‘Mr March,’ squeaked Joan in piercing hauteur, ‘are you mad?’
‘No,’ corrected William. ‘“ Are you feelin’ ill?” comes first. Let’s start again an’ get it all right . . . ’
Ethel flounced out of the room and slammed the door. She found her mother in the dining-room darning socks.
‘Mother,’ she said, ‘can’t we do anything about William? Can’t we send him to an orphanage or anything?’
‘No, darling,’ said Mrs Brown calmly. ‘You see, for one thing, he isn’t an orphan.’
‘But he’s so awful!’ said Ethel. ‘He’s so unspeakably dreadful!’
‘Oh, no, Ethel,’ said Mrs Brown still darning placidly. ‘Don’t say things like that about your little brother. I sometimes think that when William’s just had his hair cut and got a new suit on, he looks quite sweet!’
CHAPTER 9
WILLIAM’S TRUTHFUL CHRISTMAS
William went to church with his family every Sunday morning but he did not usually listen to the sermon. He considered it a waste of time. He sometimes enjoyed singing the psalms and hymns. Any stone-deaf person could have told when William was singing the psalms and hymns by the expressions of pain on the faces of those around him. William’s singing was loud and discordant. It completely drowned the organ and the choir. Miss Barney, who stood just in front of him, said that it always gave her a headache for the rest of the week. William contested with some indignation that he had as good a right to sing in church as anyone. Besides, there was nothing wrong with his voice . . . It was just like everyone else’s . . .
During the Vicar’s sermon, William either stared at the curate (William always scored in this game because the curate invariably began to grow pink and look embarrassed after about five minutes of William’s stare) or held a face-pulling competition with the red-haired choir boy or amused himself with insects, conveyed to church in a matchbox in his pocket, till restrained by the united glares of his father and mother and Ethel and Robert . . .
But this Sunday, attracted by the frequent repetition of the word ‘Christmas’, William put his stag beetle back into its box and gave his whole attention to the Vicar’s exhortation . . .
‘What is it that poisons our whole social life?’ said the Vicar earnestly. ‘What is it that spoils even the holy season that lies before us? It is deceit. It is untruthfulness. Let each one of us decide here and now for this season of Christmas at least, to cast aside all deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another . . . It will be the first step to a holier life. It will make this Christmas the happiest of our lives . . . ’
William’s attention was drawn from the exhortation by the discovery that he had not quite closed the matchbox and the stag beetle was crawling up Ethel’s coat. Fortunately Ethel was busily engaged in taking in all the details of Marion Hatherly’s new dress across the aisle and did not notice. William recaptured his pet and shut up the matchbox . . . then rose to join lustily and inharmoniously in the first verse of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’. During the other verses he employed himself by trying a perfectly new grimace (which he had been practising all week) on the choir boy. It was intercepted by the curate who shuddered and looked away hastily. The sight and sound of William in the second row from the front completely spoilt the service for the curate every Sunday. He was an aesthetic young man and William’s appearance and personality hurt his sense of beauty . . .
But the words of the sermon had made a deep impression on William. He decided for this holy season at least to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another . . . William had not been entirely without aspiration to a higher life before this. He had once decided to be self-sacrificing for a whole day and his efforts had been totally unappreciated and misunderstood. He had once tried to reform others and the result had been even more disastrous. But he’d never made a real effort to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and to speak the truth one with another. He decided to try it at Christmas as the Vicar had suggested.
Much to his disgust William heard that Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma had asked his family to stay with them for Christmas. He gathered that the only drawback to the arrangement in the eyes of his family was himself, and the probable effect of his personality on the peaceful household of Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma. He was not at all offended. He was quite used to this view of himself.
‘All right!’ he said obligingly. ‘You jus’ go. I don’ mind. I’ll stay at home . . . you jus’ leave me money an’ my presents an’ I won’t mind a bit.’
William’s spirits in fact soared sky-high at the prospect of such an oasis of freedom in the desert of parental interference. But his family betrayed again that strange disinclination to leave William to his own devices that hampered so many of William’s activities.
‘No, William,’ said his mother, ‘we certainly can’t do that. You’ll have to come with us but I do hope you’ll be good.’
William remembered the sermon and his good resolution.
‘Well,’ he said cryptically, ‘I guess ’f you knew what I was goin’ to be like at Christmas you’d almost want me to come.’
It happened that William’s father was summoned on Christmas Eve to the sickbed of one of his aunts and so could not accompany them, but they set off under Robert’s leadership and arrived safely.
Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma were very stout and good-natured-looking, but Uncle Frederick was the stouter and more good-natured-looking of the two. They had not seen William since he was a baby. That explained the fact of their having invited William and his family to spend Christmas with them. They lived too far away to have heard even rumours of the horror with which William inspired the grown-up world around him. They greeted William kindly.
‘So this is little William,’ said Uncle Frederick, putting his hand on William’s head. ‘And how is little William?’
William removed his head from Uncle Frederick’s hand in silence then said distantly:
‘V’ well, thank you.’
‘And so grateful to your Uncle and Aunt for asking you to stay with them, aren’t you, William?’ went on his mother.
William remembered that his career of truthfulness did not begin till the next day so he said still more distantly: ‘Yes.’
That evening Ethel said to her mother in William’s presence:
‘Well, he’s not been so bad today, considering.’
‘You wait,’ said William unctuously. ‘You wait till tomorrow when I start castin’ aside deceit an’ . . . an’— Today’ll be nothin’ to it.’
William awoke early on Christmas day. He had hung up his stocking the night before and was pleased to see it fairly full. He took out the presents quickly but not very optimistically. He had been early disillusioned in the matter of grown-ups’ capacity for choosing suitable presents. Memories of prayer books and history books and socks and handkerchiefs floated before his mental vision . . . Yes, as bad as ever! . . . A case containing a pen and pencil and ruler, a new brush and comb, a purse (empty) and a new tie . . . a penknife and a box of toffee were the only redeeming features. On the chair by his bedside was a book of Church History from Aunt Emma and a box containing a pair of compasses, a protractor and a set square from Uncle Frederick . . .
William dressed, but as it was too early to go down he sat down on the floor and ate all his tin of toffee. Then he turned his attention to his Church History book. He read a few pages but the character and deeds of the saintly Aidan so exasperated him that he was driven to relieve his feeling by taking his new pencil from its case and adorning the saint’s picture by the addition of a top hat and spectacles. He completed the alterations by a moustache and by changing the book the saint held into an attaché case. He made similar alterations to every picture in the book . . . St Oswald seemed much improved by them and this cheered William considerably. Then he took his penknife and began to carve his initials upon his brush and comb . . .
William appeared at breakfast wearing
his new tie and having brushed his hair with his new brush or rather with what was left of his new brush after his very drastic initial carving. He carried under his arm his presents for his host and hostess. He exchanged ‘Happy Christmas’ gloomily. His resolve to cast away deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another lay heavy upon him. He regarded it as an obligation that could not be shirked. William was a boy of great tenacity of purpose. Having once made up his mind to a course, he pursued it regardless of consequences . . .
‘Well, William, darling,’ said his mother, ‘did you find your presents?’
‘Yes,’ said William gloomily. ‘Thank you.’
‘Did you like the book and instruments that Uncle and I gave you?’ said Aunt Emma brightly.
‘No,’ said William gloomily and truthfully. ‘I’m not int’rested in Church History an’ I’ve got something like those at school. Not that I’d want ’em,’ he added hastily, ‘if I hadn’t ’em.’
‘William!’ screamed Mrs Brown in horror. ‘How can you be so ungrateful?’
‘I’m not ungrateful,’ explained William wearily. ‘I’m only bein’ truthful. I’m casting aside deceit an’ . . . an’ hyp-hyp-what he said. I’m only sayin’ that I’m not int’rested in Church History nor in those inst’ments. But thank you very much for ’em.’
There was a gasp of dismay and a horrified silence during which William drew his paper packages from under his arm.
‘Here are your Christmas presents from me,’ he said.
The atmosphere brightened. They unfastened their parcels with expressions of anticipation and Christian forgiveness upon their faces. William watched them, his face ‘registering’ only patient suffering.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Aunt Emma still struggling with the string.
‘It’s not kind,’ said William still treading doggedly the path of truth. ‘Mother said I’d got to bring you something.’
Mrs Brown coughed suddenly and loudly but not in time to drown the fatal words of truth . . .
‘But still – er – very kind,’ said Aunt Emma though with less enthusiasm.
At last she brought out a small pincushion.
‘Thank you very much, William,’ she said. ‘You really oughtn’t to have spent your money on me like this.’
‘I din’t,’ said William stonily. ‘I hadn’t any money, but I’m very glad you like it. It was left over from Mother’s stall at the Sale of Work, an’ Mother said it was no use keepin’ it for nex’ year because it had got so faded.’
Again Mrs Brown coughed loudly but too late. Aunt Emma said coldly:
‘I see. Yes. Your mother was quite right. But thank you all the same, William.’
Uncle Frederick had now taken the wrappings from his present and held up a leather purse.
‘Ah, this is a really useful present,’ he said jovially.
‘I’m ’fraid it’s not very useful,’ said William. ‘Uncle Jim sent it to Father for his birthday but Father said it was no use ’cause the catch wouldn’ catch so he gave it to me to give to you.’
Uncle Frederick tried the catch.
‘Um . . . ah . . .’ he said. ‘Your father was quite right. The catch won’t catch. Never mind, I’ll send it back to your father as a New Year present . . . what?’
As soon as the Brown family were left alone it turned upon William in a combined attack.
‘I warned you!’ said Ethel to her mother.
‘He ought to be hung,’ said Robert.
‘William, how could you?’ said Mrs Brown.
‘When I’m bad, you go on at me,’ said William with exasperation, ‘an’ when I’m tryin’ to lead a holier life and cast aside hyp – hyp – what he said, you go on at me. I dunno what I can be. I don’t mind bein’ hung. I’d as soon be hung as keep havin’ Christmas over an’ over again simply every year the way we do . . .’
William accompanied the party to church after breakfast. He was slightly cheered by discovering a choir boy with a natural aptitude for grimaces and an instinctive knowledge of the rules of the game. The Vicar preached an unconvincing sermon on unselfishness and the curate gave full play to an ultra-Oxford accent and a voice that was almost as unmusical as William’s. Aunt Emma said it had been a ‘beautiful service’. The only bright spot to William was when the organist boxed the ears of the youngest choir boy, who retaliated by putting out his tongue at the organist at the beginning of each verse of the last hymn . . .
William was very silent during lunch . . . He simply didn’t know what people saw in Christmas. It was just like ten Sundays rolled into one . . . An’ they didn’t even give people the sort of presents they’d like . . . No one all his life had ever given him a water pistol or a catapult or a trumpet or bows and arrows or anything really useful . . . And if they didn’t like truth an’ castin’ aside deceit an’ – an’ the other thing they could do without . . . but he was jolly well goin’ to go on with it. He’d made up his mind and he was jolly well goin’ to go on with it . . . His silence was greatly welcomed by his family. He ate plentifully, however, of the turkey and plum pudding and felt strangely depressed afterwards . . . so much that he followed the example of the rest of the family and went up to his bedroom . . .
There he brushed his hair with his new brush, but he had carved his initials so deeply and spaciously that the brush came in two with the first flourish. He brushed his shoes with the two halves with great gusto in the manner of the professional shoeblack . . . Then having nothing else to do, he turned to his Church History again. The desecrated pictures of the saints met his gaze and realising suddenly the enormity of the crime in grown-up eyes he took his penknife and cut them all out. He made paper boats of them, and deliberately and because he hated it he cut his new tie into strips to fasten some of the boats together. He organised a thrilling naval battle with them and was almost forgetting his grudge against life in general and Christmas in particular . . .
He was roused to the sense of the present by sounds of life and movement downstairs, and, thrusting his saintly paper fleet into his pyjama case, he went down to the drawing-room. As he entered there came the sound of a car drawing up at the front door and Uncle Frederick looked out of the window and groaned aloud.
‘It’s Lady Atkinson,’ he said. ‘Help! Help!’
‘Now, Frederick, dear,’ said Aunt Emma hastily. ‘Don’t talk like that and do try to be nice to her. She’s one of the Atkinson’s, you know,’ she explained with empressement to Mrs Brown in a whisper as the lady was shown in.
Lady Atkinson was stout and elderly and wore a very youthful hat and coat.
‘A happy Christmas to you all!’ she said graciously. ‘The boy? Your nephew? William? How do you do, William? He – stares rather, doesn’t he? Ah, yes,’ she greeted everyone separately with infinite condescension.
‘I’ve brought you my Christmas present in person,’ she went on in the tone of voice of one giving an unheard-of-treat. ‘Look!’
She took out of an envelope a large signed photograph of herself. ‘There now . . . what do you think of that?’
Murmurs of surprise and admiration and gratitude.
Lady Atkinson drank them in complacently.
‘It’s very good, isn’t it? You . . . little boy . . . don’t you think it’s very like me?’
William gazed at it critically.
‘It’s not as fat as you are,’ was his final offering at the altar of truth.
‘William!’ screamed Mrs Brown, ‘how can you be so impolite?’
‘Impolite?’ said William with some indignation. ‘I’m not tryin’ to be polite! I’m bein’ truthful. I can’t be everything. Seems to me I’m the only person in the world what is truthful an’ no one seems to be grateful to me. It isn’t ’s fat as what she is,’ he went on doggedly, ‘an’ it’s not got as many little lines on its face as what she has an’ it’s different-lookin’ altogether. It looks pretty an’ she doesn’t—’
Lady Atkinson towered over him, q
uivering with rage.
‘You nasty little boy!’ she said thrusting her face close to his. ‘You – NASTY – little – boy!’
Then she swept out of the room without another word.
The front door slammed.
She was gone.
Aunt Emma sat down and began to weep.
‘She’ll never come to the house again,’ she said.
‘I always said he ought to be hung,’ said Robert gloomily. ‘Every day we let him live he complicates our lives still worse.’
‘I shall tell your father, William,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘directly we get home.’
‘The kindest thing to think,’ said Ethel, ‘is that he’s mad.’
‘Well,’ said William, ‘I don’ know what I’ve done ’cept cast aside deceit an’ – an’ the other thing what he said in church an’ speak the truth an’ that. I don’ know why everyone’s so mad at me jus’ ’cause of that. You’d think they’d be glad!’
‘DON’T YOU THINK IT’S VERY LIKE ME?’ ASKED LADY ATKINSON.
‘IT’S NOT AS FAT AS YOU ARE,’ SAID WILLIAM, CRITICALLY. ‘I’M NOT IMPOLITE. I’M BEING TRUTHFUL.’
‘She’ll never set foot in the house again,’ sobbed Aunt Emma.
Uncle Frederick, who had been vainly trying to hide his glee, rose.
‘I don’t think she will, my dear,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Nothing like the truth, William . . . absolutely nothing.’
He pressed a half-crown into William’s hand surreptitiously as he went to the door . . .
A diversion was mercifully caused at this moment by the arrival of the post. Among it there was a Christmas card from an artist who had a studio about five minutes’ walk from the house. This little attention comforted Aunt Emma very much.
‘How kind of him!’ she said. ‘And we never sent him anything. But there’s that calendar that Mr Franks sent to us and it’s not written on. Perhaps William could be trusted to take it to Mr Fairly with our compliments while the rest of us go for a short walk.’ She looked at William rather coldly.
Still William Page 13