More William (21 page)

The tense lines of Mr Lambkin’s face relaxed.

‘Oh, William,’ he said, ‘It’s a great relief. I’m going away early tomorrow, but I was afraid that tonight—’ he was almost hysterical with relief.
‘She’s so kind, but I was afraid that – well, well, I can’t say I’m sorry I’d promised to come, and I couldn’t break it. But I was afraid – and I hear
she’s sold her house and is leaving in a month, so – but she’s kind –
very
kind.’

He turned back with alacrity.

‘Thanks for letting me have the clothes,’ said William.

‘Oh, you’re quite welcome, William. They’re nice things for a boy to dress up in, no doubt. I can’t say I – but she’s
very
kind. Don’t let her
see you playing with them, William.’

William grunted and returned to his back garden.

For some time silence reigned over the three back gardens. Then Miss Gregoria Mush emerged and came towards the seat by the fence. A figure was already seated there in the half dusk; a figure
swathed in a toga with the toga drawn also over its drooping head.

‘Gregorius!’ said the President. ‘How dear of you to come in costume!’

The figure made no movement.

‘You know what I have in my heart, Gregorius?’

Still no answer.

‘Your heart is too full for words,’ she said kindly. ‘The thought of having your destiny linked with mine takes speech from you. But have courage, dear Gregorius. You shall
work for me. We will do great things together. We will be married at the little church.’

Still no answer.

‘Gregorius!’ she murmured tenderly:

She leant against him suddenly, and he yielded beneath the pressure with a sudden sound of dissolution. Two cushions slid to the ground, the toga fell back, revealing a broomstick with a turnip
fixed firmly to the top. It bore the legend:

And from the other side of the fence came a deep sigh of satisfaction from the artist behind the scenes.

‘GREGORIUS,’ SAID THE PRESIDENT. ‘HOW DEAR OF YOU TO COME IN COSTUME!’ THE FIGURE MADE NO MOVEMENT.

CHAPTER 14

I
t was Christmas. The air was full of excitement and secrecy. William, whose old-time faith in notes to Father Christmas sent up the chimney had
died a natural death as the result of bitter experience, had thoughtfully presented each of his friends and relations with a list of his immediate requirements.

He had a vague and not unfounded misgiving that his family would begin at the bottom of the list instead of the top. He was not surprised, therefore, when he saw his father come home rather
later than usual carrying a parcel of books under his arm. A few days afterwards he announced casually at breakfast.

‘Well, I only hope no one gives me
The Great Chief
, or
The Pirate Ship
, or
The Land of Danger
for Christmas.’

His father started.

‘Why?’ he said sharply.

‘Jus’ ’cause I’ve read them, that’s all,’ explained William with a bland look of innocence.

The glance that Mr Brown threw at his offspring was not altogether devoid of suspicion, but he said nothing. He set off after breakfast with the same parcel of books under his arm and returned
with another. This time, however, he did not put them in the library cupboard, and William searched in vain.

The question of Christmas festivities loomed large upon the social horizon.

‘Robert and Ethel can have their party on the day before Christmas Eve,’ decided Mrs Brown, ‘and then William can have his on Christmas Eve.’

William surveyed his elder brother and sister gloomily.

‘Yes, an’ us eat up jus’ what they’ve left,’ he said with bitterness. ‘
I
know!’

Mrs Brown changed the subject hastily.

‘Now let’s see whom we’ll have for your party, William,’ she said, taking out pencil and paper. ‘You say whom you’d like and I’ll make you a
list.’

‘Ginger an’ Douglas an’ Henry and Joan,’ said William promptly.

‘Yes? Who else?’

‘I’d like the milkman.’

‘You can’t have the milkman, William. Don’t be so foolish.’

‘Well, I’d like to have Fisty Green. He can whistle with his fingers in his mouth.’

‘He’s a butcher’s boy, William! You
can’t
have him.’

‘Well, who
can
I have?’

‘Johnnie Brent?’

‘I don’t like him.’

‘But you must invite him. He asked you to his.’

‘Well, I didn’t want to go,’ he said irritably, ‘you made me.’

‘But if he asks you to his you must ask him back.’

‘You don’t want me to invite folks I don’t
want
?’ William said in the voice of one goaded against his will into exasperation.

‘You must invite people who invite you,’ said Mrs Brown firmly; ‘that’s what we always do at parties.’

‘Then they’ve got to invite you again and it goes on and on and
on
,’ argued William. ‘where’s the
sense
of it? I don’t like Johnnie Brent
an’ he don’t like me an’ if we go on inviting each other an’ our mothers go on making us go, it’ll go on and on and
on.
Where’s the
sense
of it? I
only jus’ want to know where’s the
sense
of it?’

His logic was unanswerable.

‘Well, anyway, William, I’ll draw up the list. You can go and play’

William walked away, frowning, with his hands in his pockets.

‘Where’s the
sense
of it?’ he muttered as he went.

He began to wend his way towards the spot where he, and Douglas, and Ginger, and Henry met daily in order to while away the hours of the Christmas holidays. At present they lived and moved and
had their being in the characters of Indian Chiefs.

As William walked down the back street, which led by a short cut to their meeting place, he unconsciously assumed an arrogant strut, suggestive of some warrior prince surrounded by his gallant
braves.

‘Garn!
Swank!
’

He turned with a dark scowl.

On the doorstep sat a little girl, gazing up at him with blue eyes beneath a tousled mop of auburn hair.

William’s eyes travelled sternly from her Titian curls to her bare feet. He assumed a threatening attitude and scowled fiercely.

‘You better not say
that
again,’ he said darkly.

‘Why not?’ she said with a jeering laugh.

‘Well, you’d just better
not
,’ he said with a still more ferocious scowl.

‘What’d you do?’ she persisted.

He considered for a moment in silence. Then: ‘You’d see what I’d do!’ he said ominously.

‘Garn!
Swank!
’ she repeated. ‘Now do it! Go on, do it!’

‘I’ll – let you off
this
time,’ he said judicially.

‘Garn!
Softie.
You can’t do anything, you can’t! You’re a softie!’

‘I could cut your head off an’ scalp you an’ leave you hanging on a tree, I could,’ he said fiercely, ‘an’ I will, too, if you go on calling me
names.’

‘
Softie! Swank!
Now cut it off! Go on!’

He looked down at her mocking blue eyes.

‘You’re jolly lucky I don’t start on you,’ he said threateningly. ‘Folks I do start on soon get sorry, I can tell you.’

‘What do you do to them?’

He changed the subject abruptly.

‘What’s your name?’ he said.

‘Sheila. What’s yours?’

‘Red Hand – I mean, William.’

‘I’ll tell you sumpthin’ if you’ll come an’ sit down by me.’

‘What’ll you tell me?’

‘Sumpthin’ I bet you don’t know.’

‘I bet I
do
.’

‘Well, come here an’ I’ll tell you.’

He advanced towards her suspiciously. Through the open door he could see a bed in a corner of the dark, dirty room and a woman’s white face upon the pillow.

‘Oh, come
on
!’ said the little girl impatiently.

He came and sat down beside her.

‘Well?’ he said condescendingly. ‘I bet I knew all the time.’

‘No, you didn’t! D’you know,’ she sank her voice in a confidential whisper, ‘there’s a chap called Father Christmas wot comes down chimneys Christmas Eve and
leaves presents in people’s houses?’

He gave a scornful laugh.

‘Oh, that
rot
! You don’t believe
that
rot, do you?’

‘Rot?’ she repeated indignantly. ‘why, it’s
true
–
true
as
true
! A boy told me wot had hanged his stocking up by the chimney an’ in the
morning it was full of things an’ they was jus’ the things wot he’d wrote on a bit of paper an’ thrown up the chimney to this ’ere Christmas chap.’

‘Only
kids
believe that rot,’ persisted William. ‘I left off believin’ it years and
years
ago!’

Her face grew pink with the effort of convincing him.

‘But the boy
told
me, the boy wot got things from this ’ere chap wot comes down chimneys. An’ I’ve wrote wot I want an’ sent it up the chimney. Don’t
you think I’ll get it?’

William looked down at her. Her blue eyes, big with apprehension, were fixed on him, her little rosy lips were parted. William’s heart softened.

‘I dunno,’ he said doubtfully. ‘You might, I s’pose. What d’you want for Christmas?’

‘You won’t tell if I tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Not to no one?’

‘No.’

‘Say, “Cross me throat”.’

‘GARN!
SWANK!
’ WILLIAM TURNED WITH A DARK SCOWL.

William complied with much interest and stored up the phrase for future use.

‘Well,’ she sank her voice very low and spoke into his ear.

‘Dad’s comin’ out Christmas Eve!’

She leant back and watched him, anxious to see the effect of this stupendous piece of news. Her face expressed pride and delight. William’s merely bewilderment.

‘Comin’ out?’ he repeated. ‘Comin’ out of where?’

Her expression changed to one of scorn.

‘
Prison
, of course!
Silly!
’

William was half offended, half thrilled.

‘Well, I couldn’t
know
it was prison, could I? How could I
know
it was prison without bein’ told? It might of been out of anything. What’ – in hushed
curiosity and awe – ‘what was he in prison for?’

‘Stealin’.’

Her pride was unmistakable. William looked at her in disapproval.

‘Stealin’s wicked,’ he said virtuously.

‘Huh,’ she jeered, ‘you
can’t
steal! You’re too soft!
Softie!
You
can’t
steal without bein’ copped fust go, you
can’t.’

‘I
could
!’ he said indignantly. ‘And, anyway, he got copped, di’n’t he? Or he’d not of been in prison,
so there!
’

‘He di’n’t get copped fust go. It was jus’ a sorter mistake, he said. He said it wun’t happen again. He’s a jolly good stealer. The cops said he was and
they
oughter know.’

‘Well,’ said William changing the conversation, ‘what d’you want for Christmas?’

‘I wrote it on a bit of paper an’ sent it up the chimney,’ she said confidingly. ‘I said I di’n’t want no toys nor sweeties nor nuffin’. I said I only
wanted a nice supper for Dad when he comes out Christmas Eve. We ain’t got much money, me an’ Mother, an’ we carn’t get ’im much of a spread, but if this ’ere
Christmas chap sends one fer ’im, it’ll be –
fine
!’