William at Christmas

by Richmal Crompton

  It happened that in the morning-room (where the play was being held) Ethel, in her capacity of heroine, had just finished singing a song, which was greeted with frenzied applause by her loyal guests. The applause drowned the burglar’s shouts. Douglas flung open the French windows that led from the dining-room to the garden, and panting, tugging and perspiring the Outlaws dragged their victim out into the night across the lawn. Douglas opened the greenhouse door. They hoisted the large green curtain, which still contained its struggling inhabitant, into the greenhouse, shut the door and turned the key in the lock. Then, still panting and purple-faced, the Outlaws went back to the house.

  ‘Well, he was a weight!’ commented Douglas.

  ‘Shall we go an’ tell ’em now?’ said Ginger.

  But William was still rent by the pangs of hunger.

  ‘Oh, he’s all right for a bit,’ he said. ‘He can’t get out. Let’s take a bit of food upstairs first. We can tell ’em after.’

  The Outlaws approved of this. It was certainly a wise plan to make sure of the food. They returned to the dining-room, heaped several plates with dainties that particularly appealed to them, and crept silently upstairs to William’s bedroom. There they sat on the floor munching happily and discussing their capture. They were just deciding that it would be rather fun to be policemen when they grew up, when Ginger pricked up his ears.

  ‘Seems a sort of noise going on downstairs,’ he said.

  Very softly the Outlaws opened the door of William’s bedroom and crept on to the landing. There was most certainly a sort of noise going on downstairs. Everyone seemed to be bustling about, and talking excitedly.

  ‘Do be quiet a minute while I ring up his mother,’ said Ethel’s voice, distraught and tearful. ‘Hello – hello – Is that Mrs Langley? Has Harold come home? Hasn’t he? – No, he’s completely disappeared – No one knows where he is – we got to the point in the play where he comes on – just after my song, you know – and I waited and waited and he never came, and I had to leave the stage without finishing the scene. My nerves had absolutely all gone. I’m still trembling all over, and everyone was hunting and hunting for him – and we had to stop the play,’ tearfully; ‘we couldn’t go on without him. He was the burglar, you know – I do hope nothing awful’s happened – I mean, I hope he didn’t get so nervous he lost his memory, or – or – went out and had some awful accident or anything. We’re all do distressed – it’s quite spoilt the party, of course, and ruined the play. We only got to the song – I don’t know when I’ve felt so awful.’

  She was interrupted by Mrs Brown’s voice, high and hysterical. ‘Oh, Ethel, do fetch your father. It’s too dark to see anything – but there’s the most awful commotion going on in the garden. Someone’s breaking all the glass in the greenhouse.’

  The entire party sallied out excitedly into the garden. They were not there long, but during their absence two things happened. The Outlaws, acting with great presence of mind, seized their share of the food and fled like so many flashes of streaked lightning to their several homes. And William got into bed and went to sleep. He went to sleep with almost incredible rapidity. When his family entered his bedroom a few minutes later, demanding explanation, William lay red and breathless, but determinedly and unwakably asleep. The grimly set lines of his mouth and the frown on his brow testified to the intense and concentrated nature of his sleep.

  ‘Oh, don’t wake him,’ pleaded Mrs Brown. ‘It’s so bad for children to be startled out of sleep.’

  ‘Sleep!’ said Robert sarcastically. ‘Well, I don’t mind. It can wait till tomorrow for all I care. The party’s ruined, anyway.’

  Fortunately, they did not look under the bed, or they would have seen a large plate piled with appetising dainties. They went away with threatening murmurs in which the word ‘tomorrow’ figured largely.

  When they had gone William got out of bed with great caution and sat in the darkness munching iced cakes. That sleep idea had been jolly good. Of course, he knew it couldn’t go on indefinitely. He couldn’t go on sleeping for a month. He’d have to wake up tomorrow, but tomorrow was tomorrow, and when tonight holds an entire plate of iced cakes (many of them with layers of real cream inside), tomorrow is hardly worth serious consideration.

  CHAPTER 5

  WILLIAM JOINS THE WAITS

  It was only two days before Christmas and the Outlaws stood in Ginger’s back garden discussing its prospects, somewhat pessimistically. All except Henry – for Henry, in a spirit of gloomy resignation to fate, had gone to spend the festival season with relations in the North.

  ‘What’re you goin’ to get?’ demanded William of Ginger. The Outlaws generally spent the week before Christmas in ascertaining exactly what were the prospects of that day. It was quite an easy task, owing chiefly to the conservative habits of their relatives in concealing their presents in the same place year after year. The Outlaws knew exactly in which drawer or cupboard to pursue their search, and could always tell by some unerring instinct which of the concealed presents was meant for them.

  ‘Nothin’ really ’citin’,’ said Ginger, without enthusiasm, ‘but nothin’ awful, ’cept what Uncle George’s giv’n me.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said William.

  ‘An ole book,’ said Ginger with withering contempt; ‘an ole book called Kings an’ Queens of England. Huh! An’ I shall have to say I like it an’ thank him an’ all that. An’ I shan’t be able to sell it even, ’cept for about sixpence, ’cause you never can, an’ it cost five shillin’s. Five shillin’s! It’s got five shillin’s on the back. Well, why can’t he give me the five shillin’s an’ let me buy somethin’ sensible?’

  He spoke with the bitterness of one who airs a grievance of long standing. ‘Goin’ wastin’ their money on things like Kings an’ Queens of England, ’stead of giv’n it to us to buy somethin’ sensible. Think of all the sensible things we could buy with five shillin’s – ’stead of stupid things like Kings an’ Queens of England.’

  ‘Well,’ burst out Douglas indignantly. ‘S’not so bad as what my Aunt Jane’s got for me. She’s gotter ole tie. A tie!’ He spat the word out with disgust. ‘I found it when I went to tea with her las’ week. A silly ole green tie. Well, I’d rather pretend to be pleased over any ole book than over a silly green tie. An’ I can’t even sell it, ’cause they’ll keep goin’ on at me to wear it – a sick’nin’ ole green tie!’

  William was not to be outdone.

  ‘Well, you don’t know what my Uncle Charles is givin’ me. I heard him tellin’ mother about it. A silly baby penknife.’

  ‘A penknife!’ they echoed. ‘Well, there’s nothin’ wrong with a penknife.’

  ‘I’d rather have a penknife than an old Kings an’ Queens of England,’ said Ginger bitterly.

  ‘An’ I’d rather have a penknife or a Kings an’ Queens of England than a silly ole green tie,’ said Douglas.

  ‘A Kings an’ Queens of England’s worse than a tie,’ said Ginger fiercely, as though his honour were involved in any suggestion to the contrary.

  ‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas equally fiercely.

  ‘’Tis!’ said Ginger.

  ‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas.

  The matter would have been settled one way or the other by physical contest between the protagonists had not William thrust his penknife (metaphorically speaking) again into the discussion.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you don’t know what kind of a penknife, an’ I do. I’ve got three penknives, an’ one’s almost as big as a nornery knife, an’ got four blades an’ a thing for taking stones out of horses’ hoofs an’ some things what I haven’t found out what they’re meant for yet, an’ this what he’s given me is a baby penknife – it’s only got one blade, an’ I heard him tellin’ mother that I couldn’t do any harm with it. Fancy,’ – his voice quivered with indignation – ‘fancy anyone givin’ you a penknife what you can’t do any harm with.’

  Ginger and Douglas stood equally a
ghast at this news. The insult of the tie and the Kings and Queens of England paled before the deadly insult of a penknife you couldn’t do any harm with.

  William returned home still burning with fury.

  He found his mother in the drawing-room. She looked rather worried.

  ‘William,’ she said, ‘Mr Solomon’s just been here.’

  William heard the news without much interest. Mr Solomon was the superintendent of the Sunday School, on which the Outlaws reluctantly shed the light of their presence every Sunday afternoon. Mr Solomon was very young and earnest and well-meaning, and the Outlaws found it generally quite easy to ignore him. He in his official capacity found it less easy to ignore the Outlaws. But he was an ever hopeful man, and never gave up his efforts to reach their better selves, a part of them which had hitherto succeeded in eluding him.

  ‘He’s going to take the elder boys out carol singing on Christmas Eve,’ went on Mrs Brown uncertainly. ‘He came to ask whether I’d rather you didn’t go.’

  William was silent. The suggestion was entirely unexpected and full of glorious possibilities. But, as he understood well enough the uncertainty in his mother’s voice, he received it without any change of expression. The slight disgust, caused by brooding over the ignominy of a penknife he couldn’t do any harm with, remained upon his unclassic features.

  ‘Uh-huh?’ he said with interest.

  ‘Would you like to go?’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind,’ said William casually, his expression of disgust giving way to one of mere boredom. Mrs Brown, watching him, thought that Mr Solomon’s apprehensions were quite ill-founded.

  ‘If you went, William,’ she said, ‘you’d be quite quiet and orderly, wouldn’t you?’

  William’s expression was one of amazement. He looked as though he could hardly credit his ears.

  ‘Me?’ he said indignantly. ‘Me? – why, of course!’

  He seemed so hurt by the question that his mother hastened to reassure him.

  ‘I thought you would, dear. I told Mr Solomon you would. You – you’d like it, wouldn’t you, dear?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said William, careful not to sound too eager.

  ‘What would you like about it, dear?’ asked Mrs Brown, priding herself upon her cunning.

  William assumed an unctuous expression.

  ‘Singin’ hymns an’ – an’ psalms,’ he said piously, ‘an’ – an’ that sort of thing.’

  His mother looked relieved.

  ‘That’s right, dear,’ she said. ‘I think it would be a very beautiful experience for you. I told Mr Solomon so. He seemed afraid that you might go in the wrong spirit, but I told him that I was sure you wouldn’t.’

  Mrs Brown’s unquenchable faith in her younger son was one of the most beautiful and touching things the world has ever known.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said William, looking deeply shocked at the notion. ‘I won’t go in the wrong spirit, I’ll go in, you know – what you said – a beautiful experience an’ all that sort of spirit.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Brown, ‘I’d like you to go. It will be the sort of experience you’ll remember all your life.’

  As a matter of fact it turned out to be the sort of experience that Mr Solomon rather than William remembered all his life.

  William met Ginger and Douglas the next morning.

  ‘I’m goin’ waitin’ Christmas Eve,’ he announced proudly.

  ‘So’m I,’ said Ginger.

  ‘So’m I,’ said Douglas.

  It turned out that Mr Solomon had visited their parents too, yesterday, and to their parents, too, had expressed doubt as to the advisability of their sons being allowed to join the party. Though well meaning, he was not a very tactful young man, and had not expressed his doubts in such a way as to placate maternal pride.

  ‘My mother said,’ said Ginger, ‘why shun’t I go same as anyone else, so I’m goin’!’

  ‘So did mine,’ said Douglas, ‘so so’m I.’

  ‘Yes,’ said William indignantly, ‘fancy sayin’ he thought I’d better not come. Why, I should think I’m ’s good at waitin’ ’s anybody else in the world – why, when I start singin’ you c’n hear me at the other end of the village.’

  This statement, being unassailable, passed unchallenged.

  ‘Do you know where we’re goin’?’ continued William.

  ‘He said beginnin’ up Well Lane’ said Douglas.

  ‘My Uncle George lives in Well Lane,’ said Ginger thoughtfully, ‘the one what’s givin’ me Kings an’ Queens of England.’

  There was a short silence. In that silence the thought came to all three Outlaws that the expedition might have even vaster possibilities than at first they had imagined.

  ‘Then, where we goin’?’ said William.

  ‘Jus’ up the village street,’ said Douglas.

  ‘My Uncle Charles,’ said William thoughtfully, ‘the one what’s givin’ me the penknife you can’t do any harm with, lives right away from the village.’

  ‘So does my Aunt Jane – the one what’s givin’ me the ole green tie.’

  William’s face assumed its expression of daring leadership.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll jus’ have to do what we can.’

  Many, many times before Christmas Eve arrived did Mr Solomon bitterly regret the impulse on which he had suggested his party of waits. He would have liked to cancel the arrangement altogether, but he lacked the courage.

  He held several practices in which his party of full-voiced but unmelodious musicians roared ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and ‘The First Noel’, making up in volume for what they lacked in tone and technique. During these practices he watched the Outlaws apprehensively. His apprehensions increased as time went on, for the Outlaws were behaving like creatures from another and a higher world.

  They were docile and obedient and respectful. And this was not normal in the Outlaws. Normally they would by now have tired of the whole thing. Normally they would be clustered in the back row cracking nuts and throwing the shells at friends or foes. But they were not. They were standing in the front row wearing saintly expressions (as far, that is, as the expressions of the Outlaws could convey the idea of saintliness), singing ‘Good King Wenceslas Looked Out’ with strident conscientiousness.

  Mr Solomon would have been relieved to see them cracking nuts or deliberately introducing discords into the melody (they introduced discords, it is true, but unconsciously). He began to have a horrible suspicion that they were forming some secret plan.

  The prospective waits assembled with Mr Solomon at the end of the village at nightfall. Mr Solomon was intensely nervous. It had taken all his better self to resist the temptation to put the whole thing off on the fictitious excuse of sudden illness. He held a lantern in his hand and a large tin of sweets under his arm. He had bought the large tin of sweets last night on the spur of the moment. He had a vague hope that it might prove useful in some crisis.

  He raised the lantern and examined the little crowd of faces around him. He looked as though he were counting them. In reality he was anxiously ascertaining whether the Outlaws were there. He’d been clinging all day to the hope that the Outlaws mightn’t be there. After all, he had thought hopefully, there was quite a lot of measles about. Or they might have forgotten. But his heart sank. There they were, standing in the very centre of the group. He sighed. Probably there were hundreds of boys all over the world coming out in rashes at that moment, and yet here were these boys as bloomingly healthy as they’d ever been. Life was full of irony.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he said in that voice of rather painful brightness that he always used with the young. ‘Here we all are . . . All got your best voices, eh? Now we’ll go down Well Lane first.’

  ‘Uncle George,’ whispered Ginger.

  ‘Go straight down the lane,’ said Mr Solomon, ‘till you get to the Laurels, and then turn in and we’ll begin with “The First Noel”.’

  Obediently the little trou
pe set off towards Well Lane. It was as quiet and good and orderly as a Sunday School superintendent’s heart could wish, and yet the Sunday School superintendent’s heart was not quite light. He could not help remembering the proverbial order of sequence of the calm and the storm.

  He’d have felt, of course, quite happy if the Outlaws hadn’t been there.

  He had, however, taken quite a lot of trouble over the itinerary. He meant only to pay half-a-dozen visits, and to sing only one carol at each. It was not likely that they would receive any encores. The whole thing ought to be over in an hour. He hoped it would be, anyway.

  He had already prepared the householders who were to be honoured by a visit from his waits, and though not enthusiastic they were ready to receive the visitants in a Christmas spirit of good will. He meant to risk no unchristian reception by paying unexpected visits. Though he was well-meaning rather than musical still he had a vague suspicion that the performance of his choir left a good deal to be desired.

  The Misses Perkins lived at the Laurels, and they had assured Mr Solomon that they would love – simply love – to hear the dear little boys sing Christmas carols, and so would Muffy. (Muffy was the Misses Perkins’ cat.) The visit to the Misses Perkins, anyway, ought to go off nicely. Fortunately, the Misses Perkins were slightly deaf.

  Everything seemed to be going off very nicely so far. The waits were walking quietly and sedately down the road, not shouting or fighting as boys so often did. Mr Solomon’s spirits rose. It was really after all a very beautiful idea – and they were really after all very nice boys. He could see William and Ginger and Douglas walking decorously and silently together. Marvellous how even such boys as those yielded to the Christmas spirit.

  They were walking at the head, leading the little troupe; they were turning obediently in at the gate of the Laurels. The young man took out his tuning fork and followed, smiling proudly.

  Then the light of his lantern shone upon the gate as he entered and – it wasn’t the Laurels.