Saturday Morning周六清晨 米歇尔·麦格里安(Michelle Magorian),英国当代最具影响力的儿童文学家之一,1947年生于英格兰。她自幼热爱表演,曾留学法国马赛尔·马索巴黎国际默剧学校,成为一名职业演员。回到英国后,她开始了自己的表演生涯,同时对儿童文学产生了浓厚兴趣。1981年,米歇尔在写作学习班完成了自己的儿童文学处女作《晚安,汤姆先生》(Good Night, Mister Tom),一举夺得了卫报儿童小说奖(Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize)。该小说还被BBC评为有史以来最伟大的100部小说之一。1998年,这部小说被改编成电影,受到了广大英国观众的欢迎。此后米歇尔还获过国际读书协会奖(International Reading Association Award),2008年又以其新书Just Henry获得英国科斯塔图书奖(Costa Book Award)。

When Willie awoke it was still very dark. The pain that had brought him sharply back to consciousness seared1) through his stomach. He held his breath and pushed his hand down the bed to touch his nightgown. It was soaking. It was then that he became aware that he was lying in between sheets. That’s what they did to people after they had died, they laid them out in a bed. He sat up quickly and hit his head on the rafter2). Crawling out of bed, doubled over3) with the pain in his gut, he hobbled4) over to the window and let out a frightened cry. He was in a graveyard. He was going to be buried alive! The pain grew in intensity. He gave a loud moan and vomited all over the floor.

In the morning Tom found him huddled5) under the bed. The sheets were drenched6) in urine. He stripped them off the mattress and carried Willie down to the living room.

It was a hot, sultry7) day. The windows were wide open but no breeze entered the cottage. Willie stood in front of the stove. Through the side window he could see his gray garments and underwear hanging on a small washing line outside. Tom pulled the voluminous8) nightshirt over his head and threw it into a copper tub with the sheets. He sluiced9) Willie’s body tenderly with cold water and soap. The weals10) stuck out mauve11) against his protruding12) ribs and swollen stomach. He could hardly stand.

"Sorry, mister," he kept repeating, fearfully, "sorry, Mister Tom."

Tom just grunted13) in his usual manner. He pulled Willie’s clothes off the line and handed them to him. "Too hot for socks," he muttered. "Leave them off."

"I can’t go aht wivout me socks14)," cried Willie in alarm. "Please, Mister Tom, I can’t."

"Why?" Tom snorted.

"Me legs," he whispered. He didn’t want everyone to see the marks of his sins. Tom sighed and threw the socks on the table. They had breakfast by the open window. Tom sat with his shirt sleeves rolled up, the beads of sweat trickling15) down the sides of his ruddy face, while Willie continued to shiver, managing to drink only half a cup of tea and eat a small piece of bread.

"Blimmin’16) blue," muttered Tom to himself as he observed Willie’s face. He cleared the breakfast things and left him with the small addressed postcard that he had been provided with to write a message on for his mother. Willie sat dejectedly17) at the table and watched Tom drag his small mattress past the window. He could hear him scrubbing18) away at it. He lowered his head. He was so ashamed. Everyone who came near the church would see it and realize how wicked he had been. He hadn’t meant to wet himself. He didn’t even remember doing it.

He stared at the small postcard in front of him. Clasping19) a pencil between his fingers, he clenched his free hand into a fist and dug his knuckles into the table so that he wouldn’t cry.

"How you gettin’ on?" asked Tom.

Willie jumped and flushed hotly.

"Can’t think of what to say, that it?" He took the pencil from Willie’s hand and turned the postcard towards himself. "Not much room, eh?"