The Magic Paint Box

by Sheila Powell

Tom Beck was the smallest boy in the class.

His ears were small.
His hands were small.
His feet were small.
Even his name was small.

Perhaps, thought Tom, if I had a bigger name I would grow to fit it. Benjamin Darlington's enormous. He already takes size six shoes.

So Tom gave himself another name. Archibald. He liked the sound of that.

Tom Archibald Beck.

Every day for a week he measured his ears and his feet and his hands. By Saturday, he was sure they had shrunk. So he buried the tape measure in the garden and sat on his favourite log to think.

That's where he was when Grandma came looking for him.

"Oh dear!" she said. "You've got a face as long as Friday."

"I wish I was as long as Friday," said Tom.

"Ah," said Grandma, "I see. Shall I try stretching you?"

"It's not funny! Ben Darlington calls me Titchy and I hate it."

"You'll grow," said Grandma. "Your dad did. He wasn't very big either."

"You're just saying that."

"Of course I'm not. The other boys called him Tiddler. You ask him."

Tom had to smile. His dad was pretty big now.

"Was he sad about it? Did he hate being little?"

"He was just like you," said Grandma, "at least, for a time, until he decided to do something about it."

"To make him grow?"

Grandma smiled. "Not exactly. The best you can do is go to bed early, think good thoughts, and eat your greens."

"I like spinach," said Tom.

Grandma's eyebrows shot up.

"And peas. But I hate cabbage - and sprouts."

"Hm!" said Grandma.

"So what did he do?"

"He worked hard at football," said Grandma. "He put all his energy into being good at it, really good, and do you know what happened?"

Tom shook his head.

"No one noticed how small he was any more."

"Did he grow?"

"Not straight away, but it didn't matter. He felt much bigger and that's what counted."

Tom wasn't sure he understood. "I'm useless at football," he said.

"Then try something else," said Grandma, "but you have to decide what."

"OK," said Tom.

He tried to be better at arithmetic, but the numbers jumped in and out of his head and all over the page.

He tried to be better at spelling, but the letters wobbled and fell off the line.

And when it came to playing football, he was hopeless - all those other boys rushing towards him. He just closed his eyes and kicked the air.

The only thing he could concentrate on was painting. He loved using colours and painting dreams. But no one knew what his pictures were except him - and Grandma. She had an inkling. He could tell by the way she smiled and nodded.

On Saturday she found him on his log.

She'd brought him a present.

Tom tore off the paper. "It's a paint box," he said.

"I thought you needed a little help."

"But I've already got some paints."

"Not like these," said Grandma. "They're magic."

"Oh!" said Tom. He didn't doubt her for a moment. The colours were amazing, every shade you could imagine, each in its own tiny pot. The box itself was wooden, not plastic, and on the lid was painted a golden bird. The brushes too were special, made of hair and fine bristle. It was wonderful, the best present he'd ever had.

Tom couldn't wait to get started.

"Thanks, Grandma."

She nodded. "Just one thing. Before you start to paint you must make a picture in your head. Just like when you write. Close your eyes and imagine the picture. When you see it clearly, the brushes and paints will do the rest."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes," said Grandma.

And she was right.

On Saturday, watching the rain on the new beech leaves, Tom thought of a jungle, with vines and enormous trees and splashes of sunshine and jewel-bright flowers. He closed his eyes and there it was, so real he could almost hear the hidden animals breathing and smell the heat and the wet leaves and the earth.

He picked up a brush and began to paint.

When his mum came in, she said, "Wow! What a lovely picture. I can almost step into it."

Tom was pleased.

On Sunday he thought of space, going on and on, with stars and planets and satellites and moons. His thoughts were so big they made him shiver.

When his dad came in and saw the painting, he said, "Amazing! It goes on forever."

Tom was pleased.

Then he thought of a tree. Not any old tree, but the ancient oak at the bottom of Grandma's garden. He even painted the old seat that went all around it.

When Grandma saw it, she had tears in her eyes.

She loved that old tree.

"You've painted my old swing," she said, "even though it's not there any more."

On Monday, Tom took his paintings to school.

"You didn't do those," said Benjamin.

"They're very good," said his teacher.

In the afternoon, she read to them about a boy and a mysterious garden that appeared when the clock struck thirteen. Then she gave everyone a sheet of white paper and asked them to paint a midnight garden, a garden that came alive in the moonlight.

Benjamin grinned. He was good at painting. He was good at everything.

Straightaway he began dropping splodges of colour on to the paper.

Tom stared at the powder paints and his heart slid right down into his shoes. He couldn't make a good picture without his magic paint box, without all those wonderful colours and those amazing brushes - could he? Then he remembered what Grandma had said. "You must make a picture in your head."

He closed his eyes.

He saw the garden with trees and statues, silver in the strange light of the moon - and a crazy-paving path ziz-zagging between bushes and trees. He mixed black with white and red with blue and he began to paint. Everyone finished before him, but he was so busy he didn't notice. Everyone came to look.

"Wow!" said Sally.

"Magic!" said Ellie

"Mega! said Peter.

"Cool!" said James.

"It's brilliant! You going to be a real artist, Tom?" said Benjamin Darlington.

And suddenly, Tom felt himself growing, just like Grandma said he would.

"Maybe," he said.

"You're a dark horse, Tom Beck," said his teacher. Who taught you to paint like that?"

"My grandma," said Tom.

"So, what's the secret?" asked his teacher. "Any hints for the rest of us?"

"Just think it," said Tom, "until it's inside your head. Then pick up your brush and make it happen."

He picked up his brush and put another tiny star in the sky.