‘It’s to be called ‘The Frozen North’,’ she said proudly. ‘Now you must stand in the attitude of one drawing a sleigh – so – no, the expression more gentle, please. I must say I do not care for the costume, but the Vicar must know—’
‘I’m a Nanshunt—’ began William, then decided to take the line of least resistance and be the Frozen North. The lady painted in silence for some time, occasionally looking at William’s rather mangy skin, and saying disapprovingly: ‘No, I must say – I do not – but, of course, the Vicar—’
Just as the charm of novelty was disappearing from the procedure, and he was devising means of escape, another lady came in.
‘Busy dear?’ she said, then she adjusted her lorgnettes, and she, too, looked disapprovingly at William.
‘My dear!’ she said. ‘Isn’t that rather— Well, of course, I know you artists are – well, Bohemian and all that, but—’
The artist looked worried.
‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I showed the Vicar the picture yesterday, and he said that he had a child’s Eskimo costume, and he’d find a boy to fit in and send it round for a model. But – I’d an idea that the Eskimos dressed more – er – completely than that, hadn’t you?’
‘I’m a Nanshunt—’ began William, and stopped again.
‘You remember Mrs Parks asking for money to buy clothes for her boy?’ went on the artist as she painted. ‘Well, I got John to go to that Sale of Work this afternoon and get a suit from the rummage stall, and he got quite a good suit, and I’ve just sent it round to her. Do stand still, little boy—You know, dear, I wish I felt happier about this – er – costume. Yet I feel I ought not to criticise and even in my mind, anything the dear Vicar—’
‘Well, I’ll be quite frank,’ said the visitor. ‘I don’t care for it – and I do think that artists can’t be too careful – any suggestion of the nude is so – well, don’t you agree with me? I’m surprised at the Vicar.’
The artist held out half a crown to William.
‘You may go,’ she said coldly. ‘Take the costume back to the Vicar, and I don’t think I shall require you again.’
At that moment the little old man came in. He started as his eye fell on William and Ginger.
‘The thief!’ he said excitedly. ‘The thief! Catch him, catch him, catch him!’
William dashed to the doorway, upsetting the old man and a wet canvas on his way. The old man landed on top of the canvas and sat there murmuring, ‘Oh, dear, oh dear, what a day!’ and looking for his glasses.
The visitor pursued the two of them half-heartedly to the gate, and then returned to help in the work of separating the old gentleman from the wet canvas.
William and Ginger sat in a neighbouring ditch and looked at each other breathlessly.
‘Parks,’ said Ginger, ‘that’s the shop at the end of the village.’
‘Yes,’ said William, ‘an’ I’m jus’ about sick of crawlin’ in ditches, an’ what’s wrong with it I’d like to know,’ he went on, looking down indignantly at his limp skin, ‘it’s all right – not as clothes – but as a kind of dress-up thing it’s all right – as good as that ole pinnyfore she was wearing, an’ I jolly nearly said so – an’ ‘thief, too. Well, I wun’t go inside that house again, not if – not if – not if they asked me – Anyway’ his expression softened, ‘anyway, I got half a crown,’ his expression grew bitter once more, ‘half a crown, an’ not even a pocket to put it in. Come on to Parks’.’
William returned to the ditch. They only passed a little girl and her small brother.
‘Look, Algy,’ said the little girl, ‘look at ’im. ’E’s a loony an’ the other’s ’is keeper. ’E thinks ’e’s a frog, prob’ly, an’ that’s why ’e goes in ditches, an’ doesn’t wear no clothes.’
WILLIAM DASHED FOR THE DOORWAY, UPSETTING THE OLD GENTLEMAN ON HIS WAY.
William straightened himself.
‘I’m a Nanshunt—’ he began, but at sight of his red and muddy face, surmounted by its crest of muddy hair, the little girl fled screaming.
THE OLD GENTLEMAN LANDED ON TOP OF THE CANVAS AND SAT THERE MURMURING, ‘OH, DEAR! OH, DEAR!’
‘Come on, Algy, ’e’ll get yer an’ eat yer if yer don’t—’ Algy’s screams reinforced hers, and William disconsolately returned to the ditch as the screams, still lusty, faded into the distance.
‘I’m jus’ getting a bit sick of this,’ muttered the Ancient Briton.
They reached Parks’. William lay concealed behind the hedge, and Ginger wandered round the shop, reconnoitring.
‘Go in!’ goaded William, in a hoarse whisper from the hedge. ‘Go in an’ gettem. Say you’ll fetch a policeman – make ’em give ’em you – fight ’em – take ’em – you lettem go – I can’t stand this much longer. I’m cold an’ I’m wet. I feel as if I’d been a Nanshunt Briton for years an’ years – hurry up— Are-you-goin’-to-get-my-clothes?’
‘Oh, shut up!’ said Ginger miserably. ‘I’m doin’ all I can.’
‘Doin’ all you can, are you? Well, you’re not doin’ much but walkin’ round an’ round the shop. D’you think ’f you go on walkin’ round and round the shop my clothes’ll come out of themselves – come walkin’ out to you? ’Cause if you think that—’
‘Shut up.’ . . .
At this moment a small boy walked out of the shop.
‘Hallo!’ said Ginger, with a fatuous smile of friendship.
‘Hallo!’ said the boy, ungraciously.
Ginger moistened his lips and repeated the fatuous smile.
‘Have you got any new clothes today?’
The boy gave a fairly good imitation of the fatuous smile.
‘No,’ he said, ‘have you? Don’t go spoilin’ your fice for me. It’s bee-utiful, but don’t waste it on me.’
Then, whistling, he prepared to walk away from Ginger down the road. Desperately Ginger stopped him.
‘I’ll – I’ll – I’ll give you,’ he swallowed, then, with an effort, made the nobler offer. ‘I’ll give you five shillings if—’
‘Yus?’ said the boy suddenly, ‘If—?’
‘If you’ll give me those clothes the lady wot paints sent you today’
‘Gimme the five shillings then.’
‘I won’t give you the money till you give me the clothes.’
‘Oh, won’t you? Well, I won’t give you the clothes till you give me the money’
They stared hostilely at each other.
‘Get my clothes,’ said the irate voice from the ditch. ‘Punch him – do anythin’ to him. Get – my – clothes.’
The boy looked round with interest into the ditch.
‘Look at ’im!’ he shrieked mirthfully. ‘Look at ’im. Nakid – jus’ dressed in a muff – Oh! look at ’im.’
William arose with murder in his face. Ginger hastily pressed five shillings into the boy’s hand.
‘Gettem quick,’ he said.
The boy retreated to the shop and closed the door except for a small crack. Through that crack he shouted, ‘We din’ want no narsty mangy, mouldy, cast-off clothes from no one. We gived ’em to Johnsons’ up the village.’
Then he banged the door.
William, in fury, kicked the door, and a crowd of small boys collected. William, perceiving them, fled through the hedge and into the field. The small boys followed, uttering derisive cries.
‘Look at ’im – Look at ’im – ’e’s a cannibal – he’s got no clothes – ’e’ out of a circus – ’e’s balmy – ’e’s wearin’ ’is mother’s fur.’
William turned on them in fury.
‘I’m a Nanshunt—’ he began, rushing upon them; and they fled in panic.
William and Ginger sat down behind a haystack.
‘Well, you’re very clever at gettin’ back my clothes, aren’t you?’ said William with heavy sarcasm.
‘I’m gettin’ jus’ about sick of your clothes,’ said Ginger gloomily
‘Sick of ’em?’ echoed William
. ‘I only wish I’d gottem to be sick of. I’m jus’ about sick of not havin’ ’em an’ walkin’ about on prickles an’ stones and scratchin’ myself an’ shiverin’ with cold. That boy’d jus’ better wait till I get my clothes an’ then—’ His eyes gleamed darkly with visions of future vengeance.
‘Well,’ he turned to Ginger, ‘an’ wot we goin’ to do now?’
‘Dunno,’ said Ginger despondently.
‘Well, where’s Johnsons’?’
‘Mrs Johnson’s my aunt’s charwoman,’ said Ginger, wearily. ‘I know where she lives.’
William rose with a determined air.
‘Come on,’ he said.
‘If we don’t gettem this time,’ said Ginger, as they started on their furtive journey. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Oh, are you?’ said William sternly. ‘Well, then, you’re goin’ in this Anshunt Briton thing an’ I’m goin’ in your clothes. You lost my clothes an’ if you can’t gettem back you can give me yours, that’s fair, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ginger, in the tone of one who has suffered all that it is possible to suffer and can suffer no more. ‘It’s that five shillings that I keep thinkin’ of - five shillin’s – an’ all for nothin’.’
‘An’ callin’ my clothes mouldy,’ said William, with equal indignation. ‘My clothes mouldy’
‘She lives here,’ said Ginger.
From the shelter of a hedge they watched the house.
‘You’d better go an’ gettem then,’ said William unfeelingly
‘How?’ said Ginger.
‘Well, you sold ’em.’
‘I didn’t sell ’em.’
‘Shh! Look!’
The door of the Johnsons’ home was opening. A small boy came out.
‘He’s dressed in my clothes,’ said William excitedly ‘Gettem – Gettim – my clothes.’ His eyes brightened, and into his face came a radiant look as of one beholding some dear friend after a long absence. ‘My clothes.’
Ginger advanced to the small boy and smiled his anxious, fatuous, mirthless smile.
‘Like to come an’ play with me?’ he said.
‘Yeth, pleth,’ said the boy, returning the friendly smile.
‘Well, you can come with me,’ said Ginger ingratiatingly
He followed Ginger through the stile, and gave a shout of derision when he saw William crouching behind the hedge. ‘Oh! Look at ’im,’ he said, ‘dressed up funny.’
A masterly plan had come into William’s head. He led the party to the next field, to the disused barn which, in their normal happy life that now seemed to him so far away, served as castle or pirate ship.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we’re goin’ to play at soldiers, an’ you come an’ say you wanter join the army—’
‘But I don’t,’ said the small boy solemnly. ‘That would be a thtory’
‘Never mind,’ said William patiently. ‘You must pretend you want to join the army. Then you must take off your clothes and leave ’em with me, and this boy will pretend to be the doctor; an’ he’ll tell you if you’re strong enough, you know; he’ll look at your lungs and things and then – and then – well, that’s all. Now I’ll give you the half-crown jus’ for a present if you play it prop’ly’
‘All right,’ said the boy brightly, beginning to take off his coat.
‘You’ve got bad lungs, an’ a bad heart, an’ bad legs, an’ bad arms, an’ bad ears, an’ a bad head,’ said the doctor, ‘an’ I’m afraid you can’t be a soldier.’
All right,’ said the boy brightly. ‘Don’ wanter be. Now I’ll put on my clothes.’
He came out to the back of the barn, where he had left his clothes, and burst into a howl.
‘Oooo – oo – oo – ’e’s tooken my clothes – tooken my clothes – ’e’s tooken my clothes. Ma! Ma! Ma! ’E’s tooken my clothes.’
His shirt fluttering in the wind, he went howling down the road.
Ginger went to the ditch whence William’s gesticulating arms could be seen.
‘Quick! William, quick!’ gasped Ginger.
William arose, holding his Ancient Briton costume in his hand. He was clothed in a tweed suit – a very very small tweed suit – the waistcoat would not button across him and the sleeves came only a little way below his elbow.
‘William!’ gasped Ginger. ‘It’s not yours.’
William’s face was pale with horror.
‘It looked like mine,’ he said in a sepulchral voice, ‘but it’s not mine.’
A babel of voices arose.
‘Where are they, lovey?’
‘Boo – hoo – they’ve tooken my clothes.’
‘Wait till I gettem, that’s all.’
‘Never mind, darlin’. Ma’ll learn ’em.’
With grim despair they saw what seemed to them an army of women running up the hill, and with them a howling boy in a fluttering shirt. One of the women carried a broom.
‘Run, William!’ gasped Ginger.
William flung his skin into the ditch and ran. Though his suit was so tight that he could only progress in little leaps and bounds, he progressed with remarkable speed.
At last, exhausted and breathless, he walked round to the side entrance of his home and stood in the hall. He could hear his mother’s voice from the drawing-room.
‘Miss Carter’s been ringing up all the afternoon,’ she was saying, ‘she seems to think that William took away one of the costumes after the rehearsal. I told her that I was sure William wouldn’t do such a thing.’
‘My dear,’ in his father’s voice, ‘you do make the most rash statements.’
William entered slowly. His father and mother and sister turned and stared at him in silence.
‘William!’ gasped his mother. ‘What are you wearing?’
William made a desperate effort to carry off the situation.
‘You know – everyone says how fast I’m growin’ – I keep growin’ out of my things—’
‘Mother!’ screamed Ethel, from the window, ‘there’s a lot of awful women coming through the gate and an awful little boy in a shirt!’
William was brushed and combed and dressed in his best suit. His week-day suit had been, with great trouble and at great expense, brought back from Mrs Johnson, and taken from the person of her eldest son, and was now being disinfected from any possible germ which might have infested the person of her eldest son.
Mrs Johnson and her indignant younger son had been, with great difficulty and also at great expense, soothed and appeased.
William had eaten the bread and water considered, in the circumstances, a suitable meal for the prodigal son, with that inward fury, but with that outward appearance of intense enjoyment that he always fondly imagined made his family feel foolish.
He was not to leave the garden again that day. He was to go to bed an hour before his usual time, but that left him now half an hour to dispose of in the garden. Through the window William could see his father reclining in a deck-chair and reading the evening paper. William considered that his father had that evening shown himself conspicuously lacking in tact and sympathy and generosity, but William did not bear malice, and he knew that such qualities are not to be expected in grown-ups. Moreover, his father was the only human being within sight, and William felt disinclined for active pursuits. He went out to his father and sat down on the grass in front of him.
‘Oh, about that man wot had his legs bit off by a shark, Father, wot I promised to tell you about – well, it begins when he starts out in the Ship of Mystery—’
William’s father tried to continue to read his paper. Finding it impossible, he folded it up.
‘One minute, William, how long is there before you go to bed?’
‘Only about half an hour,’ said William reproachfully. ‘But I can tell you quite a lot in that time, an’ I can go on tomorrow if I don’t finish it. You’ll like it – Ginger’n me liked it awfully. Well, starts off in the Ship of Mystery, an’ why it’s called the Shi
p of Mystery is because every night there’s ghostly moanin’s an’ rattlin’s of chains, an’ one day the man wot the tale’s about went down to get something he’d forgot in the middle of the night, an’ he saw a norful figure dressed in a long black cloak, with gleamin’ eyes, and jus’ as he was runnin’ away it put out a norful skinny hand, an,’ said in a norful voice—’
William’s father looked wildly round for escape, and saw none.
Nemesis had overtaken him. With a groan he gave himself up for lost, and William, already thrilled to his very soul by his story, the memories of his exciting day already dim, pursued his ruthless recital.
Richmal Crompton was born in Lancashire in 1890. The first story about William Brown appeared in Home magazine in 1919, and the first collection of William stories was published in book form three years later. In all, thirty-eight William books were published, the last one in 1970, after Richmal Crompton’s death.
‘Probably the funniest, toughest children’s books ever written’
Sunday Times on the Just William series
‘Richmal Crompton’s creation [has] been famed for his cavalier attitude to life and those who would seek to circumscribe his enjoyment of it ever since he first appeared’
Guardian
Books available in the Just William series
Just William
More William
William Again
William the Fourth
Still William
William the Conqueror
William the Outlaw
William in Trouble
William the Good
William at War
First published in 1924
This selection first published 1983 by Macmillan Children's Books
This edition published 2011 by Macmillan Children's Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Macmillan Children's Books
William the Fourth Page 18
