William the Fourth (4 page)

Mrs Adolphus Crane was touched, both by letter and photograph.

‘I must have been wrong,’ she said with penitence. ‘He looks so
good.
And there’s something rather
sad
about his face.’

She asked William to her birthday tea-party. To William this was the climax of a long chain of insults.

‘But I don’t
want
to go to tea with her,’ he said in dismay.

‘But she wants you, darling,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I expect she liked your photograph.’

‘I’m not going,’ said William testily, ‘if they’re all going to be laughing at my photograph all the time. I’m jus’ sick of people laughing at my
photograph.’

‘Of course they won’t, dear,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘It’s a very nice photograph. You look a bit – depressed in it, that’s all.’

‘Well, that’s not
funny,
’ he said indignantly

‘Of course not, dear. You’ll behave nicely, won’t you?’

‘I’ll behave ordinary’ he said coldly, ‘but I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go ’cause – ’cause – ’cause—’ he
sought silently for a reason that might appeal to a grown-up mind, then, with a brilliant inspiration, ‘ ’cause I don’t want my best clothes to get all wore out.’

‘I don’t think they will, dear,’ she said; ‘don’t worry about that.’

William dejectedly promised not to.

The afternoon of Mrs Adolphus Crane’s birthday dawned bright and clear, and William, resigned and martyred, set off. He arrived early and was shown into Mrs Adolphus Crane’s
magnificent drawing-room. An air of magisterial magnificence shed gloom over Mrs Adolphus Crane’s whole house. Mrs Adolphus Crane, as magisterial, and magnificent and depressing and enormous
as her house, entered.

‘Good afternoon, William. Now I’ve a pleasant little surprise for you.’ William’s gloomy countenance brightened. ‘I’ve put your photograph into my album.
There! What an honour for a little boy!’ William’s countenance relapsed into gloom.

‘You can look at the album while I’m getting ready, and then when the guests come you can show it to them. Won’t that be nice?’ She departed.

William was trapped – trapped in a huge and horrible drawing-room by a huge and horrible woman, and he would have to stay there at least two hours. And Ginger and Henry were bird-nesting!
Oh, the horror of it. Why was he chosen by Fate for this penance? He felt a sudden fury against the art of photography in general. William’s sudden furies against anything demanded some
immediate outlet.

So William, with the aid of a pencil, looked at Mrs Adolphus Crane’s family album till Mrs Adolphus Crane was ready. Then she arrived, and soon after her the guests, or rather such of them
as had not had the presence of mind to invent excuses for their absence. For funeral affairs were Mrs Adolphus Crane’s parties. Liveliness and hilarity dropped slain on the doorstep. The
guests came sadly into the drawing-room, and Mrs Adolphus Crane dispensed gloom from the hearthrug. Her voice was low and deep.

‘How do you do . . . thank you so much . . . I doubt whether I shall live to see another . . . yes, my nerves! By the way – my little godson—’ They turned to look at
William who was sitting in silent misery in a corner, his hands on his knees. He returned their interested stares with his best company frown. On the chair by him was the album. ‘Have you
seen the family album?’ went on Mrs Adolphus Crane. ‘It’s most interesting. Do look at it.’ A group of visitors sadly gathered round it and one of them opened it. Mrs
Adolphus Crane did not join them. She knew her album by heart. She took her knitting, sat down by the fire, and poured forth her knowledge.

‘The first one is great uncle Joshua,’ she said, ‘a splendid old man. Never touched tobacco or alcoholic drinks in his life.’

They looked at great uncle Joshua. He sat, grim and earnest and respectable, with his hand on the table. But a lately added pipe, in pencil, adorned his mouth, and his hand seemed to encircle a
tankard. Quite suddenly animation returned to the group by the album. They began to believe that they were going to enjoy it, after all.

‘Then comes my poor, dear mother.’ Poor, dear mother wore a large eye-glass with a black ribbon and a wild Indian head-dress. The group by the album grew large. There seemed to be
some magnetic attraction about it.

‘Then comes my paternal uncle James, a very handsome man.’

Paternal uncle James might have been a very handsome man before his nose had been elongated for several inches, and his lips curved into an enormous smile, showing gigantic teeth. He smoked a
large, vulgar-looking pipe.

‘A beautiful character, too,’ said Mrs Adolphus Crane. She continued the family catalogue, and the visitors followed the photographs in the album. They were all embellished. Some had
pipes, some had blue noses, some black eyes, some giant spectacles, some comic headdresses. Some had received more attention than others. Aunt Julia, ‘a most saintly woman’, positively
leered from her ‘cabinet’, with a huge nose, and a black eye, and a cigar in her mouth. The album was handed from one to another. An unwonted hilarity and vivacity reigned supreme
– and always there were crowds round the album.

Mrs Adolphus Crane was surprised, but vaguely flattered. Her party seemed more successful than usual. People seemed to be taking quite a lot of notice of William, too. One young curate, who had
wept tears over the album, pressed half a crown into William’s hand. By some unerring instinct they guessed the author of the outrage. As a matter of fact, Mrs Adolphus Crane did not happen
to look at her album till several months later, and then it did not occur to her to connect it with William. But this afternoon she somehow connected the strange spirit of cheerfulness that
pervaded her drawing-room with him, and was most gracious to him.

‘He’s been
so
good,’ she said to Mrs Brown when she arrived to take William home; ‘quite helped to make my little party a success.’

Mrs Brown concealed her amazement as best she could.

‘But what did you
do,
William?’ she said on the way home as William plodded along beside her, his hands in his pockets lovingly fingering his half-crown.

‘Me?’ said William innocently. ‘Nothin’.’

CHAPTER 3

THE FÊTE – AND FORTUNE

W
illiam took a fancy to Miss Tabitha Croft as soon as he saw her. She was small and inoffensive-looking. She didn’t look the sort of person
to write irate letters to William’s parents. William was a great judge of character. He could tell at a glance who was likely to object to him, who was likely to ignore him, and who was
likely definitely to encourage him. The last was a very rare class indeed. Most people belonged to the first class. But as he sat on the wall and watched Miss Tabitha Croft timidly and flutteringly
superintending the unloading of her furniture at her little cottage gate, he came to the conclusion that she would be very inoffensive indeed. He also came to the conclusion that he was going to
like her. William generally got on well with timid people. He was not timid himself. He was small and freckled and solemn and possessed of great tenacity of purpose for his eleven years.

Miss Tabitha, happening to look up from the debris of a small table which one of the removers had carelessly and gracefully crushed against the wall, saw a boy perched on her wall, scowling at
her. She did not know that the scowl was William’s ordinary normal expression. She smiled apologetically

‘Good afternoon,’ she said.

‘Arternoon,’ said William.

There was silence for a time while another of the removers took the door off its hinges with little or no effort by means of a small piano which he then placed firmly upon another
remover’s foot. Then the silence was broken. During the breaking of silence, William’s scowl disappeared and a rapt smile appeared on his face.

‘Can’t they think of things to
say?
he said delightedly to Miss Tabitha when a partial peace was restored.

Miss Tabitha raised a face of horror and misery

‘Oh, dear!’ she said in a voice that trembled, ‘it’s simply dreadful!’

William’s chivalry (that curious quality) was aroused. He leapt heavily from the wall.

‘I’ll help,’ he said airily. ‘Don’t you worry’

He helped.

He staggered from the van to the house and from the house to the van. He worked till the perspiration poured from his freckled brow. He broke two candlesticks, a fender, a lamp, a statuette, and
most of a breakfast service. After each breakage he said, ‘Never mind,’ comfortingly to Miss Tabitha and put the pieces tidily in the dustbin. When he had filled the dustbin he arranged
them in a neat pile by the side of it. He was completely master of the situation. Miss Tabitha gave up the struggle and sat on a packing-case in the kitchen with some sal-volatile and
smelling-salts. One of the removers gave William a drink of cold tea – another gave him a bit of cold sausage. William was blissfully, riotously happy. The afternoon seemed to fly on wings.
He tore a large hole in his knickers and upset a tin of paint, which he found on a window sill, down his jersey. At last the removers departed and William proudly surveyed the scene of his labours
and destruction.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I bet things would have been a lot different if I hadn’t helped.’

‘I’m sure they would,’ said Miss Tabitha with perfect truth.

‘Seems about tea-time, doesn’t it?’ went on William gently.

Miss Tabitha gave a start and put aside the sal-volatile.

‘Yes;
do
stay and have some here.’

‘Thanks,’ said William simply, ‘I was thinking you’d most likely ask me.’

Over the tea (to which he did full justice in spite of his previous repast of cold tea and sausage) William waxed very conversational. He told her of his friends and enemies (chiefly enemies) in
the neighbourhood – of Farmer Jones who made such a fuss over his old apples, of the Rev. P. Craig who entered into a base conspiracy with parents to deprive quite well-meaning boys of their
Sunday afternoon freedom. ‘If Sunday school’s so
nice
an’
good for folks
as they say it is,’ said William bitterly, ‘why don’t
they
go? I
wun’t mind
them
going.’

He told her of Ginger’s air-gun and his own catapult, of the dead rat they found in the ditch and the house they had made of branches in the wood, of the dare-devil career of robber and
outlaw he meant to pursue as soon as he left school. In short, he admitted her unreservedly into his friendship.

And while he talked, he consumed large quantities of bread and jam and butter and cakes and pastry. At last he rose.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I s’pose I’d better be goin’.’

Miss Tabitha was bewildered but vaguely cheered by him.

‘You must come again . . .’ she said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said William cheerfully. ‘I’ll come again lots . . . an’ let me know when you’re moving again – I’ll come an’ help
again.’

Miss Tabitha shuddered slightly.

‘Thank you
so
much,’ she said.

He arrived the next afternoon.

‘I’ve just come to see,’ he said, ‘how you’re gettin’ on.’

Miss Tabitha was seated at a little table – with a row of playing cards spread out in front of her.

She flushed slightly

‘I’m – I’m just telling my fortune, William,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ said William. He was impressed.

‘It
does
sometimes come true,’ she said eagerly, ‘I do it nearly every day. It’s curious – how it grows on one.’

She began to turn up the covered cards and study them intently. William sat on a chair opposite her and watched with interest.

‘There was a letter in my cards yesterday’ she said, ‘and it came this morning. Sometimes it comes true like that, but often,’ she sighed, ‘it
doesn’t.’

‘Wot’s in it today?’ said William, scowling at the cards.

‘A death,’ said Miss Tabitha in a sepulchral whisper, ‘and a letter from a dark man and jealousy of a fair woman and a present from across the sea and legal business and a
legacy – but they’re none of them the sort of thing that comes true. I don’t know though,’ she went on dreamily, ‘the Income Tax man might be dark – I
don’t know – and I may hear from him soon. It’s wonderful really – I mean that any of it should come out. It’s quite an absorbing pursuit. Shall I do yours?’

‘’Um,’ said William graciously.

‘You must wish first.’

William wished with his eyes screwed up in silent concentration.

‘I’ve done it,’ he said.

Miss Tabitha dealt out the cards. She shook her head sorrowfully

‘You’ll be treated badly by a fair woman,’ she said.

William agreed gloomily

‘That’ll be Ethel – my sister,’ he said. ‘She thinks that jus’ cause she’s grown up . . .’ He relapsed into subterranean mutterings.

‘And you’ll have your wish,’ she said.

William brightened. Then his eye roved round the room to a photograph on a bureau by the window.

‘Who’s he?’ he said.

Miss Tabitha flushed again.

‘He was once going to marry me,’ she said. ‘And he went away and he never came back.’

‘ ’Speck he met someone he liked better an’ married her,’ suggested William cheerfully

‘I expect he did,’ said Miss Tabitha.

He surveyed her critically.

‘Perhaps he didn’t like your hair not being curly’ he proceeded. ‘Some don’t. My brother Robert he says if a girl’s hair doesn’t curl she oughter curl
it. P’raps you didn’t curl it.’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘My sister Ethel does, but she gets mad if I tell folks, an’ she gets mad when I use her old things for makin’ holes in apples and cardboard an’ things. She’s an
awful fuss,’ he ended contemptuously

When he got home he stood transfixed on the dining-room threshold, his mouth open, his eyes wide.

‘Crumbs!’ he ejaculated.

He had wished that there might be ginger cake for tea.

And there was.

At tea was the Vicar’s wife. The Vicar’s wife was afflicted with the Sale of Work mania. It is a disease to which Vicars’ wives are notoriously susceptible. She was always
thinking out the next but one Sale of Work before the next one was over. She was always praised in the local press and she felt herself to be a very happy woman.