Goodnight Mister Tom (21 page)

Willie nodded.

A cloud of smoke drifted upwards from a clump of trees in the distance. They watched it getting nearer and heard the sound of the approaching train growing louder. They stood up and Mister Tom picked Sammy up in his arms.

‘Now you takes care of yerself, boy. You keeps up that ’ole drawrin’. You’ve a fine gift. If you runs out of pencils, you lets me know.’

Willie nodded and his eyes became misty. He blinked. Tears fell down his cheeks. He gave a sniff and brushed them quickly away.

‘Ta,’ he said.

Tom swallowed a lump in his throat.

‘I’ll miss you,’ said Willie.

Tom nodded.

‘Me too.’

They watched the train drawing into the station. A crowd of soldiers and sailors were hanging out of the windows. Tom opened a door. One of the soldiers, a young lad of eighteen, caught sight of the anxious look in Tom’s eyes and he helped Willie on board.

‘Dinna you fret, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ll find ’im a seat o’right.’

Tom nodded his thanks and clasped Willie’s shoulder as he hung dejectedly out of the door window.

The whistle blew. They choked out their good-byes waving to each other till the train and platform were out of each other’s sight.

‘Here you are,’ said the young soldier.

He had persuaded another soldier to let Willie squeeze into a place by the window.

‘Will that do ye, lad?’

Willie nodded, relieved that he could stare out of the window. He didn’t want anyone to see his face. He placed his rucksack onto his knees and hung on to it grimly.

At first, the soldier left him alone, but later decided to try and cheer him up.

‘What’s yer name then?’

‘William Beech.’

‘Where are ye gooin’?’

‘London.’

‘Ah thought you bairns were bein’ moved oot,’ he said. ‘You miss home then, do ye?’

He shrugged.

‘That old man ye Granda?’

‘No,’ he answered, looking up. ‘He’s Mister Tom.’

‘Is he now?’

Willie’s lips quivered.

The soldier paused, sensing that this was not the best subject to talk to the boy about.

‘Who are ye stayin’ with in London then?’

‘Me Mum.’

‘Och, ye’ll be glad ta see her then. Your Dad called up then, is he?’

‘I ent got no dad.’

‘Sorry aboot that.’ He paused again. ‘Tell me aboot yer ma. What’s she like?’

Willie was puzzled. What was she like? At the moment she was just a dim memory. She had dark hair. He remembered that much.

‘She’s got dark hair and,’ he thought again, ‘she’s medium size.’

‘Eyes?’

‘Beg pardon.’

‘Eyes. What colour eyes has she?’

Willie didn’t ever remember clearly looking at her eyes, but he couldn’t tell him that. He must think of something to say.

‘Mixed, are they?’

He nodded.

‘Does she sing a lot?’

Willie shook his head. The thought of his mother singing except in church was too shocking to contemplate.

They looked at each other silently for a moment.

‘What’s in them bags then?’

‘Clothes and presents, books.’

‘You like readin’ then?’

Willie nodded.

‘Ah’ve not got the patience meself.’

‘And drawrin’.’

‘What?’ said the soldier.

‘I draw, like.’

‘Oh,’ he said, and he saw by the sudden brightness in Willie’s eyes and his smile that this would be a good subject to talk about.

‘You have any on you then?’

‘Yeh.’

‘Ah’d like to see them if, that is, you’re willin’.’

Willie nodded shyly and opened his rucksack. He pulled out one of three sketch-pads from the back and handed it to him.

The soldier opened it.

‘Och,’ he cried in surprise, ‘ye can really draw. Och, these are guid, these are really guid.’

‘Yer mother must be terrible proud of ye,’ he added, handing the pad back to him.

‘She ent seen them yet.’

‘Well, when she does, she will be.’

‘D’you think so?’

‘I know so.’

Willie eased the sketch-pad back into his rucksack. He caught sight of the acting book that Zach had given him and the gobstoppers that George had produced suddenly when he had said good-bye. He didn’t want to look at them now. He flicked over the top of the rucksack and did the straps up.

Would his mother be proud of him? he thought. He began to fantasize around her, only her face was very vague. She became a mixture of Mrs Fletcher and Mrs Hartridge. He imagined her waiting on the platform for him. He would wave out the window and she would wave back smiling and laughing and when he stepped out of the train he would run up to her and she to him and they would embrace. He stopped. He remembered that she was supposed to be ill. Perhaps she would be too ill to fetch him. She might even be dying and, instead of her, there would be a warden or a vicar to meet him and he would be taken to her bedside and she would touch him gently and say how much she loved him and how proud she was of him. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt tired. The strain of all the good-byes had exhausted him. He wondered what Zach was doing. He had written the first two verses of another epic poem specially for him. He had it in his pocket. He said that he’d finish it and send it to him in the post or by pigeon.

The train chugged and crawled towards London and Willie soon fell into a sleep that was filled with a multitude of strange dreams.

He felt someone shaking him to consciousness.

‘Hey, sleepy head. Wake up! Wake up, lad! This is London. We’re in London, wake up!’

He opened his eyes expecting to see the light from his bedroom window and Mister Tom looking through the trap-door but he saw only the young Scots boy leaning over him against a vague background of khaki and shouting.

He swung the rucksack over his shoulder and lifted the carrier bag. His legs felt wobbly and his clothes smelt of tobacco. As he stepped outside, the cold night air hit him sharply. He buttoned up his overcoat, pulled his balaclava up over his head and put on his gloves. He looked around the platform which was swarming with soldiers, but there was no sign of his mother anywhere.

A large sergeant stopped and looked down at him.

‘Run away, has you?’ he boomed in a bone-rattling voice. ‘You’d best see the ticket man, my lad.’

‘I ent run away, sir,’ he blurted out.

‘You tell that to the ticket man.’

The ticket man was a middle-aged man with a droopy moustache. He took one look at Willie and gave a weary sigh.

‘Another one, eh? Don’t you lads know it’s safer in the country,’ and he tweaked Willie’s ear through the balaclava. ‘I s’pose you’ve no ticket. Now let’s take down yer address.’

Willie pulled a ticket out of his pocket and showed it to him.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘Oh.’

‘I’m visitin’ me mum, like. She’s ill.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Ah, I see! Well. And where is she then? Is she pickin’ you up or a warden pickin’ you up or what?’

‘I dunno.’

The ticket man hummed significantly and looked at the sergeant.

‘I think I can handle this all right, sir. Thanks for your help.’

The sergeant touched his beret and disappeared among the soldiers.

‘I think we’d best find a warden, my boy.’

Willie looked frantically round the station.

‘Wait. There she is,’ he said, pointing to a thin gaunt woman, standing next to a pile of sandbags. He waved and yelled out to her but she stared vacantly around neither seeing or hearing him.

‘She don’t seem to know you, do she? I think you’d best wait here for a while.’

‘I’ll talk to her,’ he said.

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said the ticket man, grabbing his arm and then he changed his mind.

‘Oh, go on with you.’

Willie ran over to her.

‘Mum!’ he cried. ‘Mum!’

‘Go away,’ she said sternly. ‘You won’t get no money from me.’

‘Mum,’ he repeated, ‘it’s me.’

She glanced down and was about to tell him to clear off when she recognized him. Yes. It was Willie but he had altered so much. She had been looking for a thin little boy dressed in grey. Here stood an upright, well-fleshed boy in sturdy ankle boots, thick woollen socks, a green rolled-top jersey, and a navy blue coat and balaclava. His hair stuck out in a shiny mass above his forehead and his cheeks were round and pink. It was a great shock to her.

‘I’m awfully pleased to see you, Mum. I’ve such a lot to tell you and there’s me pictures, like.’

She was startled at his peculiar mixture of accents. She had expected him to be more subservient but even his voice sounded louder.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not very well, you see, and I’m a bit tired. I wasn’t expectin’ such a change in you.’

Willie was puzzled.

He thought that it was his mother that had changed. He had learnt new things, that was true, but he was still him.

He studied her face. She was very pale, almost yellow in colour and her lips were so blue that it seemed as if every ounce of blood had been drained from them. The lines by her thin mouth curved downwards. He glanced at her body. She was wearing a long black coat, fawn stockings and smart lace-up heeled shoes. A small shopping bag was now leaning against her leg.

He touched her arm gently.

‘I’ll carry that for you, Mum,’ he said, picking it up. She spun round and gave his hand a sharp slap.

‘I’ll tell you what I wants when I wants and you know I don’t approve of touching.’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

They stood silently and awkwardly as the large noisy station roared around them. Willie felt his heart sinking and the spark of hope that he had held was fast dissolving, but then he remembered. Mister Tom had said that they would feel awkward at first and that it would take time to get used to each other.

Mrs Beech, meanwhile, surveyed her small son, her mind racing. She’d be lenient with him for the moment. After all it was his first evening back and he had a lot to learn before accepting his manly responsibilities.

‘Let’s go for a cup of tea,’ she said at last. ‘You can take my bag.’

‘Thanks, Mum,’ and he smiled.

She stepped sharply backwards, horrified. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him smile before. She had hoped that he had remained a serious child. The smile frightened her. It threatened her authority. She swallowed her feelings and stepped forward again, handing him her bag.

Everything was going to be fine, thought Willie. He followed her down a tiny back alley to a small café. They sat near the door.

‘You look more filled out,’ said his mother. ‘Fed you well, did he, that Mr Oakley?’

Willie sipped his tea. It wasn’t as good as Mister Tom’s but it was hot and that was what mattered.

‘Yes, he did.’

She pointed to his rucksack on the floor.

‘Where d’you get that from?’

‘Mister Tom.’

‘Oh, and who’s he?’

‘Mr Oakley. He give it me to carry the presents.’

One of her hands was outstretched across the table. He went to touch it but quickly changed his mind.

‘There’s a present for you too.’

‘I don’t need charity, thank you,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘You know that.’

‘It ent charity. It’s for you gettin’ well. Mrs Thatcher made you some bed socks. Pink they are. Real soft. And Lucy’s Mum and Dad put in eggs and butter.’

‘Butter?’

‘Yeh. And Mrs Fletcher made a fruit cake. She ses she knows you might not feel like eatin’ it now but it’ll keep for when you do.’ He was talking an awful lot, she thought. She’d never seen him like this before. Too cheeky by far. She’d soon discipline it out of him.

‘And Aunt Nance, Mrs Little, has sent a bottle of tonic wine.’

Mrs Beech turned puce.

‘Wine!’ she said angrily. She checked herself and lowered her voice. ‘Wine!’ she repeated. ‘Haven’t I told you about the evils of drink? Have you bin drinkin’ then? Who is this debauched woman?’

‘It ent like what you buy in a pub, Mum. I asked. She ses it’s got iron in it. It’ll help you git yer strength back. Mr Little’s a real doctor, Mum, and she’s his wife.’

‘What kind of doctor?’ she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged.

‘One who helps people git better. I was scared of him at first but I ent now.’

‘Then he can’t be a real doctor.’

‘He is, Mum.’

Mrs Beech was stunned. Her son had answered her back. He had actually disagreed with her.

‘Are you arguing with me?’

‘No, Mum. I wuz jes…’

‘Stop puttin’ on that way of talking.’

‘What way, Mum?’

‘And wipe that innocent look off yer face.’

‘I don’t understand…’ he started.

‘You haven’t changed, have you? I thought that man would frighten some goodness into you but it seems he hasn’t.’

She suddenly grew anxious and a cold panic flooded her limbs.

‘He
was
a church man, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, Mum. He took care of it, and the graveyard. I told you in my letters.’

‘Oh yes. Your letters. Now Willie, I thought you’d grown out of lying.’

‘But I ent lyin’!’

‘Stop talking like that.’

He felt bewildered. Like what? he thought.

‘That writing was not yours. I know that. That’s why I didn’t bother to answer.’