‘Yes,’ said William with perfect truth.
The mothers were stealing out, still casting glances of silent horror at William.
The Vicar’s wife addressed them.
‘Now you’ll all be able to tell your children,’ she said gaily, ‘and your children’s children that you heard this little boy play.’
They made inarticulate sounds and hastened their flight. One of them was heard to remark that she was going home to take an aspirin and then go straight to bed.
‘Now I’m sure,’ said the Vicar’s wife to William, ‘that you’d like a little refreshment after your work. I know what a mental and emotional strain creative work is. I often help the dear Vicar with his sermons and feel quite limp after it. Now come to the study and have a nice glass of milk.’
She felt that this disposed of the squire’s wife. The squire’s wife took her leave coldly of the Vicar’s wife and warmly of William.
‘May I kiss you, little boy,’ she said, ‘then I can tell people that I have kissed one of the world’s future great musicians.’ She implanted a large kiss in the middle of William’s cheek. William winced slightly, but otherwise maintained his sphinx-like calm.
The Vicar’s wife led him to the study and left him there alone. William at once seized the silver cup from its bracket and darted to the window. From the window he could see the road where his faithful band of comrades waited for him. They saw him and waved encouragingly. With a great effort he flung the cup through the window and into the road.
‘Keep it,’ he shouted, ‘I’ll be down in a sec’
And then the Vicar’s wife entered with a glass of milk and a plate of cakes. William disposed of these with an alacrity that surprised her.
‘You – you’ve quite a good appetite, haven’t you, dear?’ she said faintly.
‘Yes,’ agreed William.
Somehow she’d imagined that a genius – a real genius – wouldn’t eat in quite such a hearty manner. It somehow slightly lowered her opinion of genii in general.
The Vicar entered as William was inelegantly consuming the last bun.
‘This is Frankie Randall, dear,’ said his wife, ‘the little musical prodigy who’s staying with his uncle over at East Mellings, and he’s very kindly been playing one of his own beautiful compositions to the Mothers’ Meeting.’
The Vicar looked at him with a slightly puzzled frown.
‘The face,’ he said, ‘looks vaguely familiar to me.’
He had noted William – tousled, untidy, and covered with rock and bran – with disapproval and distaste at the garden fête.
He could not for the moment recall where he had seen this tousle-headed boy before. All he knew was that the face seemed vaguely familiar.
The Vicar’s wife laughed coyly at William.
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘that’s the price of fame, isn’t it dear?’
William, fearing complications, hastily picked up the currants and bits of icing still remaining on the cake plate, stuffed them into his mouth, and said that it was time for him to go.
The Vicar’s wife, who was anxious to write an account of the ‘recital’ for the local press, and was afraid of forgetting such words as ‘verve’ and ‘execution’ if she left it too late, agreed that perhaps it was, and William, replete with cake and success, rejoined his comrades.
In triumph they marched away bearing aloft the silver cup slightly battered from its fall in the road, while the Vicar’s wife sat in the Vicar’s study writing her little article on William’s ‘recital’ and looking up ‘verve’ in the dictionary.
At the gate of his home William disbanded his followers and walked into the house carrying the cup. With a great pride and triumph at his heart he placed it in the middle of the silver-table in the drawing-room next to Robert’s other cup. It happened fortunately that the drawing-room was empty. Then he went up to perform those violent, though often inadequate ceremonies with sponge and brush known as ‘tidying for tea.’
When he came down again his mother and Robert and Ethel were in the drawing-room. Evidently they had not yet discovered the presence of the silver cup on the silver-table. William said nothing. He was beginning to feel that he had been almost too grateful to Robert. After all, the five shillings hadn’t lasted long and there was such a thing as taking too much trouble. He didn’t for a moment think that Robert would realise how much trouble he’d taken over it. He felt that on the whole he was on the credit side now as far as Robert was concerned.
‘William dear,’ said his mother, ‘go and tidy for tea.’
‘I have,’ said William simply.
‘Go and do it again, then,’ said Robert, ‘you might get another layer or two off if you scrub hard.’
William looked at him coldly.
No – Robert certainly wasn’t worth all the trouble he’d taken over him – five shillings or no five shillings – playing the piano and being kissed by awful women and chased by gardeners and all that sort of thing.
Just as he was meditating some crushing retort to Robert the Vicar of West Mellings was announced. William’s face froze with horror. He looked round for escape, but there was none. The Vicar’s ample form blocked the doorway. The Vicar of West Mellings, who knew Mrs Brown very slightly and the other Browns not at all, had merely called for a subscription to his organ fund to which Mrs Brown had promised to contribute. His eyes fell upon William and he gave a smile of recognition.
‘Ah,’ he said ‘so our little genius is paying you a visit, is he?’
Mrs Brown, Ethel and Robert stared at him in amazement. William smiled a ghastly smile and said nothing.
The Vicar was by now convinced that that feeling of familiarity that the sight of William’s countenance had roused in him was merely the result of having at some time or other seen the little prodigy’s photograph in the newspaper.
‘I was sorry to miss the treat myself,’ he said, ‘but my wife tells me that it was really marvellous. Such verve – such – er – such execution.’
The Brown family were still gazing in open-mouthed amazement and bewilderment from William to the Vicar, from the Vicar to William. William’s set smile was growing sicklier every minute.
‘But, perhaps,’ said the Vicar, ‘I’m not too late. Perhaps I’m just in time for a treat here, am I?’
He placed his hand upon William’s unruly head.
‘This little boy,’ he said sententiously, ‘is one of the greatest musicians of our age. That’s a wonderful thought, isn’t it?’
William, still avoiding his family’s eyes, again looked desperately around for escape and found none.
‘Do you,’ burst out Mrs Brown at last to the Vicar, ‘do you feel the heat? W-won’t you sit down?’
‘Thank you,’ said the Vicar, ‘but I trust that I shall soon hear this little boy play the piano.’
‘He can’t play the piano,’ said Ethel, ‘he’s never learnt.’
The Vicar looked at her. It happened that Ethel was sitting next to the silver-table, and on the journey to Ethel the Vicar’s eyes passed over the silver-table and there stopped as though fascinated by something. For there, in the middle of the table, was the very silver cup that he had won for the high jump in his far-off college days. And William, of course, could not have been expected to know that the Vicar’s son had taken his cup back to school with him and the Vicar’s own cup, the solitary athletic glory of his youth, had been replaced upon its usual bracket.
‘THIS LITTLE BOY,’ SAID THE VICAR, ‘IS ONE OF THE GREATEST MUSICIANS OF OUR AGE.’
The Vicar craned nearer. Yes, there was no doubt about it – he could see his own name distinctly inscribed upon the silver. He pinched himself to make sure that he was awake. First of all these strange people informed him that a boy whom he knew to be a famous musical prodigy could not play the piano, and next he discovered his own precious high jump cup adorning their table – it was most extraordinary and just like a dream.
They followed his eye
s and also stared at the silver cup, noticing it for the first time.
‘William,’ called Mrs Brown, but he had gone.
‘William?’ said the bewildered cleric, ‘but surely that boy who’s just gone out is Frankie Randall, the great pianist.’
Mrs Brown sat down weakly. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s William. Whatever’s happened to everybody?’
‘B-b-but—’ said the Vicar, helplessly, ‘he was playing most wonderfully at the Parish Hall this morning.’
‘He couldn’t have been,’ said Mrs Brown simply, ‘he can’t play.’
They stared at each other helplessly.
Robert was examining the cup.
‘But I say,’ he said, ‘where has this come from? It isn’t ours.’
‘No, it’s mine,’ said the Vicar. ‘I’ve no idea how it got here.’
‘It – it’s like a sort of dream, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Brown in a far-away voice. ‘A dream in which anything might happen.’
‘But how could that cup have got here?’ said Robert.
‘Ask William,’ said Ethel drily, ‘he’s generally at the bottom of everything.’
‘Robert, dear,’ said Mrs Brown, still faintly, ‘go and fetch my smelling salts, will you, from my bedroom, and find William and bring him back with you.’
The Vicar was examining his cup, still bewildered, and murmuring, ‘But it was the boy – it was the boy who played in our house this morning.’
Robert returned in a few minutes to say that he hadn’t been able to find William. He’d looked in the dining-room and morning-room and garden, and William’s bedroom, but he hadn’t been able to find William.
Robert, of course, had not thought of looking in his own bedroom. But William was there. He was tired of being grateful to Robert. He was making him an apple pie bed.
It was unfortunate that when the whole complicated affair was finally disentangled it was too late to stop the little account which the Vicar’s wife had sent to the press. William read it when it appeared, with a certain pride, though he thought, quite excusably, that ‘verve’ meant ‘nerve’, and wondered what she meant by talking about his ‘execution’.
CHAPTER 9
WILLIAM JOINS THE WAITS
IT was only two days before Christmas and the Outlaws stood in Ginger’s back garden discussing its prospects, somewhat pessimistically. All except Henry – for Henry, in a spirit of gloomy resignation to fate, had gone to spend the festival season with relations in the North.
‘What’re you goin’ to get?’ demanded William of Ginger. The Outlaws generally spent the week before Christmas in ascertaining exactly what were the prospects of that day. It was quite an easy task, owing chiefly to the conservative habits of their relatives in concealing their presents in the same place year after year. The Outlaws knew exactly in which drawer or cupboard to pursue their search, and could always tell by some unerring instinct which of the concealed presents was meant for them.
‘Nothin’ really ’citin’,’ said Ginger, without enthusiasm, ‘but nothin’ awful, ’cept what Uncle George’s giv’n me.’
‘What’s that?’ said William.
‘An ole book,’ said Ginger with withering contempt; ‘an ole book called Kings an’ Queens of England. Huh! An’ I shall have to say I like it an’ thank him an’ all that. An’ I shan’t be able to sell it even, ’cept for about sixpence, ’cause you never can, an’ it cost five shillin’s. Five shillin’s! It’s got five shillin’s on the back. Well, why can’t he give me the five shillin’s an’ let me buy somethin’ sensible?’
He spoke with the bitterness of one who airs a grievance of long standing. ‘Goin’ wastin’ their money on things like Kings an’ Queens of England, ’stead of giv’n it us to buy somethin’ sensible. Think of all the sensible things we could buy with five shillin’s – ’stead of stupid things like Kings an ’ Queens of England.’
‘Well,’ burst out Douglas indignantly. ‘S’not so bad as what my Aunt Jane’s got for me. She’s gotter ole tie. A tie!’ He spat the word out with disgust. ‘I found it when I went to tea with her las’ week. A silly ole green tie. Well, I’d rather pretend to be pleased over any ole book than over a silly green tie. An’ I can’t even sell it, ’cause they’ll keep goin’ on at me to wear it – a sick’nin’ ole green tie!’
William was not to be outdone.
‘Well, you don’t know what my Uncle Charles is givin’ me. I heard him tellin’ Mother about it. A silly baby penknife.’
‘A penknife!’ they echoed, ‘well, there’s nothin’ wrong with a penknife.’
‘I’d rather have a penknife than an old Kings an ’ Queens of England,’ said Ginger bitterly.
‘An’ I’d rather have a penknife or a Kings an’ Queens of England than a silly ole green tie,’ said Douglas.
‘A Kings an’ Queens of England’s worse than a tie,’ said Ginger fiercely, as though his honour were involved in any suggestion to the contrary.
‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas equally fiercely.
‘’Tis!’ said Ginger.
‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas.
The matter would have been settled one way or the other by physical contest between the protagonists had not William thrust his penknife (metaphorically speaking) again into the discussion.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you don’t know what kind of a penknife, an’ I do. I’ve got three penknives, an’ one’s almost as big as a nornery knife, an’ got four blades an’ a thing for taking stones out of horses’ hoofs an ’ some things what I haven’t found out what they’re meant for yet, an’ this what he’s given me is a baby penknife – it’s only got one blade, an’ I heard him tellin’ mother that I couldn’t do any harm with it. Fancy’ – his voice quivered with indignation – ‘fancy anyone givin’ you a penknife what you can’t do any harm with.’
Ginger and Douglas stood equally aghast at this news. The insult of the tie and the Kings and Queens of England paled before the deadly insult of a penknife you couldn’t do any harm with.
William returned home still burning with fury.
He found his mother in the drawing-room. She looked rather worried.
‘William,’ she said, ‘Mr Solomon’s just been here.’
William heard the news without much interest. Mr Solomon was the superintendent of the Sunday School, on which the Outlaws reluctantly shed the light of their presence every Sunday afternoon. Mr Solomon was very young and earnest and well-meaning, and the Outlaws found it generally quite easy to ignore him. He in his official capacity found it less easy to ignore the Outlaws. But he was an ever hopeful man, and never gave up his efforts to reach their better selves, a part of them which had hitherto succeeded in eluding him.
‘He’s going to take the elder boys out carol singing on Christmas Eve,’ went on Mrs Brown uncertainly. ‘He came to ask whether I’d rather you didn’t go.’
William was silent. The suggestion was entirely unexpected and full of glorious possibilities. But, as he understood well enough the uncertainty in his mother’s voice, he received it without any change of expression. The slight disgust, caused by brooding over the ignominy of a penknife he couldn’t do any harm with, remained upon his unclassic features.
‘Uh-huh?’ he said without interest.
‘Would you like to go?’ said Mrs Brown.
‘Wouldn’t mind,’ said William casually, his expression of disgust giving way to one of mere boredom. Mrs Brown, watching him, thought that Mr Solomon’s apprehensions were quite ill-founded.
‘If you went, William,’ she said, ‘you’d be quite quiet and orderly, wouldn’t you?’
William’s expression was one of amazement. He looked as though he could hardly credit his ears.
‘Me?’ he said indignantly. ‘Me? – why, of course!’
He seemed so hurt by the question that his mother hastened to reassure him.
‘I thought you would, dear. I told Mr Solomon you would. You – you’d like it, wouldn’t you
, dear?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said William, careful not to sound too eager.
‘What would you like about it, dear?’ asked Mrs Brown, priding herself upon her cunning.
William assumed an unctuous expression.
‘Singin’ hymns an’ – an’ psalms,’ he said piously, ‘an’ – an’ that sort of thing.’
His mother looked relieved.
‘That’s right, dear,’ she said, ‘I think it would be a very beautiful experience for you. I told Mr Solomon so. He seemed afraid that you might go in the wrong spirit, but I told him that I was sure you wouldn’t.’
Mrs Brown’s unquenchable faith in her younger son was one of the most beautiful and touching things the world has ever known.
‘Oh, no,’ said William, looking deeply shocked at the notion. ‘I won’t go in the wrong spirit, I’ll go in, you know – what you said – a beautiful experience an’ all that sort of spirit.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Brown, ‘I’d like you to go. It will be the sort of experience you’ll remember all your life.’
As a matter of fact it turned out to be the sort of experience that Mr Solomon rather than William remembered all his life.
William met Ginger and Douglas the next morning.
‘I’m goin’ waitin’ Christmas Eve,’ he announced proudly.
‘So’m I,’ said Ginger.
‘So’m I,’ said Douglas.
It turned out that Mr Solomon had visited their parents too, yesterday, and to their parents, too, had expressed doubt as to the advisability of their sons being allowed to join the party. Though well meaning, he was not a very tactful young man, and had not expressed his doubts in such a way as to placate maternal pride.
‘My mother said,’ said Ginger, ‘why shun’t I go same as anyone else, so I’m goin’!’
‘So did mine,’ said Douglas, ‘so so’m I.’
‘Yes,’ said William indignantly, ‘fancy sayin’ he thought I’d better not come. Why, I should think I’m ’s good at waitin’ ’s anybody else in the world – why, when I start singin’ you c’n hear me at the other end of the village.’
William in Trouble Page 18