Tom All Alone (10)

The days and weeks passed, and gradually the incident at the fair faded into the background. Things went on as normal at home. Tom still played with the others in the street, though there was more vigilance in the neighbourhood as people found out what had happened. But otherwise it was kept quiet and within the community - and Tom wasn't the first child something like that had happened to.

"I remember the Williams's girl a few years ago," old Mrs Cooper said to mum one morning, as they walked up the road together. "Bonny little thing, she was. She was with her mum, too, in Bishop's Park. Poor woman had only turned her back a moment, and she was gone. Filthy swine pulled her into the bushes. She was shook up, that's all, thankfully. He didn't have time to do nothing worse. They got him, too. Just shows you can't be too careful. You never know who's about."

The only change at first had been with Russell. He was sullen and shut off for a few days, and wouldn't talk to Tom - just a grunt now and then. Tom guessed it was because he'd promised not to say anything. But he didn't think he'd done anything really wrong. He'd just asked dad if he'd seen his friend from the fair at the pub, that was all. The rest was what he'd had to tell the policemen, and he knew he couldn't lie to the police in case they found out and took him away. But Russell had had the telling off - the worst one he'd ever had.

"Why did dad tell Russell off, mum?" Tom asked her one morning as she walked with him up to the pub for work.

"Because he shouldn't have left you alone. It was naughty."

"But the man said he was dad's friend."

"The man was lying to you. He wasn't your dad's friend."

"But why did he lie?"

"Because that's what men like that do. That's why we've told you never to talk to strangers. They want you to believe them so that you'll do what they want."

"But he only wanted me to go on the Ghost Train with him. He said he was too frightened to go on it on his own."

"That's what he told you. But he was lying."

"But we just went on the Ghost Train, that's all."

"That's not the point. He shouldn't have done it. And you shouldn't have gone."

"But..."

"No more 'buts'," she cut him off. "You've been told. We won't talk about it any more."

He looked up at her and could see she was getting upset.

"I wish Russell wouldn't be angry with me all the time."

"He's not angry with you. He knows he did wrong. He'll be alright."

"When?"

"Soon. Just leave him alone for a while."

 

In May, it was Tom's fifth birthday and they had a little party upstairs for the other children in the street. They all turned up in their cleanest clothes, their hair neatly brushed and combed, their faces scrubbed and nails cleaned. They came flapping at the letter flap one by one, except Salvatori who was big enough to reach the bell. Matthew and Stevie had little bow ties on with their shirts, like they used to wear to church. Matthew had a special grey jacket on, too, with a badge on the pocket from school, which he'd already started. Tom had asked mum if he was going to the same school as Matthew. It might be alright if they both went there.

"No. You're going to St Mary's around the corner. He goes to a different school. He goes to Our Lady of Victories. That's the one we pass when we go to the Co-op."

"Why can't I go there, too?"

"Because you're going to a Church of England school, and Matthew goes to a Catholic school."

"What does that mean?"

She shook her head. It was one of those questions.

"Matthew's from Ireland, and he's Catholic. So he goes to a Catholic school. You're from England, so you go to a Church of England school."

"But what's the difference?"

"The Catholics have different beliefs, that's all, so they go to a different school."

The more he asked, the more puzzled he became.

"But why do they believe different things to us? Why don't we all believe the same thing?"

"It's just different, that's all."

"Is their God different to ours?"

"No. It's the same God. But they have different ways of worshiping God, that's all."

Tom had noticed that Matthew and Stevie always went to church on Sunday with their mum and dad - like nan did. Only they went a different way to nan.

"Why don't Matthew and Stevie and nan all go to the same church?"

"It's the same as the schools. They go to a Catholic church and your nan goes to a Church of England church."

"But why, if they all believe in the same God?"

"Wait until you start school, and then you'll find out. The teachers will tell you about it. That's why you go to school. To get answers to all of those questions. Then you don't need to keep asking me."

Mum and nan got them all seated around the table in the back kitchen (dad had brought up some extra chairs from nan's room). Tom, and Matthew and Stevie, and Mikey and Bernie, and Patrick and Salvatori. And Gillian, a new girl who'd just moved into the road, and who blushed every time Tom looked at her, and who didn't say anything. Roshina couldn't come because she had a cold - but they didn't have enough chairs, anyway. They had cheese sandwiches, and jelly and blancmange, and crisps, and a cake that mum had baked with marzipan and white icing all over it and five candles on top. Tom had blown them out and made a wish (the same wish he'd made at Christmas) and then they all had a slice. They also had lemon or orange squash to drink, or fizzy lemonade. They had little silver hats, too, with elastic to keep them on.

When they'd all finished, mum and nan cleared the table out of the way and they played games. Russell had drawn a picture of a donkey on the back of a sheet of wallpaper, so they played pin on the donkey's tail using one of mum's scarves as a blindfold and a piece of string as a tail. Then they put all the chairs in the middle and played Musical Chairs. Russell came in and operated the tape recorder, playing some music he'd recorded from the radio. He still wasn't really speaking much to Tom, but things were better now. Besides which, though, Russell had his own friends that he went out with, and he also used to go and spend some days staying with their older cousins, like Craig in Dagenham, who was the same age as Russell. Mum and dad had said that Tom could go and stay with his cousins soon - like Keith and Barry in Wandsworth. Keith was the same age as Tom, and Barry was a bit younger. They came over sometimes with Auntie Pat and Uncle George. Tom wasn't sure he wanted to go and stay with them because Keith was very noisy and bossy, and liked to pull all of Tom's toys out. He'd broken a wheel on one of Tom's cars once.

"It's nice to go and stay with your cousins," mum had said. "And they can come and stay here, too."

"But I like being at home," Tom had said. "I don't want to stay with Auntie Pat and Uncle George, anyway."

"Why not? Auntie Pat's your dad's sister. They'll look after you, and you can play with your cousins."

"But I don't want to play with them."

"Oh, you're just too fussy," she said. "I used to love playing with my cousins when I was your age."

It seemed to Tom that everything was changing now that he was five, but he wanted it to stay as it was. Going to school, going to stay at his cousins' houses. Why did he have to do these things if he didn't want to?

"It's all part of growing up," mum said. "You need to do these things. They're good for you."

Tom didn't understand how that could be if he didn't want to do them.

Why did people have to do things they didn't want to do, just because it was growing up?

He didn't like the way that things seemed to be getting more difficult the older he got.

"We all have to do things we don't want to do."

"But why?"

"Because we do. That's all there is to it."

That didn't seem fair. It didn't seem right at all. But it was the only answer he got.

 

It was just after Tom's birthday that they got up one morning to a shock. Mum took the cover off of Skipper's cage, only to find Skipper lying on the cage floor.

"Oh, no. Poor Skip," mum said, putting her hand into the cage and lifting out the lifeless body. Tom, who'd been sitting having his breakfast, burst into tears. He looked at the tiny body, the swatch of brilliant green, cradled in her palm. The dab of yellow on his head, his scabby orange beak, his eyes closed forever now. Tom and mum both cried together and she found something to put him in. She had an empty Brillo pad box, which she put some of her old stockings in and some cotton wool. Then she laid Skipper in there and they took one final look at him before mum shut the lid down.

"What will we do with him, mum?"

"I'll get dad to bury him in a nice place on the allotment."

"Will he go to Heaven?"

"Yes, love. I expect he's already there. Your grandads and other gran will have him now. They'll look after him."

"Will I see him again one day?"

"Yes, love. Just like all the others."

Skipper's loss was a big absence in their lives now. No more bright chirruping and singing by the window. No more feathers fluttering around. No more squawks to let them know dad was coming down the road. The cage and the stand were gone, making the absence even more noticeable. It was like he'd never been there, in their lives.

They all went up to the allotment on the following Sunday, up near the common, where dad had a small plot were he grew vegetables. He took a spade out of the shed and they watched as he dug a hole just behind it, out of the way, and lowered the little box in. Then he scooped the earth over it again and patted it down, and Russell planted a little cross on it that he'd made out of lolly sticks. He'd painted God Bless Skipper on it in black paint. Tom had picked a tiny bunch of daisies and dandelions, which he placed on the grave.

"See you in Heaven, Skipper," Tom whispered, the tears rolling down his cheeks.

Then they went home.

 

The following week, dad came in from work one evening carrying a cardboard box that had tiny holes in it all around the sides. He had a sparkle in his eyes as he put the box down in the living room as they all gathered around. The box was moving and there was a strange whining sound coming from inside it. Dad lifted the lid - and lifted out a wriggling bundle of black and brown fur. Tom's eyes widened. He saw paws and whiskers and a tail, and the glint of green eyes in amongst all the fur. It was still quite tiny. But it was the furriest cat that Tom had ever seen.

"This is Bobby," dad said. "That's what Leo at the yard called him. He's one of the yard cat's kittens. And he's all ours now."

Mum found a piece of string and they all laughed as Bobby scampered after it, his fur wisping up, the colours of it, like milky coffee and dark chocolate all whipped together.

And they had another new life to love.

(continued)