William's Happy Days

by Richmal Crompton

  William, of course, could not watch the preparations for his party and maintain unbroken his pose of aloof displeasure. The trifle was, he was convinced, the finest trifle that had yet been seen in the neighbourhood; there were jellies of every shape and hue, there was a cream blancmange decorated with cherries and angelica, and there was an enormous iced Christmas cake. And there were crackers. In the eyes of William and his friends it was the crackers that lent the final touch of festivity to the tea.

  The Outlaws and their supporters, as arranged, arrived first, and stood round William like a body-guard awaiting the arrival of the Hubert Laneites. They wore perfectly blank expressions, prepared to meet the Hubert Laneites in whatever guise they presented themselves. And the guise in which they ultimately presented themselves was worse than the Outlaws’ worst fears. They were not surly foes, forced reluctantly to simulate neutrality, nor were they heralds of peace and goodwill. They advanced upon their host with an oily friendliness that was nauseating. They winked at each other openly. They said, ‘Thanks so much for asking us, William. It was ripping of you. Oh, I say . . . what topping decorations!’

  And they nudged each other and sniggered. William clenched his fists in his coat pocket and did swift mental calculations. His party would be over in four hours. In four days’ time Hubert’s party would come, and that would last about four hours, and then, then, THEN they could jolly well look out for themselves. The right hand that was clenched tightly in his coat for safety’s sake was itching to plant itself firmly in Hubert’s smug and smiling face. Mrs. Brown, of course, was deceived by their show of friendliness.

  ‘There, William,’ she whispered triumphantly, ‘I knew it would be all right. They’re so nice really, and so grateful to you for asking them. I’m sure you’ll be the greatest friends after this. His mother said that he was a nice little boy.’

  William did not reply to this because there wasn’t anything that he could trust himself to say. He was still restraining himself with great difficulty from hurling himself upon his foes. They went in to tea.

  ‘Oh, I saw 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, and 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’m frightfully sorry, Mrs. Brown. 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.

  ‘Now let’s go and have a few games, shall we?’ said Mrs. Brown.

  Ginger followed William upstairs, and found him on the hearthrug in his bedroom, kneeling over a bolster that he was violently pummelling. Ginger knew that to William the bolster was not the bolster, but Hubert Lane’s plump, well-nourished body. William raised a shining purple face from his task, and then the glow faded from it as he realised that the prostrate form before him was merely the bolster, and that Hubert Lane was triumphantly sniggering among his friends downstairs, not yet overtaken by Nemesis.

  ‘Why don’t you go down and smash his face in?’ said Ginger simply.

  William, returning reluctantly to Reality, raised the limp form of the bolster, and threw it on to the bed.

  ‘Can’t,’ he said tersely, ‘can’t do anything not while he’s in our house. I—’

  ‘William, darling,’ called his mother, ‘Come down, we’re going to begin the games.’

  William and Ginger went downstairs, and the rest of the party passed off uneventfully. The Hubert Laneites said good-bye 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. Not content with scoring over them at William’s party, Hubert meant to score over them in some way at his own. The Hubert Laneites looked upon the truce, not as something that tied their hands for the time being, but as something that delivered their enemies into their power. William was uneasily aware that Hubert Lane would not feel the compunction that he had felt in the matter of his guests.

  ‘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.’

  And William’s fists curled themselves zestfully as he danced his most fiendish war dance in the middle of the road (his bolster had been so badly used lately that nearly all the feathers were coming out. Mrs. Brown had asked him only that morning what on earth he was doing to it).

  ‘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. William looked downcast and spiritless. Even pummelling his bolster had lost its charm for him.

  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, and the meeting broke up gloomily at lunch time, without having come to any decision at all.

  William walked slowly and draggingly through the village on his way home. 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. In ordinary circumstances William forgot his mother’s messages in the village. He entered the baker’s shop, and stared around him resentfully. It seemed to be full of people. He’d have to wait all night before anyone took any notice of him. Just his luck, he reflected bitterly . . . 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, you know. 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 to-day. We’ve 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 pou
nds 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.

  It stood on the road at the end of the Lanes’ garden. One gate led from the garden to the road, and the other from the garden to the Lanes’ shrubbery. Behind the cottage was Bates’s treasured kitchen garden, and at the bottom was a little shed where he stored his apples. The window of the shed had to be open for airing purposes, but Bates kept a sharp look out for his perpetual and inveterate enemies, boys.

  William approached the cottage with great circumspection, looking anxiously around to be sure that none of the Hubert Laneites was in sight. He had reckoned on the likelihood of their all being engaged in preparation for the party.

  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 received him with an ungracious scowl, but that, William could see, was because he was a boy, not because he was the boy.

  ‘Well?’ said Bates sharply, holding the door open a few inches, ‘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, but he opened the door a few inches wider in a resigned fashion. He had been pestered to death over the Father Christmas things. These boys had been in and out of his cottage all day with parcels and what not, trampling over his doorstep and ‘mussing up’ everything. He’d decided some time ago that it wasn’t going to be worth the five shillings that Mrs. Lane was giving him for it. 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. But he did think that they’d have left him in peace on the very afternoon of the party.

  ‘Yes,’ he said surlily, ‘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.

  The man opened the door with a shrug.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘go in and count ’em. I tell you, I’m sick of the whole lot of you, I am. Mussin’ the place up. Look at your boots!’

  William looked at his boots, made an ineffectual attempt to wipe them on the mat, and entered the cottage. He had an exhilarating sense of danger and adventure as he entered. At any minute he might arouse the man’s suspicions. His ignorance of where the presents were, for instance, when he was supposed to have been visiting them regularly, might give him away completely. Moreover, a Hubert Laneite might arrive any minute and trap him, in the cottage. It was, in short, a situation after William’s own heart. The immediate danger of discovery was averted by Bates himself, who waved him irascibly into the back parlour, where the presents were evidently kept. 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.

  ‘Well, count ’em for goodness’ sake an’ let’s get a bit of peace,’ said Bates more irritably than ever. William fell on his knees and began to make a 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 and carefully exposing himself to view.

  With a yell of fury Bates sprang to the door and down the path towards the shed. He had forgotten everything but this outrage upon his property. Left alone, William turned his attention quickly to the sack. It contained parcels, each one labelled and named. He had to act quickly. Bates had set off after Ginger, but he might return at any minute. Ginger’s instructions were to lure him on by keeping just out of reach, but Bates might tire of the chase before they’d gone a few yards, and, remembering his visitor, return to the cottage in order to prevent his ‘mussin’’ things up any more than necessary. William 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, putting the one marked William on to the one marked Hubert, and exchanging the labels of the Outlaws and their supporters for those of the Hubert Laneites and their supporters. Just as he was fastening the last one, Bates returned, hot and breathless.

  ‘Did you catch him?’ said William, secure in the knowledge that Ginger had outstripped Bates more times than any of them could remember.

  ‘Naw,’ said Mr. Bates, panting and furious. ‘I’d like to wring his neck. I’d larn him if I got hold of him. Who was he? Did you see?’

  ‘He was about the same size as me,’ said William in the bright, eager tone of one who is trying to help, ‘or he may have been just a tiny bit smaller.’

  Bates turned upon him, as if glad of the chance to vent his irascibility upon somebody.

  ‘Well, you clear out,’ he said, ‘I’ve had enough of you mussin’ the place up, an’ you can tell the others that they can keep away too. An’ I’ll be glad when it’s over, I tell you. I’m sick of the lot of you.’

  Smiling the patronising smile that he associated with the Hubert Laneites, William took a hurried departure, and ran home as quickly as he could. He found his mother searching for him despairingly.

  ‘Oh, William, where have you been? You ought to have begun to get ready for the party hours ago.’

  ‘I’ve just been for a little walk,’ said William casually. ‘I’ll be ready in time all right.’

  With the unwelcome aid of his mother, he was ready in time, spick and span and spruce and shining.

  ‘I’m so glad that you’re friends now and that that silly quarrel’s over,’ said Mrs. Brown as she saw him off. ‘You feel much happier now that you’re friends, don’t you?’

  William snorted sardonically, and set off down the road.

  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 each 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 . . . Suppose that he had wasted his time and trouble that morning . . . 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 was William.

  The Hubert Laneites watched him go up to receive it in paroxysms of silent mirth. William took it and opening 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 open 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 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 his name. There was no mistake about it. William was thanking Mrs. Lane effusively for his present.

  BATES CALLED OUT THE NAMES ONE BY ONE. THE FIRST WAS WILLIAM.

  IT WAS THE MOST MAGNIFICENT MOUTH ORGAN THAT HE HAD EVER SEEN. THE HUBERT LANEITES STARED IN HORROR AND AMAZEMENT.

  ‘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. He’d been so sure that it would be all right. The Outlaws would hardly have had the nerve publicly to object to their presents, and Mrs. Lane was well meaning but conveniently short sighted, and took for granted that everything that Hubie did was perfect. Hubert sat staring at his pencil and blinking his eyes in incredulous horror. 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 his permanent right to his prize by going up to thank Mrs. Lane for it.