William in Trouble

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘No,’ said William unblushingly.

  ‘And can’t bear the light on your eyes?’

  ‘No,’ said William, staring at her unblinkingly. ‘Bad eyes.’

  Well, of course, thought the nice old lady, it might be true. One did hear of sad cases of terrible illnesses among quite young children.

  She crossed over to the other group.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear of your poor little boy’s ill-health, Mrs Brown,’ she said.

  There was a moment’s tense silence, during which the members of the other group stared open-mouthed from the nice old lady to the robustly healthy William, from the robustly healthy William back to the nice old lady. The silence was broken by William who, realising the moment was one that called for discretion rather than valour, fled from the room with the speed of an arrow from a bow.

  Mrs Brown’s bewildered demand for an explanation was lost in a sudden exclamation of astonishment from Mr Markson, who was staring in amazement at the little table of ornaments that William’s flight had revealed.

  ‘Er – excuse me,’ he said, and going across the room picked up the little Chinese ornament. ‘Most extraordinary,’ he said, ‘I have an exact replica of this at home and I was assured that it was absolutely unique. May I ask without impertinence, Mrs Brown, did you get it in England?’

  Mrs Brown joined him and looked at the little ornament with a puzzled frown.

  ‘My husband must have got it,’ she said. ‘I was away last week and hadn’t noticed it before. But I’m always coming back and finding curios and antiques all over the place. My husband’s mad on them. He’s always bringing them home. . . .’

  ‘Most interesting,’ said Mr Markson, still examining the figure. ‘Most interesting . . . I must have a talk with your husband about it. I quite understood that mine was unique—’

  There came the sound of the tea-gong, and Mrs Brown ushered them into the dining-room.

  William’s extraordinary behaviour was quite forgotten except by the kind old lady, who was so worried by it that she scarcely ate anything at all.

  As soon as the guests were safely shut into the dining-room, William slid down the banisters and into the drawing-room. His face wore a look of strained anxiety. He must take the thing away at once before old Markie spotted it. He only hoped that he hadn’t spotted it before tea, but he didn’t think so because the tea bell had gone almost at once. But he wondered whether that old lady had told his mother about his eyes and legs. Crumbs, he simply didn’t get a bit of peace – just one thing after another.

  He slipped the little image into his pocket and, peering carefully around the hall to make sure that the coast was clear, crept stealthily out of the front door and set off at a run down the drive and into the road. He felt a great relief. The danger was over. Old Markie was safely at tea. He could easily slip the thing into its place again before old Markie returned.

  ‘It’s William Brown, isn’t it? William dear!’

  He turned with an inward groan. It was Mrs Franks, a friend of his mother’s.

  Unchilled by his expression, she greeted him effusively.

  ‘Just the little boy I wanted to meet,’ she said with an all-embracing smile. ‘I want you to take a note to your mother, dear. Just come back to me and I’ll write it out for you.’

  William muttered something about being ‘busy’ and ‘in a hurry,’ and ‘come along later,’ but it was useless. She put an arm affectionately upon his shoulder and gently drew him along with her.

  ‘I know you want to be mother’s helpful little man,’ she coaxed, ignoring his ferocious scowl, ‘and I won’t keep you one minute longer than I must from your toys and little friends.’

  William gulped eloquently and, his face flaming with fury, allowed himself to be led down the road. The only satisfaction he allowed himself was a vigorous ducking out of the circle of her arm. He accompanied her in silence, refusing even to satisfy her curiosity as to how he did and his mother did and how his father did and how Ethel did and wasn’t it a sudden change in the weather.

  The hateful image seemed to be shouting its existence aloud to all the world from its inadequate hiding-place in William’s pocket. And every minute made the return of it more dangerous. Every minute old Markie might be going back to his lair. He sat, fuming inwardly in Mrs Franks’ drawing-room while she wrote the note at her bureau, his hands on his bare knees, his muddy boots planted firmly on the carpet, his tousled head turned in the direction of the window, his freckled face set in a stern frown.

  Then, suddenly, his eyes filled with horror and his jaw dropped open. Old Markie was coming down the road again; old Markie was coming in at the drive of Mrs Franks’ house; old Markie was ringing the bell. A sudden panic came over William. Not only did the Chinese image protrude conspicuously from his pocket, but its head was distinctly visible. Anything rather than be caught by old Markie with the thing in his pocket. He took it out of his pocket and slipped it with feverish haste upon the top of the piano behind a small Dresden china shepherdess. Then he sat staring in front of him, his face vying with the Chinese image’s in blankness and immobility.

  Mrs Franks had not noticed his movement, she went on writing.

  Mr Markson entered. He threw a quick glance at William and then proceeded to ignore him. Another small boy, perhaps a pupil at his own school – he didn’t know and didn’t care. The less notice taken of small boys the better. His business with Mrs Franks concerned the coming village pageant which he was organising. But in the middle of their conversation his eyes wandered to the piano and his voice died away. His eyes dilated. His jaw dropped open. William still stared fixedly in front of him. William’s expression of blankness verged on imbecility.

  ‘Er – excuse me,’ said Mr Markson, advancing to the piano, ‘but – er – most extraordinary. Most extraordinary.’

  He picked up the little image and examined it. His perplexity increased. ‘Most extraordinary – three in the same village and I was assured that mine was unique.’

  ‘To what do you refer, Mr, Markson?’ said Mrs Franks pleasantly.

  ‘This little Chinese image on the piano,’ said Mr Markson. He sounded like a man in a dream.

  ‘Oh, the shepherdess!’ said Mrs Franks brightly, fixing her short-sighted eyes vaguely in the direction of the piano.

  ‘It’s not a shepherdess, pardon me,’ said Mr Markson courteously, ‘it’s a Chinese god.’

  ‘Fancy that now,’ said Mrs Franks in genuine surprise, ‘and I always thought that it was a shepherdess.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ said Mr Markson, still examining the figure. ‘Forgive the impertinence, Mrs Franks, but did you get the figure at a curio dealer’s?’

  ‘No, Mr Markson, my aunt left it to me, but’ – Mrs Franks was certainly surprised – ‘fancy it being a Chinese god, and all these years I’ve thought it was a shepherdess and so did my aunt.’

  The striking of the clock of the village church reminded Mr Markson that time was getting on and that he wanted to take a short walk before dinner, so after receiving from Mrs Franks a repeated assurance that she would be proud indeed to impersonate an early Saxon matron, provided, of course, that the costume was – er – suitable, Mr Markson departed with one last long perplexed look at the Chinese image on the piano. William, who had been holding his breath for the last few minutes, emitted a long, resonant sigh of relief which fluttered all the papers on Mrs Franks’ bureau.

  WILLIAM STILL STARED FIXEDLY IN FRONT OF HIM AS MR MARKSON PICKED UP THE LITTLE IMAGE AND EXAMINED IT.

  ‘William darling, don’t blow like that,’ said Mrs Franks reprovingly. ‘I’ll just address the envelope, dear, and then you can take it.’

  MR MARKSON’S PERPLEXITY INCREASED. ‘MOST EXTRAORDINARY!’ HE SAID.

  She sat down again at her bureau, with her back to him, and William, seizing his opportunity, slipped the Chinese image again into his pocket.

  ‘Here it is, dear,’ said Mrs Franks, handin
g it to him.

  Then she went over to the piano, took up the Dresden china shepherdess and examined it from every angle.

  ‘A Chinese god,’ she said at last. ‘What an extraordinary idea! No, I don’t agree with him at all. Not at all, dear, do you? A Chinese god’ – her amazement increased – ‘why, nothing about it even remotely suggests the Orient to me. Does it to you, dear? The man must suffer from some defect in his sight.’

  William murmured something inaudible, took a hasty farewell of her, seized the note, and hurried out into the road.

  Old Markie had said that he was going for a walk before dinner. That would give him plenty of time to put the thing back. Crumbs! He’d had an awful few minutes in Mrs Franks’ drawing-room, but it was all over now. He’d just put the thing back where he’d got it, and – and – well, he’d never go into old Markie’s house again for anything. He was pretty sure of that. Crumbs! he wouldn’t, indeed.

  He stopped at the gate of The Nest and looked up and down the road. The road was empty. With a quickly beating heart he went up the drive. The French windows were shut, but the front door was open. He slipped into the hall. He took the Chinese image out of his pocket, and stood for one moment irresolute holding it in his hand. Then, the door of the room at the back of the hall opened and Mr Markson came out into the hall.

  Mr Markson had thought that the clouds were gathering and had decided not to go for a walk before dinner after all.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he bellowed. ‘What do you want, boy? Come in! Come in!’

  William slowly advanced to the back room still holding the Chinese figure in his hand.

  Mr Markson looked him up and down. William silently implored the earth to open and swallow him up, but the earth callously refused.

  A light of recognition dawned in Mr Markson’s eyes.

  ‘Why, you’re Mrs Brown’s boy,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said William tonelessly.

  Then Mr Markson’s eye fell upon the Chinese figure which William was vainly trying to conceal with his hands.

  ‘What!’ he began, ‘you’ve brought her Chinese figure?’

  William moistened his lips.

  ‘Yes, sir. She – she’s – she’s sent it, sir.’

  ‘Sent it?’ said Mr Markson. His eyes gleamed with the greed of the collector. ‘You mean – sent it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said William with sudden inspiration. ‘She’s sent it to you – to keep, sir.’

  ‘But how extraordinarily kind,’ burst out Mr Markson. ‘I must write to her at once. How very kind! I must – wait a minute. There’s still the third. I’ll write to Mrs Franks, too. I’ll ask Mrs Franks if she can possibly trace the origin of her piece.’ He was speaking to himself rather than to William. ‘I’ll just hint that I’d be willing to buy it should she ever wish to sell. Sit down there and wait, boy.’

  William sat down and waited in silence while Mr Markson wrote at his desk. William stared desperately in front of him. Crumbs! Things were getting in more of a mess every minute. He didn’t see how he could possibly get out of it now. He was in it – right up to the neck. But – Mr Markson fastened up the envelope, addressed it, and turned to William.

  Just then a maid entered with the evening post on a tray. Mr Markson took it. She retired and Mr Markson read his letters.

  ‘Bother!’ he said, ‘here’s a letter that must be answered by tonight’s post. Do something for me, boy. Take this figure and put it on the table in the front room with its fellow and then take this note to Mrs Franks, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said William meekly.

  Mr Markson sat down at his bureau. William went quickly and gratefully from the room. In the hall he stopped to consider the situation. Mr Markson would expect an answer from Mrs Franks. He might even ring her up about it. There would be awkward complications, awkward for William that is – And suddenly yet another inspiration came to him. He pocketed the image again and set off down the road. He walked for a few yards, turned back, walked up again to the front door of The Nest and into the back room. Mr Markson was still writing his letter. William took the Chinese figure out of his pocket.

  ‘Mrs Franks sent you this, sir,’ he said in his most expressionless voice, staring in front of him fixedly.

  Mr Markson’s face beamed with joy.

  ‘Sent it?’ he gasped.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said William, speaking monotonously, as though he were repeating a lesson. ‘An’ she said please will you not write to her about it or thank her or ever mention it to her please, sir.’

  At the conclusion of this breathless speech William paled and blinked, still staring fixedly before him. But old Markie beamed with joy.

  ‘What delicacy of feeling that displays,’ he said. ‘A lesson indeed to the cruder manners of this age. How – how exceptionally kind!’ He held the china piece on his hand. ‘The third! What almost incredible good fortune! The third! Now to put it with its two fellows.’

  He walked across to the front room and entered it. He looked from the image in his hand to the empty table where that image had stood only a few hours ago. He looked from table to image, from image to table, and again from table to image. Then he turned for an explanation from William.

  But William was no longer there.

  CHAPTER 4

  ALL THE NEWS

  CONTINUOUS rain had put a stop to the usual activities of the Outlaws. The game of Red Indians, if played in a perpetual downpour, palls after an hour or two, and even the absorbing pastime of Pirates loses its savour when it has reached a certain pitch of dampness.

  So the Outlaws assembled in the leaky old barn and from its inadequate shelter watched the rain despondently.

  ‘Seems ’s if it’s goin’ on for ever,’ said Ginger with gloomy interest.

  ‘P’raps it is,’ said Henry. ‘P’raps it’s the end of the world comin’.’

  ‘I bet I’m the last person left alive if it is,’ said William boastfully, ‘’cause I can float on my back for hours an’ hours, an’ hours!’

  ‘Floatin’ won’t be no good,’ objected Douglas, ‘you’d get et up by fishes and things.’

  ‘Oh, would I!’ said William with scornful emphasis. ‘I’d take a big knife in one pocket an’ a pistol in the other an’—’

  ‘It wun’t shoot, all wet,’ said Ginger firmly.

  ‘It would. I’d have special bullets,’ said William pugnaciously. ‘I bet it would.’

  ‘Oh, shut up about bullets an’ fishes an’ things,’ said Henry, ‘let’s try ’n think of something to do.’

  ‘Well, what is there to do?’ said William irritably, annoyed by this interruption of his alluring description of himself as the sole survivor of a submerged world. ‘I’d swim to the highest mountain in the world what there’d be a teeny bit of the top still showin’ an’ I’d stay there till the rain stopped an’ then I’d come down an’ walk all over the world in everyone’s houses an’ shops an’ take everything out of all the shops and use everyone’s things—’

  ‘Everything’d be wet’ objected Ginger.

  ‘It’d soon dry,’ said William optimistically. ‘I’d dry it. I’d light fires.’

  ‘You couldn’t. The coal’d be all wet,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Oh, shut up – what are we going to do now?’ said Henry again.

  ‘Let’s have a newspaper,’ said Douglas suddenly.

  They looked at him with interest.

  ‘A newspaper?’ said William slowly, as though he were weighing the idea judicially.

  ‘Yes,’ said Douglas eagerly. ‘Write one, you know an’ someone be editor. The editor’s a sort of chief man—’

  ‘I’ll be that,’ put in William hastily.

  ‘An’ each write somethin’ for it jus’ like a real newspaper.’

  ‘An’ what about printin’?’ said Henry the practical.

  ‘Oh, we can settle all that later,’ said Douglas vaguely. ‘It’s gotter be wrote first.’

  He
nry looked somewhat sombrely round the barn with its bare walls and sodden floor and dripping roof. Its only furniture consisted of a few old packing-cases, which the Outlaws generally utilised for their games on wet days, and an old coil of rope.

  ‘Doesn’t look much to write a newspaper with,’ he said gloomily.

  ‘Well, we c’d easily get things,’ said the newly-appointed editor, with an air of stern and frowning leadership. ‘’F you keep findin’ ’bjections we shan’t ever get anything done.’

  ‘’Bjections!’ said Henry staring. ‘I like that! Me findin’ ’bjections when I only jus’ said there wasn’t anythin’ to write a paper with. Well, look for yourself. Is there anything to write a newspaper with?’

  William looked round at the packing-cases, the leaking roof and the coil of rope.

  ‘Seems all right to start on,’ he said optimistically. ‘Anyway, we only want jus’ a bit of paper an’ a few pencils jus’ at first.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t gottem have we?’ said Henry simply.

  ‘No, but you can eas’ly run an’ gettem,’ said William.

  ‘Oh, I can, can I?’ said Henry indignantly. ‘Oh, an’ what about me getting all wet out in the rain?’

  ‘Don’t suppose it’ll do you any harm,’ said William callously.

  ‘No, an’ I don’t suppose it’d do you any harm,’ retorted Henry with spirit.

  ‘No, but I’m going to be busy gettin’ things ready here,’ said William.

  ‘So’m I,’ said Henry firmly.

  It was finally agreed, however, that both Henry and William should go in search of material for the newspaper. The expedition was rendered more interesting by a realistic pretence that the Outlaws were a besieged army and that Henry and William were two heroes who had volunteered to creep through the enemy’s lines in search of provender for their starving comrades.