William Again

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Yes, Aunt,’ he screamed back. ‘Shall I see you to your car?’

  He left them for a few minutes and returned, mopping his brow, in time to rescue three boys from an early death from drowning in the pond. William and a few other daring spirits were balancing themselves at a dizzy height on the top of the wall. The young man was beginning to look pale, when once more the butler appeared.

  ‘There’s a gentleman at the front door, sir,’ he said respectfully, ‘who seems in a great state, sir, and he says that he’s lost some slum children—’

  The young man’s face brightened.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘tell him I’ve found some, and ask him to come and see whether they happen to be his. They’ve done me a very good turn, but I shouldn’t mind being relieved of them now.’

  ‘ ’E was one of the swanks an’ no mistake,’ said Eglantine to William. ‘Oi’d no patience wiv ’im an’ ’is wye of talkin’. Oi can plye the toff as well as anyone when oi loikes – oi did wiv ’im, din’t oi? But oi despises ’em.’

  William was looking anxiously down the road where the tall man was taking them.

  ‘Where we goin’?’ he said distrustfully.

  ‘To the kind lady’s who invited us to tea,’ said the tall man, overhearing him.

  William walked along in silence. Eglantine began to expatiate again.

  ‘Look at all them ’ouses,’ she said, with a contemptuous glance at the houses between which they were passing. ‘Wot they want wiv such big ’ouses? Swank! That’s all it is. Swank! Livin’ in big ’ouses an’ talkin’ so soft. Oi’ve no patience wiv ’em. Oi wouldn’t be one of ’em – not fer nuffin’.’

  But William was growing more and more uneasy

  ‘What we’re goin’ along here for?’ he muttered truculently.

  The tall man turned in at a gate. William moistened his lips.

  ‘He’s making a mistake,’ he murmured, pulling his check cap still farther over his eyes.

  At the door stood Mrs Brown and Ethel. Their glance fell first on Eglantine.

  ‘What a dreadful child,’ whispered Mrs Brown.

  Next it fell on all that could be seen of Eglantine’s companion.

  ‘What an appalling cap!’ whispered Ethel.

  Then they advanced to welcome them.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the tall man, with a note of relief in his voice. ‘Here we are . . . we’ve had a delightful time – er – quite a delightful time – er – on the whole – er – just a little misunderstanding at one point – a – temporary separation, but all’s well that ends well. It’s too kind of you. This is – er – Eglantine, and – er – this little boy is an orphan, poor little chap!’

  Mrs Brown laid her hand tenderly on the tweed cap. ‘Poor little boy,’ she began. ‘Poor little—’ then she met the eyes beneath the tweed cap. ‘William!’ she said sharply. ‘Take off that horrible cap and go and wash your face.’

  William, clean and brushed and frowning, sat and glared across the table at his late friends. He felt himself disgraced for ever. He was a pariah, outside the pale, one of the ‘swanks’ who lived in big houses and talked soft. His mother’s and Ethel’s intonation and accent seemed at that moment a public humiliation to him. He did not dare to meet Eglantine’s eyes. Fiercely he munched a currant bun. Into his unoccupied hand stole a small grimy one.

  ‘Never moind,’ whispered Eglantine, ‘yer carn’t ’elp it.’

  And William whispered gratefully, ‘Not much.’

  CHAPTER 6

  WILLIAM AND THE WHITE CAT

  William had before now met the strange species of male who succumbed to the charms of his elder sister. William never could think what people saw in Ethel. Red hair and blue eyes and a silly little voice . . . Some people (thought William) might call her pretty – but, crumbs, what a temper! – making a fuss if his dog Jumble chewed up any of her old things, or if he jus’ borrowed her bicycle, or if his pet rats got loose in her room.

  She didn’t even like interesting things like pistols and rabbits and insects. Girls were bad enough when they were at school, thought William, but they were heaps worse when they grew up.

  The female sex was an entire mystery to William. Except in the case of his mother, he could see no reason for their existence. Yet he grudgingly admitted to himself that Ethel’s admirers had not been useless to him. There was Mr French, who had given him his first couple of white rats, there was Mr Drew, who had showered rare postage stamps upon him, there was Mr Loughton, who had nervously pressed sixpence into his hand whenever they met . . .

  But Mr Romford was different. He had a strange idea that William had no influence with his elder sister. This happened to be true, but that made it none the less annoying to William. He thought it only right that any young man who was interested in Ethel should ensure his (William’s) sympathy by practical means. Mr Romford treated him as if he did not exist. William resented this very much.

  ‘Wot’s he come for?’ he said, indignantly. ‘He doesn’t take no interest in Jumble, nor the rats, nor the toolshed, nor the bridge wot I’m making over the stream, nor me. Wot’s he come for?’ he demanded of his assembled family.

  They all replied to him.

  Ethel said coldly: ‘Don’t talk about things that aren’t your business.’

  His mother said: ‘William, I wish something could be done about your hair. It never looks tidy!’

  His father said: ‘That reminds me, William, you’d better go and weed your garden. It’s in a disgraceful state.’

  William went slowly to the door.

  ‘Mr Romford’s going to give me a Persian cat for a Christmas present,’ Ethel went on to her mother.

  William stopped.

  ‘Wot about Jumble?’ he said, indignantly. ‘Wot about Jumble with an ole cat about the place? Wot about my rats? How d’you think they’ll like an ole cat about the place? My rats ’ve got as much right to live’s an ole cat, you’d think, wun’t you? My rats an’ poor ole Jumble came here first, I think – I think they did, considering that the ole cat hasn’t come yet. You’d think that Jumble an’ the poor ole rats deserved a bit of peace . . . ’

  ‘Go and give your hair a good brushing, William,’ said his mother.

  ‘Take every one of those weeds up. You can’t have touched it for weeks,’ said his father.

  ‘You aren’t the only person in the world who can keep animals,’ said Ethel.

  ‘A lot of int’rest you take in animals, don’t you? – in real animals.’ William exploded bitterly. ‘A lot of int’rest you take in my insecks an’ rats an’ things, don’t you? I mus’ say you take a lot of int’rest in them,’ he went on in heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Cats! Who’d call cats an animal? They aren’t int’restin’, are they? Who ever found cats int’restin’? They don’t follow you like dogs, do they? They haven’t int’restin’ habits like insecks – oh, I mus’ say they’re very int’restin’!’

  He saw Ethel and his mother gathering breath to speak. His father had retired behind a paper.

  He hastily went out, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  ‘Cats!’ he remarked, contemptuously, to the empty hall.

  William was walking slowly along the road, with his hands in his pockets, whistling. He felt at peace with all the world. He had a half-crown in his pocket. It would soon be Christmas. He was going to have a bicycle for Christmas. Ethel had insisted on his having a bicycle for Christmas, not for love of William, but because William’s secret experiments with her bicycle had such dire results.

  ‘He’ll only smash it up, if he has one, dear,’ his mother had said.

  ‘Well, he’ll only smash up mine, if he doesn’t,’ Ethel had replied.

  So William was going to have a bicycle and a mouth organ and pocket-compass in addition, of course, to the strange things always sent as presents by distant aunts and uncles. Those did not count – pencil-boxes, and storybooks about curious, exemplary boys, and boxes of crayons and pens and thi
ngs. They didn’t count.

  Anyway, a bicycle was a bicycle. He wanted to be able to take a bicycle right to pieces and put it together again. He’d never been able to have a really good try at Ethel’s. She made such a fuss. He was thinking about this, with a faint smile on his face, when he observed a man coming along with a covered basket in his hands. It was Mr Romford. William looked at him coldly. He had no hopes of a Christmas present from Mr Romford but Mr Romford stopped.

  ‘Are you going home, William?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said William ungraciously.

  ‘Would you mind taking this to your sister? It’s a present I am giving her for Christmas. Don’t open the lid. It’s a very valuable white cat.’

  William took it. Something was moving about inside.

  ‘It’s in a highly nervous state,’ went on the donor; ‘I shouldn’t look at it if I were you.’

  ‘All right,’ said William, coldly.

  William walked on down the road. His smile had gone. He no longer thought about Christmas. He swung the basket carelessly as he walked. An infuriated scratching and snarling came from inside. William swung it still more carelessly.

  ‘I’m not a cat-carrier,’ he muttered, indignantly. ‘Makin’ me into a cat-carrier for him!’

  He sighted Ginger, his ever faithful friend and ally, in the distance, and hailed him with a piercing whistle. Ginger came to him.

  ‘What d’you think’s in here?’ queried William.

  ‘Dunno!’

  ‘An ole cat! An’ whose d’you think it is?’

  ‘Dunno!’

  ‘Well, a man’s givin’ it to my sister. An’ how much d’you think he’s givin’ me for takin’ it?’

  ‘Dunno!’

  ‘Nothin’!’ said William, bitterly. ‘Nothin’. Makin’ a cat-carrier of me for nothin’.’

  ‘Listen to it!’ said Ginger, enraptured.

  ‘It’s been carryin’ on something dreadful ever since I got it,’ said William. ‘It’s a beautiful, nice quiet cat, isn’t it? It’ll be nice for Jumble an’ those poor ole rats when this sort of wild thing gets loose, won’t it? It’ll be nice for them, then.’

  Sarcasm was a new weapon of William’s, and as yet his use of it was heavy

  ‘Let’s have a look at it,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said William. ‘It’s all right for you. You aren’t going to have looks at it all the res’ of your life. You aren’t going to have your life an’ the lives of your dog an’ rats made a misery by it for the rest of your life. I don’t feel inclined to waste time lookin’ at it. Listenin’ to its carryin’ on’s enough for me jus’ at present. You’ve not been made a cat-carrier for nothing. You don’t feel like I do about it.’

  ‘Let me jus’ peep, William.’

  ‘All right, if you take any int’rest in it. I don’t. I should think there’s some law about givin’ wil’ animals for presents. There oughter be. Human life oughter be sacreder than wot it seems to be to him. All right. Look at it. Don’t blame me if it leaves its mark on you for life. It’s a nice, quiet-tempered sort of cat. Oh, yes! Very!’ He laughed sarcastically.

  Ginger cautiously opened the basket top a fraction of an inch.

  A small, white paw shot out. Ginger closed it hastily and sucked his hand with an expression of agony on his face.

  ‘Golly!’ he ejaculated.

  ‘There!’ said William, triumphantly. ‘Didn’t I tell you? It’ll prob’ly give you blood poisoning. All I hope is, if you die of it, he’ll get hung. He oughter be – sendin’ wild cats without tamin’ them first.’

  Ginger assumed a heroic expression.

  ‘It wasn’t much of a scratch. Let’s have another look.’

  He opened the lid of the basket again. Both William and Ginger disclaimed responsibility for what followed. William said he wasn’t touching it, and Ginger said that he only opened it a bit and he didn’t know that the creature was mad – not really mad – not right off its head like that. Anyway, a white ball of fury hurled itself out of the basket, dealt William a long scratch across his cheek, nearly tore off Ginger’s ear, and disappeared over the nearest wall.

  ‘Well,’ said William, coldly. ‘What you going to do now?’

  ‘Me?’ said Ginger.

  ‘Yes. Jus’ tell me how you’re going to replace a valu’ble cat wot you’ve just let loose. Jus’ tell me wot I’m goin’ to do. Am I going home to say I’ve got a valu’ble cat, in a highly nervous state, and then them find there’s nothing in the basket but jus’ air? This is all I get for being his cat-carrier! Well, you let it loose, an’ you’ve got to replace it. That’s sense, isn’t it? I was jus’ quietly carryin’ a valu’ble cat, in a highly nervous state, down the road, an’ you come along an’ let it loose. Well, wot you goin’ to do?’

  ‘Well, wot can I do?’ said Ginger, helplessly. ‘I din’t know the thing was a cat lunatick, did I? It oughter be in a cat asylum. You never told me you was carryin’ a wild cat or a mad cat. You jus’ said a cat. You—’

  But the white ball of fury had appeared again, flying over the wall and down the road at full speed. William grasped his empty basket, and started after it.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted, as he ran. ‘Come on! Catch it! Catch it!’

  They raced down the road after the flying white ball – first the cat, then William, then Ginger – through a garden, leaving a cursing gardener in their rear – in and out of a house, leaving its irate owner ringing up the police – first the cat, then William, then Ginger, breathless and afire with the chase.

  Along a wall, the cat on the top and William and Ginger at the foot.

  They nearly got her then. She fell into a rain-tub in a private garden at the foot of the wall, but scrambled out and fled again, dripping and grimy . . . through a muddy ditch . . . the ball of fury was now not white, but a dingy grey . . . and suddenly right into a tabby cat with a broken ear, who was washing its face by the roadside. There was a whirl of claws and flying fur . . .

  ‘Get it now!’ yelled William. ‘Get it while they’re fighting.’

  Ginger seized the basket and effected the capture neatly, but not without a dozen or so more scratches. They fastened up the basket and resumed their journey

  ‘Well, you can’t say I din’t do that, can you?’ said Ginger, vaingloriously. ‘You can’t say I din’t do that pretty neatly! You can’t say you helped much there. I bet if you’d all these scratches there’d be some sort of a fuss!’

  THE WHITE CAT RAN SUDDENLY INTO A TABBY CAT WITH A BROKEN EAR. THERE WAS A WHIRL OF FURY. ‘GET IT NOW!’ YELLED WILLIAM. ‘GET IT WHILE THEY’RE FIGHTING!’

  ‘Yes, and who let it loose? That’s all I’m asking. Who let it loose? . . . Oh, come on! Let’s get it home. I’m about sick of it. I’m about sick of being his cat-carrier!’

  They walked along in silence for a bit.

  ‘Seems a bit quieter, doesn’t it?’ said Ginger.

  ‘Speck it knows now it’s no use makin’ a fuss. Speck it din’t quite know before wot sort of cat-catchers we was.’

  ‘Let’s have another look at it, William!’

  ‘Oh, yes, an’ go lettin’ it loose all over the place again. Oh, yes, do!’

  ‘It’s quiet now. It’ll not mind me lookin’. I want to see if it’s got very dirty.’

  William weakened.

  ‘I’ll have a look at it this time,’ he said, ‘then p’raps it won’t get loose all over the place!’

  Cautiously he opened the basket lid. Over his face came a look of horror. It faded, leaving it grim and scornful.

  ‘Oh, yes, you did it,’ he said, with heavy sarcasm. ‘You did it pretty neatly, as you said you did. Oh, yes, I din’t help much. Oh, yes, you caught it.’

  He opened the basket wider. A friendly tabby, with a broken ear, regarded them and gave a tentative purr.

  ‘Oh, yes, you caught it all right, but you caught the wrong one!’

  Ginger looked at it, aghast, speechless. Then he pulled
himself together.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to pretend that it’s the one.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said William. ‘She’ll believe it’s a valu’ble white cat, in a highly nervous state, won’t she? Oh, yes, she’s quite likely to believe that!’

  They sat down by the roadside and stared at each other hopelessly. The tabby showed no signs of wishing to leave them, though, in their despair, they had left the basket open.

  ‘We – might do something to make it nervous,’ suggested Ginger, feebly.

  He began to make strange noises of obviously hostile and insulting intent to the cat. The cat began to purr. William watched with cold scorn.

  ‘Oh, yes, and then do somethin’ to make it valu’ble, an’ then do somethin’ to make it white!’

  They were both strangely silent at this last suggestion. The hopelessness of their countenances seemed to clear.

  ‘It mightn’t stay on, of course,’ said William, ‘but it might make it look all right for a bit.’

  ‘Where can we get some?’ asked Ginger, cryptically.

  ‘P’raps old Lawkins has some,’ said William. ‘You can pay for it.’

  They carefully replaced the tabby cat in the basket and went towards the village shop.

  William entered and stated his needs.

  ‘White paint?’ said the shopman. ‘I think so. I think so. For iron work?’

  ‘Well,’ admitted William, ‘it’s really for fur – I mean—’ he corrected himself hastily, ‘for somethin’ – for somethin’ a bit softer than iron.’

  ‘For wood?’ suggested the old man.

  ‘I ’speck that’d do,’ said William, ‘and a brush too, please.’

  They retired to a deserted field to perform the delicate task.

  William took the brush in one hand and put down the paint-pot on the grass by his feet. Then he took out the cat.

  ‘Now, I’m going to do this,’ he explained, ‘because I want it done prop’ly. I don’t want this cat let loose all over the place.’

  He held the cat in one hand and drew a bold line of white paint down its back. The next moment he was sucking a deep, red scratch on either hand, and a white-flecked tabby cat was disappearing in the distance.