William the Fourth (15 page)

But it wasn’t Bunker’s ghost, for Bunker’s solid, earthly, mangy form appeared at that very moment upon the window-sill.

William’s heart stood still. In the sudden silence that greeted the apparition of the earthly body of Bunker, his mind grasped the important fact that he must have taken the wrong cat, and
that the less he said about it the better.

‘William,’ said Mrs Brown reproachfully, ‘you might have done a little thing like that for your sister.’

‘I thought—’ said William feebly, ‘I mean, I meant—’

‘Well, you must do it after tea,’ said Mrs Brown firmly; ‘it isn’t kind of you to cause your sister all this unnecessary suffering just because you’re too lazy to
walk down to Gorton’s.’

His sister, who was finding it difficult to whip up a loving sorrow for Bunker, while Bunker, mangy and alive, stared at her through the window, said nothing and William muttered: ‘All
right – after tea – I’ll go after tea.’

He went after tea. He handed the basket to Mr Gorton with an unblushing: ‘There was two really to be done – here’s the other.’

He stood oppressed by the thought of his crime, and waited the return of his basket. He had even lost interest in Mr Gorton’s wonderland. When the parrot screamed, ‘Go
away,
you ass, go
away,
’ he replied huffily, ‘Go away yourself.’

As he lay in bed that night, he wondered vaguely whose cat he had consigned to an untimely death.

He soon knew.

‘Luky Luky Luky Luky Luk-ee-ee-
ee
. Where are you, darling? Luky? – Luky? Luky, Luky, Luky Luky Luky Lukee-ee-ee-
ee
? What’s happened to you, Luky? Where are you,
darling? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-ee-
ee
.’

It seemed to William to go on all night.

William’s excursions in the character of robber chief, outlaw, or Red Indian, took him many miles outside the radius of his own village. Three days after the day of his
ill-omened mistake he was passing a wayside cottage (in the character of a famous detective on the track of crime), when he noticed a large black cat sitting upon the doorstep washing its face.
There was something familiar about that cat. William stopped. It wasn’t Bunker, but was it—

‘Luky,’ said William in a hoarse persuasive whisper.

The large black cat rose purring and came down the walk to William.

‘Luky,’ said William again.

The large black cat rubbed itself fondly against William’s boots.

A woman came out of the cottage smiling.

‘You admirin’ my pussy, little boy?’

In ordinary circumstances, William would have resented most bitterly this mode of address and would have passed on with a silent glance of contempt. But from William’s heart the load of
murder had been lifted. He almost smiled.

‘Umph!’ he said.

‘He
is
a nice pussy, isn’t he?’ went on Luky’s new owner. ‘I bought him at Gorton’s, three days ago. He was just what I wanted – a nice
full-grown cat. Kittens are so destructive. He’s called Twinkie. Twinkie, Twinkie, Twinkie,’ she murmured fondly bending down to stroke him, her voice rising affectionately in the scale
at each repetition of his name.

Luky rubbed himself purring against her boots.

‘There!’ she said proudly, ‘don’t the dear dumb creature know its new mistress . . . There then, darling. You come in an’ see the beauty lap up its milk some time,
little boy, and I’ll give you a gingerbread. I like little boys to be fond of animals – especially cats. Some nasty boys throw sticks and things at them, but I’m quite sure you
wouldn’t, would you?’

William muttered something inaudible and set off down the road, his heart torn between relief at knowing himself guiltless of the crime of murder and indignant shame at being accused of an
affection for cats –
cats!
But he was horrified at the duplicity of Mr Gorton, and decided to confront him with it at once. He hastened to the cage-hung shop and, spending only ten
minutes in front of a box of grass snakes, entered the cool, dark depths where Mr Gorton, in his shirt-sleeves, was chewing tobacco.

Mr Gorton was a large, burly man with a fat, good-natured-looking face, and a gentle manner. But Mr Gorton obeyed the Scriptures in combining with his dovelike gentleness a serpent-like
cunning.

‘Now look ’ere, young gent,’ he said, when William had laid his accusation before him. ‘You say I sold that there hanimal. Now wot you wanted was to be rid of that
hanimal, didn’t you? Well, you’re rid of it, haren’t you? So wot’ve you got to grumble at? See? ’As that there hanimal come back to trouble you?
No.
I’m
as good a judge of a cat’s character, I am, as hanyone. I knowed that there cat soon’s I seed ’im. I says, ‘There’s a hanimal as will curl up anywheres you like ter
put ’im an’ so long’s ’e’s got ’is cushion an’ ’is saucer o’ milk regular, ’e won’t ’anker after nuffin’ else. ’E
won’t go no long torchurous road journeys tryin’ to find old ’omes. Not ’e. ’E’ll rub ’isself against hanyone wot’ll say, “Puss, puss”.
’Sides which it’s agin’ my feelings as a ’umane man to put to death a young an’ ’ealthy hanimal.’

William stared at him.

‘Now, the second one, you brought, well, ’e was ripe fer death, all right, an’ it’s a pleasure an’ kindness to do it in those circs. ’Sides which,’ Mr
Gorton went on as another argument occurred to him, ‘wot proof ’ave you that this ’ere hanimal of Miss Cliff’s is the same hanimal wot you brought to me Saturday?
They’re both black cats – no marks on ’em. Well, there must be ’undreds of black cats same as that – thahsands –
millions
– just think of ’em
– all hover the world. Well, jus’ you prove that these two hanimals is identical.’

William, having for once in his life met his match in eloquence, moved away despondently.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I only asked.’ He went to the parrot who was still there, and who greeted him with an ironical laugh and a cry of: ‘My
word
–
what a nut! Oh, my
word
!’

William’s spirits rose.

‘How much is the parrot?’ he said.

‘Five pounds,’ said Mr Gorton.

William’s spirits sank again.

‘Snakes one and six – and – and, see here, I’ll
give
you a baby tortoise jus’ to stop you worrying about that hanimal.’

William walked home proudly carrying his baby tortoise in both hands.

Miss Amelia Blake was in the drawing-room. She was speaking tearfully to his mother. ‘And I leave his saucer of milk out every night and I call him every night, my poor Luky. I can hardly
sleep with thinking of my darling, perhaps hungry and needing me . . . William, if you see any traces of my Luky you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

And William, oppressed by the weight of his guilty secret, muttered something inaudible and went to watch the effect of his new pet upon Jumble.

That night the plaintive cry arose again to his room.

‘Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Luk-ee-ee-
ee
! Luky, Luky. Where
are
you, darling? Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee.’

William’s conscience, though absolved of the crime of murder, felt heavy as Miss Amelia Blake called her lost pet mournfully night after night.

Now William’s conscience was a curious organ. It needed a great deal to rouse it. When roused it demanded immediate action. He took one of his white rats round to Miss Amelia Blake, and
Miss Amelia Blake screamed and got on to the table. He even rose to supreme heights of self-denial, and offered her his baby tortoise, but she refused it.

‘No, William dear, it’s very kind of you, but what I need is something I can stroke – and I don’t want anything but my Luky – and I – I don’t like its
expression – it looks as if it might bite. I
couldn’t
stroke that!’

Greatly relieved, William took it back.

That afternoon, perched on the garden fence, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, he watched the antics of Jumble round the baby tortoise. Though William had had the tortoise for
three days now, Jumble still barked at it with unabated fury, and William watched the two with unabated interest. But William’s thoughts were still occupied with the Twinkie-Luky problem. The
ethics of the case were difficult. It belonged to Miss Blake, but Miss Cliff had paid for it. Then suddenly the solution occurred to him – a week each. They should have it a week each –
that would be quite easy to manage. His heart lightened. He jumped down, put his tortoise into his pocket, called ‘Hi, Jumble!’ took a stick, jumped (almost) over the bed in the middle
of the lawn, and went whistling down the road followed by Jumble.

The covered basket was very old and very shabby, and it did not need much persuasion on William’s part to induce Mrs Brown to give it to him.

‘Jus’ to keep my things in an’ carry ’em about in, mother,’ he said plaintively, ‘so as I won’t be so untidy. I shan’t be half as untidy if I have
a basket like that to keep my things in an’ carry ’em about in.’

‘All right, dear,’ said Mrs Brown, much pleased.

She was eternally optimistic about William.

William spent an entire Saturday morning stalking Luky in the neighbourhood of Miss Cliff’s garden (Miss Cliff went into the town to do her shopping on Saturday mornings). Finally he
caught him, put him in the basket, and secretly deposited Luky in Miss Amelia Blake’s garden. Miss Blake was overjoyed.

‘He’s come back, Mrs Brown! Mrs Brown, he’s come back. William, he’s come back – Luky’s come back.’

Miss Cliff was distraught.

‘Little boy, you haven’t seen my Twinkie anywhere, have you? My darling Twinkie, he’s gone. Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie! Twinkie-ee-
ee
!’

The next four Saturdays he successfully changed Twinkie-Luky’s place of abode. On arrival at Miss Cliff’s Twinkie made immediately for his favourite cushion and went to sleep. On
arrival at Miss Amelia Blake’s Luky did the same. The owners became almost accustomed to the week’s mysterious absence.

‘He’s gone away again, Mrs Brown,’ Miss Blake would call over the fence. ‘I only hope he’ll come back as he did last time. You haven’t seen him, have you?
Luky, Luky, Luky, Luky, Lukee-ee-ee-ee-
ee
!’

Then William became bored. At first the glorious consciousness of duty done and the salving of his sense of guilt had upheld him, but he began to feel that this could not go on for ever. When
all is said and done, Saturday is Saturday – a golden holiday in a drab procession of schooldays. William began to think that if he had to spend every Saturday of his life stalking
Twinkie-Luky and conveying him secretly from one end of the village to the other, he might just as well not have been born—

He had put Twinky-Luky in the basket and was setting off with it down the road. It was very hot and Twinkie-Luky was very heavy and William was very cross. He had just come to
the conclusion that some other solution must be found to the Twinkie-Luky problem when he heard the sound of the bus that made its slow and noisy progress from the neighbouring country town to the
village in which William lived.

A ride in the bus would save him a long, hot walk with the heavy basket, and by some miraculous chance he had the requisite penny in his pocket. And anyhow, he was sick of the whole thing. He
hailed the bus by swinging the basket round and putting out his tongue at the driver. The driver put his out in return, and the bus stopped. William, holding the basket, entered. The bus was very
full, but there was one empty seat. William had taken this seat before he realised with horror that on one side of him sat Miss Amelia Blake and on the other Miss Cliff.

The bus had started again, and it was too late to get out. He went rather pale, pretended not to see them, stared in front of him with a set, stern expression on his face, and clasped the basket
containing Twinkie-Luky tightly to his bosom. Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff did not ‘know’ each other. But they both knew William.

‘Good morning, little boy,’ said Miss Cliff.

‘Mornin’,’ muttered William, still staring straight in front of him.

‘Good morning, William,’ said Miss Blake.

‘Mornin’,’ muttered William.

‘Have you been doing some shopping for your mother?’ said Miss Blake brightly.

‘Uumph!’ said William, his eyes still fixed desperately on the opposite window, the basket still clutched tightly to his breast.

‘You must call and see my pussy again soon, little boy,’ said Miss Cliff.

A shadow passed over Miss Amelia Blake’s face.

‘You haven’t seen Luky have you, William? He’s been away all this week.’

William felt a spasmodic movement in the basket at the sound of the name. He moistened his lips and shook his head.

Miss Amelia Blake was looking with interest at his basket. It happened that she wanted a new shopping basket, and had called at the basket-shop about one that morning.

‘May I look at your basket, William?’ she said kindly. ‘I like these covered baskets for shopping. The things can’t tumble out. On the other hand, of course, you
can’t get so many things in. Are the fastenings firm?’

Her hand was outstretched innocently towards the fastenings. A cold perspiration broke out over William. He put his hands desperately over his fastenings.

‘I wun’t – I wun’t touch ’em,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It’s – it’s a bit full. I wun’t like all the things to come tumblin’ out
here.’

Miss Amelia Blake smiled agreement and Miss Cliff beamed on him from the other side. William was wishing that the earth would open and swallow up Miss Amelia Blake and Miss Cliff and
Twinkie-Luky and himself.

At last the bus stopped at the cross-roads and they all got out. William’s relief was indescribable.
That
was over. And it was the last time
he’d
ever change their ole
cats for ’em. He turned to go down the road, but Miss Amelia Blake put her hand on his arm.

‘I’ll hold it very carefully, William,’ she pleaded. ‘I won’t let anything tumble out, but I
do
want to see if the fastenings of these baskets are
secure.’

Miss Cliff stood by smiling with interested curiosity William mutely abandoned himself to Fate. Miss Amelia Blake opened one fastening, the flap turned back, and a black-whiskered head arose and
looked around with a purr.