More William (8 page)

‘No, no,’ said Uncle George, but the fire was hot and his chair was comfortable and his educational zeal was dying away, ‘to endure the buffets of fate with equanimity, to
smile at misfortune, to endure whatever comes, and so on—’

He stopped suddenly.

WILLIAM WAS ON THE FLOOR BEHIND UNCLE GEORGE’S CHAIR ENDEAVOURING TO TURN A SOMERSAULT IN A VERY RESTRICTED SPACE.

William had managed the somersault, but it had somehow brought his feet into collision with Uncle George’s neck. Uncle George sleepily shifted his position.

‘Boisterous! Boisterous!’ he murmured disapprovingly. ‘You should combine the gentleness of a Moore with the courage of a Wellington, William.’

William now perceived that Uncle George’s eyelids were drooping slowly and William’s sudden statuesque calm would have surprised many of his instructors.

The silence and the warmth of the room had their effect. In less than three minutes Uncle George was dead to the world around him.

William’s form relaxed, then he crept up to look closely at the face of his enemy. He decided that he disliked it intensely. Something must be done at once. He looked round the room. There
were not many weapons handy. Only his mother’s workbox stood on a chair by the window, and on it a pile of socks belonging to Robert, William’s elder brother. Beneath either arm of his
chair one of Uncle George’s coat-tails protruded. William soon departed on his way rejoicing, while on to one of Uncle George’s coat-tails was firmly stitched a bright blue sock and on
to the other a brilliant orange one. Robert’s taste in socks was decidedly loud. William felt almost happy. The rain had stopped and he spent the morning with some of his friends whom he met
in the road. They went bearhunting in the wood; and though no bears were found, still their disappointment was considerably allayed by the fact that one of them saw a mouse and another one
distinctly smelt a rabbit. William returned to lunch whistling to himself and had the intense satisfaction of seeing Uncle George enter the dining-room, obviously roused from his slumbers by the
luncheon bell, and obviously quite unaware of the blue and orange socks that still adorned his person.

‘Curious!’ he ejaculated, as Ethel, William’s grown-up sister, pointed out the blue sock to him. ‘Most curious!’

William departed discreetly, muttering something about ‘better tidy up a bit’, which drew from his sister expressions of surprise and solicitous questions as to his state of
health.

‘Most curious!’ said Uncle George again, who had now discovered the orange sock.

When William returned, all excitement was over and Uncle George was consuming roast beef with energy.

‘Ah, William,’ he said, ‘we must complete the History lesson soon. Nothing like History. Nothing like History. Nothing like History. Teaches us to endure the buffets of fate
with equanimity and to smile at misfortune. Then we must do some Geography.’ William groaned. ‘Most fascinating study. Rivers, mountains, cities, etc. Most improving. The morning should
be devoted to intellectual work at your age, William, and the afternoon to the quiet pursuit of – some improving hobby. You would then find the true joy of life.’

To judge from William’s countenance he did not wholly agree, but he made no objection. He had learnt that objection was useless, and against Uncle George’s eloquence silence was his
only weapon.

After lunch Uncle George followed his usual custom and retired to rest. William went to the shed in the back garden and continued the erection of a rabbit hutch that he had begun a few days
before. He hoped that if he made a hutch, Providence would supply a rabbit. He whistled blithely as he knocked nails in at random.

‘William, you mustn’t do that now’

He turned a stern gaze upon his mother.

‘Why not?’ he said.

‘Uncle George is resting.’

With a crushing glance at her he strolled away from the shed. Someone had left the lawn mower in the middle of the lawn. With one of his rare impulses of pure virtue he determined to be useful.
Also, he rather liked mowing the grass.

‘William, don’t do that now,’ called his sister from the window. ‘Uncle George is resting.’

He deliberately drove the mowing machine into the middle of the garden bed and left it there. He was beginning to feel desperate. Then:

‘What
can
I do?’ he said bitterly to Ethel, who was still at the window.

‘You’d better find some quiet, improving hobby,’ she said unkindly as she went away.

It is a proof of the utterly broken state of William’s spirit that he did actually begin to think of hobbies, but none of those that occurred to him interested him. Stampcollecting,
pressed flowers, crest-collecting – Ugh!

He set off down the road, his hands in his pockets and his brows drawn into a stern frown. He amused himself by imagining Uncle George in various predicaments, lost on a desert island, captured
by pirates, or carried off by an eagle. Then something in the window of a house he passed caught his eye and he stopped suddenly. It was a stuffed bird under a glass case. Now that was something
like
a hobby, stuffing dead animals! He wouldn’t mind having that for a hobby. And it was quite quiet. He could do it while Uncle George was resting. And it must be quite easy. The
first thing to do of course was to find a dead animal. Any old thing would do to begin on. A dead cat or dog. He would do bigger ones like bears and lions later on. He spent nearly an hour in a
fruitless search for a dead cat or dog. He searched the ditches on both sides of the road and several gardens. He began to have a distinct sense of grievance against the race of cats and dogs in
general for not dying in his vicinity. At the end of the hour he found a small dead frog. It was very dry and shrivelled, but it was certainly a
dead
frog and would do to begin on. He took
it home in his pocket. He wondered what they did first in stuffing dead animals. He’d heard something about ‘tannin" them. But what was ‘tannin’,’ and how did one get
it? Then he remembered suddenly having heard Ethel talk about the ‘tannin’’ in tea. So
that
was all right. The first thing to do was to get some tea. He went to the
drawing-room. It was empty, but upon the table near the fire was a tea tray and two cups. Evidently his mother and sister had just had tea there. He put the frog at the bottom of a cup and
carefully filled the cup with tea from the teapot. Then he left it to soak and went out into the garden.

A few minutes later William’s mother entered the drawing-room.

Uncle George had finished resting and was standing by the mantelpiece with a cup in his hand.

‘I see you poured out my tea for me,’ he said. ‘But rather a curious taste. Doubtless you boil the milk now. Safer, of course. Much safer. But it imparts a curious
flavour.’

He took another sip.

‘But – I didn’t pour out your tea—’ began Mrs Brown.

Here William entered. He looked quickly at the table.

‘Who’s meddlin’ with my frog?’ he said angrily. ‘It’s my hobby, an’ I‘M stuffin’ frogs an’ someone’s been an’ took my
frog. I left it on the table.’

‘On the table?’ said his mother.

‘Yes. In a cup of tea. Gettin’ tannin’. You know. For stuffin’. I was puttin’ him in tannin’ first. I—’

Uncle George grew pale. In frozen silence he put a spoon into his cup and investigated the contents. In still more frozen silence Mrs Brown and William watched. That moment held all the
cumulative horror of a Greek tragedy. Then Uncle George put down his cup and went silently from the room. On his face was the expression of one who is going to look up the first train home. Fate
had sent him a buffet he could not endure with equanimity, a misfortune at which he could not smile, and Fate had avenged William for much.

IN FROZEN SILENCE UNCLE GEORGE PUT A SPOON INTO HIS CUP AND INVESTIGATED THE CONTENTS. IN STILL MORE FROZEN SILENCE MRS BROWN AND WILLIAM WATCHED.

CHAPTER 6

W
illiam was aware of a vague feeling of apprehension when he heard that Joan Clive, the little girl who lived next door, was having a strange
cousin to stay for three weeks. All his life, William had accepted Joan’s adoration and homage with condescending indifference, but he did not like to imagine a possible rival.

‘What’s he
coming
for?’ he demanded with an ungracious scowl, perched uncomfortably and dangerously on the high wall that separated the two gardens and glaring down at
Joan. ‘what’s he comin’
for
, anyway?’

‘’Cause mother’s invited him,’ explained Joan simply, with a shake of her dark curls. ‘He’s called Cuthbert. She says he’s a sweet little
boy.’

‘
Sweet!
’ echoed William in a tone of exaggerated horror. ‘Ugh!’

‘Well,’ said Joan, with the smallest note of indignation in her voice, ‘you needn’t play with him if you don’t like.’

‘
Me?
Play? With
him?
’scowled William as if he could not believe his ears. ‘I’m not likely to go playin’ with a kid like wot
he’ll
be!’

Joan raised aggrieved blue eyes.

‘You’re a
horrid
boy sometimes, William!’ she said. ‘Anyway, I shall have him to play with soon.’

It was the first time he had received anything but admiration from her.

He scowled speechlessly.

Cuthbert arrived the next morning.

William was restless and ill at ease, and several times climbed the ladder for a glimpse of the guest, but all he could see was the garden inhabited only by a cat and a gardener. He amused
himself by throwing stones at the cat till he hit the gardener by mistake and then fled precipitately before a storm of abuse. William and the gardener were enemies of very long standing. After
dinner he went out again into the garden and stood gazing through a chink in the wall.

Cuthbert was in the garden.

Though as old and as tall as William, he was dressed in an embroidered tunic, very short knickers, and white socks. Over his blue eyes his curls were brushed up into a golden halo.

He was a picturesque child.

‘What shall we do?’ Joan was saying. ‘would you like to play hide and seek?’

‘No; leth not play at rough gameth,’ said Cuthbert.

With a wild spasm of joy William realised that his enemy lisped. It is always well to have a handle against one’s enemies.

‘What shall we do, then?’ said Joan, somewhat wearily.

‘Leth thit down an’ I’ll tell you fairy thorieth,’ said Cuthbert.

A loud snort from inside the wall just by his ear startled him, and he clutched Joan’s arm.

‘What’th that?’ he said.

There were sounds of clambering feet on the other side of the wall, then William’s grimy countenance appeared.

‘Hello, Joan!’ he said, ignoring the stranger.

Joan’s eyes brightened.

‘Come and play with us, William,’ she begged.

‘We don’t want dirty little boyth,’ murmured Cuthbert fastidiously. William could not, with justice, have objected to the epithet. He had spent the last half-hour climbing on
to the rafters of the disused coach house, and dust and cobwebs adorned his face and hair.

‘He’s
always
like that,’ explained Joan carelessly.

By this time William had thought of a suitable rejoinder.

‘All right,’ he jeered, ‘don’t look at me then. Go on tellin’ fairy
thorieth
.’

Cuthbert flushed angrily.

‘You’re a nathty rude little boy,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell my mother.’

Thus war was declared.

He came to tea the next day. Not all William’s pleading could persuade his mother to cancel the invitation.

‘Well,’ said William darkly, ‘wait till you’ve
seen
him, that’s all. Wait till you’ve heard him
speakin
’. He can’t talk even. He
can’t
play.
He tells fairy stories. He don’t like
dirt.
He’s got long hair an’ a funny long coat. He’s
awful
, I tell you. I don’t
want
to have him to tea. I don’t want to be washed an’ all just because
he’s
comin’ to tea.’

But as usual William’s eloquence availed nothing.