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It’s 1936, London city was both thrumming with life and the lingering shadow of depression.
Harry jiggles his leg under the desk, the sound of his old trainers making faint squeaks on the wooden floor of the classroom. Behind him, Tom sits calm and composed, the very image of concentration as he tries his hardest not to glance at the large clock hanging precariously near the school bell. Every student diligently bent over their grammar books.
The teacher made her rounds. Her shoes tap on the wooden floor, tsking under her breath as she inspects their work. Tom can hear the relentless ticking of the clock—tik-tik-tik—a metronome counting down the moments to their planned escape.
The bell finally rang, and Harry stood up too quickly, turning to Tom with bright eyes. Tom nudges his chin at the table, a silent command to send in his grammar book, which Harry did with haste. A glance told Tom all he needed to know; Harry hadn’t written a word. It didn’t matter; the teacher wouldn't have time to punish them now.
“Calm down,” Tom whispers, gripping Harry's elbow. They had to be inconspicuous. Harry forces himself to relax, and together, they blend into a group of students, all eager to leave school.
Matron Helena, the newest member of the orphanage staff, calls out their names. Harry and Tom both said ‘here’, and as soon as she becomes distracted, Tom seizes the moment, guiding Harry with another elbow nudge. They slip into the bushes and escape through a loose iron gate.
“Run!” Tom urges and they dashed, their wool tweed jackets cumbersome over their school pants and collared shirts. Harry, hat in his pocket, led the way. Tom thinks of the memory of their childhood, running back from school, from church, to leave the orphanage.
I’d run anywhere you tell me to.
They reach a dark alley beside the bread shop.
Tom finds the two boxed bags hidden behind the dumpster, prepared in advance, containing all they dared to bring with them. Clothes, a pair of extra shoes, three of Tom’s most treasured books, Harry’s beloved toys—a wooden ship and a red stringed ball—, their collected pennies, and the remnants of yesterday’s dinner. Most crucially, they carried their files, stolen from Mrs Cole’s office, documents of their birth name.
They wouldn’t use their old names now, after today they would be Tom and Harry Green.
“Put your cap on Harry, we can’t be noticed,” Harry grumbles but does as he’s told, adjusting his dented black glasses as Tom meticulously reads the old Britain map he’s kept and repeats the plan in his head.
“Alright, let’s go!”
A group of adults passed by, they casually followed at a safe distance, keeping an unhurried pace as they ventured closer to Victoria Station, the gateway to their new lives.
Tom didn’t even take in the last melancholy sight of the city, not the muted coloured clothes, nor the cobbled streets underfoot or the familiar distant hum.
He’s leaving this ratty town, that does nothing but squash his dreams and starve them.
Tom confidently goes to the ticket register, shooing Harry to go hide as he does. Tom checks the price twice and counts every coin in his palm beforehand. When it’s his turn on the line Tom lies, “Mum’s not feeling well.” And he gives up his coins– his hands shaking at the weight of it– 44 pence, half of everything they had scraped together. He tries not to think how long it took him to save that much.
Ticket in hand, Tom's eyes dart across the station, seeking their platform number amidst the chaos. Harry is gazing at the couples passing by, he’s standing on one foot and dropping another other in a ridiculous hop, Tom knows he’s murmuring some silly tune under his breath. Harry accidentally steps on a passerby’s luggage takes off his cap, and apologises profusely.
Tom drags Harry away, a tight smile at the bewildered lady. His attempt at reassurance came out a bit too stern, "Stop your prattling. We got the tickets, we're leaving."
Harry turns pliant, gazing at the oncoming train. “We’re leaving,” he whispers, almost too low for Tom to hear.
Boarding the train, Tom squares his shoulders and lifts his chin, pretending this wasn’t the first time he boarded the train. Harry walks a bit slower, turning his head left and right, eying the train in awe. Tom guides Harry to the window seat, and Harry plasters himself to the glass.
“It’s so big Tom!”
Tom forces himself to lean on the chair and smile. “Yes, it is.”
When the train finally moved, Tom couldn’t help but look out the window as well, he felt a rock dislodged from his throat, finally able to properly breathe.
The ticket inspector came and left them without much care. The real test came with the passing of a trolley cart. Harry's stomach rumbles, and he blushes. Tom frowns because he hates how familiar he is with that sound.
Tom produces the stale bread and drops them both on Harry’s lap.
Harry’s fists clench on his knees. “What about you?” he mumbles.
“The travel is making my tummy feel funny.” Tom lies, opening a book, ready to ignore Harry if he argues. “It’ll go bad soon, best not to waste it.”
Harry stares at the bread for a few seconds, but later, he takes a careful bite. Eating his morsel without complaint, continuing to stare at the window. The trolley passes them again, and it smells decadently of buttery food, steamed and warmed goodness and promises of something filling.
Neither Harry nor Tom acknowledge it.
***
Tom sees Harry’s shoelaces tie themselves, and he realises, that Harry is special like him.
Tom revealed his hidden friend, a snake, to Harry. Without hesitation, Harry greeted it with a soft hiss, "Hello." Tom’s heart soars.
Tom finds Harry crouched by his bed, he’s furiously wiping his eyes. "Are you crying?" Tom inquired. "No," Harry snapped back, too quickly, nursing his red palm close to his chest. He’s punished for another ‘naughty thing he did’.
Hunger gnawed at Tom, his stomach growling a relentless chorus of need. He wished, he wished. A floating bread silently floated into his room. Harry sat up from his bed, eyes widened.
Harry gazed out the window, a mix of longing and resignation in his eyes. They weren’t allowed to meet the adults. Mrs Cole said they would never be adopted because they were naughty boys. Tom sat by the edge of his bed, fingers curled on the mattress. "I wish we could leave." Harry's eyes snapped to him, he’s learned to defer to Tom on everything. Tom repeats, a little firmer, "I think we should leave."
***
They bought egg sandwiches. Tom counts their remaining money.
Work, they needed to find means to gain pay.
They would also need to find a place to stay.
After the quaint rural station, Kent was the promised countryside filled with acres of land. Tom marches on, feigning confidence, his mind whirring with plans.
"It's so... green here," Harry says in earnest. Tom couldn't help but smile at his friend's wonder; the stark contrast to London's grey was also a welcome change for him. It felt right to be here. This was their fresh start.
But he couldn’t fully enjoy it yet. Tom's gaze swept over the houses and lands they passed. He knew better than to ask at every door; the fewer people who knew about them, the better. He searched for a rundown place that looked like it needed an extra pair of hands. Hopefully willing to offer shelter in exchange, without asking too many questions.
Harry fills their quiet walks with his observation. “I’ve never seen that type of bird before– oh, they have a church here— this orchard is huge—”
Daylight was quickly fading, casting long shadows across their path. Tom notices Harry lagging, exhaustion evident in his every step. Tom's stomach protests loudly, reminding him of his absent lunch.
Tom continues to search, he doesn't want to sleep on the streets, no matter how much better it would be than the orphan.
I wish… I wish…
They come upon a house that looks more worn than the others, its fields sprawling and unkempt. Tom can barely tell the field of hops and pear trees—a sign of potential work that could suit them well. He marches up the door, and Harry too, picks up pace.
This was it—their chance. With a determined breath, Tom knocks on the door smartly, squaring his shoulders once again.
***
Mr Williams, an old and shabby man. He agreed to let them stay in his barn, offering breakfast and a penny a day for their help with gathering. It was a miracle, his sons weren’t returning until winter and he was about to put on an ad to look for helpers to work his farm.
Tom said they were twelve, and said they were separated from family and only needed to stay for a short while. A little lie, before he could gather and make other plans.
"Just don't come looking for trouble, ye hear?" he warned. Tom understood the unspoken contract; the man needed help but wouldn't hesitate to turn them away if they caused any issues. The sight of a gun by the door emphasising his point.
Harry was too tired to properly celebrate their small victory. They make their way to the old barn (devoid of other living stock. Small mercies). Harry’s eyes are about to drop any second, but he follows Tom to inspect the barn, tying the front door with rope and arranging the hay to a corner. Harry covers it with a moth-eaten cloth and it almost looks like a presentable mattress.
They wash their faces using a dusty bucket, and in their undergarments they sit cross-legged, facing each other. Tom hands Haryr their egg sandwich and they relish it in silence.
“He has a gun,” Harry whispers, even though there is no one else around.
“I saw,” Tom says, sitting down unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his shoes. They don't have a lot of clothing, so they’ll have to try and maintain whatever they have. “I’m going to use my wish to give us extra protection.” Tom has a palm open and faces the door, he pools the last remnants of energy in his spine—
“Me too.” Harry copies Tom and places his hand atop Tom’s, “Two wishes can be stronger, right?”
Tom swallows and nods his head once and he feels it, a swirling energy that makes him stronger.
Harry was already fast asleep, two hands under his cheek.
Tom carefully takes off Harry’s glasses, folds them and placed them atop their bags. He lays as close as he dares without waking his friend.
Above, an opening in the barn's roof offers a view of the starlit sky.
They would have to work hard to earn their keep. It’ll be a struggle at first but they’ll manage. Tom will try to find a printing job, while Harry, with his love for running, could perhaps deliver newspapers. Tom’s smart and they have their wishes.
They’ll be fine.
A sudden breeze makes Harry shiver.
Tom gently smoothens the crease on his friend's forehead with his thumb, "Everything will be okay," he whispers, a promise, a wish, for both of them.
Tom stares intently at Harry’s sleeping form. The tight coil eases, it's freeing.
They have nothing now, but Tom has never felt more content.