Just William (18 page)

It must be explained at this point that the domestics of the Brown household were busy arranging refreshments in a marquee in the garden. The front hall was quite empty.

In about a quarter of an hour the game of mountaineering was in full swing. On the lowest steps of the staircase reposed the mattress from William’s father’s and mother’s bed,
above it the mattress from Miss Grant’s bed, above that the mattress from William’s bed, and on the top, the mattress from Dorita’s bed. In all the bedrooms the bedclothes lay in
disarray on the floor. A few nails driven through the ends of the mattresses into the stairs secured the stability of the ‘mountain’. Still wearing their robes of ceremony, they
scrambled up in stockinged feet, every now and then losing foothold and rolling down to the pile of pillows and bolsters (taken indiscriminately from all the beds) which was arranged at the foot of
the staircase. Their mirth was riotous and uproarious. They used the alpenstock in turns. It was a great help. They could get a firm hold on the mattresses with the point of the alpenstock. William
stood at the top of the mountain, hot and panting, his alpenstock in his hand, and paused for breath. He was well aware that retribution was not far off – was in the neighbouring church, to
be quite exact, and would return in a carriage within the next few minutes. He was aware that an explanation of the yellow stain was yet to be demanded. He was aware that this was not a use to
which the family mattresses could legitimately be put. But he cared for none of these things. In his mind’s eye he only saw a crowd of small boys assembled outside a church door with eager
eyes fixed on a carriage from which descended – Miss Grant, Mrs Brown, and Mr Brown. His life stretched before him bright and rose-coloured. A smile of triumph curved his lips.

‘Yah! Who waited at a church for someone what never came? Yah!’

‘I hope you didn’t get a bad cold waitin’ for me on Wednesday at the church door.’

‘Some folks is easy had. I bet you all believed I was coming on Wednesday.’

Such sentences floated idly through his mind.

‘I say, my turn for that stick with the spike.’

William handed it to her in silence.

‘I say,’ she repeated, ‘what do you think of this marriage business?’

‘Dunno,’ said William laconically.

‘If I’d got to marry’ went on the maid of honour, ‘I’d as soon marry
you
as anyone.’

‘I wun’t mind,’ said the page gallantly. ‘But,’ he added hastily, ‘in ornery clothes.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she lost her foothold and rolled down to the pile of pillows. From them came her voice muffled, but clear as ever, ‘You betcher life. In ornery clothes.’

CHAPTER 10

W
illiam went whistling down the street, his hands in his pockets. William’s whistle was more penetrating than melodious. Sensitive people
fled shuddering at the sound. The proprietor of the sweet shop, however, was not sensitive. He nodded affably as William passed. William was a regular customer of his – as regular, that is,
as a wholly inadequate allowance would permit. Encouraged, William paused at the doorway and ceased to whistle.

‘’Ullo, Mr Moss!’ he said.

‘’Ullo, William!’ said Mr Moss.

‘Anythin’ cheap today?’ went on William hopefully.

Mr Moss shook his head.

‘Twopence an ounce cheapest,’ he said.

William sighed.

‘That’s awful
dear
,’ he said.

‘What isn’t dear? Tell me that. What isn’t dear?’ said Mr Moss lugubriously.

‘Well, gimme two ounces. I’ll pay you tomorrow,’ said William casually Mr Moss shook his head.

‘Go on!’ said William. ‘I get my money tomorrow. You know I get my money tomorrow.’

‘Cash, young sir,’ said Mr Moss heavily. ‘My terms is cash. ’Owever,’ he relented, ‘I’ll give you a few over when the scales is down tomorrow for a New
Year’s gift.’

‘Honest Injun?’

‘Honest Injun.’

‘Well, gimme them now then,’ said William.

Mr Moss hesitated.

‘They wouldn’t be no New Year’s gift then, would they?’ he said.

William considered.

‘I’ll eat ’em today but I’ll
think
about ’em tomorrow,’ he promised. ‘That’ll make ’em a New Year’s gift.’

Mr Moss took out a handful of assorted fruit drops and passed them to William. William received them gratefully.

‘An’ what good resolution are you going to take tomorrow?’ went on Mr Moss.

William crunched in silence for a minute, then,

‘Good resolution?’ he questioned. ‘I ain’t got none.’

‘You’ve got to have a good resolution for New Year’s Day’ said Mr Moss firmly.

‘Same as giving up sugar in tea in Lent and wearing blue on Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race Day?’ said William with interest.

‘Yes, same as that. Well, you’ve got to think of some fault you’d like to cure and start tomorrow.’

William pondered.

‘Can’t think of anything,’ he said at last. ‘You think of something for me.’

‘You might take one to do your schoolwork properly,’ he suggested.

William shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘that wun’t be much fun, would it? Crumbs! It
wun’t
!’

‘Or – to keep your clothes tidy?’ went on his friend.

William shuddered at the thought.

‘Or to – give up shouting and whistling.’

William crammed two more sweets into his mouth and shook his head very firmly.

‘Crumbs, no!’ he ejaculated indistinctly.

‘Or to be perlite.’

‘Perlite?’

‘Yes. “Please” and “thank you”, and “if you don’t mind me sayin’ so”, and “if you excuse me contradictin’ of you”, and
“can I do anything for you?” and such like.’

William was struck with this.

‘Yes, I might be that,’ he said. He straightened his collar and stood up. ‘Yes, I might try bein’ that. How long has it to go on, though?’

‘Not long,’ said Mr Moss. ‘Only the first day gen’rally Folks gen’rally give ’em up after that.’

‘What’s yours?’ said William, putting four sweets into his mouth as he spoke.

Mr Moss looked round his little shop with the air of a conspirator, then leant forward confidentially.

‘I’m goin’ to arsk ’er again,’ he said.

‘Who?’ said William mystified.

‘Someone I’ve arsked reg’lar every New Year’s Day for ten year.’

‘Asked what?’ said William, gazing sadly at his last sweet.

‘Arsked to take me, o’ course,’ said Mr Moss with an air of contempt for William’s want of intelligence.

‘Take you where?’ said William. ‘Where d’you want to go? Why can’t you go yourself?’

‘Ter
marry
me, I means,’ said Mr Moss, blushing slightly as he spoke.

‘Well,’ said William with a judicial air, ‘I wun’t have asked the same one for ten years. I’d have tried someone else. I’d have gone on asking other people,
if I wanted to get married. You’d be sure to find someone that wouldn’t mind you – with a sweet shop, too. She must be a softie. Does she
know
you’ve got a sweet
shop?’

Mr Moss merely sighed and popped a bull’s eye into his mouth with an air of abstracted melancholy.

The next morning William leapt out of bed with an expression of stern resolve. ‘I’m goin’ to be p’lite,’ he remarked to his bedroom furniture.
‘I’m goin’ to be p’lite all day.’

He met his father on the stairs as he went down to breakfast.

‘Good mornin’, Father,’ he said, with what he fondly imagined to be a courtly manner. ‘Can I do anything for you today?’

His father looked down at him suspiciously.

‘What do you want now?’ he demanded.

William was hurt.

‘I’m only bein’ p’lite. It’s – you know – one of those things you take on New Year’s Day. Well, I’ve took one to be p’lite.’

His father apologised. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You see, I’m not used to it. It startled me.’

At breakfast William’s politeness shone forth in all its glory.

‘Can I pass you anything, Robert?’ he said sweetly.

His elder brother coldly ignored him. ‘Going to rain again,’ he said to the world in general.

‘If you’ll ’scuse me contradicting of you Robert,’ said William, ‘I heard the milkman sayin’ it was goin’ to be fine. If you’ll ’scuse me
contradictin’ you.’

‘Look here!’ said Robert angrily. ‘Less of your cheek!’

‘Seems to me no one in this house understands wot bein’ p’lite is,’ said William bitterly. ‘Seems to me one might go on bein’ p’lite in this house for
years an’ no one know wot one was doin’.’

His mother looked at him anxiously.

‘You’re feeling quite well, dear, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You haven’t got a headache or anything, have you?’

‘No. I’m bein’
p’lite
,’ he said irritably, then pulled himself up suddenly. ‘I’m quite well, thank you, Mother dear,’ he said in a tone of
cloying sweetness.

‘Does it hurt you much?’ inquired his brother tenderly.

‘No thank you, Robert,’ said William politely.

After breakfast he received his pocket money with courteous gratitude.

‘Thank you very much, Father.’

‘Not at all. Pray don’t mention it, William. It’s quite all right,’ said Mr Brown, not to be outdone. Then, ‘It’s rather trying. How long does it
last?’

‘What?’

‘The resolution.’

‘Oh, bein’ p’lite! He said they didn’t often do it after the first day.’

‘He’s quite right, whoever he is,’ said Mr Brown. ‘They don’t.’

‘He’s goin’ to ask her again,’ volunteered William.

‘Who ask who what?’ said Mr Brown, but William had departed. He was already on his way to Mr Moss’s shop.

Mr Moss was at the door, hatted and coated, and gazing anxiously down the street.

‘Goo’ mornin’, Mr Moss,’ said William politely.

Mr Moss took out a large antique watch.

‘He’s late!’ he said. ‘I shall miss the train. Oh, dear! It will be the first New Year’s Day I’ve missed in ten years.’

William was inspecting the sweets with the air of an expert.

‘Them pink ones are new,’ he said at last. ‘How much are they?’

‘Eightpence a quarter. Oh, dear, I shall miss the train.’

‘They’re very small ones,’ said William disparagingly. ‘You’d think they’d be less than that – small ones like that.’

‘Will you – will you do something for me and I’ll
give
you a quarter of those sweets?’

William gasped. The offer was almost too munificent to be true.

‘I’ll do
anythin’
for that,’ he said simply.

‘Well, just stay in the shop till my nephew Bill comes. ’E’ll be ’ere in two shakes an’ I’ll miss my train if I don’t go now. ’E’s
goin’ to keep the shop for me till I’m back an’ ’e’ll be ’ere any minute now. Jus’ tell ’im I ’ad to run for to catch my train an’ if
anyone comes into the shop before ’e comes jus’ tell ’em to wait or to come back later. You can weigh yourself a quarter o’ those sweets.’

Mr Moss was certainly in a holiday mood. William pinched himself just to make sure that he was still alive and had not been translated suddenly to the realms of the blessed.

Mr Moss, with a last anxious glance at his watch, hurried off in the direction of the station.

William was left alone. He spent a few moments indulging in roseate daydreams. The ideal of his childhood – perhaps of everyone’s childhood – was realised. He had a sweet shop.
He walked round the shop with a conscious swagger, pausing to pop into his mouth a Butter Ball – composed, as the label stated, of pure farm cream and best butter. It was all his – all
those rows and rows of gleaming bottles of sweets of every size and colour, those boxes and boxes of attractively arranged chocolates. Deliberately he imagined himself as their owner. By the time
he had walked round the shop three times he believed that he was the owner.

At this point a small boy appeared in the doorway. William scowled at him.

‘Well,’ he said ungraciously, ‘what d’you want?’ Then, suddenly remembering his resolution, ‘
Please
what d’you want?’