William

by Richmal Crompton

  Then followed a blissful week for William. He went to The Laburnums with his jar every morning. He first spent an hour or so in the orchard. After that he staggered to the pond in a state of happy repletion, filled his jar from the teeming population of the pond, then, with appetite restored, returned to the orchard.

  He felt that it was too good to last, and it was. At the end of a week he saw a large removing van entering the front gate. He made the most of that day. He ate so many apples that he went home in a state closely bordering on intoxication.

  The next day, more from force of habit than anything else, he went to the house as usual with his jar, his fishing-rod, and what a week’s hard wear had left of his net. He went without any definite plans. It was no longer that most exciting of playgrounds – an ‘empty house.’ It was now inhabited, owned and presumably guarded. He would be liable now at any minute to a descent from a ferocious inhabitant. He watched the house from the front gate for some time. Maids were cleaning windows, shaking out dusters, putting up curtains. An elderly woman with pince-nez and very elaborately-dressed hair was evidently the mistress of the house and she seemed to be in sole possession. That relieved William, who generally found women easier to deal with than men. The bustle within the house, too, reassured him. While they were cleaning windows and shaking out dusters and putting up curtains, they could not be making descents upon the pond and orchard. He might surely take this last day in his paradise.

  He found it even more enjoyable than any of the others. He had decided that it must be his last day there, and yet the next morning he set off as usual with his jar and rod and net. He did this partly because the risk now attached to the proceeding enhanced it in his eyes, and partly because he’d only got 100 of his 200 fishes. He felt that 100 fishes in that pond still belonged to him and in fetching them he was only claiming his rightful property.

  It was a beautiful morning. The sun shone brightly on the pond and orchard. The apples seemed riper and more delicious than ever before, the inhabitants of the pond more guileless and trusting. After his customary fruitful journey through the orchard he sat as usual happily fishing by the side of the pond.

  Then – it happened. It happened without the slightest warning. He heard no sound of her approach. Suddenly a hand was laid on his shoulder from behind and, looking up with a start, his eyes met the eyes of the woman with the pince-nez and elaborately-dressed hair. All about him were the signs of his guilt. His jar containing his morning’s ‘bag’ stood on one side of him together with a little pile of apples gathered for refreshment in the intervals of fishing. On the other side of him lay a little heap of cores representing refreshment already taken. His pockets bulged with apples. His mouth was full of apple. He held a half-eaten apple in one hand and his rod in the other.

  ‘You naughty little ruffian,’ exploded his captor. ‘How dare you trespass in my grounds and steal my fruit?’

  William swallowed half an apple unmasticated and by means of a gentle wriggle experimented with the grip on his shoulder. He was an expert on grips. The gentlest of wriggles could tell him whether a grip was the sort of grip he could escape from or whether it wasn’t. This one wasn’t. It was, William generously allowed in his mind, an unusually good grip for a woman. So he abandoned himself to his fate, and contented himself with glaring at his captor with unblinking ferocity. He certainly wasn’t a prepossessing sight. His face was streaked with mud. His collar (sodden and muddy) was awry. He had used his tie to repair his fishing rod. His legs were caked with mud up to the knees. His suit was so thickly covered with mud that its pattern was almost undiscernible. His captor’s closer inspection evidently did nothing to modify the unfavourable opinion she had formed of him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she said sharply.

  ‘William Brown,’ said William.

  He knew by experience that people always found out his name sooner or later and that to refuse to give it made ultimate proceedings more unpleasant.

  ‘Very well,’ said his captor meaningly, ‘I shall call to see your father about it. Go away out of my garden at once.’

  With great dignity William gathered up his jar of fishes, his net, stuffed the pile of apples into his pockets (his pockets held a good number of apples as William had made a convenient hole through which they could descend to the lining), kicked his pile of cores into the pond, put on his bedraggled cap, raised it as politely as he could, considering his many burdens, stooped down to pick up a fish that the effort of raising his cap had displaced from his jar, and with a courteous ‘Good mornin’’ walked very slowly and with an indescribable swagger across the orchard to the lawn, across the lawn to the front drive, and down to the front gate. He wasn’t going to give away his hole to her. At the front gate he turned, raised his cap to her again, dropped his net and another fish, picked them up without any undue haste and strolled out into the road.

  As he walked homewards he couldn’t help thinking that he’d carried off the situation with something of an air. But that feeling of gratification was of short duration. She had said that she was going to tell his father, and he was pretty sure that a woman who could grip like that would be as good as her word. It meant, besides any other incidental unpleasantness, that an end would be put to his fishing activities and that, as likely as not, his aquarium would be thrown away. He still retained bitter memories of the wholesale destruction of a laboriously-acquired collection of insects that he had kept secretly in the spare room wardrobe until it was found and destroyed.

  In a vague desire to propitiate authority he made an elaborate toilet for lunch – changing his socks and shoes, completely removing several layers of mud from his knees, brushing his suit, washing his face and hands, and severely punishing his hair. His mother greeted his appearance with a cry of horror: ‘William, what a sight you are! What have you been doing?’

  He murmured ‘Fishin’’ rather distantly and sat down to his soup.

  ‘Why didn’t you wash and tidy your hair before you came in to lunch?’ continued his mother sternly.

  ‘I did,’ said William simply, and not only received apparently unmoved his elder brother’s snort of derision, but also pretended not to notice his further challenge of the gesture of a cat perfunctorily washing its face with its paw. This was no moment for reprisals. Robert could wait. At any minute the woman with the hair and the pince-nez might come to report his morning’s activities, and the less he embroiled himself with Authority in the meantime the better.

  ‘You won’t forget where you’re going out to tea this afternoon, William, will you?’ said his mother.

  ‘No,’ said William, sinking into yet deeper gloom.

  He was going out to tea with the Vicar. Occasionally the Vicar, who disliked children intensely, but suffered from an over-active conscience, invited his more youthful parishioners to tea. He was a precise and tidy man and liked peace and quiet, and he hardly slept at all the night before such a party took place, but he felt that was part of his priestly duty and went through with it in the spirit of the early Christian martyrs. His youthful guests generally enjoyed their visits, partly because his wife made a peculiarly delicious brand of treacle cake, and partly because the Vicar was entirely at a loss how to deal with the very young, and, given the right blending of guests, the affair could be trusted to develop into a very enjoyable riot. The only drawback of it in William’s eyes was the long and painful process of cleansing and tidying to which he was subjected before he was declared fit to present himself at the Vicarage. On this occasion, despite William’s own heroic efforts before lunch, the process lasted an hour, and it was after three when – clean and shining in his best suit, a gleaming Eton collar, a perfectly tied tie, neatly gartered stockings and radiant boots with tags tucked down inside – he was allowed to set off down the road towards the Vicarage. He walked slowly. As all the other Outlaws were away from home, it wasn’t likely to be a very exciting affair, but at any rate there would be the treacle cake – and the Vicar.
The Vicar could always be counted upon for entertainment.

  He was vaguely aware of a figure approaching him from the opposite direction, but beyond noting almost subconsciously that it was adult and feminine, he took no interest in it. He was surprised to find that it stopped in front of him. He looked up with a start. It was the woman with the pince-nez and the hair.

  ‘Well,’ she said grimly, ‘I’m on my way to see your father.’ Then she stopped and faltered, ‘You – you are William Brown, aren’t you?’ she said uncertainly.

  William saw at once what had happened. He was so clean and tidy as to be almost unrecognisable as the hero of the morning’s escapade. As she scanned his features still more closely he saw her uncertainty changing again to certainty. William’s features were, after all, unmistakable.

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ she said.

  And then William had an inspiration – or rather an inspiration – or rather an INSPIRATION – the sort of INSPIRATION that comes to most of us only once in a lifetime, but that visited William more frequently.

  Fixing her with a virtuous and mournful gaze, he said: ‘No, I’m not William Brown. I’m his twin brother.’

  Her severity vanished.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I could see a strong resemblance, but yet I was sure that there was some difference, though I couldn’t have said what it was. He was very dirty and untidy, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed William sadly, ‘I expect he was.’

  ‘You’re very alike in features though, aren’t you?’ she went on with interest, ‘It must be difficult for people to tell you apart.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed William, warming to his theme, ‘lots of people can’t tell us apart. His nose is just a bit longer. That’s one way of telling us.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, still with great interest, ‘I believe it is, now you mention it. And his ears stick out more.’

  ‘Do they?’ said William coldly.

  ‘I’m just on my way to call on your parents to complain of your brother,’ went on the lady, her interest turning to severity. ‘I found him this morning trespassing in my garden, stealing my apples and catching fishes in my pond. Do you know about it?’

  William wondered for a minute whether to know about it, and finally decided that it would be more effective to know about it than not to. His mournful and virtuous expression deepened.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he told me about it. I was jus’ comin’ to – to see you about it.’

  ‘Why?’ said the lady.

  ‘I was comin’ to ask you to let him off jus’ for this once,’ said William more mournfully, more virtuously, than ever. ‘I was goin’ to ask you not to go an’ see my father an’ mother about him this time.’

  It was quite evident that the lady was touched by his appeal.

  ‘You don’t want your dear parents troubled by it, I suppose?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said William, ‘that’s it. I don’t want my dear parents troubled by it.’

  She pondered deeply.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, your consideration for your parents does you credit – er – what is your name?’

  ‘Algernon,’ said William without a second’s hesitation.

  The name came in fact almost of its own accord. The Vicar at his last tea party had tried to instil some order into a party that was rapidly degenerating into pandemonium by reading aloud a moral story from which as a child he had derived much profit and enjoyment. Though not received quite in the spirit he would have wished, it had certainly succeeded in riveting his guests’ attention. The hero – a child with a singularly beautiful disposition – had been called Algernon. For weeks afterwards ‘Algernon’ had been the favourite epithet of abuse among the youngest set of the village.

  ‘Algernon,’ she repeated. ‘A very pretty name, my dear.’ She was evidently disposed to be friendly to Algernon. ‘Much prettier than William, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William with an expression of sheep-like guilelessness.

  Then her gaze descended to an excrescence in William’s pocket. It was an apple – the last remaining one of his morning’s haul that he’d put in his pocket for refreshment on the way to the Vicarage. Suspicion replaced the lady’s friendliness.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said sharply, pointing to it.

  William was not for a second at a loss. He drew it out of his pocket and held it out to her.

  ‘I was bringing it back to you,’ he said. ‘I got him to give it me. It was the only one he had left when he told me about it an’ I pled with him—’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Pled,’ said William rather impatiently. ‘Don’t you know what pleadin’ is? Beggin’ a person. Askin’ ’em. Well, I pled with him to give it me to bring back to you an’ to tell you he was sorry an’ to ask you not to – to – to come – come troublin’ my dear parents about it.’

  No words could describe the earnestness of William’s voice, the almost imbecile innocence of his regard. The lady’s suspicions were entirely lulled. She was more deeply touched than ever.

  ‘I’d like you to keep that apple, Algernon,’ she said generously, ‘but you must promise not to give it to your brother. Will you promise?’

  William slipped back the apple into his pocket and duly promised. He promised with quite a clean conscience. He certainly hadn’t any intention of giving the apple to Robert. The lady was still looking at him in a friendly fashion.

  ‘I’m afraid that William must be rather a trouble to you, my dear boy,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said William sadly.

  ‘And I’m sure you do your best to improve him.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed William, ‘I’m always at it.’

  ‘Don’t despair, my dear boy,’ she said, ‘I expect your example will have its effect in the end. You told him how wrong he’d been this morning, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said William hastily. ‘I told him that all right, I pled with him about it.’

  ‘You must speak to him again about it. You must tell him how wrong trespassing is. Tell him that a person who hasn’t a clear idea of meum and tuum comes to no good in the end. And those apples and fishes are mine. I paid for them. Surely he knows that stealing’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m always telling him,’ said William with a sigh, ‘pleadin’ with him an’ such-like.’

  ‘And can’t you persuade him to be clean and tidy as you are?’ she went on. ‘He looked disgraceful. I’ve never seen such a dirty, untidy boy.’

  ‘I’m always pleadin’ with him about that too,’ said William earnestly. ‘I’m always askin’ him why he can’t be clean and tidy like what I am.’

  ‘Dear boy,’ said the lady, laying a hand affectionately on his head, ‘I feel that you and I are going to be great friends. My name is Miss Murgatroyd. Together we must try and improve poor William.’

  ‘Yes, an’ – an’ you – er – won’t go troublin’ my dear parents?’ said William anxiously.

  ‘No, my boy, set your mind at rest. I hope they realise what a dear little protector they have in you.’

  William, not knowing what else to do, cleared his throat and rolled his eyes. Then to his relief she said, ‘Well, I must get on now as I have some other calls to pay. Goodbye, Algernon.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ said William.

  The interview had been enjoyable but rather difficult. For one thing it had been a strain to retain his virtuous and mournful expression throughout it. His face, in fact, ached from his virtuous and mournful expression.

  The visit to the Vicarage was dull except that the Vicar said to one of his guests who ejaculated ‘Crumbs!’ ‘Don’t use that vulgar expression, my boy. If you wish to express surprise, say simply “How you do surprise me!” or, if you wish to use stronger language, say “Dear me!”’ – and that somehow or other – no one quite knew how – a quiet spelling game organised by the Vicar became a far from quiet game of Red Indians organised by William, and finally grew so unm
anageable that the Vicar retired in despair to his study to calm his mind by reading The Church Times, and his wife only restored order by distributing pieces of her treacle cake wholesale, and then packing the guests off home. They rollicked homeward down the lanes ejaculating at intervals ‘How you do surprise me!’ or ‘Dear me!’ – while the Vicar was saying to his wife, ‘They are very trying, my dear, but I do think that they gain something of refinement and culture from their little visits here.’

  William, on reaching home, went straight to the shed where his aquarium was kept and counted its inhabitants. It still had only 120. There were 80 more to be got. He must pay another visit to Miss Murgatroyd’s pond. In any case, it would be rather dull to leave the situation as it was.

  The next morning he set off as usual to The Laburnums, carrying his fishing paraphernalia. He spent a very happy morning in the orchard and by the pond. He exercised greater caution than before, frequently turning round to make sure that his enemy was not again approaching from the rear. So cautious was he that he saw his enemy approaching as soon as she entered the orchard, and hastily gathered up his paraphernalia and took to his heels without wasting time on any unnecessary courtesies. She did not pursue him, but her words reached him clearly as he fled across the orchard to his hole.