William the Good (6 page)

‘Yes,’ said William calmly, ‘that’s the way my name’s going’ to be printed in our play.’

‘What play is it?’ said the man yielding at last to William’s irresistible egotism.

‘It’s called
A Trial of Love
, said William. ‘It’s for my football an’ their cinematograph.’

‘Ha-ha!’ said the man. ‘And may – may – ah – distinguished strangers come to it?’

‘Yes,’ said William casually, ‘
anyone
can come to it. You’ve gotter pay at least. Everyone’s gotter pay.’

‘Well, I must certainly come,’ said the distinguished stranger. ‘I must certainly come and see you play the hero.’

The dress rehearsal was not an unqualified success, but as Miss Featherstone said that was always a sign that the real performance would go off well. In all the most successful
plays, she said, the dress rehearsal went off badly. William quite dispassionately considered them the worst-tempered set of people he’d ever come across in his life. They snapped at him if
he so much as spoke. They said that his wind was far too loud, though it was in his opinion so faint and distant a breeze that it was hardly worth doing at all. They objected also to his thunder
and his horses’ hooves. They said quite untruly that they were deafening. A deep disgust with the whole proceedings was growing stronger and stronger in William’s breast. He felt that
it would serve them right if he washed his hands of the whole thing and refused to make any of their noises for them. The only reason why he did not do this was that he was afraid that if he did
they’d find some one else to do it in his place. Moreover he was feeling worried about another matter. He was aware that he did not take in the play such an important part as he had given his
friends to understand. He had given them to understand that he took the principal part and was on the stage all the time, whereas, though he quite honestly considered that he took the principal
part, he wasn’t on the stage at all. Then there was that man with bushy eyebrows he’d met in the village. He’d probably come, and William had quite given him to understand that he
had his name on the programme in big letters and took a principal part. . . .

‘
Thunder
, William,’ said Miss Gwladwyn irritably, interrupting his meditations. ‘Why don’t you keep awake and follow where we are!’

William emitted a piercing whistle.

‘Not
wind
,’ she snapped. ‘
Thunder.
’

William beat on his tin tray.

Miss Greene-Joanes groaned.

‘That noise,’ she said, ‘goes through and
through
my head. I can’t bear it!’

‘Well, thunder is loud,’ said William coldly. ‘It’s nachrally loud. I can’t help thunder being’ nachrally loud.’

‘Thunder more gently, William,’ commanded Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

Just to annoy them William made an almost inaudible rumble of thunder, but to his own great annoyance it didn’t annoy them at all. ‘That’s better, William,’ they said;
and gloomily William returned to his meditation. He’d seen the programme and had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he saw that his name wasn’t on it at all. They hadn’t
even got his name down as the wind or the thunder or the horses’ hooves or anything. . . . If it hadn’t been for that sixpence he’d certainly have chucked up the whole thing. . .
.

They’d got to the snow-storm scene now. The curtains were half drawn across and in the narrow aperture appeared Miss Gwladwyn, the heroine. It was a very complicated plot, but at this
stage of it she’d been turned out of her home by her cruel Roundhead father and was wandering in search of her lost Cavalier lover.

She said, ‘How cold it is! Heaven, wilt thou show me any pity?’ and turned her face up to the sky, and tiny snow-flakes began to fall upon her face. The tiny snow-flakes were tiny
bits of paper dropped down through a tiny opening in the ceiling by her well-mannered little nephew. He did it very nicely. William did not pay much attention to it. He was beginning to consider
the whole thing beneath his contempt.

It was the evening of the performance. The performers were making frenzied preparations behind the scenes. Mr Fleuster was to draw the curtain, Miss Featherstone’s
sister was to prompt, and William was to hand out programmes. Mr Fleuster has not come into this story before, but he had been trying to propose to Miss Gwladwyn for the last five years and had not
yet been able to manage it. Both Miss Gwladwyn and Miss Gwladwyn’s friends had given him ample opportunities, but opportunities only seemed to make him yet more bashful. When he had not an
opportunity he longed to propose, and when an opportunity of proposing came he lost his head and didn’t do it. Miss Gwladwyn had done everything a really nice woman can do; that is to say,
she had done everything short of actually proposing herself. Her friends had arranged for him to draw the curtain in the hopes that it would bring matters to a head. Not that they really expected
that it would. It would, of course, be a good opportunity, and as such would fill him with terror and dismay.

Mr Fleuster, large and perspiring, stood by the curtain, pretending not to see that Miss Gwladwyn was standing quite near him and that no one else was within earshot, and that it was an
excellent opportunity.

William stood sphinx-like at the door distributing programmes. His cogitations had not been entirely profitless. He had devised means by which he hoped to vindicate his position as hero. For one
thing he had laboriously printed out four special programmes which he held concealed beneath the ordinary programmes, and which were to be distributed to Ginger, Douglas, Henry, and the actor, if
the actor should come. He had copied down the dramatis personæ from the ordinary programme, but at the end he had put an ‘and’ and then in gigantic letters:

Seeing Ginger coming he hastily got one of his homemade programmes out and assuming his blankest expression handed it to him.

‘Good ole William,’ murmured Ginger as he took it.

Then Henry came, and Henry also was given one.

‘Why aren’t you changin’ into your things?’ said Henry.

‘I don’t
ackshully
come on to the stage,’ admitted William. ‘I’m the most important person in the play as you’ll soon jolly well see, but I don’t
ackshully
come on to the stage.’

He was glad to have got that confession off his chest.

Then Douglas came. He handed the third of his privately printed programmes to Douglas with an air of impersonal officialism, as if he were too deeply occupied in his duties to be able to
recognise his friends.

There was only one left. That was for the actor. If the actor came. William peered anxiously down the road. The room was full. It was time to begin.

‘William Brown!’ an exasperated voice hissed down the room. William swelled with importance. Everyone would know now that they couldn’t begin without him. He continued to gaze
anxiously down the road. There he was at last.

‘William
Brown
!’

The actor was almost at the door. He carried a parcel under his arm.

‘William Brown,’ said someone in the back row obligingly, ‘they want you.’

‘
William – Brown!
’ hissed Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s face, appearing frenzied and bodiless like the Cheshire cat between the curtains.

The actor entered the hall. William thrust his one remaining programme into his hand.

‘Thought you were the hero,’ said the actor, gazing at him sardonically.

William met his sardonic gaze unblinkingly.

‘So I am,’ he said promptly, ‘but the hero doesn’t
always
come on to the stage. Not in the
newest
sort of plays, anyway.’ He pointed to the
large-lettered part of the programme. ‘That’s me,’ he said modestly. ‘All of it’s me.’

With this he hastened back behind the curtain, leaving the actor reading his programme at the end of the room.

He was received with acrimony by a nerve-racked cast.

‘Keeping us all waiting all this time.’

‘Didn’t you
hear
us calling?’

‘It’s nearly twenty-five to.’

‘It’s all right,’ said William in a superior manner that maddened them still further. ‘You can begin now.’

Miss Featherstone’s sister took her prompt-book, Mr Fleuster seized the curtain-strings, the cast entered the stage, William took his seat behind, and the play began.

Now William’s plans for making himself the central figure of the play did not stop with the programmes. He considered that the noises he had been allowed to make at the rehearsals had been
pitifully inadequate, and he intended tonight to produce a storm more worthy of his powers. Who ever heard of the wind howling in a storm the way they’d made him howl all these weeks? He knew
what the wind howling in a storm sounded like and he’d jolly well make it sound like that. There was his cue. Someone was saying, ‘Hark how the storm rages. Canst hear the
wind?’

At the ensuing sound the prompter dropped her book and the heroine lost her balance and brought down the property mantelpiece on to the top of her. William had put a finger into each corner of
his mouth in order to aid nature in the rendering of the storm. The sound was even more piercing than he had expected it to be.
That
, thought William, complacently noticing the havoc it
played with both audience and cast, was something like a wind. That would show ’em whether he was the hero of the play or not. With admirable presence of mind the cast pulled itself together
and continued. William’s next cue was the thunder.

‘List,’ said the heroine, ‘how the thunder rages in the valley.’

The thunder raged and continued to rage. For some minutes the cast remained silent and motionless – except for facial contortions expressive of horror and despair – waiting for the
thunder to abate, but as it showed no signs of stopping they tried to proceed. It was, however, raging so violently that no one could hear a word, so they had to stop again.

At last even its maker tired of it and it died away. The play proceeded. Behind the scenes William smiled again to himself.
That
had been a jolly good bit of thunder. He’d really
enjoyed that. And it would jolly well let them all know he was there even if he wasn’t dressed up and on the stage like the others. His next cue was the horses’ hooves, and William was
feeling a little nervous about that. The sound of horses’ hooves is made with a coconut, and though William had managed to take his coconut (purchased for him by Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce)
about with him all the time the play was in rehearsal, he had as recently as last night succumbed to temptation and eaten it. He didn’t quite know what to do about the horses’ hooves.
He hadn’t dared to tell anyone about it. But still he thought he’d be able to manage it. Here it was coming now.

‘Listen,’ Miss Gwladwyn was saying. ‘I hear the sound of horses’ hooves.’

Then in the silence came the sound of a tin tray being hit slowly, loudly, regularly. The audience gave a yell of laughter. William felt annoyed. He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. It
wasn’t anything to laugh at, anyway. He showed his annoyance by another deafening and protracted thunderstorm.

When this had died away the play proceeded. William’s part in that scene was officially over. But William did not wish to withdraw from the public eye. It occurred to him that in all
probability the wind and the thunder still continued. Yes, somebody mentioned again that it was a wild night to be out in. Come to that, the war must be going on all the time. There were probably
battles going on all over the place. He’d better throw a few squibs about and make a bit more wind and thunder. He set to work with commendable thoroughness.

At last the end of the scene came. Mr Fleuster drew the curtains and chaos reigned. Most of the cast attacked William, but some of them were attacking each other, and quite a lot of them were
attacking the prompter. They had on several occasions forgotten their words and not once had the prompter come to their rescue. On one occasion they had wandered on to Act II and stayed there a
considerable time. The prompter’s plea that she’d lost her place right at the very beginning and hadn’t been able to find it again was not accepted as an excuse. Then Miss
Hemmersley was annoyed with Miss Featherstone for giving her the wrong cues all the way through, and Miss Gwladwyn was annoyed with Miss Greene-Joanes for cutting into her monologue, and Miss
Greene-Joanes was annoyed with Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce for standing just where she prevented the audience having a good view of her (Miss Greene-Joanes), and when they couldn’t find anyone
else to be annoyed with they turned on William. Fortunately for William, however, there was little time for recrimination, as already the audience was clamouring for the second scene. This was the
snow-storm scene. Miss Gwladwyn had installed her beautifully mannered nephew in the loft early in the evening with a box of chocolate creams to keep him quiet. Miss Gwladwyn went on to the stage.
The other actors retired to the improvised green-room, there to continue their acrimonious disputes and mutual reproaches. The curtain was slightly drawn. Miss Gwladwyn went into the aperture and
leapt into her pathetic monologue, and William behind the scenes relapsed into boredom. He was roused by Miss Gwladwyn’s nephew who came down the steps of the loft carrying an empty chocolate
box and looking green.