William the Fourth

by Richmal Crompton

She was reading a novel in an armchair.

  ‘Go away!’ she said to William.

  In the midst of his preoccupation William found time to wonder again what people ‘saw in’ her. Well, if they only knew her as well as he did . . . But the all-important question was the question of tops.

  ‘Ethel,’ he said in a tone of brotherly sweetness and Christian forgiveness, ‘have you got any tops left? You must have had tops when you were young. I wonder if you’d like to give ’em to me ’f you’ve got any left, an’ I’ll use ’em up for you.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not,’ snapped Ethel, ‘so go away.’

  William turned to the door, then turned back as if struck by a sudden thought.

  ‘D’you remember, Ethel,’ he said, ‘that I took a spider out of your hair for you las’ summer? I wondered ’f you’d care to lend me a shilling jus’ till my next pocket money—’

  ‘You put it in my hair first,’ said Ethel indignantly, ‘and I jolly well won’t, and I wish you’d go away’

  William looked at her coldly

  ‘How people can say you’re ’tractive—’ he said. ‘Well, all I can say is wait till they know you, an’ that man downstairs coming jus’ ’cause of you an’ worrin’ folks’ lives out an’ strokin’ their heads an’ givin’ ’em books – well, you’d think he’d be ashamed, an’ you’d think you’d be ashamed, too!’

  Ethel had flushed.

  ‘You needn’t think I want him,’ she said. ‘I should think I’m the only person who can grumble about him being here. I have to stay up here all the afternoon just because I can’t bear the nonsense he talks when I’m down.’

  ‘How long’s he staying?’ said William.

  ‘Oh, a week,’ said Ethel viciously. ‘He said he was motoring in the neighbourhood, and mother asked him to stay a week. She likes him. He’s got three cars and a lot of money, and he can talk the hind leg off a donkey and she likes him. All I can say’ she said bitterly, ‘is that I’m going to have a nice week!’

  ‘What about a shilling?’ said William, returning to the more important subject. ‘Look here, ’f you lend me a shilling now I’ll give you a shillin an a penny when I get my pocket money on Saturday. I’ll not forget. A shillin an a penny for a shilling. I should think you’d call it a bargain.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t,’ said Ethel, ‘and I wish you’d go – away’

  ‘I don’t call you very gen’rous, Ethel,’ said William loftily.

  ‘No, and I’m not likely to be generous or feel generous with that man in the house,’ said Ethel.

  William was silent. He was silent for quite a long time. William’s silences generally meant something.

  ‘S’pose,’ he said at last, ‘s’pose he went tomorrow, would you feel generous, then?’

  ‘I would,’ said Ethel recklessly. ‘I’d feel it quite up to two shillings in that case. But he won’t go. Don’t you think it! And-will-you-go away?

  William went, rather to her surprise, without demur.

  He walked very slowly downstairs. His brow was knit in thought.

  Mr Bennison was still talking to Mrs Brown in the drawing-room.

  ‘Oh, yes, that is one of my very firmest tenets. I have laid stress on that in all my books. The child’s curiosity must always be appeased. No matter at what awkward time the child propounds the question, he or she must be answered courteously and fully. Curiosity must be appeased the moment it appears. If a child came to me in the middle of the night for knowledge,’ he laughed uproariously at his joke, ‘I trust I should give it to the best of my ability, fully, and – er – as I said . . . Ah, here is our little Willie-for-short.’

  Still holding his ‘Child’s Encyclopædia of Knowledge’, William turned and quickly left the room.

  Mr Bennison had had a good dinner and a pleasant talk with Ethel before he came to bed.

  The talk had been chiefly on his side, but he preferred it that way. He was thinking how pleasant would be a life in which he could talk continuously to Ethel, while he looked at her blue eyes and auburn hair.

  He wrote a chapter of his new book, heading it ‘Common Mistakes in the Treatment of Children’.

  He insisted in that chapter that children should be treated with reverence and respect. He laid down his favourite rule: ‘A child’s curiosity must be immediately satisfied when and where it appears, irrespective of inconvenience to the adult.’

  Then he got into bed.

  The bed was warm and comfortable and he was drifting blissfully into a dreamless sleep when the door opened and William, clad in pyjamas and carrying the ‘Child’s Encyclopædia of Knowledge’, appeared.

  ‘ ’Scuse me disturbin’ you,’ said William politely, ‘but it says in this book what you kindly gave me somethin’ about Socrates’ (William pronounced it in two syllables ‘So-crates’) ‘an’ I thought p’raps you wun’t mind explaining to me what they are. I dunno what Socrates are.’

  Mr Bennison was on the whole rather pleased. In all his books he had insisted that if the child came for knowledge at midnight the child’s curiosity must be satisfied then and there, and he was glad of an opportunity of living up to his ideals. He dragged his mind back from the rosy mists of sleep and endeavoured to satisfy William’s thirst for knowledge.

  He talked long and earnestly about Socrates, his life and teaching and his place in history. William listened with an expressionless face.

  Whenever the other seemed inclined to draw his remarks to a close William would gently interpose a question which would set his eloquence going again at full flow But Mr Bennison’s eyes began to droop and his eloquence began to languish. He looked at his watch. It was 12.30.

  ‘I think that’s all, my boy’ he said with quite a passable attempt at bluff, hearty kindness in his voice.

  ‘You haven’t quite ’splained to me—’ began William.

  ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ said Mr Bennison irritably

  William, still clasping his book, went quietly from the room.

  Mr Bennison turned over and began to go to sleep. It took a little time to get over the interruption, but soon a delicious drowsiness began to steal over him.

  Going – going—

  William entered the room again, still carrying his ‘Child’s Encyclopædia of Knowledge’.

  ‘It says in this book what you kindly gave me,’ he said earnestly, ‘all about Compound Interest, but I don’t quite understand—’

  William was very clever at not understanding Compound Interest. He had an excellent repertoire of intelligent questions about Compound Interest. At school he could, for a consideration, ‘play’ the Mathematics master on Compound Interest for an entire lesson while his friends amused themselves in their own way in the desks behind.

  Mr Bennison’s eloquence was somewhat lacking in lucidity and inspiration this time, but he struggled gallantly to clear the mists of William’s ignorance. At times the earnestness of William’s expression touched him. At times he distrusted it. At no time did it suggest those clouds of glory that he liked to associate with children. By 1.30 he had talked about Compound Interest till he was hoarse.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you,’ he said with an air of irritation which he vainly endeavoured to hide. ‘Er – shut the door after you. It’s very draughty when you leave it open – er – dear boy’

  William, with the utmost docility, went out of the room.

  Mr Bennison turned over and tried to go to sleep. It did not seem so easy to go to sleep this time. There is something about explaining Compound Interest to the young and ignorant that is very stimulating to the brain.

  He tried to count sheep going through a stile and they persisted in turning into the figures of a Compound Interest sum. He tried to call back the picture of domestic happiness with which the sight of William’s sister had inspired him earlier in the evening, and always the vision of William’s earnest, inscrutable countenance rose to spoil it.

  Sheep – one – two
– three – four – five—

  The door opened, and William appeared with the open book once more in his hand.

  ‘In this book what you kindly gave me,’ he began, ‘it tells about the stars an’ the Lion an’ that, an’ I can’t find the Lion from the window, though the stars are out. I wondered ’f you’d kindly let me look through yours.’

  Sheep and stile vanished abruptly. After a short silence pregnant with unspoken words, Mr Bennison sat up in bed. He looked very weary as he stared at William, but he was doggedly determined to act up to his ideals.

  THE DOOR OPENED AND WILLIAM APPEARED FOR THE THIRD TIME. ‘IN THIS BOOK WHAT YOU KINDLY GAVE ME,’ HE BEGAN, ‘IT TELLS ABOUT THE STARS.’

  ‘I don’t think you can see the Lion from this side of the house, my boy,’ he said, in what he imagined was a kind tone of voice, ‘it must be right on the opposite side of the house.’

  ‘Then we could see it from my window,’ said William brightly and guilelessly, ‘if you’d kin’ly come an’ help me find it.’

  Mr Bennison said nothing for a few seconds. He was counting forty to himself. It was a proceeding to ensure self-control taught him by his mother in early youth. It had never failed him yet, though it nearly did on this occasion. Then he followed William across the landing to his room.

  William was not content with the Lion. He insisted on finding all the other constellations mentioned in the book. At 2.30 Mr Bennison staggered back to his bedroom. He did not go to bed at once. He took out the chapter he had written early in the evening and crossed out the words, ‘A child’s curiosity must be immediately satisfied when and where it appears, irrespective of inconvenience to the adult.’

  MR BENNISON SAT UP IN BED. HE LOOKED VERY WEARY AS HE STARED AT WILLIAM.

  He decided to cut out all similar sentiments in the next editions of all his books.

  Then he got into bed. Sleep at last – blissful, drowsy, soul-satisfying sleep.

  ‘Mr Bennison – Mr Bennison – in this book what you kindly gave me there’s some kind of puzzles – “ ’telligence tests” it calls ’em, an’ I can’t do ’em. I wondered if you’d kindly help me—’

  ‘Well, I won’t,’ said Mr Bennison. ‘Go away. Go away, I tell you.’

  ‘There’s only a page of ’em,’ said William.

  ‘Go away’ roared Mr Bennison, drawing the clothes over his head. ‘I tell you I won’t – I won’t—’

  William quietly went away.

  Now Mr Bennison was a conscientious man. Left alone in the silence of the night all desire for sleep deserted him. He was horrified at his own depravity. He had deliberately broken his own rule. He had been false to his ideals.

  He had refused to satisfy the curiosity of the young when and where it appeared. A child had come to him for help in the middle of the night and he had refused him or her. The child, moreover, might repeat the story. It might get about. People might hold it up against him.

  After wrestling with his conscience for half an hour he arose and sought William in his room. At four o’clock he was still trying to solve the intelligence tests for William. William stood by wearing that expression that Mr Bennison was beginning to dislike intensely

  At 4.15 Mr Bennison, looking wild and dishevelled, returned to his room. But he was a broken man. He struggled no longer against Fate. Five o’clock found him explaining to William exactly why Charles I had been put to death.

  Six o’clock found him trying to fathom the meaning of ‘plunger’ and ‘inductance’ and ‘slider’ and various other words that occurred in the chapter on Wireless. It fortunately never occurred to him that they were all terms with which William was perfectly familiar.

  As he held his head and tried to think from what Greek or Latin words the terms might have been derived, he missed the flicker that occasionally upset the perfect repose of William’s features.

  At seven o’clock he felt really ill and went downstairs to try to find a whisky-and-soda. It was not William’s fault that he fell over the knitting on which Mrs Brown had been engaged the evening before, and which had slipped from her chair on to the floor. His frenzied efforts to disentangle his feet entangled them still further.

  At last, with teeth bared in rage and wearing the air of a Samson throwing off his enemies, he tore wildly at the wool, and scattering bits of this material and unravelled socks about him, he strode forward to the sideboard. He could not find a whisky-and-soda. After upsetting a cruet in the sideboard cupboard he went guiltily back to his bedroom.

  His bed looked tidier than he imagined he had left it, and very inviting. Perhaps he might get just half an hour’s sleep before he got up . . . He flung himself on to the bed. His feet met with an unexpected resistance half-way down the bed, bringing his knees sharp up to his chin. The bed was wrong. The bed was all wrong. The bed was all very wrong.

  For a few seconds Mr Bennison forgot the traditions of self-restraint and moderation of language on which he had been reared. William, standing in the doorway, listened with interest.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me tryin’ ’f I could do it,’ he said. ‘I dunno why it’s called an apple-pie bed, do you? It doesn’t say nothing about it in this book what you kindly gave me.’

  Mr Bennison flung himself upon William with a roar. William dodged lightly on to the landing. Mr Bennison followed and collided heavily with a housemaid who was carrying a tray of early morning tea.

  William came down to breakfast. He entered the dining-room slowly and cautiously. Only his father and mother were there. His mother was talking to his father.

  ‘He wouldn’t even stay for breakfast,’ she was saying. ‘He said his letter called him back to town on most urgent business. I didn’t like his manner at all.’

  ‘Oh?’ said her husband from behind his paper, without much interest.

  ‘No, I thought it rather ungracious, and he looked queer.’

  ‘Oh?’ said her husband, turning to the financial columns.

  ‘Yes – wild and hollow-eyed and that sort of thing. I’ve wondered since whether perhaps he takes drugs. One reads of such things, you know, and he certainly looked queer. I’m glad he’s gone.’

  William went up to Ethel’s bedroom. Ethel was gloomily putting the finishing touches to her auburn hair.

  ‘He’s gone, Ethel,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘gone for good.’

  Ethel’s countenance brightened.

  ‘Sure?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Now what ’bout that two shillings?’

  She looked at him with sudden suspicion.

  ‘Have you—?’ she began.

  ‘Me?’ broke in William indignantly. ‘Why, I din’ know he’d gone till I got down to breakfast.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ethel carelessly. ‘If he’s really and truly gone, I’ll give you half a crown.’

  William, on his way to school, met Ginger at the end of the lane.

  ‘I’ve tried ’em all,’ said Ginger despondently, ‘an’ none of ’em’ll give me a penny’

  William with a flourish brought out his half a crown.

  This’ll do for both of us,’ he said with a lordly air.

  ‘Crumbs!’ said Ginger, with respect and admiration in his voice. ‘Who d’you get that out of?’

  ‘Well, a man came to stay at our house—’ began William.

  Ginger’s respect and admiration vanished.

  ‘Oh, a visitor!’ he said disparagingly. ‘ ’S easy enough to get money out of a visitor.’

  ‘ ’F you think this was easy’ began William with deep feeling, then stopped.

  It was a long story and already retreating into the limbo of the past. He could not sully the golden present by a lengthy repetition of it. It had been jolly hard work while it lasted, but now it was over and done with. It belonged to the past. The present included a breathless run into the village, leaping backwards and forwards across the ditches, a race down the village streets and TOPS – glorious tops – superior
shilling-each tops with sixpence over.

  He uttered his shrill, discordant war-whoop.

  ‘Come on,’ he shouted, ‘ ’fore they’re all sold out. Race you to the end of the road!’

  CHAPTER 14

  A DRESS REHEARSAL

  It was Saturday, but despite that glorious fact, William, standing at the dining-room window and surveying the world at large, could not for the moment think of anything to do.

  From the window he saw the figure of his father, who sat peacefully on the lawn reading a newspaper. William was not fond of his own society. He liked company of any sort. He went out to the lawn and stood by his father’s chair.

  ‘You’ve not got much hair right on the top of your head, Father,’ he said pleasantly and conversationally

  There was no answer.

  ‘I said you’d not got much hair on the top of your head,’ repeated William in a louder tone.

  ‘I heard you,’ said his father coldly.

  ‘Oh,’ said William, sitting down on the ground. There was silence for a minute, then William said in friendly tones:

  ‘I only said it again ’cause I thought you didn’t hear the first time. I thought you’d have said, “Oh”, or “Yes”, or “No”, or something if you’d heard.’

  There was no answer, and again after a long silence, William spoke.

  ‘I didn’t mind you not sayin’ “Oh”, or “Yes”, or “No”,’ he said, ‘only that was what made me say it again, ’cause with you not sayin’ it I thought you’d not heard.’

  Mr Brown arose and moved his chair several feet away. William, on whom hints were wasted, followed.

  ‘I was readin’ a tale yesterday’ he said, ‘about a man wot’s legs got bit off by sharks—’

  Mr Brown groaned.

  ‘William,’ he said politely, ‘pray don’t let me keep you from your friends.’

  ‘Oh, no, that’s quite all right,’ said William. ‘Well – p’raps Ginger is lookin’ for me. Well, I’ll finish about the man an’ the sharks after tea. You’ll be here then, won’t you?’