William Again (23 page)

‘Er – yes,’ said the young man. ‘He gets a message that she’s in danger and he must go to her at once, so he follows the man, you see—’

‘Which follows which?’ said William judicially.

‘The man the story begins with—’

‘The one wot you didn’t know where he was goin’ home from?’

‘Yes. That. Well, he follows the man that tells him the girl’s in danger and really the man—’

‘If you don’t call ’em names,’ said William, ‘I can’t tell which is which. Let’s call the man wot you don’t know where he was goin’ home
from Alberto (that’s a good tale name), and the one wot says that the girl wot Alberto’s in love with’s in deadly danger Rudolpho (they all end with – o in a book I’ve been
readin’; it sounded fine). Well then, Rudolpho tells Alberto that the girl wot Alberto’s in love with’s in deadly danger. I think that’s a jolly good tale, but I think that
Alberto oughter have a secret treasure somewhere, an’ let’s have another man in called Archibaldo (I’ve gotter nuncle called Archibald) wot wants the secret treasure an’
he’s gotter trail of dynamite laid to right under Alberto’s bed to blow him up in the night when’s he’s asleep, an’ let’s have another girl in called Rosabellina
wot Rudolpho’s in love with – a proud an’ beautiful maiden, you know, an’ Rudolpho gets hold of her an’ she yells out, “Avaunt! Unhand me, varlet! . . .” Well,
you finish yours first an’ we’ll put in my bits afterwards. You’d jus’ got to Alberto comin’ home from somewhere you din’t know where an’ followin’
Rudolpho . . . Wot comes next?’

Vivian Strange stared in front of him. He was once more the rabbit and William the snake. Some power in William’s earnest, freckled countenance compelled him to proceed.

‘The – er – the second man was really a secret service agent—’

‘Wot’s that?’ inquired William disapprovingly.

‘Oh, it’s – er – it’s a kind of glorified policeman, I suppose.’

‘Much better have him a pirate or a red injun,’ said William, ‘but never mind. Go on.’

‘Well, he wants to get hold of some letters that – er – Alberto has, and leads him to a lonely house and locks him up there, and says he’ll keep him there till he gives them
up.’

‘Hurlin’ vile threats?’ said William, his face alight with earnestness. ‘Let him say it hurlin’ vile threats an’ precautions an’ insults in his teeth.
Wot happens nex’?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the young man. ‘That’s as far as I got. I can’t get on with it. I can’t think what he’d say or do next.’

William drew his brows together in deep thought.

‘I should think Alberto oughter say “Ha! Villain! Never shalt thou worst me” – or something like that.’

‘People don’t talk like that in real life.’

‘Oh, reel life!’ said William scornfully. ‘I thought we was talkin’ about books.’

‘Don’t you think your friends want you to play with them?’ said Mr Strange with emphasis. ‘Don’t you think you’ve left them for quite long enough?’

William arose and brushed the cake crumbs from his coat to the carpet.

‘P’raps I’d better be goin’,’ he agreed. ‘But I’ll be thinkin’ over wot comes nex’. You say you want it real life an’ not books. I
think you oughter have more people in it. Can’t you have them all on a desert island an’ make Rudolpho get eaten by cannibals in mistake for Alberto? . . . Oh, well, jus’ as you
like, of course. I’ll bring you my tales to read one day an’ I’ll bring you some water things tomorrow. Did you know tadpoles ate tadpoles? Talk about cannibals! . . . I say,
that’s a jolly fine penknife.’

Vivian Strange, whose proud spirit was broken, handed him the knife with a despairing gesture.

‘Take it!’ he moaned. ‘Take it and go!’

William was touched.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I’d better not take such a jolly fine penknife as that. You’re sure to be wantin’ it again. But – but I’ll borrow it for a bit if you
don’t mind. I’ll bring it back when I bring the water animals. I say, it’s jolly kind of you. Well, goodbye.’

William closed the door behind him. The sudden peace and silence of the room seemed to Strange too blissful to be real. But the door opened and William’s tousled head and earnest face
appeared again.

‘I say,’ he said. ‘How about having a burglar in an’ a detective after him, you know, an’ mysterious signs an’ clues an’ bloodhounds – as well as the
other people? . . . Not? . . .Well, it’s your tale, so you jus’ do it how you like. I’ll see you again soon. Well, goodbye.’

William disappeared and the front door opened and shut. With anxious eyes Vivian Strange watched through the window for William’s youthful form to appear in the drive leading to the gate.
It did not do so. Instead, the familiar untidy head appeared once more round the door.

‘I say!’ he said. ‘I was jus’ tryin’ to remember – did I have three pieces of cake in here, or only two? . . . Oh, thanks . . . I say, it’s jolly kind of
you.’

‘Take it all,’ said Mr Strange, ‘and go!’

William was still more touched.

‘Oh, no!’ he said as he opened the cupboard. ‘I won’t take it all – not jus’ now. I’ll take one more piece now an’ I’ll come round for another
piece later on. It gets so messed up carryin’ it about in your pockets, cake does. I’ve tried it. Gets all mixed up with marbles an’ bits of clay an’ string an’
things. It doesn’t spoil the taste but it wastes it – gettin’ it all crumby . . .Well, goodbye.’

Once more the front door opened and shut. Once more there was silence and peace. Vivian Strange, with a deep sigh, stretched out for his pen. Then an expression of wild despair came over his
face . . . The well-known footsteps sounded in the hall again and the door opened.

‘I nearly went away,’ said William affectionately, ‘without showin’ you my new whistle. I’ve been practisin’ an’ practisin’ so’s to show it
you this afternoon. An’ I nearly forgot an’ I’d have had to come all the way back. This is it.’

He placed two fingers in the corners of his mouth and emitted a siren-like sound that caused his friend to leap suddenly into the air in terror and surprise. William smiled with pride and
friendliness.

‘I knew you’d like it,’ he said. ‘My family doesn’t care for it at home, but they don’t care for any whistles. They don’t reely like musick – not like
you do. Well, goodbye.’

William walked along the road, humming happily to himself. His humming was, if possible, more dreadful than his whistling. William only hummed when he was happy. He enjoyed the sound of his
humming. In this he was absolutely unique . . .

He was extremely happy today. His heart warmed at the thought of his friend’s kindness . . . the confidential literary chat . . . the cake . . . the penknife . . . He took out the knife
and looked at it. His heart swelled with pride and pleasure . . . a knife like that . . . and he’d been ready to give it . . .
give
it . . . it was jolly decent of him . . . William
had no other friend in the whole world who would have thought of
lending
him a knife like that, much less
giving
it.

William’s sense of gratitude was not easily stirred, but it was stirred this afternoon. When stirred, it demanded immediate and practical expression . . . He must
do
something for
his friend . . . now .. . at once . . . But what? . . . He could get him the water things, of course, but that wasn’t enough. What did Mr Strange really
want?. . .
Suddenly
William’s sombre countenance lit up . . . He’d wanted to know what Alberto would have said and done in real life . . . He should know.

Mr Porter was walking home. Mr Porter was an eminently respectable gentleman who lived a quiet, hardworking life divided between an eminently respectable office and an eminently respectable
home. Mr Porter was on his way home from the station, carrying his attaché case in his hand as he had done for the last thirty years.

In his mind was a pleasurable anticipation of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of good wine, an excellent cigar, and the evening paper. Mr Porter had
walked home with this pleasurable anticipation in his mind for the last thirty years, and it had always been fulfilled. There was a rosy glow over all his thoughts. He hardly noticed the small boy
with the freckled, scowling countenance till he actually addressed him.

‘The lady wot you’re in love with,’ said the boy to him suddenly in an expressionless tone, ‘is in deadly danger, an’ says you’re to go to her at
once.’

Mr Porter stopped short and peered through the dusk. He felt a little frightened. ‘The lady wot—’ he repeated. Then, ‘Would you mind sayin it again?’

William didn’t mind.

‘The lady wot you’re in love with,’ he said clearly and distinctly, ‘is in deadly danger an’ says you’re to go to her at once.’

‘The lady wot—’ began Mr Porter again. ‘What a curious expression! Do you – er – do you mean my wife?’

‘I s’pose so,’ said William guardedly.

‘Er – did she tell you to say that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she a tall lady?’

‘Yes,’ said William, taking the line of least resistance.

‘With a mole on her left cheek?’

‘Yes.’

‘Grey hair?’

‘Yes.’

‘Most
curious!’ said Mr Porter. ‘That’s certainly my wife. What did you say she said?’

‘The lady wot you’re in love with,’ said William monotonously, ‘is in deadly danger, an’ says you’re to go to her at once.’

‘But – where is she?’

‘She said you was to follow me.’

‘Most curious!’ said Mr Porter uncertainly.
‘Most
curious! Well – er – I suppose I’d better – er – one never knows – is it far?’

William’s eye gleamed with victory

‘Oh, no,’ he said soothingly, ‘not far.’

But Mr Porter’s heart had sunk. The rosy vision of the warm fire, the comfortable bedroom slippers, well-cooked dinner, glass of wine, cigar, evening paper seemed to have retreated to an
incalculable distance.

‘Be as quick as you can,’ he said irritably. ‘I can’t stand here all night catching my death of cold. How do I know it’s not some cock-and-bull story? Hurry up!
Hurry up!’

Silently and happily William led the way. Silently and miserably Mr Porter followed. Mr Porter disliked above all things departing a hair’s breadth from his usual routine. What
was
it all about, anyway? What was Mary thinking of, sending that curious message? Who was this strange boy? His self-pity and righteous indignation increased at every step. Down the street . . . round
a corner . . . in at a side-gate . . . down a side-path past a house . . . into a back garden . . . What the—? The strange boy was holding open the door of a kind of outhouse.

‘THE LADY WOT YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH,’ SAID WILLIAM, ‘IS IN DEADLY DANGER, AN’ SAYS YOU’RE TO GO TO HER AT ONCE.’

‘She said particular you was to go in here,’ said the boy simply.

‘What the—?’ blazed Mr Porter. ‘What the—?’ he sputtered again.

The boy looked at him dispassionately.

‘She said particular you was to go in here.’

‘Into a—? Into a dirty, empty coal-shed? What—?’

Mr Porter stepped into the outhouse and flashed his electric torch around it. In that second he satisfied himself that the shed was empty. In that second also the door banged to behind him and a
key was turned in the lock.

‘Here!’ cried Mr Porter angrily. ‘Where the—?’

There was no answer.

Mr Porter banged ferociously at the door.

‘Open the door, you young villain!’ he shouted.

There was no answer.

Mr Porter kicked the door, and shook the door, and rattled the door, and cursed the door. The door remained immovable, and only the silence answered him. Having recourse once more to his
electric torch, he discovered a small window high up at the back of the shed and beneath it a pile of coal. Mr Porter determined to reach the window over the coal. He climbed the coal, and slipped
in the coal, and waded in the coal, and rolled in the coal, and wallowed in the coal, and lost his collar in the coal.

Finally he let fly a torrent of language whose eloquence, and variety, and emphasis, and richness surprised even himself. Mr Porter, an hour ago, would have believed himself incapable of such
language. Then, panting, covered with coal dust, his collar gone, his coat torn, he surveyed the scene of his imprisonment, and there came to him a vision of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom
slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of wine, a good cigar and the evening paper . . . In sudden frenzy he flung himself bodily upon the door.

Vivian Strange had given up all attempt to write. He was sitting in the armchair by the fire reading poetry to soothe his nerves. His nerves were very much upset. He kept
imagining that he heard strange noises – bangs and shouts, and once he shuddered, imagining that he heard William’s whistle. He decided to go back to town as soon as possible. The much
vaunted peace of the countryside was a fiction. The country was not peaceful. It contained William, and William’s whistle, and William’s water creatures, and William’s
conversations. There was more peace in the middle of Piccadilly – without William – than there was in the country with William.