Saturday Morning周六清晨 米歇爾·麥格里安(Michelle Magorian),英國當代最具影響力的兒童文學家之一,1947年生于英格蘭。她自幼熱愛表演,曾留學法國馬賽爾·馬索巴黎國際默劇學校,成為一名職業(yè)演員。回到英國后,她開始了自己的表演生涯,同時對兒童文學產生了濃厚興趣。1981年,米歇爾在寫作學習班完成了自己的兒童文學處女作《晚安,湯姆先生》(Good Night, Mister Tom),一舉奪得了衛(wèi)報兒童小說獎(Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize)。該小說還被BBC評為有史以來最偉大的100部小說之一。1998年,這部小說被改編成電影,受到了廣大英國觀眾的歡迎。此后米歇爾還獲過國際讀書協(xié)會獎(International Reading Association Award),2008年又以其新書Just Henry獲得英國科斯塔圖書獎(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?"