William At War

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘But you are so kind,’ she said. ‘You are all so kind. I am so grateful, and my soldier, he will be so grateful, too. I will put it here, next to the one I have made myself, and he shall have them both. I am so glad to be here to give your kind mother’s tea-cake to my friend. We have been doing what you call the spring cleaning at the Vicarage, and I had almost decided not to come this afternoon, as we had reached the stairs, which, as you doubtless know, is in spring cleaning a most difficult point, but dear Mrs Monks insisted that I should have my usual time off this afternoon. “Send for me,” I said, “should any crisis occur and I will close the canteen and come.” She said she could manage perfectly, so I came.’

  William was on the point of taking his departure, when the small boy who represented the outdoor staff of the Vicarage appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Please, Miss Smith, Mrs Monks says she’s very sorry to trouble you, after all, but could you come just a minute to give her a hand with the stair carpet? She’s puttin’ of it back an’ got to the bend an’ she says it’s a bit tricky an’ she says I’m not big enough to help an’ she says could you close the canteen or get someone to leave in charge just for a few minutes an’ she’s very sorry to trouble you.’

  The small boy paused for breath.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Miss Smith, looking more put out than this simple message warranted. ‘Of course I will come at once. I do not like to close the canteen. It is true that few people come to the canteen at this so early hour, but I do not like that those who do should find a closed door.’ Her eye fell speculatively upon William. ‘I wonder . . . I will not be away long, dear boy, and few will come. Perhaps you would be kind to – what you say – hold the fort? No one will want more than a cup of tea and a cake. You can pour out a cup of tea from the teapot which I have freshly made, and the cakes are all on the plates set out. The cups of tea are a penny and the cakes are twopence . . . And, of course, should my soldier come, this is the cake I have made for him.’ She took a paper bag from the shelf above the sink, opened it and showed a round tea-cake, floury and nicely browned. ‘You will give it to him, will you not, my dear boy? Of course I may be back before he comes . . . I thank you, my dear boy, so kind and good and helpful, like all the boys of your beloved country.’

  ‘WILL YOU HOLD THE FORT, DEAR BOY?’ ASKED MISS SMITH.

  With that she scurried away, leaving William to ‘hold the fort’ . . .

  For a few minutes, William sat behind the teapot waiting for customers. None came. He began to grow bored. He began to grow hungry. To sit like this, surrounded by plates of buns and cakes – jam rolls, doughnuts, treacle tart, chocolate cake – was, he thought pathetically, an ordeal such as few are called upon to undergo in their country’s service. It was an ordeal, however, that he realised he must undergo without flinching. The cakes belonged to the Forces, and to rob the Forces of food was a crime from which his soul shrank in horror. Like one of the saints of old, he sat with his eyes resolutely turned away from temptation – especially from the treacle tart, which was his greatest weakness. But, as his hunger grew, his thoughts began to turn to the tea-cake that his mother had made. No question of patriotism was involved in that. That question lay, not between William and his country, but between William and his mother. Miss Smith’s soldier had, of course, fought in the last war, but that was ancient history now, and he had a shrewd idea that Miss Smith’s soldier did very well out of Miss Smith. In any case, he would have Miss Smith’s tea-cake, which was all he was expecting. He took his mother’s tea-cake out of its bag and Miss Smith’s tea-cake out of its bag and laid them side by side on the shelf. They looked very much alike. Perhaps one was a little bigger than the other. If he were driven by the pangs of hunger to eat one, he would eat the smaller one, of course . . .

  The door opened, and he turned expectantly. A customer or the old soldier? But it was neither. It was Mrs Mason. She entered, smiling coyly and carrying a paper bag in her hand. The smile faded from her face when she saw William.

  ‘I thought Miss Smith would be here,’ she said.

  ‘She’s had to go to the Vicarage,’ explained William, ‘’cause of the stair carpet bendin’, but she won’t be long.’

  ‘Has her soldier been yet?’ said Mrs Mason.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said William.

  Mrs Mason opened the paper bag and drew out a tea-cake.

  ‘I’ve made a tea-cake for him,’ she said proudly. ‘I’m doing a column of war-time tea-cakes and I’ve tried them all, and I think this is the best. I’m so sorry Miss Smith isn’t here. I’d stay and give it to him myself, but I’m going to Upper Marleigh to interview someone who has a new idea for Post-War Reconstruction – something to do with the Pyramids, I believe. It may, or may not, prove worth writing up. Anyway, here’s the tea-cake. Tell him it’s from the lady who wrote the article about him and give him my best wishes. And now I must fly. I hope that Miss Smith will be back soon, because I really – really – don’t think that you are a suitable person to be left in charge of’ – she waved her hand around her – ‘all this. However . . .’

  With that she vanished abruptly.

  William took her tea-cake out of its bag and placed it with the others on the shelf. They were all so much alike that he could hardly tell which was which.

  The door opened again. This time it was a customer – a despatch rider in crash helmet and leather jerkin who curtly demanded a cup of tea and piece of swiss roll. His heart swelling with pride, William poured out a cup of tea, put a piece of swiss roll on a plate, took the three pennies and dropped them into the till. The despatch rider was a man of few words. Displaying no surprise at seeing a small boy in charge of the canteen, he drank down his cup of tea in three gulps, ate the swiss roll in two mouthfuls, said ‘Cheerio’ and vanished. The sight of the despatch rider’s meal had increased William’s hunger. Its pangs had by now become almost unbearable. He turned his eyes away from the treacle tart and fixed them on the three tea-cakes. By this time he hadn’t any idea which was which . . . but they looked jolly good . . . After all, one had been made by his mother, and he was certain that, if she knew how hungry he was, she would want him to have it. She could easily make another for Miss Smith’s soldier. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that it was his duty to eat it, if only to save himself from the crime of eating the Forces’ food. He didn’t know, of course, which of the three tea-cakes was his mother’s, and he didn’t see that it mattered. They were all tea-cakes and surely one was enough for Miss Smith’s soldier . . .

  He took up the nearest and bit into it. Yes, it was jolly good. He was munching away happily, when suddenly his teeth struck something hard . . . It was a jolly big currant, or could it be a piece of candied peel? He took it out of his mouth. Gosh! It was an India rubber – one of those long ones. Gosh! His mother or whoever had made it must have dropped it into the cake by mistake when she was making it. Well, an India rubber was a jolly useful thing to have, and he didn’t suppose she’d want it now. He’d take it home and wash it. He slipped it into his pocket and finished the tea-cake . . . Yes, it was jolly good! Fortified by it, he could even look at the treacle tart without weakening. He put one of the remaining tea-cakes back into its bag and was just going to put away the other when the door opened again, and an old tramp sidled into the room. He was a picturesque tramp, with a tattered frock coat and a pair of trousers that still showed between rents and patches the remains of a black and white check and might even in days gone by have graced a Victorian wedding. In place of a collar he wore a dingy cotton handkerchief that might once have been red and his boots (he wore no socks) were tied together by string. What could be seen of his face through a covering of grime and several days’ growth of beard wore a cheerful good-humoured expression.

  ‘’Ullo,’ he greeted William. ‘Anythin’ to eat?’

  ‘It’s only for soldiers,’ explained William.

  ‘That’s orl right,’ said the tramp easily
, coming into the room and slinging a sort of bundle, tied up in old sacking, from his shoulder. ‘I fought in the Boer war an’ the las’ one, so if I’m not a soldier I don’t know ’oo is.’ His eyes roved round the heaped plates. ‘Now wot’ve you got?’

  ‘You’ve gotter pay for ’em,’ said William.

  He tried to speak firmly but sounded weakly apologetic. He knew that tramps were considered undesirable characters and his own experience of them had not been encouraging, but they possessed an irresistible fascination for him. They represented that life of outlawry that had always appealed to him – a life of glorious freedom, unshackled by the trammels of respectability and civilisation. He would have liked to give this satisfying representative of the species the whole roomful of cakes, but he had to account for them to higher powers . . .

  ‘They’re not mine,’ he added. ‘If they were mine I’d give them you, but they’re for the Forces.’

  ‘THIS ’ERE LOOKS A BIT OF ORL RIGHT,’ SAID THE TRAMP.

  The tramp had drawn a battered leather purse from the recesses of his rags.

  ‘Well, I can pay fer wot I eats, young ’un, same as anyone else. I’ve bin ’elpin’ at a farm over Marleigh way, an’ I got me wages.’

  ‘Well, a cup of tea’s a penny and the cakes are twopence,’ said William.

  He looked anxiously at the door as he spoke. He was aware that the presence of this customer in the canteen would not be approved by Authority, and he was eager to do what he could to satisfy him before Authority could intervene.

  But the tramp was taking his time . . . wandering down the trestle table, inspecting each plate in turn.

  ‘The treacle tart looks jolly good,’ said William.

  ‘Maybe,’ said the tramp. ‘I’ll ’ave a good look round, anyways, an’ see wot I fancies . . .’ His eye rested on the tea-cake that lay on the trestle table in front of William’s chair. ‘This ’ere looks a bit of orl right.’

  ‘You can’t have that,’ said William. ‘That’s for Miss Smith’s soldier.’

  ‘An’ ’oo may ’e be?’ said the tramp indifferently. ‘Well, I jus’ fancies that cake an’ I don’t fancy any of the others. ’Ow much is it?’

  ‘It isn’t for sale,’ said William.

  The tramp shook his head.

  ‘If a cake’s displayed ’ere, it’s fer sale,’ he said stubbornly. ‘That’s the lor, young ’un. You can’t refuse money fer somethin’ wot’s displayed fer sale same as this ’ere cake is, an’ I’ve took a fancy to it. It’s bigger than the others, an’ I’m willin’ to pay a bigger price fer it. ’Ow about fourpence?’

  ‘B-but it’s not for sale,’ said William again.

  ‘Now, young ’un,’ said the tramp, ‘you can’t refuse fourpence fer the funds of this ’ere canteen. Where’s yer patriotism? This ’ere Mrs Smith – ’ooever she is – won’t grudge fourpence to a war he’ffort like this ’ere, nor will ’er soldier – ’ooever ’e is. Not if they’ve got any patriotism. Mind you, fourpence is fourpence an’ everyone wouldn’t give it you fer a cake this size, but I’ve took a fancy to it. It’s a satisfyin’ lookin’ sort of cake, the sort I used to ’ave when I was a child . . . Well, make up yer mind quick, young ’un. If I wos you, I wouldn’t like to take the responsibility of turning down a hoffer like this. I don’t suppose ’ooever runs this ’ere show’ll be pleased when they comes to ’ear of it. You don’t get hoffered fourpence fer a cake hevery day.’

  William considered. After all, there would be one tea-cake left, and Miss Smith’s soldier was not expecting more than one. To sell one to the tramp would be, as the tramp pointed out, fourpence clear profit to the canteen funds.

  ‘All right,’ he said suddenly, ‘you can have it.’

  ‘Thanks, young ’un,’ said the tramp. ‘Now you can ’ave the satisfaction of thinkin’ that you’ve give one of ’is Majesty’s ole soldiers a treat an’ made fourpence for the war heffort . . .’ He opened the battered purse, put four pennies down on the trestle table, slipped the cake into his bundle, then slung the bundle over his shoulder again. ‘Well, so long, young ’un.’

  He shuffled out, stopping at the doorway to light an old clay pipe. William went to the door and watched him wistfully as he took his way over the fields in the direction of Marleigh, his rags fluttering in the breeze. The attractions of every other imaginable career paled in comparison. After all, he considered, brightening, once he was twenty-one, no one could stop him being a tramp if he wanted to . . . Then he returned to the canteen and to the contemplation of his more immediate problems. Had he done right in selling the tea-cake to the tramp? Were the claims of Miss Smith’s soldier more important than the claims of the canteen funds? Would he get into trouble if it were found out? Perhaps it never would be found out. Mrs Mason was notoriously absent-minded. It probably depended on whether the Pyramid Post-War Reconstruction Plan proved worthy of being written up . . .

  The door opened and Miss Smith’s soldier entered, walking slowly and painfully, leaning on his stick.

  ‘Miss Smith not here?’ he said, looking round the canteen.

  He had a quiet gentle voice that went well with his appearance of neatness and delicacy. There was about him the suggestion of one who had suffered illness and poverty but never lost his self-respect.

  ‘She won’t be long,’ said William. ‘She had to go back to the Vicarage ’cause of the bend in the stair carpet. She left the tea-cake for you.’

  The soldier smiled pleasantly at William.

  ‘That’s very kind of her,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I can’t wait to see her. I have to go back to Hadley . . . You’ll give her my thanks and grateful regards – won’t you? – and tell her how sorry I was not to be able to stay and see her.’

  ‘Yes,’ said William, greatly impressed by the courtly bearing of the visitor.

  He put the remaining cake into a bag and handed it over the table.

  Still smiling pleasantly and drawing himself up for a ceremonious salute, Miss Smith’s soldier took his departure.

  William felt gratified at having participated in the little drama that had become so famous. His conscience still troubled him about the other two tea-cakes, but again he assured himself that the soldier had only expected one.

  The minutes passed . . . Boredom and hunger once more began to claim him, but, before he could yield to either, Miss Smith came trotting into the room, her small face wearing its usual shy, timid, apologetic smile.

  ‘I am so sorry to have left you for so long,’ she said. ‘It is kind of you to have stayed. The stair carpet proved difficult indeed at the bend, but dear kind Mrs Monks and I have finally mastered it . . . Has my soldier been?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William. ‘I gave him your cake.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Miss Smith with what seemed to be a quick sigh of relief. ‘That is indeed good. I should not have liked the poor man to miss his tea-cake . . . Well, my dear boy, I must not keep you longer.’ She took an apron from her bag and began to tie it round her waist. ‘I suppose you have not had many customers?’

  ‘N-not many,’ said William and was wondering how to account for the extra fourpence without revealing that he had disposed of a tea-cake intended for the old soldier, when the door opened and the old soldier himself came in. He looked – different somehow. Less gentle and courteous. Less delicate. Even less old. He began to talk to Miss Smith in German. Miss Smith answered him in German. Miss Smith too seemed different. Less timid, less meek . . . but certainly not less anxious. It must be talking German that made them seem different, thought William.

  THE OLD SOLDIER BEGAN TO TALK TO MISS SMITH IN GERMAN.

  Then Miss Smith turned to him. She was the old Miss Smith, but, as it seemed, by an effort.

  ‘You gave this gentleman the tea-cake I gave you for him, did you not?’ she said.

  They watched him in silence, and in the silence William was aware of a curious cold feeling travelling up and down his spine.

  ‘Not exa
ctly,’ he admitted, deciding to make a clean breast of it. ‘I ate the one my mother made an’ Mrs Mason brought another an’ I sold it to an ole tramp for fourpence. You see, I thought—’

  ‘Which way did he go?’ cut in the soldier sharply, and again that curious cold shiver crept up and down William’s spine.

  ‘Up the field path towards Marleigh,’ said William.

  ‘You little—’ began the soldier fiercely, but Miss Smith shook her head at him warningly and turned to William with a graciousness and geniality that were somehow more terrifying than that momentary glimpse of anger had been.

  ‘You have been so kind, dear boy, will you be even more kind and stay here while I and my friend just – er – return to the Vicarage to give Mrs Monks a little further help? It will not take long with the two of us and we will be back soon. Goodbye for the present.’

  WILLIAM WENT TO THE DOOR AND LOOKED DOWN THE ROAD TOWARDS THE VICARAGE.

  They had vanished before William could answer. He stood for a few moments considering the situation. He felt bewildered – so much bewildered that he could even look at the treacle tart with no other emotion than bewilderment . . . He went to the door and looked down the road towards the Vicarage. It was empty. He looked up the fields towards Marleigh. Yes, there were Miss Smith and her soldier . . . They were walking quickly. Miss Smith’s soldier didn’t seem lame any more. They had almost reached the old barn. He returned to the canteen more bewildered than ever and gazed unseeingly at the dainties around him. His bewilderment, he felt, was natural. What surprised him was that curious feeling of fear that still possessed him. How could he be afraid of sweet timid little Miss Smith and her gentle old soldier? But the fact remained that he had been and still was. Anyway, why were they going up the hill towards Marleigh, obviously following the tramp, when Miss Smith had plainly said that they were going to the Vicarage?

  MISS SMITH AND HER SOLDIER HAD ALMOST REACHED THE OLD BARN.

  On an impulse William went out, closing the door behind him, and set off across the fields. There were no signs of the tramp, Miss Smith or Miss Smith’s soldier. He was just passing the old barn when he thought he heard voices inside. He stopped. The door was shut, but there was a crack in it, and he approached cautiously, applying his eye to the crack . . . At first he could hardly believe what he saw. The tramp was cowering in a corner of the barn and over him stood Miss Smith and her soldier. The soldier was only just recognisable. His face was set in lines that sent that shiver again up and down William’s spine. And on Miss Smith’s face, too, was a reflection of the cold savagery that had so transformed her soldier’s.