Rachel Character Analysis

Underneath the attic, Tom sat in his armchair with Sammy collapsed across his feet. He held a large black wooden paint box on his lap. He raised the lid, gazed for an instant at the contents and quietly blew away the dust from the tops of the brightly colored pots.

He raised the lid and stared at the brightly colored pots. “Paints?” he inquired.

Tom grunted in the affirmative. “Bit old, but the pots’ll do. You paint?” Willie’s face fell. He longed to paint. “Nah, ‘cos I can’t read.”

“The ones that can read and write gits the paint, that it?”

“Yeh.” Willie touched one of the pots gently with his hand and then hastily took it away.

Since Rachel’s death he hadn’t joined in any of the social activities in Little Weirwold. In his grief he had cut himself off from people, and when he had recovered he had lost the habit of socializing.

Since her death he had never wanted to touch anything that might remind him of her. Trust a strange boy to soften him up. The odd thing was that, after he had entered the paint shop, he had felt as if a heavy wave of sadness had suddenly been lifted from out of him. Memories of her didn’t seem as painful as he had imagined.

“Everythin’ has its own time,” he whispered, and he blushed. “That’s what Mister Tom ses.”

Tom grunted. “I ent ‘ere to listen to meself. One more time.”

“Oh, Rachel,” he said half aloud to the sky. “What would you do?” and he saw her, in his mind, swing round in her long dress and flash her dark eyes at him.

“Kidnap him,” she said laughingly.

Tom gave a start. Rachel wouldn’t have said that. On second thoughts, Rachel would.

After they had died, he had bought the pot of blue paint and placed it in the black wooden box that he had made for her one Christmas, when he was eighteen. As he closed the lid, so he shut out not only the memory of her but also the company of anyone else who reminded him of her.

Underneath the attic, Tom sat in his armchair with Sammy collapsed across his feet. He held a large black wooden paint box on his lap. He raised the lid, gazed for an instant at the contents and quietly blew away the dust from the tops of the brightly colored pots.

He raised the lid and stared at the brightly colored pots. “Paints?” he inquired.

Tom grunted in the affirmative. “Bit old, but the pots’ll do. You paint?” Willie’s face fell. He longed to paint. “Nah, ‘cos I can’t read.”

“The ones that can read and write gits the paint, that it?”

“Yeh.” Willie touched one of the pots gently with his hand and then hastily took it away.

Since Rachel’s death he hadn’t joined in any of the social activities in Little Weirwold. In his grief he had cut himself off from people, and when he had recovered he had lost the habit of socializing.

Since her death he had never wanted to touch anything that might remind him of her. Trust a strange boy to soften him up. The odd thing was that, after he had entered the paint shop, he had felt as if a heavy wave of sadness had suddenly been lifted from out of him. Memories of her didn’t seem as painful as he had imagined.

“Everythin’ has its own time,” he whispered, and he blushed. “That’s what Mister Tom ses.”

Tom grunted. “I ent ‘ere to listen to meself. One more time.”

“Oh, Rachel,” he said half aloud to the sky. “What would you do?” and he saw her, in his mind, swing round in her long dress and flash her dark eyes at him.

“Kidnap him,” she said laughingly.

Tom gave a start. Rachel wouldn’t have said that. On second thoughts, Rachel would.

After they had died, he had bought the pot of blue paint and placed it in the black wooden box that he had made for her one Christmas, when he was eighteen. As he closed the lid, so he shut out not only the memory of her but also the company of anyone else who reminded him of her.