William's Happy Days

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William's Happy Days Page 12

by Richmal Crompton


  ‘N-no,’ admitted William and added, ‘not yet.’

  ‘We’ve not got much further, have we?’ said Ginger as they walked slowly homewards.

  ‘I bet we have,’ said William cryptically, ‘I bet we’ve got a good bit further.’

  But William needed all that implicit trust in Providence and in his own star that fortunately he was endowed with.

  His first plan had seemed to him to be perfect, and yet it did not succeed. He retailed to Miss Peache a vivid dream in which, he said, he distinctly saw Miss Peache’s study with the clock at five past seven and Miss Peache just setting off for a long walk. He added that he had a sort of feeling that it was a dream about the future, and that it was of an event that was going to come to pass. But Miss Peache merely smiled and said:

  ‘Ah, no, my dear. That’s quite an impossible dream. I mean, I’d never think of setting out for a walk during my working hours. Never think of it. You see, my dear, the brain gets accustomed to working at certain hours of the day, and nothing, nothing, should be allowed to interfere with it. I’m referring, of course, to a sensitive, highly-tuned brain such as—er—some of us are fortunate enough to possess. No, dear, I always say that two conditions are necessary for my work. I must have my beloved silver inkpot before me and I must have my regular hours for work. My brain is that sensitive order of brain that—well, that learns to work at certain hours of the day and doesn’t like any alterations in those hours. You see, it lies dormant for the other part of the day in order to gather strength for its working hours . . . No, dear, all your dreams, of course, cannot be as wonderful as the ones you first told me of. This one certainly can have no meaning. Nothing nothing would ever induce me to set off for a walk at the hour you saw me setting off for a walk in your dream.’

  William realised that he’d better go rather carefully for a bit in the matter of dreams, or Miss Peache would be losing faith in him. He decided to give dreams a rest for the time being. But still there was no doubt at all that immediate and decisive action was necessary. As Henry said, ‘We can’t go on like this all our lives with the treasure jus’ near us an’ not bein’ able to get it. It won’t be much use to us when we’re ole men like we will be if we go on like this much longer.’

  ‘Well,’ said William, ‘I’ve tried getting her out for a walk. The only other thing— Yes!’ he exclaimed, brightening. ‘That’s it. That’s the thing to do. The thing to do is to take away her inkstand. Then she won’t be able to write so p’raps she’ll go out . . . Yes, that’s the thing to try next.’

  So they tried it. The abstracting of the inkpot was easier than they had imagined it would be. They merely crept through the bushes while Miss Peache was taking her afternoon’s constitutional, snatched it from the table that stood at an open window, and went home with it. They concealed it at the back of a pile of firewood in a shed behind Henry’s house.

  But even this daring step was not immediately successful. True, Miss Peache did not write. But neither did she go out. She sat in her study ringing up the police-station every five minutes to ask if they’d had any news of her inkstand yet, and receiving messages of condolence from her friends. She spent the intervals wringing her hands, and having hysterics of a milder sort. As a spectacle the Outlaws found it highly diverting, but it did not bring them any nearer their goal of the hidden treasure. William went to Miss Peache the next morning, and described a dream in which Miss Peache busied herself continually with the telephone and wept and wrung her hands. It restored Miss Peache’s faith in him completely. She explained the reason of her action.

  ‘Now, dear boy,’ she ended, ‘I feel, I really feel, that perhaps you might dream where my dear inkstand is. I feel that if you fix your mind on it you really might. Your dreams are so wonderful, so really wonderful—all exactly as the things have happened evening by evening—bar that very strange one of my going out for a walk at five past seven. I haven’t mentioned that one in the article I’m writing about you, dear, because it’s what I can only describe as a kind of lapse. I’d never think of going for a walk at five past seven. But what you dreamed last night was wonderful—one might almost say miraculous. I expect that when you woke up you thought that it was even more impossible than the one in which I went for a walk at five past seven. It just shows, doesn’t it, dear boy, that there’s often some meaning in what seems to be the most meaningless dream. Now before you go to sleep tonight you must concentrate on finding out where my dear inkstand is. Promise me, dear boy.’

  So William promised.

  The Outlaws sat on the floor of the old barn and discussed the state of affairs.

  Douglas was, as usual, inclined to be pessimistic.

  ‘We shall prob’ly only get put in prison for stealin’ her thing, an’ they’ll take the map off us while we’re in prison, an’ then someone else’ll find the treasure an’ we’ll never be millionaires at all. We’ve took a lot of trouble an’ we’re not much nearer it. I feel’s if I simply couldn’t sit in that bush watchin’ her again. It makes me all stiff with not bein’ able to move an’ earwigs an’ things gettin’ down my back.’

  ‘No, we won’t do that again,’ said William. ‘I’m gettin’ a bit tired of that, too. I’m goin’ to have another dream—of the future, this time—same as what she said—an’ we needn’t watch her for that. I’m goin’ to dream of where she’ll find the inkstand like what she told me to.’

  ‘You’re not goin’ to dream of our shed?’ said Henry anxiously.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not goin’ to dream of that,’ William reassured him. ‘I’m going’ to have another wrong dream, but, of course, she won’t know it’s wrong till she’s tried. An’, of course, she won’t be able to blame me ’cause you can’t help what you dream.’

  ‘What’s your dream goin’ to be?’ said Douglas, brightening.

  ‘Well, that’s what we’ve got to decide,’ said William. ‘I’m going to dream of it bein’ somewhere a good long way off from her house, an’ I’m goin’ to dream of her findin’ it at just ten minutes past seven, so’s she’s sure not to be in her own house at ten past seven.’

  ‘Where are you goin’ to dream she found it?’ said Henry.

  ‘Well, that’s what we’ve got to decide,’ said William. ‘In a house, I should think. Then she’ll be sure not to be able to see us in her garden. An’ in a house that we know what the room’s like inside, then I c’n see it in my dream.’

  ‘An’ a house of someone she knows,’ said Ginger, ‘then she won’t mind goin’ into the house to look for it.’

  ‘I know!’ said William suddenly. ‘Mr Popplestone. I know she knows him ’cause I saw them talkin’ in the road. An’ his house is right at the other end of the village. An’ I know what his study’s like ’cause once I was in it with father.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ginger excitedly. ‘Him. Let’s have him. I bet it’ll be all right . . .’ A far away expression came into his face. ‘I say, let’s have a merry-go-round in one of the rooms, the sort that makes music as it goes round.’

  ‘You bet we will,’ said William.

  Miss Peache listened to William’s dream, open-eyed and open-mouthed. At one point she threw him a suspicious glance, but the utter blankness of William’s expression would have been proof against any amount of suspicious glances.

  ‘It’s—it’s simply amazing,’ gasped Miss Peache at the end, ‘you say that in your dream you saw me going into Mr. Popplestone’s study? ’

  ‘Yes,’ said William, and added emphatically, ‘an’ it was jus’ ten minutes past seven by the clock on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘So you said before,’ said Miss Peache. ‘It’s all so amazing. And I went to the cupboard in the wall and opened it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William, ‘you went to the cupboard in the wall and opened it—like what I said—and—’

  ‘And found my beloved silver inkstand in it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William, ‘and found your b’loved silver inkstand in it.’
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br />   ‘He—he surely couldn’t have taken it,’ said Miss Peache. ‘Did you—did you in your dream infer that he’d taken it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William, fixing a stony stare upon his interrogator. ‘That’s how it seemed to me. In my dream, I mean. It seemed to me as if he’d taken it.’

  ‘It seems so—incredible,’ said Miss Peache faintly, ‘but I’ve had proof, dear boy, that your dreams are not to be despised. Except on one occasion there has always been truth and meaning in your dreams. I cannot risk disobeying the clear injunction contained in the one you had last night. Er—was he in the room when I went to recover my inkstand? In your dream, I mean.’

  William considered for a moment. He could not, of course, know whether Mr. Popplestone would be in his room when Miss Peache went to recover her inkpot, so he said very firmly:

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see all the room in my dream. I could only see the part of it where you found your inkpot in a cupboard in the wall. He may’ve been in the other part of the room or he mayn’t. I cudn’t see that.’

  ‘It—it’s so extraordinary,’ said Miss Peache again. ‘I’d have said that he was the last person in the world to do a thing like that. I’ve always considered him the soul of honour. But, of course, one knows from things one has read that some otherwise normal people are afflicted, as it were, in that way. Kleptomaniacs. I hope it’s kleptomania. One knows, of course, that there are people living ostensibly respectable lives and in secret carrying on secret careers of crime. It would be very sad to discover that Mr. Popplestone was one of those. Very sad indeed. But still—his hobby of bird study. It may be a blind to cover his secret career. However— You said that the time by the clock was ten minutes past seven?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed William, ‘ten minutes past seven.’

  ‘Did you—did you gather that that was important in any way. I mean did it seem what one might call vivid in any way?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said William, with much emphasis. ‘It seemed to me the most important part of the whole dream.’

  ‘Then, of course, I must abide by it,’ said Miss Peache, ‘though it, as you know, is a time that as a rule I like to spend quietly in my own sanctum. I will set out this very evening at about five to seven. That will, I think, bring me there at the time you mentioned, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed William, and nothing could have been more expressionless than the almost imbecile expressionlessness of his gaze.

  Concealed in the bushes, the Outlaws watched Miss Peache, a stern avenging fury, set off from her house. Then they crept forth on to the lawn. The gardener had gone home. The maids were at the other side of the house. The coast was clear . . . Outside in the road was the wheelbarrow that they had brought to take the treasure home. They carried their spades and fork and shovel. William carried also the silver inkstand, which was to be slipped back on to Miss Peache’s study table as soon as the treasure was found. They stood solemnly by the rose bed, and William took out the map, made grubbier than ever by its sojourn in his pocket.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said, ‘we can’t poss’bly be makin’ any mistake. Not poss’bly. Here’s jus’ where the cross is, jus’ between the copper beech an’ the cedar, jus’ where this rose bed is. An’ we can see the church clock so the minute it gets ten past seven we’ll start diggin’ . . . I bet it won’t take long once we start.’

  Socrates Popplestone sat at his desk in his study. He had spent an enjoyable and profitable day watching a couple of whitethroats, and had sat down at his desk with the intention of writing up his notes. But he wasn’t writing up his notes. He wasn’t even thinking about whitethroats. He was thinking about Miss Peache. He had lately formed the habit of thinking a good deal about Miss Peache. He had admired Miss Peache from a distance for years, but he had met her on several occasions recently and found her, as it seemed, inclined to be friendly. He didn’t see why—after all, she was of a very suitable age. She’d probably get over all this dream business once she was married. He’d never cared for young women. A middle-aged woman was a better companion in every way. In fact, lately, he’d begun to feel quite sentimental about Miss Peache. He’d picked up a glove that she’d left in church last Sunday, and was treasuring it as a kind of gage d’amour. He roused himself to begin his bird notes. He wrote the word ‘Whitethroats’ at the top of the page in his neat copperplate handwriting and then—a most amazing thing happened. The door opened suddenly and Miss Peache walked in. She looked quite calm and collected. She closed the door and said with dramatic quietness:

  ‘Mr. Popplestone, you know what I’ve come for. I know you took it.’

  A flush of guilt dyed Mr. Popplestone’s cheek and brow.

  His hand went to the pocket where he was carrying her glove.

  ‘Did the verger tell you?’ he asked.

  He’d had a suspicion all along that the verger had seen him take it.

  ‘No,’ she said in a voice of horror, ‘I’d no idea that he was a party to it. It’s terrible to think of a man in a position like that—but I suppose that the position is only a cloak.’ She turned to the guilty man. ‘Why did you take it?’ she demanded sternly.

  ‘Because it belonged to you,’ he replied.

  She stared at him in amazement.

  He thought that he might as well bring matters to a head.

  ‘I’ve been carrying it about all day next my heart,’ he went on.

  ‘Next your h—?’ she said faintly. ‘Did you take the ink out of it first?’

  ‘I never noticed any ink in it,’ he said.

  ‘You couldn’t,’ she said suddenly, ‘you couldn’t carry it about all day next your heart. It’s too big.’

  ‘Too big?’ he said tenderly. ‘If it fits your hand it can’t be very big.’

  ‘But I never put my whole hand into it . . . Oh, but why am I wasting time like this? I know where it is. A supernatural manifestation has been vouch-safed to me through a little child . . .’ She walked with dramatic deliberation over to the cupboard in the wall and flung it open. In it reposed a small pile of note-books, a bottle of cough mixture, and a chest protector.

  Miss Peache looked taken aback, but her moral indignation and assurance did not desert her. She pointed an accusing finger at Mr. Popplestone and said sternly: ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Here,’ said the guilty man. With hanging head and cheeks suffused with a flush of shame, he brought out a crumpled white glove from his waistcoat pocket.

  Miss Peache sat down suddenly on the nearest chair.

  ‘W-w-w-what’s that?’ she stammered.

  ‘Your glove,’ he said simply. ‘I took it on Sunday. I thought you said you’d come for it.’

  ‘It’s all so mysterious,’ said Miss Peache in a faraway voice. ‘I—I—I—feel rather faint, Mr. Popplestone.’

  ‘Please call me Socrates,’ said Mr. Popplestone, as he dashed wildly to the cupboard, and got out the bottle of cough mixture to restore her.

  ‘Certainly,’ murmured Miss Peache, ‘and will you call me Victoria?’

  Then, first making sure that they were ready to receive her, she fainted into his arms.

  In the circumstances it seemed the only thing to do.

  The betrothed pair entered the gate of Miss Peache’s house. They had agreed to be married very quietly early the next year.

  ‘Socrates dearest,’ Miss Peache was saying anxiously, ‘I do hope that you haven’t really got a weak chest. The cough mixture and the chest protector—’

  ‘It is just a little weak, Victoria,’ admitted Mr. Popplestone, with a certain modest pride. ‘Nothing much. Slight bronchial tendencies, that’s all.’

  ‘You want looking after, Socrates,’ said Miss Peache fondly, ‘that’s what it is. Good gracious!’

  She stood rooted to the spot in amazement. They had turned the corner of the house, and there on the lawn was the astounding spectacle of four boys engaged in digging up the rose bed.

  ‘Good gracious!’ repeated Miss Peache an
d added faintly: ‘The most extrordinary things do seem to be happening to me to-day. It’s the one that has dreams too. Whatever— Boys, what are you doing?’

  William had seen her, and with commendable presence of mind had thrust the silver inkstand he was carrying into the hole, covering it lightly with soil.

  Then, hastily summoning his look of blank imbecility, he turned to her.

  ‘I’ve just had another dream,’ he said, ‘I fell asleep an’ I dreamed that I dug up this bed an’ found your inkpot in it, so I came straight along to try.’ He thrust his spade tentatively on to the ground. ‘I b’lieve I’ve got to it at last. Yes,’ he bent down and lifted it out, fixing upon Miss Peache his most earnest and candid gaze. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ breathed Miss Peache. She turned to her fiancé. ‘There. Isn’t this proof? You doubted the boy’s veracity when I told you about him. But isn’t this proof? And such a dear boy!’

  Mr. Popplestone looked at William and saw him, not as he was, but bathed as it were in the roseate glow of the beloved’s approbation. He plunged his hand into his pocket and slipped a half-crown into William’s hand. It was a sort of thank-offering to Fate.

  William and Ginger slipped quietly into William’s mother’s drawing-room, where visitors were being entertained and tea was in progress. The afternoon had been an exhausting one, and they felt too hungry to wait till their own tea time. They intended to hand round the cake-stand, and with a skill born of long practice to abstract enough cakes from it for themselves and for Douglas and Henry, who waited outside. They felt stimulated by the day’s adventure. After all there was lots of time still to get the treasure. They knew where it was, anyway. They were sure they’d nearly got to it when they were disturbed. The map was still in William’s pocket. They refreshed themselves with two buns from the cake-stand, and then began to listen to general conversation. Near them a woman with red hair was saying:

  ‘Thanks so much. I simply had to know. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t write to her this year.’

  ‘Who?’ said another woman.

 

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