William Again (8 page)

Becoming tired of that subject and not knowing the next verse, he abruptly changed his tune –

Inhabitants of the street along which William was passing hastily shut their front windows or fled from their front rooms or uttered loud objurgations of William according to
their characters. William passed along, singing and unmoved. A parrot, who had refused all invitations to converse since its purchase, suddenly raised its voice with William’s in piercing
screams. The quiet street had become a nightmare uproar of inharmonious sound. A man threw a boot at William from an upstairs window. It hit a hen in a neighbour’s garden. The hen added its
voice to William’s and the parrot’s. William passed along, singing and unmoved –

He turned off the main street. The hideous sound died gradually away in the distance and quiet reigned once more in that vicinity. Windows were opened, people returned to their
front rooms, the parrot relapsed into his customary silence.

William went on singing towards his home. At the gate of his garden he changed his song for a toneless penetrating whistle. He whistled his way blithely up the drive. His father flung up a
window fiercely.

‘Stop that noise!’ he called.

William proceeded on his way.

‘Stop – that – noise!’

William stopped.

‘What noise?’ he said.

‘That – that foul noise you were making just now.’

‘Whistlin’? I din’t know you meant whistlin’ when you said noise,’ William went on, drawing near the window. ‘I din’t know you was talking to me at all
jus’ at first. I thought—’ William was obviously anxious to carry on a friendly conversation with a fellow being. His father hastily slammed the window and returned to his
armchair.

William opened his mouth as for a burst of song. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind and pursed his lips as if for a whistle. Then, after a breathless moment of silence, he unpursed them
and humming untunefully under his breath he entered by the side door.

The hall was empty. Through the open kitchen door he could see his mother and Ethel, his grown-up sister, cutting sandwiches at one table and the cook and housemaid at another. He went into the
kitchen.

‘Who’re you makin’ sandwiches for?’ he demanded.

His mother surveyed him sadly.

‘I do wish you could keep clean for more than two minutes together, William,’ she said.

William smoothed back an obstreperous mop of hair with a grimy hand.

‘Yes,’ he agreed mechanically, ‘but who’re you makin’ sandwiches for?’

Ethel paused with a butter-laden knife in mid-air.

‘Don’t for Heaven’s sake tell him,’ she said, ‘and let’s hope and pray that he’ll keep out of the way till it’s over. It’ll be enough
trouble without him hanging round.’

William ejected the tip of his tongue in her direction behind his mother’s back.

‘Yes – but – who’re – you – makin’ – sandwiches – for?’ he said slowly and emphatically, with an air of patience tried beyond endurance.

‘I think he’d be rather a help than otherwise, you know,’ said his mother, carefully arranging pieces of tongue on a slice of bread and butter.

Ethel merely shrugged her shoulders.

‘I s’pose,’ said William with heavy sarcasm, ‘you’re makin’ them jus’ for fun?’

‘Clever!’ said Ethel, cutting off the crusts of a sandwich.

William, whose appetite was a never-failing quality, fell upon the crusts and began to eat them.

‘Don’t spoil your lunch, dear,’ murmured Mrs Brown.

‘No,’ promised William, ‘but – all – I – want – to – know – is – who’re – you – makin’ – sandwiches – for?’

‘Oh, do say something and stop him saying that awful sentence,’ groaned Ethel.

‘Well, dear,’ began his mother persuasively, ‘would you like a little party this afternoon?’

‘People coming to tea?’ asked William guardedly.

‘Yes, dear, you’d be such a help – and—’

William interrupted.

‘I’ll eat up all they leave afterwards for you,’ he said obligingly; ‘but I think I won’t come this time.’

‘Thank Heaven!’ murmured Ethel.

‘I’m not much good at parties,’ said William with perfect truth and with a perfunctory grimace at his sister.

‘But wouldn’t you like to help to hand things round, darling?’ asked Mrs Brown.

‘No, thanks, but I’ll eat up all they’ve left for you afterwards.’

‘How kind!’ said Ethel.

William, goaded at last to verbal retaliation, turned on her.

‘If you say much more to me,’ he said darkly, ‘I’ll – I’ll – I’ll not help
you
at any of your parties.’

He then echoed her derisive laughter in a piercing tenor.

‘William, darling,’ sighed Mrs Brown, ‘do go and wash your face.’

William crammed a handful of crusts into his mouth, put the cushion from the armchair on to the top of the cat, and went out into the hall. Here he burst suddenly into a flood of raucous sound
–

Mr Brown opened the library door.

‘Will – you – stop – that – confounded – noise?’ he demanded emphatically.

‘I’m sorry,’ said William amicably. ‘I forgot you din’t like musick.’

After lunch William sallied forth once more into the world. He was feeling slightly bored. Ginger and Douglas and Henry, his three sworn allies, were all away on their
holidays. William did not consider holidays unmixed blessings. Anyway, he considered that there ought to be a law that everyone should go on their holidays at the same time. He walked again down
the village street. He did not sing this time. Instead he threw stones at the telegraph poles. He stood at one telegraph pole and tried to hit the one across the road. Every pole that was hit was
to William a magnificent tiger, falling lifeless, shot by William through the heart. The parrot, catching sight of him again, gave an excited scream. This put William off his aim. He screamed back
at the parrot, missed the telegraph pole and hit a King Charles spaniel in a garden. He then dropped the rest of his stones and fled from the indignant owner of the dog. She pursued him down the
street. ‘You cruel boy – I’ll tell your father – a poor dumb animal—’ She gave up the chase at the end of the road, and William went on his way whistling, his hands in his
pockets. At a bend in the road he stood suddenly silent. A group of children were walking along in front of him. They had evidently just come out of the station. At their head walked a tall, thin
man. The children – boys and girls – were about William’s age. They were clean and tidy, but badly dressed, and with pale cockney faces. William hurried along the road. A little girl turned
round.

‘ ’Ullo,’ she said with a friendly grin, ‘did yer nearly git left be’ind? Wot’s yer nime?’

William liked the almost incredible frizziness of her over-crimped hair. He liked the dirty feather in her hat and the violent blue of her dress. He liked her white stockings and yellow boots.
He thought her altogether and entirely charming. He liked the way she talked. He found her whole personality intriguing. His grim freckled features relaxed into an ingratiating smile.

‘William,’ he replied. ‘Wot’s yours?’

‘Heglantine,’ she said. ‘Noice nime, ain’t it? Me sister’s called ’Oratia. Loverly, comin’ on the trine, weren’t it?’

It was evident that she took him for one of her party William grasped at the opportunity of continuing the acquaintance. ‘Um,’ he said non-committally.

‘Din’t see yer on the trine. Such a crawd, weren’t there? Some from St Luke’s an’ some from St Mary’s. Oi dunno ’aft of ’em, an’ don’t
think much o’ some of ’em by their looks. Oi were jus’ lookin’ aht fer someone ter pal up wif.’

William’s heart swelled with delight at this implied superiority. A boy in front turned round. He was pale and undersized and wore a loud check cap that would have fitted a grown man.

‘ ’Ullo, Freckles!’ he said to William.

William glared at him fiercely.

‘You jus’ mind wot you say to me,’ he began darkly.

Eglantine quickly interposed.

‘Nah then, Elbert ’Olmes,’ she said sharply, tossing her tight curls and feathered hat. ‘None of your fice ’ere! You mind wot yer syes ter me an’ my
frens.’

The boy grinned and dropped behind with them.

‘Wot we goin’ ter do, anywyes,’ he said in a mollifying tone of friendship. ‘Not much ter do in the country, is there? No pishers, no nuffin’.’

‘There’s gimes,’ said William, deliberately adopting the accent of his new friends. He decided to adopt it permanently. He considered it infinitely more interesting than that
used by his own circle.

‘Gimes!’ said the boy in the check cap with infinite scorn. ‘Runnin’ rices an’ suchlike. An’ lookin’ at cows an’ pickin’ flowers. Thanks!
Not much!’

William stored up this expression for future use.

‘Well, yer needn’t of come, Elbert ’Olmes,’ said Eglantine sharply, ‘if yer din’t of wanted to.’

‘They said,’ said Elbert grimly, ‘as ’ow there’d be a tea, an’ oi’m not one ter miss a tea – a proper tea wif cike an’ all –
not
much
!’

William was watching the large check cap with fascinated eyes.

‘Where’d you get that cap?’ he said at last.

‘Dunno,’ said the boy. He took it off and looked at William’s.

‘Loike ter swop?’

William nodded. The boy whipped off the cap without a word and handed it to William, taking William’s school cap in return. William, with a sigh of bliss, put it on. It enveloped his whole
head and forehead, the large peak standing out over his nose. He pulled it firmly down. It was the cap of his dreams – the cap of a brigand chief.

‘We hare smart, ain’t we?’ said Eglantine with a high-pitched laugh.

William felt blissfully happy walking along beside her.

‘Wot does yer farver do?’ demanded Elbert of William suddenly.

‘Wot does yours?’ replied William guardedly.

‘ ’E goes rahnd wiv a barrer sellin’ things,’ said Elbert.

‘Moine sweeps chimeneys,’ said Eglantine shrilly, ‘ ’e gets that black.’

They both turned to William.

‘Wot does yours do?’

William bowed his head in shame. He could not bear to confess that his father neither sold things nor swept chimneys, but merely caught a train to London and his office every morning.

‘Ain’t got no father,’ he said doggedly.

‘You’re a horphin, then,’ said Eglantine, with an air of wide knowledge of the world.

‘Umph,’ grunted William.

At this point the tall, thin man in front stopped and collected his flock around him. He wore a harassed and anxious expression.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘are we all here? One – two – three – four,’ he counted to himself, wagging a thin forefinger round the group as he spoke.

WILLIAM FELT BLISSFULLY HAPPY WALKING ALONG BESIDE HER.

‘Plears, sir, William’s a horphin,’ said Eglantine excitedly.

‘Yes, yes,’ said the tall man. ‘Let me see – I seem to make you one too many, but no matter – William an orphan? How sad! Poor little fellow! Come along. We’re going to
play in the woods first, children, and then go to a kind friend’s to tea. The Vicar rang her up this morning and she very kindly offered to give you tea. Very kind! Very kind! Yes, yes. This
way, I think.’

Again the little procession moved on its way.

‘Softie!’ commented Eglantine scornfully. ‘ ’E’s one of the swanks, ’e is! ’E’s a friend of the Vicar’s, ’cause the Vicar
couldn’t come. Ain’t got no patience wiv ’em myself. Whoi carn’t they talk like other folks?’

William redoubled his efforts to acquire his friend’s intonation.

‘Yes, whoi-oi’d loike ter know,’ he said aggressively, pulling his large and loud tweed cap yet farther over his eyes. The tall, thin man at the head of the procession stopped
again.

‘I’ll just go into this house, children,’ he said, ‘and ask the way to the woods.’

He went up the pathway and knocked at the door. The group of children clustered round the gate and watched him. The door was opened by a housemaid. The thin man disappeared inside. The door was
shut.

‘Are we going to hang round
him
all the time?’ asked William discontentedly. ‘Won’t be any fun –
not much,’
he added proudly, after a slight
pause.

‘Well, ’e knows the wye an’ we don’t,’ said Elbert.

‘I do,’ said William. ‘You come with me – quick – afore he comes out.’