The Case
During the next seven weeks the leaves floated and twirled from the trees, and a light
hoarfrost covered the fields in the early mornings.
Matthew Parfitt, who was in the reserves, had been called up, and May Thorne, to the surprise
of everyone, volunteered to deliver the post. She unearthed an ancient bicycle from some
forgotten shed corner and proceeded to ride it from cottage to cottage, her sackful of letters
stuffed compactly into a basket in the front.
"I thought that they were extinct," Zach had said on first seeing her riding it. "Looks like a
fossil on wheels. I am, of course, referring to the bicycle frame and not Miss May," he added.
Michael Fletcher, who had signed up in September, had at last, after much impatient waiting,
also been called up. He and John Barnes traveled into Weirwold together to catch the train.
Mrs. Miller had been rushed into the hospital with a concussion after having walked into a
tree in the pitch dark. When news of the event reached the graveyard cottage, Willie
overheard Tom muttering something to the effect that it was a wonder the tree didn't have to
be taken too.
Meanwhile, the government had asked for a money contribution from the parents of evacuees.
Since many parents were miserable at being separated from their offspring and it would be a
struggle for some to pay money for their misery, they finally decided to have them home
again. Half of the evacuees in Little Weirwold and the surrounding area had already left. This
meant that the classrooms were not so crowded, but there was still a shortage of paper and
pencils. Willie longed desperately to be in Mrs. Hartridge's class, even though he had since
grown quite fond of Mrs. Black.
Every day before and after school he faithfully practiced reading and writing, and
occasionally when Emilia Thorne returned from the library she would pop round, when Tom
was out on fire duty, and sit with him. She soon discovered that he had a remarkable aptitude
for learning words, especially if he liked them. She started to teach him rhymes and poems,
and then she would write them down on scraps of paper so that he could follow the letters
through when he was on his own.
By now Tom had related the whole of Genesis to him and had read the Just So Stories twice.
He and Willie were now in the middle of Exodus and had just begun Grimm's Fairy Tales.
Willie and Zach managed to see each other every day as well as weekends and odd evenings,
and they, the twins and George would walk and play in the fields together.
One dull afternoon, on the last day of October, Zach and Willie were kneeling on the window
ledge in the sitting room of the Littles' cottage. A slow icy drizzle of rain splattered and ran in
tiny rivulets down the window.
Zach squinted through the glass and wiped his breath away from the pane.
"Where is he?" he moaned. "He's taking an age." He turned despondently from the window.
"It'll soon be dark and then we won't be able to see him coming at all."
He was cut short by a loud knocking at the front door.
"Yippee! Wizzo!" yelled Zach, leaping up and running out of the kitchen. "Callooh! Callooh!
Callooh! Callay!"
He switched the hall light off, stumbled to the front door and flung it open. His face fell. It
was George and the twins.
"There's a welcome," said Carrie.
"It ent arrived, has it?" said George as they stepped into the dark hall.
Zach slammed the door behind them in a disgruntled manner and turned the light on.
"We can only stay for an hour," said Ginnie.
Mrs. Little leaned against the kitchen doorway, a freshly lit cigarette in her hand.
"You'll have to take them upstairs, Zach. First aid begins in fifteen minutes."
Zach groaned.
"Unless, of course, you want to volunteer to be a body."
"No, thanks," said Zach hurriedly. "Quick, let's go."
The five of them scrambled up the narrow carpeted stairway.
"And don't forget to put up the blacks," yelled Mrs. Little after them. "I don't want Charlie
Ruddles wagging his finger at me again."
"I won't," answered Zach.
Zach's room seemed more like a study than a bedroom. One wall was filled to overflowing
with medical books, and against the back window overlooking the Littles' straggly but
unsuspectedly organized garden stood a large rolltop desk and chair. Along the wall opposite
the bookcase was a bed, and under the front window, which looked out over the tiny arched
lane and fields, was a small table with a photograph of a young dark-haired woman and a
slightly older man with large penetrating eyes and a broad grin. They each had an arm around
the other. On the floor beside Zach's bed was a small pile of books.
The twins perched themselves on the bed, Zach sat on the chair by the desk and George and
Willie sat cross-legged with their backs leaning against the bookcase. Carrie picked up some
of the books.
"To Save His Chum, " she read aloud. "Stalky and Company. The Golden Treasury of Verse,
Great Actors I Have Known—what an odd mixture!"
"Not at all," exclaimed Zach.
"Well, I think it's odd."
There was another loud knocking from downstairs. Zach leaped from his chair.
"It's Mister Tom!" said Willie suddenly, and he flushed at having betrayed his excitement so
openly.
Zach gave out a yell, threw the bedroom door open and almost flung himself down the stairs.
The others clattered on behind him.
Tom was standing in the hallway, his cap and overcoat covered with a thin layer of drizzle.
"I've tried to keep it dry," he said, indicating a large battered suitcase by his feet. "Best to
wipe it, though."
He looked at Willie. "S'pose you'll be wantin' to stay fer a bit, eh?"
"Yeh, can I?"
"I'll collect you in thirty minutes. Mind you come immediate, like."
Zach and George dragged the case up to the bedroom and laid it on one side. It was a brown
leather case with two straps that buckled on either side of the handle.
The leather was soft and faded with age. Both sides of it were covered by labels of all colors
and shapes with the names of towns and countries on them. Two thick pieces of cord were
tied horizontally and vertically around it.
"Has you been to all them countries?" asked George.
"My parents mostly. They used this when they were one-night-standing and eventually they
gave it to me."
"One-night-standin'?" repeated Willie.
"Yes. There are some companies that perform in a different venue every night."
"Venyew? What's that?"
"A place. A place where a show is going to be performed. Usually the show is already booked
in advance. Anyway," continued Zach, "my parents kept their ordinary clothes in one suitcase
and their costumes and makeup in another."
"Does your father wear makeup?" asked George.
"Sometimes," answered Zach, still struggling with the cords.
"Gosh, they certainly did a good job on this."
"Do you mean like a lady?" said Willie.
Carrie burst out laughing.
"Here," said Ginnie, "I'll help you," and she knelt by Zach, who was by now hot with
frustration. He leaned back on his heels and looked at Willie. "Haven't you ever seen a
show?"
Willie shook his head. "Me mum ses that theaters and pitcher houses are dens of sin."
"Rot," exclaimed Zach. "I was practically born in the theater. I was breast-fed in theater
dressing-rooms."
Willie blushed. "That's swearing," he said.
"I learned to walk and talk in theaters," said Zach. "And I'm not sinful, am I?"
"You're just an angel, ent you," said Carrie, her hands clasped.
"And you're cracked," said Zach. "Come on, let's open this beastly case."
At last the stiff damp straps were unbuckled and the two large clips unfastened. Zach threw
back the lid in triumph and the twins and George gathered round to look at the contents.
Willie hesitated.
"Come on, Will," said Zach, seeing him hang back. "I want to show off to everyone."
"When do you stop?" remarked Carrie.
Zach gave her a withering glance, but it was so over-dramatic she and the others burst out
laughing. He gave up and looked inside the case. An envelope with "Zach" written on it in
bold lettering was stuck to the inside of the lid. He tore it off and ripped open the envelope.
"It's from Mummy and Daddy," he yelled.
"Surprise, surprise," said George. "Come on. We've got to go home soon. You can read that
later."
"Oh, all right," said Zach, stuffing it into his pocket.
The case was packed very tightly. He peeled off a large piece of newspaper from the top and
unwrapped five small parcels, inside which lay several home-baked cakes.
"I ent never seen cakes like that afore," said George.
"My grandmother taught my mother to make these when she was a girl."
Underneath were two jars of pickled herrings and three bars of chocolate.
"Wizzo!" he yelled, pulling out an assortment of much-loved and battered objects. "Books!"
"What you want with those?" said George. "Thought you'd have enough of that at school."
Carrie began to flick through them. Willie tapped Zach's shoulder, but he had already read his
mind and he handed him a couple.
The words were laid out in a strange manner.
"It's all talkin'," said Carrie. "There ent no description."
"There's some in the dialogue," explained Zach. "The words have to set the atmosphere, you
see. They're plays."
"How d'you play wiv 'em?" asked Willie, his curiosity aroused.
"You are an ass, Will. They're theater plays. Scripts." He pointed to the lines. "See here, that's
that character's lines and that's the other person answering. Actors learn them off by heart and
then they rehearse them masses and masses of times until it sounds as if they've just thought
of them."
George held up one thick battered tome. "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.
Ugh!" and he dropped it in disgust.
"How dare you!" cried Zach, picking it up hastily. He looked at Willie, sensing that he
wouldn't have heard of him. "William Shakespeare was one of our greatest playwrights. A
playwright is a man who writes plays like the one in your hand, only he wrote plays nearly
four hundred years ago and people still go and see them being performed."
"William Shakey," said Willie quietly to himself.
"Shakespeare!" hooted Carrie.
"William Shakespeare," he repeated. "William." So he had the first name of somebody
famous.
The next article that Zach dragged out was a stiff black circular object. He shook it and in one
second it became a shiny top hat.
He placed it on his thick wiry hair and cocked it slightly to one side. Everyone was terribly
impressed. He then pulled out a small black suit. The jacket of the suit curved in at the waist,
and at the back were two buttons above a pair of tails. There was a stiff white object called a
dicky. It was a collar and bow tie and the front of a shirt. Dangling from it were two thin
cords to be tied at the back. Zach put it on, and when the jacket was done up it looked as if he
was wearing a proper dress shirt. Imitation white cuffs were attached to the ends of the jacket
sleeves.
"Proper job," remarked George.
Ginnie examined the whole suit very closely. She turned back the sleeves to see exactly how
the cuffs had been sewn in.
Zach unwrapped a pair of objects wrapped in newspaper.
"My taps!"
He held up a pair of shiny black patent shoes. On each sole were two pieces of metal, one at
the tip and one at the heel.
"What kind of shoes is they?" asked George, puzzled.
"Tap shoes. You've seen Fred Astaire dance, haven't you? Well it's . . ." He stopped. The
others were all shaking their heads from side to side.
"I've heard of Fred Barnes," said George. "He owns the Big Farm up at . . ."
"Will. You're a Londoner. You must have seen him at the pictures."
"I ain't allowed," emphasized Willie. "I don't do that sort of thing."
Zach was astounded. He thought the whole world had heard of Fred Astaire.
"Well, there's only one way to explain tap." He moved the case to one side, rolled back the
carpet and told the others to sit by the bookcase. He then put the shoes on and laced them up.
He did look strange in the elegant black shoes, darned woolen socks, threadbare shorts, top
hat and tails.
"Now this is what's called a tap spring," and he lightly tapped his right foot along the
floorboards and hopped neatly onto it, leaving his left leg raised slightly behind him. Carrie
smothered a giggle. He glared at her.
"If you don't want to see what it's like I shan't bother wasting my time."
Ginnie gave her sister a dig in the ribs.
"Come on," said George. "Take no notice of her."
If it hadn't been for Willie's attentive expression Zach would have stopped.
"All right," he said. "Here goes. And a one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight." And with
that he danced around the room, his shoes tapping rhythmically on the floor, springing and
twirling around, and as he tapped and stamped, he yelled out, "Shuffle hop, cramp roll,
Buffalo."
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 grinned sheepishly at them.
They were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Little. She stood and, brandishing a hefty piece
of ceiling plaster in her hand, glared at them.
"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 onto 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 really 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 colors. The body and sleeves were knitted in
colored 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.
"Whyever 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
color. 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, a cape and colored tights, scraps of material and a pair
of old black ankle boots with a label hanging on them. It read, "Found these in the theater
wardrobe. No use for them. Too small. Have had them resoled. Hope they fit you. If too big
you can always stuff the toes. Love, Mum."
Zach closed the case and passed the cakes around.
"Where shall we meet next time?" 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's 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," Willie 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 enough of bein' an ape."
"Actually," said Zach, "I've got another idea brewing. How about Sherlock Holmes? You
could be Moriarty, George."
"The archenemy?"
"Yes," said Zach, surprised. "How did you know?"
George raised his eyes. He was always the archenemy 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.
"Goodness," Ginnie gasped, 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.
"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 farther 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 left 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 gabardine 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's 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 passageway, 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 gabardine 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 been 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 labeled 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 coaxed 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. Tom came over to him, closed the book
and put it on his table.
"Now then," he said, crouching under the rafters and seating himself comfortably at the foot
of the bed, "what's it all about, eh?"
Willie looked at him, startled.
"What's eatin' you? You been in a brown cloud ever since supper."
Willie took a deep breath.
"You see," he began, "Zach made the ceiling fall on Mrs. Little's head and 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 been 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."
"Fridee 'tis then."
Tom stood up and kissed Willie's 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 trapdoor after him.
Willie leaned his head back on his upraised hands. He glanced at the slanting windowpane.
The rain was running down the glass in tiny sparkling rivulets. He snuggled down into the
warm blankets. He had 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.
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. "Yous 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 jes' thought I'd be around like, in case the boy needs any thin'. Tends to git overexcited."
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
had 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 apronstrings fer a bit longer. She puts the fear of the divil 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
humor in him."
Mrs. Fletcher looked steadily into his eyes. His forehead had lost its 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."
After Tom had collected the woolens, he walked home feeling remarkably relaxed. Sammy
ambled leisurely in front of him while he stopped intermittently to pick up sweet chestnuts on
the way.
Willie had scraped the potatoes, chopped up carrots and turnips, buttered a few slices of oddly
cut bread and filled Sammy's bowls with fresh water and scraps. His boots were laid out on a
newspaper, and had been scraped and polished. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor
giving a finishing touch to them when Tom walked in. He looked up and rubbed his forehead
excitedly, leaving another smudge of brown shoe polish above his nose.
"I finished me readin' book today and I starts the last one on Mondee. And Mrs. Black ses I
can do joined-up writin'," he added, scrambling to his feet. "By midterm I might have finished
the last one. Then I can read good enough fer Mrs. Hartridge."
"Good. You've worked hard fer it and you're bright."
"Bright?"
"Got it up here," said Tom, tapping his head with his hand.
It was after they had cleared supper and were sitting by the range with a cup of tea that the
first person to arrive knocked at the front door. Willie, whose stomach had been steadily
growing tighter, almost spilled his tea over his shorts. He was wearing the new jersey that
Tom had collected from Mrs. Fletcher. It was navy blue with a rolled-top neck. The cuffs
were well turned back and the jersey came halfway down his shorts.
"Ent you goin' to answer it then?" said Tom.
Willie placed the mug carefully on the table and made his way nervously out of the door and
down the small dark passageway.
It was Zach. Willie was glad that he had come first.
He showed him into the living room, where Sammy greeted him, wagging his tail.
"Unusual jersey, that," commented Tom. It was the first time he had seen Zach's "Joseph"
jersey.
"Unique, I'd say," replied Zach.
"I'll go put the blacks up and light the lamp," said Tom.
Willie and Zach waited at the foot of the ladder while Sammy scrabbled around the first rung.
A square of amber light shone down on them from the open hatch.
"I say, it's magnificent!" gasped Zach. "Like rays from Heaven."
Tom climbed down the ladder.
"All yours," he said.
Sammy by now had wormed his way up to the third rung, where he was floundering and
panting breathlessly.
"You want Sam with you?"
"Won't you be lonely without him, Mr. Oakley?" asked Zach.
Tom was a little taken aback at this candid question.
"No. I can do some jobs that he gits in the way of. But if he becomes a nuisance, William," he
added, "you bang on the floor and I'll pick him up."
"Ta,"said Willie gratefully, and between him and Zach they carried Sammy up the ladder.
Willie had grown used to the changes in his room, so that he was pleasantly surprised at
Zach's excitement over it. Two of the walls were covered with his drawings and paintings,
and on one wall were shelves that Tom had fixed up for his clothes and treasures.
Zach gazed round at the tiny wooden bed under the rafters. The flickering lamp above their
heads and the patches of color round the walls gave the room a cozy lived-in air.
After a brief glance at the two boxes of apples stacked in the corner, he sat on the end of the
bed with Willie and talked about the poem he was writing.
It was in "the epic vein," which for him meant a long rhyming poem about knights in armor.
Sammy, who had been sitting quietly by their feet, jumped up and began barking. There was a
loud knock on the open trapdoor and Carrie and Ginnie's heads came into view.
"Ent it beautiful," commented Ginnie.
"Like a workroom of one's own," sighed Carrie enviously.
They were interrupted by an impatient voice from below.
"Stop spoonin'. I want to see. Hurry up."
They clambered up onto the floor followed eagerly by George, who practically fell over them
in his clumsy desire to get in. All three of them stared silently at the walls.
"You never done these, did you?" said George.
There was a drawing of the oak tree, two brave attempts at Sammy, a painting of five children
blackberrying, one of a library with people sitting and walking round and several sketches of
boots and flowers and half-eaten sandwiches.
"Sheer genius, aren't they?" said Zach thrusting his nose upwards. "Wizard choice of friends I
have, don't you think?"
"Why has you got all them words written under them?" asked George.
Willie flushed.
"Is it fer learnin' to read?" said Carrie.
He nodded. "I starts the last readin' book on Mondee, and joined-up writing."
"I say, well done," exclaimed Zach.
"Don't know why yer botherin'," grunted George. "You gits to mess around more in your
class. Anyways, if I could draw like you, I wouldn't bother about nothin' else."
"Anythin' else," corrected Carrie. "And you don't bother about anythin', anyways."
"I does. They jes' don't teach interestin' things at school. Who wants to read books? Books ent
no good. They don't feed animals and plow fields, does 'ey?"
Carrie groaned. "You'm jes' pig ignorant."
"Good," said George. "I likes pigs and pigs is useful."
"Are you two going to spend this evening ranting again?" interrupted Zach.
It was obvious to everyone from the moment they sat down that Zach was bursting to tell
them something.
"Come on, reveal all," said Carrie, imitating his theatrical way of speaking.
"Guess what!" he half squeaked. "Miss Thorne is producing a children's Christmas show for
the war effort and she needs all the help she can get."
Ginnie gasped. "I couldn't go onstage. I'd hate it."
"You needn't act in it. You could help backstage."
"You could do your sewin'," suggested George.
Ginnie's face lit up. "I could make costumes."
"Well spoken, that man," said Zach. "That's a wizard idea."
George cleared his throat and beamed. "I does have the odd unbeatable one," he said
smarmily.
"I'm glad to hear that," said Zach, "because I'm going to ask you for another good
suggestion."
George visibly swelled with pride. "Go ahead," he said.
"What are you going to do in the show?"
George's face fell. "Me!" he spluttered. "Me! I ent doin' no fancy theatricals with ole corny
Thorny. She's nutty as a fruitcake."
"Coward," said Carrie.
"I ent goin' to do it," he protested. "And that's a fact."
"I vote we bring this meeting to order," said Ginnie sharply.
Zach looked at George.
"Well," he said. "Are you going to be courageous or not?"
"Coward," repeated Carrie.
"Oh, all right," said George crossly. "I'll do it."
"Wizzo. That's two."
"What about you, Zach?" asked Carrie.
"Oh, I expect I'll volunteer for one of the leads," he said, leaning back and crossing his long
brown legs nonchalantly. He turned to Willie.
"I ain't been near a theater. Me mum ses . . ."
"It isn't exactly a theater," interrupted Zach earnestly. "It's the hall. It's just that we're going to
make it into a theater."
"Yeh, but . . ."
"You needn't perform. You could help with the scenery."
"Paintin', like," said Carrie.
Willie smiled nervously. "Yeh, all right."
"I'll volunteer too," said Carrie, "I don't care what I do so long as I don't have too many lines
to learn."
"Wizzo," yelled Zach. "That's the five of us."
He studied Sammy, who was chewing the toe of one of his large stuffed boots.
"No," said George and the twins in unison. Zach looked at Willie.
"You'll have to ask Mister Tom," Willie said.
"Three against two," said Carrie.
"Oh, all right," he sighed wearily, "I give in."
"My turn now for news," said George. "We's goin' to have a big Carol Service in the church
on Christmas Eve. Mr. Bush started rehearsin' us last night and he could do with some extra
voices, like."
Carrie opened her mouth.
"Boys only," he added.
"Ent it a blimmin' cheek," she exclaimed angrily. "Boys gits all the chances. The academic
high school in Weirwold only takes boys," she said in protest to Zach, "and they never bother
to put girls in fer it. And here's me dyin' to go and him," she said waving a finger at George,
"havin' all the chances, and him hating books."
"Mebbe now there's a war on it'll be different for girls," said Ginnie, gently touching her
sister's arm. She knew how much learning meant to her.
"I hope so. But it don't seem no different being at war really, do it? 'Cept there's more goin' on
in the evenin's with first aid and the like."
There was a short silence.
"Well," said George, glancing at Willie and Zach, "you two interested?"
"I'd like to," said Zach, "but I never go to church so it'd be a bit strange if I sing in it, won't it,
me not even being a Christian."
"Ain't you a Christian?" asked Willie in alarm.
Zach shook his head. "No. I thought you knew that."
Willie expected at any moment to see the tips of two red horns slowly emerging from under
his hair, but they didn't.
"You could always ask the vicar," suggested George.
"But what if I had to say your prayers. I might have to say things I didn't believe in. It leaves
me in a bit of a dilemma, don't you see."
"Di-what?" said George.
"Quagmire," said Zach, and he gave a sigh and threw his hands up in the air. "I mean I'd
really like to, but I've already been shouldered out of the Nativity play. It's rotten, rotten luck.
I know the story quite well too. I mean your Jesus that you believe was God was Jewish,
wasn't he? Joseph, his father, was Jewish and so was his mother. And here's me dying to act
and I can't be in it because I'm Jewish."
"Now you know how I feel about the high school," said Carrie.
"Oh, git the handkerchiefs out fer a weep," groaned George, pretending to play the violin.
"I'll do it," said Willie suddenly. "I'll s-s-sing."
George beamed.
"Rehearsals every Thursdee. I'll give you a hand in the readin' if you gits stuck."
"We need to do somethin' a bit more excitin', like," said George impatiently. "Let's go lookin'
fer badgers or even their holes. How about it? Who's for goin'?"
"I'd like to," blurted out Willie.
They all stared at him in surprise. It was unusual for him to volunteer without persuasion.
"I'll come too," said Zach. "I don't know anything about badgers, but it might be useful. Who
knows, perhaps one day I may have to play one."
Carrie and Ginnie looked at each other.
"We'll come too," they sighed in a tone of resignation.
"I ent forcin' you," said George.
"I say," said Zach. "What was that mysterious place you were talking about at Aunt Nance's?"
Ginnie paled. "Spooky Cott," she whispered.
"Couldn't we go and look at that as well?"
George and the twins gave no answer, and Willie felt a cold prickle crawl up his back and into
his hair.
"Oh come on," cried Zach. "It can't be that frightening, can it?"
All three of them nodded silently.
"We ent bin there for two years now," said George.
"I say, what happened?"
"Nothin' you could exactly put yer finger on, like," said Carrie ominously. "But there was a
strange eerie feeling in the air. The trees"—she swallowed—"the trees, they seemed to groan
and wave their arms about."
"Let's go. I mean, if we all go together we can protect each other."
"When was you thinkin'?" asked George in an unusually timid voice.
"How about tonight!" whispered Zach, and he gave a shrieking imitation of a cackling witch.
George and the twins yelled and Willie clutched Sammy, who had started barking.
Zach gave a long ghostly moan and raised his hands. With wide, blank eyes he shuffled
towards them. They stumbled backwards. Willie tried to calm Sammy, who was jumping
about excitedly.
"That's enough," said Ginnie crossly.
"Oh, all right, spoilsports," Zach said, feeling disgruntled, and he sat down, missed his
cushion and landed with a painful thump on the floor. This time it was the others who
laughed. He rubbed his bottom vigorously, looking very hurt.
They were interrupted by a knocking on the hatch.
Willie lifted it up to find Tom standing on the steps, with a large tray in his hands. On it was a
jug of lemonade, five cups, a plate of ginger snaps and a bowl of nuts. Beside it was a small
saucer of salt.
"Hot chestnuts," yelled Willie. "They has them in London when it's Christmas. I seed them
sell them in the streets lots of time, but I ain't never tasted them like."
"Thought mebbe you could use them."
"Rather," cried Zach. "Mister Tom, you're a real brick."
"Am I?" Tom mumbled. "Humph!"
He looked around at their delighted faces and began to feel embarrassed.
"You'd best eat them afore they gits cold."
Sammy wriggled into his arms and pushed his head underneath Tom's chin.
" 'Ad enough have you, boy?" he said, picking him up, and with that he gave them all a brisk
wave and disappeared down the steps, closing the hatch quickly behind him.
"He's a real decent sort, Will," said Zach. "You're awfully lucky being landed on someone
like him."
Willie smiled. He'd known that since that first bewildering day.
"I'm lucky too," he went on, "with the doctor and Aunt Nance."
"That's 'cos they're daft like you," said George through a mouthful of ginger snap.
"I don't think Christine and Robert King are very happy," said Ginnie. "They's stayin' at one
of the tenant cottages at Hillbrook Farm and they has to earn their keep. 'Specially now that
John's gone."
"Robert fell asleep in history on Monday," said Carrie.
"Don't blame him," said George.
"And Christine told me," continued Ginnie, "that Mr. Barnes threatened to have their dog put
down if they didn't work hard enough."
"Here, have a chestnut," said Carrie, flinging one into her sister's hands.
"Yes, let's eat," added George.
The meeting ended with everyone feeling very satisfied. They scrambled down the ladder,
yelling their good-byes. Will watched them as they ran through the graveyard and climbed
over the wall to the lane. He closed the door, walked into the living room and sank happily
into the armchair.
Tom glanced at him. The last time Willie had had so many children at the cottage he had been
sick. Tonight he looked healthily tired.
"Let's have a look at that ole arm of yours," he said.
Willie sleepily pulled his jersey and shirt off and slid to the edge of the armchair. Tom
squatted down in front of him. Very gently he cleaned a sore and put some ointment on it. It
was the last one.
"This time next week, should be gone," he muttered, but Willie didn't hear him. His eyelids
were already fluttering into sleep.
Tom helped him into his pyjamas, carried him up the ladder on his back and put him to bed.
When Willie woke the next day, there was something altogether unusual about the morning.
He lay in bed for some time and stared up at the ceiling trying to puzzle it out. Finally he gave
up and clambered out of bed. It was only when he started automatically to strip it that he
realized what it was that was so different. There was no need for the sheets to be washed that
day. They were dry.
The Show Must Go On
November had been a damp and drizzly month, bringing shorter days and causing aggravation
to those people who found it increasingly difficult to travel in the blackout.
Tom had meanwhile dug up his turnips and set to work hedging, digging ditches and helping
out with the other farms, when the extra labor was needed. Willie would return from school to
find the living room filled with the musky perfume of freshly cut branches burning in the
stove.
All evacuees had left the village and outlying countryside, except Willie and Zach, Robert and
Christine King up at Hillbrook Farm, and the four Browne children at the vicarage.
David Hartridge had become a fullfledged pilot and was looked upon as a hero. His few short
visits to the village caused great excitement.
While Little Weirwold was returning to normalcy, events in the larger world continued to
escalate. Hitler had escaped a bomb blast in a Munich beer cellar. German aircraft had
parachuted mines into the Thames estuary. A British merchant cruiser had been sunk by
German battle cruisers. Finland had been invaded and Helsinki had been bombed.
But these events of war didn't really disturb Little Weirwold except for Miss Emilia Thorne,
who had to recast the Christmas show as each evacuee left for home.
It was now the first week in December. The last of the swallows had gone long ago, and now
the black outlines of rooks could be seen flying around the plowed fields looking for grubs.
Cold icy winds swept under the gaps of cottage doors, rattling them fiercely. It looked as
though it would be a hard winter.
Willie had completed the last of the "Learning to Read" books. His reading was up to
standard for Mrs. Hartridge's class and his writing was progressing well. He now needed to
learn his tables up to six times and also be able to do multiplication, addition, subtraction and
division, tens and units, shillings and pence and have a basic knowledge of simple weights
and lengths. It all seemed quite endless.
Tom had thought that once Willie finished his final reading book, he wouldn't want him to
read to him anymore, but Willie loved to sit back and listen to his voice, and so the stories
continued. They had now almost finished Exodus and were in the middle of The Wind in the
Willows.
With Christmas only three weeks away the days were hectically filled making presents,
hanging up decorations and rehearsing.
The show that Miss Thorne was producing was an adaptation of A Christmas Carol by
Charles Dickens.
Zach was playing Bob Cratchit, Mr. Fezziwig, the ghost of Christmas present and the ghost of
what might be. Carrie was cast to play Mrs. Fezziwig and the young woman who had fallen in
love with the youthful Scrooge, while Ginnie hid in the school happily making costumes with
Miss Thorne's older sister.
George had been tried out in a variety of parts, but each time he stepped on the stage he would
stand with his legs and arms splayed out and drone monotonously.
Miss Thorne suddenly hit upon the idea of casting him as the ghost of Marley, Scrooge's expartner.
It would need no acting ability from George.
One winter afternoon, while they were rehearsing, something happened that stunned everyone
involved in the play.
Willie had already helped paint the scenery, but had been asked to take over as prompter
when Matthew Browne had been suddenly whisked off to boarding school.
He usually sat with the prompt book, next to Miss Thorne. His head still spun slightly as he
followed the words and looked upwards intermittently to see, by the expression of a face, if
someone had forgotten the lines. But after a while he soon knew large chunks of the play off
by heart and could occasionally prompt without looking at the book. It was difficult at first.
Initially he whispered the line, but it was embarrassing to have to continually repeat himself,
after a series of "pardons" and "whats?" and he soon discovered that if he spoke a line clearly
and loudly he wasn't noticed as much.
On this particular afternoon Willie sat as usual with the prompt book resting on his knees, his
forehead frowned into a tense concentration. The blackouts were already pulled down over
the hall windows. Willie liked it that way. It gave an air of mystery and excitement to the
rehearsals.
Carrie was the only one onstage. She stood with her hands clasped tightly together and stared
frantically at the curtain rail, her face racked with pain.
"Carrie, dear," said Miss Thorne, "you look as though you've got wind."
"It ent fair," she retorted, scowling fiercely.
"Isn't," corrected Miss Thorne.
"It isn't fair," said Carrie. "I feels daft pretendin' to speak to someone who ent, isn't, there."
Miss Thorne gave a sigh. Her long willowy legs splayed outwards into a balletic second.
Although she was terribly fond of the children, she found that working with them was like
banging her head against a brick wall. Zach was the only one who showed any real talent, and
he was more of a performer than an actor. He played himself all the time, using his characters
to display his many theatrical talents. He was still trying to persuade her to have a tap routine
in the play.
She stared up at Carrie, slapping her forehead with the palm of her hand.
"Has anyone seen Christine or Robert King?" she asked, turning to the others, who were
sitting at the back of the hall.
"No, Miss," piped Lucy.
Robert was playing Scrooge.
"We'll do the crone scene then."
"Christine's in that," chorused three at the back.
"So she is," said Miss Thorne. "This really is too bad. We've two weeks to go and we are
nowhere near being ready."
She glanced at Willie. "William, stand in for Christine."
"But it's a girl's part," said George.
"Well, we'll just have to have a male crone for today," replied Miss Thorne in a dangerously
quiet voice.
Willie crept nervously onstage with the prompt book in his hand and was joined by the others.
"Begin!"
He read out Christine's part, giving an imitation of all the inflections in her voice, at the same
time prompting those around him when they forgot their lines.
"No, no, no!" cried Miss Thorne. She looked around. "Someone else prompt."
"But then he won't be able to say his lines," said Carrie. "Er, will he?" she added nervously as
Miss Thorne glared threateningly at her.
"I'll prompt," said Zach.
Miss Thorne didn't think this was too good an idea, but time was precious, so she agreed.
"Now, William," she said. "Do you think you can remember the moves?"
He shrugged helplessly.
"Well, let's try, shall we? And William?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"Imagine that it's very cold and dark, that you're old and hungry and that you love stealing and
making trouble for people."
Willie looked at her dreamily.
"Did you hear that?"
He nodded.
"Good. You have the first line. Start when you're ready."
"Ready?" he asked, feeling a little puzzled.
"When you feel that you're that horrible old man."
Willie withdrew into himself. He remembered an old tramp he used to watch down by the
underground station near where he lived. He was hunched and he dragged his feet when he
walked. He also remembered times when he himself was so hungry that he couldn't stand
straight for the cramps in his stomach.
Miss Thorne watched him grow visibly older. His shoulders were pushed up by his neck and
his stomach caved in. He looked cold and miserable and bad tempered.
Zach found himself totally mesmerized and placed his finger on the page so that he wouldn't
lose his place.
Then Willie began speaking. His voice was harsh and mean. The others onstage stared at him
and someone giggled.
"Go on," interrupted Miss Thorne firmly. The three onstage with Willie joined in as best they
could, but they sounded as if they were reading out lines from a schoolbook. Willie continued
imagining that his dirty feet were wrapped in rags and newspapers, and when the scene came
to an end he shuffled slowly off the stage.
"I say," whispered Zach.
"You'll say nothing for the moment," said Miss Thorne. "Let's do that scene again. You're
beginning to get the idea, William."
They rehearsed the scene over and over again, and as they repeated it Willie believed more
than ever that he was the old man. He found himself suddenly reaching out and touching
someone or making some wild arm movement without thinking. He didn't understand what
Miss Thorne meant when she told him to keep a gesture. How could he keep something that
just happened?
When Miss Thorne finished working on the scene, he heard his companions sigh with relief.
"I'm fair done in," one of them said. How strange, he thought, I'm not tired at all. I could
easily have gone on.
He came down the tiny steps at the side of the stage and sat beside Zach.
"You're good," whispered Zach.
"Good? How d'you mean?"
"You're a good actor."
Willie didn't understand. He thought that being an actor was tap dancing and playing the fool.
All he'd done was to make a picture of someone in his head and worm his way inside it.
He took the prompt book back from Zach and began his old job again.
For the next half hour the rehearsals took on a sudden lift, and everyone began to dare to try
things out without feeling foolish. The only thing that spoiled it was the absence of Robert.
He was in nearly all the scenes. Finally Miss Thorne refused to wait any longer and told them
to take a short break while she left the hall to make a phone call to Hillbrook Farm.
Willie found himself immediately surrounded. Lucy slipped her hand into his. He flushed and
pulled it away.
"Dunno what you're on about," he said quietly in response to their praise. "I jes' pretended I
was someone else, that's all."
"I really believed you was that horrible old man," said Carrie in admiration.
But so did I, thought Willie. He was puzzled. He didn't understand why they were making so
much fuss.
"You're a natural," said Zach. "When you talked it was like you'd just thought of it. How did
you do it?"
"I jes' listened to what someone said and answered them, like."
All the sudden admiration unnerved him. He felt lonely being so different. To hide his fear he
asked Zach to tell a joke and do his funny Buffalo step. Zach hesitated at first, but luckily
someone who hadn't seen him do any tap dancing egged him on. Willie was soon forgotten
and became mixed into the group again.
Zach stopped. He heard Miss Thorne open the outer door of the hall. She flung the inside door
to one side, was about to slam it. but changed her mind and closed it behind her in a quiet and
controlled manner. Her face was pale and she was wringing her hands in agitation.
"Sit down everyone, please."
They did so immediately.
She walked slowly towards her chair, sat down, folded one leg over the other and placed her
clasped hands over her knee.
"I'm afraid I've just had some rather bad news. Robert and Christine's mother came early this
morning and took them back to London. It seems she felt they were being used as unpaid
labor. This means that we have no Scrooge."
"Oh no!" cried Zach amidst the loud wails of disappointment.
"Does that mean we can't do it?" asked Carrie.
There were only two weeks till the performance. They had all helped with scenery and
costumes. Did this mean that all their hard work was wasted?
Miss Thorne turned to Willie.
"William," she said quietly, "I'd like you to play the part of Scrooge."
Willie felt an intense tingle pass from his toes to the roots of his hair. He looked up at her.
Everyone's face was turned to him as if he was their last chance.
"Will you?"
He nodded.
"Oh, well done," cried Zach. "Hip, hip, hurray!"
"That's enough," interrupted Miss Thorne firmly. "We have a lot of work to do. We'll start
with Act One, Scene One. Those not in the scene will have to take turns prompting. We must
all pull together and help."
She turned to face Willie. He was standing quite still, feeling paralyzed and yet at the same
time filled with a flood of energy.
"Don't hurry," she said.
"Everythin' has its own time," he whispered, and he blushed. "That's what Mister Tom ses."
"That's right," and she gave him a warm smile. "We'll go through the blocking first. Take my
script and pencil for now."
The blocking was all the various moves which made up the pattern of each scene. This was to
give it movement and life and to ensure that the focus of attention was never blurred for the
audience.
Willie half mumbled and half read the script as he penciled little letters around the sentences.
Miss Thorne had taught them all the names of the different stage areas. There was downstage
right and left and upstage right and left, up center, down center and of course center plus
many others such as "left of so and so."
To the ones who were watching, Willie seemed very bad. He stumbled and droned and
scribbled in his book like someone half asleep. But Miss Thorne knew that as soon as he had
got rid of the book and started working on the character of Scrooge, he would be very
different. It was strange that she had never thought of him before, for she now remembered
how quickly he had learned poetry when she was helping him learn to read. But then hardly
anyone noticed him when he was around. They only noticed his absence.
She stopped rehearsing when they reached the end of Act One.
"Well done, William," she said encouragingly. "Well done, everyone. You've all worked very
hard."
Willie looked up a little bewildered and then back down at his script. The words were
beginning to cease being just shapes and pictures. There was something else in them. He felt
breathlessly excited.
"William," said Miss Thorne, interrupting his thoughts. "Keep my script and look over the
scene we've blocked. The next rehearsal will be on Monday night after school. We'll block
Act Two then."
Willie walked shakily out of the inner door to the porch. Zach had already put on his coat and
cap, and was waiting to tell him something, when Ginnie and Miss Thorne's elder sister burst
in.
"Whatever's the matter, May?" asked Miss Thorne.
"Haven't you heard the news yet?"
"About the Kings?"
"No. About Mr. Bush."
"What about him. Has he had an accident?"
"Worse. He's been called up!"
"But he's a teacher. They aren't calling them up, surely?"
"It's his own fault. He's on reserves and they say that we already have more than our quota per
pupil than most other places."
"Who's going to teach the seniors?"
"I don't know. The vicar, I suppose."
"What about the Carol Service?" interrupted George. "It's on in three weeks' time."
May Thorne turned to her sister.
"What's this about the Kings, then?"
"It's all sorted out. I'll explain later."
"What's been goin' on?" burst out Ginnie.
Zach and Willie slipped out into the darkness.
"I say, Will," said Zach, taking Willie's arm, "a jolly exciting night, eh?"
"Yeh," replied Willie, still dazed.
"I think you're, how do you say it? Fine. Yes, I think you're fine."
Willie smiled.
"We're both jolly jolly fine," Zach yelled and he dragged Willie on behind him. They
stumbled and laughed down the tiny lane to the Littles' cottage, where they parted.
Willie walked quickly towards Tom's cottage. He clutched the script tightly under his arm. It
felt so good tucked there, so snug and firm under his armpit like it was a part of him. He ran
into the cottage, flinging his cap and coat onto his peg.
Tom was sitting at the table, gluing colored paper chains together. He'd hung the clusters of
holly that Willie had painted silver onto the walls.
Willie looked up at them.
"Pretty, ent they?" he remarked.
"You's beginnin' to sound like me," Tom said.
Willie stood by the table, holding the script in his hand. Pushing a chair gently to one side, he
placed it on the table and sat down.
Tom was unusually quiet. He put the chains down and stood up. Sammy followed him,
tugging at his trouser legs. He lifted him up absently, sat in the armchair and stared into the
open stove.
"Shall I make us some tea?" suggested Willie.
"H'm," grunted Tom, a little startled. "What?"
Willie walked over to the kettle and filled it with water from the pitcher.
"I'll make us some."
"Yes, that's right, boy, you do that."
Willie suddenly became aware of how pale Tom looked and he felt alarmed for a moment.
Perhaps he was ill. Sammy was sitting on his lap panting in a bewildered fashion. He gave a
small whine. Tom looked up and caught Willie's worried gaze.
"Is you all right?" asked Willie, sitting on the stool.
"Just had a bit of a wake-up, so to speak."
"Wake-up?"
"You heard about Mr. Bush?"
He nodded.
"I been asked to take over the choir like, for the concert, play the organ. . . ."
"Can you play?"
"Used to when Rachel was alive."
"Who's Rachel?"
"A gentle-hearted wild young girl I once loved."
"Where's she now?"
Tom pointed to the window behind him with his thumb.
"She's the one under the oak tree. Died after she had a baby. She had scarlatina, see. . . ."
"What happened to the baby?"
"Died soon after. Buried together." He glanced at Willie. "Same name as yours, too."
"William?"
He nodded and gave a deep sigh. "It's a long time since I touched that organ. It'll take a good
bit of practice."
"You goin' to do it then?"
Tom leaned back and paused for a moment. "Yes," he said at last, and he glanced across at the
table. "What's that then?" he asked. "A new book?"
"It's the script of Christmas Carol."
"Oh? What you doin' with it then?"
"I've been asked to be in the play."
" 'As you?" said Tom, leaning forward.
"Yeh."
"I take it you's goin' to do it then?"
Willie smiled, his cheeks burning with excitement. "Yeh."
"Reckon we'll both be needin' that tea extra sweet tonight, eh, boy?"
Carol Singing
"Bah! 'Umbug!" he cried as he paced the floor. It was at least the fiftieth time in the past hour
that Willie had uttered the words. He paused and read the nephew's lines, put down the script
and began pacing the floor again. "If I could work me will, every idiot who goes abaht wiv
Merry Christmuss on 'is lips should be boiled wiv his own puddin', and buried wiv a stake of
holly through his heart. He should!"
Willie sat down on the end of his bed and gave a sigh. "I nearly got it," he muttered to
himself. "I got to be a bit more grumpy." He rose.
"Nephew!" he said brusquely. "You keep Christmuss in yer own way and let me keep it in
mine." He stopped and hit the open palm of his hand with his fist. "No! It don't feel right. I'm
a bad-tempered man and I don't like bein' interrupted, like." He began again. "Nephew, you
keep Christmuss in yer own way and let me keep it in mine."
A loud knocking at the front door made him jump. "Blow it!" he grumbled. "Jes' when I wuz
gettin' it." He frowned and walked towards the trapdoor. Immediately he realized how
Scrooge must have felt when he was interrupted.
"Nephew," he repeated angrily, "keep Christmuss in yer own way and let me keep it in mine."
He gave a loud grunt and looked into his imaginary accounts book. "That's it!" he yelled. "I
got it! I got it!"
A volley of louder knocks came from downstairs. Willie threw himself down the ladder and
opened the door. It was George. He looked over Willie's shoulder.
"Who else is in there?" he asked.
"No one," answered Willie.
"Who you yellin' at then?"
Willie looked at him blankly for a moment.
"Oh," he said, realizing what George was talking about. "I was jes' goin' over me words, like."
"I could hear you from here."
Willie blushed.
"Only from the front door, mind. Don't s'pose no one else did. You comin' then?"
"What?"
"Haven't you remembered? It's Thursdee, doughbag. We got Carols. Thought you'd be there
first seein' it's Mr. Oakley's first practice, like."
"Oh, yeh," said Willie hurriedly, and he flung his scarf on. "Am I late?"
"No. We's all jes' a bit early."
Willie slammed the front door behind him. He ran after George along the pathway towards
the back entrance of the church. Already there were people seated in the benches on either
side of the altar. Tom was sitting at the organ, a large scowl on his face.
Willie caught his eye and smiled at him. He knew that the scowl meant he was just a bit shy.
Edward Fletcher and Alec Barnes came in at the front door and joined the men right of the
altar. Edward's voice had now evened out into a wobbly tenor. Alec, a large, dark-haired
sixteen-year-old, was looking very embarrassed. Everyone wanted to know if his father had
been using the King children as "slave labor" or not.
Behind Alec sat Mr. Miller and Hubert Pullet, the son-in-law of Charlie Ruddles. He was a
poker-faced, pale man in his fifties. Next to him sat the twins' father, a handsome frecklefaced
man with thick wavy red hair. Ted Blakefield, a local thatcher, sat beside him. The
oldest member of the choir was Walter Bird, still wearing his tin hat and the only one with a
gas mask.
George sat in the second row, to the left of the altar, next to two older boys, while Willie
joined the younger ones in the front.
Tom stood up and gave two short taps with his hand on the top of the organ.
"We'll begin with 'Hark the Herald,' " he said, smoothing out the pages of his music. He
waited until everyone had found their places before playing the short introduction.
After the first few notes he stopped. No one was singing. He leaned around the organ.
"What's the matter?" he inquired.
"We was jes' listenin' to you playin', like," croaked Walter. "You kept in toon, didn't you?"
Tom grunted.
"I ent 'ere to listen to meself. One more time."
The men suppressed a grin among themselves. Still the same short-tempered Mr. Oakley, they
thought.
Tom played the introduction once more and they joined in.
"You call that singin'?" he interrupted gruffly. "Sounds like a dirge."
"A dirge, Mr. Oakley?" interspersed Mr. Miller, his balding head shining with perspiration.
"A dirge," repeated Tom. "This is to be a Carol Service, not a funeral. Lift them up with yer
voices. Don't bury them."
George gave a short laugh and slapped his hand sharply over his mouth. Tom glared at him.
"Put a bit of that laughin' in yer singin', boy," he said. That was what Rachel would have
suggested, he thought, and he sat down and turned to the beginning of the carol.
"Once again."
They lifted up their books and sang with even more fervor.
"Gettin' better. Good cure for insomnia, though. Send at least the first four pews to sleep.
Now," he said, turning over several pages, "let's wake them up with 'Glory to the Newborn
King.' 'Tis good news."
Willie took a deep breath and pictured in his mind a rainbow, its rays of colored light pouring
down from massive clouds.
"In the triumph of the skies," he sang, "Glory to the newborn King."
"Good," said Tom when they had finished. "William, you's gettin' the idea, but you're singin'
up to the ceiling. Sing it out front."
He turned to everyone.
"All of yous, sing it out through them doors and through the village."
Mr. Miller wiped his face with a handkerchief.
"I don't think I can sing any better, Mr. Oakley."
"Don't let Hitler hear you say that," replied Tom. "Now, one more time."
They sang it through twice, and then as a contrast followed it with a gentle rendition of
"Silent Night." The rehearsal ended with a rousing version of "O Come All Ye Faithful."
"I think that'll do for tonight," said Tom, closing the Book of Carols.
"What time is it?" asked Edward.
"It's nine o'clock," cried Alec in alarm. "I've to do the milkin' tomorrow mornin'. Good night,
Mr. Oakley. Thank you," he yelled, running out of the church.
Willie left his bench and stood by the organ. George joined him.
"It were a real good rehearsal, Mr. Oakley," he said. "Real good. Weren't it, Will?"
Willie nodded.
George said his good-nights and left the church with the others.
Willie could hear their voices drifting away into the distance, singing "Hark the Herald" and
laughing over something. He leaned on the organ.
"I'll play you somethin' I ent played in years," said Tom. "Don't know if I can remember it all.
It were one of Rachel's favorites."
Willie rested his chin in his cupped hands and listened.
Unlike the jaunty tunes of the carols, these notes were long and lingering. They throbbed and
shook the frame of the organ, sometimes dying to the gentlest and saddest of sounds, only to
crescendo and fall again. Willie had never heard anything so beautiful. As Tom lifted his
fingers from the organ, the music seemed to sink and fade into the very walls of the church.
Tom sat back and flexed his fingers several times until his knuckles cracked.
"Bit out o' practice, like," he said.
"Mister Tom," said Willie, his eyes welling with emotion, "it were real fine."
"Hmph," Tom grunted. "Thank you, boy. Must admit I enjoyed it meself."
New Beginnings
There were usually fifteen pupils in Mrs. Hartridge's class, ranging from nine to fourteen
years of age. On this particular Monday there were only ten present. Three children who had a
two-mile walk to the school hadn't arrived because of the snow, and Harry Padfield and Polly
Barnes were helping out on their parents' farms.
At a quarter to nine Willie had walked in, accompanied by Zach. The twins had followed soon
after. By five minutes to nine George had arrived, looking very pale and swollen eyed and
wearing a black armband. He smiled weakly at Willie. His brother Michael had been reported
"Missing, believed dead." A memorial service had been held for him the previous day, and the
village had given the vicar money towards a plaque to be placed in the church.
Willie had stood awkwardly while the others moved into their seats. Mrs. Hartridge had
smiled at him and asked him to sit in the front next to a girl named Patsy. They had stood up
for prayers and sat down.
"I'm sure we would all like to welcome William Beech to our class," she had said, turning to
him. "We know what excellent progress you've made and how hard you've worked."
Willie had tried to cover his embarrassment by scowling, but Patsy had smiled so sweetly at
him that the scowl didn't last long. Mrs. Hartridge gave him a history and geography
textbook, a spelling and arithmetic book, a nature and English book, a notebook, a pencil and,
what thrilled him most of all, his own pen. It had a long slim wooden handle with a nib
fastened at the end.
"Take care of it," she had said. "I'll see how your writing is this week, and if it's good enough
you can begin writing in ink next week."
Willie had laid the pen carefully in his desk and now his first lesson had begun. First they all
had to chant their twelve times tables. Willie managed to get up to six. He had practiced them
long enough. By the time the class had reached twelve only Carrie and Ruth were still
chanting.
"Same two again," said Mrs. Hartridge. "Hands up who managed to eleven." Three hands
were raised. "Ten?" Two more went up. "Nine? Eight? Seven? Six?" Willie raised his hand.
"Well done, William. I know you've only learned up to six. Five?" George raised his hand at
three but she didn't scold him.
"Today we're going to do long multiplication. George and Frederick, I'd like you to review
your tables. William, I'd like you to begin seven times table, and I'll give you some problems
of your own. For the rest, take these down," and she walked over to the board and chalked up
four problems.
After arithmetic they had an English language lesson on nouns. Willie's head was spinning.
He turned to look at Zach and saw Carrie passing him a note. Zach glanced surreptitiously at
it on his knee. Checking to see if Mrs. Hartridge was looking, he turned back and nodded. She
looked a little scared. Then he saw Zach mouth "Good luck" to her and return quickly to
chewing the end of his pencil and scribbling something in his notebook.
"Don't look so worried, William," said Mrs. Hartridge as she went over the nouns. "It's only
your first day. If you're stuck and you need help, don't be afraid to ask. That's what I'm here
for."
Willie nodded.
How beautiful she was with her violet blue eyes and her single long flaxen plait. She was
wearing a cream-colored woolen blouse, a russet-colored cardigan and a green woolen skirt
flecked with browns. She was plumper than usual, round and comfortable.
"Pencils and books away. Time for break. Patsy!"
Patsy was the milk monitor for the week. Mrs. Hartridge had taken to heating the milk, now
the weather was so cold. She poured it into cups and Patsy carried them two at a time to the
desks.
"Those of you who don't have gum boots or galoshes are to stay in," she said as she handed
out the dried socks, but today everyone had.
Willie saw Zach winking at Carrie. Slowly she left her desk and walked up to Mrs.
Hartridge's desk, where she was sorting out some books.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Hartridge."
"Yes, Carrie," she said, surprised. "Is there something wrong?"
"Not really."
Carrie took hold of one of her flame-colored plaits and tapped it nervously on her shoulder.
"It's jes' that . . ."
"Yes?"
"Can I speak to you on yer own, like? It's very important."
"Now?"
Carrie nodded.
"All right. We'll go somewhere private."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hartridge."
"When you've all finished your milk, go outside."
Patsy collected the empty cups and took them on a tray down the hall and into a kitchen,
where Mrs. Bird washed them.
Zach, Ginnie, George and Willie fled into the playground.
"I say," said Zach, "it's wizard to have you in our class."
"And don't worry about everythin' bein' new," said Ginnie. "We'll help you."
"Ta," said Willie. He was about to grumble about how he felt bottom of the class when he
remembered that George's tables were worse than his and that he had just lost his brother. He
bit his lip and kept silent.
"Where's Carrie?" said Ginnie. "I saw her going up to Mrs. Hartridge."
"Perhaps they're having a little conflab," said Zach.
"She would have told me if anything was wrong," said Ginnie.
"Oh, there's nothing wrong. Yet," he added mysteriously.
Ginnie was astounded. "Do you mean you know what it's all about?"
Zach nodded. "I'll say I do."
"But—but I'm her sister!"
"She thought you might try and stop her."
"Stop her? Stop what?"
"Well," said Zach hesitantly, "I suppose you'll find out soon enough."
"Find out what?" exclaimed Ginnie in exasperation.
"Go on," said George. "Stop huggin' it all to yerself."
"Yeh. Tell us," joined in Willie.
Zach took a deep breath.
"She's asking if she can take the exam for the high school."
"She never is," gasped Ginnie. "She wouldn't dare."
"She jolly well is."
"But they ent even puttin' in any of the boys for it, they hasn't fer two years."
"So?"
"She's a girl!" cried George.
"I say, is she really?"
"I think it's jes' fine," said Willie.
"You would," retorted George. "You think anything he ses is fine."
"No, I doesn't. It ain't his idea anyway. It's Carrie's."
"Let's not quarrel," said Ginnie, who was feeling a little hurt that Carrie had confided in Zach
and not her.
By the end of break there was still no sign of Carrie. Rose Butcher rang the bell and everyone
queued up in the playground and filed in. Carrie was sitting at her desk, looking very flushed.
Before they could ask her any questions, Mrs. Hartridge had pinned a map onto the board and
told them to take out their geography books.
"Turn your desks round to face each other," she said. "Ginnie, go to the cupboard and hand
out two sheets of paper to each desk. When you have the paper, tear each one in half."
Ginnie tried to catch Carrie's eye, but she was staring down at her desk. She caught hold of
Ginnie's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Now, which ports do we get our fish from?"
Willie watched the hands go up. He sighed. Everything takes its own time was what Mister
Tom was always saying. Maybe if he just sat back and listened he might catch up. The rest of
the period was taken up with drawing maps of England, coloring in the sea, putting red dots to
mark the ports and drawing little fishes next to them.
After geography came nature study. Here George and Ginnie shone. They loved animals and
plants. Carrie knew the odd name of a flower, but Ginnie and George far excelled her and
loved identifying them. Willie was very surprised. He had always thought that boys who liked
flowers were sissies, but George was the strongest in their group of five. He had already
taught Willie a little about the habits of squirrels, moles, rabbits and, of course, badgers. As
the boy next to Ginnie was away, Mrs. Hartridge allowed George to join Ginnie, Patsy and
Willie.
Rose rang the dinner bell and the five raced out of the classroom, slung their coats, hats and
gum boots on and ran out into the snow.
Zach grabbed Carrie. "What did she say?"
"She ses she'll think about it and make inquiries. It'd mean Mr. Peters giving me extra
coaching like and havin' to do special work. No girl here 'as ever done one afore, see. So it ent
yes and it ent no."
She turned to Ginnie.
"I'm sorry I didn't let on, but I thought you'd try and stop me. I know we always does
everythin' together but I wanted to do it on me own and I woulda told you, anyway."
"How would I have stopped you?"
"Oh, you're so sensible. All yous at home think I've odd ideas and that, I didn't want you
down on me. And I know that if I really want to go to the high, I've to stop grousin' and do
something. If nothin' happens I shall have to think of somethin' else, but at least I know that
I've tried."
"Theys'll think you're odder if you gits in," said George.
"Well, I'd rather be happy and odd than miserable and ordinary," she said, sticking her chin in
the air.
"Hark at her. She's gettin' snooty already."
"I am not!"
"Let's go eat in my shelter," suggested Zach. "It's freezing out here." And he blew some
warmth into his gloves.
They ran towards the little shelter, where Aunt Nance brought them cups of hot black-currant
juice.
When they returned to school, Zach took Willie aside.
"How are you liking it?" he whispered.
"I feel very stupid," said Willie.
"Well, you jolly well are not, so don't try telling yourself that you are."
During the first lesson of the afternoon, Mrs. Hartridge read out a passage from Treasure
Island and wrote up ten questions on the board for them to answer.
"Remember," she said, "that you start your answer with a statement, so that if I say, 'What is
your name?' you write, 'My name is John Smith' or whatever."
She came over to Willie to give him an English exercise book and to show him how to lay out
the date and the subject. It was difficult for Willie to write the answers, but he managed to
finish somehow. They each swapped books with the person next to them and put crosses or
checks as Mrs. Hartridge told them the correct answers. When Patsy handed back his book,
she stared at him.
"You got eight out of ten," she said in wonder. "And it's only yer first day."
"Who has full marks?" asked Mrs. Hartridge.
Carrie raised her hand and flushed. Mrs. Hartridge smiled.
"Nine out of ten?"
Ruth raised her hand.
"Eight out of ten?"
Zach and Willie put up their hands.
Zach whooped with delight when he saw how well Willie had done. The rest of the class
gasped.
"That will do, Zacharias," said Mrs. Hartridge, trying hard not to smile and not succeeding
very well.
"Well done, William," she said, and Willie swelled with pleasure. "And now put away your
books. Who are the paint monitors this week?"
Zach and a girl called Alison in the fourth row left their desks. Fred cleaned the board.
"The subjects for this afternoon are 'A Rainy Day' or 'A Rainy Night,' and one at a time at the
pencil sharpener." She turned to Willie. "From what I hear, I think you'll be all right on your
own," and she gave him another of her heavenly smiles. One day, thought Willie, I'll draw
you real good. He looked down at the large white sheet in front of him and lifted his pencil
from the groove.
Forty minutes later he raised his paintbrush for a moment and looked up while the blackouts
were being put up. Dusk was already settling in and everyone had been squinting in the fading
light. But after the lights were turned on, Willie resumed painting and grew deaf to his
surroundings. Patsy took a glimpse now and then over his shoulder. His picture frightened her
a little.
Mrs. Hartridge walked down the aisle looking at each person's work.
"That's very good, Ruth," she said. "You're improving, Frederick. Another heroic rescue,
Zach, only this time in the rain. Well tried." She glanced down at Willie's painting and gave a
start. She had heard that he was good, but hadn't expected him to be quite as good as she
perceived at that moment.
The painting was set at night in a gloomy back street in a city. An old lamppost stood alight
on a corner. Squatting down by a wall was a blind beggar in a shabby raincoat, his white stick
lying beside him. His cap lay on the street in front of him and he stared out with dead sad
eyes.
The rain swept across the old man's face so that his white hair hung limply and rain trickled
down his cheeks. Hiding in an alleyway on his right were two grinning boys. They were
eyeing the money in the cap.
"That's excellent, William. Do you think you could finish it in fifteen minutes? Then I could
leave it out to dry. I'd like to put it on the wall."
Ginnie and George glanced over his shoulder. He was embarrassed at first, but soon became
so absorbed in his painting that he continued, oblivious of the clatter of slamming desks, the
washing of pots, the laying out of wet paintings on newspapers near to the stove and the
cleaning of brushes.
Mrs. Hartridge picked up Hans Christian Andersen's Fairy Tales and was about to begin "The
Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep" when Willie raised his hand.
"Please, Mrs. Hartridge. I've finished."
"Good," she said. "Lay it down by the others. You can clear up afterwards."
Willie did so and sank back to listen to the story. When it was finished, Rose rang the bell for
the end of school and everyone clustered round the paintings. Afterwards George, Zach,
Willie and the twins played in the field behind the school house. George left early with a
headache, and the twins left soon after. Zach and Willie sauntered slowly homewards and
talked endlessly outside the Littles' dilapidated front gate. Willie's first day in Mrs. Hartridge's
class was over.
One Friday morning, in the first week of March, Willie looked out of his window to find that
the snow had thawed completely, and piebald fields of brown earth and tufts of grass now lay
exposed all around the village. The river was almost bursting its bank. Two blackbirds cawed
their way past the graveyard and headed in the direction of the woods. Willie unfastened his
window a little. It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny. He breathed in the cool crisp air and
was filled with so much energy that he too felt like the swollen river.
After putting on his clothes and making his bed, he clambered down the ladder with his
chamber pot.
"Sammy," he called. "Sam, 'ere, boy."
A loud barking came from the garden. No sooner had he opened the back door than Sam came
flying in. Tom stuck his head out of the air-raid shelter. He was pumping out water.
"You looks full o' beans," he said. "You might as well go for a run now. I'll 'as yer breakfast
started when you comes back."
Willie ran back into the house, put some coke in the stove, slung on his gum boots, overcoat
and balaclava while Sam twirled round and round his ankles. They spurted through the back
garden and headed out towards Tom's field and beyond.
"Yahoo!" he yelled. "Yahoo! Yahoo! Yahoo!" And as he sprinted along the lane, he began to
laugh. Sam scampered on ahead, showing off, chasing his tail and enjoying Willie's
excitement. Eventually Willie turned back and Sammy followed him home. The balaclava
hung back from his face exposing flushed cheeks and two red ears.
That Friday was to be a special day. Zach, George, he and the twins had at last arranged to
meet at Zach's, after school, to discuss plans about visiting Spooky Cott. They were to bring
tea so that they could leave Zach's immediately to go to a meeting in the village hall to hear
which play Miss Thorne had chosen to produce next.
After breakfast Willie helped Tom make up sandwiches, and then spent ten minutes going
over yards, feet and inches before leaving for school. He met Zach in the arched lane and they
talked about the Spooky Cott enterprise and the possible new play.
"I think it's going to be another Dickens," said Zach, as they walked into the school hallway.
"Miss Thorne's awfully keen on him."
Alison Blake rang the bell and they sauntered into class.
George had been moved into the second row next to Ginnie, and Carrie had been moved to
the back row with the elder ones. Although she was ten she had already reached the standard
of a thirteen-year-old. Since most children left at fourteen, Mrs. Hartridge hoped that Carrie
would obtain a scholarship—otherwise she would have to spend the next three or four years
working on her own. The teacher had spoken to Carrie's parents the weekend after their talk
and had explained that Carrie was bright enough to take the exam. Her mother had objected at
first.
"What about uniform?" she had said.
Mrs. Hartridge had assured her that there were always people who were willing to sell
uniforms that their children had grown out of.
"And she ent even taken this here examination yet, Madge," Mr. Thatcher had added. "Let's
take one thing at a time." Secretly he was rather proud that one of his daughters wanted to
take it. The war was encouraging girls to be more independent now. They both finally agreed.
Most of her evenings were now spent doing homework and cramming, and her mother
allowed her to skip some of the household chores as long as she made up for them after the
exam.
Willie had by now settled happily into his new class. He adored being near Mrs. Hartridge,
and he watched her stomach gently expand with each passing week. He loved the way she
moved and smiled and the soft cadence of her voice.
However, he, like the others, couldn't wait for the hours to fly that Friday. Eventually school
ended and they all fled to the Littles' cottage and up to Zach's bedroom. They discussed plans
for the Spooky Cott expedition, which was to take place on Saturday, and later made their
way to the play meeting. Miss Thorne announced that they would be presenting Toad of Toad
Hall.
When they had left the village hall, Willie and Zach chatted briefly at the Littles' gate and
arranged to meet the following afternoon.
Willie sang as he walked down the lane. He was still bursting with energy. He swung open
the gate into Dobbs's field, which was now empty. Dobbs was still in winter residence at the
Padfields'. The ground was muddy and an icy wind blew down his neck. He wound his scarf
tightly around him and tucked it deep into his overcoat.
"I don't care if there's even an air-raid drill tonight," he said, grinning and twirling around. He
ran into the cottage, flinging the back door open, his cheeks flushed with both pleasure and
the cold wind. He tore off his coat, balaclava and scarf and burst into the front room.
Tom was standing by the stove. He glanced at Willie and listened quietly to his chatter. While
Willie talked nonstop he untied his boots and placed them on newspaper and proceeded to
warm his hands by the stove.
Tom didn't make any comment. He gazed down at Sammy, who was slumped miserably over
his feet. Willie looked up and noticed that Tom was holding a letter.
"What's the matter?"
"It's from yer mother," he said, indicating the paper. "She's ill. She wants you to go back for a
while."
Home
Dobbs clopped on towards Weirwold, Tom and Willie sitting on the cart behind her. They
hadn't exchanged many words on the journey. They had both felt too numb. Willie held
Sammy tightly next to him and stared through blurred eyes down at the leather and brass
harness, the moving flank of Dobbs and the rough road beneath them. Occasionally he lifted
his head to gaze at the fields, only to look quickly downwards again.
Tom kept his eyes on the road. The blacksmith's at the edge of the village could be seen
faintly in the distance. He had tried persuading Willie's mother to come and stay in Little
Weirwold, but to no avail. She had written that she only wanted Willie to stay with her for a
while till she felt better. He spoke to the Billeting Officer, but there was nothing she could do.
Mothers were always taking their children back and they had the legal right to do so.
They left Dobbs and the cart at the blacksmith's. Tom helped Willie on with his old rucksack.
It was filled with books, clothes and presents he had acquired during his stay. In the carrier
bag that he had carried on his first day were his few original possessions.
Willie trembled. A blast of wind swept into his face and he shivered. Tom squeezed his
shoulder firmly and walked with him towards the railway station, holding Sammy on a
makeshift leash.
They sat on a bench on the platform and gazed at the hedgerows on the other side of the
railway tracks.
"Don't forgit to write, William," said Tom huskily, and with shaking hands he took his pipe
out of his pocket and began to fill it.
"No, Mister Tom."
"If you changes yer mind about them paints, you jes' let on and I'll post them."
Willie shook his head. "They belongs at home, I mean at your place. Then they'll be there
when I come back. I will come back," he added earnestly, touching Tom's hand. "I will, won't
I?"
"You might feel different when yer home. I s'pect yer mother's missed you. Probably why she
didn't write much—and William?"
"Yeh."
"Don't expect too much too soon. You ent seen each other for over six months, so things
might be a little awkward like, for a while."
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 all 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 the window. He didn't want anyone to see his
face. He placed his rucksack on 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 goin'?"
"London."
"Ah thought you bairns were bein' moved oot," he said. "You miss home then, do ye?"
He shrugged.
"That old man yer granda?"
"No," Willie 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 color 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," the soldier 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 jawbreakers 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 wondered. 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. Zach had 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, sleepyhead. 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 trapdoor, 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 smelled 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 mustache. 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 started 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," Willie 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 gray.
Here stood an upright, well-fleshed boy in sturdy ankle boots, thick woolen 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 who had changed. He had learned new things, that was true,
but he was still him.
He studied her face. She was very pale, almost yellow in color, 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. He remembered
how kind and jolly Mrs. Fletcher was. He stopped. 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 cafe. 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 gave 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 been 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
your 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."
"But I learned 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 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, colorless 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 spoiled 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 cafe and caught a bus. The windows of the bus were covered with 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," his mother 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 of 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 gray 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 crisscrossed 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 sneakers with the tops cut off.
"They got too small," he explained and placed his thin gray 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 leaned 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 learned 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, fruitcake, wine and bedsocks 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 spoiled 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 sketchpad 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 candy, colored 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 churchgoers?"
"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 ... 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 undershirt 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 with
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.
The Search
The cottage seemed very quiet without William. Tom missed the sound of his boots clattering
along the tiled hallway and his chatter at night. In the days that followed his departure Tom
found himself glancing at the table to share something he had read, only to realize that the
chair where William usually sat was unoccupied. He felt the old familiar emptiness that he
had experienced after the sudden loss of Rachel. At least he could console himself that
William was alive. He listened to the news on the wireless with extra attentiveness,
particularly when there were reports of bombing near London.
Hitler had by now invaded Norway and Denmark, and heavy units of the British fleet had
been sent to help the invaded countries, but the war still left Little Weirwold unruffled except
for those few who missed William. It was sad that he wasn't around to witness early spring.
Already buttercups were appearing in the fields, and in the woods wet primroses and violets
had burst through the soggy dark earth.
Tom waited patiently for a letter. After the first week when there was still no word from him
he thought William was probably too busy to write, for he would probably have his hands full
doing chores for his mother. He thought the same the second week, but by the third week he
began to feel anxious. He himself had written four letters. He knew that Zach had sent several
also, but there was no reply to any of them.
One night he awoke violently from a nightmare. In the dream, he had been locked into a tiny
space with no air inside. It was as though he was being buried alive. But it was the voice that
had woken him. He thought he had heard William calling out to him for help. He woke with a
jerk only to find Sammy standing by his bedside, panting. He staggered out of bed and
fumbled his way towards the bedroom window. Carefully easing the blackout curtains to one
side he peered out. It was still dark. He opened the door, walked across the hallway to the
living room and looked at the clock. It was three A.M. Almost time for his fire duty anyway.
He'd go and relieve Hubert Pullett early. He pulled his corduroys and thick jersey on over his
pyjamas, got into his boots, and stepped outside into the damp night slinging his trench coat,
cap and gas mask on as he walked. Sammy followed him dragging a bit of old blanket in his
teeth.
The fire post was a makeshift platform on top of the village hall. A ridiculous piece of
extravagance, Tom had thought, when it was being built. He climbed up the ladder that leaned
onto it. Mr. Pullett was sitting with a blanket wrapped round him and was in the process of
falling asleep in a chair. He woke up, pleased to see Tom so early. They chatted for a while
until Mr. Pullett decided to leave for the warmth of his bed. Tom made himself as
comfortable and as warm as was possible, and Sammy snuggled in between his legs.
As he stared at the sky he couldn't rid himself of the dream he had just had. If William was in
need of help, surely he would write to him. He gazed out at the galaxy of stars and brooded.
Two hours later the dawn injected its colors into the sky and Mrs. Butcher came and took his
place.
On the way home he caught sight of Miss Thorne's sister, May, on her ancient bicycle. She
was delivering the mail. He ran after her.
"Nothing for you, I'm afraid," she said. "I'm sorry."
She hesitated before moving off again.
"Mr. Oakley," she added anxiously, "I'm afraid I have a telegram. It's for Annie Hartridge."
He looked up, startled. The last telegram had brought the news of Michael Fletcher's death.
"I'm a little worried," she went on, "what with her baby due so soon. I'd like to wait till the
midwife is visitin' before delivering it, but it's against regulations."
Tom frowned thoughtfully. "You seen Mrs. Fletcher?"
She shook her head. "Didn't like to disturb her."
"I'll go and see her now, suggest she might pop in to see her."
"Thanks."
He watched her wobble off and head towards the farming area on the south side of the village.
Turning sharply back, he walked in the direction of the Fletchers' cottage.
Mrs. Fletcher had just seen her husband and Edward off to work. The kitchen door was still
open, and the light from it was casting a pale glow onto the still-glistening garden. She was
standing in the doorway.
"You ent on dooty, is you?" she asked, glancing guiltily at the light.
"No, I ent," said Tom. "I jes' wanted to have a private word, like."
"George and David are asleep. They won't be botherin' us. Come on in and have some tea.
You's lookin' a little on the pale side."
He stepped into the cozy warmth of the kitchen. Sam padded after him and curled up on the
floor in front of her stove.
She sat down at the table and poured out two cups of tea.
"Sit down," she said, sliding a cup across to him. "What can I do for you?"
Tom looked surprised.
"There is somethin' you wants me to do, ent there? Is it Will?"
Tom shook his head. "Annie Hartridge has got a telegram."
Mrs. Fletcher put down her cup slowly. "David?" she asked.
"I don't know. I jes' thought with you havin' lost Michael and with her about to have her baby,
she might need someone who could help, like."
"Of course," she said, and she stood up and hurriedly untied her apron.
"She ent got it yet," he added.
She rolled down her sleeves.
"I'd like to be there as soon as possible. In her state she might pass out or somethin'. I'll think
of an excuse, like extra eggs from the Padfields, booties for the baby, that sort of thing."
Tom nodded. It sounded for the best. He watched her put her coat on.
"Them trains to London," he murmured.
"Yes?" she said, puzzled. "What about them?"
"They run on Fridees, don't they?"
"Yes. That's right."
"It's Fridee today, ent it?"
"Yis."
He stood up abruptly.
"I'm goin' to get on that train, Mrs. Fletcher, and what's more I'm goin' to get on it today."
Tom's journey to London was as bumpy and intermittent as William's had been. Dim blue
lights lit the tightly packed carriages and the air was stifling. It was frustrating, too, not to be
able to see the stations that they passed, but once it was evening it was too dangerous to
attempt to peep through the blacks in spite of the faintness of the blue lights. Sammy, who
had not only smuggled himself into the cart but had also jumped off it and followed Tom to
the station, was now squashed onto his lap. A makeshift leash, made of rope, hung from
between his teeth. Tom held him tightly even as he dozed on the long journey.
He had originally refused to allow Sammy to come with him but now he was glad of his
company. It was going to be a lonely task searching for William.
It was nine o'clock when the train pulled into London. He clambered out with Sammy and
stood on the platform feeling totally dazed. The noise was deafening. Hundreds of uniformed
figures swirled around him shouting to each other. Another train pulled out, and a voice over
a public address system was calling out platform numbers and destinations. It was a while
before Tom could orient himself enough to hand his ticket in. He must have looked a strange
sight, with his thick white hair and weather-beaten face, clad in an old cord cap, overcoat and
country boots with Sammy barking nervously at his ankles. Peering through the hordes of
young men, he finally spotted the ticket man. He slung the haversack that he had borrowed
onto his back. It was filled with clothes and food for William, from people in the village.
He handed his ticket in. The man looked down at Sammy.
"Should 'ave a muzzle, that dog," he exclaimed.
Tom nodded, having no intention of ever getting one.
"Where you from?" the man continued. "You ain't a Londoner, that I know. On 'olidee, are
yah?" and he gave a loud chuckle at the absurdity of his remark.
Tom looked at him blankly.
"Only a joke," muttered the man. "Ain't yah got no sense uv 'umor?"
"Where's Deptford?" asked Tom.
"Deppeteforrard?" imitated the man. "Never 'eard uv it. Say it agen!"
Tom repeated it and the man shrugged.
"Ern," he yelled to an A.R.P. warden who was passing. "You know where Deppeteforrard is?"
"Not 'eard uv it," said Ern. "And I knows most places rahnd London. Used to be a cabby. You
got it writ dahn?"
Tom handed them the piece of paper with the address written on it.
"Oh, you mean Deptford!" they chorused.
Tom repeated their pronunciation of it. "Detferd," he said quietly to himself.
They waved their arms over to the left towards an archway and directed him towards a bus
station. Tom thanked them and headed in the direction they had suggested. The two men
watched him and Sammy walk away.
"You don't 'arf meet some queer 'uns 'ere," said the ticket man. "I 'ope 'e ain't a German spy!"
and they gave a loud laugh.
Tom held on to Sammy's lead firmly, for in the unlit street he kept colliding into people. He
finally got onto a bus that would take him part of the way to Deptford, but it was a painfully
slow journey. He stared in amazement at the conductress in her manly uniform. She was a
little irritated at first, and then realized that he was a stranger to the city.
"You one of 'em refugees?" she asked kindly.
"Noo," he replied. "I don't think so."
"Where you from, then?"
"Little Weirwold."
She didn't understand him. His accent was too thick for her.
"In the country, is it?" she shouted, thinking he might understand her better if she raised her
voice.
He nodded.
"What brings you to London?"
"Come to see a little boy."
"Oh. Grandson, is 'e?"
Tom nodded. He knew it was a lie, but he didn't want to go into complicated explanations.
Sammy sat obediently on his lap.
By the time Tom had changed buses and been directed and misdirected, it was midnight
before he reached the area where Willie lived. Accustomed now to the darkness, he could
make out only too clearly the awful living conditions. Small dilapidated tenements stood
huddled together, all in desperate need of care and attention. So this was William's
background, he thought.
Suddenly a loud siren wailed across the sky. He froze. What was he supposed to do? He had
read about communal shelters in the newspapers and he knew that people often crowded into
the tubes, but he had no idea where the nearest tube station was.
"Come on. Move on there," said a loud brusque voice. "Move on to the shelter."
A group of people brushed past him, grumbling and cursing.
“'Oo's got the cards?" yelled a woman in the darkness. "Alf, have you got me bleedin' cards?"
A young girl bumped into him.
'"Ere, mind where yer goin', Mister," she rebuked him sharply.
"Sorry," he muttered. He shouted after her, "Where's you goin'?" but she had run away.
He felt a hand on his arm. It was a warden, a breezy man not more than ten years younger
than him.
"You seem a little lost, sir. Come wiv me."
Tom picked Sammy up in his arms and ran after him towards a long brick building with a
large gray S painted above the door.
The warden, Tom discovered, was the caretaker of the local school. He and several other men
had been elected to be wardens by the people in the area. He sat down by Tom.
"You know, dogs ain't allowed in shelters, sir."
Tom stood up to leave, but the warden touched him gently on the arm. "I think we can
overlook that, though."
He gazed at Tom, puzzled.
"Where you from then? You look like a country man."
"I am," he answered. "I've come lookin' for a boy what stayed with me, like. Evacuee he was."
The warden looked astounded.
"I think you'd best head back home. We've hundreds of the blighters runnin' away. We send
them back. Makes no difference. They just come runnin' back again. You're the first person
I've met who's come lookin' for one."
A young girl peered cautiously over the edge of one of the hammocks that were slung from
the ceiling. The warden caught her eye, and she lay back quickly and disappeared from sight.
"That's one," he said, indicating her swinging sleeping quarters. "Fifteen times she's run back
here. She ses she'd rather be at home even if bombs do drop here than be miserable and safe
in the country."
"He didn't run away," said Tom.
"Oh?"
"No. I had a letter from his mother sayin' she was ill, like, and could he come back for a while
to help out. I ent heard nothin' since."
"How long has he bin gone?"
"Near a month."
"How long was he with you?"
"Near six months."
"Six months!"
Tom nodded.
"And he didn't run away!"
"No. We was ... he was happy."
The warden rubbed his chin with his fingers and sighed. "Look 'ere," he said. "There's nothin'
you can do, I don't think. Could be when he got home he forgot about you."
"P'raps. It's jes' that I'd like to see that the boy's well. Then I can rest peaceful, like."
"Blimey. I never met anyone who cared that much for them. I hear such stories about you
country folk, not nice uns neither. No offense," he added, "but I can see some of you are a
kind'earted lot. And," he went on, raising his voice, "some people, Helen Ford and brothers, is
dahnright ungrateful."
The hammocks jiggled violently at this last remark.
"Maybe I can help you find this boy. What was yer name nah? Mister . . . ?"
"Oakley. Tom Oakley."
"Well, Mr. Oakley, you say he's from this area?"
Tom nodded and brought out the piece of paper from his pocket. The warden glanced briefly
at it and looked up startled.
"Why, it's in this very road. I know number twelve. Willie Beech. That the boy?"
Tom's heart leaped. "You seen him then?"
"Not since last September. Saw a large party from the school leave for the station. That's the
last I saw of him. Quiet boy. Didn't mix. No friends as such. Bullied and teased a lot by the
kids. Sittin' target really. Sickly-lookin' boy. His mother thinks she's a cut above everyone.
Don't fit in here at all. Never have. Overreligious type, Bible-thumpin', you know what I
mean?"
Tom nodded.
"Still, it's part of me job to check who's here and who's not here, in case of bombin' and havin'
to identify, and I ain't bin notified of him being back. I ain't seen much of her either." He
glanced across the crowded shelter and waved to someone at the far end of it.
"Glad might know somethin'. Glad!" he yelled. "Glad!"
A fat woman who was sitting playing cards looked up. She smiled, exposing three teeth in a
large expanse of grinning gum.
"Yeth, love," she lisped. "Wot ith it?"
"Is Mrs. Beech on night shift this week? She ain't 'ere."
"Is she ever!" retorted Glad. "Wot you wanna know fer."
"Man here looking for little Willie."
"Run away, has he? Didn't think he had it in him."
"No. Man ses Mrs. Beech wrote for him to come home."
At this Glad climbed over several sleeping bodies and lumbered towards them.
"Wot you on abaht? She told me he wuth stayin'. Said he wath wicked and wuth bein' sent to
an home fer bad boys."
"Boy was never bad with me. That I can vouch for," said Tom.
" 'Oo are you then, sir?" Glad asked.
"Tom Oakley."
"Willie stayed wiv him for nearly six months."
Glad shrugged.
"I ain't theen him thinth September."
"What about Mrs. Beech?" began Tom.
"She keeps herself to herself. Bit of a madam. Thinks she's a bleedin' saint if you'll excooth
me languidge. She does night shifts so I don't never see her. I live next door, yer see. Mind
you," she whispered, "I don't 'arf hear some funny noises. Very funny."
" 'Ow do you mean?" queried the warden.
"Bumps and whimpers."
"Bumps?"
"Yeh, like furnicher bein' moved arahnd."
"What's funny abaht that?"
"At three in the bleedin' mornin!! That's what's funny. She's probably dustin' her Bible."
The warden turned wearily.
"Looks like a dead end, don't it, Mr. Oakley?"
"I'd still like to see where he lives," said Tom.
"You cum wiv me, luv," said Glad. "You fond of that Willie, then?"
Tom nodded.
"Queer, that. You're the first person I know who is. I don't think his own muvver is even fond
of him."
"Mebbe she'll see me," said Tom.
"Blimey, I forgot. She's gawn away. To the coast. For a Bible meetin' or somethin'. She told
me last week. Dunno why. She don't usually condescend to even look at me."
"Why warn't I informed?" commented the warden.
"It's up to her, ain't it?"
The warden gave a despairing sigh. "Do you still want to see the place, Mr. Oakley?"
Tom nodded.
They had to wait a good two hours before they could leave. The small building grew foggy
with tobacco smoke. A Women's Voluntary Services lady in green uniform visited them with
tea and sticky buns, and a man called Jack undipped a rather battered accordion and started
playing it. The small group that Glad was part of was in the middle of singing. "We're Going
to Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line" when the All Clear was sounded, and they
left it unfinished in their scramble to get out.
Tom was relieved to be outside again. His clothes smelled of stale tobacco and sweat. He
breathed in the night air as if it was nectar. Glad was waiting for him. Together she and the
warden accompanied him to Willie's home.
"She fancies 'erself, duth ahr Mrs. Beech," lisped Glad. "Sheeth got the downstairs and the
upstairs room. She thumtimes rents her bedroom and thleeps downstairs—well, so she seth,"
and she winked and gave Tom a nudge.
They stood outside Number Twelve and peered in at the window. One of the newspapers had
slid to one side. The interior seemed dark and uninhabited. The window still had brown sticky
tape on it to protect the room from the blast of falling glass.
"Deserted," remarked the warden.
Meanwhile Tom's attention was drawn to Sammy, who had started to move in an agitated
manner outside the window.
"What's up, boy?" he asked. "You smell somethin'?" He crouched down and stroked him.
"What is it?"
Sammy began to whine and scratch frantically at the front door. He ran to Tom and, clinging
to his trouser leg, pulled him towards it.
"No one in there, Rover," said the warden.
"Mebbe," said Tom. "But it ent like him to fuss over nothin'!" He jiggled the doorknob.
"You can't do that, sir. That's agin the lor."
"I think there's someone in there," said Tom urgently.
A policeman who had been attracted by the commotion joined them.
"This man reckons there might be someone in there," explained the warden. "I've looked
inside, far as I can, and it looks empty to me."
The policeman pushed back his tin helmet. "What evidence do you have, sir?"
Tom pointed to Sammy, who had grown quite frantic. He began to bark loudly, still
scratching feverishly at the locked door.
They all glanced at each other.
"I'd like to enter," suggested the warden anxiously. "I'm worried about the mother and boy
who live in there."
They knocked on the door loudly, but there was no answer. Sammy leaped up and hurled
himself at it.
"He can smell somethin', by all accounts," said the policeman.
After much deliberation they decided to break the door down. A small crowd began to gather
round to see what was going on. Glad gave them a running commentary.
It wasn't a heavy door, and between Tom, the policeman and the warden, they broke the wood
round the lock after only two attempts.
The door crashed open and they were greeted with a stench so vile as to almost set them
reeling. It was as if an animal had died and was rotting somewhere. Sammy ran immediately
to a tiny door below the stairway and barked loudly, scrabbling at it with his paws. The odor
was at its strongest there. The warden lifted aside the latch and swung the door open. The
smell was rank, so much so that the warden turned his face away quickly for a moment as if
to retch. The policeman pulled his torch out of his pocket and shone it into the hole.
Rescue
The small alcove stank of stale urine and vomit. A thin emaciated boy with matted hair and
skin like parchment was tied to a length of copper piping. He held a small bundle in his arms.
His scrawny limbs were covered with sores and bruises and he sat in his own excrement. He
shrank at the light from the torch and made husky gagging noises. The warden reached out
and touched him and he let out a frightened whimper. An empty baby's bottle stood by his
legs.
"You give me that baby, son," said the warden, but the boy tightened himself up, his eyes
wide with fear. Sammy slipped in between the warden's legs and sat patiently waiting for his
master's command. Tom turned to the policeman.
"I'd like to talk to the boy. 'E knows me, like."
The policeman nodded and left to call an ambulance and to disperse the crowd of neighbors
who were now massed outside the front door.
Tom squatted down.
"It's Mister Tom," he said gently. "I was worried about you, so me and Sammy cum lookin'
for you."
Will looked in his direction.
"He'll have to go to the hospital," said the warden.
Will let out a cry.
"Don't worry, boy," said Tom reassuringly. "We'll stay with you. Now you jes' hang tight to
that ole bundle and I'll untie you. This man's yer old school caretaker. He didn't know you
was here and now he's goin' to help you git out. The light's on so's we can see the ropes more
clear, like."
Very gently and laboriously he untied him. The warden, realizing that the boy looked calmer
when the old man was by him, left him to it and watched.
Tom told him exactly what he was going to do. He knew that Will's limbs would be stiff and
that they would be agony to move. He took hold of him firmly and maneuvered him gently
towards him. It was difficult because Will clung so tightly to the bundle.
After Tom had managed to ease him out, he heard an ambulance drawing up outside and the
sound of doors opening and slamming. The policeman crouched down beside him and handed
him a blanket. Tom wrapped it round Will and the bundle and carried him to the ambulance.
"The dog's mine," he said firmly to one of the ambulance men who was about to push Sammy
out. "And I'm traveling with the boy."
The warden climbed in after him and sat on the free stretcher bed in the back. The doors were
shut behind them and the ambulance ground slowly forward.
"I'd like to git me hands on that woman," the warden growled furiously. "All pride and angel
pie on the outside, and inside this," and he pointed to Will, who was now lying on a stretcher
in the warmth of Tom's overcoat.
"She must be orf 'er nut!"
Tom glanced at him. "I 'spose you'll be lookin' for her," he commented.
"Try and stop me!" The warden's pride had been shaken badly. It was embarrassing to have
that policeman think he didn't know his job.
"Thank you," said Tom quietly.
"What for, guv?"
"For listenin' and breakin' in."
"Any time."
He gazed down at Will's face. A tiny speck of color appeared in his jaundiced cheeks and he
began to move his fingers. The warden looked intently at the bundle and then at Tom. Tom
gave him a nod.
"Reckon we could find a blanket for the little un, like?" he asked.
The warden caught on immediately.
"I'm sure we could, Mr. Oakley," and he unfolded one of the blankets.
"William," whispered Tom. "Will."
He opened his eyes and looked up at him.
"Yes," he whispered.
"Can I has a look at the little un?"
Will nodded and relaxed his fingers a fraction. Tom drew the folds of the cold bundle to one
side. The baby had been dead for some time. It was thin and tinged with a grayish hue. He
glanced at the warden. They didn't need to say anything. The look told all.
"I've just warmed this blanket up for the little chap," said the warden.
"It's a her," Will croaked.
"Oh, girl, is it? Wot's her name, then?"
"I calls her Trudy."
"Trudy. That's nice," and he leaned towards him. "You feel this nice soft blanket, Willie."
"I ent." He faltered. "I ent . . ."
"You ain't what?" he asked.
"I ent Willie."
The warden looked concerned.
"Shock," he whispered. "Must have gawn orf his chump."
"No," explained Tom. "We never called him Willie."
"Oh," said the warden, still not quite understanding.
"Will," whispered Tom. "Yeh."
"Well . . . Will," began the warden again. "How's abaht givin' ahr little Miss Trudy a blanket
of her own, like yours."
Will nodded and relaxed his grip. "Hurts," he gasped as he attempted to move his arms.
"Takes yer own time," urged Tom. Will smiled as he recognized the familiar saying. "And
keep breathin'. Sammy'll warm them arms, won't you, boy?"
Sammy was curled up by Will's legs. He stood alertly to his feet. Slowly Tom pried open
Will's stiff arms, and with the help of the warden they took the baby and wrapped it carefully
in the blanket.
Sammy was placed on Will's lap. Will jerked involuntarily. He was very sore. All he wore
were the undershirt and pants that Miss Thorne's sister, May, had given him for his birthday.
They were now a filthy gray and yellow. His bare feet were mauve with the cold and his filthy
clawlike toenails curled inwards. Tom squeezed the feet with his hands to try and work some
warmth into them. Will's stiff arms were now enfolding Sammy. Suddenly holding a warm
body instead of the cold one he had just handed over made him aware that something was
wrong with the baby. He glanced urgently across at the warden, who was holding her.
"It's all right, son," he said. "I got her."
"Hurts," he whispered. "My arms. They hurt."
"They will do for a bit,” said Tom. "You been holdin' 'em in the same position for a long time.
They ent used to movin' yet." The ambulance jerked to a halt and the doors were flung open.
Tom carried Will out, followed by Sammy and the warden. They pushed their way through
two heavy doors, into a lobby. A woman with glasses sat behind a small glass window. She
looked up at them briefly as they sat down on some chairs.
"I'm sorry," she said. "No dogs allowed in here."
"Ent there somewhere I can leave him?" inquired Tom.
"I'm afraid not. He'll have to go."
The warden stood up and exchanged a few words with her.
"I see," she said, looking at Tom and Will. "There are some railings at the side of the hospital.
You could tie him to one of those. I'm sure no one would disturb him."
"Tie 'im!" exclaimed Tom.
"Afraid that's the best they can do, Mr. Oakley," said the warden.
A cleaner bustled past them. She stopped.
"Cheer up, luvs," she said with a jolly smile. "It ain't the end of the world. You'll be all right
here. They looks after you real proper."
Will and Tom stared blankly at her as she disappeared jovially down the corridor, singing
"Wish Me Luck as You Wave Me Good-Bye."
A young man in a white coat came flying out of one of the doors in the corridor, followed
rapidly by a nurse, and walked towards the warden and Tom. The young man glanced at the
bundle.
"Dead," he said abruptly.
"Dead," whimpered Will.
"Dead cold he means, don't you, sir," said the warden, winking urgently at the doctor and
indicating the boy.
"Oh, yes," said the young man. He was exhausted and hadn't realized that the boy and the
baby were together. He knelt down by Will and drew aside the coat and blankets. The nurse, a
dark-haired fresh-faced woman who didn't look more than nineteen, knelt down beside him.
The doctor mumbled something about lacerations and delousing. He looked up at Tom. "You
a relative?" Tom shook his head.
The warden spoke up for him. He knew how strict regulations were about not allowing
visitors who weren't relatives.
"The boy stayed wiv him for six months in the country. He went back home to his mother,
who said she was ill. He ain't got no dad, you see, and this gentleman heard no word so he
comes miles to find him. Mother's left the boy."
"Looks like he found you in the nick of time," said the nurse, and she gave Will a warm smile.
The doctor stood up.
"Best take him to the children's ward and clean him up. Bit late for stitches. He'd better have a
tetanus jab."
"That an injection?" asked Tom anxiously.
"Yes. Nothing to worry about. It's in case of infection."
"Good clean air'll cure that," said Tom.
"Nurse," said the doctor, ignoring him, "take him to children's."
Tom stood up with Will still in his arms.
"Dogs aren't allowed," said the nurse, glancing down at Sammy, who still stood alertly by
Tom's side.
"It's all right," piped up the warden. "I'll look after him."
"I'll come with you," said Tom to the nurse.
"I'm afraid that's not allowed," she said.
"I ent leavin' the boy with a load of strangers."
She gave a sigh.
"You can come as far as the ward but no farther. You'll have me for the high jump, you will."
Tom observed her briefly. Here was this well-spoken skimp of a girl telling him what to do.
Will looked terrified when he handed him over to her.
"I'll take care of him," she said gently. "I'll ask if you can see him in the morning."
"I'm stayin' 'ere, Will," he said. "I'll be in that big hallway where we was sittin' jes' now. I
won't be far away, boy."
He watched her walk away with Will in her arms and then headed back towards the lobby.
"I gave the receptionist the details," said the warden. "I have to make a police report nah."
"Where's the baby?" asked Tom.
"One of the nurses took her orf to the morgue."
He glanced at Tom, who stood looking very stunned.
"Wot you need is a nice strong cuppa tea. A mate o' mine's got a post just rahnd the corner
from 'ere. Comin'?"
Tom shook his head.
"I promised the boy I'd stay here."
" 'Ere, luv," the warden yelled at the bespectacled receptionist. She blinked in amazement at
his familiarity. "We're just going round to Alf's. If there's any changes wiv the boy, let them
know where Mr. Oakley is." He smiled at Tom. "Come on," he said. "It'll be all right. You
only need stay for a few minutes."
They crossed the hospital courtyard and out through the large gateway. Just outside the
railings on the corner was a small hut with walls made of sandbags and a corrugated tin roof.
A sign with WARDEN'S POST written on it hung above it. Inside sat a balding middle-aged
man with a thick black graying mustachie.
" 'Allo, Sid!" he exclaimed when he saw the Deptford warden. "Wot brings you 'ere? Not a
bomb casualty, that's for certain," and they chuckled. " 'Itler keeps threatenin' to devastate us,
don't he, Sid," he continued. "But he can't git near us. Not wiv ahr boys up there to protect
us," he said, waving a patriotic finger up at the roof of the tiny hut.
Tom remembered David Hartridge. Was it only yesterday that the telegram had arrived? It
seemed like a month had passed since then. He had been reported missing, believed dead.
Poor Annie.
"Come in and warm yerselves," said Alf. "I'll restew me brew."
Inside the hut was a makeshift brazier made out of a bucket with holes in it. The bucket had
some kind of coke burning in it. It was stifling hot inside the hut. Tom squatted down on a tin
drurti while Sammy squeezed in between his legs.
"You ain't from rahnd 'ere," commented Alf.
"No," said Tom. "No, I ent." And so the story of Will's discovery was told yet again.
"Wot you goin' to do nah?" asked Sid.
"Take him back," remarked Tom. “To Little Weirwold."
"Don't think you can do that. I think they'll have to find 'is muvver first. Probably prison for
her."
"And Will?" asked Tom.
" 'Ome. Children's 'ome, I s'pose."
"I'm takin' him back," said Tom firmly.
The warden glanced at Alf. They knew better. Tom drank his tea and returned to the hospital.
He tied Sammy to a railing at the side, opposite some tiny stone steps.
"I'll come and visit you soon, boy," he reassured him soothingly. "It's only temporary, like."
It was dawn by the time he had sat down in the lobby. Three ambulances had driven up with
casualties and he had given the ambulance men and nurses a hand. A communal shelter had
collapsed on fifty men, women and children. Tom helped load and unload the stretchers.
By the afternoon there was still no word of Will and no answer to Tom's repeated questioning.
He continued to sit patiently in the lobby, alternately dozing and going out to see Sammy.
At last a fair-haired nurse came up to him.
"Are you Mr. Tom?" she asked.
"Yes," he said, standing abruptly. "How is he? Can I see him?"
"You're not a relative, are you?"
"No, but I'm pretty near—the boy lived with me, like. He ent got no father and his mother's
deserted him."
"A psychiatrist has been to see him, Mr. Tom. He's from a special children's home and he's
agreed that it's all right for you to. see him."
"Sichitrus? 'Ow d'you mean?"
"A man who cares for sick minds."
"Oh yes. I read about them somewhere," and he grunted. "Nothin' sick about his mind,
though."
"He's under deep psychological shock," said the nurse. "He keeps suddenly screaming out for
no apparent reason. We've had to keep sedating him."
"Sedatin' him?"
"Putting him to sleep."
"Why?"
"To stop him from screaming."
"Mebbe he needs to."
"That's as may be, Mr. Tom, but we have to consider the other children in the ward."
Tom nodded. The sooner Will could get out into some wide-open fields, the better.
"When can I see him?"
"Now. Follow me."
They passed through the maze of corridors. Since Tom had helped with the emergency, he
had begun to learn his way around. Two nurses nodded and smiled at him. They thought he
was a volunteer helper.
The fair-haired nurse pushed aside the swing doors into the children's ward. Tom strode in
and looked around. She pointed to a bed on his left. The first one by the door. Accessible.
Easy to get to in an emergency— although why he felt that was important he had no idea.
Will was propped up by pillows. His hair had been shorn off completely, revealing an array of
multicolored cuts and bruises around his bald skull. He was well scrubbed and smelled
strongly of disinfectant. Sitting in a voluminous white hospital nightshirt, he appeared quite
shrunken.
"Didn't recognize you with yer army cut," said Tom.
Will smiled weakly. His teeth were still the same yellowy-brown color.
"How you feelin'?"
"Stiff."
His lips were pale and cracked and it was obviously an effort to speak.
"I gits nightmares," he whispered. "And when I wakes up they stick a needle in me and then I
can't move or speak." He fell back exhausted onto the pillows. "How long does I have to stay
here?" he croaked.
"Not long, I shouldn't think. You look well patched up." He felt Will's thin fingers. They were
cold. He gave them a blow and rubbed them between his hands. Picking up his haversack
from the floor, he slung it onto the bed. "Got a new pair of gloves fer them hands," he said.
"Had a feelin' you might be needin' them. You'll has to put on a bit more flesh though, else
they'll slide off."
"Where's Sammy?"
"Outside. Regulations. Not allowed in. Case he brings in germs, I s'pose." He glanced around
the ward. "Though I reckon there's more germs in this here hospital than most places." He
gave a gruff laugh.
Will leaned awkwardly on one elbow.
"This bloke came to see me."
"Oh yes. Doctor, was 'e?"
"I dunno. He said he was from a home and that I'd be goin' there and I'd get better there." He
clutched at Tom's arm. "Can't I come back with you?"
"Course you can. Don't know the law side, mind, but we'll git round it somehow."
"Mr. Tom," interrupted the fair-haired nurse from behind him. "I'm afraid you'll have to leave
now."
Will hung tightly to Tom's sleeve.
"Don't go yet!" he urged. "Stay a bit more."
Tom sat closer to him on the bed.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Tom," said the nurse nervously. "But you must go now."
"The boy would like me to stay for a bit," he replied calmly.
"I'm sorry, it's against regulations."
"Whose regulations?" Tom said, turning to face her.
"Now come on, Mr. Tom, let's not have any trouble."
"What's going on, nurse?" boomed a loud noise at the end of the ward.
"Nothing, sister," said the nurse shakily.
The sister, a middle-aged woman with a loud step, walked firmly down the ward towards
them.
"Time to go!" she said in a no-nonsense manner.
Tom stood up and leaned over Will's bed.
"Afraid I'll has to go, but I'll be in the hallway and I'll see you tomorrow."
Will clung to his arm with both hands now. He could barely sound the words. "Don't go," he
pleaded. "Don't go!"
"Please leave, sir," said the sister sharply. "You're only upsetting the boy."
"I think it's your regulations what's upsettin' him, ma'am."
He turned to Will.
"Tomorrow'll come awful quick," he added comfortingly.
The sister stepped forward and firmly wrenched away Will's hands from Tom's arm.
"Now go, sir! Immediately!"
Tom reluctantly began to depart. Will pushed himself up and tried to get out of bed.
"Stay where you are. There's a good boy," singsonged the fair-haired nurse.
Will began to whimper and make grunting noises.
"Go!" shouted the sister. "Nurse! Sedation!"
Tom walked dejectedly through the swing doors and listened helplessly to Will's cries.
He stood for a moment and then turned to look in through the window. The two nurses were
holding Will facedown. Another nurse joined them and gave him an injection in his bottom. A
few seconds later Will sank helplessly into the bed and the nurses let go of him.
"Mr. Tom, is it?" said a quiet-spoken voice behind him. Tom jumped and turned sharply. A
man in his thirties wearing a gray suit had been standing behind him. He must have a soft
step, thought Tom, who had heard no movement. The man was going bald and the hair that
remained was of a thin texture. His skin was as white and shiny as that of a cloistered nun. He
gave Tom a bland smile and held out his hand.
"I'm Mr. Stelton," he half whispered. "I expect William has told you about me."
Tom nodded.
The man observed Tom in a seemingly detached manner and then looked quickly away to
gaze at a wall in the corridor. Neither of them spoke, and Tom had a feeling that the man had
no intention of breaking the silence. He was leaving that to Tom. Tom was irritated by this,
but he wanted to find out about Will.
"Yes," he said. "He told me you want to put him in a home."
"Ah," said Mr. Stelton quietly. "Did he?" and he gave another bland smile and gazed back at
much the same place.
"Wall interestin', is it?" inquired Tom.
"You see yourself as a wall, do you?" the man commented, still staring at it.
"Stop shilly-shallying and tell me about the boy."
Mr. Stelton turned and faced Tom briefly.
"Of course," he said.
They found a few chairs in a corner and sat down. Tom couldn't help observing the quiet
manner in which Mr. Stelton walked. It was a slow lope and his toes pointed slightly inwards.
He sat next to Tom with his knees together and rubbed the tops of his thighs gently up and
down as he spoke.
"I believe in a more modern approach, Mr. Tom," he said. "I don't use drugs."
"Oakley," corrected Tom. "Mister Tom's the boy's name for me."
"Ah," he said and gave a significant nod. "You don't wish me to call you by the boy's own
name."
"About those drugs," interrupted Tom, before Mr. Stelton could gaze into space again. "I don't
use them either."
"Of course not," and he gave another bland smile.
Tom wondered why Mr. Stelton spoke in such a subdued tone. Was he afraid of disturbing
someone?
"I deal with disturbed children," he went on quietly. "And I work in conjunction with a home.
There, children are well cared for and are given lots of attention. We feel . . ."
"We?" inquired Tom.
"Myself and the head of the school."
"Thought you said it were a home."
"It's also a school. We feel," he continued, "that he would benefit from treatment there."
"What sort of treatment?"
"Psychiatric treatment. Analysis. We want to encourage him to talk about his background and
find out why he is the way he is."
"Thought that's pretty obvious," said Tom. "The boy ent had a lot of lovin'!"
"Ah," said Mr. Stelton quietly.
Not another silence, thought Tom. The idea of Will spending time talking to a man who
semispoke, semi-walked and gazed in the distance whenever one made eye-to-eye contact did
not appeal to Tom. As far as he was concerned, it would be enough to drive the sanest person
mad.
"I'd like him back with me," said Tom firmly.
"Ah," sighed Mr. Stelton, taking several mental notes.
"And you can ah till the cows come home. That's what I want and that's what the boy wants."
This was followed by another silence while Mr. Stelton rubbed his thighs gently up and down.
"You're not a relative," he softly intoned.
"No," answered Tom. "But . . ." He stopped.
"Yes?" said Mr. Stelton looking vaguely interested for the first time.
"I'm fond of the boy."
"You're fond of the boy," and he gave a nod and turned to gaze away from Tom's penetrating
green eyes. "You could visit me," he suggested, back to staring at the wall. "And William,
while he's at the home. I'm sure if you are . . ." He paused, "If you mean what you say, you'll
want the best for him. The staff at the home are younger than you and well trained." He stood
up. "We're picking him up the day after tomorrow. Monday. If you would like to come with
us you are welcome. We're not like a hospital. We encourage visitors. So long as they don't
disturb the children," he added.
He gave Tom another neutral smile, shook hands and padded quietly away down the corridor.
Tom began to walk dejectedly towards the lobby.
"Give us a hand, will you?" asked one of the nurses as he passed her.
A large elderly man with a misshapen leg needed to be lifted onto a stretcher fixed to a
trolley. Tom helped lift him.
"You Red Cross people are marvelous!" the nurse said, having recognized him as a helper
from the shelter casualty emergency. "Are you here tonight as well?"
Tom nodded. Why not? he thought. It would stop him from thinking about Will. He ran down
the corridor to give a hand with some newly arrived casualties, and when at last the lobby was
reasonably quiet, he stepped outside for some fresh air and paid a short visit to the railing,
where Sammy was attached. He untied him and they sat on the stone steps.
"What we goin' to do, boy?" he murmured as he ruffled Sammy's chest. "We ent got much
time." He stared out at the street beyond the railings. It was already beginning to get dark
again. He rubbed his chin. Gray stubble had started to sprout where he hadn't shaved.
"Oh, Rachel," he said half aloud to the sky. "What would you do?" and he saw her, in his
mind, swing round in her long dress and flash her dark eyes at him.
"Kidnap him," she said laughingly.
Tom gave a start. Rachel wouldn't have said that. On second thoughts, Rachel would. He rose
slowly. "I'll jes' play it be ear," he muttered. "Mebbe if. . ."
His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of several ambulances arriving. He tied Sammy
back to the railings, ran briskly along the side of the building and round the corner to where
the entrance doors swung and immediately began carrying people into the hospital.
Three hours later he was walking back down one of the stairways, carrying a blanket, when he
realized that he was standing outside the children's ward. He peered quickly through the small
window. The fair-haired nurse was still on duty. She was slumped asleep across a table with a
small night light beside her.
Tom looked quickly around the corridor. There was no one in sight. Before he allowed
himself time to think, he crept into the ward and gently eased the swing doors to a close. Will
was fast asleep, well knocked out by the drugs.
As Tom drew the sheets aside, one of the smaller children on the other side of the ward woke
up and started coughing. The nurse opened her eyes and lifted her head. Tom hastily pulled
the sheets back into place and crouched down on the floor. The nurse spoke to the child
soothingly, gave her some medicine and tucked her in. She then returned to the table. She was
trying to study for an exam on anatomy, but soon her eyelids grew heavy again and within
minutes she had fallen asleep.
Tom whipped back the sheets, lifted Will out and wrapped the blanket he was carrying around
him. He stuck one of the pillows down the bed and tucked the sheets round it. Not very
convincing, but it was all he had time for. Holding Will firmly in his arms he stood up. If the
nurse woke up now, he thought, he'd be in for it. One of the children turned over in his sleep
and gave a little moan but the nurse went on sleeping, quite undisturbed. He glanced out the
window. Very quickly, he swung the door open and walked firmly out and down the corridor.
He knew that if he looked furtive he would give the game away. He met the nurse who had
chatted to him over the elderly man. She smiled at him.
"It's all go, isn't it?" she said.
Tom nodded and headed for the lobby, where he had left his haversack. Two ambulances
drew in, and in the general confusion that followed he picked up the haversack and strode
towards the swing doors. He glanced quickly at the receptionist. To his relief, it was a
different woman on duty. As soon as he was outside, and the drivers had turned their backs,
he ran into the dark unlit courtyard, round the corner and down to where he had left Sammy.
Sammy leaped up excitedly and began to bark. "No!" whispered Tom urgently, placing a firm
finger on his nose. "Down, boy. Quiet!"
He laid Will on the bottom step and feverishly undid the haversack. Quickly he put some
warm underwear and socks on him.
"You keep guard, Sammy," he whispered, and he untied him and put the leash into his pocket.
The next garments to go on Will were a brown patched pair of corduroy shorts, a gray flannel
shirt, a navy roll-neck jersey and a green balaclava. The balaclava at least hid his bald head.
Unfortunately he had no boots or overcoat for him. He hid the blanket in a dark corner and
wrapped his own overcoat round Will. Slinging the haversack onto his back, he walked
towards the open courtyard with Will in his arms, Sammy following. A firm step, he thought
to himself as he strode across it. At any moment they might discover Will's absence. He
continued out through the gates and down the street. Suddenly a voice called out sharply to
him.
"Oy. Mister!"
He turned. It was Alf. He had forgotten about the Warden's Post. Drat it.
"You got the boy then?"
He nodded.
"Good on you. Takin' him back to the country?"
Tom nodded again, waved good-bye and strode firmly down the street, wanting desperately to
run or look behind and not daring to do either.
After much climbing on and off buses the three of them arrived at the large station. They
spent the remainder of the night in a shelter nearby. There were no trains going to Weirwold
the following morning, but there was one going two thirds of the way, to a village called
Skyron. Tom hurriedly bought tickets, tied the leash round Sammy's neck and headed for the
platform. His tickets were clipped by the same ticket man.
"Got yer grandson there?" he remarked cheekily. "Deep sleeper, ain't he? You'll spoil him
carryin' him like that. I'd wake him up and make him walk, lazy tyke."
"He's ill," said Tom.
"Oh," said the ticket man, startled. "Not contagious, I hope."
"No."
The man handed the tickets back and Tom and Sammy ran along the platform. The train was
due to leave within minutes.
"That dog should have a muzzle," yelled the ticket man after them.
They climbed into the train and sat by a window in an empty carriage. Not long now, thought
Tom, and they would be out of London. A tapping on the window interrupted his thoughts.
He looked up to find a policeman looking down at him through the glass. He pointed to Will.
Tom quickly covered his stockinged feet with his coat.
"Air raid keep him up, eh?"
Tom nodded.
"Have a safe journey."
"Thank you."
At last the train drew out of the station. They were joined by an elderly woman who sat
crocheting for most of the journey and who chatted about the weather and rationing and how
she missed butter. She left them halfway to Skyron. For the rest of the journey, they had the
carriage to themselves.
Skyron was a large village not much bigger than Weirwold. Tom walked through it and
headed for the open road, where he began to hitch for a lift. They had three lifts—one in an
army truck, one in a vet's broken-down old Morris, and one in a trailer. Tom walked the final
five miles to Weirwold. It was a cool crisp day but the sky was clear and sunny. As soon as he
saw the river, he felt overwhelmingly happy. How untouched and different it was from
London. The water sparkled beneath the sun's keen gaze. He stood on the top of a hill and
drank in all the fields that lay below. He now understood Will's bewilderment at suddenly
confronting so much open space after his background in Deptford. He glanced down at
Sammy, who had begun to limp slightly. His small tongue was hanging out of his mouth like
a piece of old leather.
"Not long now, Sammy," he said encouragingly.
By the time they reached Weirwold he was carrying both Will and Sammy in his arms. He
tramped over the old cobbled streets as twilight fell, on through the square, past the closed
shops and towards the blacksmith's.
He knocked firmly at his door. A window opened from above.
"Mr. Oakley!" cried the brawny, dark-haired man. "You's back from London."
Mrs. Stoker, the blacksmith's wife, appeared at his side.
"Has you really been to London?" she asked in awe.
He nodded.
"You look fair done fer," and she disappeared and reappeared at the front door.
"You must be starvin'," she said. "I'll make you a meal."
"That's very kind, Mrs. Stoker, but I want to start out for Little Weirwold soon," he replied.
"Put the boy by the fire," she said.
Tom placed him in an armchair by the hearth. Mr. Stoker eased the armchair nearer and
pushed back the overcoat to allow the warmth of the flames to reach his limbs. As he did so
he let out a gasp. Mrs. Stoker turned to look at him.
"Oh, my luv," she said. "He's in a bad way. Good job you went for him, Mr. Oakley."
By now the news had spread fast about his journey to London.
"Well, you keep that to yerself, mind," said Tom.
The Stokers decided not to ask any more questions. What you don't know you can't tell on,
and that was that.
After a rest and some tea, Mrs. Stoker lent him some blankets for Will and gave him a bag
filled with sandwiches.
It was dark by the time Dobbs was harnessed for the journey. Tom tucked Will up with
Sammy in the cart and clambered up to his seat to take hold of the reins.
"Come on, me ole gal," he yelled in delight as Dobbs jogged forward. "Take us home."
Will awoke to the sound of Tom singing. He opened his eyes to discover a starry sky above
him. Sammy was slumped in an exhausted stupor by his feet. Will pushed aside a few of the
blankets and looked up to where Tom was sitting. He struggled to his knees, but his legs were
too wobbly and he sank back into the pile of blankets.
"Mister Tom," he croaked. "Mister Tom."
Tom stopped the cart and turned round.
"Woken up, eh?"
Will blinked his eyes until Tom came clearly into focus.
"You ent dreamin'. Lie back boy. We ent long from home." He tucked the blankets round him
again.
"But," stammered Will, "how did I git here?"
Tom shook the reins and Dobbs moved forward.
"I kidnapped you," he said over his shoulder, and then he suddenly realized the enormity of
what he had done and he burst into laughter. "Yes, that's what I done, boy. I kidnapped you!"
Will lay back and fell asleep. He next woke to find himself being carried through the Littles'
front door and into their sitting room with its large array of books and cozy armchairs. Tom
put him down on the sofa by the fire and Mrs. Little called her husband. Dr. Little leaned over
Will and with the gentlest of hands pushed his balaclava back and examined him.
"You seem pretty well patched up, Will."
Mrs. Little gave him some hot milk and toast, but he fell into another deep sleep before he
had even attempted to touch it.
The Littles listened to Tom's story.
"I know I done wrong," said Tom. "But I couldn't let him be taken to a home."
"Country air," put in Mrs. Little. "Familiar surroundings. People who love him. Best thing for
him."
Her husband looked at her over his ever-sliding spectacles.
"They're bound to track him down sooner or later."
"Nonsense," expostulated Mrs. Little huskily. "They're too busy to go chasing evacuees. They
didn't even know he'd returned to London."
Dr. Little turned to face Tom.
"The sores will heal. They healed before. It's the wounds inside that will take the longest to
heal."
"I know that," said Tom. "I'll give him me support when he needs."
"Me too!" cried a voice behind him.
They turned to find Zach standing at the doorway in his pyjamas. He ran across to the sofa
and looked down at Will's inert body.
"I knew you'd bring him back," he said fiercely, tears in his eyes.
"You look tired, Tom," said Mrs. Little. "Sit down."
Tom thanked her and sank gratefully into an armchair.
Zach continued to gaze silently at Will.
"Mister Tom," said Zach earnestly, "if you need any help . . ." but it was useless continuing.
Tom was asleep.
Recovery
Will felt himself being shaken violently into consciousness. He opened his eyes and peered
around the darkened room. He could see no one, nor could he even see a window. He raised
himself on his elbows and strained his eyes, searching for something recognizable and
familiar. As he gazed at one of the walls, it lurched forward in his direction. He turned to look
for the door so that he could leave, but found himself facing another wall. This too was
moving towards him. He glanced quickly behind. A third wall was closing in on him, and as it
leaned nearer, the ceiling shuddered and began to descend. He leaped out of bed and flung
himself at one of the walls in a desperate attempt to find a doorknob. By the time he had slid
his body along the fourth wall, he realized with horror that there was no door. He was trapped.
He pressed himself against the walls to prevent them moving any closer but they only pushed
him backwards. Terrified, he let out a scream, only to find himself surrounded by four tall
figures dressed in white.
"If you scream," said one of them, "we shall put you to sleep forever."
"No!" he shrieked. "No! No!"
But the black airless tomb began to smother him and he screamed again.
"We warned you," said the four figures. "We warned you." He watched them, paralyzed, as
they produced a long hypodermic needle.
"Turn over," they said. "Turn over, turn over, turn over."
He backed up against one of the walls. Two arms burst through the hard surface and gripped
him from behind. Helpless, he watched the cold steel tip of the needle glinting as it traveled
towards him. He struggled to break free but was forced down by a multitude of hands.
"No! No!" he cried. "Please. Let me be! Let me be!"
As the needle entered his right buttock he woke with a frightened start. He was in his bed in
the attic bedroom. His pyjamas and sheets were sticking to his drenched skin, and blankets lay
scattered about the floor. The blacks were up and a nightlight stood burning on his little side
table. He heard footsteps coming up the steps. It was Tom. He hoisted himself up through the
trapdoor and sat on Will's bed.
Will clung to him fiercely. Tom put his arms round his soaking body and held him firmly.
"You keep breathin', boy," he murmured. "Don't you go holdin' it in."
"They said they were going to put me to sleep if I screamed," gasped out Will.
"Who did?"
"The tall people in my dreams. I were frightened. I couldn't help screamin'. I had to."
"You scream as much as you likes. No one'll hear you except p'r'aps me and Sammy. You
might reach the vicarage, but yous'll have to be pretty loud for that. No. You yell away. Give
them ole bones in our front garden a good rattlin'!"
Will smiled weakly.
"Now, we'd best get you dried and warmed up."
He carried him down the ladder to the front room. Hanging in front of the stove were several
sheets on a wooden clothes horse. Tom stripped Will, and after he had sponged and dried him,
he put some clean pyjamas on him and wrapped him in a blanket. He left him with Sammy
curled up in the large armchair.
By the time Tom had remade the bed, Will had fallen asleep. His small stubbled head lay
flopped over one of the arms of the armchair. Tom picked him up and carried him back up the
ladder. It was the fifth time that he had changed the sheets and had soothed Will after a
horrific nightmare.
Will was relieved when daylight filtered into his room. He dreaded the terrors of night.
Zach meanwhile visited the cottage regularly, but Will was usually asleep when he called and
Tom didn't want to disturb him. Day after day a tremendous fatigue swept through and
drained Will's entire body. Eating took a supreme effort, and the smallest task, be it cleaning
his teeth or holding a book, exhausted him into another deep sleep.
One night he was so feverish that Tom stayed by his bed keeping watch. Sammy had been left
downstairs in the front room with the door closed firmly behind him.
Will moaned and cried out, pushing the blankets away from his legs. He arched his back and
gritted his teeth like a baby having a hysterical tantrum, and with flailing limbs he appeared to
be fighting some powerful force. The sweat trickled down him in never-ending streams. Tom
felt quite helpless. There was nothing he could do except stay with Will and go with what was
happening. He hugged him when he woke and encouraged him to talk about his nightmares as
much as possible.
By four o'clock in the morning Will had soaked every sheet in the cottage and was now
reduced to wearing yet another of Tom's shirts. He grew increasingly hotter until, at one
point, Tom was sorely tempted to run over to the Littles' to fetch the doctor. He quickly
dismissed the idea. He didn't dare leave in case Will should wake from one of his nightmares
during his absence.
It was during one particular dream that Will suddenly froze on the bed. He spread his legs and
arms outwards as if backing up against a wall, tipped his head back, and let out the wildest
and most terrifying scream Tom had ever heard. It shook him to his very bowels. He couldn't
remember how long the scream lasted. It sounded like a baby crying in despair, an old
forgotten scream that must have been swallowed down years before.
He found himself being dragged back to the day when Rachel had given birth to their son.
Tom had been a young man of twenty then and still very deeply in love. He remembered how
he had paced the floor in the living room listening to her moans from the bedroom and then
the sudden silence. He had turned to find the midwife standing at the door shaking her head
sadly. He remembered how he had run across the hall and into their bedroom, how he had
clasped Rachel's hand. She had smiled so tenderly at him. He had tried to ignore how thin and
pallid she was and had glanced down at her side to where a tiny red-faced baby lay.
"Ent he beautiful," she had whispered, and he had nodded and watched helplessly as the old
familiar color of scarlatina spread across both their faces.
"Yous'll have to git blue," she had whispered to him, for during her pregnancy he had brought
her a new pot of paint for each month of her being with child.
The ninth was to be blue if she had given birth to a boy, primrose yellow if it had been a girl.
After they had died, he had bought the pot of blue paint and placed it in the black wooden box
that he had made for her one Christmas, when he was eighteen. As he closed the lid, so he
shut out not only the memory of her but also the company of anyone else who reminded him
of her.
He glanced down at Will, who had suddenly become quiet, given a start and opened his eyes.
His lips had turned blue. Tom raised him to a sitting position and stroked his back as if he was
a baby with wind.
"Keep breathin', boy," he murmured. "Keep breathin'."
Will released his breath, and as he gulped in a fresh lungful of air he began to vomit violently.
It was after this incident that he began to sleep more easily. He had reached the climax of his
nightmares and they no longer haunted him.
One morning, several days later, he awoke feeling refreshed.
A smell of bacon and eggs drifted between the floorboards, and although the blacks were up
and his night-light was still on, he could hear the sounds of birds and the old familiar whirring
of a tractor in the distance.
"Mister Tom," he yelled. "Mister Tom."
In seconds Tom's head appeared through the hatchway and Sammy ran across the floor and
jumped onto his bed.
"You's lookin' good," Tom remarked. "You got color in yer cheeks."
He walked over to the window and removed the blacks. Sunlight danced into the room. Tom
propped the window up and extinguished the nightlight.
Will pushed his legs over to the side of his bed and stood up with a wobble, only to sit down
suddenly again.
"They ent had much use," commented Tom, noticing the anxious frown on Will's face.
"They'll git stronger. Remember . . ." but Will finished the sentence for him.
"Everythin' has its own time," and he laughed.
It was good to see Will smile again. It made Tom feel lively, rejuvenated.
"Breakfast in bed, sir?" he said cheerily. "I takes it yer hungry."
Will nodded and grinned.
Tom propped his pillows up and left him sitting happily with a book. Sammy snuggled in next
to him. It was like the old days.
Downstairs, Tom began to prepare a royal breakfast. As he broke an egg into the frying pan
he started singing. He too felt released. While he was singing he heard a tap at the window.
He looked up to find Zach peering in.
"Come on in," he said.
"I say," blurted out Zach excitedly as he ran breathlessly into the room. "He's better, isn't he?"
Tom nodded.
"You can see him after he's eaten his breakfast."
"Oh gosh, I can't wait till then. He'll take an age with that lot," he said, indicating the toast and
mushrooms, egg and bacon. "You know what he's like. He chews his food."
"That's usual, ent it?" remarked Tom in surprise.
"Oh no. I just give mine a few bites and swallow it, but he chews and chews. Couldn't I sort
of drape myself inconspicuously on a chair while he's devouring that lot?"
"You inconspicuous?" commented Tom wryly. "You jes' wait. You's waited long enough
already. A few minutes won't make that much difference."
"That's what they say in novels," moaned Zach. "A few minutes can be a jolly eternity," but
his words were lost on Tom, for he was halfway up the ladder.
Zach plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his red corduroy shorts and stared out at the
graveyard. It was a glorious spring day. He had discarded his boots and socks and had
retrieved his battered sandals from their winter hibernation. The only other garment he wore
was a white collarless man's cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It billowed out in
voluminous folds between his braces.
It was now the first week in May. The spring holidays had ended and already the summer
term had begun. Now that Mrs. Hartridge had had her baby and was no longer teaching, Mrs.
Black had been splitting her energies between the two classes.
"You want tea?" asked Tom on his return.
"Yes, please. How is he?" he added urgently.
"Hungry."
Zach took a large gulp from his tea and gave a yell as it burned his lip.
"I know, you don't have to tell me," he said, catching Tom's eye. "Look before you leap," and
he blew on it and sipped it hurriedly.
"Does he know I'm here?"
"No. I didn't want to disturb his breakfast."
"Oh, Mister Tom," Zach cried despondently, thrusting his cup dramatically onto the table.
"No offense to you," Tom added. "It's jes', I knows how overexcited he gets."
After what seemed hours to Zach, Will called from upstairs. Zach followed Tom into the hall.
"Wait," Tom whispered.
"I see. Then it'll be a surprise. I say, what a wizard . . ." but Tom was already through the
hatchway.
He reappeared soon after.
"All right," he said. "You can come on up."
Zach waited impatiently for him to reach the bottom of the ladder, and then half running, half
stumbling, he flung himself upwards.
Tom stood in the hallway listening to their yells of delight. He cast his eyes upwards to an
imaginary heaven.
"Couple of doughbags," he remarked.
Zach bounced at the end of Will's bed and hit his head on the rafter. A round pink lump
appeared immediately at the side of his forehead. Sammy scrabbled over the bedcovers and
smelled and nuzzled him all over.
"You're ever so bony," exclaimed Zach, "but you look much much better."
"Me legs are a bit wobbly."
"How romantic to be stuck in bed with a fever. Rather like Keats, or Elizabeth Barrett
Browning or the Bronte sisters."
"Romantic?"
"Yes. I wonder if you'll be like Heidi's cousin, you know, the one in the wheelchair who has it
pushed down the mountain and then she walks."
"Wheelchair?" said Will in alarm. "I ent that bad."
"Pity!"
They looked at each other and smiled broadly. The stubble round Will's head had grown past
its prickly stage and had developed into a thin layer of sandy-colored fluff.
"I expect you're dying to know all the news," said Zach, crossing his legs and making sure he
was quite comfortable.
"You's goin' to tell it to me anyway," remarked Will.
"I say, you've lost your London accent. You've gone all yokel."
"Have I?"
"Miss Thorne will have the screaming abdabs when she hears you. She gives elocution
lessons now, to the dramatics group."
Will pushed himself up excitedly. "Is she still doin' plays, like?"
"You bet, and she can't wait for you to be well. You're one of her prodigies. I'm as jealous as
anything, of course," and he smote his chest and gazed up at the ceiling.
"What was it like? Toad of Toad Hall?"
"Oh, great fun. I was marvelous, of course. Missed you though terribly, and Carrie. She's still
cramming madly for this wretched exam. She's even learning Latin and a bit of Greek from
Mr. Peters. I'm sure she needn't. Folks round here already say she's a queer one. Oh, by the
way," he added after a pause, "Mrs. Hartridge has had a baby girl."
"A baby," repeated Will, and he paled.
"I say, are you all right?"
"Yes," said Will quietly.
"You don't look it. Do you want me to call Mister Tom?"
"No. I'm all right."
"If you say so. The baby's called Peggy. Oh dear," he sighed. "I haven't cheered you up very
much. You've been looking miserabler and miserabler ever since I came in."
Will smiled.
"Oh, I forgot," Zach said suddenly. "Lucy missed you terribly too. Mrs. Padfield told me she
hasn't eaten properly in weeks. She's lost her pudding look, well, round her body. Her cheeks
still seem just as enormous."
Will scowled.
"You don't like her very much, do you?"
"It ent that," said Will squirming. "It's jes', it's jes' . . . She's a girl."
"So are the twins."
"They're different. They ent, they ent ..."
"Lovey dovey?"
"Yis. Lovely dovey," and he couldn't help but laugh at his own embarrassment.
"And," continued Zach, remembering something else, "Aunt Nance and Uncle Oz dragged out
one of their children's old bicycles and I've been cleaning and de-rusting it and doing odd jobs
so I can save up for two new inner tubes. The old ones are riddled with holes."
He sat back and puckered his brows in an effort to remember any other news. "Oh yes," he
said. "There's talk of forming a Home Guard, same as Local Defense Volunteers only more
official I think and, oh yes, there's two land army girls up at Hillbrook Farm and there's talk of
the Grange being used as a maternity hospital."
"Hospital?" said Will, alarmed.
"Well, nursing home," said Zach, sensing that he had put his foot in it.
"What's that?"
"A place where women who can't be at home have their babies."
"Babies," said Will, feeling sick.
"Yes," said Zach, puzzled at his reaction.
"Don't they come from Jesus, like?"
"Of course not. Oh," he said, "you don't know."
"Know what?"
"About sex."
Will blushed scarlet. "I know it's somethin' dirty and you goes to hell for it."
"Rot!" exclaimed Zach. "We wouldn't be here if it wasn't for sex. It's what happens between
men and women when they love each other."
"What, kissin' and touchin'?" said Will, feeling a little hot.
"Well, that's a good beginning."
"But kissin's a sin, ent it?"
"No. That's what you do when you love someone. Look, the woman has a seed inside her and
a man has a seed inside him and when they reach one another they join up and the man gives
the woman his seed. If the seed sticks to one of the woman's seeds it grows into an egg, and
the egg grows into a baby inside the woman, and when the baby's grown enough and is ready
to be born it shoots out of the mother."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. My parents told me and they don't lie."
"Your parents told you!"
"Yes. Look, ask me any questions you want. I'll tell you all I know."
"Thanks."
"It isn't dirty," continued Zach, "unless you make it that way."
"Can't a lady have a baby on her own?"
"No. There has to be a man to give her his seed." He stood up abruptly. "I'm going to get
Mister Tom. You look dreadful."
Tom popped his head through the hatchway.
"What was that about me, then?" he asked. He glanced at Will. "I think you'd best go home,
Zach. Overdone it a bit."
"Yes, that's what I thought. Can I come again tomorrow?"
"Oh yes, please do," urged Will.
Tom sat at the end of the bed and waited till Zach's footsteps had disappeared out of hearing.
"Now then, what's up?"
Will looked startled.
"Best tell me."
"It's about Trudy."
"I think you know already," said Tom quietly.
"She's dead, ent she?"
He nodded.
"My fault," he choked out. "My fault. I killed her. I made her die."
"How?"
"She cried and cried and I nursed her, like. I held her real good. I rocked her. I gave her the
milk in the bottle and then there wasn't no more."
"Ent your fault. The milk runnin' out."
"But I should have got out, like. I waited. I shouldn't have waited. I thought me mum'd be
back any minute, only . . ." But he couldn't get the words out.
"Only she never did, that what yer sayin'?"
He nodded.
"Baby needs milk. You couldn't give her that. You was tied up."
"Zach said—" He blushed. "He said that a woman can't have a baby without a man. Is that
true?"
"Yes."
"So me mum must have met with a man."
"Yes."
"She lied. Why did she lie? She said men and ladies goin' with each other were a sin."
Tom took out his pipe and began to stuff tobacco into it.
"I has a feelin' that your mother is very ill."
"She must have had Trudy growin' inside her, like. Mebbe that's what she meant when she
said she were ill."
"There's another kind of sickness that some people has. It's a sort of sickness of the mind,
usually an unhappy mind. Reckon yer mother is a bit like that."
"Mister Tom, I want to stay here. I don't want to go back to her, even if she says she's ill."
"You won't go back to her. Authorities wouldn't allow it."
"But why did you kidnap me then?"
"They were goin' to put you in a children's home. I wanted you back here."
"Why?"
"Why? Well . . ." In an embarrassed manner he puffed out a billow of smoke from his pipe.
"Because I'm fond of you, boy. That's why. I missed you." He stood up. "And now I'll git out
all the bits of paper I've bin savin' up for yer drawrin'. Then you can come downstairs and
scrawl away."
Will watched him slowly descend the ladder. "Mister Tom," he said.
Tom raised his head back up through the hatchway.
"Yes, boy."
"I love you." And instead of the cold feeling he had imagined would happen if he uttered
those words, he felt a wave of warmth flooding into his stomach and through to his chest, and
he beamed. Mister Tom's face became flushed. He cleared his throat.
"I love you too, boy," he grunted. "And now I'll git on with downstairs." And he disappeared
quickly down the ladder.
As May flew into June Will steadily grew in strength. He remained indoors, happy just to
draw and read. Zach, George and the twins and even Lucy came to visit him, but he tended to
fall asleep midconversation and would wake to find that they had gone, leaving a little pile of
fruit and comics beside him.
It was several weeks before he ventured as far as the tiny patch of front garden overlooking
the graveyard. He and Tom would carry the large wooden table outside so that he could lay
out his paints and brushes on it. The constant fresh air increased his appetite, and as he ate, so
his energy returned.
Meanwhile, in London, Neville Chamberlain had resigned as Prime Minister and a plump,
bald man of sixty-five had taken his place. His name was Winston Churchill.
Soon afterwards the inhabitants of Little Weirwold were shaken by the news of Dunkirk. The
British Expeditionary Force had been driven back to the coast of France by the Germans, and
thousands of troops, some very badly wounded, had to be evacuated by sea to Folkestone.
Hundreds of ordinary people who had vessels risked their lives to help in the evacuation.
Many were killed. "Sir" from the Grange, and his son Julian, had taken a motorboat. The
Grange was now no longer to be a maternity hospital but a convalescent home for wounded
and shell-shocked soldiers. One weekend, several truckloads of vacant-eyed, wounded young
men in uniform rumbled their way through the village. The villagers cheered and threw
garlands of flowers at them and handed them homemade cakes, bread and eggs as they
passed. Some of the youths managed numb smiles, but most of them were too dazed to know
what was happening.
On the last Saturday in June, Will made up his mind to do something that he had been putting
off for some time. He had finished his cottage chores and was sitting outside reading. Tom
had left a shopping list for him on the table. He was helping over at Hillbrook Farm, as were
George and Ginnie. Carrie was at the vicarage with the vicar, studying Latin.
Will closed his book, picked up the list from the table and headed for the shop. On his way
back he called in at the Littles'. If Zach wasn't doing anything, maybe they could go off
somewhere. Then he could postpone his venture again.
He found Zach covered with oil and surrounded by soiled rags and small tools. Propped
upside down on its handlebars was an old bicycle.
"I've nearly got it working, you know. This is the first mechanical thing I've ever done in my
whole life. I'm determined to complete something once and for all."
They chatted briefly and Will returned home. He left a short note saying where he had gone
and headed in the direction of Annie Hartridge's cottage. An hour later he was still staring
intently at her front door.
After much deliberation he crossed the rough narrow lane, knocked three times and stood
back nervously. It was a blistering hot day and his shirt clung to his body. He shook it to fan
some cool air inside. No one answered the door. Perhaps she wasn't in. He felt relieved. He
could come back another day. He took hold of the smooth brass knocker and tapped it again.
There was still no answer. He was about to leave when Mrs. Hartridge's head suddenly
appeared around the corner. He jumped.
"I thought I heard someone," she said. "I'm in the back garden. Come round. I heard you were
back," she added gently. "This is a surprise."
On the grass in the back garden was a large tartan rug. She told him to sit down and make
himself comfortable while she made him a glass of homemade lemonade. He watched her go
into the cottage and remained standing. He glanced furtively round the garden, taking in the
vegetable patch, the herb garden under the kitchen window, the tall trees that stood by the
lane; and then he gave a small gasp, for standing in the shadow of the trees was a baby
carriage.
He stared numbly at it, not daring to breathe for fear he might disturb whatever lay there.
Annie Hartridge stood at the sink looking out of the window. She was about to lean out and
ask him whether he would like honey in his lemonade, but when she saw the look on his face
she kept silent. News always spread like wildfire round the village, and she knew some of
what he had been through.
Will, meanwhile, was making slow, steady progress toward the carriage. It shuddered slightly
and two small chubby legs rose into the air. He moved closer until he was standing beside it.
There, lying under the protective shade of a hood, was the tiniest of babies. She had dark
wispy hair and round brown marble eyes. She waved one of her hands absently and looked up
startled as one of the fringes at the edge of the hood flickered.
Annie Hartridge let him stand quietly for some time before breaking the silence.
"Lemonade and ginger cake coming up," she said brightly. Will turned round feeling selfconscious
at being caught staring at the baby.
"She's rather beautiful, isn't she?" Annie remarked, strolling towards the carriage and lifting
her out. She gazed into the baby's eyes and kissed her cheeks.
"I'll let you have a little romp on the grass, my love," and she laid her face down onto the rug.
"There you are, my precious."
Will sat beside her with his lemonade and watched her, fascinated at the enormous power the
tiny, helpless being held over him.
He stayed in the garden till dusk talking with Mrs. Hartridge about books and ideas for
obtaining paper and where you could buy the cheapest paint. He didn't mention Mr. Hartridge
and she didn't talk about his mother or Trudy. Sometimes in the middle of a conversation they
would stop suddenly and look at each other with understanding.
In Will's eyes she was more beautiful than ever. A little on the thin side now, but her eyes
were still as large and blue, her hair still as golden and her voice was just as melodious, if not
more so. He watched her hold the baby in the air and bring her down to her face, where she
blew raspberries into her tummy. Sometimes she would just gaze at her and look happy and
sad all in one moment.
They were in the middle of a conversation when Will heard a knock at the front door. Annie
stood up with Peggy still in her arms. "Here," she said, handing her over to Will. "Hold her
while I answer the door."
She walked briskly away not daring to glance back at him. She had no idea whether she was
doing the right thing or not. Instinctively she wanted Will to know what it was like to hold a
warm, live child.
Will sat stunned, clutching the tiny infant in his arms. He felt tense and awkward. The baby
blew a bubble, which burst and dissolved into a long dribble. It dangled down the side of her
chin and headed towards her flimsy cotton dress. She felt soft and had an extraordinarily
pleasant smell, thought Will. He began to relax a little and the baby puckered up her mouth
and made a small gurgling sound, then for no reason at all screwed her eyes up and began to
cry.
Will glanced frantically round for Mrs. Hartridge. He rocked Peggy and held her close to him,
but she continued to cry. He stood up with her still in his arms, searching for a bottle.
Mrs. Hartridge opened the back door and crossed the garden. She took Peggy in her arms and
smiled.
"I know what you want, my love," she murmured, and sitting down in a canvas chair, she
unbuttoned the front of her floral blouse and placed one of her breasts in the baby's mouth.
Will was too shocked to avert his gaze. He felt that he should shut his eyes or excuse himself,
but his feet remained rooted to the spot and soon he forgot his embarrassment and became
mesmerized by the slow rhythmic sucking of the baby. He watched her small arms lying
outstretched while her fingers curved inwards and outwards contentedly. A pinkish flush
spread across her cheeks.
When the baby had taken her fill, Mrs. Hartridge buttoned up her blouse and looked at him.
"Mister Tom's waiting for you out front."
Will thanked her for the lemonade and ran to join Mr. Tom. He was sitting on the grass with
Sammy, staring at the long thin rows of pink-tipped clouds in the distance.
As they walked home Will felt suddenly lighter. Tom had been right. He couldn't have given
Trudy what she had needed. It wasn't his fault that she had died. He was still saddened by her
death, but the awful responsibility that had weighed so heavily on him had now lifted. He
thrust his hands into his pockets and walked with a brisker step.
When he and Tom arrived at the cottage, they found Zach waiting for them in the front
garden, with the old bicycle.
"I've fixed it. I've actually fixed it," he announced proudly. "I say, Mister Tom," he added,
giving a broad grin, "how far is it to the sea?"
The Sea, the Sea, the Sea!
Zach opened his mouth and began singing the same old rousing song again.
"At Playarel in Brittany, down by the Breton Sea,
If a man would go a-fishing,
Then let him come with me-ee,
For the fish lie out in the distance there
Deep in the Breton Sea-ee-ee
Deep in the Breton Sea. "
He had sung it so many times that Tom and Will knew it almost by heart.
"And green is the boat, " they sang,
"And red is the sail
That leans to the sunlit breeze,
And music sings at a rippling keel—
What can a man more please?
It is sweet to go to the fishing grounds
In the soft green Breton Sea. "
It was August. The sun shone in a clear, uncluttered azure sky and Zach, Tom and Will sat on
the rough plank seat of the cart while Tom held the reins. They were into the third day of their
travels on the road. The coolness of the early morning had worn off and another blisteringly
hot day had begun. Zach and Will peeled their shirts off and threw them together with their
socks and sandals into the back of the cart. He and Zach sat barefooted, their braces dangling
at their sides and their lean sunburned legs swinging gently and rhythmically from side to side
as the cart jogged onwards.
"Shouldn't be far now," murmured Tom as he shook the reins.
He left Dobbs and the cart at a farm. In exchange for her help in harvesting, the farmer would
take care of her. They unloaded the cart, in which Sammy, two bicycles and several panniers
lay heaped together. Tom and Zach wheeled the bicycles out onto the road while Will carried
the panniers.
Zach had painted his machine. Its frame was now a pillar-box red and the mudguards were
yellow. He hung two of the panniers onto a small frame attached to the back wheel. Tom's
bicycle was black in color, but it was just as conspicuous as Zach's, for it was a tandem. Will
couldn't ride a bicycle, so being a second rider was the next-best thing.
A wicker basket was strapped to the front handlebars. Tom checked the tires and, like Zach,
tied the panniers securely over the back wheel. He climbed onto the tandem and held it steady
while Will planted Sammy in the basket and then hauled himself onto the back seat. Zach was
already astride his bike, his foot resting on a pedal.
"Let's go!" cried Tom, and he gave the tandem a sharp push forward.
"Wizzo!" yelled Zach.
They cycled steadily and rhythmically on, past fields of fresh swaying corn and lush green
trees. Cream and amber butterflies flew intermittently from behind the hedgerows, and
strange, exotic smells hit their noses. They wheeled the bicycles up a very steep hill and stood
at the top breathless at the climb. There at last, vast and calm below them, lay the sea.
Flinging their bicycles into the hedgerows they leaped and pranced about waving their arms
in the air and yelling at the tops of their voices, and when suddenly Will and Zach realized
that Tom was dancing too, they clutched their stomachs and laughed hysterically till the tears
rolled down their cheeks.
After recovering, they gulped down some overheated lemonade, clambered back onto their
bicycles and eased them gently down the hill, half mesmerized by the immense expanse of
blue that sparkled below them. Sammy continued to lie slumped and boiling under an old
piece of tarpaulin that was fixed over the basket. As soon as he felt a flicker of breeze he hung
his head over the edge, his tongue dangling in anticipation of a cool and shady spot.
Although there were no signposts to welcome them, Tom felt sure the fishing village they
rode into was the place. It was called Salmouth. They weren't the only holiday makers but, as
the roads to Salmouth were very narrow, most of the people who ventured there were cyclists
like themselves or ramblers. Tom walked from cottage door to cottage door asking if anyone
would take them, including a dog, for bed, breakfast and an evening meal for a fortnight.
After several refusals they chanced upon a middle-aged widow called Mrs. Clarence. She was
delighted to have them stay with her. Her four sons had been drafted and she lived alone with
a dog called Rumple. Unlike Sammy, Rumple was ancient and spent his days lying lazily
cushioned in layers of his own wrinkled fat.
Tom and Zach wheeled the bicycle and tandem along a tiny stone pathway at the side of Mrs.
Clarence's cottage, towards her neat and well-stocked garden. Will untied the panniers and
together they carried them in.
"You jes' go for a walk," announced Mrs. Clarence cheerfully. "It'll give me a chance to sort
your rooms out."
They happily agreed to this suggestion and strolled leisurely down the tiny main street in the
direction of a small harbor. Three tiny cobbled alleyways sloped gently down towards it. At
the corner of one stood an old weather-beaten pub called the Captain Morgan. A windbattered
sign with a picture of some old sea dog on it hung outside.
"By George, I say," whispered Zach, clutching Will's arm in excitement, "I wonder if there
are any smugglers or pirates round here."
Tom and Sammy had walked on down the lane and were standing at a tiny landing dock. Will
and Zach joined them.
They passed a fishmonger's, where clusters of crawling crabs and lobsters, inert cockles and
shellfish, were placed in the front window on display. A heavy odor of fresh fish emanated
from the doorway.
A few yards down was a shop filled with what Zach called "sea things," from fishing tackle
and compasses to longjohns and thick navy-oiled jerseys. Zach stared wistfully through the
glass and sighed.
"Oh to be a pirate!" and he began to murmur something about "Drake being in his hammock"
and "Captain art thou sleepin' thar below."
Will was drawn like a magnet towards the small dock. He stood on the ancient wooden quay
and gazed in wonder at the sea. The waves lapped gently against the timbers below him. He
had imagined that the sea would terrify and engulf him, but instead he felt surprisingly calm.
It seemed as if his mind had suddenly opened and all his worries, painful memories and fears
were flooding to the surface and drifting away. Sammy barked at the sea gulls that caw-cawed
and swooped above his head, but Will was quite deaf to his yelps.
Around the jetty itself were groups of men in fishing boats, long high-masted wooden vessels
with wet nets hanging over their sides. Left of the jetty, a mile away, lay a sheltered bay. A
handful of small anchored sailing boats bobbed on the surface. Will plunged his hands into
his pockets. He felt overwhelmingly happy at the thought of spending a fortnight in Salmouth.
Fourteen whole days. He could sit by the quay and sketch to his heart's content and there was
so much to see, new shapes to draw, new colors to store into his memory. There were some
things though, that he could never capture, things like smells and feelings and sensations of
touch. They were "now" things to enjoy only for a moment. "Are you coming, Will?" yelled
Zach. He turned quickly.
"We's goin' further along towards that long V," said Tom, pointing to the estuary. "You want
to stay here or come along?"
"I'm coming," he replied, walking towards them. They turned up a second alleyway and
pressed their noses against the dirty glass of an old secondhand bookshop. It was a treasure
house for all three of them. If it hadn't been for Sammy tugging at Tom's corduroys they
might have disappeared into the shop and stayed there for the remainder of the afternoon.
"That's a rainy-day shop," commented Tom.
The nearest beach was a mixture of sand and pebbles. They sat on it and gazed out at the bay.
Three or four families and a few couples were sitting on deck chairs or swimming in the sea.
Tom had previously read in the newspapers that most of the beaches in England were heavily
populated. Salmouth, to his delight, was relatively quiet.
By the time they returned to Mrs. Clarence's, they were ravenous.
"I've took your bags to your rooms," she said. "I've put you two boys together in the back
room, and Mr. Oakley," she added, "you're in the front bedroom next to mine."
Tom thanked her and they all sat down to a meal of fried mackerel, freshly picked broad
beans, potatoes in their jackets, and slices of fried zucchini. Tom offered Mrs. Clarence his
ration of sugar and butter and anything else she might need.
Zach had eaten fish many times. He had spent several summers by the sea when his parents
were doing summer seasons, but it was the first time he had ever had a companion of his own
age to share those summer joys. Most of the time he used to wander alone, chatting to people,
but his odd appearance and forthright ways seemed to annoy them and they tended to ignore
him. With Will, he felt that he could do and be anything and anybody and Will would still
like him.
Will was eating fish for the first time. Mrs. Clarence showed him how to gently make an
incision, fold the fleshy parts to either side and carefully pull out, intact, the long skeleton.
After the fish meal, they had baked apple with honey poured over it. Mrs. Clarence had been
talking so much that she had forgotten that they were in the oven and they had burst into
oddly shaped foaming heaps. She apologized profusely but Tom, Will and Zach said that they
preferred them exploded.
During the meal Tom observed Zach and Will. Will's skin, which had gone through various
stages of pink on the journey, was now approaching a bronze hue. A profusion of freckles
covered his entire face.
"I say," exclaimed Zach, also noticing the new phenomenon, "you've got hundreds of
freckles."
"Have I?" remarked Will in surprise.
"Yes. They must have been lurking under your skin for years and years and years."
Will glanced down at his arms. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to above his elbows.
"I've got lots on me arms too," he commented. "How strange."
Zach licked his mouth. "My mouth tastes salty, does yours?"
Will licked his lips and nodded.
"Mine too," added Tom.
"I'm going to rename this village Salt-on-the-Mouth," said Zach, sitting back and looking very
pleased with himself.
"I like that," said Will, smiling.
The sea air caused Zach and Will to feel sleepy and, as they were excited about sharing a
room, they went to bed quite willingly, leaving Tom and Mrs. Clarence to listen to Henry
Hall's Guest Night on the wireless. While she knitted and talked, Sammy tried vainly to stir
some life into Rumple, who now occupied the best position by the hearth.
Upstairs Zach and Will undressed and put their pyjama trousers on. Their beds stood on either
side of a bay window that overlooked the sea. There were two window frames with thin strips
of painted white wood that crisscrossed across the glass. Each window had a latch that pushed
it outwards. Both were now flung open, for Mrs. Clarence had said that as long as they kept
the lights off, they needn't have the blacks up. Zach and Will leaned out and allowed the cool
night air to brush their faces. A full harvest moon hung in a clear navy sky. Waves slapped
against the shore below the tiny back garden.
Downstairs Tom sat reading, when he wasn't interrupted by Mrs. Clarence. She was a shy
woman and her shyness manifested itself in great bursts of incessant chatter.
Mrs. Clarence didn't understand the relationship of the two boys to Tom. "Is Zach a friend of
your son's?" she asked.
Tom looked up from his book, surprised.
"My son?" he asked.
"Will. He's very like you. Has your ways."
"Evacuee," he began, but he didn't get any further. She took it that Zach was the only evacuee.
"How kind of you, Mr. Oakley, to take an evacuee on holiday," and she couldn't praise him
enough.
The praise made Tom feel awkward, so rather than mention that Will was also an evacuee, he
said nothing, hoping that the matter would be dropped. He went up the stairway to Zach and
Will's room and found them still leaning out of the window staring at the sea. He tucked them
both into bed, ruffled their hair and closed the door behind them.
Zach lay on his back, his head leaning on his hands, his elbows up.
"I say," he said, "isn't this the most wondrous, scrumptious, exciting thing that's ever
happened in the whole wide world?"
"Yeh," agreed Will.
They lay in silence in the semidarkness, the moon shining its beams across the whitewashed
floorboards.
"Ent it a fine sound?" whispered Will, staring happily up at the ceiling.
"What?" asked Zach sleepily.
"The waves."
Zach turned over and gave a grunt.
Will was sitting cross-legged on the windowsill with a sketch pad on his knees. He glanced
down at Zach's brown face and wiry black hair lying against the crisp white pillowcase and
returned to his drawing. Zach gave another grunt, opened his eyes and looked over at Will's
bed. Seeing the empty sheets, he rolled out of bed quickly and then caught sight of Will on
the windowsill.
"How long have you been up?"
Will shrugged.
"About an hour, I s'pose."
"Why didn't you wake me?"
"Thought mebbe you wanted to lie in."
Zach leaned on the windowsill next to Will's legs. A slight mist hung over the sea.
"I say, it's going to be a wizzo day. A real scorcher."
He glanced at Will's drawing, which consisted of two gulls hovering above a tranquil sea.
Will sighed. "I wish I could get the sun shinin' on the waves, sort of sparklin' like." He leaned
back against the wall.
"Oh Will," retorted Zach. "It's smashing. If I drew that, it would be just one long wiggly line
in the middle of the page, a couple of silly clouds above it and a few wavy lines below."
Will gave a laugh.
Mrs. Clarence knocked on their door.
"Breakfast in five minutes, boys," she sang.
"Rightio," yelled Zach.
Will climbed down and put his sketch pad on the small white wooden table under the sill.
It was the beginning of another of Zach's "glorious" days. Tom had also risen early, and had
already been out with Sammy for a walk along the beach.
The three of them all sat down to a generous breakfast and then set off immediately with a
picnic lunch to the beach. They walked for a mile along the coast towards some cliffs and
climbed up a rough pathway that had been hacked out of the grass and bracken. Once they
reached the top they went on walking until they came to a small opening in a clump of gorse.
They scrambled down another rough pathway and came to a sheltered and sandy cove. The
cliffs curved round on either side of them like the arms of an enormous armchair. Zach and
Will peeled off their clothes down to their underpants while Sammy dug into the sand,
sending cascades of it into a pile behind them. Tom rolled his trouser legs and shirt sleeves up
and put a four-knotted handkerchief on his head.
Zach and Will walked down towards the sea. Will stood at the edge while Zach splashed and
yelled about the coolness of the water. He shrank back as an icy spray cascaded over him.
"Come on," yelled Zach, who was treading water. "There are warm bits if you keep moving
about."
Will nodded mournfully. He waded in as far as his ankles and allowed the water to swirl
around his feet.
Tom sat on the shore and watched. Will turned and gave him a casual glance. He wanted
Mister Tom to be near him and at the same time he didn't want to appear a coward. Tom
wanted to help but didn't want to mollycoddle him. The glance from Will moved him into
action.
"Come on, Samuel," he said, eyeing the hot furry heap that was now sheltering in a hole.
"Come and have a bit of salt water, boy," and with that he picked him up and carried him in
his arms to the water's edge.
Once Will saw Sammy barking at the sea, chasing it and being caught by it, some of his fear
disappeared, for Sammy was very funny. Tom paddled in after him.
"Come on, Will," he said encouragingly. "Take some handfuls and splash some around you.
You can git used to it then. I'll catch you if you fall."
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 swim-suits. 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 breaststroke, crawl and backstroke, 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 harbor 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 learned to do the breaststroke 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 now 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. brought
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 spend 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 newstand. It read South West London Blitzed, Maiden 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 'uv left a
message, like."
"Thanks awfully," said Zach.
"You goin' to phone before or after supper?" asked Mrs. Clarence.
Zach looked visibly pale even under his almost-black tan.
"Now," said Tom.
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
saying 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
smelled 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.
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-on-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. A curly two-week-old white beard now surrounded his chin. Will
and Zach joined them, and after chatting for a while they drifted upstairs to bed.
The next morning they stood outside the cottage with their panniers strapped to their bicycle
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 they collected Dobbs and the cart, was another fine one, but on the
Tuesday it rained and they had to sit in sou'westers and gabardine 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 gray 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 stove.
The goodies consisted of flowers and a bowl of blackberries from the twins and a homegrown
squash 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's 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. "Marvelous for Othello, eh?"
"What are 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."
Spooky Cott
On August 31st, the last Saturday before they returned 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 flashlights,
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 going by 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 nobody 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 drawing 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 that
surrounded the cottage, the sky became gray.
"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 eerie 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'." Without consulting Zach he gave 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 have dearly loved to run back
to the village with the 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.
The closer they came to the cottage, the louder the wail grew.
I'm sure my hair will turn white, thought Zach as they climbed out of the wild hedgerow and
stood waist deep in grass and dandelions.
Will tugged at Zach's sleeve. "Look," he whispered. "The door's open. The music's coming
from inside."
Pots of red geraniums stood starkly on the two windowsills. They looked odd against the
neglected background of the cottage with its dusty windows and rain-washed wooden door.
Will walked slowly forwards and stood in the middle of the tangled garden opposite it. It
looked dark inside the cottage. Zach crouched in the grass.
"I think you ought to take cover," he whispered urgently, but Will stood like one in a hypnotic
trance. The music seemed to touch some painful and tender place inside him and it flooded
his limbs with a strange buzzing sensation. Then it stopped, and all he could hear was a
repetitive swishing sound followed by a tapping and a click.
"You can come in if you like," boomed a man's voice from the darkness.
Will jumped and Zach screamed and fell over backwards.
The tapping grew louder and a young man in his mid-twenties with brown wavy hair, blue
eyes and a mustache appeared at the doorway. He wore a pale-blue open-necked shirt and
gray flannels, and his face looked in need of a good shave. His left trouser leg was pinned up
to his thigh and he supported himself on a crutch. They glanced down at the empty space
beneath it and then looked quickly up at his face. One of his ears was missing. He observed
them looking him over.
"Not a pretty sight, eh!" he said at last.
Will and Zach were too surprised to speak.
"Sorry if I scared you," said the man. "I thought you must have seen me through the window."
He smiled. "On second thoughts I don't suppose anyone could see anything through those
windows. Must be at least ten years' dust on them."
Zach still sat immobile with only his brown face visible above the grass. The man looked at
Will.
"You like music?"
Will nodded.
"Mister Tom plays some on the organ, like," he said quietly. "I lives with him."
"You local then?"
"No."
"Evacuee?"
"Yeh."
"Where from?"
"Deptford."
"If there's any left of it. I used to live in London, till nine months ago. No reason to go back
now," he added grimly.
"Is you from the Grange hospital?"
The man nodded and held out his hand. "Geoffrey Sanderton's my name."
Will stepped forward and shook it. "I'm Will."
"And I'm Zacharias Wrench," said Zach, stumbling to his feet.
"Ah, he has a voice," said Geoffrey.
A strong blast of wind shook the trees. He stared up at them.
"Too light to put the blackouts up, too dark inside to paint. Damned nuisance really."
"Paint?" asked Will, wide-eyed.
"Yes," he said. "I can offer you tea, bread and jam. That suit you? You can either sit out here
or come inside."
"I'd like to come in," blurted out Will. "I mean, if that's all right, like."
"I'll sit on the step," said Zach.
Will followed Geoffrey into the front room. At one end was a long, raised fireplace with a fire
already laid but unlit in the grate. He glanced briefly around. Apart from some bits and pieces
from the Grange, the room was almost devoid of any furniture. Will's attention, however, was
caught by the piles of paper and bits of canvas scattered about the floor and a tall wooden
easel. A picture of half a landscape, painted in oils, was resting on it.
"Are you a painter, mister?" he asked, following him into the kitchen. The kitchen was empty
but for one shelf of food, a few cups and several pots of paint.
"An artist, you mean? Yes. I had my first exhibition in London just before I was called up."
"Were you at Dunkirk?"
"Yes."
"Cor. Good job you didn't lose your arms, eh, mister? Lucky, eh?"
"Lucky?" he repeated with bitterness. He didn't think so. His fiancée had been blown out of
his arms by a bomb. He had lost two of his closest friends, and his parents had been found
dead under a pile of rubble. His leg and ear had been blown off and he had had a nervous
breakdown. Hardly lucky.
"Yeh," said Will. "You can still draw, like."
"You draw?" asked Geoffrey.
"Yeh."
"What, at school?"
"And in me free time."
"Do you?" said Geoffrey in surprise. He was about to change the subject from habit, for in the
past amateur artists would invariably ask him to give his opinions on their work, and he found
it all very embarrassing. He hesitated for a moment and then picked up a piece of paper and a
stubby pencil. He handed them to Will.
"Show me."
"Show you?" said Will in alarm. "But ... but you're so good."
"And you're not?"
"He's marvelous," said Zach, who had by now plucked up enough courage to leave the
doorway and enter. Will blushed.
"I'll draw outside," and with that he pushed Zach aside and went and sat on the steps.
Zach and Geoffrey talked intermittently in the kitchen while they put some jam on pieces of
dry bread. Zach carried a tray with the bread, a pot of tea and cups on it towards the steps.
Geoffrey followed and stood at the doorway. Will could feel his ears burning as he
approached and his hand began to tremble. He had drawn a rough sketch of Sammy by the
oak tree. Geoffrey peered down at it.
"How old are you?"
"I'm ten next week."
He gazed quietly down at Will's sketch and after a short silence said, "You have a gift, Will."
Will's heart soared. He felt excited and frightened all in one moment.
"Who teaches you art?"
"I used to have Mrs. Hartridge but she's left. She's got a baby, see. There's only Mrs. Black
now, but sometimes Miss Thorne helps out."
"And now there's a load more evacuees," joined in Zach, "and if they don't bring teachers with
them I don't know who we'll have."
"Short of teachers, are they?" said Geoffrey, and he slowly maneuvered himself down to the
steps and sat between them. It felt strange to Will to have someone sit next to him with a
space where a leg should be.
"Yes," replied Zach.
They picked up the slices of bread and jam and began eating.
"I'll see if I can teach at your school," said Geoffrey at last, and as he spoke he felt happier
than he had felt for a long time. "I don't know how one goes about it, but once I decide to do a
thing I usually end up doing it." He placed a hand on Will's. "Would you like extra lessons of
your own?"
Will thought his heart would explode through his chest. He nodded and was quite unable to
stop himself from smiling broadly.
"Wizzo," yelled Zach. "I told you one day you'd be famous. We can both be famous together."
"Oh yes," said Geoffrey wryly. "And what are you going to be famous at?"
"I'm going to entertain the world," he announced grandly, and then he blushed at his own
arrogance.
"You'll have to work very hard and make a great many sacrifices to achieve that."
"I don't want to be famous," said Will. "I jes' wants to draw and paint. But I want to draw real
good, like."
"Are you willing to work at it?"
"Oh yes," said Will quite simply.
Geoffrey glanced up at the sky. "I'll put the blackouts up and light the fire."
"I'll help," offered Will.
"Me, too," said Zach.
Between them, the fire was soon licking its way up the chimney, sending a warm glow around
the candlelit cluttered room. Geoffrey handed Will a record in a cardboard cover. There was a
picture of a dog in the middle with His Master's Voice written on it. In the corner near the fire
was a gramophone. Geoffrey wound the handle, slid a little round metal tray to one side, took
out a needle and changed it for one which was fixed to the end of the curved arm. He took the
record out of its sleeve, held it by the edges, put it on the turntable and pushed a small metal
disc to one side. After the record had begun to rotate he lifted the arm and gently lowered the
needle onto the edge of the record. It gave a few crackles and then burst into music.
"That was the Brahms violin concerto you heard in the garden," said Geoffrey.
Zach stood at Will's side. "And to think I was scared out of my wits by that!"
It was then that they told Geoffrey the cottage's nickname and how the other three had run
away.
"I wondered why no one ever disturbed me here," he said. "I was really quite relieved. I
needed to be alone for a while. I've even been having my food delivered to me from the
Grange so that I didn't have to go into the village."
"Oh," said Will, a little perturbed.
"Would you rather we left?" added Zach.
"No. I think it's about time I came out of hermitage."
He placed the needle back on the beginning of the record so that they could listen to it again,
without talking. They sat cross-legged by the fire, watching tiny pieces of wood being sucked
up the chimney while the flames crackled and spat in the grate. When the music had ended
Zach and Will stood up to leave. They said their good-byes, and after scrambling back
through the hedgerow they headed towards the woods. They ran down the road and hung
outside the front gate of the graveyard talking.
"I say," said Zach, turning round. "There's a car outside the church. Wonder whose that is."
Will shrugged. "Someone lookin' for Mr. Peters mebbe," he said, and he swung open the gate.
Zach cut across the graveyard and climbed over the wall. "See you tomorrow," he yelled.
Will ran up the path, pushed open the front door and slammed it behind him. He couldn't wait
to tell Mister Tom about Geoffrey and the art lessons. He flung open the door, his cheeks
burning, his heart soaring, only to be brought to a sudden halt.
Sitting in the room with Mister Tom were a policeman from Weirwold, the warden from
Deptford, a middle-aged man in a pullover and corduroys, and a woman in a green hat and
coat.
"This the boy?" asked the policeman.
The warden stared at Will's brown freckled face and thick shiny sun-bleached hair. The boy
he was looking at stood straight and had muscles on his legs. He wasn't the thin weedy Willie
he knew.
Tom stood by the range, holding Sammy in check.
"You're Mr. Oakley, ain't you?"
Tom nodded.
"I know you look a bit different wiv a beard, but I recognize you all right." He turned back to
Will. "But this ain't Willie Beech, is it?"
"William," corrected Will.
"Oh, cheeky now, is he?"
The woman touched the warden's arm. She was in her thirties, a fresh-complexioned lady
with light brown hair and soft hazel eyes.
"I'm afraid we've brought you some rather bad news, William," she said. "It concerns your
mother."
He looked at her, startled.
"She wants me back?"
"No."
He smiled with relief. She paused.
"William." She hesitated. "I'm afraid your mother is dead. She committed suicide."
He looked blankly at her. "I don't get you."
"She killed herself."
Will gazed at her in stunned disbelief.
"Killed herself? But ... but why?"
"I don't know. I suppose she just didn't want to live anymore."
How could anyone not want to live, thought Will, when there were so many things to live for?
There were rainy nights and wind and the slap of the sea and the moon. There were books to
read and pictures to paint and music.
"I'm from a children's home in Sussex," she explained. "It's an orphanage and it's right out in
the country. There are lots of children there and we usually find foster parents to take them
into their homes, young parents with children of their own." And. she smiled.
"What the lady is saying," said the policeman, "is that she's willin' to have you at the home."
Will thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked her straight in the eye.
"No," he said, somewhat shakily, "I'm not willin'. This is my home and I'm stayin' here."
"Now now, son," said the warden. "That ain't the way to talk. You don't have much choice in
the matter. Your Mr. Oakley has not been keepin' to the lor. Kidnappin's a serious offense."
Will took a deep breath.
"When you kidnap someone you usually want a ransom. There ent no one in the world who'd
pay a ransom for me"—and he glanced at Tom—"except Mister Tom perhaps, and he's the
one that's supposed to have kidnapped me. Well, I reckon I weren't kidnapped. I reckon I was
rescued."
"Oh you do, do you?" said the Warden.
"Yes," reiterated Will, "I do."
And then, as if he was no longer in the room, the policeman, the warden and the woman
began to discuss him. Will and Tom just looked at each other, and all the while the middleaged
man in the pullover and corduroys sat by the stove smoking a pipe and silently observed
them.
"Will," said the policeman, "we'd like you to go up to your room for a while until we make up
our minds."
Will glanced at Tom. Tom nodded and handed Sammy over to him.
"Here, boy," he said gently. "Let him keep you company, like."
Will trailed mournfully to the door and whirled round in a great surge of anger.
"I won't go with you," he stated firmly. "Even if you tie me up and put me in prison, I'll run
away and come back here." With that he slammed the door behind him and stood in the
hallway trembling. Clutching Sammy in his arms, he clambered up the ladder to his room. He
sat on his bed in the dark feeling both furious and helpless.
"I won't go," he whispered to Sammy. "I won't go. I'll run away. Yeh! That's what I'll do. I
can't go to Zach's, though," he muttered. "That's the first place they'd think of lookin', nor the
twins, nor George. I've got to find someone else who'd hide me. Someone they won't think
of." He racked his brain frantically, going methodically through the people in the village.
"Of course!" he cried. "That's who! Lucy! She'd hide me. She'd hide me fer blimmin' years.
She thinks the sunlight shines out me bootlaces."
He could visualize her, all adoring, smuggling cups of tea and bread and dripping, to the
hayloft in the Padfields' barn.
"Sammy," he said urgently, "I'll have to leave you here, boy."
Slowly he eased open the trapdoor, only to catch sight of the policeman and the warden in the
hall.
"Dash it!" he muttered, closing the trap. "Too late!"
He clenched his fists angrily and braced himself for their approach. He was ready to fight
them now. He needn't have bothered, for he could hear them at the front door chatting quite
amicably. He pressed his ear to the floor but all he could make out was something about them
coming back with the papers.
The front door slammed and he heard Tom coming up the ladder.
"They's gone," he said, lifting up the trapdoor. "You can come down now."
He climbed down the steps with Sammy, who leaped immediately out of his arms and ran into
the front room to bark at the strangers. Will scowled and perched himself on the stool by the
stove.
"I ent goin' to apologize, like," he muttered.
Tom sat in the armchair. "I'm sorry about yer mother."
Will forgot his anger for a moment and caught Tom's eye.
"I dunno why she did it," he said, feeling totally bewildered. "Was it because of me and
Trudy?"
"Partly," said Tom, picking up his pipe and stuffing it with tobacco. "But it weren't your fault.
She was ill. She couldn't cope, see."
"What's goin' to happen to me, then?"
Tom looked up at him quickly.
"I'm adoptin' you."
"Wot!" exclaimed Will.
"You ent got no other relations, boy. The authorities have checked up on that, so I'm adoptin'
you. That man in the pullover and cordeeroys, he were one of them psychiatrists. He were a
bit different from that other one. Had a sense of humor. Anyway, he said that this were
obviously the best place for you and any fool could see that and the others agreed. They's
bringin' official forms and the like and are writin' reports on me. If all goes well, and I don't
see how it can't, you'll be my son.
"Your son!" cried Will jumping off the stool. "You mean, you'll be my father, like?"
Tom nodded.
"I s'pose I will."
In an instant it suddenly dawned on him that Will would be growing up with him. With a
great yell of joy he leaped up from the armchair.
Will threw his arms around him and together they danced and cavorted across the room
shouting and yelling, while Sammy whirled around their ankles chasing his tail and barking in
lunatic fashion.
Back to School
On Thursday morning Will rose earlier than usual. He met Zach outside the Littles' and
together they headed for the twins' cottage. Ginnie answered the door in her nightdress and
dressing gown. George was already in the kitchen looking very sleepy eyed.
"Come on, Carrie," called out Mrs. Thatcher up the stairs. "Or you'll be late."
Zach stood at the foot of the narrow stairway.
"I say," he exclaimed as she appeared on the tiny landing. "You look magnificent."
She glanced shyly at him and came down the stairs. She was wearing a navy jumper, a creamcoloured
blouse and a navy tie with a wide green and narrow red stripe. On her feet were
fawn woolen socks and a pair of brown lace-up shoes.
"It feels ever so strange wearing a tie," she remarked, tugging at it. "Dad showed me how to
do it, like."
Her father came out of the kitchen and gazed proudly at her. Mrs. Thatcher was still none too
keen on Carrie going to the high school, but Mr. Thatcher was backing her all the way and
had even done some extra laboring so that she could have a new uniform.
"She's worked hard for it," he had said. "She ent goin' to start with no hand-me-downs. She's
goin' to start proper."
They heard a car drawing up outside.
Carrie blushed with excitement.
"That'll be Mr. Fergus," she exclaimed.
Her mother handed her a wide-brimmed felt hat to put on and a rather large navy blazer with
narrow green braiding around it. Her ginger hair, which was still fought into two plaits, stood
out starkly against the navy. She picked up a shiny leather satchel which was empty save for
her lunch. The straps and buckles jangled in their newness.
"Don't expect too much on yer first day," commented her father.
"Good luck," said Zach warmly. "I'll see you when you come back."
"You look real fine," added Will. "Real fine."
Carrie smiled nervously and ran outside to where the car was waiting. She opened the door
and sat next to Mr. Fergus, leaving the others standing outside the cottage, where they waved
to her until the car had driven out of sight.
Ginnie gave a shiver.
"You'd best get dressed," said her mother. She turned to the boys. "You wouldn't say no to tea
and some bread and drippin', would you?"
They grinned and followed her into the kitchen. Mr. Thatcher was closing his lunch tin and
filling up a small tin jug with tea.
After they had eaten, Will and Zach left together and headed for the woods. There was still
plenty of time before school started. The early-morning air was clear and crisp and all the
fields and hedgerows were covered with a layer of sparkling dew. The sun filtered through the
trees so that Will and Zach were constantly moving into patches of gloom and out into sudden
patches of sunlight. They reached the small river and listened to it gently rippling past them.
Zach leaned on one leg, as was his habit, and with his hands deep in his pockets he stared
anxiously into the water.
"I think war has started properly now," he muttered.
"But the Nazis won't bomb here," replied Will. "Will they? Mister Tom says he doesn't think
they'd bother."
Zach gave a sigh.
"It's my parents I'm worried about. I know they're busy, but I wish they'd write or phone more
often so I'd know they're all right. Last night, on the wireless, they said there was more heavy
bombing."
"Couldn't they stay here?"
Zach shook his head.
"Father says if he can't fight for England he wants to help entertain the fighters and help
protect the families that are left. That's why he joined the A.F.S."
"A.F.S.?"
"Auxiliary Fire Service. Mother feels the same." He slammed a fist into the open palm of his
hand. "I wish I could visit them just to see if they're safe."
"There might be a letter waiting fer you now," said Will encouragingly.
"I doubt it."
They stared up through the colorfully clad branches. The sun spread through them like a
warm X ray lighting the thin skeletal lines in each leaf.
Will and Zach chatted quietly, absorbing the peace of the river, and then turned back to the
village.
They dropped by at the Littles' to see if there had been any post but there was none. Zach
walked towards the graveyard cottage with Will and they took Sammy out for a romp in the
fields. By the time school had started, it felt late enough to be the afternoon.
To their surprise and delight, sitting next to Miss Thorne at the front of the class was Geoffrey
Sanderton.
"Mr. Sanderton and I have decided to choose a nature project," began Miss Thorne. "This
means that we shall be going on expeditions which you will plan. We would also like some of
you to write and illustrate a nature diary."
Zach looked a little disappointed.
"In addition to the project we shall be reading some of the nature poets—William
Wordsworth, for example, and some of Shakespeare's sonnets."
At this Zach beamed.
"I thought it would be rather a good idea," added Geoffrey, "that, as we have to be careful
with the amount of paint we use, we could create pictures using different-colored leaves and
bark and anything interesting that you can find, and it might be fun too if we made up short
poems to go with them."
"Perhaps an epic saga based on some expedition," said Miss Thorne, gazing directly at Zach.
"And George," she remarked, looking up at him, "you will be in charge of some of the nature
trails we shall take. Now are there any . . ."
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Geoffrey opened it. Zach looked towards the
hallway and was surprised to see Aunt Nance. Miss Thorne disappeared into the hallway with
her and returned shortly. She glanced at Zach.
"You're to go home," she said gently.
Zach felt very hot and a little sick. He rose quietly from his desk and left the classroom. Will
listened to his footsteps fade away down the hallway. He glanced up at Miss Thorne, who
caught his eye and quickly turned away.
"Right," she said briskly, facing the class. "Let's see how your spelling has deteriorated over
the summer holidays."
The remainder of the morning was taken up with arithmetic, sharing out books and planning
the first "expedition," but Will's heart was elsewhere. As soon as it was lunch he ran to the
Littles' and knocked on the back door.
"Come in, Will," said Mrs. Little, opening it. "Zach will be pleased to see you. He's upstairs
packing."
"Packing?" gasped Will. "Why? What's wrong?"
"His father has been badly injured. One of the large warehouses by the docks caught fire and
he was buried under fallen timber for several hours. He's in a hospital in London."
Will ran upstairs and found Zach kneeling over a small, battered case. He was holding a
photograph of his father. He looked up at Will. His eyes were pink and swollen.
"I'm catching the Friday train to London," he said, his voice quivering. "Mother doesn't want
me to, but I begged her to let me. I have to see him in case . . ." and he became hoarse and
stifled a sob. "In case I never see him again."
Will squatted down beside him.
"I want you to take care of this," Zach said, handing him his old tattered copy of
Shakespeare's works. "It was my great-grandfather's."
"Oh, Zach," protested Will, but Zach's pained expression prevented him from refusing. He
took the book and smoothed the leather covers with his hand.
"I'll look after it real fine."
They spent a miserable afternoon together. Ginnie and George called round after lunch and
Carrie rushed in later, for a few brief moments before having to fly home to do her
homework. It was a wretched time for Zach, as he wanted to leave immediately. All the
waiting only increased his feelings of frustration and helplessness.
The Littles drove him to the station in Weirwold the following morning. His mother had said
that whatever happened he was to stay in London only for the weekend. She didn't want him
to be injured as well, and she knew that his father would have felt the same way.
The day after Zach's sudden departure was Will's tenth birthday, Saturday, September 7th,
1940.
Will spent the morning at the Hartridges' and Padfields' cottages. In the afternoon he and Tom
decorated the living room. Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Thatcher arrived armed with home-baked
cakes and biscuits while Aunt Nance brought homemade ginger beer and a parcel that Zach
had left for him. By late afternoon the cottage was filled with children, with Tom, Ginnie and
George leading the games. The high spot of the party, however, was when everyone swarmed
round the cottage screaming hysterically and hiding from Tom, who was chasing them and
pretending to be a monster at the same time. They played musical chairs and pass the parcel,
ate doughnuts with their hands tied behind their backs, passed oranges to each other under
their chins and, of course, ate.
Will left Zach's parcel unopened until the last person had gone home and he and Tom had sat
down to relax with a cup of tea. The table was already littered with books, candy and pots of
paint. He picked up Zach's parcel and began to unwrap it.
Inside was part one of an epic adventure called The Villainous Doctor Horror. At the bottom
was a little postscript. It read "P.S. Part two will be written on my return."
In addition to the poem were two new paintbrushes, a secondhand book on painters, and a
lopsided sketch of Will in an artist's beret and smock. It showed him standing at an easel. The
canvas on the easel was empty but Will himself was covered with paint.
"I shall put that on my wall," said Will half to himself and half to Tom.
At eight o'clock they listened intently to the news on the wireless.
It was reported that flares had been dropped all over London and hundreds of German planes
had been spotted. Spitfires and Hurricanes had soared up into the skies to fight them. It was
one of the longest massed raids that London was experiencing. While the news was being
read, heavy bombing was still continuing. "Hope Zach's all right," said Will, frowning.
Tom puffed at his pipe. "He's so skinny, a bomb would probably skip past him."
"I hope so."
The next day, for the first time in weeks, it rained. Will woke to the sound of it scuttling down
the roof and bouncing off his open window. He washed and dressed quickly. Tom was
already in the church organizing extra seating arrangements, for it was to be a national day of
prayer.
At ten A.M. the villagers were shocked by a special news bulletin on the wireless.
"It is estimated," said the announcer, "that four hundred people at least were killed in the first
few hours of air attacks. Fourteen hundred are believed to be seriously injured. London's
Dockland is on fire and many homes in the East End have been blitzed to the ground."
The Littles still hadn't heard from Zach or his mother, and Will grew steadily more anxious.
He woke in the early hours of Monday morning from a nightmare of amputation units, people
with their heads blown off, vans with DEAD ONLY written on them and disfigured
bloodstained people wandering and screaming through dense rubble.
He and Tom switched on the wireless for any early-morning news flashes. According to
recent reports there had been continual bombing throughout the night, and fires were burning
all over London. Becton gasworks had been hit. Moorgate lay in smoky ruins. Balham had
been badly smashed. Bombs had fallen on one of the platforms on Victoria Station and on the
outskirts of Windsor Castle. The news was devastating.
Will hurried on to school and spent the morning outside, gardening. He joined George,
Ginnie, Lucy and Grace on a blackberrying expedition in the afternoon, and returned at dusk,
flushed and happily tired, only to hear that Dover was being bombed.
The following morning he awoke to the sounds of voices downstairs. It was odd to have
visitors so early unless, of course, he had overslept. He rose quickly and clattered down the
ladder. As he approached the front room, he recognized the voices—they were the Littles'.
His heart gave a lift. Perhaps they had news of Zach. He strode in excitedly and they turned to
face him. Dr. Little looked grave and Aunt Nance had been crying. They didn't need to say
anything. He knew Zach was dead. In one black moment he felt his legs buckling up
underneath him and he collapsed into unconsciousness.
Grieving
In the weeks that followed the news of Zach's death, Will survived each day in a zombielike
daze. Outwardly he went on as normal, helping Tom, and catching up with schoolwork.
Inwardly he felt too numb even to cry. He avoided the Littles' cottage as much as possible and
chose to walk to the school or shop by the church and cottages. At school, finding it painful to
sit next to an empty chair, he would scatter papers untidily over the two desks in an effort to
hide Zach's absence.
Miss Thorne asked him to be in the Christmas play and, although he agreed and took part in
rehearsals, the whole procedure felt very unreal to him. Miss Thorne was pleased with him
but he felt as if his body and voice were totally expressionless.
Even in drawing and painting classes he would sit and look blankly at the empty page in front
of him, devoid of ideas. His private classes with Geoffrey Sanderton were just as bad.
"I ent got anythin' left inside me," he would say repeatedly, for he felt that half of himself had
been cut away, that life without Zach was only half a life and even that half was empty.
Most of the time Geoffrey set him still-life pictures to draw, so that for several hours Will
could forget the dull pain that gnawed his insides and concentrate on the shapes in a bowl of
fruit, the color of a flower or the shades of light that fell on a bottle and boot. But always,
when he left Spooky Cott, the same dead feeling sank into him and all his activities seemed
meaningless.
Four months passed. Christmas saw heavy rationing but Will didn't notice, for it still seemed a
very rich one to him. He and Tom made toys with scraps of wood and paints, and Ginnie and
George came round to help. Since September and the continual blitzing of London that
followed, the number of evacuees that came flooding into the village grew weekly. Many had
no homes in London to return to. At Christmas several parents came to Little Weirwold to
share in the festivities with their children. Tom and Will decided to make toys for those who
had lost parents and for the many who were so poor that they wouldn't have had presents
anyway. Will welcomed the opportunity of doing anything that would take his mind off Zach.
He still tended not to talk very much, and apart from when he was rehearsing, he would
withdraw into his numb little shell. Tom continued as normal, waiting for the moment when
Will would finally accept and mourn his friend's death.
Carrie had completed her first term at the high school. She arrived home long after dark, and
after tea she would immediately begin her homework, then go to bed, rising early in the
morning to learn Latin declensions or French verbs before leaving again for school. The
weekends and Christmas holidays were the only times anyone saw very much of her. She
missed Zach dreadfully, for he was one of the few people with whom she didn't feel such an
odd fish. She didn't dare let her parents know of the unpleasanter aspects of high-school life,
as her mother still didn't approve of her going and her father had worked so hard for her
uniform and sports clothes. For that she would be eternally grateful, for it made some of her
difficulties easier to bear. Her main embarrassment was her accent. Most of the girls in the
school spoke a different kind of English, a posh B.B.C. English like Zach. Their parents paid
fees whereas she was a poor scholarship girl, with an accent that many of the girls either
ridiculed or could not understand. Ginnie had said that she was beginning to talk more la-dida
and her mother was constantly telling her not to let "that school" go to her head. She didn't
put on a different way of talking intentionally, it was just that all day she was mixing with
teachers and girls who spoke differently from the people in Little Weirwold. She was
beginning to feel that she fitted into neither Little Weirwold nor the girls' high. She was
grateful that there was so much schoolwork for her to do, and her loneliness acted as an
incentive to work harder.
She called in on Will several times, but as soon as she mentioned Zach he would always
abruptly change the subject. This added to her loneliness, for she dearly wanted to talk about
him to someone.
One chill afternoon in January, however, an unforeseen event caused Will finally to accept
Zach's death. It was a bitter raw day and, although Will was wearing a heavy overcoat, scarf
and balaclava, the frost penetrated into his very bones. He let the graveyard gate clang noisily
behind him and set off towards Spooky Cott, taking as usual the route around the fields on the
Grange side. He always avoided retracing the way he and Zach had taken on their last
morning together.
It seemed as if the ground itself had frozen. The hard furrows in the fields were as immobile
as waves of corrugated iron, and the few surviving tufts of grass that remained crackled as his
boots hit the hoarfrost that coated them. Eventually he came to the gap in the hedge, which
served as Geoffrey Sanderton's gate. He crunched his way up the tangled garden and knocked
on the door.
He glanced round at the trees, which were now quite naked and thin, and blew into his hands,
stamping his feet into some semblance of life. He was just thinking how vulnerable the trees
appeared with Geoffrey opened the door.
"Hello," he said cheerily. "I've just put the kettle on. Sling your coat on an armchair and make
yourself warm."
Will gladly divested himself of his heavy winter garments and curled himself up at the foot of
an armchair by the hearth.
"Get those fingers loosened up first," yelled Geoffrey from the kitchen. "Don't go sticking
them straight out in front of the fire."
But Will didn't need telling. He remembered last winter, when he had held his frozen hands
above the stove and how painful the sudden transition from cold to hot had been. Geoffrey
came hobbling in, carrying a large pot of tea. Since having a wooden leg he had dispensed
with his crutches completely and now used a magnificent ebony walking stick that Emilia
Thorne had given him. It was silver topped, with strange ornate designs carved around the
knob.
The cottage had changed radically since Will's first visit. Geoffrey and Emilia Thorne had
taken an instant liking to each other, and between the two of them they had cleaned and
painted the walls, adding shelves, bits of furniture and potted plants on the way.
"What have you brought me to see?" asked Geoffrey, as they sat down by the fire.
Will glanced shamefacedly down at the rug. He undid a cardboard folder and produced a
drawing of a chewed-up bone in one of Tom's slippers. Geoffrey examined it intently. Will
avoided his eyes.
After they had drunk their tea Geoffrey put the teapot on the mantelpiece above the fire.
Beside it, he placed a photograph of two young men with their arms around each other. They
seemed to be laughing a great deal. In front of the teapot he laid his pipe.
"Those are your subjects for this afternoon."
Will recognized one of the young men as Geoffrey.
"Who's the other man?" he asked. "Is he your brother?"
"Best friend," he replied. "Killed in action. Very talented. A brilliant sculptor."
"Oh," said Will quietly.
"That's his pipe, actually."
"You use his pipe?"
"Yes. I know he would have wanted me to have it. It makes him still a little alive for me
whenever I smoke it. Do you understand?"
Will didn't, nor did he wish to. It was bad enough possessing Zach's old Shakespeare. He had
wrapped it up and given it to Tom to put away in his cupboard together with the cartoon
picture that Zach had drawn of him.
He sat down immediately to work. Usually he could immerse himself totally in the objects he
was drawing, but every time he caught sight of the laughing young man in the photograph,
and the pipe, it disturbed him. They no longer seemed inanimate objects. They were alive. He
began to wonder if the two men had even drunk tea together out of the same teapot.
He attempted to draw steadily but found his hand trembling. Suddenly he saw Zach on his
colorful bicycle, singing and lifting his arms high into the air yelling, "Look, no hands," and
falling straight into a hedge, and he remembered his scratched face grinning up at him. He sat
for three hours at the drawing and spent most of the time gazing morbidly through the
window watching the sky grow darker. Geoffrey put the blacks up and lit the gas lamp.
"Time to stop," he said, and he peered over Will's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," mumbled Will. "I don't seem to be able to . . ." His voice trailed into silence.
"Sit down by the fire and I'll toast us some muffins."
Will cheered up a little at this. He curled up in the armchair.
While Will was gazing dreamily into the fire he heard a click. Geoffrey had opened the
gramophone and was winding it up.
"What are you doing?"
"Putting on some music."
The record made its swishing sound as the needle circled around its dark edge, and then the
music started. It was the same that he and Zach had listened to, when they had sat amongst
the chaos and candles, the day they had first come to the cottage.
Will wanted Geoffrey to take it off. But he couldn't bear to speak or look at him lest he break
down, so he returned to staring at the fire. As he did so he suddenly felt that it was not just he
who was gazing into the flames—it was both he and Zach. He could feel Zach sitting beside
him, bursting with excitement and desperately wanting to move with the music, while he was
happy just to listen. It was an unnerving feeling. He caught sight of the photograph on the
mantelpiece and it reminded him of a snapshot that Mrs. Clarence had taken of him and Zach
in Salt-on-the-Mouth.
As soon as the record had come to an end and the needle swung indolently and repeatedly in
the center of it, he pushed himself firmly to his feet and grabbed his balaclava and coat.
"I must leave, get back," he choked out hoarsely.
Geoffrey nodded and showed him to the door. He squeezed Will's shoulder gently.
"Better to accept than pretend that he never existed," he said quietly.
Will didn't want to hear. His eyes were blurred and his body hurt all over. He stumbled into
the darkness, and instead of leaving through the gap in the hedge he found himself free of it
and headed blindly in the direction of the woods and river.
Tripping and falling over the roots of trees, he scratched his face against unseen branches. A
disturbed owl screeched loudly and flew above his head, but he hardly heard it. At last he
reached the river. He stood by it staring at its glassy surface, his chest and shoulders
pounding, his gut aching. He felt again Zach's presence next to him, felt him staring up at the
starry night and coming out with some strange fragment of poetry.
"No, no," he whispered, shaking his head wildly. "No, no. You're not here. You'll never be
here." With one angry sob he picked up a dead branch and struck it against a tree trunk until it
shattered. Wildly he picked up any other branches he could find and smashed them, hurling
the broken bits into the river, not caring if he hurt any animals that might be hibernating
nearby, for he felt so racked with pain that he no longer cared about anything else but the tight
knot that seemed to pierce the very center of him. He was angry that Zach had died. Angry
with him for going away and leaving him.
With an almighty force of venom he tore one tiny rotting tree up by its roots and pushed it to
the ground. Catching his breath for a moment, he stood up stiffly and looked up through the
branches of the trees.
"I hate you, God. I hate you. You hear me? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."
He stood yelling and screaming at the sky until he sank exhausted and sobbing on to the
ground.
He had no idea how long he had lain there asleep. It felt like a year. Slowly he crawled to his
feet, rigid and shivering. He hauled himself up the bank and stumbled through the woods.
Tom was waiting for him by the gate. He was about to give Will another five minutes before
heading out towards Spooky Cott when he heard light footsteps coming along the road. He
peered through the darkness and caught sight of a blond tuft of hair sticking out of Will's
balaclava. His face was covered with earth and tearstains and his lips and eyelids were
swollen and puffy.
"Come on in," he said, breaking the silence, and he put an arm round Will's shoulders as they
walked along the pathway to the cottage. Just as he was opening the front door Will turned
quickly.
"I'm sorry, Dad," he said. "I didn't think you'd be worried, like. I had to be on me own, see. I
had to. I forgot about you. I didn't think. Sorry."
"You're home now," said Tom. "You look fair whacked. You'd best get washed and go to
bed."
It wasn't until Will was asleep and Tom was lying in his own bed that he allowed the full
impact of Will's words to sink in.
"He called me Dad," he whispered croakily into the darkness. "He called me Dad." And,
although he felt overwhelmed with happiness, the tears ran silently down his face.
"Will!" cried Aunt Nance, opening the back door. She was speechless for a moment. "Come
in! Come in!"
Will stepped into the kitchen.
"Mulled wine?" she began, and then stopped herself. Mulled wine was Zach's nickname for
hot black-currant juice.
"Yeh. Please," answered Will, and he sat down and watched her making it.
"We've missed you coming round," she said, handing it to him and joining him at the table.
She lit half a cigarette lovingly as if it was the last one left in Great Britain, took a deep drag
and began coughing violently.
"I've left Zach's room as it was," she said, recovering.
Will nodded and blew into his drink.
"Dr. Little and myself, we didn't want to touch anything until you'd been, until you wanted us
to. All right?"
Will looked up and smiled. "Yeh."
"Good," and she sat back, feeling relieved.
"Can I ride his bike?"
Mrs. Little wasn't quite sure if she had heard correctly. "What?" she queried. "What did you
say?"
"Can I ride his bike?"
"Zach's?"
"Yes."
"If you want." She stared at him for a moment. "You'll probably have to lower the seat."
"Yeh. I know."
"I didn't know you could ride."
"I can't. Not yet. But I will."
"It's in the Anderson. It'll probably need oiling and pumping up."
"Has you got any oil?"
"Yes. And there's a pump attached to it."
She rose from the table and opened a door leading to a pantry. In a large box below the
bottom shelf was a collection of tools and string. She bent over it, moving the bits and pieces
from one side to another.
"Ah," she cried, waving a spanner in the air. "I'll lower the seat for you."
"No," said Will, rising to his feet. "I want to do it meself."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeh."
"I tell you what, you do the dirty work and I'll hold the bike steady for you."
He was about to refuse but changed his mind.
"Rightio," he said and then blushed, for that was one of Zach's expressions.
They dragged the bicycle out of the shelter and wiped the moistness off with an old dry rag,
oiled it and reset the back wheel, as it was leaning heavily against the frame. The chain, which
was loose, hung impotently against the pedals. Will took hold of it and placed it firmly and
gently back in place. One of the inner tubes had a hole in it. With the help of Aunt Nance and
Zach's puncture kit, he patched it up. He wiped the mudguards and scraped the rust away
from around the handlebars. It was a strange feeling working on the bicycle, like touching a
part of Zach.
He wheeled it round the cottage and through the long, overgrown grass. He was just
struggling with the gate when Mrs. Little came running after him, carrying a small canvas
shoulder bag of Zach's.
"I've made you a few jelly sandwiches," she gasped breathlessly, her thin chest heaving, "and
there's a bottle of ginger beer inside."
He gazed at the bag uncertainly. "Thanks," he said at last.
Taking the bag, he put it over his head so that it hung loosely and securely across his back.
Mrs. Little pulled at the gate to let him out and watched him wheel the bicycle down the lane.
As Will approached the cottages he could feel his ears burning. He turned left and avoided
looking around lest anyone notice him. He was playing truant from school, a thing he had
never done in his life. Unnoticed by him, Emilia Thorne was standing by the school window
and she observed him, saying nothing.
Will continued until he was well out of sight of the cottages, and when he had found a
reasonably smooth stretch of road he swung his leg over the saddle and sat still for a moment.
He placed the toe of his boot on one of the pedals. Gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath,
he pushed it down and wobbled forward. The bicycle curved and swooped into a nearby
hedge. He picked himself up and climbed back onto the seat. Again the bicycle skidded over
to one side, so that he grazed his knees on the rough road. Undaunted, he clambered back on
again; and each time he swerved and fell, he only grew more determined.
In spite of the hoarfrost that covered the hedgerows and surrounding fields, learning to ride
was hot work, and soon his overcoat was left dangling from the branch of a nearby tree.
At times he managed to keep the bicycle balanced for a few yards, only to swerve into another
clump of brambles or icy nettles. He could hear his dad's words over and over again inside his
head. "Takes yer time, everythin' 'as its own time." But whether it was because it was Zach's
bicycle or because the colors were so intense, he felt frustrated and impatient. He wanted to
learn now. When at last he managed to ride it for a reasonable distance, he rewarded himself
with Aunt Nance's black-currant-jelly sandwiches and the ginger beer. Perspiration trickled
down his face and into his shirt and jersey. Soon the crisp January air was freezing it into a
cold clammy sweat. He hung the bag on a branch and pushed the bicycle forward. The break
had been a good idea, for when he set off again it seemed easier, far less of a struggle.
Soon he began to grow confident. He put his coat back on, leaving it undone, and slung the
bag over his head and shoulder. He understood now why Zach loved riding so much. There
was a marvelous feeling of freedom once you'd got the hang of it.
As he rode, his coat flapping behind him, the crisp wind cooling his face, he suddenly felt that
Zach was no longer beside him, he was inside him and very much alive. The numbness in his
body had dissolved into exhilaration.
"Yippee. Callooh! Callay!" he yelled.
The bicycle shuddered over the small rough road, jangling his bones in such a way that he
wanted to laugh.
"Wizzo," he cried, steering the bright machine with a new dexterity round a corner. He
stopped abruptly. A steep hill had conquered his unused bicycle legs. He wheeled it up to the
brow. It was wonderful to stand at the top with the bicycle leaning gently against his body. He
looked down at the wide stretch of fields and woods and tiny icy streams. The sky was pale
and cloudless. A small patch of sunlight was working its way through the woodland's dark
branches. He breathed in deeply. "Zach isn't dead," he murmured. "Not really. Not the inside
of Zach." And he gazed happily down at the fields. "No one can take memories away, and I
can talk to him whenever I want."
He watched the sun gradually sinking into the roots of the trees.
"Now, Zach," he said out loud. "What shall I do now?"
"I should turn slowly and leisurely back," he replied to himself, "and pop in to see Annie
Hartridge."
"What a good idea," said Will.
"And oh, I say," continued the imaginary Zach. "Jolly well done. Learning to ride my bike."
And Will patted himself on the back.
He turned the bicycle and cycled back down the hill, controlling the fast decline with his
brakes. It was even more pleasurable to ride after his little sojourn on the hill. He was more
relaxed, more at peace with himself.
He was winding his way round a corner when he caught sight of Annie Hartridge's cottage.
He wheeled the bicycle to her front door and leaned it against the wall.
"I'll knock," said "Zach," and he took hold of the brass knocker and banged it vigorously
against the door.
Annie opened it, holding a telegram in her hands. She was crying.
"Oh hello, Will," she said, half laughing. "Come in, do come in." She closed the door behind
him. "I've just had the most wonderful news. Mr. Hartridge is alive. He's in a prisoner-of-war
camp in Germany. We can write to each other and I can send him Red Cross parcels, food
parcels. Oh Will!" she cried. "I'm so happy. I can't believe it. I want to write to him right
now."
She looked at Will's grubby face and followed his body down to his feet.
"What have you been doing? You're covered with grazes and scratches."
"I've been learning to ride Zach's bike," he said absently. Annie was speechless for a moment.
"Did you manage to stay on it?" she said at last.
"Eventually," he answered, plunging his hands into his shorts pocket and leaning on one leg.
"Why, you . . ." but she stopped. She was about to say that he looked and sounded a little like
Zach. He had an extrovert air about him that was unusual in Will.
During the weeks that followed the bicycle-riding incident everyone noticed a dramatic
change in Will, especially Emilia Thorne. She had decided to do her own version of Peter
Pan. She cast Will to play Peter Pan, but to her surprise he stood up in the hall and in front of
everyone said, "I'd like to play Captain Hook. May I?"
Miss Thorne had been a little taken aback. Captain Hook was a comic, flamboyant role.
"Let's try you out," she said, after recovering her breath.
Will surprised her and everyone in rehearsals. Unbeknownst to the others, while working on
his lines up in his room he would place a cushion in front of himself and say, "Zach, how do
you think I should say this line?" or "How do you think Hook's feelin' in this bit, when the
crocodile appears for the third time?"
Then he would sit on the cushion and not only answer his questions as Zach but even deliver
the lines as him.
The play was a great success. Will had people laughing helplessly at his angry Hook outbursts
of temper and his cowardly flights from the crocodile. It was so obvious that the audience
loved Will that when several of the children pushed him forward to take a separate bow, the
hall erupted into cheers.
Tom was terribly proud of him, but then he had been for a long time. He met him outside the
tiny back door which led to the communal dressing room behind the stage, and they walked
home chatting in animated tones all the way back to their graveyard cottage.
As Will lay back in his bed that night he felt a little sad, in spite of all the applause. He was
sad that Zach hadn't been there to share it. He realized now that the Zach he had been talking
to for the last weeks was a person created from his own imagination and a handful of
memories. It was just that the Zach part of himself, the outgoing, cheeky part of himself, had
been buried inside him, and it was his friendship with Zach that had brought those qualities to
the surface.
He snuggled down deep into the blankets and was just about to fall asleep when he gave a
sudden start.
I'm not half a person anymore, he thought. I'm a whole one. I can live without Zach even
though I still miss him.
He turned over and listened to the wind howling through the graveyard. He was warm and
happy. He sighed. It was good to be alive.
Postscript
Squatting down with a trowel in his hand, Will surveyed what was now the garden. Since the
Dig for Victory campaign, he and Tom had pulled up all the flowers and had been planting
vegetables in every available space. It was a shame really. The flowers had looked so colorful.
All that remained now were neat brown rows with tufts of greenery sticking out of them.
He pushed the sleeves of his jersey up. He was wearing Zach's old red one with the hundred
darns. Sticking the trowel firmly into the earth, he began to dig a small trench. As he loosened
the earth, several startled worms slithered away. He watched their gleaming bodies heading
for the cabbage patch.
Will sat back on his heels and took a handful of seeds from a paper bag. Picking them
tenderly one by one, he placed them in the trench. He was so absorbed in his task that he was
oblivious to footsteps approaching the gate. He heard it clanging as it bounced to a close and
looked up. It was Carrie. She was running down the pathway, her face flushed.
"Did you get them?" she panted.
He nodded. "They's in my room. You want them now?"
She glanced down at his earth-stained hands. "I could go and get them myself. You going to
be long with that?"
"Just got two more rows. Then I'm finished."
"Can we go down the river?"
Will looked surprised. "Ent you got no more chores?"
She shook her head and grinned. "I climbed out the window. It was the only way. As soon as I
finish one job she finds me another one. If she sees me with so much as my fingers on a book
she jes' gets hoppin' mad."
"I thought she was better now."
"She is, but she still thinks readin' is being idle."
She squatted down beside him and stared intently into his eyes.
"If I don't read a book soon I think I'll explode."
Will laughed. "Well, don't do it over me plantin'."
"Have you another trowel? I could give you a hand, then we could clear off quick. If she finds
me here I'll have to go back home."
"No, I don't. Look, you go up to my room. If she comes round she'll see I'm on me own. We
can go up to the river on the tandem. I'll lower the other seat."
Carrie's eyes sparkled. "Wizard!" and she sprang to her feet and made towards the cottage.
"Oh," she cried despondently, swinging round. "How can I ride, wearing this?" and she
tugged at the pale green woolen dress she was wearing. "Won't the crossbar make it go up?"
Will frowned for an instant and then hit on an idea.
"You can wear a pair of my shorts!"
Carrie looked doubtful. Will was a head smaller than her.
"Or Zach's, they'd fit you."
"I daren't," she said, feeling quite excited at the prospect. She'd been asking her mother for
ages if she could wear shorts, but had been told that she'd turn into a boy if she did and no
man would want to marry her. Her father had said it was all right by him, but he had already
let her have her own way about the high school and didn't want to cause any more friction.
"Why not?" said Will.
"You don't think I'll turn into a boy if I wear them?"
Will looked up at her. Her hair stuck out in little wispy curls round her forehead and ears.
Two pale-green oval eyes stared down at him above permanently freckled cheeks.
"Carrie, you don't look anythin' like a boy and who cares if you do?"
"Yes. Anyway," she said, suddenly feeling appalled at the thought, "I don't want to get
married. Imagine having to do housework all the time, every day. Yuk!"And with that she
turned and ran into the cottage.
Will found her sprawled across his bed engrossed in a book. She jumped, raised her eyes
guiltily and slammed the covers automatically to a close. She laughed.
"I thought you were Mum!"
Will strode across to a box in the corner where several of Zach's old clothes were folded
neatly inside. He lifted up a pair of red corduroy shorts with patches on the seat and found a
green pair underneath that were less threadbare.
"Catch," he said, throwing them at her and flinging a pair of braces onto the bed.
"I'll have to wear a shirt," she added, joining him at the box. She found a white baggy cotton
one and pulled it out.
"You better wear this, too," and he picked up Zach's Joseph jersey.
"Oh, I couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's special, isn't it?"
"Zach would be jolly pleased if you wore it. You know he would."
She nodded and felt tears coming to her eyes. Will looked concerned.
"It's all right," she said hastily. "I'm not going to blubber." She picked up the shorts and put
them on. "They fit almost perfect." She tugged at the waist. "They're a bit baggy here, but the
braces'll keep them up." She unbuttoned her dress, stepped out of it and slipped her petticoat
off over her head. Will buttoned the braces onto the shorts. He was surprised to see two tiny
swollen lumps protruding gently outwards from underneath her undershirt. He wanted to
reach out and touch her arms but stepped back quickly.
"There," he said, and he found himself laughing excitedly for no reason whatever.
Carrie pulled the shirt over her head and tucked it into the shorts, raising the braces up over
her shoulders. Lifting up her arms and legs, she cavorted around the room.
"They feel so comfortable," she said, bouncing on the end of the bed.
Will produced four books from out of his haversack.
"That's where they were!" she cried.
"I couldn't get We Didn't Mean to Go to Sea, but I've got it reserved for you. So I got you this
one instead."
She took it from his hands.
"At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald. Never heard of it." She flicked over
the pages and began reading chapter one. "It looks all right. You got the others, did you?"
"Yeh. Here," he replied, handing them to her. "A Little Princess, David Copperfield and Black
Beauty."
"Wizzo!"
"Don't start readin' them now or we'll never get down to the river."
Carrie looked disappointed.
"Well, bring one and I'll take my sketch pad." He emptied the haversack and shoved the pad
and a piece of tarpaulin in. Carrie was chewing over which book to take. She chose At the
Back of the North Wind. She put Zach's Joseph jersey on and Will slung the haversack onto
his back.
"I'll go down first. See if the coast is clear," he whispered.
Carrie felt a sudden urge to giggle. She placed her hand firmly over her mouth and crouched
over the open trapdoor, while Will slipped quickly down the steps and out the back door. He
reappeared soon after.
"Drat it!" he murmured. "I'll need you to hold the bike steady while I lower the seat."
Carrie crept down and followed him out into the back garden. She held the tandem firmly
while Will twiddled away with the spanner. She began to grow anxious and her forehead felt
hot. It would be rotten if her mother caught her now.
"There," he said, surveying the seat. He put the spanner in the saddlebag. "Now let's wheel
her."
They pushed the tandem out through the back gate and turned right twice so that they were
beside the graveyard wall. Will grinned back at Carrie, who was by the rear seat. He motioned
her to the ground. Crouching down, they maneuvered themselves unseen to any possible eyes
towards the open road. He beckoned her up.
"Get on quick," he urged.
"If anyone sees me now," she giggled, "it'll be all over the village in no time," and she flung
her leg over the bar and sat down, her feet comfortably resting on the pedals. Will followed
suit and pushed off.
They cycled on, seeing no one, until they reached Annie Hartridge's cottage. She was in the
front garden with the baby. She stared at Carrie in amazement and they left her openmouthed
as they sped, shrieking with laughter, up the road.
They stopped by a hedge near the woods and pushed the bike through a gap and down a small
slope.
"We can leave it here," said Will, leaning it up against a large oak. "No one'll see it."
They ran silently and swiftly in and out through the trees, hiding behind them in case anyone
else was in the woods. When they finally reached the river they burst into hysterical laughter.
"You should have seen her face," spluttered Carrie.
Will immediately held his haversack as if it was a baby and did an imitation of Annie
Hartridge watching them cycle by. Carrie clutched at her stomach and laughed helplessly.
"No, stop it!" she cried. "I'll wet my pants if you don't."
"You mean Zach's pants," he added.
"Please, please . . ." she begged, and she crossed her legs and tried to think of disasters in an
effort to control herself. Will collapsed onto the ground and leaned against a tree. He stared
across at the river, panting. Carrie calmed down and joined him.
"Here," he said, pulling the raggedy tarpaulin from his haversack, "you sit on this." He spread
it out at the foot of the tree.
"Where are you going?" she asked when Will left her sitting on it.
"Only over here. I'm going to draw you."
She picked up her book and propped it up open on her bent knees. Raising her eyes for a
moment, she gazed at the bubbling spring river and glanced at Will. He was sitting crosslegged
on his haversack several yards away, his sketch pad already open. He looked up and
smiled.
"Don't it make you feel strange, me wearing Zach's clothes?"
He shook his head. "I'm wearing one of his jerseys."
"Yes, I know, but . . ." Her voice drifted away. "I've never worn a dead person's clothes
before. I should feel horrid, shouldn't I? But I don't. I feel good." She sighed and let her body
sink into the tree trunk. "I wish the holidays could be like this all the time," she murmured.
"Mum's been so horrid."
"Is she the same with Ginnie?"
"Ginnie likes housework! She doesn't complain. She says the more she learns now, the better
wife she'll be when she's older. Anyway, Mum gives me extra to make up for the term. She
says learnin' and doing homework isn't work. And she says I'm getting stuck up. Do you think
I am?"
"No."
She stared back at the river. Will put down his sketch pad.
"Are you still unhappy at the high?"
"It's gettin' better now. I came fifth in the end-of-term tests."
"I know. You told me."
"Did I?"
He nodded.
"It's jes' that it's important. They were really shocked. They think because I talk countrified I
must be stupid. Did I tell you, one of the girls came up and started talking to me real friendly,
like, on the last day of term."
"No."
"Yes. She said I weren't to take any notice of the other girls. That I was a lot cleverer than
most of them."
Will stared at her.
"What's the matter?"
"You talk different now."
Carrie looked crestfallen.
"You sound a bit like Zach."
Her face brightened. "That's all right, then."
"Are you going to read your book? I want to draw."
She nodded and happily sank herself into chapter one.
Will began sketching her face. The he sketched her body, her foot, her hands holding the
book, her knee; and as he did so he was filled with an intense joy. Carrie was lost in a North
Wind world, eagerly devouring each page. Neither of them noticed the time passing until they
discovered that they were screwing their eyes up in order to see.
"Crumbs," said Carrie, startled. "I'd better get home."
Will packed up the haversack and they ran through the woods and up the slope towards the
tandem. They squeezed it through the hedge and clambered back onto it. The blackouts were
already up on Annie Hartridge's windows. They sped past and dismounted at the graveyard
wall. Crawling swiftly beside it, they turned the corner and ran with the bike along the road
and through the gate. Will opened the back door and peered in.
"Run," he whispered urgently to Carrie, and he beckoned her in and cautiously closed the
door behind them. He heard Sammy barking in the living room.
"Drat!" he murmured.
Carrie scrambled up the steps and flung herself through the open trapdoor, Will following
close behind.
He found her fumbling in the half light for her dress. She tore off Zach's clothes and danced
around in her undershirt and pants, too absorbed in getting into her petticoat and dress to feel
embarrassed. Will felt surprised that he wasn't embarrassed either. They climbed down the
ladder and tiptoed quickly out through the back door into the garden.
"Made it," she said.
"You forgot the other books," said Will, noticing that she still had only the one she was
reading.
"I'll sneak the others in one by one. I'll stuff this one down my knickers in case I'm caught. I
don't know when I'll see you next. I'll probably be kept in for a week now," she added grimly.
"Still," she said, smiling, "it was worth it."
Will walked with her as far as Dobbs's field. They stood quietly for a moment and drank in
the evening.
"Looks like it's going to be a good spring," said Carrie, breaking the silence, and she pointed
to a cluster of small swollen buds on the branches of a nearby tree hanging silhouetted against
the sky.
"Do you think," said Will, gazing over the wall at the oak tree, "do you think you can die of
happiness?"
Carrie looked at him, puzzled.
"It's jes' that I feel as if I'm going to burst, and that if I did, there'd be bits of me all over this
field."
She laughed, and after they had parted at the gate by the arched lane Will returned to the
cottage. He pumped water into a large tin jug and carried it past the long, deserted Anderson
and through the back door into the hallway. As he hung his cap up he became conscious that
his peg felt lower than usual.
"I used to stretch up to that," he muttered to himself.
He picked up the jug of water and carried it into the living room. Sammy leaped around his
ankles, vying for attention. Will put the jug on the floor and squatted down to stroke him.
"How strange," he thought out loud, looking at Sammy's face, "to think that I was once
terrified of you."
Tom was sitting in the armchair looking at the wireless program in the newspaper. The kettle
was steaming on the stove. Will picked it up with a cloth and poured a little into a teapot.
After he had swirled it around to warm up the pot, he poured it away and added some tea and
more water. He allowed it to stew for a while before pouring it into two cups. Sammy flopped
down by the pouffe and Will plonked himself down beside him.
"Anythin' good on?"
Tom folded up the paper.
"Not really. It's all music for the Forces." And he picked up his pipe from the little table and
began stuffing it with tobacco.
As with the sudden discovery of the lowness of his peg, Will noticed now how old and
vulnerable Tom looked. It unnerved him at first, for he had always thought of him as being
strong. He watched him puffing away at his pipe, poking the newly lit tobacco down with the
end of a match.
Will swallowed a few mouthfuls of tea and put some fresh coke on the stove fire. As he
observed it tumbling and falling between the wood and hot coke, it occurred to him that
strength was quite different from toughness, and that being vulnerable wasn't the same as
being weak.
He looked up at Tom and leaned forward in his direction.
"Dad," he ventured.
"Yes," answered Tom, putting down his library book. "What is it?"
"Dad," repeated Will, in a surprised tone, "I'm growing!"
The End
