William the Good

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Whose is that parrot, William?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘Mine,’ said William shortly.

  ‘W-where did you get it?’ said Hector still more pleasantly.

  ‘Someone gave it to me,’ said William.

  There was a short silence, then Hector said slowly:

  ‘I was just wanting a parrot like that.’

  ‘Were you?’ said William.

  Hector cleared his throat and then said in a manner that was more ingratiating than ever:

  ‘They’re rather dangerous, you know, and very expensive to feed.’

  William secretly agreed with both these statements, but he gave no sign of having even heard them. A shade of nervousness crept into Hector’s ingratiating manner.

  ‘I – I’m willing to buy that parrot from you, William,’ he offered.

  William turned a steady eye upon him.

  ‘How much for?’ he said sternly.

  Hector hesitated. He hadn’t any money to speak of. With a different type of child, of course, one might – He’d always disliked William far more than the other Outlaws.

  ‘They’re not expensive things, of course,’ he said carelessly, hoping that William did not know their value, ‘and they’re a lot of trouble. One must take into account that they’re delicate birds and one has to—’

  William interrupted. A sudden gleam had come into William’s eye.

  ‘I tell you what I’ll do,’ he said, ‘I’ll swop it with you.’

  ‘What for?’ said Hector hopefully.

  The gleam in William’s eye became brighter, more steely.

  ‘I want to give Ginger a present,’ he said carelessly. ‘I want to give him one of those nice trumpets. The very nice ones. You can get ’em at Foley’s in the village. They cost six shillings. I’ll swop it with you for one of those trumpets to give to Ginger.’

  William’s freckled face was absolutely expressionless as he made this offer. For a minute there was murder in Hector’s eye. He went purple, controlled himself with an effort, then after a minute’s silence full of unspoken words, gulped and said:

  ‘Very well. You wait here.’

  Soon he was back with the trumpet. He hurled it at William with a gesture of anger and contempt, seized the parrot cage and disappeared. He was going to take it home, write a beautiful little note, fasten it to the ring, and deliver it in person at the front door. He wasn’t going to repeat his mistake of leaving it anywhere where it could be stolen before it reached the beloved’s hands.

  Inside the summer-house the Outlaws were dancing a dance of exultation and triumph around Ginger who was producing loud but discordant strains from his magnificent new trumpet.

  This festive gathering was, however, broken by the sudden advent of George who, like Hector, had not been able to resist the temptation of coming round to receive a detailed description of Ethel’s delight. Like Hector he had been informed that no parrot had entered the house that day. He had then caught a glimpse of the Outlaws in the summer-house leaping wildly about a parrot in a cage to the mingled strains of some devilish musical instrument and the shrill sardonic chuckles of a parrot. He hurled himself in upon them in fury.

  ‘You little thieves,’ he panted, seizing William by both ears. ‘What do you mean by taking my parrot?’

  William firmly but with great dignity freed his ears, then as firmly and with as much dignity replied:

  ‘’S not your parrot. ’S ours.’

  George looked at the parrot and his jaw dropped. William was right. It wasn’t his parrot. It wasn’t his cage.

  He gulped. His anger departed. A certain propitiatory note came into his voice as he began to make tentative enquiries as to the exact value William set upon his parrot. It appeared that though William valued his parrot very highly indeed, still in order to oblige George he was willing to exchange it for a mouth-organ, one of the six-shilling ones from Foley’s, because he happened to want to give one to Douglas as a present. George, after displaying all the symptoms of an imminent apoplectic fit, went off to buy the mouth-organ, returned with it, flung it furiously at the Outlaws and stalked off with his parrot.

  William turned to the other Outlaws.

  ‘I mus’ say,’ he admitted, ‘that a lot of extraordinary things seem to be hap’nin’ to us today. People givin’ away parrots an’ other people wantin’ ’em an’ – let’s go’n’ see what he’s goin’ to do with it.’

  At a discreet distance they followed George round and out of the side gate. George was going to take the parrot in at the front door, ring the bell, and deliver it in person. He wasn’t going to run the risk of having it stolen a second time. . . . And then, to his amazement, he saw Hector blithely approaching from the opposite direction also carrying a parrot in a cage. Hector had been home, had written a graceful little note, attached it to the ring of the cage, and was now coming to present it to Ethel. They met at the gate. Their mouths slowly opened. Their eyes bulged in fury and amazement as each recognised his own parrot and cage in the hand of the other. Simultaneously they shouted, ‘So you stole my parrot.’

  The Outlaws watched in mystified delight. A shabby-looking man who happened to be passing also stopped to form an interested audience.

  ‘It’s not your parrot . . . I say you stole mine.’

  ‘I did not . . . that’s my parrot you’re holding.’

  ‘You heard her say she’d like a parrot and you—’

  ‘’You couldn’t afford one yourself so you pinched mine and—’

  ‘A jolly good thing I’ve caught you—’

  ‘I did not—’

  ‘You did—’

  ‘You’re a liar and a thief.’

  ‘I’m not. You are.’

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘A liar and a thief.’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘A liar and a thief.’

  ‘Are you referring to me or to you?’

  ‘To you.’

  ‘Well, say it again.’

  ‘You’re a liar and a thief.’

  Feeling words inadequate, but finding the cage he was carrying an impediment to threatening gestures, George turned round, thrust it into William’s arms with a curt ‘take that’ and began to roll up his sleeves. Hector turned to the shabby-looking man, who stood just behind him, thrust his cage into his arms, and began to roll up his sleeves. The next minute George and Hector, who attended the same boxing class and knew each other’s style by heart, were giving a splendid display upon the high road, with bare fists. From the melange came at regular intervals the words ‘thief and ‘liar’, ‘you did’, ‘I didn’t’.

  It was clear that in the shabby-looking man’s breast there raged a struggle between duty and pleasure – the pleasure of watching the fight and the duty of providing for himself the necessities of life. Duty won, and he crept softly away with his parrot and cage, and was never seen or heard of in that locality again.

  William stood for a minute deep in thought, then went quietly indoors with his parrot and cage, leaving Hector and George still deaf and blind to everything but the joy of fighting. William, still very thoughtful, carried his cage up to Ethel’s room.

  ‘I won’t come in, Ethel,’ he said softly, ‘’cause of catching your quarantine illness, but I’ve brought you a little present. I heard you’d said you’d like a parrot an’ I’ve brought you one.’

  Ethel and his mother came to the door and stared at him in amazement. Freckled, stern, inscrutable, he handed the cage to Ethel.

  ‘B-but wherever did you get it, William?’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘A man gave it to me,’ said William.

  ‘A man gave it to you?’ gasped Mrs Brown.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, his face and voice entirely devoid of any expression. ‘A man in the road gave it me. He just put it in my arms an’ said: “Take that.” He gave it me.’

  ‘Well!’ gasped Mrs Brown, ‘isn’t that extraordinary! But there are a lot of eccentric people about and
’ – vaguely – ‘one’s always reading of queer things in the newspapers.’

  Ethel was deeply touched. That William should bring his present straight to her. That it should be William who remembered her lightly expressed wish for a parrot which those two – well, there weren’t any words strong enough for them – had only ridiculed. . . . She felt drawn to William as never before.

  ‘How – how very kind of you, William,’ she said. ‘I – you can have your bow and arrow back. I’m sorry I took if from you. It’s – it’s very kind of you to bring me the parrot.’

  William received his bow and arrow with perfunctory thanks. Just at that moment the housemaid came up with a note. Ethel tore it open.

  ‘Why, it’s all right,’ she said. ‘Daphne hasn’t got measles after all. The rash has all gone, and the doctor says she’s not got it at all, and they want me to go to tea, and they’ve got that artist coming – you know, the one that said that I was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in his life, and – Oh, how jolly. I’ll start at once.’

  ‘May Douglas and Ginger and me walk with you just as far as there, Ethel?’ said William.

  ‘Certainly, William,’ said Ethel in her melted mood.

  A few minutes later Ethel, accompanied by William, Ginger and Douglas, set out fron the front door. William carried his bow and arrow, Ginger his magnificent new trumpet, and Douglas his magnificent new mouth-organ. They walked very jauntily.

  At the gate Hector and George came forward to greet them. The fight was just over. It had been indecisive. They were equally matched and knew each other’s style of boxing too well ever to be taken by surprise, so the fight had finally been abandoned by mutual consent. At the unexpected sight of Ethel emerging from the front door escorted by the Outlaws, they pulled themselves together and hastened forward with smiles of greeting. Ethel passed them head in air without any sign of recognition. They stood gaping after her in helpless bewilderment. The Outlaws turned back to look at them, Ginger and Douglas raised trumpet and mouth-organ to their lips and uttered defiant strains, William waved his bow and arrow in careless greeting, then they turned back and went on their way accompanying Ethel, an indescribable swagger in their walk.

  George and Hector picked up their hats from the dust and walked slowly away in the opposite direction.

  Ethel wasn’t in quarantine after all. And she was going out to tea to meet the artist who said she was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in his life. She was tired to death of those two boys but – but it was all right now.

  She was perfectly happy.

  The Outlaws had got back their confiscated property, and then some, as they say across the Atlantic. They had scored most gloriously off their enemies. They had had a most successful day. There had been, it is true, certain mysterious elements in it that they could not understand, but that did not matter. It had been a most successful day. They were perfectly happy.

  George and Hector walked down the road arm in arm. Their conflict had stimulated them and roused again all their old friendship. They were confiding in each other that women were unreliable and incalculable and that it was best to give them a wide berth. They were congratulating each other on the narrow escape from the lifelong unhappiness that marriage with Ethel would have meant to them.

  ETHEL PASSED THE TWO YOUNG MEN, HEAD IN AIR, WITHOUT ANY SIGN OF RECOGNITION. WILLIAM WAVED HIS BOW AND ARROW IN IRONIC FAREWELL.

  Then they went on to discuss the latest football results.

  They were perfectly happy. . . .

  GEORGE AND HECTOR STOOD GAZING IN HELPLESS BEWILDERMENT.

  CHAPTER 7

  ONE GOOD TURN

  THE atmosphere in William’s home was electric, or, as William put it, everyone seemed to be in a bait but him. Uncle Frederick was staying with them, and not only Uncle Frederick but also a distant cousin, many times removed, called Flavia. Flavia is a romantic name, but not as romantic as its owner. Flavia was tall and slim and dark with deep violet eyes. Not that William thought she was romantic. He did not even realise that she was tall and slim and dark with deep violet eyes. To William she was merely an ordinary and quite unattractive grown-up. He had tested her intelligence and found it entirely lacking (she did not, for instance, know the difference between a Poplar Hawk and a Vaporer, nor did she take the slightest interest in the records of his prize conker). He felt in her, however, the aloof impersonal interest he felt for all the girls whom Robert admired. For Robert admired Flavia. At sight of her he had forgotten all his other lady loves (and they had been numerous), had forgotten even that he had always intended to marry a small girl with golden hair and blue eyes, and had gazed on her even while the introduction was taking place with a lovelorn gaze that riveted William’s attention at once. William liked to keep up with Robert’s love affairs, and on account of their fleeting nature, this was less easy than it sounds. As he watched the introduction he mentally transferred the focus of Robert’s affection from the golden-haired girl he’d been taking on the river last week to this new arrival. He was on the whole relieved to find her devoid of intelligence. It always vaguely shocked him to find intelligence – a knowledge of insects or interest in conker battles – in inamoratas of Robert’s. It seemed such a waste of it.

  It might be supposed that the course of true love would run very smooth indeed with the inamorata beneath the same roof, but it didn’t. It didn’t because of Uncle Frederick. Uncle Frederick needed a perpetual audience. Uncle Frederick accompanied Flavia and Robert wherever they went. He insisted on walking in the middle and he talked all the time. He talked about his stamp collection. He had a collection of ten thousand stamps, and he was never perfectly happy except when he was talking about them. He knew his collection by heart and he could describe each one of them in detail. He could – in fact he did – talk about his collection for hours and hours and hours and hours without stopping. He took for granted that Robert and Flavia liked to have him with them wherever they went and so he always went with them. He went for walks with them. He went for picnics with them. He went on the river with them. He went out to tea with them. He played tennis with them. He sat in the garden with them. And always he talked to them about his stamp collection. Sometimes in the evening he read aloud to them from a book called The Joy of Stamp Collecting.

  They were sitting on a seat in the garden – Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side.

  ‘I wish you could see it,’ Uncle Frederick was saying; ‘it’s quite an unique collection. Did I ever tell you how I got that Japanese stamp?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert gloomily.

  Robert had an uneasy suspicion that he could see William’s face through the laurel bushes, framed in its feathered Indian head-dress, wearing its unholy grin.

  ‘I’d like to have brought the collection with me,’ went on Uncle Frederick, ‘but of course it’s very large and cumbersome. And I’m afraid of thieves. It’s extraordinary how thieves do get to hear of these things, and of course they’re very cunning. Did I tell you about the man I met who’d had a very rare complete set of Italian stamps taken out of his pocketbook during a journey without feeling anything?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert.

  Uncle Frederick threw him a suspicious glance. He was almost sure he’d never told Robert that story. Slightly disconcerted, he paused a minute, then pulling himself together continued: ‘I keep them at home in a specially constructed safe. It would, I think, baffle any burglar, but of course they are very cunning. I never come away like this without feeling anxious about my stamps. The first thing I do when I get home is to go to my safe and ascertain that they are all there. Did I ever tell you—’ He stopped, glanced at Robert and began the sentence again. ‘I remember hearing of a man once who had a most valuable collection stolen and faked stamps put in its stead. It was some months before he discovered the trick.’

  Robert leant over to Flavia who sat serene in the consciousness of her beauty, and, assuming an expression which caused
much delight to the hidden William – an expression which soulless people sometimes compare to that of ‘a dying duck in a thunder-storm’ – said:

  ‘Would you like to come to the summer-house, Flavia? There’s a very pretty view of the rose garden from there.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Flavia demurely as she rose.

  ‘You stay here, Uncle Frederick,’ said Robert hastily, seeing that Uncle Frederick, too, was rising, and added solicitously, ‘I’m sure you’re tired with our walk this morning. You rest here while I show Flavia the view from the summer-house.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Uncle Frederick briskly, ‘I’m not at all tired; I’m a very good walker. I could outwalk you both, I dare say. I’ll come and look at this view from the summer-house with you. I remember there was a summer-house at home when I was a boy. I used to take my stamp collection down there to arrange them. I remember that it was in the old summer-house that I added the last of the complete set of Austrian stamps to my collection. A friend of my father gave it to me, and I took it down to the summer-house to put it into my album.’

  The three of them wended their way to the summer-house. William, wearing his Red Indian costume, followed through the bushes. He found the expression on Robert’s face highly diverting.

  They stood in the summer-house, Uncle Frederick in the middle, Robert and Flavia on either side, William discreetly peeping through a crack in the side.

  ‘Well, where’s this view from the summer-house?’ said Uncle Frederick.

  ‘There,’ said Robert savagely. Uncle Frederick looked through the little window.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to me,’ he said, ‘much different from the view you get from the house.’