‘Oh, yes,’ said Robert bitterly, as the door closed behind her. ‘Oh, yes, go and meet him and the train’s sure to be late, and get to the Maylands’ when everybody’s made up fours for tennis and me have to talk to old Mrs Mayland. Oh, yes, very nice that, very nice indeed.’
He was speaking to himself more than to William but William (whose fertile brain had already formed a plan), with his most innocent expression and in his meekest voice said: ‘What about me goin’ for you, Robert? I’d like to do jus’ that little thing for you, Robert. What about me meetin’ him an’ bringin’ him home? I could easy do that.’
Robert looked at him suspiciously. ‘What do you want?’ he said brusquely, ‘because you jolly well aren’t going to get a penny out of me.’
William looked shocked and hurt at this interpretation of his offer.
‘I don’t want anythin’, Robert,’ he said more meekly than ever, ‘’cept jus’ to help you. I’d jus’ like to do that little thing to help you.’
Robert looked at him more suspiciously than ever. William’s expression, almost imbecile in its meekness and innocence, did not deceive him for a minute. He knew the kid too well for that. The kid was after something – a tip probably. He’d come cadging round for a tip when he’d done it. Well, he jolly well wouldn’t get it, but – but there wouldn’t be any harm in his doing it.
Robert had a particular reason for wishing to be early at the Maylands’. He had met only yesterday the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life (Robert met the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life on an average once a week), and she was staying with the Maylands, and he’d determined to be a very early bird indeed at the Maylands’ party. The rôle of the worm would be undertaken (he hoped) by the beautiful visitor. And now, if he had to ‘muck about’ (as he inelegantly put it to himself) meeting people at the station and carting them home she – She – SHE would be nabbed by someone else – probably someone quite unworthy of her – and he’d never get a look in at all. She was probably the most beautiful girl any of them had ever seen in their lives – but if he got there first he could hang on to her with both teeth (metaphorically speaking) and refuse to let go for anyone.
‘Well,’ he said, as if conceding a great favour, ‘you won’t be up to any of your tricks, will you? Because if you are—’ he ended with an eloquent threatening silence.
Again William looked pained and shocked. ‘Of course not, Robert. I only want to help you, Robert.’
‘Well,’ said Robert, after a moment’s consideration, during which the claims of duty wrestled feebly and ineffectively with the claims of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life, ‘well, I suppose there’s no harm in your just meeting him and bringing him home – only don’t tell them you’re going to.’
Robert was (and not without justice) afraid that William’s reputation would prevent his being accepted as a substitute meeter of guests at stations and bringer of them home.
‘No, Robert,’ said William, ‘I’ll jus’ go quietly an’ meet him at the station – that’s all. I – I’d like to do jus’ a little thing like that for you, Robert.’
‘All right,’ said Robert, and added, warningly, ‘but none of your tricks – and anyway, you won’t get a penny out of me for it.’
‘No, Robert,’ agreed William unctuously, ‘I don’ want to be paid jus’ for doin’ a little thing like that for you. Yes, I’ll cert’nly meet that train for you, Robert.’
He went away leaving Robert gazing after him. He wasn’t sure about that kid. He never was sure about that kid. But – but he’d take any risk for the chance of hanging on to the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen for a whole afternoon.
So he forgot about William, and turned the whole force of his mind and soul and intellect upon the problem of his costume for the afternoon – which pullover, which blazer, which shoes, and which socks. Such little things settled one’s fate; for instance, she might like white silk socks, or she might think them foppish. It was so difficult to tell, and so much depended on it.
Outside in the road William was meeting his Outlaws.
‘What we goin’ to do this afternoon?’ said Ginger.
William wore his stern and frowning air of leadership.
‘We’ve gotter work this afternoon,’ he said, ‘we’ve gotter make plans. Poor Ethel, she’s being forced to marry a man she dun’t love, an’ he’s comin’ this afternoon an’ she’s bein’ forced to recede to his proposals. He’s pressin’ his suit now so as to be smart for comin’ over, but we’ve gotter save Ethel from bein’ forced to marry someone she dun’t love – poor Ethel with her heart failin’ an’ all that.’
‘We can’t fight him – not if he’s grown up,’ said Douglas gloomily. Douglas was always something of a pessimist.
‘No,’ said William, ‘but – but we’ve gotter make plans’
At four o’clock the visitor – a blameless man of middle age, the sole object of whose visit was a quiet business chat with William’s father – stepped out of the train and looked around him.
The only person on the station was a small boy of not very prepossessing appearance who approached him with what was evidently meant to be a smile of welcome. It was Douglas.
‘You Mr Polluck?’ said the boy.
‘Er – yes,’ said Mr Polluck.
There was something strange about the boy’s expression – something that he didn’t quite like.
‘I’ve come from the Browns’ to meet you, an’ take you there,’ said the boy.
‘Oh, thank you,’ said Mr Polluck, ‘thank you very much indeed.’
So he set off with the strange boy. He accompanied the strange boy, all unsuspecting, along the road that led in the opposite direction to the Browns’ house. He talked of things which he thought should interest boyhood – of school life, of lessons, and of schoolmasters, and what an easy time boys had nowadays compared with the time when he was a boy.
He found the strange boy unresponsive. He began to find the walk a long one, too. It occurred to him that they might have sent some sort of conveyance to meet him. He’d no idea that Brown lived so far from the station as all this. He wasn’t used to walking. Looking round, he saw that they had now left the village far, far behind them. Brown must live quite out in the wilds.
On and on, up and up – for the road led up the side of a hill. He certainly thought Brown might have warned him, or sent a conveyance or – or something. He stopped once or twice to recover his breath. Bitter feelings against Brown began to stir in his usually kind and placid heart. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.
‘Is it far now?’ he panted.
The boy stopped and pointed upwards. ‘You can’t miss it now,’ he said. ‘House on top of hill – scuse me if I go now.’
And then he seemed to disappear as if the earth had opened to swallow him up.
Mr Polluck gazed about him despondently. The house seemed inaccessibly above him. On the other hand, the station seemed equally inaccessibly below him. After a brief rest to allow his breath to return and his perspiration to depart he decided that less effort would be involved in scaling the heights than in making his toilsome way down again to the station. Moreover, he didn’t want to miss that little business chat with Brown.
So with that bull-dog determination that has made the British race what it is, and in the spirit of the youth who bore through snow and ice the banner with the strange device, he started again, puffing, gasping, panting, up the hill.
Douglas meanwhile rejoined the Outlaws, who were waiting for him near the station.
‘Sent him up to the empty house on the hill,’ he said laconically. ‘I bet he’ll jus’ go straight home after that.’
But they were mistaken in their man. They remained at their post for about half-an-hour playing a desultory game of marbles and practising cartwheels and at the end of the half-hour they were rewarded by the sight of Mr Polluck, footsore and breathless and weary, descending the hil
l and coming slowly along the road to the station.
Near the station, however, he stopped and looked about as though for someone of whom to make inquiries. Suddenly a boy stood in his way – a boy with fair bristly hair and a very round face. It was Ginger. In spite of his appearance he looked, thought Mr Polluck, a nice kind obliging sort of boy.
‘Excuse me, my little man,’ he said, ‘can you tell me the way to Mr Brown’s house. I have been misdirected and have been far out of my way.’
Ginger smiled brightly.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘I know it. I’ll take you there, shall I? There’s quite a nice short cut from here.’
Mr Polluck looked at him gratefully.
‘I’d be so glad if you would, my little man,’ he said.
Ginger set off briskly. Mr Polluck did not this time try to enliven the way by conversation. He walked rather slowly and in silence.
Down the hill this time into the valley. The ‘short cut’ seemed to involve innumerable ploughed fields, and innumerable stiles (Mr Polluck wasn’t very good at stiles), and innumerable herds of cows (of which Mr Polluck was terrified).
‘It’s rather a long way, isn’t it?’ moaned Mr Polluck at last.
‘Let’s have a little rest, shall we?’ said Ginger kindly.
They sat down on a heap of stones by the roadside, and Mr Polluck covered his face with his hands. When he uncovered it his companion had vanished. He gazed around him in the gathering dusk. He was alone – alone in a wild cow-infested countryside down in a deep, deep valley far from human habitation.
Meanwhile, Ginger was rejoining his friends near the station. ‘I bet he’ll be ready to go straight home now,’ he said with satisfaction.
But again they reckoned without their man.
Footsore, weary, dusty, toil-worn, but with the pertinacity of Bruce’s spider itself, Mr Polluck came clambering up the hillside from the valley, and looked around him as though again to ask the way.
And this time Henry stood before him wearing an engaging smile and the expression of one who is ready to direct anybody anywhere.
But Mr Polluck had had enough – and more than enough – of small boys. He ignored both Henry and the engaging smile and stopped a passing labourer who was wearing neither an engaging smile nor an expression of readiness to direct anyone anywhere. But the passing labourer did direct him, and quite correctly, to the Browns’ house, and, ignoring Henry and his engaging smile, the way-worn but resolute wanderer set off to it.
There was consternation among the Outlaws. They held a hasty meeting.
‘We’ve gotter stop him goin’ there,’ said William. ‘We’ve simply gotter. If once he goes there, Ethel’ll be forced to marry him same as what she said.’
‘Well, ’s no good me sayin’ anythin’ to him,’ said Douglas, who had a fairly well-founded suspicion that if he should again present himself to the wanderer, the wanderer would slay him on sight.
‘No, nor me neither,’ said Ginger.
‘And he wun’t take any notice of me,’ said Henry mournfully.
‘Well, I’ll have to do somethin’, then,’ said William, who had reserved himself for the grand finale if necessary.
Mr Polluck walked slowly and painfully, but with a lightened heart, through the dusk down the road at the end of which was Mr Brown’s house. He was certainly on the right track at last. He’d asked twice since the passing labourer directed him, and he was certain that at last he had won through to his goal.
And suddenly a small boy seemed to spring up in his way. Mr Polluck, who at that moment hated all small boys with an almost Herodian hatred, made as if to pass by without looking at him, but William, raising his cap and saying, ‘Scuse me,’ stepped right into his path.
‘Yes?’ said Mr Polluck impatiently.
‘Please, I’m William Brown,’ said William politely.
Mr Polluck looked at him with a softened expression.
‘Oh, Mr Brown’s little boy?’
‘Yes,’ said William.
‘He – he does live at the end of this road, doesn’t he?’ said Mr Polluck hopefully.
‘Oh, yes,’ said William, ‘but – but you’d better not go there – not today.’
‘Why not?’ said the mystified stranger.
‘’Cause of Ethel—’
‘Ethel?’
‘Yes, Ethel – my sister. She’s dead.’
‘Good heavens!’ gasped poor Mr Polluck.
‘Yes, she’s jus’ died,’ went on William fixing him with a stern and accusing eye. ‘Died of a failin’ heart. It happened ’cause of being forced to marry someone she didn’t love.’
‘G-good heavens!’ gasped Mr Polluck again.
His consternation and amazement had to William all the appearance of remorse and guilt.
‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘I ’spect you’re sorry now.’
At this moment Mr Brown suddenly loomed up through the dusk.
‘Oh, there you are, old man,’ he said to Mr Polluck. ‘I came out to see if I could find you. Couldn’t think what had happened to you. I suppose you missed your train.’
Mr Polluck grasped him by the hand.
‘My dear fellow,’ he said brokenly, ‘you should have stopped me – I’m so distressed. I’ve just heard – your terrible loss.’
‘My loss?’ said Mr Brown.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Polluck, ‘your – your daughter’s death. I assure you I’d never have come if I’d known – I assure you – my deepest sympathy—’
‘My d-daughter’s d-death?’ sputtered Mr Brown.
‘Yes, your little son has just been telling me about it – I can’t tell you – how deeply I sympathise—’
They both looked round for William, but William was not there.
William had hurried indoors to warn Ethel in secret of the advent of her wooer.
He found Ethel with her mother in the drawing-room.
WILLIAM FIXED HIM WITH AN ACCUSING EYE. ‘IT HAPPENED ’CAUSE OF BEING FORCED TO MARRY SOMEONE SHE DIDN’T LOVE,’ HE SAID.
‘Well, he may have missed his train,’ his mother was saying, ‘but I think he might have telephoned or something. It’s most inconsiderate to be as late as this.’
‘GOOD HEAVENS!’ GASPED MR POLLUCK AGAIN.
William, who was standing by the table, happened to glance down at an open book. His eyes met the sentence, ‘I don’t love him at all. I’m being forced to marry him against my will. I have no one to turn to for help. My heart fails me. He presses his suit every day. He is coming this very afternoon and my parents will force me to accede to his proposals. Alas! what shall I do?’
He gasped.
‘I say,’ he said hoarsely, ‘I – Ethel, I thought I heard you sayin’ this this mornin’.’
‘I expect you did,’ said Ethel. ‘I was reading it aloud to Mother. She’d lost her glasses.’
William blinked.
‘Then – then what was this ole Mr Polluck comin’ for?’ he said.
‘Just to have a talk about business with Father. Oh – here they are.’
There came the sound of the opening of the front door and of Mr Brown’s and Mr Polluck’s voices in the hall. Mr Polluck was speaking. He was saying: ‘There were four boys altogether. The first took me right up the hill and the second right down into the valley, and this last – your little boy – said that your daughter was dead. He said, “Ethel’s dead – she’s just died,” most distinctly.’
‘Where are you going, William?’ said Mrs Brown, who, being slightly deaf, had not caught the words.
But William was already far away.
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 1927
This selection first published 1984 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This edition published 2011 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2011 by Macmillan Children’s Books
a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-447-20612-5 EPUB
All stories copyright © Richmal C. Ashbee
This selection copyright © 1984 Richmal C. Ashbee
Foreword copyright © Richard Madeley 2011
Illustrations copyright © Thomas Henry Fisher Estate
The right of Richmal C. Ashbee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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