Still William (4 page)

At the top of the stairs Mr Burwash stood trembling slightly, and wiped his brow. A violent sound of kicking came from the locked room.

Mrs Brown and Henri’s godmother heard vaguely the distant sounds of the kicking next door, but their delicate interview with Miss Milton was taking all their
attention.

Miss Milton, who had been to see a girl whom she was engaging as housemaid for Mr Luton, was just taking off her things. Miss Milton kept a purely maternal eye upon Mr Luton.

‘You know, dear,’ said Henri’s godmother, ‘we felt we had to come and tell you as soon as we heard the news. He’s got one already.’

‘Who?’ said Miss Milton, angular and severe-looking.

‘Mr Luton.’

‘He might have told me,’ said Miss Milton.

‘But she’s left him,’ put in Mrs Brown.

‘Then I’d better see about providing him with another,’ said Miss Milton.

‘She – she’s not divorced,’ gasped Mrs Brown.

‘I should hope not,’ said Miss Milton primly. ‘I’m always most particular about that sort of thing.’

‘But when we heard he’d been seen kissing you—’ said Henri’s mother.

Miss Milton gave a piercing scream.

‘ME?’ she said.

‘Yes, when we heard that Mr Luton had been seen—’

Miss Milton gave a still more piercing scream.

‘Slanderers,’ she shrieked, ‘vampires . . . ’

She advanced upon them quivering with rage.

‘I’m so sorry,’ gasped Mrs Brown retreating precipitately. ‘Quite a mistake . . . a misunderstanding . . .’

‘Liars . . . hypocrites . . . snakes in the grass!’ screamed Miss Milton, still advancing.

Mrs Brown and Henri’s godmother fled trembling to the road. Miss Milton’s screams still rent the air. There, two curious sights met their eyes. The General and Mr Graham Graham were
making their exits from the two end houses in unconventional fashion. Mr Graham Graham fell down the steps and rolled down the garden path to the road. An infuriated Mr Buck watched his
departure.

‘I’ll teach you to come and insult respectable people,’ shouted Mr Buck. ‘Drunkard indeed! And I’ve been Secretary of the Temperance Society for forty years.
You’re drunk, let me tell you—’

Mr Graham Graham, still sitting in the road, put on his hat.

‘I’m not drunk,’ he said with dignity.

‘I’ll have the law on you,’ shouted Mr Buck. ‘It’s libel, that’s what it is—’

Mr Graham Graham gathered his collar ends and tried to find his stud.

‘I merely repeat what I’ve heard,’ he said.

Mr Buck slammed the door and Mr Graham Graham staggered to his feet.

Then he stood open-mouthed, his eyes fixed on the other end house. The stout figure of the General could be seen emerging from a small first-floor window and making a slow and ungraceful descent
down a drainpipe. It was noticed that he had no hat and that his knees were very dusty. Once on the ground he ran wildly across the garden into the road, almost charging the little group who were
watching him. With pale, horror-struck faces the four of them gazed at each other.

‘Henri told me—’ all four began simultaneously, then stopped.

‘D-do come and have some tea,’ said Mrs Brown hysterically.

William was leading his Outlaws quietly round from the front gate to the back of the house, passing the drawing-room window on tiptoe. Suddenly William stopped dead, gazing
with interest into the drawing-room. The expected tea party was not there. Only Henri, still eating sugar cakes, was there. William put his head through the open window.

‘I say,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘they been an’ gone?’

‘Oh, yes,’ smiled Henri, ‘they been an’ gone – righto.’

‘Come on!’ said William to his followers.

They crept into the hall and then guiltily into the drawing-room. William looked at the plates of dainty food with widening eyes.

‘Shu’ly,’ he remarked plaintively, ‘ ’f they’ve been an’ gone they can’t mind us jus’ finishin’ up what they’ve left.
Shu’ly
.’

William made this statement less at the dictates of truth than at the dictates of an empty stomach.

‘Jus’ – jus’ look out of the window, Ongry,’ he said, ‘an’ tell us if anyone comes.’

Henri obligingly took up his position at the window and the Outlaws gave themselves up wholeheartedly to the task of ‘finishing up’.

They finished up the buttered scones and they finished up the bread and butter and they finished up the sandwiches and they finished up the biscuits and they finished up the small cakes and they
finished up the two large cakes.

‘I’m jus’ a bit tired of this ole Jasmine Villas game,’ said William, his mouth full of sugar cake. ‘I votes we go back to Pirates an’ Red Injuns
tomorrow.’

The Outlaws, who were still busy, agreed with grunts.

‘I think—’ began Douglas, but just then Henri at the window ejaculated shrilly, ‘Oh, ze ’oly aunt.’

The Outlaws hastily joined him. Four people were coming down the road. The General –
could
it be the General (the drain pipe had been very dirty)? – Mr Graham Graham, his
collar open, his tie awry, Henri’s godmother with her hat on one side, and Mrs Brown, her usual look of placid equanimity replaced by a look that was almost wild. They were certainly coming
to the Browns’ house, William looked guiltily at the empty plates and cakestand. Except upon the carpet (for the Outlaws were not born drawing-room eaters) there was not a crumb to be
seen.

‘P’raps,’ said William hastily to his friends, ‘p’raps we’d better go now.’

His friends agreed.

They went as quietly and unostentatiously as possible by way of the back regions.

Henri remained at the window. He watched the curious quartette as they came in at the gate.

Details of their appearance, unnoticed before, became clear as they drew nearer. ‘Ze Crumbs
an’
ze Crikey!’ ejaculated Henri.

It was two hours later. William sat disconsolately upon the upturned plant pot throwing stones half-heartedly at the fence. Jumble sat disconsolately by him snapping
half-heartedly at flies. The Outlaws had nobly shared the sugar cakes with Jumble and he was just beginning to wish that they hadn’t . . .

AT THE WINDOW HENRI EXCLAIMED SHRILLY, ‘OH, ZE ’OLY AUNT!’ AND THE OUTLAWS HASTILY JOINED HIM.

Suddenly Henri’s face appeared at the top of the fence.

‘ ’Ello!’ he said.

‘ ’Ello!’ sighed William.

‘Zey talk to me,’ said Henri sadly, ‘
’ow
zey talk to me jus’ because I tell ’em about your leetle game.’

FOUR PEOPLE WERE COMING DOWN THE ROAD – FOUR VERY ANGRY PEOPLE.

‘Yes,’ said William bitterly, ‘and
’ow
they talk to me jus’ ’cause we finished up a few ole cakes and things left over from tea. You’d think to
hear ’em that they’d have been glad to come home and find me starved dead.’

Henri leant yet further over the fence.

‘But zey looked . . .
’ow
zey looked!’

There was silence for a moment while the mental vision of ‘ ’ow zey looked’ came to both. Then William’s rare laugh – unmusical and penetrating – rang out.
Mrs Brown, who was suffering from a severe headache as the result of the events of the afternoon, hastily closed the drawing-room window. Followed Henri’s laugh – high-pitched and like
the neighing of a horse. Henri’s godmother tore herself with a groan from the bed on which she was indulging in a nervous breakdown and flung up her bedroom window.

‘Henri, are you ill?’ she cried. ‘What is it?’

‘Oh, ze nosings,’ replied Henri.

Then, leaning yet more dangerously over the fence, ‘What ze game you goin’ to play tomorrow, Willem?’

‘Pirates,’ said William, regaining his usual calm. ‘Like to come?’

‘Oh, ze jolly well righto yes!’ said Henri.

CHAPTER 3

T
he Hall stood empty most of the year, but occasionally tenants re-awoke the passing interest of the village in it. This summer it was taken by a
Mr and Mrs Bott with their daughter. Mr Bott’s name decorated most of the hoardings of his native country. On these hoardings citizens of England were urged to safeguard their digestion by
taking Bott’s Sauce with their meat. After reading Bott’s advertisements one felt convinced that any food without Bott’s Sauce was rank poison. One even felt that it would be
safer to live on Bott’s Sauce alone. On such feelings had Mr Bott – as rubicund and rotund as one of his own bottles of sauce – reared a fortune sufficient to enable him to take
the Hall for the summer without, as the saying is, turning a hair.

William happened to be sitting on the fence by the side of the road when the motor containing Mr and Mrs Bott – both stout and overdressed – and Miss Violet Elizabeth Bott and Miss
Violet Elizabeth Bott’s nurse flashed by. William was not interested. He was at the moment engaged in whittling a stick and watching the antics of his mongrel, Jumble, as he caught and
worried each shaving. But he had a glimpse of a small child with an elaborately curled head and an elaborately flounced white dress sitting by an elaborately uniformed nurse. He gazed after the
equipage scowling.

‘Huh!’ he said, and it is impossible to convey in print the scorn of that monosyllable as uttered by William. ‘
A girl!
’

Then he returned to his whittling.

William’s mother met Mrs Bott at the Vicar’s. Mrs Bott, who always found strangers more sympathetic than people who knew her well, confided her troubles to Mrs
Brown. Her troubles included her own rheumatism, Mr Bott’s liver, and the carelessness of Violet Elizabeth’s nurse.

‘Always reading these here novelettes, the girl is. I hope you’ll come and see me, dear, and didn’t someone say you had a little boy? Do bring him. I want Violet Elizabeth to
get to know some nice little children.’

Mrs Brown hesitated. She was aware that none of her acquaintances would have described William as a nice little child. Mrs Bott misunderstood her hesitation. She laid a fat-ringed hand on her
knee.

‘I know, dear. You’re careful who the little laddie knows, like me. Well now, you needn’t worry. I’ve brought up our Violet Elizabeth most particular. She’s a
girlie who wouldn’t do your little boysie any harm—’

‘Oh,’ gasped Mrs Brown, ‘it’s not that.’

‘Then you’ll come, dearie, and bring the little boysie with you, won’t you?’

She took Mrs Brown’s speechlessness for consent.

‘
Me?
’ said William indignantly. ‘Me go to tea with that ole girl?
Me?
’

‘She – she’s a nice little girl,’ said Mrs Brown weakly.

‘I saw her,’ said William scathingly, ‘curls and things.’

‘Well, you must come. She’s expecting you.’

‘I only hope,’ said William sternly, ‘that she won’t ’spect me to
talk
to her.’

‘She’ll expect you to
play
with her, I’m sure,’ said his mother.

‘Play!’ said William.
‘Play?
With a girl?
Me?
Huh!’

William, pale and proud, and dressed in his best suit, his heart steeled to his humiliating fate, went with his mother to the Hall the next week. He was silent all the way there. His thoughts
were too deep for words. Mrs Brown watched him anxiously.

An over-dressed Mrs Bott was sitting in an over-furnished drawing-room. She rose at once with an over-effusive smile and held out over-ringed hands.

‘So you’ve brought dear little boysie,’ she began.

The over-effusive smile died away before the look that William turned on her.

‘Er – I hadn’t thought of him quite like that,’ she said weakly, ‘but I’m sure he’s sweet,’ she added hastily.

William greeted her coldly and politely, then took his seat and sat like a small statue scowling in front of him. His hair had been brushed back with so much vigour and application of liquid
that it looked as if it were painted on his head.

‘Would you like to look at a picture book, boysie?’ she said.

William did not answer. He merely looked at her and she hastily turned away to talk to Mrs Brown. She talked about her rheumatism and Mr Bott’s liver and the incompetence of Violet
Elizabeth’s nurse.