William at Christmas

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘William,’ said Aunt Lucy patiently, as he passed. ‘I don’t want to say anything unkind, and I hope you won’t remember all your life that you have completely spoilt this Christmas Day for me.’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ murmured Aunt Jane, sadly.

  William, with a look before which she should have sunk into the earth, answered shortly that he didn’t think he would.

  During the midday dinner the grown-ups, as is the foolish fashion of grown-ups, wasted much valuable time in the discussion of such futilities as the weather and the political state of the nation. Aunt Lucy was still suffering and aggrieved.

  ‘I can go this evening, of course,’ she said, ‘but it’s not quite the same. The morning service is different. Yes, please, dear – and stuffing. Yes, I’ll have a little more turkey, too. And, of course, the vicar may not preach tonight. That makes such a difference. The gravy on the potatoes, please. It’s almost the first Christmas I’ve not been in the morning. It seems quite to have spoilt the day for me.’

  She bent on William a glance of gentle reproach. William was quite capable of meeting adequately that or any other glance, but at present he was too busy for minor hostilities. He was extremely busy. He was doing his utmost to do full justice to a meal that only happens once a year.

  ‘William,’ said Barbara pleasantly, ‘I can dweam. Can you?’

  He made no answer.

  ‘Answer your cousin, William,’ said his mother.

  He swallowed, then spoke plaintively. ‘You always say not to talk with my mouth full,’ he said.

  ‘You could speak when you’ve finished the mouthful.’

  ‘No. ’Cause I want to fill it again then,’ said William, firmly.

  ‘Dear, dear!’ murmured Aunt Jane.

  This was Aunt Jane’s usual contribution to any conversation.

  He looked coldly at the three pairs of horrified aunts’ eyes around him, then placidly continued his meal.

  Mrs Brown hastily changed the subject of conversation. The art of combining the duties of mother and hostess is sometimes a difficult one.

  Christmas afternoon is a time of rest. The three aunts withdrew from public life. Aunt Lucy found a book of sermons in the library and retired to her bedroom with it.

  ‘It’s the next best thing, I think,’ she said with a sad glance at William.

  William was beginning definitely to dislike Aunt Lucy.

  ‘Please’m,’ said the cook an hour later, ‘the mincing machine’s disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ said William’s mother, raising her hand to her head.

  ‘Clean gone’m. ’Ow’m I to get the supper’m? You said as ’ow I could get it done this afternoon so as to go to church this evening. I can’t do nuffink with the mincing machine gone.’

  ‘I’ll come and look.’

  They searched every corner of the kitchen, then William’s mother had an idea. William’s mother had not been William’s mother for eleven years without learning many things. She went wearily up to William’s bedroom.

  William was sitting on the floor. Open beside him was ‘Things a Boy Can Do’. Around him lay various parts of the mincing machine. His face was set and strained in mental and physical effort, He looked up as she entered.

  ‘It’s a funny kind of mincin’ machine,’ he said crushingly. ‘It’s not got enough parts. It’s made wrong—’

  ‘Do you know,’ she said, slowly, ‘that we’ve all been looking for that mincing machine for the last half-hour?’

  ‘No,’ he said without much interest. ‘I di’n’t. I’d have told you I was mendin’ it if you’d told me you was lookin’ for it. It’s wrong,’ he went on aggrievedly. ‘I can’t make anything with it. Look! It says in my book “How to make a model railway signal with parts of a mincing machine.” Listen! It says “Borrow a mincing machine from your mother—”’

  ‘Did you borrow it?’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘Yes. Well, I’ve got it, haven’t I? I went all the way down to the kitchen for it.’

  ‘Who lent it to you?’

  ‘No one lent it me. I borrowed it. I thought you’d like to see a model railway signal. I thought you’d be interested. Anyone would think anyone would be interested in seein’ a railway signal made out of a mincin’ machine.’

  His tone implied that the dullness of people in general was simply beyond him. ‘An’ you haven’t got a right sort of mincin’ machine. It’s wrong. Its parts are the wrong shape. I’ve been hammerin’ them, tryin’ to make them right, but they’re made wrong.’

  Mrs Brown was past expostulating. ‘Take them all down to the kitchen to cook,’ she said. ‘She’s waiting for them.’

  On the stairs William met Aunt Lucy carrying her volume of sermons.

  ‘It’s not quite the same as the spoken word, William dear,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t the force. The written word doesn’t reach the heart as the spoken word does, but I don’t want you to worry about it.’

  William walked on as if he had not heard her.

  It was Aunt Jane who insisted on the little entertainment after tea.

  ‘I love to hear the dear children recite,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they all have some little recitation they can say.’

  Barbara rose with shy delight to say her piece.

  ‘Lickle bwown seed, lickle bwown bwother,

  And what, pway, are you goin’ to be?

  I’ll be a poppy as white as my mother,

  Oh, DO be a poppy like me!

  What, you’ll be a sunflower? Oh, how I shall miss you

  When you are golden and high!

  But I’ll send all the bees up to tiss you.

  Lickle bwown bwother, good-bye!’

  She sat down blushing, amid rapturous applause.

  Next Jimmy was dragged from his corner. He stood up as one prepared for the worst, shut his eyes, and—

  ‘Licklaxokindness lickledeedsolove –

  make – thisearfanedenliketheeav’nabovethasalliknow,’

  he gasped all in one breath, and sat down panting.

  This was greeted with slightly milder applause.

  ‘Now, William!’

  ‘I don’t know any,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, you do,’ said his mother. ‘Say the one you learnt at school last term. Stand up, dear, and speak clearly.’

  Slowly William rose to his feet.

  ‘It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea,’

  he began.

  Here he stopped, coughed, cleared his throat, and began again.

  ‘It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry sea,’

  ‘Oh, get on!’ muttered his brother, irritably.

  ‘I can’t get on if you keep talkin’ to me,’ said William sternly. ‘How can I get on if you keep takin’ all the time up, sayin’ get on? I can’t get on if you’re talkin’, can I?

  ‘It was the Hesper Schoonerus that sailed the wintry sea an’ I’m not going’ on if Ethel’s goin’ to keep gigglin’. It’s not a funny piece, an’ if she’s goin’ on gigglin’ like that I’m not sayin’ any more of it.’

  ‘Ethel, dear!’ murmured Mrs Brown, reproachfully. Ethel turned her chair completely round and left her back only exposed to William’s view. He glared at it suspiciously.

  ‘Now, William, dear,’ continued his mother, ‘begin again and no one shall interrupt you.’

  William again went through the preliminaries of coughing and clearing his throat.

  ‘It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed the wintry seas.’

  ‘IT WAS THE HESPER SCHOONERUS THAT SAILED THE WINTRY SEA AN’ I’M NOT GOIN’ ON IF ETHEL’S GOIN’ TO KEEP GIGGLIN’.’

  He stopped again, and slowly and carefully straightened his collar and smoothed back the lock of hair which was dangling over his brow.

  ‘The skipper had brought—’ prompted Aunt Jane, kindly.

  William turned on her.

  ‘I was goin’ to say that if you’d left me alone,’ he said. ‘I was jus�
�� thinkin’. I’ve got to think sometimes. I can’t say off a great long pome like that without stoppin’ to think sometimes, can I? I’ll – I’ll do a conjuring trick for you instead,’ he burst out, desperately. ‘I’ve learnt one from my book. I’ll go an’ get it ready.’

  He went out of the room. Mr Brown took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  ‘May I ask,’ he said patiently, ‘how long this exhibition is to be allowed to continue?’

  Here William returned, his pockets bulging. He held a large handkerchief in his hand.

  ‘This is a handkerchief,’ he announced. ‘If anyone’d like to feel it to see if it’s a real one, they can. Now I want a shilling,’ he looked round expectantly, but no one moved, ‘or a penny would do,’ he said, with a slightly disgusted air. Robert threw one across the room. ‘Well, I put the penny into the handkerchief. You can see me do it, can’t you? If anyone wants to come an’ feel the penny is in the handkerchief, they can. Well,’ he turned his back on them and took something out of his pocket. After a few contortions he turned round again, holding the handkerchief tightly. ‘Now, you look close’ – he went over to them – ‘an’ you’ll see the shil— I mean, penny,’ he looked scornfully at Robert, ‘has changed to an egg. It’s a real egg. If anyone thinks it isn’t a real egg—’

  But it was a real egg. It confirmed his statement by giving a resounding crack and sending a shining stream partly on to the carpet and partly on to Aunt Evangeline’s black silk knee. A storm of reproaches burst out.

  ‘First that horrible insect,’ almost wept Aunt Evangeline, ‘and then this messy stuff all over me. It’s a good thing I don’t live here. One day a year is enough . . . My nerves! . . .’

  ‘Dear, dear!’ said Aunt Jane.

  ‘Fancy taking a new-laid egg for that,’ said Ethel severely.

  William was pale and indignant.

  ‘Well, I did jus’ what the book said to do. Look at it. It says: Take an egg. Conceal it in the pocket.’ Well, I took an egg an’ I concealed it in the pocket. Seems to me,’ he said bitterly, ‘seems to me this book isn’t “Things a Boy Can Do”. It’s “Things a Boy Can’t Do”.’

  Mr Brown rose slowly from his chair.

  ‘You’re just about right there, my son. Thank you,’ he said with elaborate politeness, as he took the book from William’s reluctant hands and went over with it to a small cupboard in the wall. In this cupboard reposed an airgun, a bugle, a catapult, and a mouth organ, As he unlocked it to put the book inside, the fleeting glimpse of his confiscated treasures added to the bitterness of William’s soul.

  ‘On Christmas Day, too!’

  While he was still afire with silent indignation Aunt Lucy returned from church.

  ‘The vicar didn’t preach,’ she said. ‘They say that this morning’s sermon was beautiful. As I say, I don’t want William to reproach himself, but I feel that he has deprived me of a very great treat.’

  ‘Nice Willum!’ murmured Jimmy sleepily from his corner.

  As William undressed that night his gaze fell upon the flower-bedecked motto: ‘A Busy Day is a Happy Day.’

  ‘It’s a story,’ he said, indignantly. ‘It’s jus’ a wicked ole story.’

  CHAPTER 2

  WILLIAM ALL THE TIME

  William was walking down the road, his hands in his pockets, his mind wholly occupied with the Christmas pantomime. He was going to the Christmas pantomime next week. His thoughts dwelt on rapturous memories of previous Christmas pantomimes – of Puss in Boots, of Dick Whittington, of Red Riding Hood. His mouth curved into a blissful smile as he thought of the funny man – inimitable funny man with his red nose and enormous girth. How William had roared every time he appeared! With what joy he had listened to his uproarious songs! But it was not the funny man to whom William had given his heart. It was to the animals. It was to the cat in Puss in Boots, the robins in The Babes in the Wood, and the wolf in Red Riding Hood. He wanted to be an animal in a pantomime. He was quite willing to relinquish his beloved future career of pirate in favour of that of animal in a pantomime. He wondered . . .

  It was at this point that Fate, who often had a special eye on William, performed one of her lightning tricks.

  A man in shirt-sleeves stepped out of the wood and looked anxiously up and down the road. Then he took out his watch and muttered to himself. William stood still and stared at him with frank interest. Then the man began to stare at William, first as if he didn’t see him, and then as if he saw him.

  ‘Would you like to be a bear for a bit?’ he said.

  William pinched himself. He seemed to be awake.

  ‘A b-b-bear?’ he queried, his eyes almost starting out of his head.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man irritably, ‘a bear. B.E.A.R. bear, animal – zoo. Never heard of a bear?’

  William pinched himself again. He seemed to be still awake.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed as though unwilling to commit himself entirely. ‘I’ve heard of a bear all right.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ said the man, looking once more at his watch, once more up the road, once more down the road, then turning on his heel and walking quickly into the wood.

  William followed, both mouth and eyes wide open. The man did not speak as he walked down the path. Then suddenly down a bend in the path they came upon a strange sight. There was a hut in a little clearing, and round the hut was clustered a group of curious people – a Father Christmas, holding his beard in one hand and a glass of ale in the other; a rather fat Goldilocks, in the act of having yellow powder lavishly applied to her face; several fairies and elves, sucking large and redolent peppermints; a ferocious, but depressed-looking giant, rubbing his hands together and complaining of the cold; and several other strange and incongruous figures. In front of the hut was a large species of camera with a handle, and behind stood a man smoking a pipe.

  SUDDENLY DOWN A BEND IN THE PATH THEY CAME UPON A STRANGE SIGHT.

  ‘Kid turned up?’ he said.

  William’s guide shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘they’ve missed their train or lost their way, or evaporated, or got kidnapped or something, but this happened to be passing, and it looked the same size pretty near. What do you think?’

  The man took his pipe from his mouth in order the better to concentrate his whole attention on William. He looked at William from his muddy boots to his untidy head. Then he reversed the operation, and looked from his untidy head to his muddy boots. Then he scratched his head.

  ‘Seems on the big side for the middle one,’ he said.

  At this point a hullabaloo arose from behind the shed, and a small bear appeared, howling loudly.

  ‘He tooken my bit of toffee,’ yelled the bear in a very human voice.

  ‘Aw, shut up!’ said the man in his shirt-sleeves.

  The small bear was followed by a large bear, protesting loudly.

  ‘I gave him half’n mine ’n’e promised to give me half’n his’ ’n’ then he tried to eat it all’n’—’

  ‘Aw, shut up!’ repeated the man. Then he turned to William.

  ‘All you gotter do,’ he said, ‘is to fix on the middle bear’s suit an’ do exactly what you’re told, an’ I’ll give you five shillings at the end. See?’

  ‘These roural places are a butiful chinge,’ murmured Goldilocks’ mother, darkening her eyebrows as she spoke. ‘So calm and quart.’

  ‘These Christmas shows,’ grumbled the giant, flapping his arms vigorously, ‘are the very devil.’

  Here William found his voice. ‘Crumbs!’ he ejaculated. Then, feeling the expletive to be altogether inadequate to the occasion, quickly added: ‘Gosh!’

  ‘Take the kid round, someone,’ said the shirt-sleeve man wearily, ‘and fix on his togs, and let’s get on with the show.’

  Here a Fairy Queen appeared from behind the hut.

  ‘I don’t see how I’m possibly to go through with this here performance,’ she said in a voice of plaintive suffering. ‘I had tooth
ache all last night—’

  ‘If you think,’ said the shirt-sleeve man, ‘that you can hold up this blessed show for a twopenny-halfpenny toothache—’

  ‘If you’re going to be insulting—’ said the Fairy Queen in shrill indignation.

  ‘Aw, shut up!’ said the shirt-sleeve man.

  Here Father Christmas, who had finished his ale, led William into the hut. A bear’s suit lay on a chair.

  ‘The kid wot was to wear this not having turned up,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘and you by all accounts bein’ willin’ to oblige for a small consideration, we shall have to see what can be done. I suppose,’ he added, ‘you have no objection?’

  ‘Me?’ said William, whose eyes and mouth had grown more and more circular every minute. ‘Me – objection? Golly! I should think not.’

  The little bear and the big bear surveyed him critically.

  ‘He’s too big,’ said the little bear contemptuously.

  ‘His hair’s too long,’ contributed the big bear.

  ‘His face is too dirty.’

  ‘His ears is too long.’

  ‘His nose is too flat.’

  ‘His head’s too big.’

  ‘His—’

  William speedily and joyfully put an end to the duet and Father Christmas wearily disentangled the struggling mass.

  ‘It may be a bit on the small side,’ he conceded as he deposited the small bear upside down beneath the table, ‘but we’ll do what we can.’

  Here the shirt-sleeve man appeared at the window.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said kindly. ‘Take all day about it. Don’t hurry! We all enjoy hanging about and waiting for you.’

  Father Christmas offered to retire from his post in favour of the shirt-sleeve man, and the shirt-sleeve man hastily retreated.

  Then came the task of fitting William into the skin. It was not an easy task.

  ‘You’re bigger,’ said Father Christmas, ‘than what you look in the distance. Considerable.’