William Again (24 page)

The door opened suddenly and William appeared. There was on his face, a look of conscious pride as of one who has something attempted something done, but is prepared to be quite modest about
it.

‘You can go an’ hear wot he says an’ does in reel life,’ he said. ‘He’s sayin’ an’ doin’ it now in the coal-shed. I’ve been
listenin’ for ever so long.’

Mr Strange rose wildly.

‘But—’ he began.

The curious sounds increased. They were real, not a delusion of his overwrought nerves, as he had supposed. William was real too.

‘Where—?’ he said still more wildly.

‘In the coal-shed,’ said William impatiently. ‘Hurry up or he’ll be gettin’ tired an’ stoppin’. Take some paper an’ then you can copy down some of
the things he says in reel life. I told you I was right.’

There came a sudden crashing and rending of wood, the sound of angry steps on the gravel, and in front of the house appeared a nightmare figure, black, gesticulating, ragged, collarless,
hatless. It was the eminently respectable Mr Porter. ‘Police’, and ‘pay for this’, and ‘scoundrel’, were among the words that reached the bewildered Mr Strange
through the window. Then, shaking its fist, the figure disappeared into the dusk.

‘There,’ said William. ‘You’re too late. He’s got out. He’s broke the door down an’ got out. Anyway, you know now wot he does in reel life. He breaks
the door down an’ gets out. An’ I can remember lots of the things he said. I listened quite a long time. I’ll take another piece of that cake now, if you don’t mind. You
said I could. Thanks awfully. I took a lot of trouble gettin’ that reel life thing for you. Could – could I keep that penknife jus’ for another day? I’ve got some frens I’d
like to show it to. An’ if there’s anything else you’d like me to find out in reel life, I’ll try. I don’t bother with reel life myself when I do tales, but if you . .
. Oh, I say, are you goin’ on with the tale now?’

Mr Strange was not. He was writing a telegram form. It ran:

‘Secure berth on any boat sailing anywhere. Complete nervous prostration. Change and rest urgent.’

‘I ’speck I’d better go,’ said William regretfully. ‘It’s after my supper-time. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No,’ said the young man wildly. ‘No, I don’t mind. I’m going away myself tomorrow, going away for good.’

‘Oh, are you?’ said William sadly. ‘I’m sorry. I shall miss you quite a lot an’ I ’speck you’ll miss me.’

‘Oh, yes,’ answered Mr Strange. ‘I shall miss you. I hope I shall miss you.’

‘Well, don’t worry about it,’ said William kindly. ‘I ’speck you’ll be comin’ back soon. Goodbye, an’ you can get on with your tale now,
can’t you, now you know wot he says an’ does in reel life? Well, goodbye.’

He went briskly out of the front door.

Mr Strange drew a deep, quivering breath of relief. But not for long. Two apparitions appeared before the window, coming up the drive, one the blackened and battered remains of Mr Porter and the
other a stalwart arm of the law, carrying a notebook.

There was a gleam in Mr Porter’s eye. He was going to execute justice but, justice executed, there lay before him the warm fire, and comfortable bedroom slippers, and well-cooked dinner,
and glass of wine, and excellent cigar, and evening paper of his dreams.

But Vivian’s horrified gaze was drawn from them by the near vision of William’s face pressed against the glass.

‘I say,’ called William. ‘You
did
say I could keep that knife for a bit, didn’t you?’

Vivian Strange made a wild gesture that might have been assent or dissent or mere frenzy.

‘Thanks awfully,’ shouted William. ‘Well, goodbye.’

William strolled home through the dusk. He was sorry his friend was going, but, after all, he would be able to keep all the water creatures himself. Giving away water creatures
was always a great sacrifice to William. Anyway, he’d had quite a decent day . . . all about that tale had been interesting and exciting, and that was a jolly good cake and a
jolly
good penknife and – his thoughts flew to that thrilling five minutes spent in rapt silence outside the coal-house – he’d learnt a lot of new words.

CHAPTER 14

WILLIAM GETS WRECKED

W
illiam laid aside
Robinson Crusoe
with a sigh. His dreams of pirate-king and robber-chief vanished. The desire of his heart now was to be
shipwrecked on a desert island. He surveyed his garden and the next garden and the fields beyond with an impatient scowl. He felt bitterly that it was just his luck to live in an overpopulated
world with ready-made houses and where everything one could possibly need could be purchased at the shop round the corner . . .

Yet he felt that within reach there must be a desert island, or at any rate some spot which a very little imagination could transform into a desert island. He decided to set out on a voyage. He
filled his pockets with biscuits and pieces of string. String was always useful.

He went into the morning-room where his mother and grown-up sister sat. He felt strongly that a mariner just about to be shipwrecked ought to bid a fond farewell to his family.

‘Goodbye,’ he said in a deep voice, ‘case I’m not back.’

‘I wish you’d remember to wipe your boots when you come into the house,’ said his mother patiently.

‘You’d better be back if you want any tea,’ said Ethel.

William felt that they lacked every quality that the family of a shipwrecked mariner should possess. Not for the first time he washed his hands of them in disgust.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Don’t blame me if – if you’re sorry when it’s too late.’

With this cryptic remark he left them.

To a casual observer William looked only a small boy walking slowly down a road, frowning, with his hands in his pockets. He was really an intrepid mariner sailing across an uncharted sea.

‘Hello, William.’

William had a weak spot in his heart for Joan. He rather liked her dimples and dark curls. In his softer moments he had contemplated Joan actually reigning by his side as pirate-queen or
robber-chieftainess. Now he felt that her presence might enliven a somewhat lonely voyage.

‘I’m an explorer,’ he said, ‘sailin’ along an’ lookin’ for new lands.’

‘Oh, William,’ Joan pleaded, ‘may I come with you?’

He considered the matter with a judicial frown.

‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Will you come in my ship or will you have a ship of your own?’

‘I’d rather come in your ship, please.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re
in
my ship. Come on.’

She walked along by his side. The best part of Joan was that she asked very few questions.

‘We’re probably goin’ to come to a desert island soon,’ said William. ‘I
speck
we shall come to a desert island soon if we get through these icebergs all
right. There’s a pretty awful wind blowin’, isn’t there – lashin’ the sails an’ tackin’ an’ all that an’ no land in sight an’ all these whales
an’ things all about?’

‘Yes, William,’ said Joan obediently.

‘You’d better be chief mate,’ William advised. ‘I’ll be skipper. You don’t see any land in sight, do you, mate?’

Joan gazed at the road before them, the hedges around them, the cow’s head above the hedge, and the figure of the Vicar in the distance.

‘No, Will— I mean skipper,’ she said.

William heaved a sigh of relief. For a minute he had thought she was going to fail him.

They proceeded in silence for a time.

‘The mast’s gone now,’ said William, ‘all crashin’ down on the deck before the terrible hurricane wot sweeps all before it. I thought it was goin’ to crash on
your brave head, mate.’

‘Yes, Will— I mean skipper,’ said Joan.

She was quite satisfactory. She entered into the spirit of a thing and had the additional advantage of not demanding a prominent role
.

The Vicar had come up to them. He looked at William with disapproval.

‘Fine day, young man,’ he said breezily.

‘Awful,’ said William gruffly, ‘blowin’ an’ hurricanin’ an’ lashin’ at everything. Come on, mate.’

They left the Vicar staring after them.

‘I wonder,’ he said to the landscape, ‘whether that boy is deficient or merely impudent?’

He was still wondering when they vanished from sight. They reached the river.

‘The waves is lashin’ up at us,’ said William, surveying the placid stream. ‘I don’t think this ole boat will stick together much longer if we don’ see a bit
of land soon. I’m jus’ drenched through – spite of my tauparlings – an’ almost perishin’ of hunger ’cause the provisions was swep’ overboard, aren’t you,
mate?’

‘Yes, Will— I mean skipper,’ said Joan, raising blue eyes alight with admiration.

The path now turned inland. This part of the river was private, and the back garden of a large house swept down to the river’s bank.

‘I b’lieve – I
b’lieve,
’ said William, ‘that I see an island – I
b’lieve
that at last I see an island jus’ as this ole boat is goin’
to crash to pieces against a towerin’ rock.
There!
It’s crashed to pieces against a towering rock. My goodness! We’re in the icy water now! Well, you catch hold of an ole
splinter or somethin’ an’ I’ll catch hold of somethin’ else, an’ we’ll jus’ make for that ole island with all our might an’ main – spite of the rain
an’ wind lashin’ at our faces—’

With set, grim expression he began to struggle through the garden hedge.

‘Come on, mate,’ he called, holding the bushes aside for her, ‘here’s the island at last. Now we’ll lie down on the sand an’ sleep an’ then I’ll
go an’ get the things wot will be washed up from the wreck.’

The part of the garden where they found themselves was out of sight of the house. There was a summer house by the river and near that a clothes line with a tablecloth hung out to dry

They sat down on the bank of the river.

‘Nice to rest, isn’t it,’ said William, ‘after all that strug-glin’ against the fierce wind an’ rain?’

‘Yes, Will— I mean skipper.’

‘You go on restin’,’ said William, kindly, ‘an’ I’ll go an’ try to find things washed up by the wreck.’

He crept towards the back of the house. There was no one to be seen. The door stood slightly ajar. Cautiously William peered within. He saw a comfortable kitchen, empty save
for the presence of a grey cat washing its face on the hearthrug. It suspended operations for a moment, surveyed William coldly and disapprovingly, and then returned to its ablutions.

William’s glance fell eagerly on a box of matches on the table and a saucepan in the sink. He waited in the shadow of the doorway. There was no sound in the house. At last, on tiptoe, his
brows drawn together, his tongue projecting from his mouth, his eye fixed on the door, his freckled countenance purple and scowling, his hair standing on end, he crept across the room. Returning
the cat’s haughty stare, he seized the matches, the saucepan and two cups, and fled down to the river, where his chief mate was sitting on the grass, idly throwing stones into the water.

‘Look what I’ve found washed up from the wreck,’ he said proudly. ‘Now we’ll build a fire an’ soon I expect we’ll find a native savage an’ some
wild animals.’

‘Not – not
too
wild, William,’ said the chief mate.

‘All right,’ said the skipper, ‘not too wild, but anyway it doesn’t matter ’cause you’ve got me an’ there’s nothing much I can’t kill. Now,
after the night on the open sea, we’d better make breakfast.’ With indescribable joy they collected twigs, made a fire, filled the saucepan with water from the river, and put it on to
boil. When the water was warm, William poured it into two cups and broke his biscuits into them. The water was smoked and the biscuits grimy from their sojourn in William’s pockets, but to
the shipwrecked mariners the draught was as of nectar and ambrosia. Both drained their cups.

‘That was grand, wasn’t it, mate? I think you oughter say, “Aye, aye, sir.”’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘Well, now, I’d better build us a house out of logs an’ things, an’ you go and see if you can find anything washed up from the wreck.’

‘Oh, William – I mean skipper!’

‘You won’t mind – there’s no one there but a cat.’

With mingled apprehension and excitement, Joan stole off to the house.

William, left alone, turned to the summer house, and in his imagination made it vanish into thin air. Then he went through a ferocious and strenuous pantomime of cutting down trees and piling up
logs, and finally beheld the completed summer house with the proud eyes of a creator. Then he opened the door and entered.

A ragged, unkempt man rose from the seat rubbing his eyes. A black bag was on the floor.

William and the man stared at each other, neither of them flinching.

‘You’re jus’ wot I wanted to find,’ said William at last with excitement and friendliness in his voice; ‘I jus’ wanted a native savage.’

‘Oh, yer did, did yer?’ said the man. ‘Glad I’ll do fer yer arl right. An’ ’oo may you be if I may be so bold as to arsk?’

‘We’re shipwrecked,’ said William, ‘shipwrecked on a desert island. I’ve jus’ built a hut, an’ my chief mate’s gone to find things washed up from
the wreck, an’ you’ll do for the native savage. Do you mind bein’ called Friday?’

‘Not at all, young gent,’ said the man, ‘not at all. ’Erbert ’Ammond is my name, but call me Friday, Saturday
an’
Sunday, if so you’ve a
mind.’ (He ran his eye speculatively over William.) ‘But it seems funny to see a shipwrecked sailor in clothes like them. You’d ’ave thought they’d ’ave all got
tore to pieces in the wreck, like.’

‘Yes,’ said William eagerly, ‘they did.’

‘One would ’ave expected to see you – well, p’raps dressed in a sail or something.’ His eyes narrowed, and he pointed to the ragged tablecloth fluttering in the breeze.
‘That ’ud do fine for a sail.’

William’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm.

‘Yes – it
would,
’ he said, ‘fine.’

‘If I was you an’ bein’ shipwrecked,’ said the man, deftly taking the tablecloth from the line, ‘I’d nip into that there summer house, an’ take off that
ordinary-like suit an’ rig up myself in this here sail . . . then you’d feel like as if you
was
shipwrecked, eh?’