William

by Richmal Crompton

  And the gallant Bert turned to his beloved with a smile that isolated the two of them from the world in general and the departing William in particular.

  But William still hadn’t quite departed.

  ‘Yes, I know the place,’ he said conversationally; ‘I should just think I do know the place.’

  He spoke in a mysterious tone. Maggie, who had just been surrendering herself to the isolating effect of Bert’s smile, was intrigued by it. A mysterious tone was to Maggie as the scent of the fox is to a hound. She knew no peace till she had run it to earth.

  ‘Why do you say it like that?’ she said.

  William laughed shortly.

  ‘Why, don’t you know? he said. ‘It’s the place where a witch was s’posed to have drowned herself in the days when there was witches, an’ if you wish for anythin’ there the partic’lar day she drowned herself it comes true.’

  ‘What day did she drown herself?’ said Maggie eagerly.

  ‘S’posed to’ve been June the sixth,’ said William carelessly.

  ‘It’s June the sixth today,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Why, so it is!’ said William in a tone of intense surprise. ‘Fancy!’

  ‘I s’pose it’s all a make-up?’ said Maggie doubtfully, but in a tone that pleaded to be told it wasn’t.

  ‘Course it is,’ snapped Bert, whose isolating smile had changed to a ferocious frown.

  ‘I ’spect it is,’ said William; ‘I ’spect it’s jus’ a sort of chance when it does happen.’

  ‘Have you ever wished?’ said Maggie.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted William as if guiltily – ‘often.’

  ‘Does it come true?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William. ‘It’s funny, but it generally does. Jus’ a sort of chance, of course.’

  ‘An’ you have to wish just there – just by the willow-tree?’

  ‘Yes, jus’ where I was goin’ to wash the things.’

  She rose.

  ‘I’ll come along and help you with the things,’ she said. ‘Come on, Bert. Seems a shame to leave him to do ’em all himself.’

  Bert followed morosely, making no further effort to reassert his influence till they had washed up and were sitting again on the grass by the river bank. Then gradually and very determinedly he led the subject back to himself again.

  ‘Did you – did you care for me at all in the old days, Maggie?’ he said.

  Maggie heaved a sentimental sigh.

  ‘It was your hair, Bert,’ she said; ‘I used to dream of it at nights. I’ve often thought of it these years. But I little thought to find it the same. Not a grey hair nor nothin’.’

  He passed his hand over the gleaming curls.

  ‘Oh, my hair!’ he said carelessly. ‘It’s always been a nuisance to me. The times a day I wet it, tryin’ to take the curl out. I’d give anythin’ to have ordin’ry hair. I keep hopin’ it’ll start comin’ out or gettin’ grey, but it doesn’t.’

  ‘Oh Bert! I think it beautiful,’ said Maggie softly.

  ‘I heard of a man once,’ said William, ‘whose hair started growing so quick he couldn’t keep it cut fast enough. If he only went to the barber’s once a week it’d grown down to his waist. He had to go every day, an’ even then it’d sometimes got nearly as far as his waist.’

  ‘Lor!’ said Maggie, turning her whole attention to the contemplation of this phenomenon.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, warming to his subject, ‘it got so as if he went to church with it cut quite short it’d be over his shoulders by the second lesson an’ down to his waist by the last hymn. People used to go to church to sit behind him to watch it grow.’

  ‘Lor!’ said Maggie again.

  ‘In the end it got so as he’d gotter have a barber to go about with him to keep it cut short. If you had him to tea you’d gotter ask his barber too, an’ the barber’d start cuttin’ his hair every few minutes. If he di’n’t it’d get all over the place.’

  ‘Lor!’ said Maggie again, gazing at him with wide-open mouth and eyes.

  Bert uttered a snort that expressed anger, contempt and ridicule. But it was plain that he had ceased to compete with this young Baron Munchausen for the interest of the beloved. He lit a pipe and smoked in silence for a time, during which William developed at leisure several themes similar to the theme of the man with quickly-growing hair. Maggie gazed at him, still open-mouthed, and ejaculated ‘Lor!’ at intervals. At last Bert took his pipe out of his mouth, and, fixing William with a cold eye, said:

  ‘What time d’you go to bed?’

  ‘About eight,’ said William guardedly.

  Bert transferred his gaze to Maggie.

  ‘Maggie,’ he said, ‘I’ll be callin’ for you at nine tonight an’ I hope you’ll come for a little walk with me.’

  Maggie switched her mind from the region of the abnormal to the region of the romantic.

  ‘Yes, Bert,’ she said, blushing.

  Bert fixed meaning eyes upon her and said:

  ‘I’ve a question to ask you, Maggie, an’ I think you’ll know what it is.’

  Her eyes dropped, her blush deepened.

  ‘Yes, Bert,’ she said.

  William’s heart sank. He’d have no chance at all of accompanying them on a walk at nine o’clock at night. And, anyway, he couldn’t hang round them all day and every day. No, things would have to take their course. Yet – he was sorry. He’d wanted to help his friend . . .

  ‘Now,’ said Bert with rising cheerfulness, ‘let’s go ’n’ get a boat an’ have a little row.’

  They walked down the river to the boathouse. As they went, William told Maggie about a man who was bitten by a dog and ever after barked instead of talking and spent most of his time chasing cats, but there wasn’t any zest in the telling of it. Bert, secure in the knowledge that his turn would come later, did not attempt to compete with him and the whole thing fell flat.

  Then he helped Bert and the boatman to get the boat out.

  It might have been noticed that, while Bert was leaning down over it, William examined closely the mop of flaxen curls and that something of his despondency dropped from him as he did so.

  Bert got in first in order to help Maggie into it. William got in next to hold the boat closely to the landing stage. And then, before Maggie had entered, the boat swung out suddenly into mid-stream.

  ‘What’d you let go for?’ exploded Bert.

  ‘Sorry,’ said William succinctly, ‘I can work it back all right.’

  But he didn’t. No one quite saw what he did, but in a few seconds the boat was overturned and William and Bert were floundering in the water.

  Maggie screamed and wrung her hands on the bank.

  ‘’S all right,’ called William from the water, ‘I’ll save him.’

  And he seized hold of Bert’s head and pulled. In a few seconds William was holding on to one side of the overturned boat and Bert the other. But it wasn’t the Bert they knew. It was an elderly man with a bald head except for a thin wisp of grey hair on the top of his head. And on the water just by the boat floated a bedraggled flaxen wig.

  ‘THERE YOU ARE, LOVE,’ SAID MRS ROUNDWAY. ‘IT WAS SUCH A PRETTY WEDDING!’

  Maggie moaned and covered her eyes with her hand.

  Her sister’s wish was fulfilled. She saw Bert as he really was.

  William walked slowly down the road past the cottage.

  Mrs Roundway smiled and nodded from the window, then came hurrying down with a cookie hoy in her hand.

  ‘There you are, love,’ she said. ‘It was such a pretty wedding. She and George have gone to Brighton for the honeymoon. It’s – rather nice to be alone again. I’m one that likes quiet. That Bert never turned up again after your picnic, you know.’

  ‘Di’n’t he?’ said William carelessly.

  It was nice to think that Maggie wasn’t there any more. She was fascinatingly credulous but she talked too much. He was aware that after this one speech of general explanation Mrs Roundway wo
uld resume the smiling silence of years. One other explanation she had to give.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, love. I’ve made it the old way. I’m not quite sure how she used to do them boot buttons.’

  ‘I like them best without boot buttons,’ said William.

  Then he walked on, happily munching his cookie boy.

  CHAPTER 10

  WILLIAM AND THE PRIZE PIG

  William was aware when his father promised to take him to the pantomime for a Christmas treat that he would have to tread very carefully between the promise and its fulfilment if he wished the fulfilment to materialise. He realised that the promise had been rashly made and that his father would rather play golf than take him to the pantomime any day, and would secretly welcome any excuse for abandoning the project.

  The other Outlaws were almost as anxious for William to go to the theatre as was William himself. For it wasn’t only the theatre. After the theatre William’s father was going to take William to tea to an old aunt of his who lived in London. She was an old lady who neither liked nor understood boys, but she was very correct and had prided herself from earliest youth on doing the right thing. And the right thing in the case of a boy was a tip. She never sent Christmas presents to William, but whenever William’s father took him to see her – which wasn’t often – she gave him five shillings.

  It had always been the custom of the Outlaws to pool their tips. Hence the anxious interest with which the Outlaws viewed William’s approaching and precarious treat. The five shillings was badly needed for a new toboggan.

  ‘If I was you,’ said Douglas earnestly, ‘I’d jus’ do nothin’ between now and then – ’cept eat at meal times an’ go to bed at night. Then he can’t have any ’scuse for not takin’ you.’

  ‘An’ wash an’ brush your hair a lot an’ that sort of thing,’ supplemented Ginger.

  William surveyed the prospect of this existence without enthusiasm.

  ‘You can’t do nothin’ but that,’ he protested. ‘There’s twenty-four hours in a day. You can’t wash an’ brush your hair for twenty-four hours. You’d prob’ly get some disease, if you did.’

  ‘You can sit quiet an’ read a book,’ said Ginger.

  William threw him a glance of dark suspicion, but Ginger’s face was a face of shining innocence devoid of mockery.

  ‘I’ve read all the books I want to read,’ said William tersely. ‘No, I’ll just go for quiet walks between washin’ my face an’ brushin’ my hair an’ such-like. I’ll jus’ go for quiet walks with you. He can’t mind that, can he?’

  The Outlaws agreed that he couldn’t and were relieved by William’s decision. For the prospect of taking their walks abroad without William had been a depressing one and they preferred even a lawful expedition with William to a lawless expedition without him. Moreover, there would be all the attraction of novelty about a William bent upon lawful purposes only, a William taking a quiet walk between washing his face and brushing his hair.

  ‘Yes, that’ll be all right,’ said William, his spirits rising. ‘I’ll jus’ do that – jus’ take a quiet walk in between keepin’ myself tidy. I’d better do that ’cause of gettin’ a little fresh air. They say people die what don’t get any fresh air an’ I shun’t like to die before I’ve been to the pantomime. Wun’t be fair on him, either,’ he added virtuously, ‘now he’s bought the tickets.’

  So the Outlaws met as usual at the corner of the road the next morning and set off for the quiet walk whose object was to provide William with the fresh air and exercise necessary to his existence till the Saturday of the treat.

  It was, of course, William who suggested going round through Mr Ballater’s back garden to look at his pig. Mr Ballater had a pig of gigantic proportions that had won prizes at every local show for miles around. Mr Ballater took an inordinate pride in his pig. He fed it and tended it with his own hands. He allowed it no rivals. It was said that he had surreptitiously photographed every pig in the neighbourhood who might possibly pose as a rival to it, and kept copies of the photographs in an album next to photographs of his Eglantine. He worshipped Eglantine as a savage might worship the totem of his tribe. Eglantine had a great fascination for the Outlaws, too. They loved to gaze at the enormous bulk of her, at her tiny eyes sunk so revoltingly in her mountain-like cheeks, to watch the unwieldy mass of her as she moved lumberingly across to her trough from her sleeping quarters or to her sleeping quarters from her trough.

  They entered the back garden cautiously. They were not welcome visitors at Eglantine’s shrine. One of their favourite amusements some months ago had been to bring curious and, as one would have thought, inedible substances for Eglantine to eat, and watch the enjoyment with which she consumed them. Mr Ballater had been much mystified and distressed at that time by the gradual failure of Eglantine’s appetite. When he brought to her the nourishing viands he prepared with his own hands she merely turned away her mountainous head distastefully. It was only by hiding in a neighbouring tree in an attitude of acute discomfort for several hours that he caught the Outlaws red-handed in the act of feeding her with large quantities of the cinders and sawdust for which Eglantine had acquired a perverted taste. He had fallen upon the Outlaws with such fury and put them to flight with such terrible threats (for Eglantine had been losing nearly a pound a day) that he had defeated his own ends by investing his back garden with that glamour of danger that the Outlaws found so irresistible.

  ‘Let’s jus’ go ’n’ look how she is,’ said William. ‘Well, we won’t give her cinders or sawdust to eat or do anythin’ wrong like that. But there can’t be any harm in jus’ goin’ to look at her.’

  The Outlaws, who had been finding the quiet walk rather dull, did not need much encouragement.

  They entered Mr Ballater’s back garden cautiously and hung over the side of the sty, gazing wonderingly at Eglantine, who turned a half-hidden eye in their direction.

  ‘She’s fatter than ever,’ said Ginger in a voice of awe. ‘I bet if you pricked her with a pin she’d go off pop.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t like his stuff half as much as the stuff we used to give her,’ said Douglas.

  ‘It was fun watchin’ her crunch cinders,’ said Henry wistfully.

  ‘Seems to me,’ said Ginger, ‘as if she was turnin’ into an elephant. I bet you could ride on her back now jus’ the same as if she was an elephant.’

  ‘I bet you couldn’t,’ said William pugnaciously. The life of quiet virtue that he had led for nearly a day was getting on William’s nerves.

  ‘I bet you could,’ repeated Ginger.

  No one ever knew who undid the latch, but they found themselves suddenly inside the sty.

  ‘Try, then,’ challenged Ginger. William seated himself tentatively upon the enormous back. Eglantine cast a fatuous glance up at him, but remained otherwise unmoved.

  ‘There!’ said Ginger triumphantly.

  ‘That’s not ridin’,’ protested William, ‘that’s sittin’.’

  ‘It’s what I call ridin’,’ said Ginger firmly.

  ‘You can’t call it ridin’ when it’s not movin’,’ said William indignantly.

  The other Outlaws supported William’s view. Riding, they considered, implied motion.

  ‘All right,’ said Ginger, accepting the challenge; ‘one of you show her some sawdust an’ if she’ll get up an’ go to it with William on her back then that’ll be ridin’ all right.’

  This was agreed to, and Henry went out to the carpenter’s shop down the road to borrow some sawdust. Fortunately the carpenter, unlike the rest of the adult population of the village, was a friend of the Outlaws, and allowed them to watch him at work and to carry off his sawdust for their own purpose. (William had lately carried on extensive experiments with a view to making wood out of sawdust and glue.)

  Henry returned with a good supply of sawdust, opened the sty door and held out a handful enticingly. The Outlaws had by now completely forgotten everything but the burning question of
whether you could ride on Eglantine or whether you couldn’t.

  ‘Come on,’ said Henry, ‘come on. Puss! Puss! Puss! Pig! Pig! Pig!’

  Eglantine looked up. She saw sawdust. She smelt sawdust. Her small eyes gleamed. Lumberingly she arose and, disregarding William’s weight on her back (perhaps hardly noticing it, for it was a mere feather compared with her own), ambled across to the door where Henry stood with his handful of sawdust. There she ate the delicious morsel greedily. Ginger cheered.

  ‘Well, that’s ridin’ all right,’ he said. ‘I guess you can’t call that not ridin’!’

  ‘I bet you couldn’t get her to run,’ said William; ‘see if you could get her to run.’

  ‘I bet I could,’ said Henry and Ginger simultaneously. Henry held out another handful of sawdust and began to retreat before the slowly-advancing bulk of Eglantine. Eglantine’s appetite was whetted by that one luscious mouthful. She literally adored sawdust. She saw another handful in front of her and hastened to reach it before it should disappear. She ambled, she lumbered forward. She broke into a trot. She was aware subconsciously of an unaccustomed weight upon her back; but she was a pig of one idea, and at present that one idea was sawdust. Moreover, the new sense of freedom stimulated her. She had discovered suddenly the use of her legs. She could trot. She could run. The discovery was exhilarating. She trotted. She ran. And before her, ever retreating, was that luscious handful of sawdust. Henry, his whole mind taken up with the thrill of making Eglantine run, backed slowly round the house to the front garden and crossed the lawn and disappeared into the bushes. Eglantine, seeing the ambrosial feast disappearing, forgot years of indolence and scampered across the lawn as fast as her legs would take her, William riding triumphantly upon her back. It was at this moment that Mr Ballater chanced to look out of his dining-room window. His face blanched, his mouth and eyes opened to their fullest extent. There was his Eglantine, his cherished Eglantine, who never stirred from her repose – except to stagger the few inches from her trough to her sleeping quarters – scampering – scampering across the lawn with a common human boy upon her sacred back. Eglantine, who had a show next week, losing pounds of precious fat by this unseemly gambol. Beside himself with fury, he rushed out and seized Eglantine by her inadequate tail. Eglantine, William and Mr Ballater rolled together on to the lawn. Henry, Ginger and Douglas, realising that discretion is the better part of valour, took to their heels. Mr Ballater, still beside himself with fury, seized William’s ears and shook him violently till Eglantine, excited by all this unusual commotion, charged him in the stomach and all three rolled over on the grass again. Mr Ballater recovered first. He sat up, removed one of Eglantine’s hind feet from his mouth, and, fixing William with a ferocious glare, said severely: