William's Birthday and Other Stories

by Martin Jarvis

  It was an hour later. William was sitting on the grass near the top of the hill that led down to Hadley. He was trying for the hundredth time, without success, to make a whistle.

  No need, of course, to hurry. There was only the fish to get, and he needn’t be back before tea-time.

  He took up his penknife again, and began to cut the hole a little wider. Perhaps that was what was wrong.

  He blew – not a sound. He felt that life would hold no more savour for him if he couldn’t find out how to make whistles.

  Suddenly he heard a voice behind him.

  “An’ what are ye trying to do, young sir?”

  He turned around.

  An old man sat on a chair outside a cottage door. So intent had William been upon his whistle that he had not noticed him before.

  “Make a whistle,” he said and returned to his attempts.

  “It’s the wrong way,” quavered the old man. “Ye’ll never make a whistle that way.”

  William wheeled round. “D’you know how to make a whistle?”

  “Aye. ’Course I do,” said the old man. “I were the best hand at makin’ a whistle for miles when I were your age. Let’s look at it now . . .”

  He inspected William’s abortive efforts at whistle-making with unconcealed contempt.

  “Ye’ll never make a whistle this way. Never. Where’s your sense, boy?”

  “I dunno. I – I sort of thought that was how you did it.”

  “Tch! Tch!” said the old man. “What on earth are boys coming to? I’d’ve bin ashamed at your age! I would for sure.”

  “Could you show me how to do it?”

  “How can I! Now you’ve cut it about like this? You’ll have to get me another reed. Quickly.”

  “I don’t know where there are any,” said William.

  “Tch! Tch! I don’t know what boys are coming to. Through that stile, across the field. You’ll find them growing by the river. Why, when I was a boy—”

  But William had already vaulted the stile. He returned panting a few minutes later with an armful of reeds.

  The old man was waiting for him with his penknife. William handed him a reed, and he began to cut it at once.

  “This way . . . an’ then that . . . don’ make the hole too big . . . I wish I’d got my ole dad’s penknife. An’ I ought to have it by rights too.”

  “Now, Dad,” said a woman’s voice from inside the cottage. “Don’t start on that again.”

  “All very well sayin’ don’ start on that again,” said the old man. “I ought to have my ole dad’s penknife by rights. He’d promised it to me. Charlie always wanted it too, but my ole dad he promised it to me, an’ left it to me in his will.”

  A middle-aged woman came to the cottage door.

  “Yes, he left it to you in his will, and you lost it.”

  “I did not lose it,” said the old man, beginning to shape another whistle. “I lent it to Charlie an’ he never give it me back.”

  “He says he did an’ you lost it.”

  “No,” said the old man. “Others have seen it up there, behind his shop. He keeps it on his desk. Makes a joke of it to ’em. He says I can have it if I’ll come for it. If I’d got the use of my legs . . . I tell you, that penknife—”

  “I’m sick to death of hearing about the penknife,” said the woman, and went back into the cottage, slamming the door.

  The old man went on talking and whittling.

  “You don’ find any knives like my old dad’s now. A great big one of horn, with his ’nitials on. Charlie borrers it an’ never gives it me back. Always like that, he was. From a boy. Cunnin’ . . . If I’d got the use of me legs, he wouldn’t have dared. I’d’ve gone down to his shop an’ had it off him. Now have a blow at that an’ see if it’s all right.”

  William had a blow. It certainly was all right.

  “Now you make one all yourself,” he said to William.

  He watched eagerly, as if the fate of both of them depended upon the result. When finally William, almost trembling with suspense, raised the whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast, he clapped his gnarled hands and chuckled again.

  “Fine!” he said. “Fine! Now, that’s a proper whistle, that is. Shameful – warn’t it? – to think of a boy of your age not being able to make a whistle. Hundreds of them I’ve made, with my old dad’s knife when I was a boy. Oh, when I think of that Charlie havin’ it – well—”

  “Where does he live?” asked William.

  “Got a little tobacconist’s in the High Street next to the boys’ outfitters. Well, now you can make a whistle, can’t you?”

  “Yes,” said William, and blew another piercing blast.

  He walked up the road to the High Street as light-heartedly as if he trod air. He could make whistles. He saw himself in the future, making hundreds and hundreds of whistles. He’d teach Ginger and Douglas and Henry. They’d all make whistles . . .

  And his heart overflowed with gratitude to his benefactor . . . His old dad’s penknife . . .

  William began to examine the shops he passed. A tobacconist’s, yes, and next door to it a boys’ outfitters. William stood still. No one was passing. He peered into the tobacconist’s shop. It was empty. He tiptoed in. But no one appeared.

  Summoning all his courage, he tiptoed to the doorway of the inner room. It was empty. In the corner by the window was an old-fashioned desk, and on it was an enormous ancient horn penknife.

  William’s eyes gleamed. He darted forward, seized it, then turned to run back to the road. But then he heard an angry shout behind him, and knew that someone had come running down a small flight of stairs.

  He leapt through the shop to the street. The door of the boys’ outfitters next door was open. William plunged into it. A bald-headed man was fast asleep in a chair behind the counter. He stirred. He was obviously about to open his eyes.

  William looked about him desperately. He pulled aside a curtain and leapt into the shop window where stood a row of wax models about his own size wearing tweed shirts.

  He snatched a label: “Latest Fashion 63s.” from the nearest, pinned it on to his own suit, and took his place at the end of the row.

  Immediately afterwards, just as the bald-headed man was opening his eyes, a short stout man plunged through the doorway.

  The bald-headed man looked at him sternly.

  “What on earth’s the matter?” he said indignantly. “Anyone would think the place was on fire.”

  “A boy,” panted the stout man. “In my back room . . . chased him out . . . came in here . . .”

  The bald-headed man looked about him. “Nonsense!” he said. “No boy’s been in here.”

  “I saw him. I tell you, I saw him.”

  “Very well. Find him, then. I’ve seen no boys.”

  The stout man went into the inner room, and then came out again.

  “No,” he said. “He doesn’t seem to be anywhere here.”

  “He probably went next door,” said the outfitter. “I don’t believe there ever was a boy.”

  But Charlie had already gone next door.

  William, standing to attention among the row of models, holding his breath, was beginning to feel more and more ill at ease. The bald-headed man was fully awake now, and sat barring his only way of escape. At any time he might be discovered.

  He had taken advantage of the fluster of Charlie’s entry, to seize a large straw hat from the floor near him and put it on his head, dragging it down over his eyes.

  William scanned the passers-by fearfully from beneath the brim, standing very still, trying not to breathe. One woman, who held a little girl by the hand, stopped and looked at the models attentively. William could hear their comments.

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t think much of the suit the end one’s got on, do you, Ermyntrude?”

  “Naw,” said the little girl.

  “It’s not a suit I’d like to pay sixty-three shillings for.”

  “Naw,” s
aid Ermyntrude. “And its ’at’s too big.”

  “Not what they used to be – none of these shops.”

  Ermyntrude was bending down in order to see under the large brim. “It’s gotta nugly face too.”

  “Well, they can’t ’elp their faces,” said the woman. “They make ’em with wax out of a sort of mould, and when the mould gets old the faces begin to come out odd. An’ sometimes they get a bit pushed out of shape.”

  “This one’s mould was old,” said Ermyntrude, “an’ pushed out of shape, too, I should think.”

  “Yes. Come on, love. We’ll never get the shoppin’ done at this rate.”

  They passed on. William was heaving a sigh of relief when he saw that half a dozen small boys were flattening their noses against the glass.

  “They’re dead boys,” one of them was saying in low fearful tones. “I know they’re dead boys. My brother told me. The shopman goes out after dark catchin’ ’em.

  “Then when he’s killed ’em he dresses ’em up and puts ’em in his shop window. If you was to come past his shop after dark he’d get you.

  “My brother said so. My brother once met him after dark carryin’ a sack over his shoulder . . .”

  They gazed with awe and horror. Suddenly the smallest boy gave a scream of excitement.

  “Oo! Look! Look at the one at the end, the one with the hat. He forgot to put new clothes on that one. It’s got its old ones on.”

  They contemplated William in tense silence.

  Then the smallest one said, “It’s breathin’. Watch it! It’s breathin’! It’s not dead.”

  They gazed at this phenomenon, open-mouthed. William, though trying to retain immobility, found the spectacle of their noses flattened to whiteness against the glass irresistibly fascinating.

  “Look!” said the smallest one again, craning his head to look under the hat. “It’s movin’ its eyes too. I can see it movin’ its eyes. It’s comin’ alive! It’s comin’ alive! They do sometimes. Moths do sometimes after you’ve put ’em in a killin’ bottle.”

  “Go an’ tell him it’s comin’ alive,” said another.

  “You go’n tell ’im.”

  At this moment the hat slid forward. Instinctively, William caught it and replaced it on his head.

  Seeing that the situation was completely lost, he relieved his feelings by pulling his most hideous face at the row of gaping spectators, and then put out his tongue.

  “Oo! G’n, tell him quick. It’s coming alive. It’ll get away in a minute.”

  The smallest boy put his head into the shop, and called out, “I say, mister! One of them boys in the window’s comin’ alive—”

  With a roar of fury the proprietor rushed after them. They fled before him down the street. Seizing his opportunity, William leapt from the window, out of the shop and sped along the road and up the hill.

  The old man still sat outside his cottage door. William flung him the penknife as he passed. The old man’s voice followed him on his headlong flight.

  “Me old dad’s penknife! Glory be! Me old dad’s penknife!”

  The bus was waiting at the top of the hill, and William leapt upon it, just as it started off.

  A quarter of an hour later, he was walking jauntily homewards. He’d had a jolly exciting afternoon, and he’d learnt how to make whistles.

  He put his hand in his pocket and encountered a mysterious envelope with something hard inside. He took it out and opened it. Money. Money? What on earth—?

  And then suddenly he remembered. Hallett’s. The fish. The errand he’d gone into town for. He’d forgotten all about it.

  The shilling. He’d been going to have a shilling for it. It was too late to go back now. He entered the house slowly with a sinking heart. His mother came out of the drawing-room.

  “Oh, William darling, I’m so sorry. I quite forgot that Hallet’s was closed this afternoon,” she said. “I remembered as soon as you’d gone.”

  William tried to assume the expression of one who had gone on an errand to a shop and found it closed.

  “Did you feel very cross with me, darling?” went on his mother.

  “No,” said William. “No, not at all, Mother.”

  “Well, we’re going to have omelettes instead of fish, dear, so it’s all right. And you’ve brought the money back?”

  He handed her the money.

  “You can have the shilling, of course, dear, just as if you’d done it, because it was only the accident of the shop being closed that prevented you. And another sixpence because it must have been so annoying for you.”

  William swaggered down the road, his whistle at his lips, emitting blasts with every breath. One hand was in his pocket, lovingly fingering his shilling and his sixpence.

  First he’d go to Mr Moss’s sweet shop and buy some bull’s eyes, big ’uns. Then he’d meet the other Outlaws and teach them how to make whistles.

  Life seemed to stretch before him – one glorious opportunity for whistle-making.

  He gathered breath and blew a piercing blast – a paean of exultation and triumph and joy of life.

  Richmal Crompton was born in Lancashire in 1890. The first story about William Brown appeared in Home magazine in 1919, and the first collection of William stories was published in book form three years later. In all, thirty-eight William books were published, the last one in 1970, after Richmal Crompton’s death.

  Martin Jarvis, who has adapted the stories in this book for younger readers, first discovered Just William when he was nine years old. He made his first adaptation of a William story for BBC radio in 1973 and since then his broadcast readings have become classics in their own right. Martin is also an award-winning actor.

  ‘Probably the funniest, toughest children’s books ever written’ Sunday Times on the Just William series

  Books available in the Meet Just William series

  William’s Birthday and Other Stories

  William’s Wonderful Plan and Other Stories

  And coming soon

  William’s Haunted House and Other Stories

  First published 1999 in two separate volumes as

  Meet Just William: William’s Birthday and Other Stories and

  Meet Just William: William and the Hidden Treasure and Other Stories

  by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This combined edition published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-5098-4446-3

  Original texts of the stories copyright © Edward Ashbee and Catherine Massey

  Adaptations from the original texts copyright © Martin Jarvis 1986–98

  Illustrations copyright © Tony Ross 1999

  The right of Martin Jarvis and Tony Ross to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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