Goodnight, Hill

The village of Hobble-on-the-Hill sat on the back of a hill. It was a very big hill, and a very sleepy one.

The Hill was alive, in a slow and snoozy way. The Hill had one ear, somewhere up near the top. And the Hill liked to be said goodnight to.

That was the rule in Hobble-on-the-Hill. Every evening the grown-ups stood on their doorsteps and called it out all together. “Goodnight, Hill!” Then the Hill lay still all night, and every bed in the village stayed flat.

Tam loved that rule. Tam loved any rule that came with something to say. He said goodnight to everything. He said goodnight to Mom and to his cat and to his slippers. He said goodnight to the soap, and put it back in its dish so it would be comfy.

Then came Pancake Night.

Everybody in Hobble-on-the-Hill cooked pancakes in the square. They flipped them high and caught them in their pans, and they sang the pancake song: “Flip, flop, pancake, up and round you go! Flip, flop, pancake, land down soft and slow.”

The baker ate eleven pancakes. Tam’s mom ate nine and a half. Tam ate four, and four is a lot of pancakes for a small boy.

By the end, the whole village was so full and so sleepy that everybody went straight home and straight to bed. Nobody stood on a doorstep. Nobody remembered the rule. Nobody but Tam.

Tam said goodnight to Mom. He said goodnight to the cat, and to his slippers, and to the soap. Then he leaned out of his window and said, “Goodnight, Hill.”

But Tam was small, and his voice was small, and the Hill’s one ear was a long way off. The Hill did not hear.

So the Hill began to wriggle.

Tam’s bed tipped to one side. His slippers slid under the cupboard. Downstairs, every picture on the wall went crooked. The milk jugs went clink, clink, clink all along the shelf. And the cat slid the whole length of the kitchen floor on her bottom, and sat at the far end looking very cross about it.

In the next room, Mom snored a big pancake snore. Her bed slid to the window and back again. She did not wake up.

“Oh dear,” said Tam. “Somebody has to say it properly.”

He put on his boots and his coat. He took a saucepan and a wooden spoon, just in case. Then he went up the lane in the soft blue night, past the well, past the bakery, and up to the very top of the village. The moon was round and yellow, like the best pancake of all.

At the top, Tam took a big breath and shouted, “GOODNIGHT, HILL!”

Along came the wind. It picked up his goodnight and blew it over the rooftops and away.

The Hill wriggled.

So Tam banged the saucepan with the spoon. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Goodnight, Hill!”

The Hill thought it was breakfast.

The Hill sat up a little, the way Tam did when he smelled toast. And every chimney in the village leaned the same way, like candles on a wobbly cake.

“Oh dear,” said Tam again.

“Excuse me,” said a voice by his boots. “That is far too loud.”

It was Rabbit. Rabbit had a very small broom, and looked at the saucepan rather hard.

“Nobody ever uses the ear,” said Rabbit. “Come and see.”

Rabbit hopped over to a hole in the grass. A little doormat lay in front of the hole. It was swept very clean. On the doormat it said: EAR. Wipe your feet.

“I sweep it every morning,” said Rabbit. “Nobody ever wipes.”

So Tam wiped his feet. Wipe, wipe. Wipe, wipe. Rabbit nodded.

Then Tam knelt down. He put his face close to the hole. And he whispered, as softly as Mom did at the end of a story, “Goodnight, Hill.”

Then he hummed the pancake song, very quietly. Flip, flop, pancake, land down soft and slow.

Deep down under Tam’s knees, the Hill let out a huge, slow sigh. Hhhhhoooooooo. The grass rippled all the way down to the river. Then the Hill settled, soft and slow, like a pancake landing in its pan.

Down in the village, every chimney stood up straight. Every picture swung straight on its nail. The milk jugs went clink, clink, clink back to where they belonged. The cat stopped sliding, licked one paw, and pretended she had meant to sit there all along.

“There,” said Rabbit, and gave the doormat a little brush. “The Hill only wanted to be said goodnight to. Same as everybody.”

“Goodnight, Rabbit,” said Tam.

“Goodnight, Tam,” said Rabbit. “Come again. Wipe your feet.” And Rabbit hopped down into the ear.

Tam walked home on flat ground. The lane did not tip once.

Mom was at the top of the stairs in her dressing gown. Her hair was squashed flat on one side.

“Tam?” said Mom. “I dreamed my bed was a boat.”

“It was the Hill,” said Tam. “Nobody said goodnight. So I did.”

Mom looked at the saucepan. Then she laughed and gave him a big hug. “Too many pancakes,” said Mom. “I’m glad you remembered.”

She found his slippers under the cupboard and set them side by side. She tucked him into bed, nice and tight. The cat came up and curled on his feet.

Tam said goodnight to Mom. He said goodnight to the cat. He said goodnight to the soap, even though the soap was in the bathroom.

Then he turned to the window and whispered, “Goodnight, Hill.”

The Hill was already fast asleep. But Tam said it anyway, because it was the rule, and he liked it.

The pictures hung straight. The milk jugs stood still. And Tam fell asleep in a bed that stayed perfectly, perfectly flat.