Goodnight Mister Tom Read online

  To my father

  Some reviews of

  Goodnight Mister Tom

  ‘A brilliant story of how love defeats fear’

  – Independent

  ‘Everyone’s idea of a smash-hit first novel: full-blown characters to love and hate, moments of grief and joy, and a marvellous story that knows just how to grab the emotions’ – Guardian

  ‘An excellent, heart-warming, thought-provoking story’ – Books for Keeps

  ‘The brilliant story of an evacuee with the worst mother in the whole of children’s literature. A powerful read’ – Sunday Telegraph

  ‘This book can make you smile and laugh, but it may also bring tears to your eyes and leave you with a bitter-sweet feeling’ – Sunday Times

  Books by Michelle Magorian

  Back Home

  Goodnight Mister Tom

  PUFFIN MODERN CLASSICS

  Michelle Magorian’s first ambition was to be an actress, and after three years’ study at the Bruford College of Speech and Drama, she went to mime school in Paris. All this time she had been secretly scribbling stories, and in her mid-twenties she became interested in children’s books and decided to write one herself. The result was Goodnight Mister Tom, a winner of the Guardian Award and the International Reading Association Award, which she has also adapted as a musical. Since then she has published several novels, poetry and short-story collections and picture books.

  Michelle lives in Petersfield, where she continues with both her acting and writing careers.

  MICHELLE MAGORIAN

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

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  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published by Kestrel Books 1981

  Published in Puffin Books 1983

  Published in Puffin Modern Classics 1996, 2003

  This edition reissued 2010

  Text copyright © Michelle Magorian, 1981

  Introduction copyright © Julia Eccleshare, 2003

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-141-96452-2

  Introduction

  by Julia Eccleshare

  Puffin Modern Classics series editor

  Evacuated from the bombs in London, Willie Beech arrives in the country alone and afraid. Not surprising given the times, but Willie’s terrors are caused by something much deeper than the fear of bombing: Why can’t he sleep in a bed? And why does the dog scare him so much? Watching Willie learn to trust, and even to love, as his terrible past is unravelled and laid to rest is an emotional rollercoaster. But Goodnight Mister Tom is not just the story of Willie. It is also the story of gnarled old Tom Oakley, who never wanted to have anything to do with a child – he is only doing his duty by taking in an evacuee – but who soon fi nds himself not only caring for the physical needs of young Willie but also filling in the gaps in his life, from education to love. Like Willie, Tom’s capacity for love swells as the relationship between the two of them develops, and both of them begin to reach out to others in their small community.

  Reading Goodnight Mister Tom, there are moments of such sadness that it is almost too distressing to go on. There are few secrets as terrible as the one Tom uncovers when he discovers the truth of Willie’s real home and, in a different way, the explanation for Tom’s gruff detachment from society is as heartrending. But these are offset by the delights of Willie’s new experiences of the country and the people in it and, above all, by the underlying joy of Willie and Tom’s blossoming life together.

  It is impossible not to be touched by this story, set against the wider picture of the effect of the Second World War on the ordinary people of Britain.

  Goodnight Mister Tom was Michelle Magorian’s first novel. It won the Guardian Children’s Book prize and has been adapted into a TV drama starring the late John Thaw.

  Contents

  1 Meeting

  2 Little Weirwold

  3 Saturday Morning

  4 Equipped

  5 ‘Chamberlain Announces’

  6 Zach

  7 An Encounter over Blackberries

  8 School

  9 Birthday Boy

  10 The Case

  11 Friday

  12 The Show Must Go On

  13 Carol Singing

  14 New Beginnings

  15 Home

  16 The Search

  17 Rescue

  18 ‘Recovery’

  19 The Sea, the Sea, the Sea!

  20 Spooky Cott.

  21 Back to School

  22 Grieving

  23 Postscript

  1

  Meeting

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom bluntly, on opening the front door. ‘What d’you want?’

  A harassed middle-aged woman in a green coat and felt hat stood on his step. He glanced at the armband on her sleeve. She gave him an awkward smile.

  ‘I’m the Billeting Officer for this area,’ she began.

  ‘Oh yes, and what’s that got to do wi’ me?’

  She flushed slightly. ‘Well, Mr, Mr…’

  ‘Oakley. Thomas Oakley.’

  ‘Ah, thank you, Mr Oakley.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Mr Oakley, with the declaration of war imminent…’

  Tom waved his hand. ‘I knows all that. Git to the point. What d’you want?’ He noticed a small boy at her side.

  ‘It’s him I’ve come about,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way to your village hall with the others.’

  ‘What others?’

  She stepped to one side. Behind the large iron gate which stood at the end of the graveyard were a small group of children. Many of them were filthy and very poorly clad. Only a handful had a blazer or coat. They all looked bewildered and exhausted. One tiny dark-haired girl in the front was hanging firmly on to a new teddy-bear.

  The woman touched the boy at her side and pushed him forward.

  ‘There’s no need to tell me,’ said Tom. ‘It’s obligatory and it’s for the war effort.’

  ‘You are entitled to choose your child, I know,’ began the woman apologetically.

  Tom gave a snort.

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘his mother wants him to be with someone who’s religious or near a church. She was quite adamant. Said she would only let him be evacuated if he was.’

 
‘Was what?’ asked Tom impatiently.

  ‘Near a church.’

  Tom took a second look at the child. The boy was thin and sickly-looking, pale with limp sandy hair and dull grey eyes.

  ‘His name’s Willie,’ said the woman.

  Willie, who had been staring at the ground, looked up. Round his neck, hanging from a piece of string, was a cardboard label. It read ‘William Beech’.

  Tom was well into his sixties, a healthy, robust, stockily-built man with a head of thick white hair. Although he was of average height, in Willie’s eyes he was a towering giant with skin like coarse, wrinkled brown paper and a voice like thunder.

  He glared at Willie. ‘You’d best come in,’ he said abruptly.

  The woman gave a relieved smile. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, and she backed quickly away and hurried down the tiny path towards the other children. Willie watched her go.

  ‘Come on in,’ repeated Tom harshly. ‘I ent got all day.’

  Nervously, Willie followed him into a dark hallway. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust from the brilliant sunshine he had left to the comparative darkness of the cottage. He could just make out the shapes of a few coats hanging on some wooden pegs and two pairs of boots standing below.

  ‘S’pose you’d best know where to put yer things,’ muttered Tom, looking up at the coat rack and then down at Willie. He scratched his head. ‘Bit ’igh fer you. I’d best put in a low peg.’

  He opened a door on his left and walked into the front room, leaving Willie in the hallway still clutching onto his brown carrier bag. Through the half-open door he could see a large black cooking range with a fire in it and an old threadbare armchair nearby. He shivered. Presently Tom came out with a pencil.

  ‘You can put that ole bag down,’ he said gruffly. ‘You ent goin’ no place else.’

  Willie did so and Tom handed him the pencil. He stared blankly up at him.

  ‘Go on,’ said Tom, ‘I told you before, I ent got all day. Now make a mark so’s I know where to put a peg, see.’ Willie made a faint dot on the wall beside the hem of one of the large coats. ‘Make a nice big ’un so’s I can see it clear, like.’ Willie drew a small circle and filled it in. Tom leaned down and peered at it. ‘Neat little chap, ent you. Gimme yer mackintosh and I’ll put it on top o’ mine fer now.’

  With shaking fingers Willie undid his belt and buttons, peeled off the mackintosh and held it in his arms. Tom took it from him and hung it on top of his greatcoat. He walked back into the front room. ‘Come on,’ he said. Willie followed him in.

  It was a small, comfortable room with two windows. The front one looked out on to the graveyard, the other to a little garden at the side. The large black range stood solidly in an alcove in the back wall, a thick dark pipe curving its way upward through the ceiling. Stretched out beneath the side window were a few shelves filled with books, old newspapers and odds and ends and by the front window stood a heavy wooden table and two chairs. The flagstoned floor was covered in a faded crimson, green and brown rug. Willie glanced at the armchair by the range and the objects that lay on top of the small wooden table beside it; a pipe, a book and a baccy jar.

  ‘Pull that stool up by the fire and I’ll give you somethin’ to eat.’ Willie made no movement. ‘Go on, sit down, boy,’ he repeated. ‘You got wax in your ears?’

  Willie pulled a small wooden stool from a corner and sat down in front of the fire. He felt frightened and lonely.

  Tom cooked two rashers of bacon and placed a slab of bread, with the fresh bacon dripping beside it, onto a plate. He put it on the table with a mug of hot tea. Willie watched him silently, his bony elbows and knees jutting out angularly beneath his thin grey jersey and shorts. He tugged nervously at the tops of his woollen socks and a faint smell of warm rubber drifted upwards from his white plimsolls.

  ‘Eat that up,’ said Tom.

  Willie dragged himself reluctantly from the warmth of the fire and sat at the table. ‘You can put yer own sugar in,’ Tom grunted.

  Willie politely took a spoonful, dunked it into the large white mug of tea and stirred it. He bit into the bread but a large lump in his throat made swallowing difficult. He didn’t feel at all hungry, but remembered apprehensively what his Mum had said about doing as he was told. He stared out at the graveyard. The sun shone brilliantly, yet he felt cold. He gazed at the few trees around the graves. Their leaves were all different colours, pale greens, amber, yellow…

  ‘Ent you ’ungry?’ asked Tom from his armchair.

  Willie looked up startled. ‘Yes, mister,’ he whispered.

  ‘Jest a slow chewer, that it?’

  He nodded timidly and stared miserably at the plate. Bacon was a luxury. Only lodgers or visitors had bacon and here he was not eating it.

  ‘Mebbe you can chew it more easy later.’ Tom beckoned him over to the stool. ‘Put another spoon of that sugar in, boy, and bring that tea over ’ere.’

  Willie did so and returned to the stool. He held the warm mug tightly in his icy hands and shivered. Tom leaned towards him.

  ‘What you got in yer bag, then?’

  ‘I dunno,’ mumbled Willie, ‘Mum packed it. She said I weren’t to look in.’ One of his socks slid half-way down his leg, revealing a large multicoloured bruise on his shin and a swollen red sore beside.

  ‘That’s a nasty ole thing,’ Tom said, pointing to it. ‘What give you that?’ Willie paled and pulled the sock up quickly.

  ‘Best drink that afore it gits cold,’ said Tom, sensing that the subject needed to be changed. Willie looked intently at the changing shapes of the flames in the fire and slowly drank the tea. It thundered in his throat in his attempt to swallow it quietly. Tom left the room briefly and within a few minutes returned.

  ‘I gotta go out for a spell. Then I’ll fix your room, see. Up there,’ and he pointed to the ceiling. ‘You ent afraid of heights, are you?’ Willie shook his head. ‘That’s good or you’d have had to sleep under the table.’ He bent over the range and shovelled some fresh coke into the fire.

  ‘’Ere’s an ole scarf of mine,’ he muttered, and he threw a khaki object over Willie’s knees. He noticed another bruise on the boy’s thigh, but said nothing. ‘’Ave a wander round the graveyard. Don’t be scared of the dead. Least they can’t drop an ole bomb on yer head.’

  ‘No, mister,’ agreed Willie politely.

  ‘And close the front door behind you, else Sammy’ll be eatin’ yer bacon.’

  ‘Yes, mister.’

  Willie heard him slam the front door and listened to the sound of his footsteps gradually fading. He hugged himself tightly and rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. ‘I must be good,’ he whispered urgently, ‘I must be good,’ and he rubbed a sore spot on his arm. He was such a bad boy, he knew that. Mum said she was kinder to him than most mothers. She only gave him soft beatings. He shuddered. He was dreading the moment when Mr Oakley would discover how wicked he was. He was stronger-looking than Mum.

  The flames in the range flickered and danced before his eyes, crackling in sudden bursts though not in a venomous way. He felt that it was a friendly crackle. He turned to look for something that was missing. He stood up and moved towards the shelves under the side window. There, he was being bad again, putting his nose in where it didn’t belong. He looked up quickly to make sure Mr Oakley wasn’t spying at him through the window.

  Mum said war was a punishment from God for people’s sins, so he’d better watch out. She didn’t tell him what to watch out for, though. It could be in this room, he thought, or maybe the graveyard. He knelt on one of the chairs at the front window and peered out. Graves didn’t look so scary as she had made out, even though he knew that he was surrounded by dead bodies. But what was it that was missing? A bird chirruped in the garden. Of course, that was it. He couldn’t hear traffic and banging and shouting. He looked around at the room again. His eyes rested on the stool where the woollen scarf lay. He’d go outside. He picked it up, and wrapping
it round his neck he went into the hall and closed the front door carefully behind him.

  Between him and the graveyard lay a small flat garden. Along the edge of it were little clusters of flowers. Willie stepped forward to the edge where the garden ended and the graveyard began. He plunged his hands deep into his pockets and stood still for a moment.

  The graveyard and cottage with its garden were surrounded by a rough stone wall, except for where the back of the church stood. Green moss and wild flowers sprang through the grey stonework. Between the graves lay a small, neat flagstoned pathway down the centre. It broke off in two directions; one towards a large gate on the left where the other children had waited and one leading to the back entrance of a small church to his right. A poplar tree stood in the far corner of the graveyard near the wall with the gate and another near Mr Oakley’s cottage by the edge of the front garden. A third grew by the exit of the church; but the tree which caught Willie’s attention was a large oak tree. It stood in the centre of the graveyard by the path, its large, well-clad branches curving and hanging over part of it.

  He glanced down at a small stone angel near his feet and began to walk round the gravestones. Some were so faded that he could barely see the shapes of the letters. Each grave had a character of its own. Some were well tended with a little vase of flowers on top as if they were perched upon a tablecloth, some were covered with a large stone slab with neat, well-cut grass surrounding them, while others had weeds growing higgledy-piggledy over them. The ones Willie liked best were the gentle mounds covered in grass with the odd surviving summer flower peeping through the coloured leaves. As he walked around he noticed that some of the very old ones were tiny. Children’s graves, probably.

  He was sitting on one Elizabeth Thatcher when he heard voices. A young man and woman were passing by. They were talking and laughing. They stopped and the young woman leaned over the wall. Her long fair hair hung in a single plait scraped back from a round, pink-cheeked face. Pretty, he thought.