William's Birthday and Other Stories

by Martin Jarvis

  Mrs Brown, of course, was deceived by their show of friendliness.

  “There, William,” she whispered triumphantly, “I knew it would be all right. I’m sure you’ll be the greatest friends after this. His mother said he was a nice little boy.”

  William did not reply to this because there wasn’t anything he could trust himself to say.

  They went in to tea.

  “Oh, I say, how ripping! How topping!” said the Hubert Laneites gushingly to Mrs Brown, nudging each other and sniggering whenever her eye was turned away from them.

  Once Hubert looked at William and made his most challenging grimace, turning immediately to Mrs Brown to say with an ingratiating smile, “It’s a simply topping party, Mrs Brown, and it’s awfully nice of you to ask us.”

  Mrs Brown beamed at him and said, “It’s so nice to have you, Hubert,” and the other Hubert Laneites sniggered.

  William kept his hands in his pockets with such violence that one of them went right through the lining.

  But the crowning catastrophe happened when they pulled the crackers.

  Hubert went up to William and said, “See what I’ve got out of a cracker, William,” and held up a ring that sent a squirt of water into William’s face.

  The Hubert Laneites went into paroxysms of silent laughter. Hubert was all smirking contrition.

  “I say, I’m so sorry, William, I’d no idea that it would do that. I just got it out of one of the crackers. I say, I’m so sorry, William.”

  It was evident to everyone but Mrs Brown that the ring had not come out of a cracker, but had been carefully brought by Hubert in order to play this trick on William.

  William was wiping water out of his eyes and ears.

  “It’s quite all right, dear,” said Mrs Brown. “It was quite an accident, we all saw. They shouldn’t have such nasty things in crackers, but it wasn’t your fault. Tell him that you don’t mind a bit, William.”

  But William hastily left the room.

  The rest of the party passed off uneventfully. The Hubert Laneites said goodbye at the end with nauseous gratitude and went sniggering down the drive.

  “There, William!” said Mrs Brown as she shut the door. “I knew it would be all right. They were so grateful and they enjoyed it so much and you’re quite friends now, aren’t you?”

  But William was already upstairs in his bedroom, pummelling his bolster with such energy that he burst his collar open.

  During the days that intervened between William’s party and Hubert Lane’s party, the Hubert Laneites kept carefully out of the way of the Outlaws. Yet the Outlaws felt uneasily that something was brewing.

  “We’ve gotter do somethin’ to them at their party, same as they did to us at ours,” said Ginger firmly.

  “Yes, but what can we do?” said William. “We can’t start fightin’ ’em. We’ve promised not to. An’ – an’ there’s nothin’ else we can do. Jus’ wait, jus’ wait till their party’s over.”

  “But they’ll never forget that water squirt,” said Ginger mournfully.

  “Unless we do somethin’ back,” said Douglas.

  “What can we do in their house, with them watchin’ us all the time?” said Henry.

  “We mus’ jus’ think,” said William. “There’s four days an’ we’ll think hard.”

  But the day of Hubert’s party arrived, and they’d thought of nothing.

  They met in the old barn in the morning to arrange their plan of action, but none of them could think of any plan of action to arrange.

  William walked slowly and draggingly through the village on his way home to lunch. His mother had told him to stop at the baker’s with an order for her, and it was a sign of his intense depression that he remembered to do it.

  He entered the baker’s shop. It seemed to be full of people. Then he suddenly realised that the mountainous lady just in front of him was Mrs Lane.

  She was talking in a loud voice to a friend.

  “Yes, Hubie’s party is this afternoon. We’re having William Brown and his friends. To put a stop to that silly quarrel that’s gone on so long. Hubie’s so lovable that I simply can’t think how anyone could quarrel with him. But of course it will be all right after today.

  “We’re having a Father Christmas, you know. Bates, our gardener, is going to be the Father Christmas and give out presents. I’ve given Hubie three pounds to get some really nice presents for it to celebrate the ending of the feud.”

  William waited his turn, gave his message, and went home for lunch.

  Immediately after lunch, he made his way to Bates’s cottage, which stood on the road at the end of the Lanes’ garden.

  William approached the cottage with great circumspection, looking around to make sure that none of the Hubert Laneites was in sight.

  He opened the gate, walked up the path, and knocked at the door, standing poised on one foot ready to turn to flee should Bates, recognising him – and remembering some of his former exploits in his kitchen garden – attack him on sight.

  He heaved a sigh of relief, however, when Bates opened the door. It was clear that Bates did not recognise him – he merely received him with an ungracious scowl.

  “Well?” said Bates. “What d’you want?”

  William assumed an ingratiating smile, the smile of a boy who has every right to demand admittance to the cottage.

  “I say,” he said, with a fairly good imitation of the Hubert Laneites’ most patronising manner, “you’ve got the Father Christmas things here, haven’t you?”

  The ungraciousness of Bates’s scowl did not relax. He had been pestered to death over the Father Christmas things.

  He took for granted that William was one of the Hubert Laneites, coming once more to “muss up” his bag of parcels, and take one out, or put one in, or snigger over them, as they’d been doing every day for the last week.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’ve got the things ’ere an’ they’re all right, so there’s no call to start upsettin’ of ’em again. I’ve had enough of you comin’ in an’ mussin’ the place up.”

  “I only wanted to count them, and make sure that we’ve got the right number,” said William with an oily friendliness that was worthy of Hubert himself.

  “All right, go in an’ count ’em. I tell you, I’m sick of the whole lot of you, I am.” And Bates waved him irascibly into the back parlour.

  William entered, and threw a quick glance out of the window. Yes, Ginger was there, as they had arranged he should be, hovering near the shed where the apples were sorted.

  Then he looked round the room. A red cloak and hood and white beard were spread out on the sofa, and on the hearthrug lay a sackful of small parcels.

  William fell on his knees and began to make pretence of counting the parcels. Suddenly, he looked up and gazed out of the window.

  “I say!” he said. “There’s a boy taking your apples.”

  Bates leapt to the window. There, upon the roof of the shed, was Ginger, with an arm through the open window, obviously in the act of purloining apples.

  With a yell of fury, Bates sprang to the door and down the path towards the shed. Left alone, William turned his attention quickly to the sack. It contained parcels, each one labelled and named.

  He had to act quickly. He had no time to investigate. He had to act solely upon his suspicions and his knowledge of the characters of Hubert and his friends.

  Quickly, he began to change the labels of the little parcels. Just as he was fastening the last one, Bates returned, hot and breathless, having failed to catch the nimble Ginger.

  “Now you clear out,” he said. “I’m sick of the lot of you.”

  Smiling the patronising smile of a Laneite, William took a hurried departure, and ran home as quickly as he could to change.

  The Hubert Laneites received the Outlaws with even more nauseous friendliness than they had shown at William’s house.

  It was evident, however, from the way they sniggered and nudged ea
ch other that they had some plan prepared. William felt anxious. Suppose that the plot they had so obviously prepared had nothing to do with the Father Christmas . . .

  They went into the hall after tea, and Mrs Lane said roguishly, “Now, boys, I’ve got a visitor for you.”

  Immediately, Bates, inadequately disguised as Father Christmas and looking fiercely resentful of the whole proceedings, entered with his sack.

  The Hubert Laneites sniggered delightedly. This was evidently the crowning moment of the afternoon. Bates took the parcels out one by one, announcing the name on each label.

  The first said “William”.

  The Hubert Laneites watched him go up to receive it in paroxysms of silent mirth. William took it and opened it wearing a sphinx-like expression.

  It was the most magnificent mouth organ that he had ever seen. The mouths of the Hubert Laneites dropped in horror and amazement. It was evidently the present that Hubert had destined for himself.

  Bates called out Hubert’s name. Hubert, his mouth still hanging open with horror and amazement, went to receive his parcel.

  It contained a short pencil with a shield and rubber, of the sort that can be purchased for a penny or twopence. He went back to his seat, blinking.

  He examined his label. It bore his name. He examined William’s label. It bore William’s name. There was no mistake about it.

  William was thanking Mrs Lane effusively for his present. “Yes, dear,” she was saying, “I’m so glad you like it. I haven’t had time to look at them, but I told Hubie to get nice things.”

  Hubert opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again. He was beaten and he knew it.

  He couldn’t very well tell his mother that he’d spent the bulk of the money on the presents for himself and his particular friends, and had spent only a few coppers on the Outlaws’ presents. He couldn’t think what had happened.

  Meanwhile, the presentation was going on. Bertie Franks’ present was a ruler that could not have cost more than a penny, and Ginger’s was a magnificent electric torch.

  Bertie stared at the torch with an expression that would have done credit to a tragic mask, and Ginger hastened to establish permanent right to his prize by going up to thank Mrs Lane for it.

  “Yes, it’s lovely, dear,” she said. “I told Hubie to get nice things.”

  Douglas’s present was a splendid penknife, and Henry’s a fountain pen, while the corresponding presents for the Hubert Laneites were an indiarubber and a notebook.

  The Hubert Laneites watched their presents passing into their enemies’ hands with expressions of helpless agony.

  But Douglas’s parcel had more than a penknife in it. It had a little bunch of imitation flowers with an indiarubber bulb attached, and a tiny label saying, “Show this to William and press the rubber thing.”

  Douglas took it to Hubert. Hubert knew what it was, of course, for he had bought it, but he was paralysed with horror at the whole situation.

  “Look, Hubert,” said Douglas.

  A fountain of ink caught Hubert neatly in the eye. Douglas was all surprise and contrition.

  “I’m so sorry, Hubert,” he said. “I’d no idea that it was going to do that. I’ve just got it out of my parcel and I’d no idea that it was going to do that. I’m so sorry, Mrs Lane. I’d no idea that it was going to do that.”

  “Of course you hadn’t, dear,” said Mrs Lane. “It’s Hubie’s own fault for buying a thing like that. It’s very foolish of him indeed.”

  Hubert wiped the ink out of his eyes and sputtered helplessly.

  Then William discovered that it was time to go.

  “Thank you so much for our lovely presents, Hubert,” he said, politely. “We’ve had a lovely time.”

  And Hubert, under his mother’s eye, smiled a green and sickly smile.

  The Outlaws marched triumphantly down the road, brandishing their spoils. William was playing on his mouth organ, Ginger was flashing his electric torch, Henry was waving his fountain pen, and Douglas was slashing at the hedge with his penknife.

  Occasionally they turned round to see if their enemies were pursuing them, but the Hubert Laneites were too broken in spirit to enter into open hostilities just then.

  As they walked, the Outlaws raised a wild and inharmonious paean of triumph.

  And at that moment over the telephone, Mrs Lane was saying to Mrs Brown, “Yes, dear, it’s been a complete success. They’re the greatest friends now. I’m sure it’s been a Christmas that they’ll all remember all their lives.”

  If you go far enough back, it was William’s form master who was responsible for the whole thing.

  Mr Strong had set for homework more French than it was convenient for William to learn. Who would waste the precious hours of a summer evening over French verbs? Certainly not William.

  In the morning, however, things somehow seemed different. William lay in bed and considered the matter.

  “Mother, I don’t think I feel quite well enough to go to school this morning,” he called faintly.

  Mrs Brown entered the room looking distressed. She smoothed his pillow.

  “Poor little boy,” she said tenderly. “Where’s the pain?”

  “All over,” said William, playing for safety.

  But the patient’s father, when summoned, was having none of it.

  “You’d better get up as quickly as you can. You’ll be late for school. And doubtless they’ll know how to deal with that.”

  They did know how to deal with that. They knew too how to deal with William’s complete ignorance on the subject of French verbs.

  He went home to lunch embittered and disillusioned with life. On the way, Ginger, Henry and Douglas began to discuss the history lesson.

  The history master had given them a graphic account of the life of St Francis of Assisi. William had paid little attention, but Ginger remembered it all. William began to follow the discussion.

  “Yes, but why’d he do it?” he said.

  “Well, he jus’ got kind of fed up with things, an’ he had visions an’ things, an’ he took some things of his father’s to sell to get money to start it—”

  “Crumbs! Wasn’t his father mad?”

  “Yes, but that di’n’t matter. He was a saint, was Saint Francis, so he could sell his father’s things if he liked, an’ he ’n’ his frien’s took the money and got long sort of clothes, an’ went an’ lived away in a little house by themselves, an’ he use’ ter preach to animals, an’ to people, an’ call everythin’ ‘brother’ an’ ‘sister’ an’ they cooked all their own stuff to eat an’—”

  “Jolly fine it sounds,” said William enviously. “An’ did their people let ’em?”

  “They couldn’t stop ’em,” said Ginger. “An’ Francis – he was the head one – an’ the others all called themselves Franciscans, an’ they built churches an’ things.”

  They had reached the gate of William’s house now, and William turned in slowly.

  Lunch increased still further William’s grievances. No one enquired after his health, though he tried to look pale and ill, and refused a second helping of rice pudding with a meaningful, “No thank you, not today. I would if I felt all right, thank you very much.”

  Even that elicited no anxious enquiries.

  No one, thought William, as he finished up the rice pudding in secret in the larder afterwards, no one else in the world, surely, had such a callous family. It would just serve them right if he went off like St Francis and never came back.

  He met Henry and Ginger and Douglas again as usual on the way to afternoon school.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about that saint man. I’d a lot sooner be a saint than keep goin’ to school an’ learnin’ things like French verbs without any sense in them. I’d much sooner be a saint, wun’t you?”

  The other Outlaws looked doubtful.

  “They wun’t let us,” said Henry.

  “They can’t stop us bein’ saints,” said William pious
ly, “an’ doin’ good, an’ preachin’ – not if we have visions. An’ I feel as if I could have visions quite easy.”

  The Outlaws had slackened their pace.

  “What’d we have to do first?” said Ginger.

  “Sell some of our fathers’ things to get money,” said William firmly. “Then we find a place, an’ get the right sort of clothes to wear – sort of long things—”

  “Dressing-gowns’d do,” said Douglas.

  “All right,” said William.

  “Where’ll we live?” said Henry.

  “We oughter build a place, but till we’ve built it, we can live in the old barn,” said William.

  “An what’ll we be called? We can’t be the Outlaws now we’re saints, I s’pose?”

  “What were they called?”

  “Franciscans . . . After Francis – he was the head one.”

  “Well, if there’s goin’ to be any head one,” said William, “I’m goin’ to be him.”

  None of them denied to William the position of leader. It was his by right. He had always led, and he was a leader they were proud to follow.

  “Well, they just put ‘cans’ on to the end of his name,” said Henry. “Franciscans. So we’ll be Williamcans—”

  “Sounds kind of funny,” said Ginger dubiously.

  “I think it sounds jolly fine,” said William proudly.

  The first meeting of the “Williamcans” was held directly after breakfast the next morning, on Saturday, in the old barn. They had all left notes, dictated by William, on their bedroom mantelpieces, announcing that they were now saints and had left home for ever.

  They inspected the possessions that they had looted from their unsuspecting fathers: William had appropriated a pair of slippers, Douglas an inkstand, Ginger had two ties, and Henry a pair of gloves.

  They looked at their spoils with proud satisfaction.