William in Trouble (25 page)

William looked at him coldly.

No – Robert certainly wasn’t worth all the trouble he’d taken over him – five shillings or no five shillings – playing the piano and being kissed by awful women and
chased by gardeners and all that sort of thing.

Just as he was meditating some crushing retort to Robert the Vicar of West Mellings was announced. William’s face froze with horror. He looked round for escape, but there was none. The
Vicar’s ample form blocked the doorway. The Vicar of West Mellings, who knew Mrs Brown very slightly and the other Browns not at all, had merely called for a subscription to his organ fund to
which Mrs Brown had promised to contribute. His eyes fell upon William and he gave a smile of recognition.

‘Ah,’ he said ‘so our little genius is paying
you
a visit, is he?’

Mrs Brown, Ethel and Robert stared at him in amazement. William smiled a ghastly smile and said nothing.

The Vicar was by now convinced that that feeling of familiarity that the sight of William’s countenance had roused in him was merely the result of having at some time or other seen the
little prodigy’s photograph in the newspaper.

‘I was sorry to miss the treat myself,’ he said, ‘but my wife tells me that it was really marvellous. Such
verve –
such – er – such
execution.
’

The Brown family were still gazing in open-mouthed amazement and bewilderment from William to the Vicar, from the Vicar to William. William’s set smile was growing sicklier every
minute.

‘But, perhaps,’ said the Vicar, ‘I’m not too late. Perhaps I’m just in time for a treat here, am I?’

He placed his hand upon William’s unruly head.

‘This little boy,’ he said sententiously, ‘is one of the greatest musicians of our age. That’s a wonderful thought, isn’t it?’

William, still avoiding his family’s eyes, again looked desperately around for escape and found none.

‘Do you,’ burst out Mrs Brown at last to the Vicar, ‘do you feel the heat? W-won’t you sit down?’

‘Thank you,’ said the Vicar, ‘but I trust that I shall soon hear this little boy play the piano.’

‘He can’t play the piano,’ said Ethel, ‘he’s never learnt.’

The Vicar looked at her. It happened that Ethel was sitting next to the silver-table, and on the journey to Ethel the Vicar’s eyes passed over the silver-table and there stopped as though
fascinated by something. For there, in the middle of the table, was the very silver cup that he had won for the high jump in his far-off college days. And William, of course, could not have been
expected to know that the Vicar’s son had taken his cup back to school with him and the Vicar’s own cup, the solitary athletic glory of his youth, had been replaced upon its usual
bracket.

‘THIS LITTLE BOY,’ SAID THE VICAR, ‘IS ONE OF THE GREATEST MUSICIANS OF OUR AGE.’

The Vicar craned nearer. Yes, there was no doubt about it – he could see his own name distinctly inscribed upon the silver. He pinched himself to make sure that he was awake. First of all
these strange people informed him that a boy whom he knew to be a famous musical prodigy could not play the piano, and next he discovered his own precious high jump cup adorning their table –
it was most extraordinary and just like a dream.

They followed his eyes and also stared at the silver cup, noticing it for the first time.

‘William,’ called Mrs Brown, but he had gone.

‘William?’ said the bewildered cleric, ‘but surely that boy who’s just gone out is Frankie Randall, the great pianist.’

Mrs Brown sat down weakly. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s William. Whatever’s happened to everybody?’

‘B-b-but—’ said the Vicar, helplessly, ‘he was playing most
wonderfully
at the Parish Hall this morning.’

‘He couldn’t have been,’ said Mrs Brown simply, ‘he can’t play.’

They stared at each other helplessly.

Robert was examining the cup.

‘But I say,’ he said, ‘where has this come from? It isn’t ours.’

‘No, it’s mine,’ said the Vicar. ‘I’ve no idea how it got here.’

‘It – it’s like a sort of dream, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Brown in a far-away voice. ‘A dream in which
anything
might happen.’

‘But
how
could that cup have got here?’ said Robert.

‘Ask William,’ said Ethel drily, ‘he’s generally at the bottom of everything.’

‘Robert, dear,’ said Mrs Brown, still faintly, ‘go and fetch my smelling salts, will you, from my bedroom, and find William and bring him back with you.’

The Vicar was examining his cup, still bewildered, and murmuring, ‘But it
was
the boy – it was the boy who played in our house this morning.’

Robert returned in a few minutes to say that he hadn’t been able to find William. He’d looked in the dining-room and morning-room and garden, and William’s bedroom, but he
hadn’t been able to find William.

Robert, of course, had not thought of looking in his own bedroom. But William was there. He was tired of being grateful to Robert. He was making him an apple pie bed.

It was unfortunate that when the whole complicated affair was finally disentangled it was too late to stop the little account which the Vicar’s wife had sent to the
press. William read it when it appeared, with a certain pride, though he thought, quite excusably, that ‘verve’ meant ‘nerve’, and wondered what she meant by talking about
his ‘execution’.

CHAPTER 9

I
T was only two days before Christmas and the Outlaws stood in Ginger’s back garden discussing its prospects, somewhat pessimistically. All
except Henry – for Henry, in a spirit of gloomy resignation to fate, had gone to spend the festival season with relations in the North.

‘What’re
you
goin’ to get?’ demanded William of Ginger. The Outlaws generally spent the week before Christmas in ascertaining exactly what were the prospects of
that day. It was quite an easy task, owing chiefly to the conservative habits of their relatives in concealing their presents in the same place year after year. The Outlaws knew exactly in which
drawer or cupboard to pursue their search, and could always tell by some unerring instinct which of the concealed presents was meant for them.

‘Nothin’ really ’
citin
’,’ said Ginger, without enthusiasm, ‘but nothin’
awful
, ’cept what Uncle George’s giv’n
me.’

‘What’s that?’ said William.

‘An ole
book
,’ said Ginger with withering contempt; ‘an ole book called
Kings an’ Queens of England.
Huh! An’ I shall have to say I like it an’
thank him an’ all that. An’ I shan’t be able to sell it even, ’cept for about sixpence, ’cause you never can, an’ it cost five shillin’s.
Five
shillin’s!
It’s got five shillin’s on the back. Well, why can’t he give me the five shillin’s an’ let me buy somethin’ sensible?’

He spoke with the bitterness of one who airs a grievance of long standing. ‘Goin’ wastin’ their money on things like
Kings an’ Queens of England
, ’stead of
giv’n it us to buy somethin’ sensible. Think of all the sensible things we could buy with five shillin’s – ’stead of stupid things like
Kings an
’
Queens of England.
’

‘Well,’ burst out Douglas indignantly. ‘S’not so bad as what my Aunt Jane’s got for me. She’s gotter ole tie.
A tie!
’ He spat the word out with
disgust. ‘I found it when I went to tea with her las’ week. A silly ole green tie. Well, I’d rather pretend to be pleased over any ole book than over a silly green tie. An’
I can’t even sell it, ’cause they’ll keep goin’ on at me to wear it – a sick’nin’ ole green tie!’

William was not to be outdone.

‘Well, you don’t know what my Uncle Charles is givin’ me. I heard him tellin’ Mother about it. A silly baby penknife.’

‘A penknife!’ they echoed, ‘well, there’s nothin’ wrong with a penknife.’

‘I’d rather have a penknife than an old
Kings an
’
Queens of England
,’ said Ginger bitterly.

‘An’ I’d rather have a penknife
or
a
Kings an’ Queens of England
than a silly ole green tie,’ said Douglas.

‘A
Kings an
’
Queens of England’s
worse than a tie,’ said Ginger fiercely, as though his honour were involved in any suggestion to the contrary.

‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas equally fiercely.

‘’Tis!’ said Ginger.

‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas.

The matter would have been settled one way or the other by physical contest between the protagonists had not William thrust his penknife (metaphorically speaking) again into the discussion.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you don’t know what
kind
of a penknife, an’ I do. I’ve got three penknives, an’ one’s almost as big as a nornery
knife, an’ got four blades
an
’ a thing for taking stones out of horses’ hoofs
an
’ some things what I haven’t found out what they’re meant for yet,
an’ this what he’s given me is a baby penknife – it’s only got one blade, an’ I heard him tellin’ mother that I couldn’t do any harm with it. Fancy’
– his voice quivered with indignation – ‘
fancy
anyone givin’ you a penknife what you can’t do any harm with.’

Ginger and Douglas stood equally aghast at this news. The insult of the tie and the
Kings and Queens of England
paled before the deadly insult of a penknife you couldn’t do any harm
with.

William returned home still burning with fury.

He found his mother in the drawing-room. She looked rather worried.

‘William,’ she said, ‘Mr Solomon’s just been here.’

William heard the news without much interest. Mr Solomon was the superintendent of the Sunday School, on which the Outlaws reluctantly shed the light of their presence every Sunday afternoon. Mr
Solomon was very young and earnest and well-meaning, and the Outlaws found it generally quite easy to ignore him. He in his official capacity found it less easy to ignore the Outlaws. But he was an
ever hopeful man, and never gave up his efforts to reach their better selves, a part of them which had hitherto succeeded in eluding him.

‘He’s going to take the elder boys out carol singing on Christmas Eve,’ went on Mrs Brown uncertainly. ‘He came to ask whether I’d rather you didn’t
go.’

William was silent. The suggestion was entirely unexpected and full of glorious possibilities. But, as he understood well enough the uncertainty in his mother’s voice, he received it
without any change of expression. The slight disgust, caused by brooding over the ignominy of a penknife he couldn’t do any harm with, remained upon his unclassic features.

‘Uh-huh?’ he said without interest.

‘Would you like to go?’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Wouldn’t mind,’ said William casually, his expression of disgust giving way to one of mere boredom. Mrs Brown, watching him, thought that Mr Solomon’s apprehensions were
quite ill-founded.

‘If you went, William,’ she said, ‘you’d be quite quiet and orderly, wouldn’t you?’

William’s expression was one of amazement. He looked as though he could hardly credit his ears.

‘
Me?
’ he said indignantly. ‘
Me?
– why, of
course
!’

He seemed so hurt by the question that his mother hastened to reassure him.

‘I thought you would, dear. I told Mr Solomon you would. You – you’d like it, wouldn’t you, dear?’

‘Uh-huh,’ said William, careful not to sound too eager.

‘What would you like about it, dear?’ asked Mrs Brown, priding herself upon her cunning.

William assumed an unctuous expression.

‘Singin’ hymns an’ – an’ psalms,’ he said piously, ‘an’ – an’ that sort of thing.’

His mother looked relieved.

‘That’s right, dear,’ she said, ‘I think it would be a very beautiful experience for you. I told Mr Solomon so. He seemed afraid that you might go in the wrong spirit,
but I told him that I was sure you wouldn’t.’

Mrs Brown’s unquenchable faith in her younger son was one of the most beautiful and touching things the world has ever known.

‘Oh, no,’ said William, looking deeply shocked at the notion. ‘I won’t go in the wrong spirit, I’ll go in, you know – what you said – a beautiful
experience an’ all that sort of spirit.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Brown, ‘I’d like you to go. It will be the sort of experience you’ll remember all your life.’

As a matter of fact it turned out to be the sort of experience that Mr Solomon rather than William remembered all his life.

William met Ginger and Douglas the next morning.

‘I’m goin’ waitin’ Christmas Eve,’ he announced proudly.

‘So’m I,’ said Ginger.

‘So’m I,’ said Douglas.

It turned out that Mr Solomon had visited their parents too, yesterday, and to their parents, too, had expressed doubt as to the advisability of their sons being allowed to join the party.
Though well meaning, he was not a very tactful young man, and had not expressed his doubts in such a way as to placate maternal pride.

‘My mother said,’ said Ginger, ‘why shun’t I go same as anyone else, so I’m goin’!’

‘So did mine,’ said Douglas, ‘so so’m I.’