Marion dimpled.
‘Why can’t he ask me then?’
‘He’s shy,’ said William earnestly, ‘he’s always shy when he’s in love. He’s always awful shy with the people what he’s in love with. But he wants most awful bad to marry you. Do marry him, please. Jus’ for kindness. I’m tryin’ to be kind. That’s why I’m here.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Are you sure he’s in love with me?’
‘Deep in love. Writin’ po’try an’ carryin’ on – not sleepin’ and not eatin’ an’ murmurin’ your name an’ puttin’ his hand on his heart an’ carvin’ your initials all over the house an’ sendin’ you flowers an’ things,’ said William drawing freely on his imagination.
‘I’ve never had any flowers from him.’
‘No. They all get lost in the post,’ said William without turning a hair. ‘But he’s dyin’ slow of love for you. He’s gettin’ thinner an’ thinner. ’F you don’t be engaged to him soon he’ll be stone dead. He’ll die of love like what they do in tales an’ then you’ll probably get hung for murder.’
‘Good heavens!’ said Miss Dexter.
‘Well, I hope you won’t,’ said William kindly, ‘an’ I’ll do all I can to save you if you are but ’f you kill Robert with not gettin’ engaged to him prob’ly you will be.’
‘Does he know you’ve come to ask me?’ said Miss Dexter.
‘No. I want it to be a s’prise to him,’ said William.
‘It will be that,’ murmured Miss Dexter.
‘You will marry him, then?’ said William hopefully.
‘Certainly – if he wants me to.’
‘P’raps,’ said William after a slight pause, ‘you’d better write it in a letter ’cause he’d like as not, not b’lieve me.’
With eyes dancing and lips quivering with suppressed laughter Miss Dexter sat down at her writing-table.
DEAR ROBERT (she wrote),
At William’s earnest request I promise to be engaged to you and to marry you whenever you like.
Yours sincerely, MARION DEXTER.
She handed it to William. William read it gravely and put it in his pocket.
‘Thanks ever so much,’ he said fervently.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Miss Dexter demurely. ‘Quite a pleasure.’
He walked down the road in a rosy glow of virtue. Well, he’d done something for Robert that ought to make Robert grateful to him for the rest of his life. He’d helped Robert all right. He’d like to know what service was if it wasn’t that – getting people engaged to people they wanted to be engaged to. Jolly hard work too. Now there remained his mother and Ethel. He must go home and try to find some way of helping them . . .
IV
When he reached home Ethel was showing out Mrs Helm, a tall, stern-looking lady whom William knew by sight.
‘I’m so frightfully disappointed not to be able to come,’ Ethel was saying regretfully, ‘but I’m afraid I must go to the Morrisons. I promised over a week ago. Thank you so much for asking me. Good morning.’
William followed her into the dining-room where his mother was.
‘What did she want, dear?’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Go and wash your hands, William.’
‘She wanted me to go in this evening but I told her I couldn’t because I was going to the Morrisons. Thank Heaven I had an excuse!’
William unfortunately missed the last sentence as, still inspired by high ideals of virtue, he had gone at once upstairs to wash his hands. While he splashed about at the handbasin an idea suddenly occurred to him. That was how he’d help Ethel. He’d give her a happy evening. She should spend it with the Helms and not with the Morrisons. She’d sounded so sorry that she had to go to the Morrisons and couldn’t go to the Helms. He’d fix it all up for her this afternoon. He’d help her like he’d helped Robert.
‘GOOD HEAVENS!’ SAID MISS DEXTER. ‘DOES HE KNOW YOU’VE COME TO ASK ME?’
‘ROBERT’S DEEP IN LOVE WITH YOU,’ SAID WILLIAM. ‘HE’S WRITIN’ PO’TRY AN’ NOT SLEEPIN’ AN’ NOT EATIN’ AND CARVIN’ YOUR INITIALS ALL OVER THE HOUSE.’
He had hoped to be able to give Robert Miss Dexter’s note at lunch, but it turned out that Robert was lunching at the golf club with a friend.
Directly after lunch William set off to Mrs Morrison’s house. He was shown into the drawing-room. Mrs Morrison, large and fat and comfortable-looking, entered. She looked rather bewildered as she met William’s stern frowning gaze.
‘I’ve come from Ethel,’ said William aggressively. ‘She’s sorry she can’t come tonight.’
Mrs Morrison’s cheerful countenance fell.
‘The girls will be disappointed,’ she said, ‘they saw her this morning and she said she was looking forward to it.’
Some explanation seemed necessary. William was never one to stick at half measures.
‘She’s been took ill since then,’ he said.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Morrison with concern, ‘nothing serious, I hope?’
William considered. If it wasn’t serious she might expect Ethel to recover by the evening. She’d better have something serious.
‘I’m ’fraid it is,’ he said gloomily.
‘Dear, dear!’ said Mrs Morrison. ‘Tch! Tch! What is it?’
William thought over all the complaints he knew. None of them seemed quite serious enough. She might as well have something really serious while he was about it. Then he suddenly remembered hearing the gardener talking to the housemaid the day before. He’d been talking about his brother who’d got – what was it? Epi – epi—
‘Epilepsy!’ said William suddenly.
‘What?’ screamed Mrs Morrison.
William, having committed himself to epilepsy meant to stick to it.
‘Epilepsy, the doctor says,’ he said firmly.
‘Good heavens!’ said Mrs Morrison. ‘When did you find out? Will he be able to cure it? Is the poor girl in bed? How does it affect her? What a dreadful thing!’
William was flattered at the impression he seemed to have made. He wondered whether it were possible to increase it.
‘The doctor thinks she’s got a bit of consumption too,’ he said casually, ‘but he’s not quite sure.’
Mrs Morrison screamed again. ‘Heavens! And she always looked so healthy. The girls will be so distressed. William, do tell me – when did your mother realise there was something wrong?’
William foresaw that the conversation was becoming complicated. He did not wish to display his ignorance of the symptoms of epilepsy and consumption.
‘Jus’ soon after lunch,’ he said with rising cheerfulness. ‘Now I’d better be goin’, I think. Good afternoon.’
He left Mrs Morrison still gasping upon the sofa and in the act of ringing for her maid to fetch her smelling salts.
William walked down the road with a swagger. He was managing jolly well . . . The next visit was easier. He simply told Mrs Helm’s maid at the front door to tell Mrs Helm that Ethel would be able to come tonight after all, thank you very much.
Then he swung off to the woods with Jumble, his faithful dog. In accordance with his new life of virtue he walked straight along the road without burrowing in the ditches or throwing stones at telegraph posts. His exhilaration slowly vanished. He wondered where Ginger and Henry and Douglas were and what they were doing. It was jolly dull all alone . . . but still the happiness and gratitude and admiration of his family circle when they found out all he had done for them would repay him for everything. At least he hoped it would. His mother . . . he had done nothing for his mother yet. He must try to do something for his mother . . .
V
When he returned home it was almost dinner time. His mother and Ethel and Robert were still out. The Cook met him with a lugubrious face.
‘Now, Master William,’ she said, ‘can I trust you to give a message to your ma?’
‘Yes, Cook,’ said William virtuously.
‘Me cold in me ’ead’s that bad I can’t sta
nd on me feet no longer. That ’ussy Ellen wouldn’t give up ’er night hout to ’elp me – not she, and yer ma said if I’d leave things orl ready to dish hup I might go and rest afore dinner ’f I felt bad. Well, she’ll be hin hany minute now and just tell ’er it’s hall ready to dish up. Tell ’er I ’aven’t made no pudd’n but I’ve hopened a bottle of stewed pears.’
‘All right, Cook,’ said William.
Cook took the paperback copy of A Mill Girl’s Romance from the kitchen dresser and slowly sneezed her way up the back stairs.
William was to all intents and purposes alone in the house. He wandered into the kitchen. There was a pleasant smell of cooking. Several saucepans simmered on the gas stove. On the table was a glass dish containing the stewed pears. His father hated cold stewed fruit. He often said so. Suddenly William had yet another brilliant idea. He’d make a proper pudding for his father. It wouldn’t take long. The cookery book was on the dresser. You just did what the book told you. It was quite easy.
He went over to the gas stove. All the gas rings were being used. He’d better get one clear for his pudding. He supposed his pudding would need a gas ring same as all the other things. There were two small saucepans each containing dark brown stuff. They might as well be together, thought William, with a business-like frown. He poured the contents of one of the saucepans into the other. He had a moment’s misgiving as the mingled smell of gravy and coffee arose from the mixture. Then he turned to his pudding. He opened the book at random at the puddings. Any would do. ‘Beat three eggs together.’ He fetched a bowl of eggs from the larder and got down a clean basin from the shelf. He’d seen Cook doing it, just cracking the eggs, and the egg slithered into the basin and she threw the shells away. It looked quite easy. He broke an egg. The shell fell neatly on to the table and the egg slithered down William on to the floor. He tried another and the same thing happened. William was not easily baulked. He was of a persevering nature. He went on breaking eggs till not another egg remained to be broken, and then and then only did he relinquish his hopes of making a pudding. Then and then only did he step out of the pool of a dozen broken eggs in which he was standing and, literally soaked in egg from the waist downward, go to replace the basin on the shelf.
WILLIAM WENT ON BREAKING EGGS TILL NOT ANOTHER EGG REMAINED TO BE BROKEN.
His thirst for practical virtue was not yet sated. Surely there was something he could do, even if he couldn’t make a pudding. Yes, he could carry the things into the dining-room so that they could have dinner as soon as they came in. He opened the oven door. A chicken on a large dish was there. Good! Burning his fingers severely in the process William took it out. He’d put it on the dining-room table all ready for them to begin. Just as he stood with the dish in his hands he heard his mother and Robert come in. He’d go and give Robert Miss Dexter’s letter first. He looked round for somewhere to put the chicken. The table seemed to be full. He put the dish and the chicken on to the floor and went into the hall closing the door behind him. Robert and his mother had gone into the drawing-room. William followed.
‘Well, William,’ said Mrs Brown pleasantly, ‘had a nice day?’
Without a word William handed the note to Robert.
Robert read it.
He went first red, then pale, then a wild look came into his eyes.
‘Marion Dexter!’ he said.
‘You’re in love with her, aren’t you?’ said William. ‘You’ve been writing pomes to her.’
‘Not to Marion Dexter,’ screamed Robert. ‘She’s an old woman. She’s nearly twenty-five . . . It’s – Marion Hatherley I—’
‘Well, how was I to know?’ said William in a voice of irritation. ‘You should put their surnames in the pomes. I thought you wanted to be engaged to her. I’ve took a lot of trouble over it gettin’ her to write that.’
Robert was reading and re-reading the note.
‘My God!’ he said in a hushed voice of horror. ‘I’m engaged to Marion Dexter!’
‘Robert,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I don’t think you ought to use expressions like that before your little brother, whoever you’re engaged to.’
‘I’m engaged to Marion Dexter,’ repeated Robert in a tone of frenzy, ‘Me! . . . chained to her for life when I love another . . .’
‘Robert dear,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘if there’s been any mistake I’m sure that all you have to do is to go to Miss Dexter and explain.’
‘Explain!’ said Robert wildly. ‘How can I explain? She’s accepted me . . . How can any man of chivalry refuse to marry a woman who? . . . Oh, it’s too much.’ He sat down on the sofa and held his head in his hands. ‘It’s the ruin of all my hopes . . . he’s simply spoilt my life . . . he’s always spoiling my life . . . I shall have to marry her now . . . and she’s an old woman . . . she was twenty-four last birthday, I know.’
‘Well, I was trying to help,’ said William.
‘I’ll teach you to help,’ said Robert darkly, advancing upon him.
William dodged and fled towards the door. There he collided with Ethel – Ethel with a pale, distraught face.
‘It’s all over the village, Mother,’ she said angrily as she entered. ‘William’s told everyone in the village that I’ve got epilepsy and consumption.’
‘I didn’t,’ said William indignantly. ‘I only told Mrs Morrison.’
‘But, William,’ said his mother, sitting down weakly on the nearest chair, ‘why on earth—?’
‘Well, Ethel didn’t want to go to the Morrisons tonight. She wanted to go to the Helms—’
‘I did not,’ said Ethel. ‘I was glad to get out of going to the Helms.’
‘Well, how was I to know?’ said William desperately. ‘I had to go by what you said and I had to go by what Robert wrote. I wanted to help. I’ve took no end of trouble – livin’ a life of self-sacrifice and service all day without stoppin’ once, and ’stead of being grateful an’ happy an’ admirin’—’
‘But, William,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘how did you think it was going to help anyone to say that Ethel had epilepsy and consumption?’
‘I’d rather have epilepsy and consumption,’ said Robert who had returned to the sofa and was sitting with his head between his hands, ‘than be engaged to Marion Dexter.’
‘I must say I simply can’t understand why you’ve been doing all this, William,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘We must just wait till your father comes in and see what he makes of it. And I can’t think why dinner’s so late.’
‘She’s gone to bed,’ said William gloomily.
‘I’d better see to things then,’ said Mrs Brown going into the hall.
‘Epilepsy!’ groaned Ethel.
‘Twenty-four – twenty-four if she’s a day – and the sort of hair I’ve always disliked,’ groaned Robert.
William followed his mother to the kitchen rather than be left to the tender mercies of Ethel and Robert. He began to feel distinctly apprehensive about the kitchen . . . that pool of eggs . . . those brown liquids he’d mixed . . .
Mrs Brown opened the kitchen door. On the empty chicken dish on the floor sat Jumble surrounded by chicken bones, the wishing bone protruding from his mouth, looking blissfully happy . . .
VI
In his bedroom whither he had perforce retired supperless, William hung up the Outlaw’s signal of distress (a scull and crossbones in black and the word ‘Help’ in red) at his window in case Ginger or Henry or Douglas came down the road, and then surveyed the events of the day. Well, he’d done his best. He’d lived a life of self-denial and service all right. It was his family who were wrong. They hadn’t been happy or grateful or admiring. They simply weren’t worthy of a life of self-denial and service. And anyway how could he have known that it was another Marion and that Ethel couldn’t say what she meant and that Jumble was going to get in through the kitchen window?
A tiny pebble hit his window. He threw it open. There down below in the garden path were Douglas, Henry and Ginger.
‘Ho! My trust
y mates,’ said William in a penetrating whisper. ‘I am pent in durance vile – sent to bed, you know – an’ I’m jolly hungry. Wilt kill some deer or venison or something for me?’
‘Righto,’ said Ginger, and ‘Yes, gallant captain,’ said Douglas and Henry as they crept off through the bushes.
William returned to his survey of his present position. That old boy simply didn’t know what he was talking about. He couldn’t ever have tried it himself. Anyway he (William) had tried it and he knew all there was to know about lives of self-denial and service and he’d done with lives of self-denial and service, thank you very much. He was going back to his ordinary kind of life first thing tomorrow . . .
A tiny pebble at the window. William leant out. Below were Ginger, Henry and Douglas with a small basket.
‘Oh, crumbs!’ said William joyfully.
He lowered a string and they tied the little basket on to it. William drew it up fairly successfully. It contained a half-eaten apple, a bar of toffee that had spent several days unwrapped in Henry’s pocket, which was covered with bits of fluff, a very stale bun purloined from Ginger’s mother’s larder, and a packet of monkey nuts bought with Ginger’s last twopence.
William’s eyes shone.
‘Oh, I say,’ he said gratefully, ‘thanks awfully. And, I say, you’d better go now ’case they see you, and I say, I’ll come huntin’ wild animals with you tomorrow night.’
‘Righto,’ said the Outlaws creeping away through the bushes.
Downstairs William’s family circle consumed a meal consisting of sardines and stewed pears. They consumed it in gloomy silence, broken only by Mr Brown’s dry, ‘I suppose there must be quite a heavy vein of insanity somewhere in the family for it to come out so strongly in William.’ And by Ethel’s indignant, ‘And epilepsy! Why on earth did he fix on epilepsy?’ And by Robert’s gloomy, ‘Engaged to be married to her . . . twenty-four . . . chained to her for life.’
Upstairs the cause of all their troubles sat on the floor in the middle of his bedroom with his little pile of eatables before him.
Still William Page 6