William's Happy Days

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘I knew there was bad luck about all last week. I’m not superstitious, but I do believe in bad luck. I went under a ladder on Monday, an’ on Tuesday I saw two magpies, an’ Wednesday I ’eard an owl moanin’ all night, an’ on Thursday I met that there Miss Rossiter, an’ she can smile, but she can’t ’ide from me that she’s got the hevil eye. She ill-wished my poor little Pongo and that’s wot did for ’im. Come an’ look at my poor little Pongo’s kennel.’

  William followed her out into the garden. There was a wooden erection, made in the shape of a doll’s house, with little windows and curtains and a large front door.

  ‘The door ’ad to be made larger once or twice as ’e got stouter,’ said Pongo’s mistress tearfully. ‘ ’E was a good eater for his size an’ ’e’d stoutened up considerably, lately. I come ’ere to ’is little kennel,’ she went on, ‘every night, I do, so’s to let ’im know I’ve not forgotten ’im.’

  ‘Thought you said he was dead,’ said William.

  ‘Well, ’is spirit isn’t dead, is it?’ said Mrs. Porker tartly. ‘’E’s got a spirit, ’asn’t ’e?’

  ‘’As ’e?’ said William absently.

  ‘Yes an’—well now, a friend of mine told me that someone that a friend of a friend of hers knows lost a dog, an’ every night after that she used to go down to his empty kennel—’

  ‘Why didn’t she go to the police to see if they could find it?’

  ‘It was dead, I tell you,’ said Mrs. Porker, annoyed at having her story interrupted. ‘You don’t seem to have any sense. Well, every night she used to go down to his kennel and she used to hear his little bark comin’ from far away like a little spirit bark. An’ it used to sort of tell ’er what to do. She used to sort of listen an’ its bark sounded like ‘Don’t’ or ‘Do’ to the thing she was thinking of doing.

  ‘An’ if it seemed to say “Don’t” she knew there was bad luck about it an’ she wouldn’t do it, an’ if it seemed to say “Do” she’d know there was good luck about an’ she’d do it. It was its little spirit barkin’ its message to her. Some people said that it was a dog down the road she used to ’ear, but some people are always ready to say nasty things like that.

  ‘An’ that’s why I come down ’ere every night to listen for my little Pongo’s message—my poor little Pongo what was ill-wished by that witch, an’ pined away. An’ that’s why I’ve got to ’ave a slap up fancy stall to show ’ers up. It’s not much to do to avenge my poor little Pongo, but it’s something.’

  William was walking home. He was both interested and bewildered. He felt as if the situation were a puzzle that would be quite easy to solve if only he had a key. Then he forgot all about it, and spent an interesting hour trying to teach Jumble to be a water spaniel. William found Jumble far more interesting than he would have found a dog of a definite breed. There were so many sorts of dogs that Jumble might be but wasn’t, that he led a more varied existence than on the whole he liked. He had had extensive courses of training as a sheep dog and as a blood-hound and he thought that he preferred either of them to the water spaniel training. He adored William, however, and he was a philosophical sort of a dog, who realised that everything came to an end, and that sooner or later William would have to go home to supper.

  He was walking now at William’s heels, still dripping with water, but pirouetting happily about, because he knew that William would have completely forgotten about his being a water spaniel by the time he’d finished his supper. As a matter of fact, William was already an explorer in a hitherto unexplored country and Jumble (although he didn’t know it) was a train of mules and camels carrying his provisions and ammunition.

  Every now and then William would stop and, shading his eyes with his hand, would gaze slowly around him, feeling vaguely annoyed with the roofs and chimneys that insisted on meeting his view.

  Suddenly in the garden of a cottage that he was passing (he was pretending that it was a hill infested with man-eating tigers, and he was keeping an imaginary gun trained upon it) he spied a dog sitting motionless on a chair just outside the door. William forgot that he was an explorer and hung over the gate uttering his most provocative growl. William was proud of his growl. It could goad most dogs to fury in a few seconds. But the dog remained unmoved, remained, in fact, staring in front of it with glassy eyes as if it didn’t see or hear him.

  William was just going on in disgust when he saw that Jumble had wormed himself through a hole in the hedge and was springing upon the creature with every appearance of hostility. The creature fell to the ground and there Jumble flung himself upon it again with redoubled efforts.

  William saw to his horror that the creature was a stuffed dog and that it was in danger of being completely disintegrated by Jumble’s spirited onset. William knew by experience that he would be held responsible for the destruction. Horrible visions of weeks without pocket-money flashed before his eyes, and, forgetful of everything else, he flung open the gate and hurled himself upon the unequal battle.

  ‘Drop it! Let go, you old fool! Get off it!’ he shouted authoritatively to Jumble. A little old man appeared at the cottage door just as William was throwing Jumble clear of his unresisting victim. Jumble, aware that he had incurred his master’s displeasure and anxious to avoid the consequences, took to his heels and flew like an arrow down the road.

  William and the little old man stood at the gate and watched him. Right in the distance could be seen the figure of a middle-aged lady. Jumble had just reached the figure as it turned the bend of the road.

  ‘Well,’ said the old man as they disappeared from view, ‘wouldn’t you think shed’ve stopped to see what ’er dawg were a’doin’ of? Some folks don’t know how to keep a dawg in order. Goin’ on like that an’ lettin’ it stay be’ind to worrit my poor Toby. If I knew ’oo she was I’d make ’er pay, I would.’

  William, much relieved at the turn of events had taken, emitted a vague murmur of sympathy and assent, and hoped that Jumble would not be so rash as to return before he had made his escape. The little old man was picking up the overthrown Toby and examining him carefully.

  ‘’E won’t stand much knockin’ abaht,’ he was saying anxiously. ‘’E got the moth in ’im last year an’ ’e’s gotter be treated careful. That’s why I put im out ’ere in the sunshine to try’n’ get ’im free of moth. My pal ’e ’is. ’Im an’ me used to do a turn what was known in every ’all through England.’

  ‘What sort of a turn?’ said William.

  ‘Ventriloquist turn, of course,’ said the old man scornfully. ‘Never ’eard of Nelson an’ ’is dawg Toby? That were me. Why, I can ’ear ’em clappin’ now!’ He sat down on the chair with the stuffed dog on his knee and said: ‘Now, Toby, tell me where you were last night.’ And the dog without a second’s hesitation answered in a series of yaps: ‘Mind your own business.’

  William stood there spellbound, his eyes and mouth wide open. For the yaps were the same short, shrill yaps as Mrs. Porker’s late lamented little dog Pongo used to utter.

  ‘It’s—dead, isn’t it?’ said William, approaching the stuffed dog fearfully.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ laughed the old man. ‘It’s me doin’ it really. I’m a bit rusty, but you never forgets a thing like that. Not to say forget. Just a trick of the throat you know.’

  He was evidently flattered by William’s admiration and surprise.

  He turned to the little dog again, and carried on a further conversation with it. The back chat of which it was composed was somewhat primitive, but the yapping replies were the most wonderful thing that William had ever heard in his life.

  ‘’E’d’ve been tore up past mendin’ if you’d not come in an’ sent that ole woman’s dawg off, an’ I’m grateful to you, young sir. An’ if there’s anythin’ I can ever do for you, you jus’ let me know an’ I’ll do it.’

  William stood staring in front of him like one entranced. He saw himself in Miss Rossiter’s garden and he heard Miss Rossiter telling him about he
r stall at the bazaar; he saw himself in Mrs. Porker’s garden standing by Pongo’s kennel; he heard Mrs. Porker saying: ‘I come down ’ere every night to listen for my little Pongo’s message.’

  He’d found the key to the puzzle.

  He turned to the man and said in a hoarse earnest voice:

  ‘There is somethin’ you could do for me if—if—if you’d do it.’ And he told the old man what was in his mind.

  The next evening Pongo’s elaborate kennel stood outlined in the gathering dusk as his mistress came through the garden. She halted in front of it, her large face wearing an expression of ludicrously exaggerated grief, and said: ‘Pongo, my poor dear little Pongo, are you ’appy, Pongo?’

  It was obvious from her voice that she wasn’t expecting an answer, but there came an answer—a sharp, short yap—querulous, peevish, and threatening, Pongo’s very own. It came unmistakably from the empty kennel.

  Had not the elaborate coiffeur upon Mrs. Porker’s head been of alien growth, it would assuredly have stood on end. Her eyes bulged out so far that William, hidden in the bushes with Toby’s master, thought for one thrilling moment that they were going to fall on to the ground. Her mouth opened and shut like that of an expiring fish.

  ‘Oh, Pongo!’ she said at last, clasping her fat little hands, ‘Pongo, is it really you?’

  Again the yap answered her from the empty kennel. ‘

  Oh, Pongo!’ panted Mrs. Porker, her eyes still as round as marbles, ‘oh, Pongo, ’ave you any message for me?’

  Again the answer came from the empty kennel in a series of yaps that were still quite plainly words.

  ‘There’s — bad — luck — about — those — things — you’ve — got — for — your — stall. Give — them — to — her — what — ill-wished — me.’

  ‘Oh, Pongo!’ said Mrs. Porker tearfully. ‘Oh, I will! Oh! Pongo—do tell me. Pongo, do they look after you all right where you’ve gone? Do they see your chicken’s tender?’

  But there came no answer, and soon Mrs. Porker, moaning hysterically, tottering unsteadily upon her high heels, returned to the house.

  William and the little old man crept cautiously out of the bushes and back to the road. There the old man stood, drew a deep breath, and mopped his brow.

  ‘I din’t like a-doin’ of it,’ he said; ‘but a promise is a promise.’

  ‘It was jolly decent of you,’ said William gratefully. ‘I’ll make you a whistle. I can. A man showed me how to. It whistles, too. Not loud, but it whistles.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the old man without enthusiasm. ‘Well, I’ll be gettin’ home.’

  At that moment Jumble came up and was on the point of greeting William tumultuously when William said hastily: ‘That’s that dog. It must’ve got lost. I’ll take it back to its home,’ and seized the surprised Jumble by the collar, and holding him low on the ground in order to make his progress appear reluctant, began to pull him homewards.

  The old man stood watching them and scratching his head thoughtfully.

  Miss Rossiter’s stall was the sensation of the bazaar. Never had such a prolific display of expensive fancy goods been seen on a stall before. Large crowds surrounded it during the whole afternoon. Occasionally Miss Rossiter would explain in a bewildered fashion:

  ‘Mrs. Porker sent them to me. It was so kind of her. She said that she’d got enough for herself without.’

  Mrs. Porker at another fancy stall, that had been very inadequately stocked at the last minute, gazed across with horrified fascination at Miss Rossiter, expecting every moment some terrible calamity would befall her.

  As the afternoon wore on and nothing happened to Miss Rossiter, except universal congratulations and enormous sales, she began to look rather puzzled.

  William had attached himself to Miss Rossiter for the afternoon and was busying himself ‘helping’ at her stall. He sold a pile of things that had been already sold and put aside for their owners. He sold Miss Rossiter’s parasol and scarf. He gave wrong change on a generous scale. He told Sir Charles Politt, who had opened the bazaar, to clear off and stop taking up all the room if he wasn’t going to buy anything. In short, he worked very hard all the afternoon.

  After the bazaar was over he helped Miss Rossiter to carry her belongings home.

  ‘Thank you so much, dear,’ she said as she regaled him with iced buns in her little dining-room. ‘You’ve been such a help. Isn’t it wonderful how everything’s turned out? Do you remember how I told you all my troubles that day you fell down from my beech tree? I was so afraid that my little stall would be a failure. And it’s been the most tremendous success. All owing to the kindness of Mrs. Porker. I feel so grateful to her.’

  At that minute Mrs. Porker burst into the room.

  ‘Oh, Miss Rossiter,’ she began, wringing her hands, ‘’as anything ’appened to you?’

  ‘To me?’ said Miss Rossiter, surprised. ‘No.’

  ‘No ill luck of no kind?’ said Mrs. Porker anxiously.

  ‘No,’ said Miss Rossiter. ‘Quite the contrary.’

  ‘I’d never ’ave forgiven myself if it ’ad,’ said Mrs. Porker. ‘Let’s ’ope the bad luck got scattered to the wind when the things come out into the open air like.’

  Miss Rossiter gazed at her in blank amazement, but Mrs. Porker continued tremulously:

  ‘I see I was wrong an’ poor dear Pongo was wrong, but it was my fault ’e was wrong ’cause I’d told ’im you’d ill-wished ’im an’ the poor little chap believed it. I saw I was wrong this afternoon when they was all so kind to me, an’ Sir Charles ’imself sayin’ as ’ow you’d asked ’im to call an’ ’e’d been too busy but ’oped to come next week, an’ I thought then that if anythin’d ’appened to you with me sending you them things I’d never forgive myself.’

  ‘Mrs. Porker,’ said Miss Rossiter, in a kind but bewildered voice, ‘you—you seem overwrought. It must be the heat. Just sit down there while I get you a cup of tea.’

  Mrs. Porker flopped down heavily on to a chair.

  ‘Well, I would like a cup of tea, dearie,’ she admitted.

  William slipped quietly from the room and set off homewards down the road.

  It was supper time and he didn’t want to be late. Though he’d had an excellent tea at the bazaar and he’d just had four iced buns at Miss Rossiter’s, he was still hungry and didn’t want to miss supper.

  He felt no elation at the success of his little plot. He’d merely wiped off a feeling of indebtedness to Miss Rossiter.

  As he walked down the road gazing about him with stern frowning brows, he wasn’t thinking of the events of the last few days at all. He was a lion roaming through the jungle in search of prey. Jumble, trotting happily by his side, was his faithful lioness.

  CHAPTER 10

  WILLIAM AND THE TWINS

  Honeysuckle Cottage stood empty and William (who always took a great interest in Honeysuckle Cottage) made a short detour on his way to school every morning in order to pass it, and see if there were yet any signs of new artist inhabitants.

  His joy therefore was great one morning when, on his way to school, he saw unmistakable signs of occupation, all the windows open and an easel standing in the little garden. An Artist. William, who had long experience of the Arts, as temporarily domiciled in Honeysuckle Cottage, was glad that the new-comer was an artist. He always found artists were more interesting and better-tempered than writers. And, of course, their paints and palettes, when left unguarded, were fascinating things to experiment with.

  He was so taken up with the thoughts of the new arrivals that he got all his sums wrong and had to stay in, and that left him no time for further exploring that evening.

  He was up early next morning, however, and made his way at once to Honeysuckle Cottage. He crept cautiously up the path and peered in at the open kitchen door. And there he stood motionless. For a most extraordinary couple were engaged upon preparations for breakfast. Both had exactly the same faces—long and pale and nar
row, framed in short lank fair hair. Both wore white silk shirts and coats of home spun tweeds. That one was a man and the other a woman was evident from the fact that one wore knickerbockers and the other a skirt, but the fact that both garments were of exactly the same length made the effects remarkably similar. Beneath these garments, they wore worsted stockings and brogues. Both were leaning over the gas stove, the man anxiously watching a saucepan of eggs, the woman making coffee. The woman turned round suddenly, and saw William standing in the open doorway.

  ‘Watch this and see that it doesn’t boil,’ she said to him casually, ‘or else take those plates into the dining-room.’

  ‘I’ll take the plates,’ said William, thrilled to the very core at being thus accepted as a member of the party. He carried the plates into the dining-room, put them on to the little gate-legged table, and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘These eggs are done, I should think,’ the man remarked to him as soon as he entered. ‘Do you know how to get them out of the boiling water?’

  William and the man had a very interesting time getting them out of the boiling water (there were six of them) and then they carried them into the dining-room on a plate. There the man looked at them with rather a worried frown.

  ‘Have I done too many?’ he said. ‘I just put in all the man brought.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said William reassuringly. ‘I don’t think they’re too many.’

  The man seemed cheered.

  ‘No, I suppose there aren’t.’

  The woman had just come in with the coffee and he pointed to her, to William, and to himself. ‘No, of course, just two each, isn’t it? That’s not too many.’

  William sat down with prompt obedience on one of the three chairs that the man placed at the table. The woman passed him a cup of coffee, the man gave him two eggs and the meal began. The man and the woman talked animatedly, but William was too much thrilled to speak, and certainly too thrilled to listen. The strange couple accepted him without question, as evidently they would have accepted without question anyone who appeared. There was a loaf of bread and a plate of butter, to which William helped himself liberally.