Still William

by Richmal Crompton

  The Vicar ran out from the house, full of concern at the sound of the Bishop’s scream.

  FROM THE TREE WILLIAM MADE A LAST DESPERATE EFFORT.

  ‘I’ve been badly stung in the ear by some insect,’ said the Bishop in a voice that was pained and dignified. ‘Some virulent tropical insect, I should think – very painful. Very painful indeed—’

  ‘My Lord,’ said the Vicar, ‘I am so sorry – so very sorry – a thousand pardons – can I procure some remedy for you – vaseline, ammonia – er – cold cream—?’ Up in the tree the pantomimic imitation of him went on much to William’s satisfaction.

  THE BENT PIN CAUGHT THE BISHOP’S EAR, AND THE BISHOP SAT UP WITH A LITTLE SCREAM.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ snapped the Bishop. ‘This must be a bad place for insects, that’s all. Even before that some heavy creatures came banging against my handkerchief. I put my handkerchief over my face for protection. If I had failed to do that I should have been badly stung.’

  ‘Shall we dine indoors, then, My Lord?’ said the Vicar.

  ‘Oh, no, no, NO!’ said the Bishop impatiently.

  The Vicar sat down upon his chair. William collected a handful of acorns and began to drop them one by one upon the Vicar’s bald head. He did this simply because he could not help it. The sight of the Vicar’s bald head was irresistible. Each time an acorn struck the Vicar’s bald head it bounced up into the air, and the Vicar put up his hand and rubbed his head. At first he tried to continue his conversation on the state of the parish finances with the Bishop but his replies became distrait and incoherent. He moved his chair slightly. William moved the position of his arm and continued to drop acorns.

  At last the Bishop noticed it.

  ‘The acorns seem to be falling,’ he said.

  The Vicar rubbed his head again.

  ‘Don’t they?’ he said.

  ‘Rather early,’ commented the Bishop.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he said as another acorn bounced upon his head.

  The Bishop began to take quite an interest in the unusual phenomenon.

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of blight in that tree,’ he said. ‘It would account for the premature dropping of the acorns and for the insects that attacked me.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the Vicar irritably, as yet another acorn hit him. William’s aim was unerring.

  Here a diversion was caused by the maid who came out to lay the table. They watched her in silence. The Vicar moved his chair again, and William, after pocketing his friend the caterpillar, shifted his position in the tree again to get a better aim.

  ‘Do you know,’ said the Bishop, ‘I believe that there is a cat in the tree. Several times I have heard a slight rustling.’

  It would have been better for William to remain silent, but William’s genius occasionally misled him. He was anxious to prevent investigation; to prove once and for all his identity as a cat.

  He leant forward and uttered a re-echoing ‘Mi-aw-aw-aw!’

  As imitations go it was rather good.

  There was a slight silence. Then:

  ‘It is a cat,’ said the Bishop in triumph.

  ‘Excuse me, My Lord,’ said the Vicar.

  He went softly into the house and returned holding a shoe.

  ‘This will settle His Feline Majesty,’ he smiled.

  Then he hurled the shoe violently into the tree.

  ‘Shh! Scoot!’ he said as he did it.

  William was annoyed. The shoe narrowly missed his face. He secured it and waited.

  ‘I hope you haven’t lost the shoe,’ said the Bishop anxiously.

  ‘Oh, no. The gardener’s boy or someone will get it for me. It’s the best thing to do with cats. It’s probably scared it on to the roof.’

  He settled himself in his chair comfortably with a smile.

  William leant down, held the shoe deliberately over the bald head, then dropped it.

  ‘Damn!’ said the Vicar. ‘Excuse me, My Lord.’

  ‘H’m,’ said the Bishop. ‘Er – yes – most annoying. It lodged in a branch for a time probably, and then obeyed the force of gravity.’

  The Vicar was rubbing his head. William wanted to enjoy the sight of the Vicar rubbing his head. He moved a little further up the branch. He forgot all caution. He forgot that the branch on which he was was not a very secure branch, and that the further up he moved the less secure it became.

  There was the sound of a rending and a crashing, and on to the table between the amazed Vicar and Bishop descended William’s branch and William.

  The Bishop gazed at him. ‘Why, that’s the boy,’ he said.

  William sat up among the debris of broken glasses and crockery. He discovered that he was bruised and that his hand was cut by one of the broken glasses. He extricated himself from the branch and the table, and stood rubbing his bruises and sucking his hand.

  ‘Crumbs!’ was all he said.

  The Vicar was gazing at him speechlessly.

  ‘You know, my boy,’ said the Bishop in mild reproach, ‘that’s a very curious thing to do – to hide up there for the purpose of eavesdropping. I know that you are an earnest, well-meaning little boy, and that you were interested in my address this afternoon, and I daresay you were hoping to listen to me again, but this is my time for relaxation, you know. Suppose the Vicar and I had been talking about something we didn’t want you to hear? I’m sure you wouldn’t like to listen to things people didn’t want you to hear, would you?’

  William stared at him in unconcealed amazement. The Vicar, with growing memories of acorns and shoes and ‘damns’ and with murder in his heart, was picking up twigs and broken glass. He knew that he could not, in the Bishop’s presence, say the things to William and do the things to William that he wanted to do and say. He contented himself with saying:

  ‘You’d better go home now. Tell your father I’ll be coming to see him tomorrow.’

  ‘A well-meaning, little boy, I’m sure,’ said the Bishop kindly. ‘Well-meaning, but unwise – er – unwise. But your attentiveness during the meeting did you credit, my boy – did you credit.’

  William, for all his ingenuity, could think of no remark suitable to the occasion.

  ‘Hurry up,’ said the Vicar.

  William turned to go. He knew when he was beaten. He had spent a lot of time and trouble and had not even secured the episcopal handkerchief. He had bruised himself and cut himself. He understood the Vicar’s veiled threat. He saw his already distant chances of pocket-money vanish into nothingness when the cost of the Vicar’s glasses and plates was added to the landing window. He wouldn’t have minded if he’d got the handkerchief. He wouldn’t have minded anything if—

  ‘Don’t suck your hand, my boy,’ said the Bishop. ‘An open cut like that is most dangerous. Poison works into the system by it. You remember I told you how the poison of alcohol works into the system – well, any kind of poison can work into it by a cut – don’t suck it; keep it covered up – haven’t you a handkerchief? – here, take mine. You needn’t trouble to return it. It’s an old one.’

  The Bishop was deeply touched by what he called the ‘bright spirituality’ of the smile with which William thanked him.

  William, limping slightly, his hand covered by a grimy rag, came out into the garden, drawing from his pocket with a triumphant flourish an enormous violently-coloured silk handkerchief. Robert, who was weeding the rose-bed, looked up. ‘Here,’ he called, ‘you can jolly well go and put that handkerchief of mine back.’

  William continued his limping but proud advance.

  ‘ ’S’ all right,’ he called airily, ‘the Bishop’s is on your dressing-table.’

  Robert dropped the trowel.

  ‘Gosh!’ he gasped, and hastened indoors to investigate.

  William went down to the gate, smiling very slightly to himself.

  ‘The days are drawing out so pleasantly,’ he was saying to himself in a mincing accent. ‘Vaseline – ammonia – er
– or cold cream— Damn!’

  He leant over the gate, took out his caterpillar, satisfied himself that it was still alive, put it back and looked up and down the road. In the distance he caught sight of the figure of his friend.

  ‘Gin – ger,’ he yelled in hideous shrillness.

  He waved his coloured handkerchief carelessly in greeting as he called. Then he swaggered out into the road . . .

  CHAPTER 2

  HENRI LEARNS THE LANGUAGE

  It was Joan who drew William and the Outlaws from their immemorial practice of playing at Pirates and Red Indians.

  ‘I’m tired of being a squaw,’ she said plaintively, ‘an’ I’m tired of walking the plank an’ I want to be something else an’ do something else.’

  Joan was the only girl whose existence the Outlaws officially recognised. This was partly owing to Joan’s own personal attractiveness and partly to the fact that an admiration for Joan was the only human weakness of their manly leader, William. Thus Joan was admitted to all such games as required the female element. The others she was graciously allowed to watch.

  They received her outburst with pained astonishment.

  ‘Well,’ said Ginger coldly, ‘wot else is there to do an’ be?’

  Ginger felt that the very foundation of the Society of Outlaws was being threatened. The Outlaws had played at Pirates and Red Indians since their foundation.

  ‘Let’s play at being ordinary people,’ said Joan.

  ‘Ordinary people—!’ exploded Douglas. ‘There’s no playin’ in bein’ ordinary people. Wot’s the good—?’

  ‘Let’s be Jasmine Villas,’ said Joan, warming to her theme. ‘We’ll each be a person in Jasmine Villas—’

  William, who had so far preserved a judicial silence, now said:

  ‘I don’ mind playin’ ornery people s’long as we don’ do ornery things.’

  ‘Oh, no, William,’ said Joan with the air of meekness with which she always received William’s oracles, ‘we needn’t do ornery things.’

  ‘Then bags me be ole Mr Burwash.’

  ‘And me Miss Milton next door,’ said Joan hastily.

  The Outlaws were beginning to see vague possibilities in the game.

  ‘An’ me Mr Luton,’ said Ginger.

  ‘An’ me Mr Buck,’ said Douglas.

  Henry, the remaining outlaw, looked around him indignantly. Jasmine Villas only contained four houses.

  ‘An’ wot about me?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you be a policeman wot walks about outside,’ said William.

  Henry, mollified, began to practise a commanding strut.

  In the field behind the old barn that was the scene of most of their activities they began to construct Jasmine Villas by boundary lines of twigs. Each inhabitant took up their position inside a twig-encircled enclosure, and Henry paraded officiously around.

  ‘Now we’ll jus’ have a minute to think of what things to do,’ said William, ‘an’ then I’ll begin.’

  William was sitting in his back garden thinking out exploits to perform that afternoon in the character of Mr Burwash. The game of Jasmine Villas was ‘taken on’ beyond all expectation. Mr Burwash stole Miss Milton’s washing during her afternoon siesta, Mr Buck locked up Mr Luton in his coal cellar and ate up all his provisions, and always the entire population of Jasmine Villas was chased round the field by Henry, the policeman, several times during a game. Often some of them were arrested, tried, condemned and imprisoned by the stalwart Henry, to be rescued later by a joint force of the other inhabitants of Jasmine Villas.

  William, sitting on an inverted flower pot, absent-mindedly chewing grass and throwing sticks for his mongrel, Jumble, to worry, was wondering whether (in his role of Mr Burwash) it would be more exciting to go mad and resist the ubiquitous Henry’s efforts to take him to an asylum, or marry Miss Milton. The only drawback to the latter plan was that they had provided no clergyman. However, perhaps a policeman would do . . . Finally he decided that it would be more exciting to go mad and leave Miss Milton to someone else.

  ‘ ’Ello!’

  A thin, lugubrious face appeared over the fence that separated William’s garden from the next door garden.

  ‘ ’Ello!’ replied William, throwing it a cold glance and returning to his pastime of entertaining Jumble.

  ‘I weesh to leearn ze Eengleesh,’ went on the owner of the lugubrious face. ‘My godmother ’ere she talk ze correct Eengleesh. It ees ze idiomatic Eengleesh I weesh to leearn – how you call it? – ze slang. You talk ze slang – ees it not?’

  William gave the intruder a devastating glare, gathering up his twigs and with a commanding ‘Hi, Jumble’, set off round the side of the house.

  ‘Oh, William!’

  William sighed as he recognised his mother’s voice. This was followed by his mother’s head which appeared at the opening drawing-room window.

  ‘I’m busy jus’ now –’ said William sternly.

  ‘William, Mrs Frame next door has a godson staying with her and he is so anxious to mix with boys and learn colloquial English. I’ve asked him to tea this afternoon. Oh, here he is.’

  The owner of the thin lugubrious face – a young man of about eighteen – appeared behind William.

  ‘I made a way – ’ow say you? – through a ’ole in ze fence. I weeshed to talk wiz ze boy.’

  ‘Well, now, William,’ said Mrs Brown persuasively, ‘you might spend the afternoon with Henri and talk to him.’

  William’s face was a study in horror and indignation.

  ‘I shan’t know what to say to him,’ he said desperately. ‘I can’t talk his kind of talk.’

  ‘I’m sure that’ll be quite all right,’ said Mrs Brown, kindly. ‘He speaks English very well. Just talk to him simply and naturally.’

  She brought the argument to an end by closing the window and leaving an embittered William to undertake his new responsibility.

  ‘ ’Ave you a ’oliday zis afternoon,’ began his new responsibility.

  ‘I ’ave,’ said William simply and naturally.

  ‘Zen we weel talk,’ said Henri with enthusiasm. ‘We weel talk an’ you weel teach to me ze slang.’

  ‘ ’Fraid I’ve gotter play a game this afternoon,’ said William icily, as they set off down the road.

  ‘I weel play,’ said Henri pleasantly, ‘I like ze games.’

  ‘I’m ’fraid,’ said William with equal pleasantness, ‘there won’t be no room for you.’

  ‘I weel watch zen,’ said Henri, ‘I like too ze watching.’

  Henri, who had spent the afternoon watching the game, was on his way home. He had enjoyed watching the game. He had watched a realistically insane Mr Burwash resist all attempts at capture on the part of the local policeman. He had watched Mr Luton propose to Miss Milton, and he had watched Mr Buck in his end house being gloriously and realistically drunk. This was an accomplishment of Douglas’s that was forbidden at home under threat of severe punishment, but it was greatly appreciated by the Outlaws.

  Henri walked along jauntily, practising slang to himself.

  ‘Oh, ze Crumbs . . . oh, ze Crikey . . . ze jolly well . . . righto . . . git out . . . ze bash on ze mug . . . ’

  General Moult – fat and important-looking – came breezily down the road.

  ‘Ah, Henri . . . how are you getting on?’

  ‘Ze jolly well,’ said Henri.

  ‘Been for a walk?’ said the General yet more breezily.

  ‘Non . . . I been to Jasmine Villas . . . Oh, ze Crumbs . . . I see ole Meester Burwash go – ’ow you say it? – off ze head – out of ze chump.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Henri, ‘an’ the policeman ’e come an’ try to take ’im away an’ ’e fight an’ fight, an’ ze policeman ’e go for ’elp—’

  The General’s mouth was hanging open in amazement.

  ‘B-but, are you sure?’ he gasped.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Henri cheerfully. ‘I ’ave been zere,
I ’ave ze jolly well watch eet.’

  ‘But, good heavens!’ said the General, and hastened in the direction of Jasmine Villas.

  Henri sauntered on by himself.

  ‘Ze ’oly aunt . . . a’right . . . ze booze . . .’ he murmured softly.

  At the corner of the road he ran into Mr Graham Graham. Mr Graham Graham was tall and lank, with pince-nez and an earnest expression. Mr Graham Graham’s earnest expression did not belie his character. He was, among other things, the President of the local Temperance Society. He had met Henri with his godmother the day before.

  ‘Well, Henri,’ he said earnestly. ‘And how have you been spending your time?’

  ‘I ’ave been to Jasmine Villas,’ said Henri.

  ‘Ah, yes – to whom—?’

  Henri interrupted.

  ‘An’ I ’ave seen Meester Buck . . . oh, ze crumbs . . . ’ow say you? . . . tight . . . boozed . . . derrunk.’

  Mr Graham Graham paled.

  ‘Never!’ he said.

  Mr Buck was the Secretary of the local Temperance Society.

  ‘Oh, yes, ze ’oly aunt!’ said Henri, ‘ze policeman ’e ’elp ’im into the ’ouse – ’e was, ’ow say you? Ro-o-o-o-olling.’

  ‘This is impossible,’ said Mr Graham Graham sternly.

  ‘I ’ave seed it,’ said Henri simply. ‘I laugh . . . oh, ze Crikey . . .’ow I laugh . . .’

  Mr Graham Graham turned upon Henri a cold condemning silent glance then set off in the direction of Jasmine Villas.

  Henri wandered homewards.

  He met his godmother coming out of her front gate.

  ‘We’re going to Mrs Brown’s to tea, you know, Henri,’ she reminded him.

  ‘A’right,’ said Henri. ‘A’right – righto.’

  He accompanied her to Mrs Brown’s.

  ‘And did you spend the afternoon with William?’ said Mrs Brown pleasantly.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Henri as he sat down comfortably by the fire, ‘at ze Jasmine Villas . . . Mr Luton e’ kees Miss Milton in the garden.’

  Henri’s godmother dropped her buttered scone.

  ‘Nonsense!’ she said.