Children's literature in Education, Vol. 28, No. I, 1997

Andrew Davies

Tom Sawyer

Andrew Davies was born in South Wales and educated there and atUniversity College London. He has been writing professionally sinceI960, but he did not become a full-time writer until 1987; before thathe managed to juggle a writing life with teaching in schools and atWarwick University.

His work includes novels, short stories, stage plays, television plays,original and adapted series and serials, a sitcom; feature film screen-plays, children's books, and children's TV series.

Highlights of his television career include A Very Peculiar Practice (twoseries). House of Cards, Middlemarcb, and Pride and Prejudice. Theautumn 1996 season saw Moll Flanders, Emma, a second series ofGame On, and Wilderness. In development: Daniel Deronda and Van-ity Fair.

His novels are Getting Hun and B. Monkey. Both are currently in devel-opment as movies. His collection of stories, Dirty Faxes, was describedby the 'Observer' as "smutty, friendly, and relaxed."

His children's fiction includes Conrad's War (a Guardian Award win-ner), six books about Marmalade Atkins, and Alfonso Bonzo.

My books were by my bed in the little back bedroom. My bookcasewas an orange box on its end, so it had two compartments, and itcould hold some pretty big books. You could get a Rupert annual in itstanding up straight. I had two or three of them. My biggest book wasa bound Bay's Own Annual dated 1904, or was it 1914, which hadbelonged to my Uncle Walter. It was so big and heavy that you couldstrain your wrists holding it open.

I was a secretive, voracious, passionate reader. It was like my otherlife. I was an only child until I was nearly eight, and with that sort ofage gap you never really get close. I was pretty gregarious at school,and although I was clever, 1 found it stressful and exhausting having

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to prove myself all the time, not so much intellectually as emotionallyand physically: fighting, swearing, cheeking the teachers, keeping myposition in the gang pecking order, all that. It was a relief to get homeand be alone. I wasn't alone in the house, of course: my parents werethere, but they left me alone if I was safely reading in my room. Mystrategy at home was one of silence, exile, and cunning. I am alwaysamazed when friends (nearly always women) tell me how close theywere to their parents as children. "I told my mother everything." Stag-gering. If I had told my mother half my stuff she would have killedme. Or, at the very least, stolen my soul. That was what I felt then,and still feel now. So the thing was to get up to my room and, as theysay, lose myself in a book.

That's bollocks, though, really, isn't it? You never do really lose your-self in a book, however intense the experience, and however muchyou're identifying. Because it's you in there, weaving the experiencesinto your own picture of life. And sometimes it can seem a bit toomuch: I can remember being up the rigging with that implacable sodIsrael Hands swarming up after me, his knife between his teeth. It'snot as if Hands was even one of the major baddies in Treasure Island,but I knew he was going to be too much for me. Something I alwayskept pretty quiet about was my inability to climb a rope. Trees, fine.Ropes, somehow I never got the knack. I knew that one day this

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Tom Sawyer

weakness would find me lacking in some crucial way. And now I wasgoing to get my throat ripped out for it.

This sort of thing happened a lot to me. I knew that these were sto-ries, that they were imaginative constructs, parallel worlds, and so on,but I also knew that a boy could leak into them through the perme-able membrane enclosing his own world—and never be able to re-turn. I knew, for example, that I went to Rhiwbina Junior School atthe top of our road, a school from which you were allowed to gohome every night; and that when I was eleven I would go to a bigschool in Whitchurch, a mile and a half away, which in itself seemedtoo far to me. But at the same time I knew, in a confused but veryvivid way, that one day soon I would be collected by strangers, bundledinto a horsedrawn coach, and taken to Tom Brown's Rugby, a lawlessand savage place, where cruel boys as big and hairy as grown menwould roast me over open fires, and kick the living shit out of me onhuge football pitches as vast, remote and cold as the Arctic tundra.

Or perhaps I might be marginally luckier, and find myself at St Dom-inic's, as described in The Fifth Form at St Dominic's, by TalbotBaines Reed. This book, which wound its episodic way through mymighty BOP annual referred to above, was, I know now (and vaguelydiscerned even then) a work of mainly humorous intent, but I took itdesperately seriously. It would have been all right if I had been able toidentify with one of the central group, plucky, average little lads whogot into the occasional scrape, but nothing serious. But I found myselfhopelessly drawn to—I've forgotten his name but let's call himSoames. Soames wasn't bad through and through. He was weak. Hepreferred skulking about to playing healthy and exhausting teamgames, and his researches led him inevitably to the public-house, lowcompany, girls, and debts. At nine years old I knew nothing of beerand tobacco, though I knew (correctly, as it turned out) that I wouldlike them both very much when the time came. I was already fasci-nated by low company—boys in school whose ordinary naughtinessextended to real crimes—and terrified that I would sink with theminto the pits of iniquity frequently invoked in chapel and SundaySchool. I was interested in girls too, in a way that found no echo inmost children's fiction I had read. If there were any bat-squeaks ofsexuality in Swallows and Amazons (God how I hated and still hatethat book) or the Secret Seven, they were too remote and high-pitched for me.

King Solomon's Mines, on the other hand, spoke to me in deep rever-berating tones. Here too, I identified with the wrong guy. Allan Qua-termain was too hard-bitten and laconic by far to interest me, and SirHenry Bollocks, or whatever his name was, was too thick and noble.

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He went in for deep and inarticulate bondings with Zulu chieftains,which might have struck a chord with some, but not me. CaptainGood, on the other hand, was a man after my own heart. He felldeeply and embarrassingly in love with Foulata, a touchingly beautifuldusky maiden. My edition of the book was illustrated, and had at leasttwo really lovely pictures featuring Foulata's innocently bared breasts—she had what I now recognise as a delightfully Pre-Lapsarian feelabout her, and I think I might have been searching for her all my life.There may, as Scott Fitzgerald said, be nothing in the real world com-mensurate with man's capacity for wonder, but Foulata in those illus-trations came pretty close. I was amazed that my parents let me readand own such a book. As I recall—I haven't reread the book in fiftyyears or so—something awful happened to Foulata, which let theCaptain off the hook. Wasn't she crushed under a huge rock door, andwasn't the witch Gagool responsible? Or made to take the rap? Some-thing like that. Very sad, anyway, and the rest of the book was atedious anticlimax of slaughter and heroism. I realise that a propercontemporary reading of the book would involve a lot of stern ironiesabout race, guilt, conquest, and betrayal, but I think the above doesmost of what's needed, and in any case, I decided in the end to writenot about King Solomon's Mines, but about Tom Sawyer, my otherfavourite.

I had not read this one since childhood, either, but this time I did goback. What I remembered—the feeling I valued at the time, and haveheld with me since—is that here is something like a real boy in some-thing like a real world, with all the cunning and complication andmoral ambiguity of real life. And it's funny too, and above all it hasgirls in it—not imitation boys, but girls like the girls in RhiwbinaJunior School, ordinary but strange, dull but interesting, full of easy-to-hurt feelings, and full of strange power too. And though Tom's lovelife is treated with humour and irony, underneath this it is valuedseriously. It has a lived truth about it (sorry about that but there weare) that makes some bits of Lawrence ("The Test on Miriam" in Sonsand Lovers, say) look forced, false, bad art. I'm glad to say that all thisstill stands up after all these years. For me, anyway.

Why Tom Sawyer, and not that masterpiece Huckleberry Finn, by theway? Well, I am not Hamlet, nor was meant to be. Tom's life, thoughhardly similar, was analogous to mine. At a pinch, I could walk a milein his shoes. Huck Finn would have been a bit too much of a walk onthe wild side, evoking Israel Hands-type nightmares. When I was nineI wanted books that were a bit grown up, not the full monty.

Tom Sawyer opens with a bit of typical Tom Sawyer action, rather asa film like Dirty Hurry will start by showing you Clint Eastwood do-

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Tom Sawyer

ing what he docs best in a little prologue otherwise unrelated to themain story. Tom lies to Aunt Polly about stealing jam, playing hookey,and going swimming in the water-hole (not sure what's wrong withthat). The thing that struck me at the time was the way we're invitedto take for granted that our hero routinely lies to escape retributionfrom adults in authority. Tom's general policy is not to tell the truth toadults. That was my policy too.

I still think that the stance of "silence, exile and cunning" as adoptedby children to adults (even loved ones) is far more common in lifethan it is in fiction, and deserves cherishing when it does appear infiction. But reading the book again, I find myself disappointed inTwain's tone of genial indulgence, which seems to be shared by AuntPolly herself to some extent; and this does not reflect my own experi-ence of life. In my experience, most adults dislike being lied to bychildren, especially their own children, and react very angrily. Theyfeel betrayed, they feel they've cherished a viper in their bosoms, and soon. Twain, of course, is being indulgent towards himself when young,which is fine, but I can't help feeling he's being a bit old-fertish about it,missing out on the real conflict between adults and kids.

Tom then meets a new kid on the block, and after a lengthy exchangeof ritual abuse, there is a brief fight, which Tom wins. Well observeddialogue, but still (to me now, I can't remember how I felt then)there's this tone of indulgence, of boys-will-be-boys. The strange boydoes cry, "mainly from rage", but we're not let into Tom's feelings. It'sgreat to win a fight, of course, but one misses any fleeting fear ofTom's that he might lose.

He's late for school, in trouble, and "about to take refuge in a lie,when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back thathe recognised by the electric sympathy of love; and by that form wasthe only vacant place on the girls' side of the schoolhouse. He in-stantly said:

'I STOPPED TO TALK WITH HUCKLEBERRY FINN!'"

He is beaten, but feels no pain, and he is sent to "sit with the girls" —supposed to be a dreadful humiliation, but Tom knows better. (WhenI was in my first year at secondary school, on very wet games days thesports master used to announce in his lugubrious Rhondda Valleybass: "The pitch is waterlogged, lads. I'm very sorry, but it's dancing.In the gym. With the girls." And we would all groan theatrically; and Ialways wondered how many other hearts leapt as mine did at thethought of an hour or two with these strange, familiar, delicate crea-tures—in their gym knickers, by God! But I digress.)

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Both illustrations by True Williams

"He sat down upon the end of the pine bench, and the girl hitchedherself away from him with a toss of her head. Nudges and winks andwhispers traversed the room, but Tom sat still, with his arms upon thelong, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book. By-and-byattention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur roseupon the dull air once mure. Presently the boy began to steal furtiveglances at the girl. She observed it, 'made a mouth' at him, and gavehim the back of her head for the space of a minute. When shecautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her. She thrust itaway; Tom gently put it back; she thrust it away again, but with lessanimosity. . . . "

I don't know about you, but I'm completely caught up now. It's beau-tifully observed, with a delicate precision in the choice of words:"hitched herself away" is perfect, and the alteration between activeand passive verbs subtly enacts what's happening between Tom andBecky. And that old-fartish tone of genial indulgence has disappearedcompletely: Twain is in the moment just as intensely as his characters.This was the feeling I carried with me through all those years; thiswas the kind of thing that made going to school worthwhile; this islife at its most intense—an aspect of it totally ignored by most chil-dren's books, but treated by Twain with the respect that it deserves.

What he's describing is a seduction, of course, albeit a very sweet andinnocent one. Becky is a new girl at school—that's an essential part of

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Tom Sawyer

her glamour, of course; she hasn't lost her sheen of strangeness. A bitlater on, Tom pursues his advantage. He wants Becky to "get engaged"to him. This involves confessing that she loves him, and exchangingkisses.

"She resisted fur a while, and then said:

'You turn your lace away, so you can't see, and then I will. But youmustn't ever tell anybody—wilt you, Tom? Now you won't—willyou?'

'No, indeed, indeed I won't. Now Becky.'

He turned his face away. She bent timidly around till her breath stirredhis curls, and whispered, 'I—love—you!'

Then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks andbenches, with Tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, withher little white apron to her (ace. Tom clasped her round the neck andpleaded.

'Now Becky, it's all done—all over but the kiss. Don't you be afraid ofthat—it ain't anything at all. Please, Becky.'

And he tugged at the apron and the hands.

By-and-by she gave up and let her hands drop; her face, all glowingwith the struggle, came up and submitted. Tom kissed the red lips, andsaid:

'Now it's all done, Becky. And always after this, you know, you ain'tever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody butme, never never and for ever. Will you?'

'No, I'll never love anybody but you, Tom, and I'll never marry anybodybut you, and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either.'

'Certainly. Of course. That's part of it.'

He's starting to sound a bit like William Brown, another boy who hasan eye for the girls, though he may not do much about it. A momentlater, Tom's ruined everything. He inadvertently lets slip that he's hada previous engagement, to Amy Lawrence. Becky is heartbroken, andnothing Tom can say can make it better. When he sees that nothingwill do, he marches off tragically—and then she suddenly realises herown desperate loneliness, "with none among the strangers about herto exchange sorrows with."

It reminds me of Maggie's childhood troubles in The Mill on theFloss—and it's written with the same piercing accuracy. Tom suffersalmost as much: "Ah, if he could only die temporarily.'.... But theelastic heart of youth cannot be kept compressed into one con-strained shape long at a time." The humour of hindsight is back; but itdoesn't diminish the real if temporary pain.

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Most of the book, of course, is action-adventure, and very good stufftoo, with a clumsy, convincing murder, and a villain for whom we areunexpectedly invited to feel compassion. It's a remarkable children'sbook in all sorts of ways.

But for me the heart of it lies with Tom and Becky, and Twain's fidel-ity to that crucial area of pre-pubertal sexuality. That was whatgripped and moved me as a boy, that was what I held in my memoryall those years, and it is a great pleasure and relief to come back to itand find it just as good as I hoped it would be.