William The Conqueror

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘I say,’ said Robert in a mystified voice, ‘I thought William was breaking up today.’

  ‘He is,’ said Mrs, Brown, ‘he has broken up. He came home about eleven o’clock.’

  ‘He’s very quiet,’ said Ethel lugubriously.

  Mrs Brown smiled a fond, maternal smile. ‘Dear little boy,’ she said. ‘He’s upstairs thinking out his Christmas presents to people.’

  ‘Well,’ said Robert, ‘let’s make the most of it, and talk over the party.’

  Robert and Ethel were giving a party to their friends, and William was being let into it as little as possible. Mingled with an elder brother and sister’s instinctive feeling that the admission of a small schoolboy brother into their plans would in some way cheapen the whole thing was an equally instinctive fear of William. Pies in which William had a finger had a curious way of turning into something quite unexpected. William could generally prove that it had nothing to do with him, but still – the result was the same.

  So Robert’s and Ethel’s party was a ‘secret’, only to be discussed when William was safely out of the way. William, of course, knew that it was to take place and professed an utter indifference to it, while privately he spent a good deal of time and ingenuity trying to ferret out the details of it. So far they had managed to keep secret from him the fact that after supper there was going to be a short one-act play.

  Ethel and Robert had lately joined the Dramatic Society and at present no function of any kind was complete to them without a one-act play. The shining lights of the Dramatic Society (including Ethel and Robert) were going to take part in the play. They kept this part of it particularly a secret from William, because William rather fancied himself both as actor and playwright, and they felt that if William knew that a play was going to take place under his roof it would be practically impossible to protect the play from the devastating effects of William’s interest in it.

  They discussed the dancing (which was to take place before supper) and the supper, and the play (which was to take place after supper), and Ethel’s dress and Mrs Brown’s dress, and the invitation list and the extra ‘help’ they would need for the evening, and whether Robert’s dress-suit had better go to the tailors to be pressed or not.

  Finally Mrs Brown became a little anxious and said to Ethel: ‘Ethel, dear, I wish you’d just run upstairs and have a look at William. He’s so quiet. I hope he’s not feeling ill or anything.’

  Visible gloom settled on the faces of Robert and Ethel at the mention of William.

  ‘Ill!’ repeated Robert with deep feeling.

  ‘Yes, you know, mother,’ said Ethel, ‘we’d hear enough row if he felt ill. But—’

  She went obediently from the room and Mrs Brown and Robert continued the discussion. Just as they were deciding that Robert’s suit had better go to be pressed they were interrupted by a cry of ‘Mother!’ from Ethel upstairs, and leapt to their feet: ‘Oh, it’s William,’ moaned Mrs Brown; ‘he is ill.’

  ‘More likely he’s set the house on fire,’ said Robert gloomily.

  They dashed upstairs. William, his face and hands and hair and clothes freely adorned with green paint, sat on his bedroom hearthrug, which had shared in the wholesale application of green paint. On the hearthrug was a once-white straw hat of Ethel’s, upon which William had obviously devoted much labour and green paint. He had, moreover, filled it with earth, and planted in it a cyclamen from the greenhouse.

  ‘Look,’ said Ethel, almost – but not quite – speechless with fury. ‘My – my best hat!’

  ‘Why, it’s quite an ole hat, Ethel,’ said William, ‘I’ve seen you wear it heaps. I thought you must have about done with it.’

  ‘B-but, William,’ gasped Mrs Brown, ‘what on earth have you been doing?’

  ‘Well, you said think out Christmas presents, an’ make ’em an’ don’ spend money on ’em, so I thought I’d start on Ethel’s, an’ it took me ever so long to think of anything that I could make and that wouldn’t cost money an’ then I thought that I could paint one of Ethel’s hats an’ make it look like a kind of fancy plant pot with the paint from the shed, an’ put a plant into it from the greenhouse. I thought it was rather a good idea,’ he ended modestly.

  ‘LOOK!’ CRIED ETHEL, ALMOST SPEECHLESS WITH FURY. ‘MY – MY BEST HAT!’

  ‘But my hat!’ almost sobbed Ethel.

  ‘It’s a straw hat,’ urged William, ‘you don’t want a straw hat in the winter.’

  ‘But it was almost new. I want it for next summer.’

  ‘Oh, next summer,’ said William patiently. ‘I guess this flower won’t last as long as that. I guess you can use it again next summer.’

  ‘And have you taken any of my things?’ demanded Robert sternly.

  ‘No, Robert,’ said William meekly. ‘I haven’t, honestly. I was just thinking how I could make a nice cushion for mother out of two of your coloured handkerchiefs, stuffed with some ole things of mine, but I hadn’t taken ’em, not yet.’

  That was why, when William discovered about the play, he was told that he was not to see it either at rehearsals or on the evening of the party.

  ‘Well,’ said William, ‘if you messed up one of my ole caps, d’you think I’d make that fuss? Not that I mind not seeing the ole play,’ he added hastily. ‘In fact,’ putting himself well out of Robert’s reach, ‘it’s rather a relief to me. I’m jolly sorry for the poor folks that have gotter watch poor Ethel and Robert tryin’ to act.’

  Then he leapt lightly over the window sill into the garden before Robert could get at him.

  The day of the party arrived. William, shining with cleanliness, his hair brushed and greased to a resplendent sleekness, encased in his Eton suit, an expression of frowning intensity upon his freckled face, stood a little way from the rest of his family as the guests began to arrive. Some of the guests called out: ‘Hello, William.’ Others ignored him.

  William tried to look bored and indifferent, and as if he didn’t think much of the whole show. But really he was looking forward to the dancing and the supper, and he meant to watch the play from the garden through the window, even if he were not officially allowed among the audience. Absurd to let a perfectly good weapon against Robert and Ethel, that would probably do service for months and months, escape him like that.

  The guests had all arrived. The music for the dancing had begun. William stood in the drawing-room, which had been ‘turned out’ for the dance and looked round him critically.

  He slowly eliminated from his list of possible partners a girl with red hair, another with a too long neck, another with the wrong shaped nose, and another with a slight cast in her eye.

  Slowly, by a process of elimination, he determined on the prettiest girl in the room, and walked across to her, baring his teeth in what was meant to be an ingratiating smile. Just as he was a few yards from her, Robert came up and claimed her, and they both moved off without looking at him. William’s smile died away. He looked round the room again.

  Well, that girl wasn’t bad – the one with curly hair and the yellow dress. William assumed the smile again and walked across to her. Just as he was approaching her a friend of Robert’s came up, put his arm round her waist, and off they went together. William took off the smile. His face wore an expression of sardonic bitterness. All the girls seemed to be dancing now. No, there was the one with the wrong shaped nose still sitting by the window. William glared at her critically across the room. She wasn’t so bad, really, if you didn’t look at her sideways. William summoned up his painful grin and went across to her.

  ‘May I—?’ he began with excessive politeness.

  A large man stepped in front of him, took the girl’s hand, and led her off among the dancers.

  William was boiling with fury. A nice set of people Robert and Ethel had invited. They didn’t seem to know how to behave. There was only the girl with the squint left. William looked at her for a long time with an intent frown. She wasn’t really so bad, especially
when she was looking at the ground. William bared his teeth again (his jaws were aching by this time) and walked up to her.

  WELL, THE GIRL WASN’T TOO BAD, WILLIAM DECIDED – THE ONE WITH CURLY HAIR AND THE YELLOW DRESS.

  WILLIAM ASSUMED HIS SMILE AGAIN AND WALKED ACROSS TO HER.

  ‘Excuse me—’ he began.

  A man stepped up from the other side.

  ‘Shall us?’ he said to the girl, and off they went.

  William stood, his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall, a ferocious frown upon his polished face. Everyone was dancing now, except a few couples who were sitting in the alcove talking and laughing. Nice lot of manners they’d got, thought William bitterly. Simply no one taking the slightest notice of him.

  Not that he cared, of course, but you’d have thought that someone would’ve wanted to dance with him. Nice thing when you wasted every Wednesday afternoon at a beastly dancing lesson, and then when you went to a dance no one wanted to dance with you. Nice thing going to all this trouble of washing and hair-brushing, and putting on your best suit, just to watch other people dancing. Huh!

  William turned and went with scornful dignity from the room. The only thing that in his eyes spoilt the effect of his scornful exit was a definite and very well-founded suspicion that no one had noticed it.

  He went to the side door, and looked out into the night. Ginger, Douglas and Henry were coming cautiously up the walk. Now, the Outlaws, though never encouraged socially by each other’s families, yet took a great interest in the social activities of each other’s families.

  Whenever any of them gave a party the Outlaws would be there – uninvited and very unofficial guests – generally in the garden keeping a friendly eye on the affair through the windows. William was glad that his friends had only just arrived and had not witnessed his ignominious failure to secure a partner a few minutes ago. To his friends William exaggerated his own importance at his family’s festivities.

  ‘Hello!’ whispered the Outlaws. ‘How’re you getting on?’

  ‘Fine,’ said William, with rather overdone enthusiasm.

  ‘We thought p’raps you’d be dancing,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Oh, I got a bit tired of dancing,’ said William airily, ‘an’ came out to get cool. Come round an’ have a look at ’em.’

  Glad to be with his friends once more, he led the Outlaws round to a part of the garden where they could see the drawing-room, and, hidden among the bushes, watched the festive scene within.

  ‘Quite a lot of ’em,’ said Ginger, impressed.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said William, ‘an’ there’s really a lot more than there looks.’

  ‘Has Ethel got a new dress for it?’ said Douglas.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said William. ‘Everyone’s got new clothes for it. I’d better go in again soon. They don’t want me to be away long.’

  ‘Which one was you dancin’ with?’ said Henry.

  William gave a short laugh.

  ‘Goodness! I can’t remember all the ones I was dancing with!’ he said.

  ‘Is there a good supper?’ said Ginger.

  ‘There just is!’ said William. ‘Come and look at it.’

  They crept through the side door and into the dining-room. There William proudly pointed to the table, resplendent with ices and creams and fruit and trifles and jellies of every kind. The Outlaws licked their lips.

  ‘Crumbs!’ gasped Ginger. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel empty.’

  ‘You can have a go at it when they’ve finished,’ promised William generously. ‘I’ll tell you when they’ve all gone back. They’re going to do a play afterwards.’

  ‘Crumbs!’ said Ginger again. ‘Is it a good one?’

  ‘I should just think so,’ said William enthusiastically.

  ‘Can we watch through the window?’ said Henry.

  ‘Cert’n’ly,’ said William kindly, ‘an’ I’ll come out and watch it with you. I don’t suppose they’ll notice I’m not sittin’ with them in the room.’

  ‘P’raps we’d better be goin’ now,’ said Henry, ‘case they come. The music’s stopped an’ they’re kind of movin’ about.’

  But it was too late. There came the sound of the opening of the drawing-room door, and an influx of guests into the hall.

  ‘Get under the table, quick!’ said William.

  So the Outlaws got under the table – quick.

  The guests entered. They found William apparently alone, an expression of mingled innocence and boredom and long enduring patience upon his frowning freckled face. He was engaged in arranging the chairs round the table.

  ‘Here’s the ubiquitous William,’ said one of Robert’s friends. William hoped that the look he received in return made him feel small. Ubiquitous, indeed. When he’d washed his face, and brushed his hair, and put on his best suit, and looked as smart as any of them.

  They sat round the table. William was right at the corner, next to a tall, pale man who was suspected of cherishing a romantic passion for Ethel. The food was in the centre of the table, so the tall, pale man had to hand the dishes to William and keep him supplied. He tried at first to talk to William, but found this difficult.

  ‘I suppose you’ve broken up?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, his voice and face equally devoid of expression.

  ‘Do you like the holidays?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William in the same tone of voice.

  ‘Are you fond of lessons?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I expect you’re looking forward to Christmas.’

  William, considering this remark beneath contempt, vouchsafed no answer. The tall, thin man, crushed, transferred his attention to the lady on the other side of him.

  Now William was painfully conscious of the presence of Ginger and Henry and Douglas beneath the table. He realised, too, that he had towards them the duties of a host. He could not eat in comfort with Ginger, Douglas and Henry cramped and uncomfortable and hungry in his so immediate vicinity. He took two bites at the sausage-roll with which the tall, thin man had supplied him, then, looking dreamily at the opposite wall, slipped his hand under the table.

  There another hand, grateful and unseen, promptly relieved him of the rest of the sausage-roll. His plate was empty. The tall, thin man looked at it. Then he looked at William. William met his eyes with an aggressive stare.

  The tall, thin man looked at William’s plate again. It was true. This child really had consumed a large sausage-roll in less than a minute. He handed him the plate of sausage-rolls again.

  Again William took one.

  Again William took two small bites and handed the rest to his invisible friends beneath the table.

  Again he turned his aggressive stare upon the tall, thin man.

  Again the young man looked with rising horror from William to the empty plate in front of him, and then from the empty plate back to William.

  He then took the whole dish of sausage-rolls, put them just in front of William, and turned to continue his conversation with his other neighbour. William felt cheered. This was just what he wanted. He took a roll on to his plate and looked round. No one was watching him. With a lightning movement he transferred the roll to his knee and held it out beneath the table. The unseen recipient grabbed it eagerly. William did the same with a second, a third, a fourth. He grew reckless. He put down a fifth, a sixth, a seventh. That was two each. He was doing them jolly well. There were three more on the dish. He’d given them those, too, and then he’d begin to eat something himself. One – two – three –

  He twitched them all quickly from the dish to his plate, from his plate to the unseen hand. No more were within his reach. He turned his aggressive stare upon the tall, thin man. As though hypnotised by the stare, the tall, thin man turned slowly to William. He looked at the empty plate and the empty dish in front of William and his jaw dropped open weakly.

  He put his hand to his head, and pinched himself to make sure he was awake. He simply couldn’
t believe his eyes. It was like a dreadful nightmare. In a few seconds this child had eaten up a large dishful of enormous sausage-rolls – he must be suffering from some horrible disease. William did not speak, merely fixed him with that hungry, unflinching stare. The tall, thin man tried to say, ‘And what can I pass you now?’ but he couldn’t. Words wouldn’t come. The sight of that enormous empty dish had broken his nerve.

  Just then a diversion occurred. A friend of Ethel’s almost opposite had slipped off her shoe under the table, and a few minutes later reached out for it, and could not find it. She made a large circular sweep in search of it with her stockinged foot and just caught Ginger on the neck above his collar where he was most ticklish. Ginger dropped his half-eaten sausage roll and gave a loud yell. A sudden tense silence fell over the table. Had the proverbial pin been dropped, it would have been heard for miles. Then the girl who had tickled Ginger gave an embarrassed little giggle.

  ‘I’m afraid I kicked your dog – or your cat – or something,’ she said. She lifted up the table-cloth and grew pale. ‘It’s boys,’ she said in a breathless whisper; ‘ever so many of them!’

  It was half-an-hour later. Ginger, Douglas and Henry had been ignominiously ejected. William had been despatched to spend the rest of the evening in his bedroom. The dining-room was empty. Only three pathetic half-eaten sausage-rolls beneath the table were left to tell the tale.

  William leant out of his bedroom window. The shadowy forms of the Outlaws lurked in the bushes beneath.

  ‘What’re they doin’ now?’ whispered William.

  ‘They’re acting the play,’ whispered Douglas, ‘an’ everyone is watching – maids an’ all.’

  ‘Well, go an’ watch it,’ whispered William, ‘an’ tell me about it tomorrow. Tell me about Robert an’ Ethel – speshly if they do anythin’ silly – An’, I say—’

  ‘Yes?’ whispered the faithful Outlaws from the bushes.

  ‘I’m awful hungry. I only had a few bites of roll – go an’ see if there’s anyone in the dining-room and if the stuff’s still there.’