William could not stand quite upright in the skin, but by stooping slightly he could see and speak through the open mouth of the head. In an ecstasy of joy he pummelled the big bear, the little bear gladly joined in the fray and a furry ball of three struggling bears rolled out of the door of the hut.
The shirt-sleeve man rang a bell.
‘After this somewhat lengthy interlude,’ he said. ‘By the way, may I inquire the name of our new friend?’
William proudly shouted his name through the aperture in the bear’s head.
‘Well, Billiam,’ he said jocularly, ‘do just what I tell you and you’ll be all right. Now all clear off a minute, please. We’ve only a few scenes to do here.’
‘Location,’ he read from a paper in his hand, ‘hut in wood. Enter fairies with Fairy Queen. Dance.’
‘How I am expected to dance,’ said the Fairy Queen bitterly, ‘tortured by toothache, I can’t think.’
‘You don’t dance with your teeth,’ said the shirt-sleeve man unsympathetically. ‘Let’s go through it once before we turn on the machine. You’ve rehearsed it often enough. Now, come on.’
They danced a dance that made William gape in surprise and admiration, so dainty and airy was it.
‘Enter Father Christmas,’ went on the shirt-sleeve man.
‘What I can’t think,’ said Father Christmas, fastening on his beard, ‘is what a Father Christmas’s doing in this effect.’
‘Nor a giant,’ said the giant sadly.
‘It’s for a Christmas show,’ said the shirt-sleeve man. ‘You’ve gotter have a Father Christmas in a Christmas show, or else how’d people know it’s a Christmas show? And you’ve gotter have a giant in a fairy tale whether there is one in it or not.’
Father Christmas joined the dance – gave presents to all the fairies, then retired behind the hut to his private store of refreshment.
‘Enter Goldilocks,’ said the shirt-sleeve man. ‘Now, where the dickens is that kid?’
Goldilocks, fat, fair and rosy, appeared from behind a tree where she had been eating bananas.
She peered down the middle bear’s mouth.
‘It’s a new one,’ she said.
‘The other hasn’t turned up,’ said the man. ‘This is Billiam, who is taking on the middle one for the small consideration of five shillings.’
‘He’s put out his tongue at me,’ she screamed in shrill indignation.
At this the big bear, whose adoration of Goldilocks was very obvious, closed with William, and Goldilocks’ mother screamed shrilly.
The giant separated the two bears and Goldilocks came to the hut with an expression of patient suffering meant to represent intense physical weariness. She gave a start of joy at the sight of the hut, which apparently she did not see till she had almost passed it. She entered. She gave a second start of joy at the sight of three porridge plates. She tasted the first two and consumed the third. She wandered into the other room. She gave a third start of joy at the sight of three beds. She tried them all and went to sleep beautifully and realistically on the smallest. William was lost in admiration.
‘Come on, bears,’ said the man in shirt-sleeves. ‘Billiam, walk between them. Don’t jump. Walk. In at the door. That’s right. Now, Billiam, look at your plate, then shake your head at the big bear.’
Trembling with joy, William obeyed. The big bear, in the privacy of the open mouth, put out his tongue at William with a hostile grimace. William returned it.
‘Now to the little one,’ said the man in shirt-sleeves. But William was still absorbed in the big one. Enraged by a particularly brilliant feat in the grimacing line which he felt he could not outshine, he put out a paw and tripped up the big bear’s chair. The big bear promptly picked up a porridge plate and broke it on William’s head. The little bear hurled himself ecstatically into the conflict. Father Christmas wearily returned to his work of separating them.
‘If you aren’t satisfied with your bonus,’ said the shirtsleeve man to William, ‘take it out on me, not the scenery. You’ve just done about five shillings’ worth of damage already. Now let’s get on.’
The rest of the scene went off fairly well, but William was growing bored. It wasn’t half such fun as he thought it would be. He wasn’t feeling quite sure of his five shillings after those smashed plates. The only thing for which he felt a deep and lasting affection, from which he felt he could never endure to be parted, was his bear-skin. It was rather small and very hot, but it gave him a thrill of pleasure unlike anything he had ever known before. He was a bear. He was an animal in a pantomime. He began to dislike immensely the shirt-sleeve man, and the hut, and the Fairy Queen, and the giant, and all the rest of them, but he loved his bear suit. It was while the giant was having a scene by himself that the brilliant idea came to William. He was standing behind a tree. No one was looking at him. He moved very quietly further away. Still no one looked at him. He moved yet further away and still no one looked at him. In a few seconds he was leaping and bounding through the wood alone in the world with the bear-skin. He was a bear. He was a bear in a wood. He ran. He jumped. He turned head over heels. He climbed a tree. He ran after a rabbit. He was riotously, blissfully happy. He met a boy who fled from him with echoing yells of terror, and to William it seemed as if he had drunk of ecstasy’s very fount. He ran on and on, roaring occasionally, and occasionally rolling in the leaves. Then something happened. He gave a particularly violent jump and strained the skin which was already somewhat tight. The skin did not burst, but the head came down very far on to William’s head and wedged itself tightly. He could not see out of its open mouth now. He could just see out of one of the eye holes, but only just. His mouth was wedged tightly in the head and he found he could not speak plainly.
HE MET A BOY WHO FLED FROM HIM WITH YELLS OF TERROR, AND TO WILLIAM IT SEEMED AS IF HE HAD DRUNK IN ECSTASY’S VERY FOUNT.
He put up his paws and pulled at the head to loosen it, but with no results. It was very tightly wedged. William’s spirits drooped. It was all very well being a bear in a wood as long as one could change oneself to a boy at will. It was a very different thing being fastened to a bear-skin for life. He supposed that in time, if he went on growing to a man, he’d burst the bear-skin. On the other hand, he couldn’t get to his mouth now, so he couldn’t eat, and he’d not be able to grow at all. Starvation stared him in the face. He was hungry already. He decided to return home and throw himself on the mercy of his family. Then he remembered that his family were all out that afternoon. His mother was at a mothers’ meeting at the Vicarage. He decided to go straight to the Vicarage. Perhaps the united efforts of the mothers of the village might succeed in getting his head off. He went out from the woods on to the road but was discouraged by the behaviour of a woman who was passing. She gave an unearthly yell, tore a leg of mutton from her basket, flung it at William’s head, and ran for dear life down the road, screaming as she went. William, much depressed, returned to the woods and reached the Vicarage by a circuitous route. Feeling too shy to ring the bell and interview a housemaid in his present costume, he walked round the house to the French windows of the dining-room where the meeting was taking place. He stood pathetically in the doorway of the window.
‘Mother,’ he began plaintively in a muffled and almost inaudible voice, but it would have made little difference had he spoken in his usual strident tones. The united scream of the mother’s meeting would have drowned it. Never in the whole course of his life had William seen a room empty so quickly. It was like magic. Almost before his plaintive and muffled ‘Mother’ had left his lips, the room was empty. Only two dozen overturned chairs, an overturned table, and several broken ornaments marked the line of retreat. The room was empty.
NEVER IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF HIS LIFE HAD WILLIAM SEEN A ROOM EMPTY SO QUICKLY.
The entire mothers’ meeting, headed by the vicar’s wife and the vicarage cook and housemaid, were dashing down the main road of the village, screaming as they went. William sa
dly surveyed the desolate scene before him and retreated again to the woods. He leant against a tree and considered the whole situation.
‘Hello, Billiam!’
Turning his head to a curious angle and peering out of one of the bear’s eye-holes, he recognised Goldilocks.
‘Hello!’ he returned in a spiritless voice.
‘Why did you run away?’ she said.
‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I wanted the old skin. Wish I’d never seed it.’
‘You do talk funny,’ she said. ‘I can’t hear what you say.’
And so far was William’s spirit broken that he only sighed.
‘I saw you going,’ she went on, ‘and I went after you, but you ran so fast that I lost you. Then I went round a bit by myself. I say, they won’t be able to get on with the old thing without us. I heard them shouting for us. Isn’t it fun? An’ I heard some people screaming in the road. What was that?’
William sighed again. Then he shouted: ‘Try’n pull my head loose. Hard.’
She complied. She pulled till William yelled again.
‘You’ve nearly took my ears off,’ he said angrily in his muffled, sepulchral voice.
But the head was wedged on as tightly as ever.
She went to the edge of the wood and peered across the road.
‘There’s a place there,’ she said, ‘with lots of men in. Go’n’ ask them.’
William somewhat reluctantly (for his previous experiences had sadly disillusioned him with human nature in general) went through the trees to the roadside.
He looked back at the white-clad form of Goldilocks.
‘Wait for me,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Anxious to attract as little notice as possible, he crept on all fours round to the door of the public-house. He poked in his head nervously.
‘Please, can some–’n—’ he began politely, but in the clatter that arose the ghostly whisper was lost. Several glasses and a chair were flung at his head. Amid shoutings and uproar the innkeeper went for his gun, but on his return William had departed, and the innkeeper, who knew the better part of valour, contented himself with bolting the door and fetching sal-volatile for his wife. After a decent interval he unlocked the door and the inmates crept cautiously home one by one.
‘A great, furious brute,’ they were heard to say. ‘Must have escaped from a circus—’
‘If we hadn’t been quick—’
‘We ought to get up a party with guns—’
‘Let’s go and warn the school, or it’ll get the kids—’
On reaching their homes most of them found their wives in hysterics on the kitchen floor after a hasty return from the mothers’ meeting.
Meanwhile William sat beneath a tree in the wood in an attitude of utter despondency, his head on his paws.
‘Why didn’t you tell them?’ said Goldilocks impatiently.
‘I tell everyone,’ said William. ‘Nobody’ll listen to me. They make a noise and throw things. I’m go’n’ home.’
He rose and held out a paw. He felt utterly and miserably cut off from his fellow-men. He clung pathetically to Goldilocks’ presence.
‘Come with me,’ he said.
Hand in hand, a curious couple, they went through the woods to the back of William’s house. ‘If I die,’ he said at once, ‘afore we get home, you’d better bury me. There’s a spade in the back garden.’
He took her round to the shed in his back garden.
‘You stay here,’ he whispered. ‘An’ I’ll try and get my head took off an’ then get us somethin’ to eat.’
Cautiously and apprehensively he crept into the house. He could hear his mother talking to the cook in the kitchen.
‘It stood right in the window,’ she was saying in a trembling voice. ‘Not a very big animal but so ferocious-looking. We got out just in time – it was just getting ready to spring. It—’
William crept to the open kitchen door and assumed his most plaintive expression, forgetting for the moment that his expression could not be seen. Just as he was opening his mouth to speak, cook turned round and saw him. The scream that cook emitted sent William scampering up to his room in utter terror.
‘It’s gone up – plungin’ into Master William’s room – the brute! Thank evving the little darlin’s out playin’. Oh, mum, the cunnin’ brute’s a-shut the door. Oh, my! It turned me inside out – it did. Oh, I darsn’t go an’ lock it in, but that’s what ought to be done—’
‘We – we’ll get someone with a gun,’ said Mrs Brown weakly. ‘We – oh, here’s the master.’
Mr Brown entered as she spoke. ‘I’ve got terrible news for you,’ he said.
Mrs Brown burst into tears.
‘Oh, John, nothing could be worse than – than – John, it’s upstairs. Do get a gun – in William’s room. And – oh, my goodness, suppose, he’s there – suppose it’s mangling him – do go—’
Mr Brown sat calmly in his chair.
‘William,’ he said, ‘has eloped with a jeune première and a bear-skin. An entire Christmas pantomime is searching the village for him. They’ve spent the afternoon searching the wood and now they are searching the village. Father Christmas is drinking ale in a pub. He discovered that William had paid it a visit. A Fairy Queen is sitting outside the pub complaining of toothache, and Goldilocks’ mother is complimenting the vicar on the rural beauty of his village, in the intervals of weeping over the loss of her daughter. I gathered that William had visited the vicarage. There’s a giant complaining of the cold, and a man in his shirt-sleeves whose language is turning the air blue for miles around. I was coming up from the station and was introduced to them as William’s father. I had some difficulty in calming them, but I promised to do what I could to find the missing pair. I’m rather keen on finding William. I don’t think I can do better than hand him over to them for a few minutes. As for the missing damsel—’
Mrs Brown found her voice.
‘Do you mean—?’ she gasped feebly, ‘do you mean that it was William all the time?’
Mr Brown rose wearily.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Isn’t everything always William all the time?’
CHAPTER 3
WILLIAM’S TRUTHFUL CHRISTMAS
William went to church with his family every Sunday morning but he did not usually listen to the sermon. He considered it a waste of time. He sometimes enjoyed singing the psalms and hymns. Any stone-deaf person could have told when William was singing the psalms and hymns by the expressions of pain on the faces of those around him. William’s singing was loud and discordant. It completely drowned the organ and the choir. Miss Barney, who stood just in front of him, said that it always gave her a headache for the rest of the week. William contested with some indignation that he had as good a right to sing in church as anyone. Besides, there was nothing wrong with his voice . . . It was just like everyone else’s . . .
During the Vicar’s sermon, William either stared at the curate (William always scored in this game because the curate invariably began to grow pink and look embarrassed after about five minutes of William’s stare) or held a face-pulling competition with the red-haired choir boy or amused himself with insects, conveyed to church in a match box in his pocket, till restrained by the united glares of his father and mother and Ethel and Robert . . .
But this Sunday, attracted by the frequent repetition of the word ‘Christmas’, William put his stag beetle back into its box and gave his whole attention to the Vicar’s exhortation . . .
‘What is it that poisons our whole social life?’ said the Vicar earnestly. ‘What is it that spoils even the holy season that lies before us? It is deceit. It is untruthfulness. Let each one of us decide here and now for this season of Christmas at least, to cast aside all deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another . . . It will be the first step to a holier life. It will make this Christmas the happiest of our lives . . .’
William’s attention was drawn from the exhortation by the discove
ry that he had not quite closed the match box and the stag beetle was crawling up Ethel’s coat. Fortunately Ethel was busily engaged in taking in all the details of Marion Hatherly’s new dress across the aisle and did not notice. William recaptured his pet and shut up the match box . . . then rose to join lustily and inharmoniously in the first verse of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’. During the other verses he employed himself by trying a perfectly new grimace (which he had been practising all week) on the choir boy. It was intercepted by the curate who shuddered and looked away hastily. The sight and sound of William in the second row from the front completely spoilt the service for the curate every Sunday. He was an aesthetic young man and William’s appearance and personality hurt his sense of beauty . . .
But the words of the sermon had made a deep impression on William. He decided for this holy season at least to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another . . . William had not been entirely without aspiration to a higher life before this. He had once decided to be self-sacrificing for a whole day and his efforts had been totally unappreciated and misunderstood. He had once tried to reform others and the result had been even more disastrous. But he’d never made a real effort to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and to speak the truth one with another. He decided to try it at Christmas as the Vicar had suggested.
Much to his disgust William heard that Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma had asked his family to stay with them for Christmas. He gathered that the only drawback to the arrangement in the eyes of his family was himself, and the probable effect of his personality on the peaceful household of Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma. He was not at all offended. He was quite used to this view of himself.
‘All right!’ he said obligingly. ‘You jus’ go. I don’ mind. I’ll stay at home . . . you jus’ leave me money an’ my presents an’ I won’t mind a bit.’
William’s spirits in fact soared sky-high at the prospect of such an oasis of freedom in the desert of parental interference. But his family betrayed again that strange disinclination to leave William to his own devices that hampered so many of William’s activities.
William at Christmas Page 3
