William's Television Show

by Richmal Crompton

  “There!” said William triumphantly. “It’s ate what it needed to cure it. Animals’ve got instinct to tell ’em what they need to cure ’em, an’ this one’s instinct told it to eat the things it’s ate to make it well. Looks all right now, doesn’t it?”

  “It was my orange peel,” said Maisie Fellowes. “I cured it. It ought to pay me something.”

  William was raising a spirited objection to this when a red-haired boy with a goldfish in a bowl pushed his way to the front.

  “Make it well,” he shouted. “Do something to it.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” said William.

  “You’re supposed to know that,” countered the boy. “Thought you were an animal doctor.”

  “Well—” William was beginning in a noncommittal voice, when Henry, who had been making a further examination of the contents of the box, interrupted him.

  “Gosh, here’s a bag full of bandages. Heaps of ’em. We’ve not used any bandages.”

  “Let’s bandage it,” said William, surrendering to a sudden spirit of irresponsibililty. “Let’s bandage the goldfish.”

  “It’ll die out of water,” protested Victor Jameson.

  “Not if we’re quick,” said William.

  He inserted his finger into the bowl, brought out the goldfish, twisted round it the bandage that Henry handed to him, and replaced it. Exhilarated, apparently, by its experience, the goldfish began to swim nimbly round and round the bowl. The bandage detached itself and sank to the bottom.

  “It’s come off!” shouted its owner indignantly.

  “It’ll do it jus’ as much good in the water with it,” William assured him. “It’s a jolly good thing for a goldfish, havin’ a bandage in the water with it. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Yes, ’course I did,” said the goldfish owner, who never liked to appear at a loss. “I’d jus’ forgot.”

  But the spirit of irresponsibility was spreading over the whole gathering. Animal owners crowded round William, thrusting their pets at him.

  “Bandage it!” they shouted. “Bandage it!”

  Bandages were unrolled, tied round the patients and secured by large tight knots. The small boy who had demanded a remedy for his scratched finger now brought a sugar mouse from his pocket and shrilly demanded a bandage. Bandages became entangled with each other. Patients became entangled with each other. The Peke and the Corgi had been bandaged with different ends of the same bandage and were fighting it out, in well-matched and apparently deadly combat. The clinic had become a pandemonium of distracted patients, tearing off their own and each other’s bandages. Suddenly the Peke and the Corgi, having evidently come to some sort of working agreement, ran out of the open door and across the field, side by side, linked by a thin white strip. The owners set off in pursuit.

  Unable to resist the lure of the chase, the rest of the children followed, animals at their heels or in their arms, bandages flying like pennons in the breeze. William, Ginger, Henry and Douglas were left alone in the barn with the pig.

  “Hi! Caroline!” shouted William from the door.

  Caroline stopped for a moment in her headlong flight.

  “You’ve left your pig behind,” said William.

  “I don’t want it,” said Caroline. “It’s not mine, anyway. I found it in Emstead Lane. You can keep it,” and turned to fly across the field in the wake of the crowd of children and the fluttering bandages.

  The four boys stood examining the pig. It was sitting on its haunches again, looking at them with small bright trusting eyes.

  “Wonder where it came from,” said William.

  “Might be one of old Jenks’ pigs,” said Ginger.

  “I’ll go and see,” said Henry, who possessed a certain rudimentary sense of law and order. “We must take it back if it is.”

  He set out across the field to Jenks’ farm.

  “Well, it went off all right,” said Ginger a little doubtfully.

  “It went off jolly well,” said William. “I cured the whole lot of ’em. Gosh! There wasn’t much wrong with them by the time I’d finished with them.”

  “I don’t think there was much wrong with them to start with,” said Ginger.

  “We’ve not made much out of it,” said Douglas, surveying the half-sucked lollypop and the bulls-eye, thickly coated with pocket fluff, that were the sole contributions of the attendants at the clinic.

  The pig, as if to remind them of its presence, gave a half-grunt, half-squeak.

  “It’s hungry again,” said William. “Let’s get it something to eat.”

  Going into the field they collected grass, leaves and, from beneath an oak tree that grew from the hedge, as many acorns as their pockets would hold. The pig ate them eagerly.

  It was while Douglas was offering it the half-sucked lolly-pop that Henry entered breathlessly.

  “No, it’s not one of ole Jenks’,” he said. “Ole Jenks wasn’t in but his wife was an’ she counted them an’ they were all there an’ she said it mus’ be one of Smith’s so I went to Smith’s an’ it wasn’t one of his an’ he said it mus’ be one of Jenks’ so it isn’t either’s.”

  They gazed at their guest in perplexity. There seemed to be a glint of sardonic amusement in the small bright eyes.

  “I bet it’s a wild pig,” said William at last.

  “There aren’t any,” said Henry.

  “How d’you know there aren’t?” said William. “Gosh! All animals were wild to start with. There were wild cats an’ wild dogs an’ wild sheep an’—an’ wild cows all over the place. Most of ’em got tamed with civ’lisation, but I bet they all didn’t. I bet there’s been wild families of ’em hidin’ up in woods an’ places all these years. I bet this pig belongs to a fam’ly of wild pigs that’s been hidin’ up somewhere for gen’rations an’ it’d jus’ come out to look for food when Caroline Jones found it.”

  “It doesn’t act wild,” said Ginger, surveying the placid pink figure before them.

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t wild,” said William. “Yumans are s’posed to be tamed an’ there’s hundreds of ’em that act wild. Gosh! I’m always comin’ across yumans that act wild. Well, this pig’s wild but it acts tame. It’s the same thing only the other way round.”

  They were obviously impressed by this argument.

  “What’ll we do with it, then?” said Henry.

  “Well, if it’s wild it belongs to anyone, same as caterpillars an’ insects,” said William. His face glowed with the light of an idea. “Let’s keep it. Gosh! Fancy havin’ a real pig all of our own!”

  “I bet our mothers won’t let us,” said Douglas.

  “They needn’t know at first,” said William. “We’ll hide it at first, then break it to them gradually bit by bit.”

  “An’ where’ll we hide it?” said Douglas, a note of sarcasm invading his gloom. “Jus’ tell me that. Where’ll we hide a live pig?”

  “Oh, shut up makin’ objections,” said William irritably. “There mus’ be hundreds of places to hide a wild pig that acts tame same as this one does . . . Gosh! I’ve got an idea. There’s your garage, Ginger. No one ever goes into it, do they?”

  Ginger’s family did not possess a car and the garage was stocked with household articles that had been turned out of the house in greater or lesser stages of disrepair. Ginger’s mother was a “hoarder” and never got rid of anything in case it “came in” later.

  “No,” said Ginger. “That should be all right—if it keeps quiet.”

  “I bet it will,” said William.

  “What’ll we call it?” said Henry. “It ought to have a name now it’s our pet.”

  “It looks jus’ like my uncle Ernest,” said Douglas. “He’s got eyes and a nose jus’ like that.”

  “All right, we’ll call it Ernest,” said William. “Come on, Ernest. Let’s take him to Ginger’s garage.”

  They led their new pet, still secured by the skipping rope, across the fields to Ginger’s house. Ern
est looked at his new surroundings with interest, investigated a broken mincing machine, nosed round a dressmaker’s dummy (which Ginger’s mother had outgrown) then settled down on an old sack in the corner and composed himself to sleep. Silently the four crept out and fastened the door.

  “Well, he seems to like it all right,” said William. “I b’lieve he was tired of bein’ a wild one an’ is jolly glad to start bein’ a tame one. We’ll all come here tomorrow morning an’ bring him a bit of breakfast.”

  “An’ you’d better go now,” said Ginger, glancing nervously towards the house. “There’s goin’ to be an awful mess-up if my father finds him.”

  “I bet there’ll be a mess-up anyway,” said Douglas with a hollow laugh.

  * * *

  Cautiously, anxiously, they opened the garage door the next morning. To their relief Ernest was still there. He ran to them with little squeals of pleasure. They gazed down at him, their hearts swelling with the pride of ownership. Even Jumble seemed to accept him as a friend.

  From bulging pockets they brought their contributions to Ernest’s breakfast. Henry had brought a paper bag filled with porridge, Douglas half a dozen bacon rinds and some fried bread, William a mixture of sardine and marmalade in an old tobacco tin, Ginger a slab of treacle tart left over from yesterday’s lunch. Ernest ate them greedily.

  “Well, he’s had a jolly good breakfast,” said Ginger.

  But William was gazing down at their pet with a worried frown.

  “I don’t believe we’re feedin’ him right,” he said.

  “It’s jolly good food,” said Ginger indignantly. “I’d have liked to eat that treacle tart myself.”

  “Yes, but it’s yuman food,” said William. “It ought to be pig’s food.”

  “Well, what is pig’s food?”

  “I dunno, but I’m goin’ to find out.”

  “How?”

  “Well, there’s a new farmer called Mr Furnace at Boulters Farm in Upper Marleigh. I’ve heard people talkin’ about him. He does everything in a new sci’ntific way, so he mus’ have a new sci’ntific way of feedin’ pigs an’ I’m goin’ over to see what it is.”

  “Y—yes,” said Ginger. “It’s not a bad idea.”

  “We might get a prize for him if we feed him up properly,” said Henry. “When are you goin’?”

  “Now,” said William, setting off towards the gate, “an’ I’d better not take Jumble or any of you. It might make him mad to have a lot of people messin’ about.”

  “Well, I’ll be s’rprised to see you comin’ back alive,” said Douglas.

  “Gosh, I’m not afraid of him,” said William.

  But something of his courage deserted him as he approached the spreading buildings of Boulters Farm. He hung about the entrance looking at the large barns, the clean-swept yard, the modern hay stacks, the tractor, the mechanical reaper and binder. Presently a man, wearing breeches and leather gaiters, came out of the farm and crossed the yard towards one of the outbuildings. He was large and broad-shouldered, and the lines of his weather-beaten face showed grimness and resolution. He was obviously Mr Furnace himself, and obviously he was not a man to be trifled with. He directed a suspicious glance at William before he vanished into the shed, and the rest of William’s courage oozed away. He decided not to risk a personal interview. Peering through the gate he saw a line of pigsties at the further end of the courtyard. He would slip across and see what the pigs were eating as soon as the coast was clear.

  Mr Furnace crossed the courtyard again to the house, throwing another suspicious glance at William. The coast seemed to be clear, so, keeping in the shelter of the barn, William slipped across to the pigsties. They were magnificent structures of cement, scrubbed clean inside and out. He peeped over an enclosure, lined with feeding troughs. Several young pigs were running about, and he caught a glimpse of more pigs in the inner sty beyond. Climbing over the low wall, he made his way into the further recesses of the sty. A large sow, lying in a comer, eyed him languidly, and the pigs set up a loud squealing. Hearing footsteps, William craned his neck round the opening and saw Mr Furnace approaching the sty, carrying a bucket in each hand. The farmer opened the gate and poured the contents of the buckets into one of the feeding troughs. A loud squealing arose as the pigs surrounded it. The sow got lumberingly to its feet and went to join them.

  Unable to restrain his curiosity, William again craned his neck round the aperture. Unfortunately, at that moment Mr Furnace straightened himself, turned round and—met William’s eye. With a bellow of rage he darted towards him. William plunged through the pigs, fell into the trough, picked himself up, scrambled over the wall and, dripping with pig food, fled out of the farmyard and across the field.

  He found Henry and Douglas at the gate of Ginger’s house.

  “Did you find out what they eat?” said Henry.

  “Yes,” said William. He looked down at his sodden jacket. “They eat this, but I don’t know what it’s made of.”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No. I didn’t ask him—Gosh! I seem to’ve been run after by people ever since I got up yesterday.” An aggrieved note crept into his voice. “There’s days when it seems people jus’ can’t leave me in peace. Where’s Ginger?”

  “His mother called him in to help her move the hall chest so’s she could clean behind it.”

  At that moment Ginger joined them. There was a look of consternation on his face.

  “I say! An awful thing’s happened,” he said. “Mrs Monk’s jus’ telephoned my mother an’ she’s havin’ a jumble sale tomorrow an’ she wants some stuff an’ my mother said she could come over this afternoon an’ look through all that junk in the garage an’—Gosh! What about Ernest?”

  The four held a hasty consultation. Douglas’s and Henry’s garages were occupied by their families’ cars. William’s garage was, to all intents and purposes, an extension of the kitchen, with store cupboards, firewood, coke and clothes-horse.

  “She’s in an’ out all day,” said William. “She’d find him in no time if we put him there.”

  “It’s only jus’ for the afternoon,” said Ginger. “It’ll be safe again when she’s gone through the stuff.”

  “Tell you what!” said William. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Archie’s cottage.”

  “Archie’s cottage?”

  “Yes. There’s that bedroom—the one he doesn’t use—with no furniture in. It’d make a smashing pigsty jus’ for the afternoon.”

  “Wouldn’t he mind?” said Douglas.

  “He won’t know. He’s out all day painting that ole house. He won’t be back till it’s dark an’ we’ll have got Ernest out of it by then. We needn’t bother Archie about it at all. He never locks his doors so we can get in all right. He won’t even know we’ve been, an’ I bet he wouldn’t mind if he did.”

  “It’s worth trying,” said Henry judicially.

  “’Course it is,” said William. “It’s a smashin’ idea. Ginger an’ me’ll take him, ’s no good all of us goin’. We don’t want people to know about Ernest yet an’ people are more likely to notice four boys an’ a pig than two boys an’ a pig.”

  There appeared to be logic in his argument. The other two agreed. Keeping a wary eye on the windows of Ginger’s house, they opened the garage door and ushered Ernest, still attached to his skipping rope, down to the gate. Ernest trotted briskly and happily, glad, as it seemed, to escape from the company of the dressmaker’s dummy. Henry and Douglas stood at the gate and watched the trio out of sight.

  Fate seemed for once to favour William. The road was empty. Unchallenged, they made their way to Archie’s cottage, opened the door and led Ernest inside.

  “Archie?” called William a little apprehensively.

  There was no reply.

  “It’s all right,” said William. “He’s still out painting. Come on! Let’s get Ernest upstairs.”

  Ernest tackled the stair
s with unexpected agility and uttered little squeals of excitement on entering the bedroom.

  “He’s jolly intelligent,” said William, gazing fondly down at the round pink form. “Gosh! He’s goin’ to be the best pet we’ve ever had—except Jumble, of course.”

  Ginger, who had gone to the window, gave a sudden gasp of dismay.

  “William!”

  “Yes?”

  “Here’s Archie comin’ back.”

  “Gosh!”

  Standing well away from the window, they watched Archie’s thin, harassed-looking figure as it flitted from gate to door.

  “What are we goin’ to do now?” whispered Ginger.

  “Let’s wait. He’s prob’ly jus’ come back for a pencil or indiarubber he forgot. I bet he’ll be out again in a minute.”

  Archie had gone straight to the telephone and rung a Hadley number.

  “Is that you, doctor?” they heard him say. His voice was high-pitched and agitated. “I’m in a terrible jam and I want you to help me. My nerves are shattered. Simply shattered . . . Yes, I’ll begin at the beginning. You see”—a note of pride invaded his voice—“I got a commission to paint The Laurels for Mr and Mrs Birtley, and she wanted a bay window in it . . . No, there isn’t a bay window but she wanted one. She wanted one like the bay window at The Poplars over in Upper Marleigh and she sent me there to sketch it. I had to go three times because each time there was something she didn’t like about it. Well, as I was coming back in my car from the third visit yesterday afternoon, I had to pass Boulter's Farm, you know, and there was a pig outside in the middle of the road and I tried to pass it but it began to run on in front of the car and the more I tried to pass it the faster it ran, making the most frightful noise.”

  “The ghastly business went on till I was nearly home and then the pig turned into Emstead Lane. I came home and put the car away and then it occurred to me that I ought to do something about it so I went to Emstead Lane but there was no sign of it, and I took for granted that it had found its way home. Animals do, you know. It’s a form of instinct. Well, I didn’t sleep a wink all night and this morning a dreadful man called Mr Furnace, who evidently owns the farm, came and said he’d got witnesses to prove that I’d driven the pig away and demanding the pig or £50 compensation. I haven’t got £50, doctor, and I can’t find the pig. I’ve hunted high and low, and my nerves are in such a state that I can hardly hold a paint brush. I want you to give me something to pull me together. Just till I’ve finished this painting . . . You’ll come along? That’s awfully good of you. Thank you so much. Good-bye.”