William the Good (21 page)

At the gate Hector and George came forward to greet them. The fight was just over. It had been indecisive. They were equally matched and knew each other’s style of boxing too well ever to
be taken by surprise, so the fight had finally been abandoned by mutual consent. At the unexpected sight of Ethel emerging from the front door escorted by the Outlaws, they pulled themselves
together and hastened forward with smiles of greeting. Ethel passed them head in air without any sign of recognition. They stood gaping after her in helpless bewilderment. The Outlaws turned back
to look at them, Ginger and Douglas raised trumpet and mouth-organ to their lips and uttered defiant strains, William waved his bow and arrow in careless greeting, then they turned back and went on
their way accompanying Ethel, an indescribable swagger in their walk.

George and Hector picked up their hats from the dust and walked slowly away in the opposite direction.

Ethel wasn’t in quarantine after all. And she was going out to tea to meet the artist who said she was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in his life. She was tired
to death of those two boys but – but it was all right now.

She was perfectly happy.

The Outlaws had got back their confiscated property, and then some, as they say across the Atlantic. They had scored most gloriously off their enemies. They had had a most successful day. There
had been, it is true, certain mysterious elements in it that they could not understand, but that did not matter. It had been a most successful day. They were perfectly happy.

George and Hector walked down the road arm in arm. Their conflict had stimulated them and roused again all their old friendship. They were confiding in each other that women
were unreliable and incalculable and that it was best to give them a wide berth. They were congratulating each other on the narrow escape from the lifelong unhappiness that marriage with Ethel
would have meant to them.

ETHEL PASSED THE TWO YOUNG MEN, HEAD IN AIR, WITHOUT ANY SIGN OF RECOGNITION. WILLIAM WAVED HIS BOW AND ARROW IN IRONIC FAREWELL.

Then they went on to discuss the latest football results.

They were perfectly happy. . . .

GEORGE AND HECTOR STOOD GAZING IN HELPLESS BEWILDERMENT.

CHAPTER 7

T
HE atmosphere in William’s home was electric, or, as William put it, everyone seemed to be in a bait but him. Uncle Frederick was staying
with them, and not only Uncle Frederick but also a distant cousin, many times removed, called Flavia. Flavia is a romantic name, but not as romantic as its owner. Flavia was tall and slim and dark
with deep violet eyes. Not that William thought she was romantic. He did not even realise that she was tall and slim and dark with deep violet eyes. To William she was merely an ordinary and quite
unattractive grown-up. He had tested her intelligence and found it entirely lacking (she did not, for instance, know the difference between a Poplar Hawk and a Vaporer, nor did she take the
slightest interest in the records of his prize conker). He felt in her, however, the aloof impersonal interest he felt for all the girls whom Robert admired. For Robert admired Flavia. At sight of
her he had forgotten all his other lady loves (and they had been numerous), had forgotten even that he had always intended to marry a small girl with golden hair and blue eyes, and had gazed on her
even while the introduction was taking place with a lovelorn gaze that riveted William’s attention at once. William liked to keep up with Robert’s love affairs, and on account of their
fleeting nature, this was less easy than it sounds. As he watched the introduction he mentally transferred the focus of Robert’s affection from the golden-haired girl he’d been taking
on the river last week to this new arrival. He was on the whole relieved to find her devoid of intelligence. It always vaguely shocked him to find intelligence – a knowledge of insects or
interest in conker battles – in inamoratas of Robert’s. It seemed such a waste of it.

It might be supposed that the course of true love would run very smooth indeed with the inamorata beneath the same roof, but it didn’t. It didn’t because of Uncle Frederick. Uncle
Frederick needed a perpetual audience. Uncle Frederick accompanied Flavia and Robert wherever they went. He insisted on walking in the middle and he talked all the time. He talked about his stamp
collection. He had a collection of ten thousand stamps, and he was never perfectly happy except when he was talking about them. He knew his collection by heart and he could describe each one of
them in detail. He could – in fact he did – talk about his collection for hours and hours and hours and hours without stopping. He took for granted that Robert and Flavia liked to have
him with them wherever they went and so he always went with them. He went for walks with them. He went for picnics with them. He went on the river with them. He went out to tea with them. He played
tennis with them. He sat in the garden with them. And always he talked to them about his stamp collection. Sometimes in the evening he read aloud to them from a book called
The Joy of Stamp
Collecting.

They were sitting on a seat in the garden – Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side.

‘I wish you could see it,’ Uncle Frederick was saying; ‘it’s quite an unique collection. Did I ever tell you how I got that Japanese stamp?’

‘Yes,’ said Robert gloomily.

Robert had an uneasy suspicion that he could see William’s face through the laurel bushes, framed in its feathered Indian head-dress, wearing its unholy grin.

‘I’d like to have brought the collection with me,’ went on Uncle Frederick, ‘but of course it’s very large and cumbersome. And I’m afraid of thieves.
It’s extraordinary how thieves do get to hear of these things, and of course they’re very cunning. Did I tell you about the man I met who’d had a very rare complete set of Italian
stamps taken out of his pocketbook during a journey without feeling anything?’

‘Yes,’ said Robert.

Uncle Frederick threw him a suspicious glance. He was almost sure he’d never told Robert that story. Slightly disconcerted, he paused a minute, then pulling himself together continued:
‘I keep them at home in a specially constructed safe. It would, I think, baffle any burglar, but of course they are very cunning. I never come away like this without feeling anxious about my
stamps. The first thing I do when I get home is to go to my safe and ascertain that they are all there. Did I ever tell you—’ He stopped, glanced at Robert and began the sentence again.
‘I remember hearing of a man once who had a most valuable collection stolen and faked stamps put in its stead. It was some months before he discovered the trick.’

Robert leant over to Flavia who sat serene in the consciousness of her beauty, and, assuming an expression which caused much delight to the hidden William – an expression which soulless
people sometimes compare to that of ‘a dying duck in a thunder-storm’ – said:

‘Would you like to come to the summer-house, Flavia? There’s a very pretty view of the rose garden from there.’

‘Certainly,’ said Flavia demurely as she rose.

‘You stay here, Uncle Frederick,’ said Robert hastily, seeing that Uncle Frederick, too, was rising, and added solicitously, ‘I’m sure you’re tired with our walk
this morning. You rest here while I show Flavia the view from the summer-house.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Uncle Frederick briskly, ‘I’m not at all tired; I’m a very good walker. I could outwalk you both, I dare say. I’ll come and look at this view
from the summer-house with you. I remember there was a summer-house at home when I was a boy. I used to take my stamp collection down there to arrange them. I remember that it was in the old
summer-house that I added the last of the complete set of Austrian stamps to my collection. A friend of my father gave it to me, and I took it down to the summer-house to put it into my
album.’

The three of them wended their way to the summer-house. William, wearing his Red Indian costume, followed through the bushes. He found the expression on Robert’s face highly diverting.

They stood in the summer-house, Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side, William discreetly peeping through a crack in the side.

‘Well, where’s this view from the summer-house?’ said Uncle Frederick.

‘There,’ said Robert savagely. Uncle Frederick looked through the little window.

‘It doesn’t seem to me,’ he said, ‘much different from the view you get from the house.’

Robert ground his teeth.

‘I don’t see anything at all specially attractive about the view of the rose garden from this particular spot,’ went on Uncle Frederick. ‘However – we each have our
own standard of beauty, and what appeals to one does not appeal to all. I know quite a lot of people, for instance, who judge stamps entirely by their artistic appearance, quite irrespective of
their value. Did I ever tell you of the lady who—?’

‘Yes,’ interrupted Robert viciously. Uncle Frederick looked at him coldly.

‘I don’t think I did,’ he said. ‘You must be thinking of some other story I told you. This lady was forming a stamp collection and I told her that she could choose any
stamp she liked on a certain page of my album (not one containing my most valuable stamps, of course) to form the nucleus of her collection, and she chose one of no value at all just because she
liked the picture on it.’

Robert leaned over to Flavia again.

‘Would you care to come and see the greenhouse,’ he said, ‘and look at the – er – carnations?’

‘Certainly,’ said Flavia pleasantly, rising.

‘We’ll be back with you in a minute, Uncle,’ said Robert hastily, seeing that Uncle Frederick was rising, too.

‘Oh, I’ll come and look at the carnations,’ said Uncle Frederick. ‘I’m very much interested in carnations. And very unusual, too, for them to be out this time of
the year.’

The three of them went on to the greenhouse and stood there, Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side. Uncle Frederick looked about him.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘where are the carnations? I don’t see any carnations.’

‘I didn’t mean carnations,’ said Robert desperately, ‘I meant,’ he swept his arm wildly round the greenhouse, ‘I meant these.’

‘These.’ Uncle Frederick adjusted his spectacles and began to look around. ‘I see . . . Begonias. Very nice, very nice. I’m glad you thought of showing us these, Robert.
I’m very fond of begonias, aren’t you, Flavia?’

Robert, standing behind his uncle, bared his lips in a silent and impotent snarl of fury. It was at that moment that he espied William’s feather-encircled head gazing through one of the
glass panes with a smile of quiet enjoyment. He turned the snarl of fury on to William. William promptly disappeared. Uncle Frederick turned abruptly and caught the tail-end of the snarl of fury.
He looked startled and concerned.

‘Are you in pain, my poor boy?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Robert, ‘I mean yes. I mean, not much.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve been overdoing it,’ he said. ‘Flavia, we’ve tired out our young friend, I’m afraid. The walk was too much for him. I suspect that he
indulges in too much physical exercise and too little mental recreation. You should collect stamps, my boy. There’s nothing like it. Have I ever told you how I came to collect
stamps?’

‘No,’ said Robert. ‘I mean yes. Yes, you have.’

At that minute the first lunch gong sounded.

‘I’ll tell you about the origin of my stamp collection afterwards. Let us now follow yon welcome sound.’

Groaning inwardly, Robert followed it. He stalked angrily into the dining-room and flung himself into the nearest chair. It was unfortunate that William had been into the room a minute before
and had carelessly flung down his Red Indian head-dress upon that very chair, and that at the end of the head-dress was the unguarded pin that had secured it around William’s head. Robert
leapt into the air with a high-pitched cry of agony, which swiftly changed to a growl of fury when he saw the cause of his involuntary ascent. The sight of the head-dress reminded him, too, of the
unholy grin on William’s face as it peered in at the greenhouse, rejoicing in his discomfiture. With a gesture of rage he flung the whole thing into the fire. That to a small extent – a
very small extent – relieved his feelings, so that when William entered a few minutes later, still wearing his frilled khaki trousers and looked around with a stern, ‘Where’s my
feather thing?’ Robert could answer with great dignity and nonchalance: ‘In the fire.’