Goodnight Mister Tom (30 page)

Will slowly walked in as far as his waist and with the help of Zach and Tom he was soon splashing around quite pleasurably. Tom hadn’t swum for at least twenty years and then that was only in the river in Little Weirwold. By the time all three of them had sat down to their picnic lunch he had decided to buy three swimsuits. After they had eaten and had had a gentle snooze in a shady part of the cliffs they ventured into the sea again. Will learned to float quite quickly to the envy of Zach. Zach could do breast-stroke, crawl and back stroke but had never managed to float. The thought of lying still unnerved him. He always liked to be on the move. But for Will it felt wonderful to be still. First he would lie and screw his eyes up peeping through the lids at the dazzling bright sky above him and see how long he could count without sinking. By the end of the afternoon he began to forget and once he almost fell asleep.

The first and second day passed very swiftly and so too did the days that followed. Most of the time was spent in the sea, the three of them swimming in their new woolly swimsuits, or playing cricket on the beach, or building sandcastles and collecting shells.

One day they walked along the cliffs and round the bay to a mansion, another day Will spent down by the harbour sketching boats while Zach went off on a cycling trek and Tom took Mrs Clarence for a ride on the back of his tandem.

At the end of ten days Will had learnt to do the breast-stroke and Zach could count up to ten while floating.

During their stay, the news bulletins on the wireless had begun to grow ominous, so much so that one evening a worried Zach sneaked out of bed to listen to the eight o’clock news. Besides his mother being an ambulance driver his father was also with the Auxiliary Fire Service.

The locals in Salt-on-the-Mouth were convinced that the recent heavy bombing attacks on the large towns were a prelude to a large-scale invasion. Seventeen parachutes had been discovered in the Midlands, there had been raids on Southampton and the R.A.F. were bringing down an average of sixty planes a day besides carrying out heavy raids on Germany. Then came the stunning news of a bomb raid on Croydon in which three hundred factory workers were killed. Tom had been tempted to return immediately to Little Weirwold for he had felt, for some strange reason, that Zach and Will would be safer there. Mrs Clarence, however, was so insistent that they stay, that he had decided that they would stop the remaining three days as planned.

The weather continued to be almost tropically hot and they felt sorry for anyone who had to work in a city with no sea breezes to cool them. On their last Saturday as they cycled back from a day of swimming they were startled by the news headlines on a large placard leaning outside the newsagents. It read ‘South West London Blitzed, Malden Badly Hit’. The shop was sold out of newspapers. With paper rationing, copies of newspapers were at a premium and the few that there were had automatically been given to the locals. Luckily, Mrs Clarence had a copy and Zach pored anxiously over the contents. The newspapers reported that the sirens had not been sounded and this had resulted in many deaths.

‘S’pose you’ll be wanting to know how your parents are,’ remarked Tom.

Zach nodded. He had written to them nearly every day so that they knew of his holiday address but he had had no word from them. Normally an absence of letters didn’t worry him. His parents were often so tied up in the last minute chaos of technical and dress rehearsals that they had barely time to eat or sleep, let alone write a letter, but once a show was on, if he was living apart from them, he would usually receive a bumper bonus letter to make up for it. However, with the news of London being bombed, their silence caused him great anxiety.

‘We’ll find a telephone and contact the Littles,’ suggested Tom. ‘Happen they might’ur left a message, like.’

‘Thanks awfully,’ said Zach.

‘You goin’ to phone before or after supper?’ added Mrs Clarence.

Zach looked visibly pale even under his almost black tan.

‘Now,’ said Tom.

The two of them left the cottage. Will remained to help lay the table and butter bread while listening to Children’s Hour.

When they returned Zach was back to his happy self. His parents had left messages with the Littles to say that they were well and safe and that they were sorry they hadn’t written but that casualties were so heavy that their time was filled giving help.

The following day was Sunday and was their last day in Salt-on-the-Mouth. Tom and Will went to the village church while Zach found a sheltered spot by the sea. Although it wasn’t his Sabbath he gripped his little round cap into his heathery hair and swayed gently to and fro ekeing out the few Hebrew prayers that he remembered. It comforted him to sing the strange guttural sounds. It was like uttering a magical language that would make everything all right. His parents had taught him that whoever or whatever God was, he, she or it could probably understand silent thoughts but it made Zach feel better to voice his feelings aloud.

That day Mrs Clarence cooked them a special Sunday lunch. They had roast chicken, roast potatoes and vegetables followed by ice-cream. Mrs Clarence had made it herself with the help of a cool corner in the fishmonger’s so that although the ice-cream tasted of vanilla, it smelt of mackerel.

In the afternoon Tom, Will and Zach took a last cycle round the village along the bumpy lanes that lay inland from the cliff tops. They wheeled the bicycle and tandem along the beach and, as dusk approached and a pink and orange haze stretched itself across the sky, they sat and watched the sun slowly disappear.

Mrs Clarence had a surprise gallon of local cider waiting for them on their return and, as it was a little cool that evening, she had lit a fire. They sat down by its comforting glow, to home-baked bread, cheese, onions and tankards of cider. The cider warmed their stomachs and transfused itself to their sunburnt skins. Will’s mass of freckles now covered a bronze tan. Clumps of his fair hair had been bleached white by the sun. He felt relaxed and, at the same time, bubbling with energy. He wrapped his hands round his copper tankard and smiled, his teeth looking startlingly white against his tanned face. Zach was almost black and his hair, doubly curly. The experience of floating had had a calming effect on him. He was less erratic and jumpy. He still played the fool but he had stopped trying so hard to be entertaining. For once he allowed himself to sit back and be entertained by the others.

Since leaving Weirwold Tom had decided not to shave. A curly two-week-old white beard now surrounded his chin. The sea air had frizzed small strands of the beard and his hair into tiny corkscrews that whirled outwards in wild disarray.

They all stared at each other in their apple-juiced haze as if they had only just noticed one another. Zach said that Tom looked like the son of Father Christmas, Will said that Zach resembled a golliwog and Tom said Will could have been a brown speckled egg with a white feather on top.

After supper Zach and Will took a stroll down to the tiny quay. It was a clear night and the sea was bathed in moonlight. They spoke in low voices. They were sorry to leave Salt-in-the-Mouth and yet at the same time they were looking forward to seeing George and the twins again. Will had three sketch-pads full of drawings from the holiday but he felt that he had only just begun. Zach had started yet another epic poem about a brutal band of smugglers, but he had talked so much about it that his energy for the topic was exhausted by the time he had written the third verse. They talked quietly about ideas for plays in the autumn term. Zach talked about his ambitions. He wanted to be a worldwide entertainer. Will’s ambitions were a little more homebound. He just wanted to draw and be in the next autumn play. They gazed silently out at the sea and walked leisurely back to the cottage. Tom was sitting talking to Mrs Clarence by the fire and, after they had drunk some cocoa and chatted with them for a while, they drifted upstairs to bed.

The next morning they stood outside the cottage with their panniers strapped to their frames and said their last farewells. Mrs Clarence felt sad at their leaving. She had enjoyed their company.

As they pushed the bicycle and tandem forwards she watched them slowly ascend the hill till they finally disappeared over its brow.

The first day, after collecting Dobbs and the cart, was another fine one but on the Tuesday it rained and they had to sit in their sou’westers and gaberdine capes. They sheltered for a while underneath an archway of trees to have a picnic, for although they were on their way home, the return journey was still a part of their holiday. By Wednesday it looked as though autumn had begun. The fields, trees and flowers still appeared summery but a cold grey sky hung above them and a blustery wind hindered their progress.

By the time they had arrived in Little Weirwold and had watered and fed Dobbs it was nearly dusk. On the table in the living room of the cottage was an assortment of ‘welcome home’ goodies from the twins and George. Mrs Fletcher had delivered groceries and had left a large saucepan of vegetable soup on the well-stoked range.

The goodies consisted of flowers and a bowl of blackberries from the twins and a home-grown marrow and cabbage from George. There were also several ‘Welcome Home’ cards. Zach sat and had some bread and soup with them and then left for the Littles.

He wheeled his bicycle through Dobbs’ field and along the tiny arched lane, and leaned it against the Littles’ hedge. He was just struggling with the gate when an urgent voice came suddenly out of the darkness. He was so startled that he physically jumped.

‘Sorry!’ said the voice. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you, like.’

Zach peered over the hedge.

‘Carrie!’ he cried in amazement. ‘What are you doing here?’

She helped him wrench open the gate and waited till he had wheeled his bicycle through.

‘You look like a black man,’ she remarked.

He grinned.

‘Marvellous for
Othello
, eh?’

‘What you on about?’ she said, feeling quite exasperated, for she had been waiting for his arrival for a good three hours.

‘The passionate Moor,’ explained Zach. ‘You know, Shakespeare.’

‘Oh, Shakespeare!’ groaned Carrie. ‘You know, I ent read him yet.’

‘Yet! You mean you might actually be tempted to?’

‘Yes. Oh, Zach.’ She clutched his arm and stared fearfully into his eyes.

‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve passed the exam. I got a scholarship. I’m to be a high-school girl.’

20
Spooky Cott.

On August 31st, the last Saturday before returning to school, Zach, Will, George and the twins sat on an old dead branch beneath the beech trees behind Blake’s field. They had all decided to go to Spooky Cott.

Will folded their map up and slid it into his pocket. Between them they carried torches, string, a penknife and an old rope. Will and Zach watched the others crawl along the field to the edge and then they followed suit in the opposite direction. Instead of hitting the road where they might be seen they crawled parallel to it on the other side of the hedge. After a while they hit the woods. They rose and ran quietly and swiftly from tree to tree but they needn’t have bothered for there was no one human around, only the odd squirrel collecting nuts for its winter hibernation. Soon they heard the soft swishing sound of the river and they slid down its muddy bank. They stood still for a moment and drank in its peacefulness. Will was just about to start scribbling down the basic outline of a water vole on the back of the map, when Zach spoke.

‘I say, we’d better get a move on. The others will be there ages before us. George will be hooting away and think we’ve been savaged to pieces.’

They climbed up the bank towards the trees. A scattering of clouds had blotted out the sun and a wind began to rattle through the branches. As they reached the high hedges which surrounded the cottaee the sky became grey.

‘Hope it don’t rain,’ said Will, peering upwards. ‘Be a shame to have to go back again. Still, we could always shelter in Spooky Cott.’

Zach gave a nervous shudder.

‘You cold?’ asked Will.

‘Er… a little.’

Just then, three distant hoots came drifting across to them from the other side of the woods.

‘I’ll give the signal for “let’s git nearer”,’ said Will and, before Zach could prevent him, Will had barked three times and followed it by two howls.

By now the sky had grown darker and the wind was rustling venomously through the leaves.

‘What’s that?’ cried Zach in alarm.

‘Only some twigs breakin’,’ answered Will.

Suddenly from beyond the high hedgerow came a sound that caused Zach’s scalp to tingle to its very roots.

‘Cor!’ whispered Will excitedly.

The sound was high-pitched and seemed to come from the cottage. It soared and dipped sending an eery chill through the undergrowth surrounding it.

They froze, hardly daring to breathe and all Zach’s joky images of ghosts rapidly came flooding to the surface. He began to feel a little sick.

‘I think we’d better signal that we’re all right,’ suggested Will and he gave two long mournful howls. Zach felt even worse. It wasn’t long before a rather shaky ‘let’s get out of here’ signal came soaring back from the other side of the hedge.

‘Doughbags,’ said Will. ‘Jes as it’s gittin’ excitin’,’ and without consulting Zach he signalled the ‘we’re all right’ and the ‘let’s get closer’ signal.

The high wail from the cottage floated through the air again and was followed immediately by a ‘we’re off’ signal from George and a great crackling of twigs and shaking of bushes. Will was mesmerized by the sound.

‘It’s like what Mister Tom sometimes plays on the organ,’ he whispered. He turned to Zach. ‘Are you still game?’

Zach nodded, knowing well that each nod was a lie. He would dearly have loved to have run back to the village with others but he couldn’t let Will down.

‘Good,’ said Will grinning and he edged his way through the dense hedge, followed at a safe distance by Zach.