William at Christmas

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘No, William,’ said his mother, ‘we certainly can’t do that. You’ll have to come with us but I do hope you’ll be good.’

  William remembered the sermon and his good resolution.

  ‘Well,’ he said cryptically, ‘I guess ’f you knew what I was goin’ to be like at Christmas you’d almost want me to come.’

  It happened that William’s father was summoned on Christmas Eve to the sick bed of one of his aunts and so could not accompany them, but they set off under Robert’s leadership and arrived safely.

  Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma were very stout and good-natured looking, but Uncle Frederick was the stouter and more good-natured-looking of the two. They had not seen William since he was a baby. That explained the fact of their having invited William and his family to spend Christmas with them. They lived too far away to have heard even rumours of the horror with which William inspired the grown-up world around him. They greeted William kindly.

  ‘So this is little William,’ said Uncle Frederick, putting his hand on William’s head. ‘And how is little William?’

  William removed his head from Uncle Frederick’s hand in silence then said distantly, ‘V’ well, thank you.’

  ‘And so grateful to your Uncle and Aunt for asking you to stay with them, aren’t you, William?’ went on his mother.

  William remembered that his career of truthfulness did not begin till the next day so he said still more distantly, ‘Yes.’

  That evening Ethel said to her mother in William’s presence, ‘Well, he’s not been so bad today, considering.’

  ‘You wait,’ said William unctuously. ‘You wait till tomorrow when I start castin’ aside deceit an’ . . . an’—Today’ll be nothin’ to it.’

  William awoke early on Christmas Day. He had hung up his stocking the night before and was pleased to see it fairly full. He took out the presents quickly but not very optimistically. He had been early disillusioned in the matter of grown-ups’ capacity for choosing suitable presents. Memories of prayer books and history books and socks and handkerchiefs floated before his mental vision . . . Yes, as bad as ever! . . . a case containing a pen and pencil and ruler, a new brush and comb, a purse (empty) and a new tie . . . a penknife and a box of toffee were the only redeeming features. On the chair by his bedside was a book of Church History from Aunt Emma and a box containing a pair of compasses, a protractor and a set square from Uncle Frederick . . .

  William dressed, but as it was too early to go down he sat down on the floor and ate all his tin of toffee. Then he turned his attention to his Church History book. He read a few pages but the character and deeds of the saintly Aidan so exasperated him that he was driven to relieve his feeling by taking his new pencil from its case and adorning the saint’s picture by the addition of a top hat and spectacles. He completed the alterations by a moustache and by changing the book the saint held into an attaché case. He made similar alterations to every picture in the book . . . St Oswald seemed much improved by them and this cheered William considerably. Then he took his penknife and began to carve his initials upon his brush and comb . . .

  William appeared at breakfast wearing his new tie and having brushed his hair with his new brush or rather with what was left of his new brush after his very drastic initial-carving. He carried under his arm his presents for his host and hostess. He exchanged ‘Happy Christmas’ gloomily. His resolve to cast away deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another lay heavy upon him. He regarded it as an obligation that could not be shirked. William was a boy of great tenacity of purpose. Having once made up his mind to a course, he pursued it regardless of consequences . . .

  ‘Well, William, darling,’ said his mother, ‘did you find your presents?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William gloomily. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you like the book and instruments that Uncle and I gave you?’ said Aunt Emma brightly.

  ‘No,’ said William gloomily and truthfully. ‘I’m not int’rested in Church History an’ I’ve got something like those at school. Not that I’d want ’em,’ he added hastily, ‘if I hadn’t ’em.’

  ‘William!’ screamed Mrs Brown in horror. ‘How can you be so ungrateful!’

  ‘I’m not ungrateful,’ explained William wearily. ‘I’m only bein’ truthful. I’m casting aside deceit an’ . . . an’ hyp—hyp—what he said. I’m only sayin’ that I’m not int’rested in Church History nor in those inst’ments. But thank you very much for ’em.’

  There was a gasp of dismay and a horrified silence during which William drew his paper packages from under his arm.

  ‘Here are your Christmas presents from me,’ he said.

  The atmosphere brightened. They unfastened their parcels with expressions of anticipation and Christian forgiveness upon their faces. William watched them, his face ‘registering’ only patient suffering.

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Aunt Emma still struggling with the string.

  ‘It’s not kind,’ said William still treading doggedly the path of truth. ‘Mother said I’d got to bring you something.’

  Mrs. Brown coughed suddenly and loudly but not in time to drown the fatal words of truth . . .

  ‘But still – er – very kind,’ said Aunt Emma, though with less enthusiasm.

  At last she brought out a small pincushion.

  ‘Thank you very much, William,’ she said. ‘You really oughtn’t to have spent your money on me like this.’

  ‘I din’t,’ said William stonily. ‘I hadn’t any money, but I’m very glad you like it. It was left over from Mother’s stall at the Sale of Work, an’ Mother said it was no use keepin’ it for nex’ year because it had got so faded.’

  Again Mrs Brown coughed loudly but too late. Aunt Emma said coldly:

  ‘I see. Yes. Your mother was quite right. But thank you all the same, William.’

  Uncle Frederick had now taken the wrappings from his present and held up a leather purse.

  ‘Ah, this is a really useful present,’ he said jovially.

  ‘I’m ’fraid it’s not very useful,’ said William. ‘Uncle Jim sent it to Father for his birthday but Father said it was no use ’cause the catch wouldn’ catch so he gave it to me to give to you.’

  Uncle Frederick tried the catch.

  ‘Um . . . ah . . .’ he said. ‘Your father was quite right. The catch won’t catch. Never mind, I’ll send it back to your father as a New Year present . . . what?’

  As soon as the Brown family were left alone it turned upon William in a combined attack.

  ‘I warned you!’ said Ethel to her mother.

  ‘He ought to be hung,’ said Robert.

  ‘William, how could you?’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘When I’m bad, you go on at me,’ said William with exasperation, ‘an’ when I’m tryin’ to lead a holier life and cast aside hyp— hyp— what he said, you go on at me. I dunno what I can be. I don’t mind bein’ hung. I’d as soon be hung as keep havin’ Christmas over an’ over again simply every year the way we do . . .’

  William accompanied the party to church after breakfast. He was slightly cheered by discovering a choir boy with a natural aptitude for grimaces and an instinctive knowledge of the rules of the game. The Vicar preached an unconvincing sermon on unselfishness and the curate gave full play to an ultra-Oxford accent and a voice that was almost as unmusical as William’s. Aunt Emma said it had been a ‘beautiful service’. The only bright spot to William was when the organist boxed the ears of the youngest choir boy, who retaliated by putting out his tongue at the organist at the beginning of each verse of the last hymn . . .

  William was very silent during lunch . . . He simply didn’t know what people saw in Christmas. It was just like ten Sundays rolled into one . . . An’ they didn’t even give people the sort of presents they’d like . . . No one all his life had ever given him a water pistol or a catapult or a trumpet or bows and arrows or anything really useful . . . And if they didn’t like truth an’ castin�
�� aside deceit an – an’ the other thing, they could do without . . . but he was jolly well goin’ to go on with it. He’d made up his mind and he was jolly well goin’ to go on with it . . . His silence was greatly welcomed by his family. He ate plentifully, however, of the turkey and plum pudding and felt strangely depressed afterwards . . . so much that he followed the example of the rest of the family and went up to his bedroom . . .

  There he brushed his hair with his new brush, but he had carved his initials so deeply and spaciously that the brush came in two with the first flourish. He brushed his shoes with the two halves with great gusto in the manner of the professional shoe black . . . Then having nothing else to do, he turned to his Church History again. The desecrated pictures of the Saints met his gaze and realising suddenly the enormity of the crime in grown-up eyes he took his penknife and cut them all out. He made paper boats of them, and deliberately and because he hated it he cut his new tie into strips to fasten some of the boats together. He organised a thrilling naval battle with them and was almost forgetting his grudge against life in general and Christmas in particular . . .

  He was roused to the sense of the present by sounds of life and movement downstairs, and, thrusting his saintly paper fleet into his pyjama case, he went down to the drawing-room. As he entered there came the sound of a car drawing up at the front door and Uncle Frederick looked out of the window and groaned aloud.

  ‘It’s Lady Atkinson,’ he said. ‘Help! Help!’

  ‘Now, Frederick, dear,’ said Aunt Emma hastily. ‘Don’t talk like that and do try to be nice to her. She’s one of the Atkinsons, you know,’ she explained with empressement to Mrs Brown in a whisper as the lady was shown in.

  Lady Atkinson was stout and elderly and wore a very youthful hat and coat.

  ‘A happy Christmas to you all!’ she said graciously. ‘The boy? Your nephew? William? How do you do, William? He – stares rather, doesn’t he? Ah, yes,’ she greeted everyone separately with infinite condescension.

  ‘I’ve brought you my Christmas present in person,’ she went on in the tone of voice of one giving an unheard-of treat. ‘Look!’

  She took out of an envelope a large signed photograph of herself. ‘There now . . . what do you think of that?’

  Murmurs of surprise and admiration and gratitude.

  Lady Atkinson drank them in complacently.

  ‘It’s very good, isn’t it? You . . . little boy . . . don’t you think it’s very like me?’

  William gazed at it critically.

  ‘It’s not as fat as you are,’ was his final offering at the altar of truth.

  ‘William!’ screamed Mrs Brown. ‘How can you be so impolite!’

  ‘Impolite?’ said William with some indignation. ‘I’m not tryin’ to be polite! I’m bein’ truthful. I can’t be everything. Seems to me I’m the only person in the world what is truthful an’ no one seems to be grateful to me. It isn’t’s fat as what she is,’ he went on doggedly, ‘an’ it’s not got as many little lines on its face as what she has an’ it’s different lookin’ altogether. It looks pretty an’ she doesn’t—’

  Lady Atkinson towered over him, quivering with rage.

  ‘You nasty little boy!’ she said thrusting her face close to his. ‘You – NASTY – little – boy!’

  Then she swept out of the room without another word.

  The front door slammed.

  She was gone.

  Aunt Emma sat down and began to weep.

  ‘Shell never come to the house again,’ she said.

  ‘I always said he ought to be hung,’ said Robert gloomily. ‘Every day we let him live he complicates our lives still worse.’

  ‘I shall tell your father, William,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘directly we get home.’

  ‘DON’T YOU THINK IT’S VERY LIKE ME?’ ASKED LADY ATKINSON. ‘IT’S NOT AS FAT AS YOU ARE,’ SAID WILLIAM, CRITICALLY. ‘I’M NOT IMPOLITE. I’M BEING TRUTHFUL.’

  ‘The kindest thing to think,’ said Ethel, ‘is that he’s mad.’

  ‘Well,’ said William, ‘I don’ know what I’ve done ’cept cast aside deceit an’ – an’ the other thing what he said in church an’ speak the truth an’ that. I don’ know why everyone’s so mad at me jus’ ’cause of that. You’d think they’d be glad!’

  ‘She’ll never set foot in the house again,’ sobbed Aunt Emma.

  Uncle Frederick, who had been vainly trying to hide his glee, rose.

  ‘I don’t think she will, my dear,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Nothing like the truth, William . . . absolutely nothing.’

  He pressed a half-crown into William’s hand surreptitiously as he went to the door . . .

  A diversion was mercifully caused at this moment by the arrival of the post. Among it there was a Christmas card from an artist who had a studio about five minutes’ walk from the house. This little attention comforted Aunt Emma very much.

  ‘How kind of him!’ she said, ‘and we never sent him anything. But there’s that calendar that Mr Franks sent to us and it’s not written on. Perhaps William could be trusted to take it to Mr Fairly with our compliments while the rest of us go for a short walk.’ She looked at William rather coldly.

  William, who was feeling the atmosphere indoors inexplicably hostile (except for Uncle Frederick’s equally inexplicable friendliness), was glad of an excuse for escaping.

  He set off with the calendar wrapped in brown paper. On the way his outlook on life was considerably brightened by finding a street urchins’ fight in full swing. He joined in it with gusto and was soon acclaimed leader of his side. This exhilarating adventure was ended by a policeman, who scattered the combatants and pretended to chase William down a side street in order to vary the monotony of his Christmas ‘beat’.

  William, looking rather battered and dishevelled, arrived at Mr Fairly’s studio. The calendar had fortunately survived the battle unscathed and William handed it to Mr Fairly who opened the door. Mr Fairly showed him into the studio with a low bow. Mr Fairly was clothed in correct artistic style . . . baggy trousers, velvet coat and a flowing tie. He had a pointed beard and a theatrical manner. He had obviously lunched well – as far as liquid refreshment was concerned at any rate. He was moved to tears by the calendar.

  ‘How kind! How very kind . . . My dear young friend, forgive this emotion. The world is hard. I am not used to kindness. It unmans me . . .’

  He wiped away his tears with a large mauve and yellow handkerchief. William gazed at it fascinated.

  ‘If you will excuse me, my dear young friend,’ went on Mr Fairly, ‘I will retire to my bedroom where I have the wherewithal to write and indite a letter of thanks to your most delightful and charming relative. I beg you to make yourself at home here . . . Use my house, my dear young friend, as though it were your own . . .’

  He waved his arms and retreated unsteadily to an inner room, closing the door behind him.

  William sat down on a chair and waited. Time passed, William became bored. Suddenly a fresh aspect of his Christmas resolution occurred to him. If you were speaking the truth one with another yourself, surely you might take everything that other people said for truth . . . He’d said, ‘Use this house, my dear young friend, as though it were your own . . .’ Well, he would. The man prob’ly meant it . . . well, anyway, he shouldn’t have said it if he didn’t . . . William went across the room and opened a cupboard. It contained a medley of paints, two palettes, two oranges and a cake. The feeling of oppression that had followed William’s Christmas lunch had faded and he attacked the cake with gusto. It took about ten minutes to finish the cake and about four to finish the oranges. William felt refreshed. He looked round the studio with renewed interest. A lay figure sat upon a couch on a small platform. William approached it cautiously. It was almost life-size and clad in a piece of thin silk. William lifted it. It was quite light. He put it on a chair by the window. Then he went to the little back room. A bonnet and mackintosh (belonging to Mr Fairly’s charwoman) hung there. He dr
essed the lay figure in the bonnet and mackintosh. He found a piece of black gauze in a drawer and put it over the figure’s face as a veil and tied it round the bonnet. He felt all the thrill of the creative artist. He shook hands with it and talked to it. He began to have a feeling of deep affection for it. He called it Annabel. The clock struck and he remembered the note he was waiting for . . . He knocked gently at the bedroom door. There was no answer. He opened the door and entered. On the writing-table by the door was a letter:

  ‘DEAR FRIEND,

  ‘Many thanks for your beautiful calendar. Words fail me . . .’

  Then came a blot – mingled ink and emotion – and that was all. Words had failed Mr Fairly so completely that he lay outstretched on the sofa by the window sleeping the sleep of the slightly inebriated. William thought he’d better not wake him up. He returned to the studio and carried on his self-imposed task of investigation. He found some acid drops in a drawer adhering to a tube of yellow ochre. He separated them and ate the acid drops but their strong flavour of yellow ochre made him feel sick and he returned to Annabel for sympathy . . .

  Then he thought of a game. The lay figure was a captured princess and William was the gallant rescuer. He went outside, opened the front door cautiously, crept into the hall, hid behind the door, dashed into the studio, caught up the figure in his arms and dashed into the street with it. The danger and exhilaration of a race for freedom through the streets with Annabel in his arms was too enticing to be resisted. As a matter of fact the flight through the streets was rather disappointing. He met no one and no one pursued him . . .

  He staggered up the steps to Aunt Emma’s house still carrying Annabel. There, considering the matter for the first time in cold blood, he realised that his rescue of Annabel was not likely to be received enthusiastically by his home circle. And Annabel was not easy to conceal. The house seemed empty but he could already hear its inmates returning from their walk. He felt a sudden hatred of Annabel for being so large and unhideable. He could not reach the top of the stairs before they came in at the door. The drawing-room door was open and into it he rushed, deposited Annabel in a chair by the fireplace with her back to the room, and returned to the hall. He smoothed back his hair, assumed his most vacant expression and awaited them. To his surprise they crept past the drawing-room door on tiptoe and congregated in the dining-room.