William Again (16 page)

‘Can I have all those things you said, and do all those things you said?’ said William guardedly.

‘Yes – yes – if you’ll do what I tell you just for this afternoon.’

‘I’d do
anything
for those things,’ said William simply.

‘Come in,’ said the man nervously. ‘There’s not much time. She’ll be here any moment.’

‘When she comes,’ said the man quickly – ‘she’ll be here any minute now – I want you to pretend you’re called Peter and I’m your mother – do you
see?’

William was outraged.

‘Me – Peter –
that boy?
’ At his tone of contempt the man’s eyes blinked.

‘But he’s a charming boy,’ he said indignantly.
‘Everyone
says so – I could show you letters—’

Only at the mental vision of the pond, the tricycle, the wood, the garden, the ten shillings, did William’s conscience allow him to pocket his pride.

‘He’s more like a monkey out of the zoo than a boy,’ he said bitterly. ‘But I’ll do it if you’ll never tell anyone I pretended to be him.’

The man’s pride was evidently wounded by William’s attitude.

‘I should have thought it an honour – I’ve had most flattering notices. I could show you letters. However, there’s no time to argue – as I said, she may be here any minute. I
shan’t be here – you must see her alone – say you’re Peter – I’m afraid you’re the wrong type, sadly. Your hair doesn’t curl and it’s the wrong colour, and
you’re too big, and your expression’s wrong – not sensitive enough, or gentle enough, or wistful enough—’

William was rather sensitive about his personal appearance. He accepted it with resignation, as the subject of numberless jokes from his own family, but he resented comments on it from
outsiders.

‘All right,’ he said coldly, ‘if all that’s wrong with me, you’d better get someone else wot’s got his soft, silly face.’

‘No, no,’ said the man wildly. ‘I didn’t mean anything – and there’s no time, I’m afraid, to procure a more sympathetic type. She may be here any minute
– all I want is you to meet her and pretend to be Peter – I shan’t be here – you must say that this is your home, and your mother’s in bed with a bad headache, and is sorry she can’t receive her – then she’ll go away – come and tell me when
she’s gone away – see?’

‘Umph,’ agreed William.

A tall, angular figure was coming up the drive.

The man fled into the house with a groan.

Mr Monkton Graham was a literary man. That is to say, he wrote ‘The Mothers’ Page’ for
The Monthly Signal: A Magazine for Mothers.
He signed it
‘Peter’s mother’. The page always centred round Peter.

‘Peter’s mother’ told how she dealt with Peter’s measles and whooping cough, and clothes, and temper (though Peter’s disposition was really angelic), and how she
arranged Peter’s parties and treats and daily routine, and lessons and holidays, and how she influenced him for good with her sweet unselfishness and motherly wisdom, and what sweet things
Peter did and said and thought. Peter was a decided cult. Mothers wrote to ‘Peter’s mother, care of the office,
Monthly Signal’,
for advice about John, or Henry, or Jimmie,
or even Ann.

Mr Monkton Graham was thinking of starting a Joan. Mothers sent flowers and photographs of John and Henry and Jimmie to him. Someone had even sent a tricycle to Peter. Mr Monkton Graham had
written a letter of thanks in a round and childish hand. They asked for photographs of Peter. Mr Monkton Graham possessed an old photograph of a nephew of his. He had this ‘touched up’
and sent it out to Peter’s admirers. It appeared in the magazine. The nephew was in South Africa, and would hardly have recognised it in any case. It created quite a furore.

At first Mr Monkton Graham’s work had not been laborious. It had consisted of reading a paragraph in a standard reference book on the rearing of children, expanding it, Peterising it and
adding the ineffably ‘sweet’ touch of ‘Peter’s mother’ that earned him his six guineas a week. But success went to his head.

He wrote a book about Peter. It was wildly popular. He wrote another. It was still more wildly popular. He received letters and presents and photographs innumerable. They voted him a second
‘Dearest’ and Peter a second ‘Fauntleroy’. He knew fame – even though a strictly incognito fame – at last. He always replied to his admirers – ‘sweet’ little
letters, breathing the very spirit of ‘Peter’s mother’.

But last week, after a good dinner when he saw the world through a rosy mist, his usual discretion had deserted him. He had written to an admirer of Peter giving the name of the village and
house where he lived. He had at the time not realised the significance of what he was doing. It only occurred to him the next morning when the letter was posted and the rosy mist had faded. The
horrible thing had really happened. The woman had written to say that she was coming to see ‘darling Peter’s mother’ that day. The letter had come by the midday post, and the
visitor might be there any minute.

‘We are not strangers, darling,’ ran the letter; ‘even as I write, though I have never seen you, I can see your fair curly hair – Peter’s hair – and your dear blue eyes –
Peter’s eyes. When I think that I am going actually to see you two darlings, whom I feel I know so well, I can hardly believe my happiness. A kiss to you and darling Peter.’

As he had raised his anguished eyes from this letter, he had met the strange scowling face of a boy just outside his window. A gleam of hope came into his heart. The situation might yet be
saved. He might yet escape being held up to the scorn and ridicule of the readers of
The Monthly Signal: A Magazine for Women.
Looking again at the face of the boy, he had distinct
misgivings, but he decided to try . . .

William remained at the front door till the tall, angular figure reached it. Then they stared at each other. William had a gift for staring. People who tried to stare him out soon realised their
inferiority in the art.

‘Good morning, little boy,’ said the visitor.

‘Umph,’ replied William.

He was determined to earn that tricycle and pond and wood and birds’-nests and ten-shillings, and he felt that the less he committed himself to any definite statements outside his
role
the better.

‘What’s your name, dear?’

William inspected her. She looked harmless enough. She had a weak, good-natured face and greying hair and kind short-sighted eyes behind spectacles. She ought to be easy to make a mug of,
thought William, out of the vast store of his knowledge of human nature.

‘Peter,’ he said.

The disappointment upon the good-natured face made William feel slightly annoyed.

‘Peter? Surely not?’ she quavered.

‘That curly hair wot I had,’ he explained, swallowing his annoyance, ‘all came off – got clawered off by a monkey, at the zoo.’ His imagination was coming to his aid as
usual. ‘I went too near the cage an’ it stuck out its clawer an’ clawered it all off – every bit. They took me home bald an’ the nex’ day it grew again but a bit
different.’

‘How terrible!’ the visitor murmured, shutting her eyes. ‘Wasn’t your dear mother sad when it grew that colour?’

‘No,’ said William, coldly, ‘she likes this colour.’

‘That’s so like her,’ said the lady tenderly, ‘to pretend to you that she likes it.’

William began to dislike the lady. He waited for her to continue the conversation.

‘Somehow you’re quite different in every way from what I expected,’ she went on, with a distinct note of regret in her voice which William felt to be far from flattering.
‘You’re taller and stouter, and your expression . . . yes, that’s QUITE different.’

‘Yes,’ said William, still anxious to carry out his part of the bargain. ‘I’ve changed a lot since I had those pictures took. Got a bit older, you know, an’ had
some awful illnesses.’

‘Really?’ said the lady, in sympathy. ‘Your dear mother never told me in her letters.’

‘She never knew,’ said William. ‘I never told her, so as not to worry her. I jus’ went about as usual, an’ she never knew. But it made me look different
afterwards.’

‘It would,’ said the lady, with a bewildered air. ‘Well, shall we go in to your dear mother? She expects me, I believe. My name is Miss Rubina Strange.’

‘Oh,’ said William, ‘she’s ill. She said I was to tell you. She can’t see you. She’s very ill.’

‘Ill? I am so sorry. But I would like to go to her. Perhaps I could do something for her.’

‘No you can’t,’ said William, ‘no one can. It’s too late.’

‘But – have you had the doctor?’

‘Yes – he says it’s too late to do anything.’

‘Good Heavens! She’s not—?’

‘Yes, she’s dyin’ all right,’ said William.

‘But can’t anything be done? This is dreadful! I feel absolutely heartbroken. I must just come into the house. There’s surely something I can do!’

William followed her into the house. Mr Monkton Graham had not expected this. He was standing by the window of his study waiting till Miss Rubina Strange should depart. When he saw her about to
enter the room, he did the only possible thing. He disappeared.

Miss Rubina Strange looked round the room with the air of a pilgrim visiting a holy place.

‘And is this, dear Peter,’ she said in a hushed whisper, ‘where she writes those wonderful words?’

‘Umph,’ answered William.

‘Oh, my dear! To think that I see it with my poor unworthy eyes. I have imagined it so often!’

Then she raised her long, thin nose, and sniffed.

‘Peter, dear, there’s just a faint smell of it . . . surely your dear mother doesn’t smoke cigarettes?’

‘No,’ said William, absently, ‘it was a pipe he was smoking.’

‘Who?’

‘Him,’ said William, who was beginning to tire of the whole thing. It was the thought of the tricycle alone that upheld him.

‘Your poor mind is unhinged,’ said Miss Rubina, soothingly. ‘I expect you are worrying over your mother’s illness, which I’m sure you exaggerate, darling. I’m
sure she’d have written to tell me if she’d been really ill. Is this the pen she writes with? And is this blotting-paper she’s actually used? Peter, dear, do you think I could
take just a corner of it – just a corner, just to remember my visit by for always?’

Mr Monkton Graham was growing uncomfortable. There was not really room under the table for a full-sized man to dispose his limbs. He stirred uneasily, and Miss Rubina Strange turned startled
eyes to William, placing her finger on her lips.

Then, snatching up the sacred pen she wrote on the sacred paper. ‘Peter, there is a man underneath the table. Don’t be alarmed. I am going to deal with him. Above all, do nothing to
disturb your dear mother.’

William said nothing. He felt that the affair had got beyond him. Miss Rubina Strange crept cautiously about the room. She took a long narrow tablecloth from an occasional table, she took a
length of picture-cord which she found in a drawer of the sacred writing desk, she took an ornamental dagger from a cabinet, she took a cushion from an armchair. Then she whispered to William,
‘No noise or disturbance. Remember your mother is ill!’

Just as the innocent Mr Graham was trying to ease the ache in his neck by resting his head on his knee, he felt a sudden and violent attack in the rear. He was dragged out forcibly by a tall,
thin female, who was nevertheless evidently possessed of unusual strength. Before he could remonstrate his feet were firmly tied together with a tablecloth, and he was half dragged, half helped to
a sitting position on a chair. Then, leaning over him threateningly, with the dagger in one hand, the woman spoke.

‘Make a sound,’ she said in a low, hissing voice, ‘utter one word, and I will strike. There is a sick woman in this house, and I will stop at nothing to protect her. You have
come to rob a woman who is a dear friend of mine, and of every woman and, if necessary, I will take extreme measures—’

THE INNOCENT MR GRAHAM WAS DRAGGED OUT FORCIBLY FROM HIS HIDING PLACE BY A TALL, THIN FEMALE OF UNUSUAL STRENGTH.

Mr Graham looked apprehensively at the dagger. It had, as he knew, a nasty sharp point. He therefore obeyed her orders. He made no sound and uttered no word while she tied the cushion over his
face and pinioned his arms to his side with the picture-cord. Then she turned to William. William had for the moment lost all power of action. Things were moving too fast for him.

‘She must know,’ whispered Miss Rubina Strange. ‘I’ll break it to her gently. Don’t let him move till I come back. I’ll find out if she
wishes to prosecute. Which is her bedroom?’ He stared at her open-mouthed. ‘Never mind,’ she went on. ‘I’ll soon find her.’

When she had gone, William turned his gaze to the figure in the chair. All that could be seen above the pinioned arms was a large cushion. The cushion began to move spasmodically, to shake
convulsively, and to utter muffled curses. The whole figure began to writhe in its bonds. From what he could make out of the words that came from the cushion, William instinctively felt that the
monologue was one that his mother would not wish him to hear. He therefore listened attentively, mouth and ears wide open. The words appeared forcible if somewhat inaudible.