Still William

by Richmal Crompton

  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 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 dressed 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.

  ‘A caller,’ said Aunt Emma. ‘Did you see?’

  ‘Yes, in the dining-room,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I saw her hat through the window.’

  ‘Curse!’ said Uncle Frederick.

  ‘The maids must have shown her in before they went up to change. I’m simply not going to see her. On Christmas day, too! I’ll just wait till she gets tired and goes or till one of the maids comes down and can send her away!’

  ‘Shh!’ said Uncle Frederick. ‘She’ll hear you.’

  Aunt Emma lowered her voice.

  ‘I don’t think she’s a lady,’ she said. ‘She didn’t look it through the window.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s collecting for something,’ said Mrs Brown.

  ‘Well,’ said Aunt Emma sinking her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘if we stay in here and keep very quiet she’ll get tired of waiting and go.’

  William was torn between an interested desire to be safely out of the way when the dénouement took place and a disinterested desire to witness the dénouement. The latter won and he stood at the back of the group with a sphinx-like expression upon his freckled face . . .

  They waited in silence for some minutes then Aunt Emma said: ‘Well, she’ll stay for ever it seems to me if someone doesn’t send her away. Frederick, go and turn her out.’

  They all crept into the hall. Uncle Frederick went just inside and coughed loudly. Annabel did not move. Uncle Frederick came back.

  ‘Deaf!’ he whispered. ‘Stone deaf! Someone else try.’

  Ethel advanced boldly into the middle of the room. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said clearly and sweetly.

  Annabel did not move. Ethel returned.

  ‘I think she must be asleep,’ said Ethel.

  ‘She looks drunk to me,’ said Aunt Emma, peeping round the door.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder if she was dead,’ said Robert. ‘It’s just the sort of thing you read about in books. Mysterious dead body found in drawing-room. I bet I can find a few clues to the murder if she is dead.’

  ‘Robert!’ reproved Mrs Brown in a shrill whisper.

  ‘Perhaps you’d better fetch the police, Frederick,’ said Aunt Emma.

  ‘I’ll have one more try,’ said Uncle Frederick.

  He entered the room.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he bellowed.

  Annabel did not move. He went up to her.

  ‘Now look here, my woman—’ he began, laying his hand on her shoulder . . .

  Then the dénouement happened.

  Mr Fairly burst into the house like a whirlwind still slightly inebriated and screaming with rage.

  ‘Where’s the thief? Where is he? He’s stolen my figure. He’s eaten my tea. I shall have to eat my supper for my tea and my breakfast for my supper . . . I shall be a meal wrong always . . . I shall never get right. And it’s all hi
s fault. Where is he? He’s stolen my charwoman’s clothes. He’s stolen my figure. He’s eaten my tea. Wait till I get him!’ He caught sight of Annabel, rushed into the drawing-room, caught her up in his arms and turned round upon the circle of open-mouthed spectators. ‘I hate you!’ he screamed. ‘And your nasty little calendars and your nasty little boys! Stealing my figure and eating my tea . . . I’ll light the fire with your nasty little calendar. I’d like to light the fire with your nasty little boy!’

  With a final snort of fury he turned, still clasping Annabel in his arms, and staggered down the front steps. We akly, stricken and (for the moment) speechless, they watched his departure from the top of the steps. He took to his heels as soon as he was in the road. But he was less fortunate than William. As he turned the corner and vanished from sight, already two policemen were in pursuit. He was screaming defiance at them as he ran. Annabel’s head wobbled over his shoulder and her bonnet dangled by a string.

  ‘I’LL HAVE ONE MORE TRY,’ SAID UNCLE FREDERICK, AND ENTERED THE ROOM. ‘GOOD AFTERNOON,’ HE BELLOWED.

  Then, no longer speechless, they turned on William.

  ‘I told you,’ said Robert to them when there was a slight lull in the storm. ‘You wouldn’t take any advice. If it wasn’t Christmas day I’d hang him myself.’

  ‘But you won’t let me speak!’ said William plaintively. ‘Jus’ listen to me a minute. When I got to his house he said, he said mos’ distinct, he said, “Please use this—”’

  ANNABEL DID NOT MOVE.

  ‘William,’ interrupted Mrs Brown with dignity. ‘I don’t know what’s happened and I don’t want to know but I shall tell your father all about it directly we get home.’

  Uncle Frederick saw them off at the station the next day.

  ‘Does your effort at truth continue today as well?’ he said to William.

  ‘I s’pose it’s Boxing Day too,’ said William. ‘He din’ mention Boxing Day. But I s’pose it counts with Christmas.’

  ‘I won’t ask you whether you’ve enjoyed yourself then,’ said Uncle Frederick. He slipped another half-crown into William’s hand. ‘Buy yourself something with that. Your Aunt chose the Church History book and the instruments. I’m really grateful to you about— Well, I think Emma’s right. I don’t think she’ll ever come again.’

  The train steamed out. Uncle Frederick returned home. He had been too optimistic. Lady Atkinson was in the drawing-room talking to his wife.

  ‘Of course,’ she was saying, ‘I’m not annoyed. I bear no grudge because I believe the boy’s possessed! He ought to be ex – exercised . . . You know, what you do with evil spirits.’

  It was the evening of William’s return home. His father’s question as to whether William had been good had been answered as usual in the negative and, refusing to listen to details of accusation or defence (ignoring William’s, ‘But he said mos’ distinct, he said, “Please use this—”’ and the rest of the explanation always drowned by the others), he docked William of a month’s pocket money. But William was not depressed. The ordeal of Christmas was over. Normal life stretched before him once more. His spirits rose. He wandered out into the lane. There he met Ginger, his bosom pal, with whom on normal days he fought and wrestled and carried out deeds of daring and wickedness, but who (like William) on festivals and holy days was forced reluctantly to shed the light of his presence upon his own family. From Ginger’s face, too, a certain gloom cleared as he saw William.

  ‘Well,’ said William, ‘ ’v you enjoyed it?’

  ‘I had a pair of braces from my aunt,’ said Ginger bitterly. ‘A pair of braces!’

  ‘Well, I had a tie an’ a Church History book.’

  ‘I put my braces down the well.’

  ‘I chopped up my tie into little bits.’

  ‘Was it nice at your aunt’s?’

  William’s grievances burst out.

  ‘I went to church an’ took what that man said an’ I’ve been speaking the truth one with another an’ leadin’ a higher life an’ well, it jolly well din’t make it the happiest Christmas of my life what he said it would . . . It made it the worst. Every one mad at me all the time. I think I was the only person in the world speakin’ the truth one with another an’ they’ve took off my pocket money for it. An’ you’d think ’f you was speakin’ the truth yourself you might take what anyone else said for truth an’ I keep tellin’ ’em that he said mos’ distinct, “Please use this house as if it were your own,” but they won’ listen to me! Well, I’ve done with it. I’m goin’ back to deceit an’ – an’ – what’s a word beginnin’ with hyp—?’

  ‘Hypnotism?’ suggested Ginger after deep thought.

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said William. ‘Well, I’m goin’ back to it first thing tomorrow mornin’.’

  CHAPTER 10

  AN AFTERNOON WITH WILLIAM

  William’s family was staying at the seaside for its summer holidays. This time was generally cordially detested by William. He hated being dragged from his well-known haunts, his woods and fields and friends and dog (for Jumble was not the kind of dog one takes away on a holiday). He hated the uncongenial atmosphere of hotels and boarding houses. He hated the dull promenades and the town gardens where walking over the grass and playing at Red Indians was discouraged. He failed utterly to understand the attraction that such places seemed to possess for his family. He took a pride and pleasure in the expression of gloom and boredom that he generally managed to maintain during the whole length of the holiday. But this time it was different. Ginger was staying with his family in the same hotel as William.

  Ginger’s father and William’s father played golf together. Ginger’s mother and William’s mother looked at the shops and the sea together. William and Ginger went off together on secret expeditions. Though no cajoleries or coaxings would have persuaded William to admit that he was ‘enjoying his holiday’, still the presence of Ginger made it difficult for him to maintain his usual aspect of gloomy scorn. They hunted for smugglers in the caves, they slipped over seaweedy rocks and fell into the pools left by the retreating tide. They carried on warfare from trenches which they made in the sand, dug mines and counter-mines and generally got damp sand so deeply ingrained in their clothes and hair that, as Mrs Brown said almost tearfully, they ‘simply defied brushing’.

  Today they were engaged in the innocent pursuit of wandering along the front and sampling the various attractions which it offered. They stood through three performances of the Punch and Judy show, laughing uproariously each time. As they had taken possession of the best view and as it never seemed to occur to them to contribute towards the expenses, the showman finally ordered them off. They wandered off obligingly and bought two penny sticks of liquorice at the next stall. Then they bought two penny giant glasses of a biliousy-coloured green lemonade and quaffed them in front of the stall with intense enjoyment. Then they wandered away from the crowded part of the front to the empty space beyond the rocks. Ginger found a dead crab and William made a fire and tried to cook it, but the result was not encouraging. They ate what was left of their liquorice sticks to take away the taste, then went on to the caves. They reviewed the possibility of hunting for smugglers without enthusiasm. William was feeling disillusioned with smugglers. He seemed to have spent the greater part of his life hunting for smugglers. They seemed to be an unpleasantly secretive set of people. They might have let him catch just one . . .

  They flung stones into the retreating tide and leapt into the little pools to see how high they could make the splashes go.

  Then they saw the boat . . .

  It was lying by itself high and dry on the shore. It was a nice little boat with two oars inside.

  ‘Wonder how long it would take to get to France in it?’ said William.

  ‘Jus’ no time, I ’spect,’ said Ginger. ‘Why you can see France from my bedroom window. It must jus’ be no distance – simply no distance.’

  They looked at the boat in silence for a few minutes.r />
  ‘It looks as if it would go quite easy,’ said William.

  ‘We’d have it back before whosever it is wanted it,’ said Ginger.

  ‘We couldn’t do it any harm,’ said William.

  ‘It’s simply no distance to France from my bedroom window,’ said Ginger.

  The longing in their frowning countenances changed to determination.

  ‘Come on,’ said William.

  It was quite easy to push and pull the boat down to the water. Soon they were seated, their hearts triumphant and their clothes soaked with seawater, in the little boat and were being carried rapidly out to sea. At first William tried to ply the oars but a large wave swept them both away.

  ‘Doesn’t really matter,’ said William cheerfully. ‘The tide’s takin’ us across to France all right without botherin’ with oars.’

  For a time they lay back enjoying the motion and trailing fingers in the water.

  ‘ ’S almost as good as bein’ pirates, isn’t it?’ said William.

  At the end of half an hour Ginger said with a dark frown:

  ‘Seems to me we aren’t goin’ in the right d’rection for France. Seems to me, Cap’n, we’ve been swep’ out of our course. I can’t see no land anywhere.’

  ‘Well, we mus’ be goin’ somewhere,’ said William the optimist, ‘an’ wherever it is it’ll be int’resting.’

  ‘It mightn’t be,’ said Ginger, who was ceasing to enjoy the motion and was taking a gloomy view of life.

  ‘Well, I’m gettin’ jolly hungry,’ said William.

  ‘Well, I’m not’ said Ginger.

  William looked at him with interest.

  ‘You’re lookin’ a bit pale,’ he said with over-cheerful sympathy. ‘P’raps it was the crab.’

  Ginger made no answer.

  ‘Or it might have been the liquorice or the lemonade,’ said William with interest.