More William (15 page)

‘Which is Mr Jones? The one that walks funny?’

They shook with Herculean laughter, so much so that a china cream jug slipped from Mr Blake’s fingers and lay in innumerable pieces round his boots. He kicked them carelessly aside.

‘Yus,’ he said, bending anew to his task, ‘’im wot walks funny.’

‘Why’s he walk funny?’ persisted William. ‘Has he hurt his legs?’

‘Yus,’ said Blake with a wink. ‘’E ’urt ’em at the Blue Cow comin’ ’ere.’

Mr Jones’s sheepish smile broadened into a guffaw.

‘Well, you rest,’ said William sympathetically. ‘You lie down on the sofa an’ rest.
I
’
ll
help, so’s you needn’t do
anything
!’

Mr Jones grew hilarious.

‘Come on!’ he said. ‘My eye! This young gent’s all
roight
, ’e is. You lie down an’ rest, ’e says! Well, ’ere goes!’

To the huge delight of his companions, he stretched himself at length upon the Chesterfield and closed his eyes. William surveyed him with pleasure.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I’ll – I’ll show you my dog when your legs are better. I’ve gotter
fine
dog!’

‘What sort of a dog?’ said Mr Blake, resting from his labours to ask the question.

WILLIAM SURVEYED HIM WITH PLEASURE. ‘I’LL SHOW YOU MY DOG WHEN YOUR LEGS ARE BETTER,’ HE SAID.

‘He’s no
partic’lar
sort of a dog,’ said William honestly, ‘but he’s a jolly fine dog. You should see him do tricks!’

‘Well, let’s ’ave a look at ’im. Fetch ’im art.’

William, highly delighted, complied, and Jumble showed off his best tricks to an appreciative audience of two (Mr Jones had already succumbed to the drowsiness that had long been creeping over
him and was lying dead to the world on the Chesterfield).

Jumble begged for a biscuit, he walked (perforce, for William’s hand firmly imprisoned his front ones) on his hind legs, he leapt over William’s arm. He leapt into the very centre of
an old Venetian glass that was on the floor by the packing case and cut his foot slightly on a piece of it, but fortunately suffered no ill effects.

William saw consternation on Mr Johnson’s face and hastened to gather the pieces and fling them lightly into the waste-paper basket.

‘It’s all right,’ he said soothingly. ‘She
said
things get broken removin’.’

When Mrs Brown entered the room ten minutes later, Mr Jones was still asleep, Jumble was still performing, and Messrs Blake and Johnson were standing in negligent attitudes against the wall
appraising the eager Jumble with sportsmanlike eyes.

‘’E’s no breed,’ Mr Blake was saying, ‘but ‘e’s orl
roight
. I’d loik to see ’im arfter a rat. I bet
‘e’d—’

Seeing Mrs Brown, he hastily seized a vase from the mantelpiece and carried it over to the packing case, where he appeared suddenly to be working against time. Mr Johnson followed his
example.

Mrs Brown’s eyes fell upon Mr Jones and she gasped.

‘Whatever—’ she began.

‘’E’s not very well ’m,’ explained Mr Blake obsequiously. ‘ ’E’ll be orl roight when ’e’s slep’ it orf. ’E’s always
orl roight when ’e’s slep’ it orf.’

‘He’s hurt his legs,’ explained William. ‘He hurt his legs at the Blue Cow. He’s jus’
restin’
!’

Mrs Brown swallowed and counted twenty to herself. It was a practice she had acquired in her youth for use in times when words crowded upon her too thick and fast for utterance.

At last she spoke with unusual bitterness.

‘Need he rest with his muddy boots on my Chesterfield?’

At this point Mr Jones awoke from sleep, hypnotised out of it by her cold eyes.

He was profuse in his apologies. He believed he had fainted. He had had a bad headache, brought on probably by exposure to the early morning sun. He felt much better after his faint. He
regretted having fainted on to the lady’s sofa. He partially brushed off the traces of his dirty boots with an equally dirty hand.

‘You’ve done
nothing
in this room,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘We shall
never
get finished. William, come away! I’m sure you’re hindering them.’

‘Me?’ said William in righteous indignation. ‘
Me?
I’m
helpin’
!’

After what seemed to Mrs Brown to be several hours they began on the heavy furniture. They staggered out with the dining-room sideboard, carrying away part of the staircase with it in transit.
Mrs Brown, with a paling face, saw her beloved antique cabinet dismembered against the doorpost, and watched her favourite collapsible card table perform a thorough and permanent collapse. Even the
hatstand from the hall was devoid of some pegs when it finally reached the van.

‘This is simply breaking my heart,’ moaned Mrs Brown.

‘Where’s William?’ said Ethel, gloomily, looking round.

‘Shh! I don’t know. He disappeared a few minutes ago. I don’t know
where
he is. I only hope he’ll stay there!’

The removers now proceeded to the drawing-room and prepared to take out the piano. They tried it every way. The first way took a piece out of the doorpost, the second made a dint two inches deep
in the piano, the third knocked over the grandfather clock, which fell with a resounding crash, breaking its glass, and incidentally a tall china plant stand that happened to be in its line of
descent.

Mrs Brown sat down and covered her face with her hands.

‘It’s like some dreadful
nightmare
!’ she groaned.

Messrs Blake, Johnson and Jones paused to wipe the sweat of honest toil from their brows.

‘I dunno ’
ow
it’s to be got out,’ said Mr Blake despairingly.

‘It got in!’ persisted Mrs Brown. ‘If it got in it can get out.’

‘We’ll ’ave another try,’ said Mr Blake with the air of a hero leading a forlorn hope. ‘Come on, mites.’

This time was successful and the piano passed safely into the hall, leaving in its wake only a dislocated door handle and a torn chair cover. It then passed slowly and devastatingly down the
hall and drive.

The next difficulty was to get it into the van. Messrs Blake, Johnson and Jones tried alone and failed. For ten minutes they tried alone and failed. Between each attempt they paused to mop their
brows and throw longing glances towards the Blue Cow, whose signboard was visible down the road.

The gardener, the cook, the housemaid, and Ethel all gave their assistance, and at last, with a superhuman effort, they raised it to the van.

They then all rested weakly against the nearest support and gasped for breath.

‘Well,’ said Mr Jones, looking reproachfully at the mistress of the house, ‘I’ve never ’andled a pianner—’

At this moment a well-known voice was heard in the recesses of the van, behind the piano and sideboard and hatstand.

‘Hey! Let me out! What you’ve gone blockin’ up the van for? I can’t get out!’

There was a horror-stricken silence. Then Ethel said sharply:

‘What did you go
in
for?’

The mysterious voice came again with a note of irritability.

‘Well, I was
restin’
. I mus’ have some rest, mustn’t I? I’ve been helpin’ all mornin’.’

‘Well, couldn’t you
see
we were putting things in?’

The unseen presence spoke again.

‘No, I can’t. I wasn’t lookin’!’

‘You can’t get out, William,’ said Mrs Brown desperately. ‘We can’t move everything again. You must just stop there till it’s unpacked. We’ll try to
push your lunch in to you.’

There was determination in the voice that answered:

‘I want to get out! I’m
going
to get out!’

There came tumultuous sounds – the sound of the ripping of some material, of the smashing of glass and of William’s voice softly ejaculating ‘Crumbs! that ole
lookin’-glass gettin’ in the way!’

‘You’d better take out the piano again,’ said Mrs Brown wanly. ‘It’s the only thing to do.’

With straining, and efforts, and groans, and a certain amount of destruction, the piano was eventually lowered again to the ground. Then the sideboard and hatstand were moved to one side, and
finally there emerged from the struggle – William and Jumble. Jumble’s coat was covered with little pieces of horsehair, as though from the interior of a chair. William’s jersey
was torn from shoulder to hem. He looked stern and indignant.

‘A nice thing to do!’ he began bitterly. ‘Shuttin’ me up in that ole van. How d’you expect me to breathe, shut in with ole bits of furniture. Folks can’t live
without air, can they? A nice thing if you’d found me
dead
!’

Emotion had deprived his audience of speech for the time being.

With a certain amount of dignity he walked past them into the house followed by Jumble.

It took another quarter of an hour to replace the piano. As they were making the final effort William came out of the house.

‘Here,
I’ll
help!’ he said, and laid a finger on the side. His presence rather hindered their efforts, but they succeeded in spite of it. William, however, was under the
impression that his strength alone had wrought the miracle. He put on an outrageous swagger.

‘I’m jolly strong,’ he confided to Mr Blake. ‘I’m stronger than most folk.’

Here the removers decided that it was time for their midday repast and retired to consume it in the shady back garden. All except Mr Jones, who said he would go down the road for a drink of
lemonade. William said that there was lemonade in the larder and offered to fetch it, but Mr Jones said hastily that he wanted a special sort. He had to be very particular what sort of lemonade he
drank.

Mrs Brown and Ethel sat down to a scratch meal in the library. William followed his two new friends wistfully into the garden.

‘William! Come to lunch!’ called Mrs Brown.

‘Oh, leave him alone, Mother,’ pleaded Ethel. ‘Let us have a little peace.’

WILLIAM’S JERSEY WAS TORN FROM SHOULDER TO HEM. HE LOOKED STERN AND INDIGNANT.

But William did not absent himself for long.

‘I want a red handkerchief,’ he demanded loudly from the hall.

There was no response.

He appeared in the doorway.

‘I say, I want a red handkerchief. Have you gotter red handkerchief, Mother?’

‘No, dear.’

‘Have you, Ethel?’

‘NO!’

‘All right,’ said William aggrievedly. ‘You needn’t get mad, need you? I’m only askin’ for a red handkerchief. I don’t want a red handkerchief off you
if you haven’t
got
it, do I?’

‘William, go
away
and shut the door.’

William obeyed. Peace reigned throughout the house and garden for the next half-hour. Then Mrs Brown’s conscience began to prick her.

‘William must have something to eat, dear. Do go and find him.’

Ethel went out to the back garden. A scene of happy restfulness met her gaze. Mr Blake reclined against one tree consuming bread and cheese, while a red handkerchief covered his knees. Mr
Johnson reclined against another tree, also consuming bread and cheese, while a red handkerchief covered his knees. William leant against a third tree consuming a little heap of scraps collected
from the larder, while on his knees also reposed what was apparently a red handkerchief. Jumble sat in the middle catching with nimble, snapping jaws dainties flung to him from time to time by his
circle of admirers.

Ethel advanced nearer and inspected William’s red handkerchief with dawning horror in her face. Then she gave a scream.

‘
William
, that’s my silk scarf! It was for a hat. I’ve only just bought it. Oh, Mother, do
do
something to William! He’s taken my new silk scarf – the
one I’d got to trim my leghorn. He’s the most
awful
boy. I don’t think—’

Mrs Brown came out hastily to pacify her. William handed the silk scarf back to its rightful owner.

‘Well, I’m
sorry
. I
thought
it was a red handkerchief. It
looked
like a red handkerchief. Well, how could I
know
it wasn’t a red handkerchief?
I’ve given it her back. It’s all right, Jumble’s only bit one end of it. And that’s only jam what dropped on it. Well, it’ll
wash
, won’t it? Well,
I’ve said I’m sorry.