William Carries On

by Richmal Crompton

After a week of this both Joan and her mother began to look pale and worn, but it was not till the afternoon before the date of what was to have been her birthday party that Joan finally gave up hope. William found her sobbing at the bottom of Miss Milton’s garden.

  “I’ve been trying not to cry so as not to worry Mummy,” she sobbed, “but I can’t help it. Oh, William, it’s horrible. I was looking forward to the party so much and it would have been to-morrow and l can’t bear it . . . It’s so hateful here and Miss Milton’s always cross and Hubert Lane shouts out after me about the party whenever I go out and . . . Oh, I’m so miserable I don’t know what to do.”

  William considered the situation. He, too, had been pursued down the road from a safe distance by the jeers of the Hubert Laneites. Things seemed pretty hopeless . . .

  “And they’ll be worse still afterwards,” said Joan. “They’ll never let us forget it. I did so want to have the party to-morrow. Oh, William,” she fixed brimming eyes on him beseechingly, “can’t you do something about it?”

  The appeal went to William’s head. He could not meet those tear-filled eyes and admit that he was powerless to help. He was not in any case a boy who liked to own himself at a loss.

  He assumed an expression of dare-devil recklessness and set his cap at a gangster-like angle.

  “You leave it to me,” he said between his teeth. “I’ll fix it . . .”

  The tear-filled eyes widened. Hope shone through despair.

  “Oh, William, can you?”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “Can I?” he repeated. “Huh! Can I? There’s not many things I can’t do, let me tell you!”

  “Oh, William but . . .” Her face clouded again. “To-morrow? . . . It’s so near.”

  “Huh!” he snorted contemptuously. “To-morrow’s nothin’ to me, to-morrow isn’t.”

  Her small expressive face shone once more with hope and admiration.

  “Oh William, you are wonderful!”

  “’Course I’ll fix it up by to-morrow,” he said. “Now jus’ don’t you worry about it any more. You jus’ leave it all to me. I’ll get it all fixed up for you by to-morrow easy. You’ll have your party an’—an’”—he lost his head still further—“Mr. Leicester’ll bring his cinema thing an’ it’ll all be all right.”

  One—comparatively sane—part of him seemed to raise its voice in protest as it heard these more than rash promises, but William turned a deaf ear to it.

  “Everythin’ll be all right,” he went on loudly as if to shout down the unseen opponent. “You jus’ leave it all to me.”

  “An’ we can go home to-morrow?” said Joan. “’Course you can,” said William.

  Joan drew a deep sigh, smiling blissfully through her tears.

  “Oh William!” she said. “You are wonderful. Thank you!”

  “Quite all right,” said William airily, though there was something fixed and glassy in the smile that answered hers. “Well, I’d better be gettin’ off to see about it.”

  He swaggered out of the garden gate and set off down the road. As soon as he reached the bend that hid him from Joan’s sight his swagger dropped from him and he began to argue fiercely as if with the still small voice of sanity: “Well, why shouldn’t I? . . . Well, I bet I can . . . Well, I couldn’t let her go on cryin’ like that . . . I bet I can find a way all right . . . I bet I can . . . I bet I can fix it up . . . Well,” impatiently, “I’ve gotter think, haven’t I! Gimme time to think . . . I bet I can think of a way. I—”

  He stood still in the middle of the road staring in front of him, and the grim expression of his face gave place to one of rapture.

  Quite suddenly he had thought of a way. It was so simple that he couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  All he had to do was to move the unexploded bomb from the front of Joan’s house to the front of Hubert Lane’s house. Then Joan would be able to have her party, and Hubert Lane would not be able to have his. There was an element of poetic justice in the idea that appealed to him strongly. Joan would be able to have her party and Hubert Lane would not be able to have his. Even the details of the plan did not seem difficult. He must, of course, wait till no one was about. The bomb was not as closely guarded as it had been at the beginning. Even the policeman, whose duty it had been to stand by the barrier, was now generally away on other duties. There was very little traffic on that road in any case, and the inhabitants, once passionately interested in the bomb, had become bored by it and looked on it merely as a nuisance. Occasionally Mr. Leicester still came to gaze at it tenderly over the barrier, his eyes gleaming with the pride of possession. His bomb, his beloved unexploded bomb . . . It justified, he felt, his whole career as a warden, gave his life meaning and purpose and inspiration . . .

  William realised, of course, that the thing might go off as he was removing it to Hubert Lane’s house, but he considered himself quite capable of dealing with that. A saucepan on his head, a tin tray in readiness to use as a shield . . . and then, he thought, the bomb might do its worst. It was too large for him to carry, so he decided to take his ancient and battered soap box on wheels, which was his ordinary means of conveyance and which served regularly the purposes of train, motor car, highwayman’s horse or pirate ship as needed in the Outlaws’ games. He would wait till the coast was clear, make his way down the crater, lift the unexploded bomb into the wooden cart, trundle it down the road to the Lanes’ house and leave it there. The policeman or Mr Leicester would soon find it, evacuate the Lanes, bring Joan and her mother back from Miss Milton’s and—all would be well. Hubert would not be able to have his party and Joan would be able to have hers . . .

  He waited till dusk, put saucepan, tray and spade into his wooden cart and wheeled it off down the road to the barrier outside what had been the Hall gates. The road was empty. The crater lay invitingly easy of access in front of him, with the “unexploded bomb” in the centre. He glanced around, put the saucepan on his head, slipped under the barrier and climbed down into the crater. He dug carefully all round the bomb. It was bigger than he had thought it would be. It was different altogether from what he had thought it would be . . . He scraped the earth off the top and began to loosen the earth around it. So intent was he on his task that he was unaware of Mr. Leicester’s approach till he heard a shout and turned to see Mr. Leicester hanging over the barrier, his face crimson with rage, his eyes bulging.

  “Come back!” he shouted hoarsely. “Come back! You—you—you—” Words failed him. His mouth worked soundlessly in his purple face.

  William straightened himself and looked from the bomb to Mr. Leicester . . . from Mr. Leicester to the bomb.

  “Come back,” said Mr. Leicester again. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it held even more fury than when it had been a shout.

  William wiped his hands down his trousers.

  “I’m all right,” he said carelessly. “I’ll fetch my tray thing if it starts explodin’ . . . But, I say, it’s a jolly funny bomb. Come down an’ have a look at it.”

  Mr. Leicester’s eyes, bulging and bloodshot with emotion, went from William to the bomb . . . and remained fixed on it. William had cleared all the earth and debris away from it, and it lay there—large, round, of a greyish hue . . .

  Suddenly William gave a shout.

  "Gosh! I know what it is,” he said.

  In the same moment Mr. Leicester knew what it was, too.

  It was the stone ball from the top of one of the brick piers that had formed the entrance gates of the Hall.

  Pale now, but with his eyes still bulging, Mr. Leicester dived under the barrier and came down to join William in the crater. He stared at the bomb, stroked it, prodded it . . . His face was a mask of incredulous horror.

  “It is, isn’t it?” said William.

  Slowly Mr. Leicester turned to him. With an almost superhuman effort he had recovered something of his self-possession, something even of his normal manner. He looked shaken bu
t master of himself.

  “No need to—er—go about talking of this, my boy,” he said. “No need to mention it at all. It would, in fact, be very wrong to—go about upsetting people’s morale by—er—spreading rumours. There are very severe penalties for spreading rumours. I hope that you will remember that.”

  William looked at him in silence for a few moments. He was an intelligent boy and knew all about the process of face-saving. He was quite willing to help Mr. Leicester save his face, but he didn’t see why he should do it for nothing.

  “Then Joan an’ her mother can go home to-morrow?” he said.

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Leicester graciously.

  His eyes kept returning, as if drawn against his will, to the round smooth object at his feet.

  “An’ you’ll come an’ give your cinema show at her party, won’t you?” said William with elaborate carelessness.

  Mr. Leicester fixed a stern eye on him.

  “You know quite well that I am not giving any such entertainments during the war,” he said.

  William gazed dreamily into the distance.

  “I thought that if we had the cinema at the party,” he said dreamily, “it’d be easier for me not to spread rumours.”

  Mr. Leicester gulped and swallowed. He looked long and hard at William. William continued to gaze dreamily into the distance. There was a silence . . . then Mr. Leicester yielded to the inevitable.

  “Well, well, my boy,” he said with a fairly good imitation of his pre-war geniality. “I—er—like to see young people enjoying themselves. If my duties permit, I will make an exception to my rule for this one occasion.”

  “An’ if they don’t,” said William suavely, “we’ll come an’ fetch it, shall we? Joan’s mother can manage it all right.”

  Again Mr. Leicester gulped and swallowed. Again he yielded to the inevitable.

  “Just this once, then, my boy,” he said graciously. “Just this once. It must never happen again, of course. And I will take for granted that you will not—er—spread rumours.”

  “No,” promised William. “I won’t spread rumours.”

  William had barely reached Miss Milton’s house next morning when Mr. Leicester appeared, complete with all his District Warden’s regalia. He looked stern and grim and aloof, as befitted one who has an important part to play in his country’s destiny.

  “I have come to inform you, Mrs. Parfitt,” he said portentously, “that the unexploded bomb has been—er—disposed of, and that you are at liberty to return to your home at your convenience.”

  He avoided William’s eye as he spoke.

  “Oh how lovely!” said Joan. “Just in time for the party! It is in time for the party, isn’t it. Mummy?”

  “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Parfitt joyfully. “It only gives us a day, but we can manage a grand party in a day.” Mrs. Parfitt would have liked to give a dozen parties to celebrate her release from Miss Milton. Only that morning Miss Milton had reproved her for drawing her bedroom curtains an inch further back on one side than on the other and had asked her to see that Joan did not put her hand on the baluster rail going up and down stairs, as she had found several finger marks on it.

  “Ah, yes, the party,” said Mr. Leicester with an expansive but somewhat mirthless smile. “This young man said that you wanted me to bring my kinematograph to it.”

  “Oh please, Mr. Leicester!” said Joan, clasping her hands and looking up at him beseechingly. “Oh please!” Mr. Leicester gave a good imitation of a strong man melted by a child’s pleading.

  “Well, well,” he said at last. “Well, well, well . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Oh, pleasel” said Joan again.

  “Well,” said Mr. Leicester. “Perhaps . . . just this once . . . Mind, I’ll never do it for you again and I’ll never do it for anyone else at all—till after the war.”

  “That is kind of you, Mr. Leicester,” said Mrs. Parfitt.

  Joan was dancing about with joy.

  “Oh, won’t it be lovely!” she said. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Leicester.”

  “Isn’t it kind of him, William?” said Mrs. Parfitt.

  “Yes,” agreed William. “Jolly kind.”

  “Er—not at all,” murmured Mr. Leicester, fixing his eyes on the air just above William’s head. “Not at all. Don’t mention it. An exception, of course . . . Not to be repeated.”

  “The bomb didn’t explode, then?” said Mrs. Parfitt. “I suppose we’d have heard it here if it had done.”

  “Oh no,” said Mr. Leicester, repeating the mirthless smile. “It didn’t explode. It was—er—disposed of. The process,” he went on hastily, “needs specialised knowledge, and the details, I am afraid, are too technical for you to understand.”

  Mrs. Parfitt looked at him, deeply impressed.

  “How fortunate we are to have you for our warden!” she said.

  * * *

  Joan and William walked jauntily down the road, past the Lanes’ house. At once Hubert Lane and a few friends, who were in the garden with him, popped their heads over the hedge.

  "Yah! they jeered. “Who’s not havin’ a party?”

  “Well, who isn’t?” said William innocently. “Joan is, an’ we’re all goin’ to it an’ we’re goin’ to have a jolly good time.”

  Hubert’s mouth dropped open.

  "What?” he said. “B-b-b-but what about the bomb?”

  “Oh, that!” said William airily. “Goodness! Fancy you not havin’ heard about that! It’s been—disposed of. There isn’t a bomb there any longer. Joan an’ her mother’s going back home at once.”

  Hubert’s mouth remained open while he slowly digested this news.

  “Well, anyway,” he said, making a not very successful effort to recover himself. “Anyway, I bet yours won’t be such a nice party as ours. I jolly well bet it won’t.”

  “Don’t you think so?” said William. He stopped to savour his piece of news before he brought it out. “Mr. Leicester’s comin’ to ours an’ bringin’ his cinema thing an’ his films.”

  Hubert’s eyes goggled. His face paled.

  “N-n-n-not Mr. Leicester?” he said, as if pleading for mercy. “N-n-n-not his Mickey Mouse films?”

  “’Course,” said William cheerfully. “But he’s not goin’ to do it for anyone else. Only for Joan . . . Come on, Joan.”

  They walked on, leaving a crestfallen silence behind them. Even the Hubert Laneites, past masters in the art of jeering, could think of no answering taunt.

  As Joan and William walked on down the road, Joan looked suddenly at her companion. He was smiling to himself as at some private joke.

  “William,” she said, “you had something to do with it, hadn’t you?”

  “With what?” said William innocently.

  “The bomb and the Mickey Mouse films and—everything.”

  “Well, just a bit,” he admitted.

  “Oh, William, do tell me.”

  He turned to her with a wink.

  “I’ll tell you after the war,” he promised.

  Chapter 3 – William’s Midsummer Eve

  The collection of “war souvenirs” had, of course, long been the chief interest of the younger inhabitants of the village. And here, as in many other fields, the rivalry between Hubert Lane and his followers, and William and his followers, showed itself.

  Hubert was not particularly interested in his collection as a collector, but he was determined that it should outshine William’s. And to Mrs. Lane, as usual, her darling’s will was law. Hubert wanted to have a better collection than those horrid Outlaws so he must have it . . . And she didn’t want her pet to tire himself out traipsing over the countryside for dirty bits of shrapnel, so she set to work to get them for him herself. She wrote to all her friends and relations in bombed areas who had children, offering large sums for collections of shrapnel and souvenirs, and paying postage in addition. By this means she soon got together the largest collection of shrapnel, copper driving-bands, pieces
of incendiary bombs, bits of shell casing, nose-caps, timefuses, and strips of landmine parachute, for miles around. She labelled and polished and arranged them, and showed them off proudly to her friends as “Hubert’s collection”, while Hubert smiled his smug smile in the background.

  Different, indeed, was the lot of the Outlaws, who had to hunt the countryside for any small trophies they could find, whose mothers showed scant sympathy with their hobby, refusing it house room with a callous: “I won’t have those nasty rusty things in the house, so take them out this minute.”

  In vain did they boast to Hubert: “We’ve got twenty pieces of shrapnel.”

  “Good Lord!’’ Hubert would counter scornfully. “We’ve got over two hundred.”

  Or: “I say, Hubert! Guess what we got this morning! Part of a nose-cap.”

  “Fancy that!” Hubert would sneer. “We’ve got six whole nose-caps.”

  What made things specially difficult for the Outlaws was that Farmer Jenks, on whose land they were in the habit of trespassing in their hunts for souvenirs, was these days in a particularly difficult humour. His only capable labourer had been “called up” and he was forced to employ a land girl. He hated girls—land or otherwise—so he took it out on everyone around him, particularly the land girl. She was a small slight girl called Katie, with red-gold curls and a friendly smile. The Outlaws liked her and, on the rare occasions when they had any sweets, generally called at the farm yard to offer her one. She was interested in the Outlaws’ “collection” and would keep for them any pieces of shrapnel she found about the farm. She disliked Hubert Lane and his friends and refused to give them any. The result was that the Hubert Laneites classed her with the Outlaw gang and subjected her to the pleasant little attentions they reserved for their enemies: hiding behind the hedge to “catcall” at her and, in their more exuberant moments, throwing handfuls of mud at her as she went home in the evening to the cottage where she lodged. Katie was, however, of an optimistic and resilient nature and this did not worry her. Indeed, she occasionally amused herself by sallying forth from the farm and chasing the Hubert Laneites down the road with a pitchfork. And she continued to give all aid she could to the Outlaws’ “collection”.