Tall Thomas



  TALL THOMAS

  David Elvar

  Copyright 2009 David Elvar

  ~oOo~

  ONE

  Tall Thomas stretched out beneath his duvet and wondered what the day would bring.

  He’s called Tall Thomas for a reason but not the one you might think. Being called Tall Thomas, you might expect his feet to be hanging over the end of his bed as he lay there. But they weren’t. And being called Tall Thomas, you might also expect his head to be hanging over the other end of his bed as he lay there. But it wasn’t.

  You see, Thomas is not tall in the way that most tall people are, in the way that they tower over others. No, Thomas is just the same size as any other growing boy of his age. He’s called Tall Thomas for another reason. That reason is that he likes to tell tall stories.

  I don’t mean just tall, I mean tall. Like, up-to-the-sky tall. There was the time he’d forgotten to do his homework but he couldn’t tell his teacher this. So instead, he made up a tall story.

  He told her he’d used invisible ink to do his homework but the ink was so powerful, it made his book vanish, too. So, he went on, even if he had brought his homework in, she wouldn’t have been able to read it because she just wouldn’t have been able to see it!

  There was another time when he arrived home from school, soaking wet from head to toe. He’d had a lot of fun with his friends playing in the village pond but he couldn’t tell his mum this. So instead, he made up another tall story.

  He told her that a little black cloud had followed him all the way home from school. There was thunder and lightning and crashing and flashing and the rain had come down so hard and so fast that it ran down the inside of his coat and flooded his shoes. And that was why he even had wet socks!

  So that’s how tall his stories are. And as he lay there in his bed, he wondered just how tall he could get them to be today.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve decided to get up, then,’ said his mum as he clattered downstairs and into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, I had to,’ said Thomas. ‘My wardrobe got an attack of woodworm and fell apart right onto my bed. I got out just in time.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said his mum. ‘Your wardrobe is built into the wall, it can’t get woodworm. What are you planning to do for the day.’

  As he sat there eating his breakfast, he thought about this. What indeed was he planning to do for the day? It was a Saturday, and it being a Saturday, there was no school. And there being no school, he could pretty much do as he pleased.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I rather thought I might take a trip to the moon, pick up some green cheese and bring it back for you to cook for supper.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said his mum. ‘The moon isn’t made of green cheese.’

  ‘Yes it is!’ said Thomas. ‘My friend Gavin found out when his dad drove him there in his car last week. Went the long way round, stopped off for lunch at a service area on Mars. They had grolly pasty in mudweed splurge. He couldn’t eat it all so he brought the rest home in a doggy bag that wouldn’t stop barking the whole way back.’

  His mum looked down at him and sighed. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘one of these days, you’ll tell one tall story too many.’

  Thomas just laughed and went on eating his breakfast. He’d told tall stories for as long as he could remember. He’d know if he was ever getting close to telling one too many.

  TWO

  Thomas said goodbye to his mum and headed out the front door to a whole day of telling tall stories. But to do that, he needed someone to tell them to. That first someone turned out to be Mr. Marrow.

  Mr. Marrow owns a greengrocer’s shop (which is rather appropriate, don’t you think), and he was stacking boxes of tomatoes outside his front window when Thomas saw him.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said brightly.

  Mr. Marrow stopped stacking boxes to look down at him. ‘Oh, it’s you, Thomas,’ he said. ‘What’s up? Your mum sent you for something, has she?’

  ‘She has,’ said Thomas, and he felt a little excited inside. This was going to be easier than he’d thought. ‘She asked me to buy some strunnions.’

  Mr. Marrow scratched his head vaguely. ‘Strunnions!’ he said. ‘What’s a strunnion?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ said Thomas. ‘It’s a new kind of vegetable invented by scientists. It’s a sort of cross between a strawberry and an onion.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Mr. Marrow. ‘A strawberry is what you eat with cream and an onion is what you eat with sausages. It would be like putting an onion with cream and strawberries with sausages.’

  ‘No, it’s true!’ said Thomas. ‘It was in all the newspapers last week! This new strunnion will go with sausages, cream, cauliflower cheese, pilchards on toast, fish and chips, egg and chips, chips and chips, Irish Stew, Welsh Stew, Scottish Stew, Chinese Stew and porridge. In fact, they say you’ll be able to put it with just about anything.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Mr. Marrow. ‘Only a potato will go with just about anything. And even then, I’d draw the line at putting it with porridge!’

  ‘No, it’s true!’ said Thomas. ‘It really will go with just about anything. And not only that, they say if you boil it and mash it and add milk, cod liver oil and shoe polish and mix it into a paste, you can use it to wash your car, clean your teeth, mend a puncture on your bicycle and patch up that hole in your roof.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, I’ve been meaning to get that done,’ said Mr. Marrow thoughtfully. ‘But look, Thomas, are you sure about this strunnion? I mean, really really sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Thomas. ‘Like I said, it was in all the newspapers last week.’

  ‘Oh well, if it was in the newspapers then it must be true,’ said Mr. Marrow. ‘Look, tell your mum I don’t have any strunnions in stock but I’ll have a word with my supplier, see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Thomas. ‘I’ll certainly tell her that.’

  As he walked down the road, he chuckled softly to himself. He couldn’t believe that telling such a tall story could be so easy, nor that it could be so easily believed.

  But if his first tall story of the morning had gone well, the second went even better.

  THREE

  Thomas went to the park and saw his teacher, Miss Learner (which is also rather appropriate, don’t you think), out for a walk. Now, Miss Learner knew all about Thomas and his tall stories so he knew that telling her one wasn’t going to be quite so easy. Still, he had to try. He wasn’t, after all, called Tall Thomas for nothing.

  ‘Good morning, Miss,’ he said brightly.

  She stopped walking to look down at him. ‘Oh, it’s you, Thomas,’ she said. ‘You look bored. Do you want me to set you some extra homework?’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Thomas, and he felt a little excited inside again. This, too, was going to be easier than he’d thought. ‘Haven’t you heard? Homework has been banned.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Miss Learner. ‘Homework will never be banned. Setting homework is the one pleasure in life we teachers have.’

  ‘No, it’s true!’ said Thomas. ‘It was in all the newspapers last week! Apparently, you might like setting it but you certainly don’t like marking it.’

  ‘Well, that is true,’ said Miss Learner. ‘All I seem to do is sit up all night correcting silly mistakes.’

  ‘So the only homework you’ll be setting us is useful things like learning how to eat jam doughnuts without licking your lips.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said Miss Learner. ‘No one can eat a jam doughnut without licking their lips.’

  ‘We might manage it if you teach us,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Miss Learner thoughtfully. ‘It would be a little difficult to teach, though.
I’ll need some practice if I’m to do it properly. And I do like jam doughnuts. I’ll see you in school on Monday.’

  And she hurried off towards the cake shop, to get supplies for her first lesson in eating jam doughnuts without licking her lips. Thomas watched her go. That was his second tall story of the morning, and it had gone rather well. But he wasn’t finished yet.

  He told his third tall story to a man who asked him the way to the cinema. The only way, Thomas told him, was to catch a train to the next town, jump into the canal there, swim back as far as the pickle factory and hop round it three times on one leg shouting ‘Good shot, your majesty!’ And if he’d done all this properly and in the right order, he’d vanish in a puff of smoke and reappear right in the cinema foyer. The man thanked him and hurried off towards the railway station.

  He told his fourth tall story of the morning to a woman who asked him if he’d seen her lost dog. Yes, he said, he’d seen it. It had stolen an old lady’s false teeth and was running round the bus station biting everyone with them. The woman didn’t thank him, she just shrieked and hurried off. He could pretty much guess where she was headed.

  All told, he had a good morning, probably his best yet. It seemed that whatever he said and whoever he said it to, they just believed him. Yes, definitely his best yet.

  Then he met Mrs. Grumblebix.

  FOUR

  Mrs. Grumblebix was his next door neighbour. She was an older lady who never seemed to say much but his dad said this was because she had a name that sounded like a bad-tempered breakfast cereal so she was probably too embarrassed to speak to anyone. But Thomas liked her, and it was while he was walking home from his best morning ever of telling tall stories that he saw her. She was struggling up the hill with a heavily loaded shopping trolley.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said brightly. ‘Can I help you with that?’

  Mrs. Grumblebix stopped struggling to look down at him. ‘Oh, it’s you, Thomas,’ she said. ‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’

  Thomas took the trolley from her and started wheeling it along the pavement. He didn’t find it a struggle at all.

  ‘This is easy,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, well, you’re a strong lad, aren’t you?’ said Mrs. Grumblebix.

  ‘I certainly am!’ said Thomas. ‘I’m so strong, I once pushed a whole house along a road.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Thomas,’ said Mrs. Grumblebix. ‘A house is much too heavy to push.’

  ‘It’s true!’ said Thomas. ‘I did it with one hand. The owner said he wanted to move house so I helped him do it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Thomas,’ said Mrs. Grumblebix. ‘That’s not what moving house means.’

  ‘It’s true!’ said Thomas. ‘I pushed it so fast, I broke the speed limit and got a speeding ticket.’

  ‘At your age?’ said Mrs. Grumblebix. ‘Sounds like a tall story to me.’

  ‘All right, you win,’ Thomas admitted glumly. ‘It’s a tall story.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mrs. Grumblebix thoughtfully. ‘You like telling tall stories, don’t you?’

  ‘Only when people fall for them,’ said Thomas, ‘and they don’t always.’

  ‘No, we don’t always,’ Mrs. Grumblebix agreed. ‘Don’t you think it wrong to tell tall stories?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Thomas. ‘After all, no one ever gets hurt by them.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs. Grumblebix. ‘I’ve just seen a man being fished out of the canal. He said he was trying to get to the cinema, said some boy had told him this was the best way to get there. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?’

  Thomas didn’t answer. They reached her gate, Mrs. Grumblebix took her trolley from him and thanked him for his help. Then she did a most curious thing. She held up a hand and made little sign over his forehead.

  ‘What was all that about?’ said Thomas, puzzled.

  ‘Nobody knows this but I’m actually a witch,’ said Mrs. Grumblebix, ‘and I’ve just put a spell on you. And the spell is that every time you tell a tall story, you’ll grow taller. Just a little but you’ll grow taller.’

  Thomas laughed. ‘That’s a good one, that is,’ he said. ‘That’s the best tall story I’ve ever heard. It’s even better than some of mine, and I tell some really tall ones.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ said Mrs. Grumblebix. ‘But just remember what I said over the next few days, okay? Just remember what I said…’

  FIVE

  He soon forgot about Mrs. Grumblebix and her spell, so much so that when he got into school on Monday, he was just itching to tell someone a tall story. He didn’t get the chance until his teacher arrived.

  She swept in saying ‘Good morning, class!’ as usual, but as Thomas was saying ‘Good morning, Miss Learner.’ along with the rest of the class, he noticed something a little strange about her. There was sugar and jam caked all round her mouth, and her tummy seemed a lot larger than he remembered. He couldn’t be certain but she looked as though she’d spent the whole weekend eating doughnuts.

  ‘Now,’ she was saying, ‘we’ve covered adding, subtracting and multiplying. So this week, we’ll be learning dividing.’

  At the very sound of that word, the whole class let out a loud groan. They really didn’t want to learn dividing. Thomas raised a hand.

  ‘Have you heard about the new way of learning dividing, Miss?’ he said.

  ‘What new way?’ said Miss Learner. ‘If it involves doughnuts, I don’t want to know. I never want to see another doughnut as long as I live.’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Thomas. ‘It’s a new way some scientists have invented. It’s really simple. What you do is you tell half the class to go outside and play for the rest of the lesson.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ said Miss Learner. ‘I mean, this isn’t just another of your tall stories, is it?’

  ‘Oh no!’ said Thomas. ‘It was in all the newspapers last week.’

  ‘Oh well, if it was in the newspapers, it must be true,’ said Miss Learner. ‘All right, the first half of the class, go outside and play.’

  The first half of the class went out.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘half the class are left. What now?’

  ‘Send half of that half out,’ said Thomas.

  She sent half of that half out.

  ‘Now we have a quarter left,’ said Miss Learner. ‘What now?’

  ‘Just keep sending out half of everything that’s left,’ said Thomas.

  Miss Learner kept sending out half of everything that was left. Soon, only she and Thomas were left.

  ‘Now,’ said Thomas, ‘you send half of what’s left out to play and whatever’s left over is your answer.’

  ‘All right, Thomas,’ she said, ‘you’d better go out and play for the rest of the lesson.’

  Thomas went out. He spent the rest of the lesson playing outside with his friends. Only Gavin seemed to guess what he’d just done.

  ‘That was excellent!’ he said. ‘Really excellent!’

  ‘It was nothing,’ said Thomas modestly. ‘It was just a tall story that she fell for. Come on, race you to the fence!’

  He raced Gavin to the fence. But as they stood there getting their breath back, he noticed something. He noticed he could see right over his friend’s head. And since they were both the same age and pretty much the same height, this was a little puzzling.

  SIX

  Thomas may have been a little puzzled about being able to see over his friend’s head but he certainly wasn’t bothered. He just put it down to growing, that he’d put on a bit of a spurt, as children of his age will. And it didn’t stop him telling tall stories.

  He told a particularly tall one to his friend Mark. Mark had asked him if he’d done anything special over the weekend. And Thomas being Thomas, he’d said he’d been crocodile hunting with his Great Uncle Moriarty and they’d managed to catch three enormous ones in an old fishing net. And these three enormous crocodiles were now in the pond in their front ga
rden giving the postman a few headaches and scaring burglars away. Mark didn’t believe him, of course. He knew about Thomas and his tall stories.

  He told another particularly tall one to his friend Lawrence. Lawrence had asked him where he was going on holiday this year. And Thomas being Thomas, he’d said he was planning a holiday in a time machine. He was going to travel back to the days of the dinosaurs and get chased by a Tyrannosaurus Rex and almost eaten! But he’d find a friendly caveman and sit with him round a campfire and eat prehistoric marshmallows and drink prehistoric lemonade. But Lawrence didn’t believe him, either. He also knew about Thomas and his tall stories.

  But all these tall stories were beginning to have an effect on him. It was after he’d finished telling the caretaker that the headmistress needed polishing because the school inspectors were on their way that he noticed something. What he noticed was that not only could he now see over the heads of all his friends, he could now see over the heads of all the staff as well. And when he looked down at himself, he saw that his school trousers only reached down as far as his knees. Not only that, the arms of his school shirt only reached down as far as his elbows. Thomas, it seemed, was really growing.

  His mum seemed to think so, too. When he got home that afternoon, she took one look at him and sighed loudly.

  ‘You’re growing,’ she said.

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Thomas. ‘The world is shrinking.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ said his mum. ‘The world can’t shrink.’

  ‘It can!’ said Thomas. ‘It was in all the newspapers last week!’

  Even as he finished speaking, it happened. His head, which had been just about brushing the ceiling, was now very firmly wedged against it. His mum looked up at him and sighed again.

  ‘See?’ she said. ‘If the world was shrinking, no way would it shrink that quickly. You’re growing.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Thomas. ‘Oh well, I can’t stay a boy forever, I suppose.’