Sammy lathered it with his tongue.

‘Why does he sniff?’ he asked, as Sammy crawled under the blanket to get to his legs.

‘’E likes to know what everythin’ smells like so’s he knows who to say hello to and who not.’

‘Stop it!’ said Willie as Sammy put his nose into his crutch. ‘Naughty dog.’ Immediately Tom dragged him from under the blanket and he began barking and chasing his tail. ‘You’m gettin’ over excited, Sam. ’E needs a good romp in the fields,’ and he looked at Willie, and I reckon you do an’ all, he thought.

Willie pushed the blanket to one side, wormed his way to the end of the armchair and slid onto the floor.

‘Smells like rain,’ said Tom leaning out of the front window. ‘You got gumboots?’

Willie shook his head. ‘No, mister.’

‘Best put yer mackintosh on, anyways.’

The three of them trooped out into the hallway. Willie stared at the ladder.

‘That’s your room up there. Sort of attic.’

‘Mine?’ He didn’t understand. Did Mr Oakley mean he was going to have a room to himself? Tom handed him his mackintosh and nodded. Sammy leapt up excitedly.

‘Hang on a minute, Sam. We’se jest goin’.’

Tom looked at Willie’s mac on the way out and noticed how thin it was.

They walked down the pathway and out of the gate, Sammy leading, Tom striding after him and Willie running to keep up with them. It was late afternoon now. The sun hung in a fiery ball above the trees. A mild breeze shook the leaves and a few dark clouds scudded across the sky. Sammy ran backwards and forwards barking ecstatically.

‘That dog’s half mad,’ Tom said to Willie but found that he was talking to the air for Willie was several yards behind, still trying to keep up, his cheeks flushed with the effort.

‘You’re a quiet ’un. Why didn’t you tell me I was goin’ too fast?’ But Willie could not answer and only gasped incoherently.

Tom slowed down and Willie walked more easily beside him. He stared up at the gruff old man who was so kind to him. It was all very bewildering. He looked down at Tom’s heavy brown ankle boots, his thick navy overcoat and the green corduroy cap with the tufts of white hair sticking out at either side. A small empty haversack dangled over his shoulder.

‘Mister,’ he panted. ‘Mister!’ Tom looked down. ‘Can I carry your bag, mister?’

Tom mumbled something to himself and handed it to him. Willie hung on to it tightly with both hands.

The narrow road sloped gently upwards. Willie could just make out, in all the speed of their walking, the wild hedgerows flashing in low green lines beside him. It felt very unreal, like a muddled dream. When they reached the top of the hill Willie saw a row of small thatched cottages standing on either side of the road ahead. He tugged at Tom’s sleeve.

‘Mister,’ he gasped, ‘they got straw roofs.’

‘That’s thatch,’ said Tom.

‘Wot’s…’ but he bit his lip and kept silent.

Tom glanced down. ‘I got some pictures of them at home. We’ll have a look at them tonight.’

Willie squeezed the bag more tightly.

Across the road a plump, middle-aged woman with greying auburn hair was peering out of a window. She disappeared for an instant and opened her front door.

‘’Ello, Tom,’ she said, looking with curiosity at Willie.

He grunted. ‘Evening, Mrs Fletcher. How are the boys, then?’

‘Boys are doin’ nicely.’

‘William,’ said Tom, ‘go and keep an eye on Sam. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

Willie nodded shyly and went after Sammy who was eyeing the flowers in someone’s window box.

‘Skinny ole scrap, ent he?’ said the woman, sticking a loose grip firmly into her bun.

Tom gave another grunt.

‘I didn’t believe it was true when I heard,’ she continued. ‘I ent got room meself but Mrs Butcher got two to contend with. Girls, mind you, but they’re regular tearaways and Mrs Henley, she had three last week and they keep runnin’ away. Homesick, like,’ and she sighed and patted her chest.

‘How’s the knittin’ coming on?’ said Tom, changing the subject.

‘What you on about?’ she said, leaning back and looking at him. ‘Since when have you been interested in my knittin’?’

‘Since now,’ he replied shortly. He pushed his hands into his pockets and scraped one of his boots against a piece of stone. ‘Busy, are you?’ he asked.

‘No more ’n usual.’

‘Could do with a thick jersey. Not fer me mind,’ and he looked at Willie trundling on ahead.

‘You ent gotta clothe ’em, you know. They shoulda brought that with them.’

‘Well, he haven’t,’ said Tom gruffly. ‘Can you knit me a jersey or can you not, that’s what I’m askin’?’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘And,’ he continued, ‘you don’t know where I can get some good stout boots, small-like, and I don’t want no commentary, jest want to know.’

‘I’ll ask around.’

He mumbled his thanks and strode on up the road.

Mrs Fletcher stood quite motionless and stared after him, until she was sure he was out of earshot. ‘Madge,’ she cried, running into the next cottage, ‘Madge, you’ll die when I tell you…’

The road leading through the row of cottages extended into a long stretch of open country with lanes leading off it. A small shop inside the last cottage stood at the corner.

‘Won’t be long,’ said Tom, and he took the haversack from Willie and left him and Sammy sitting on the stone steps. Willie stared in amazement at the fields, his thin woollen socks heaped around his ankles. As Tom came out he became conscious of them again and quickly pulled them up. Sammy sniffed at the food in the bag and Tom tapped him tenderly on the nose and slung it on his back.

‘If I start gettin’ me stride up agin,’ he said to Willie, ‘you jest call out.’

It was a long, quiet road, the silence broken only by the whirring of a tractor in the distance. They turned to the right and walked down a tiny lane.

Willie’s attention was drawn to a small brown bird in one of the hedgerows. Tom stopped and put his finger to his lips and they stood and watched it hopping in and out among the changing leaves.

‘That’s a hedge-sparrow,’ he whispered. ‘See its beak. Very dainty.’ The bird looked up and flew away. ‘And shy.’

They carried on down the lane towards a farm. Sammy was already sitting waiting for them, his tail thumping the ground impatiently from side to side. They pushed open the long wooden gate where he sat. It squeaked and jingled on its hinges as they swung it behind them. Tom led Willie round the back of a large, cream-coloured stone house towards a wooden shed. A middle-aged man with corn-coloured hair and the bluest eyes Willie had ever seen was sitting on a stool milking one of a handful of cows. Willie gazed at the gentle way he fingered the udders and at the warm white liquid spurting down into a bucket underneath.

‘Mister,’ he said, tugging at Tom’s coat sleeve. ‘Mister, what’s that?’

Tom was astounded. ‘Ent you never seen a cow?’ but Willie didn’t answer. He was too absorbed in watching the swollen udders decrease in size.

‘I’ll be wantin’ extra milk from now on, Ivor,’ he said. Ivor nodded and glanced at Willie.

‘One of them London lot?’ he asked. Tom grunted. ‘You’d best take a jug with you. Roe’s inside.’

Tom tramped across the yard to the back of the house and up the steps. He carried Sammy in his arms as he had a habit of yapping at cows. Willie stayed to watch the milking.

A fresh-faced brunette woman in her thirties, wearing a flowery apron, opened the back door.

‘Come in,’ she said. ‘You’ll be wantin’ extra milk.’

‘How d’you know?’ said Tom.

‘Lucy saw you comin’ up the yard with him.’

A chubby six-year-old with brown curly hair, earth smudged over two enormous pink cheeks, was standing at her side, holding on to her skirt.

‘Don’t be so daft, gel,’ she said. ‘Go on, say hello to him. I got things to do.’

She clomped down the steps in her ankle boots and blue woollen dress, and stood shyly beside Willie, twisting the hem of her dress in her hand till her knickers came into view.

‘There ent much difference in size between them two,’ said Tom, observing them together. ‘I dunno what they do with little ’uns in that ole city,’ and he disappeared into the warmth of the kitchen.

After calling Willie several times and getting no response, he eventually gave up and tapped him on the shoulder.

‘’Ere, dreamer, you carry that,’ he said handing him a tin jug. ‘You can take a look if you’ve a mind.’

Willie lifted the lid and peered in. Fresh milk. Lucy stared at him. She’d never seen a boy so thin and pale-looking. She still hadn’t spoken and had only just, so she thought, heard his name.

‘Bye, dreema,’ she said suddenly and turned and fled into the house.

‘Where’s that ole thing?’ said Tom, looking round for Sammy. He caught sight of his black-and-white fur at the gate. He was sitting waiting for them with a bone in his mouth.

Willie looked at the front of the house. The woman called Roe was putting up some black material at the front window.

‘What’s she doin’?’ Willie asked.

‘Puttin’ her blackouts up, boy. We all got to do it from tonight.’

Willie was about to ask why: but he knew that was rude, so he kept silent.

‘It’s so planes don’t see where to bomb,’ continued Tom, as if he had read his thoughts. ‘Waste of time if you asks me. Reckon it’ll all be over be Christmas, and anyways who’d want to bomb lil’ Weirwold. That’s the name of this village,’ he added, ‘Little Weirwold.’ He looked up at the sky. It had suddenly become darker. ‘Best be movin,’ he said and they swung open the gate and set off at a jaunty pace back up the lane towards the main road. They had walked past the cottages and were half-way down the hill when the first drop of rain fell. As they neared the foot of the hill the sky opened and a heavy torrent fell mercilessly down. It blinded Willie and trickled down inside the collar of his mackintosh. Tom buttoned his overcoat up to his neck and raised his collar. He looked down at the drenched figures of the boy and dog. Willie had to run to keep up with them. His plimsolls were now caked in heavy clods of wet earth and his jersey was already wet from his soaked mackintosh.