William at Christmas

by Richmal Crompton

  They’d made a mistake. It wasn’t the Laurels. It was the Cedars.

  Mr Solomon, of course, could not know that the Outlaws had passed the Laurels and entered the Cedars deliberately because Ginger’s Uncle George lived at the Cedars.

  ‘Come back!’ called Mr Solomon’s thin voice through the night. ‘It’s the wrong house! Come back!’

  But already the waits had burst violently into ‘The First Noel’. It was a pity that they did not wait for the note from Mr Solomon, who had his tuning fork already in his hand.

  It was a pity that they did not begin all together, and that having begun each at a separate moment each should cling so tenaciously to his own time and interpretation. It was a great pity that they did not know the words.

  It was the greatest pity of all that they possessed the voices they did possess. But there is no denying their zest. There is no denying that each one put all the power and energy he possessed into his rendering of the carol. The resulting sound was diabolical. Diabolical is a strong word, but it is hardly strong enough. The English language does not really possess a word strong enough to describe the effect of these waits’ rendering of ‘The First Noel’.

  After one minute of it, Uncle George’s window was flung up and Uncle George’s purple face was thrust out.

  ‘Go away, you young devils!’ he sputtered. ‘How dare you come here kicking up that infernal din? Go a-way, I say!’

  ‘GO AWAY, YOU YOUNG DEVILS!’ HE SPLUTTERED. ‘HOW DARE YOU COME KICKING UP THAT DIN.’

  Mr Solomon’s voice in the rear kept up its shrill but ineffective plaint.

  ‘Come away, boys – it’s the wrong house. I said the Laurels – the Misses Perkins and Muffy will be wondering wherever we are – quietly, boys – don’t shout so – and you’ve got the wrong note—’

  MR SOLOMON’S VOICE IN THE REAR KEPT UP ITS SHRILL PLAINT. ‘COME AWAY, BOYS! IT’S THE WRONG HOUSE!’

  But nobody heard him. The uproar continued to be deafening. The other waits realised that the Outlaws were for some reason or other determined to make as much noise as possible and gladly gave their assistance. They found the process exhilarating. They began to think that the whole affair was going to be more interesting than they had thought it would be. Joyfully they yelled and yelled and yelled. Above them the purple-faced figure of Uncle George gesticulated and uttered words which were (fortunately, perhaps) drowned by the inferno of sound below.

  Then, suddenly, silence came. Abruptly the Outlaws had stopped singing and the others at once stopped too, waiting developments. It was, of course, Uncle George’s chance, and the immediate development was a flood of eloquence from Uncle George, to which the waits listened with joyful interest and at which Mr Solomon grew pale.

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ gasped Mr Solomon, at last recovering. ‘Quite a mistake – boys mistook house – visit meant for friends of ours – no offence intended, I assure you.’

  But so breathless was he that only the two boys nearest him heard him, and no one heeded him. For to the amazement of all of them (except Ginger and Douglas), William spoke up firmly from the foreground.

  ‘Please, sir, we’re c’lectin’ books for our library. Please sir, can you give us a book for our lib’ry?’

  Mr Solomon gaped in open-mouthed amazement at this statement. He tried to utter some protest, but could only stutter.

  Uncle George, however, could do more than stutter. He answered the question in the negative with such strength, and at such length, that the waits’ admiration of him became a sort of ecstasy. William answered the refusal by bursting with amazing promptitude and discord into ‘Good King Wenceslas’.

  The Outlaws followed his lead. The rest of the waits joined in, most of them showing their conservative spirits by clinging still to ‘The First Noel’. Not that it mattered much. No listener could have told what any of them was singing. Words and tune were lost in a tornado of unmelodious sound. Each wait tasted the rapture of exerting the utmost force of his lungs, and trying to drown his neighbour’s effort.

  In front of them Uncle George hung out of his bedroom window gesticulating violently, his complexion changing from purple to black.

  Behind them Mr Solomon clung to the gatepost of the Cedars, moaning softly and mopping his brow.

  A second time the waits stopped suddenly at a signal from William. The nightmare sound died away and there followed a silence broken only by the moans of Mr Solomon and sputtering from Uncle George, in which could be recognised the oft-returning words ‘the police’.

  But something of Uncle George’s first fine careless frenzy was gone. There was something broken about him, as there would indeed have been something broken about anyone who had listened to the ghastly sound. Again William spoke up brightly.

  ‘Please c’n you give us a book for our lib’ry? We’re collectin’ books for our lib’ry. We want a book for boys – ’bout history, please. If you’ve got one to give us. For our lib’ry please.’

  In the background, Mr Solomon, still clinging to the gatepost, moaned. ‘I assure you, sir – mistake – wrong house—’

  With admirable promptness and a force that was amazing considering the energy that he must have already expended, William burst with sudden unexpected violence into ‘Fight the Good Fight’, which Mr Solomon had been teaching them the Sunday before. It was taken up by the others, each, as before, striking out an entirely independent line in his rendering of it. It was the last straw. Uncle George was beaten.

  With an expression of agony he clapped his hands over his ears and staggered backwards. Then he reappeared, and The Kings and Queens of England hit William a smart blow on the side of his head, and fell on to the gravel at his feet. William picked it up and signalled that the hymn should cease. A moment later the waits had gone. There only remained Mr Solomon clinging to the gatepost, stupefied by the terrible events he had just lived through, and Uncle George sputtering at the open window.

  Uncle George’s sputtering suddenly ceased, and he hurled at Mr Solomon’s figure, dimly perceived through the darkness, a flood of eloquence which was worthy of a more discerning and appreciative audience.

  Mr Solomon looked around him wildly. He looked for his lantern. It was gone. He looked for his tin of sweets. It was gone. He looked for his waits. They were gone.

  Pursued by Uncle George’s lurid invective he fled into the road and looked up and down it. There was no sign of lantern or tin of sweets or waits. He tore along to the village street where he had told them to go next and where presumably their next warned host awaited them.

  There was no sign of them.

  Distracted he tore up and down the road.

  Then at the end of the road there appeared the tall burly figure of – a policeman. Unstrung by his experience, the blameless Mr Solomon fled from the minion of the law like a criminal and ran as fast as his legs could carry him homewards.

  Meanwhile the waits were joyfully approaching the house of Douglas’s Aunt Jane on the hillside. William swaggered at the head of them, carrying the lantern in one hand and the tin of sweets in the other. Behind him followed the others, each sucking happily a mouthful of sweets.

  Kings and Queens of England had been flung into the village stream on the way. None of them except the Outlaws knew what it was all about. All they knew was that what had promised to be a dull and lawful expedition, organised by the Sunday School authorities, was turning out to be a thrilling and lawless expedition organised by William.

  They followed him gladly, thinking blissfully of that glorious medley of sounds at which they had assisted, looking forward to another, and enjoying the delightful experience of having their mouths filled to their utmost capacity with Mr Solomon’s sweets.

  William led them into the garden of Rose Cottage, where Douglas’s Aunt Jane lived. There they massed themselves ready for the onslaught. Those who had not finished their sweets swallowed them whole, and all drew in their breath.

  They looked at William. William g
ave the signal. The outburst came. The effect was more powerful even than before, because no two of them were singing the same tune.

  William, tiring of carols, was singing ‘Valencia’ at the top of his voice.

  Ginger, who had not moved with the times, was singing ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas’.

  Douglas was still singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’.

  Of the others, one was singing ‘D’ye Ken John Peel?’ and others were singing ‘Coal Black Mammy’, ‘Fight the Good Fight’, ‘The First Noel’, ‘Tea for Two’, and ‘Here We Are Again’. They all sang with gusto.

  They had been singing for nearly ten minutes, when Douglas stopped them with an imperious gesture.

  ‘I say,’ he said to William, ‘I forgot – she’s deaf.’

  The Outlaws were obviously nonplussed by this. They stared blankly, first at Douglas, then at his aunt’s house. Suddenly Ginger said excitedly, ‘Look! She’s come downstairs.’

  Certainly a lighted candle could be seen moving about in the downstairs room where before all had been darkness.

  ‘Well,’ said Douglas simply. ‘I’m not goin’ away without that tie now we’ve come this far for it.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ volunteered William, ‘an’ see if I can get it off her. You’d better not, ’cause she knows you – go on singin’, the rest of you.’

  With that William advanced boldly into the enemy’s country. He had no clear idea of what he was going to do. He would simply await the inspiration of the moment which so seldom failed him.

  He was afraid that the deaf old lady would not hear his knock, but she opened to him almost immediately and dragged him within with a suddenness that amazed and perturbed him. There was something witch-like about her as she stood, tall and gaunt, her grey hair over her shoulders, wrapped in a long grey dressing-gown. She held an ear-trumpet in one hand.

  ‘Come in!’ she said excitedly. ‘Come in! Come in! Saw you coming through the window – What is it?’

  She held out her trumpet to him and he repeated into it nervously: ‘What’s what?’

  ‘That sound,’ she went on. ‘It roused me from sleep; the roaring of wild animals or – is it an air raid? Has some enemy attacked us?’

  ‘No,’ William hastened to assure her through the trumpet, ‘it’s not that.’

  ‘Animals, then,’ she went on, still excited; ‘it sounded to me like the baying of wolves. Did you see them?’

  ‘HAS SOME ENEMY ATTACKED US?’ SHE ASKED. ‘NO!’ WILLIAM ASSURED HER THROUGH THE TRUMPET.

  ‘Yes,’ said William into the trumpet.

  ‘And came here for protection? I thought so – they must have escaped from the circus at Moncton. I heard that there was a pack of live wolves there – most dangerous, I’ve always thought, this exhibiting of wild animals – are they round the house, boy? Listen!’

  Outside arose the glorious medley of ‘The First Noel’, ‘Good King Wenceslas’, ‘Fight the Good Fight’, ‘D’ye Ken John Peel?’, ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas’, ‘Tea for Two’, ‘Coal Black Mammy’, and ‘Here We Are Again’.

  Aunt Jane shuddered.

  ‘All round the house,’ she said. ‘Even I can hear it, a most blood-curdling sound. I have often read of it, but never thought that it would fall to my lot to hear it. The first thing to do is to barricade the house.’

  William, slightly bewildered by the turn events had taken, watched her move a table across the window and block up the door with a tall cupboard.

  ‘There!’ she said at last. ‘That should keep them away. And I have provisions for several days.’

  Aunt Jane seemed almost stimulated by the thought of the pack of wolves howling around her lonely hillside house.

  ‘Listen,’ she said again as the hideous uproar outside continued. ‘Listen and imagine the tawny brutes with ravening open fangs. Listen to that,’ as Ginger’s strong young voice proclaimed above the general uproar that he had no bananas. ‘Did you hear? – that voice speaks of greed and cunning, of lust for blood and a passionate hatred of the human race.’

  As she spoke she moved to and fro, moving pieces of furniture across doors and windows.

  William was utterly at a loss. He didn’t know what to do or say. He watched her in open-mouthed bewilderment. Whenever he looked as if he were going to speak she placed the ear-trumpet in place for him so much that he gave a sickly smile and shook his head.

  He watched her blocking up every available entrance to her cottage and wondered desperately how on earth he was going to get out of it. He wished to goodness that he’d never come in – that he’d let Douglas get his own silly tie. The waits outside were chanting as merrily and discordantly as ever.

  Suddenly Aunt Jane left the room to reappear triumphantly a few minutes later carrying a large and old-fashioned gun.

  ‘It’s a long time since I used it,’ she said, ‘but I believe it might get one or two of them.’

  William’s annoyance turned to dismay.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t. I – er – wouldn’t,’ he protested.

  She could not hear what he said, but seeing his lips move she presented him with the other end of her ear-trumpet.

  ‘What do you say?’

  He gave his sickly grin.

  ‘Er – nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Then I wish you’d stop saying nothing,’ she said tartly. ‘If you’ve anything to say, say it, and if you haven’t, don’t, instead of mumbling away there and saying you’re saying nothing.’

  William gave her the sickly smile again and blinked.

  She clambered on to the table before the window and opened the window very slightly. Through the small aperture thus made she projected the muzzle of her gun. William watched her, paralysed with horror. Outside the medley of song rose higher and higher.

  William could dimly discern the forms of his companions through the darkness. Aunt Jane was as short-sighted as she was hard of hearing.

  ‘I can see them,’ she said eagerly. ‘Dim, lean, sinister shapes out there – now I really think I might get one or two. Anyway, the sound of the shot might drive them farther off.’

  ‘I CAN SEE THEM,’ SHE SAID EAGERLY. ‘DIM, LEAN, SINISTER SHAPES OUT THERE.’

  William felt as though in a nightmare, powerless to move or to speak as the old lady pointed the deadly weapon at his unsuspecting friends chanting their varied repertoire of songs so merrily in the darkness. Then, before the fatal shot rang out, William plucked her dressing-gown. She turned to him irritably and held the ear-trumpet to him again.

  ‘Well,’ she snapped, ‘what’s the matter now? Got anything to say yet?’

  William suddenly found both his voice and an inspiration.

  ‘Let’s keep the gun for a – for a sort of last resource,’ he yelled into the trumpet, ‘case they sort of attack the house.’

  She was obviously impressed by the idea. She took in the gun, closed the window and descended from the table.

  ‘Something in that,’ she said.

  The success of his inspiration restored William’s self-respect. Something of his dejection vanished and something of his swagger returned. Suddenly his face shone. An IDEA – an idea – an IDEA – had occurred to him.

  ‘I say,’ he gasped.

  ‘Well?’ she snapped.

  ‘I’ve heard,’ he yelled into the aperture, ‘I’ve heard that wolves are frightened of green.’

  ‘Of green?’ she said irritably, ‘of green what?’

  ‘Jus’ of green,’ said William, ‘of green colour.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ she snapped.

  ‘Well, I’ve heard it,’ persisted William. ‘Heard of a man drivin’ away a whole herd o’ wolves by jus’ goin’ out and showin’ ’em a green tablecloth.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not got a green tablecloth, so that settles it.’

  But William didn’t think it did. ‘Haven’t you got anythin’ green?’ he persisted.

  She considered.

  ‘One or two small green things,’ she
said, ‘but green varies so. What sort of green should it be?’

  William considered this question in silence for a minute. Then, ‘Can’t quite describe it,’ he yelled, ‘but I’d know if I saw.’

  That, he couldn’t help thinking, was rather neat.

  After a slight hesitation Aunt Jane went from the room and soon returned with an olive green scarf, a bottle green hat, and a new tie of a most virulent pea green.

  William’s eyes gleamed when they fell upon the tie.

  ‘That’s it!’ he shouted. ‘That’s the green.’

  Aunt Jane looked rather annoyed. ‘I particularly wanted that for tomorrow,’ she said peevishly, ‘won’t the scarf do? I’ve no further use for it.’

  ‘No,’ said William very decidedly, pointing to the tie, ‘that’s the green.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but it’s too dark for them to see it.’

  ‘I’ll take a lantern. I’ve gotter lantern in the porch.’

  ‘They’ll attack you if you go out there.’

  ‘Not if they see the green,’ said William firmly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Aunt Jane, who was beginning to feel rather sleepy, ‘take it if you like.’

  William slipped out into the night with the green tie. Aunt Jane waited.

  The noise outside died away, and all was silent.

  Aunt Jane suspected that the boy had been devoured by the wolves, but the thought did not trouble her very much. She merely strengthened her fortifications and then went to bed. There was something rather inhuman about Aunt Jane. There must have been something rather inhuman about anyone who could choose a tie that colour.

  The green tie had been torn into a thousand pieces, and trodden into the ditch. The toffee tin was almost empty. The waits were growing sleepy. Their songs, though no less discordant than before, were beginning to lack verve. Only Uncle Charles remained to be dealt with. Headed by William they marched upon Uncle Charles’s house. Boldly they surged into Uncle Charles’s garden. There they stood and upraised their strong young voices, and sang. Uncle Charles’s window was flung up as quickly as Uncle George’s had been.