William Again

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘I’ve paid for the twelve lessons,’ said Mrs Brown firmly, ‘and Miss Carew is very particular about your not missing without a real excuse.’

  ‘Well, there’s this evening,’ said William.

  ‘You know Grandfather and Aunt Lilian are coming,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘and they’d be most hurt if we went out the first evening.’

  ‘Well, they’re comin’ to stay a week,’ said William with the air of one who exercises super-human patience; ‘shurly they won’t mind if I’m out for one night? Shurly they aren’t as fond of me as all that? I should think Aunt Lilian would be glad I’m out from the things she said about me last time she came. You know she said—’

  ‘You can’t go alone,’ said Mrs Brown wearily. ‘It doesn’t begin till eight. It’s an absurd hour to begin. You can’t stay up so late, for one thing, and you can’t go alone, for another—’

  ‘Why NOT?’ said William with growing exasperation. ‘Aren’t I eleven? I’m not a child. I—’

  William’s father lowered his newspaper.

  ‘William,’ he said, ‘the effect upon the nerves of the continued sound of your voice is something that beggars description. I would take it as a personal favour if it could kindly cease for a short time.’

  William was crushed. The fact that he rarely understood his father’s remarks to him had a good deal to do with the awe in which that parent was held. Clowns, he thought to himself smoulderingly didn’t say things that no one knew what they meant. Anyway, he was going to that circus. He finished his breakfast in dignified silence with this determination fixed firmly in his mind. He was going to that circus. He was going to that circus.

  ‘Fold up your table napkin, William.’

  Slowly and deliberately he performed the operation.

  ‘I bet clowns don’t have the beastly things,’ he remarked dispassionately.

  With which enigmatical remark he departed from the bosom of his family. He was escorted to the dancing class in the afternoon by his elder sister Ethel. He signified his disgust at this want of trust in him by maintaining a haughty silence except occasionally unbending so far as to ejaculate in a voice of scornful indignation, ‘Dancin’! Huh! – Dancin’!’

  During the dancing class his attention wandered. Miss Carew’s patience changed gradually to wearied impatience.

  ‘Slide the right foot, children, right foot, William Brown! Now chassé to the left. I said left, William Brown. Now three steps forward. Forward, William Brown. I didn’t say stand still, did I? Now, take your partner’s hand – your partner’s, William Brown – Henry is not your partner.’ William’s real partner glared at him.

  William performed evolutions tardily, faultily, and mechanically. He saw not a roomful of small boys and girls, shining with heat and cleanliness, dominated by Miss Carew’s commanding voice and eager gaze. He saw not his own partner’s small indignant face; he saw a ring, a ringmaster, a clown, lions, tigers, elephants – a circus!

  He was aroused by a sudden wail from his small partner. ‘I don’t want to dance wif William! I don’t like dancing wif William. I want to dance wif someone else. William does everyfin’ wrong!’

  William gazed at her with a reddening countenance. The dancing class stopped dancing to watch. The maiden found a small handkerchief hidden in a miniature pocket and began to sob into it. ‘I could dance nice wif someone nice. I can’t dance wif William. He does it all wrong.’

  ‘Me?’ said William in horror. ‘I’ve not done anything. I dunno what she’s cryin’ for,’ he explained to the room helplessly. ‘I’ve not done nothin’ to her.’

  ‘You’re enough to make any little girl cry,’ said Miss Carew sharply ‘the way you dance!’

  ‘Oh, dancin’,’ said William scornfully. Then, ‘Well, I do it all right in the end. I’m only a bit slow. I’m thinkin’ of sumthin’ else, that’s all. That’s nothing for her to cry for, is it? Cryin’ because other people dance slow. There’s no sense in that, is there?’

  The sobs increased. It was a warm afternoon, and Miss Carew’s exasperation changed to a dull despair.

  ‘Will any kind little girl take William Brown for a partner, and give Mary a rest?’

  There was no answer; William was aware of a distinct sense of mortification.

  ‘Well, I don’t want any of ’em,’ he said huffily. ‘I’ll dance slow by myself. I’d sooner dance by myself than with an ole cryin’ girl. I’ll’ – a brilliant idea struck him – ‘I’ll go home, shall I? I shan’t mind going home.’ His cheerfulness grew. ‘Then she,’ he indicated his late partner, ‘can do it quick by herself and give up cryin’. I’ll go home. I don’t mind goin’ home.’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Miss Carew. ‘I’ll give – I’ll give a chocolate to any little girl who will dance with William Brown.’

  A stout little girl, famed for her over-indulgence in sweets, volunteered. William received her with an air of resigned patience.

  ‘Well, don’t cry over me,’ he said sternly. She was less disposed to suffer in silence than his previous partner.

  ‘He’s treading on my toes,’ she announced in shrill complaint when the dancing was once more in full swing.

  The goaded William burst forth. ‘Her feet are all over the place. I can’t keep off them. She moves them about so quick. She puts them just where I’m going to tread on purpose. I don’t want to tread on her ole feet. Well, I can’t do what you say and not tread on her feet, ’cause when I do my feet, how you say do them, they go on her feet ’cause she’s got her feet there first ’cause she’s quicker than me an’—’

  Miss Carew raised her hand to her brow.

  ‘William,’ she said wearily, ‘I really don’t know why you learn dancing.’

  ‘I learn dancin’,’ said William bitterly, ‘ ’cause they make me.’

  The various tribulations of the dancing class almost drove the thought of the circus from his head. But he saw the tent as he went home. It was in darkness, as the afternoon performance was over, and the only sign of life he could see was a thin dog chewing a turnip at the tent door. He supposed that the clowns and princess-riders were having tea in the brilliantly lit interiors of the closed caravans. He could imagine their sallies of wit and mirth; he listened for their roars of laughter, but the caravan walls were thick and he could hear nothing but a noise that might have been a baby crying, only William supposed it could not be that, for no baby who was lucky enough to live in a circus could surely be so misguided and ungrateful as to cry

  ‘I guess no one ever made them learn dancin’,’ he said feelingly.

  He found that Grandfather Moore and Aunt Lilian had already arrived.

  William had never met his grandfather before, and he gazed in astonishment at him. He had met old people before, but he had not thought that anything quite so old as Grandfather Moore had ever existed or ever could exist. He was little, and wrinkled, and shrivelled, and bald. His face was yellow, with tiny little lines running criss-cross all over it; his bright little eyes seemed to have sunk right back. When he smiled he revealed a large expanse of bare gum, with three lonely-looking teeth at intervals. He had a few hairs, just above his neck at the back, otherwise his head was like a shining new egg. William was fascinated. He could hardly keep his eyes off him all tea-time.

  Aunt Lilian’s life work was looking after Grandfather Moore. It filled every minute of her time. She was a perfect daughter.

  ‘May he sit with his back to the light?’ she said. ‘You know you’re better with your back to the light, dear. Bread and milk, please. Yes, he always has that, don’t you, dear? Are you quite comfortable? Wouldn’t you like a cushion? Get that footstool, William. This is William, dear – little William.’

  ‘William,’ he repeated, and smiled.

  William felt strangely flattered.

  ‘He’s getting a bit simple,’ sighed Aunt Lilian, ‘poor darling!’

  She was firm after tea.

  ‘You’ll go to bed now, dear, won’t yo
u? You always like to go to bed early after a journey, don’t you? He always likes to go to bed early after a long journey,’ she explained to the company.

  She helped him upstairs tenderly and left him in his room.

  William was despatched to bed at half past seven as usual. They were surprised at his meekness. They thought he must have forgotten about the circus. They carefully avoided all mention of it. But William’s silence was the silence of the tactician. Open attack had failed. He was now prepared to try secrecy.

  Up in his room he sat down to consider the most unostentatious modes of exit from the house. There was the possibility of going downstairs and through the hall on stockinged feet so quickly as to escape notice. But there was always the chance of somebody’s coming out into the hall at the critical minute, and then all would be lost. Or there was the possibility of climbing down from his window, but his room was on the third storey, and he had never yet attempted a descent from that height. Just beneath his room was Grandfather Moore’s room. From the window of Grandfather Moore’s room an old fig tree afforded a convenient ladder to the ground. Grandfather Moore had gone to bed directly after tea. He would surely be asleep now. Anyway, William decided to risk it. He crept down the steps to Grandfather Moore’s room and cautiously opened the door. The room was lit up, and before the fire sat Grandfather Moore, fully dressed. It was now impossible to withdraw The bright little eyes were fixed on him, and Grandfather Moore smiled.

  ‘William!’ he said with pleasure. Then, ‘I’ve not gone to bed yet.’ He was obviously revelling in his wickedness.

  William came in and shut the door.

  ‘Can I get through your window?’ he said shortly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Grandfather Moore. ‘Where do you want to get to?’

  ‘I’m going to a circus,’ said William firmly.

  The bright eyes grew wistful.

  ‘A circus!’ said the little old man. ‘I went to a circus once – years and years ago. Horses and elephants and—’

  ‘Lions an’ tigers an’ camels an’ – an’ – an’ clowns,’ supplied William.

  ‘Yes, clowns,’ said the old man eagerly. ‘I remember the clown. Oh, he was a funny fellow! Are you going alone?’

  ‘Yes,’ said William, crossing to the window.

  ‘Do they know you’re going?’

  ‘No.’

  The little old man began to tremble with excitement.

  ‘William – I want to see a circus again. Let me come too.’

  William was nonplussed.

  ‘You can’t climb down this tree,’ he said judicially. ‘I was goin’ climbin’ down this tree.’

  ‘I’ll go downstairs,’ suggested Grandfather Moore. ‘You wait for me outside. I’ll come out to you.’

  But William’s protective interests were aroused.

  ‘No; if you’re goin’, I’ll stay with you.’

  He found the old man’s hat and coat and helped him on with them. The old man was quivering with eagerness.

  ‘There will be a clown, won’t there, William? There will be a clown?’

  ‘I know there’s a clown,’ William assured him.

  They crept downstairs and through the hall in silence. Fortune favoured them. No one came out. Mr Brown, Mrs Brown, Ethel and Aunt Lilian were playing bridge in the drawing-room. The hall door stood open.

  Outside Grandfather Moore gave a wicked chuckle.

  ‘Lilian – she thinks I’m in bed,’ he said.

  ‘ShH! Come on!’ whispered William.

  Outside the tent door he remembered suddenly that he possessed no money. His last penny had been spent on a bag of popcorn the day before. Grandfather Moore was crestfallen. He said he had no money, but a systematic search revealed a shilling in the corner of his coat pocket, and his face lit up.

  ‘It’s all right, William,’ he said gleefully.

  A stream of people were entering the tent. There was the ring, the sawdust, the stands for the horses, the sea of people, the smell that is like no other smell on earth – the smell of the circus! William’s heart was too full for words. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was all too wonderful to be true. And there in the ring was a clown – a jolly red-nosed, laughing clown. Grandfather Moore clutched his arm.

  THEY CREPT DOWNSTAIRS AND THROUGH THE HALL IN SILENCE.

  ‘The clown, William!’ he gasped in ecstasy.

  William sighed – a deep sigh of intense happiness.

  They secured good seats in the second row from the bottom and sat in silence – a curious couple – their eager eyes fixed on that figure o’ dreams with a loose white suit and a chalked face. He held a small camera and he was offering to take the photographs of the people who came in. At last a farmer and his wife agreed to be photographed. He posed them carefully in the middle of the ring, the lady in a chair, her hands folded in her lap, the man standing by her side, his hand on her shoulder. Then he told them not to move. He said he was going to photograph them from behind first. He went behind and disappeared through the door of the tent. The couple stayed motionless with sheepish grins on their faces. The suppressed titters of the audience increased to roars of laughter. It was some time before the rustic couple realised that the clown was not photographing them carefully from behind. William enjoyed the joke. He emitted guffaw after guffaw while Grandfather Moore’s shrill cackle joined in.

  ‘He’s gone away, William!’ he piped between his laughter. ‘He’s gone right away! They think he’s taking them from behind!’

  At last the joke dawned upon the bucolic couple, and they went to their places amid applause.

  Then began the circus proper. The ring-master came on – a magnificent creature with long moustachios and a white shirt front. He waved his whip. Then all held their breath, for in there pranced a coal-black horse, and on its back one of the visions of beauty, whose pictures had been on the poster – golden hair, red cheeks, white tights, and short, white, frilly skirts.

  To William she was Beauty personified. In the fickleness of his youth he decided not to marry the little girl next door after all. He would marry her instead. He would be a clown and marry her. He watched her with fascinated eyes. She rode round the ring barback – she then rode round standing on the horse’s back and blowing them kisses. William blushed violently when he imagined one came to him.

  ‘Golly!’ he breathed.

  ‘Isn’t she fine?’ said Grandfather Moore.

  ‘Isn’t she just? said William.

  All the while the majestic ring-master stood in the centre of the ring twirling his moustachios and flicking his long, curling whip.

  Then a man brought her a white horse, and she raced round the ring, leaping gracefully from horse to horse at full gallop. Oh, the dreadful moment when William thought she might fall. He would have leapt from his seat and saved her, dying, perhaps, in the attempt. His thoughts lingered fondly on the scene. Then she leapt through the paper hoop again and again, landing gracefully upon the black or white back. William grew impatient for the time when he should be old enough to be a clown and marry her. The thought of the dancing class had faded altogether from his mind. The thoughts of youth may be long, long thoughts, but its memories are distinctly short.

  SHE RODE ROUND THE RING BAREBACK – BLOWING THEM KISSES. WILLIAM BLUSHED VIOLENTLY WHEN HE IMAGINED ONE CAME TO HIM.

  Then the clown came on again. How they roared at him. He tried to get on to a horse and he couldn’t; he tried to stand on a chair and he couldn’t; he tried to do conjuring tricks and he dropped everything; he tried to walk across the ring and he slipped at every step. He fell over his trousers; he fell over the ring-master; he quarrelled with the ring-master; the ring-master knocked him down; he said the funniest things William had ever heard in all his life. William was literally exhausted with laughing; Grandfather Moore was hoarse. Occasionally his cackling laugh cracked feebly on the top note.

  Open-mouthed and tense they watched a collie dog carry in its puppy, nurse it, give it
a bottle of milk and put it in its cradle; watched the elephant pick out numbers at the direction of the ring-master; watched the monkey ride a bicycle and pelt the clown with sawdust. But the last item was the most stupendous. It was called ‘The Prairie on Fire’. There were real flames – red, rolling flames; and through them, and in headlong flight before them, came cattle and horses and buggies, whose occupants stood up lashing on the horses and casting glances of terror at the flames. The golden-haired beauty was wringing her hands in the last buggy but one. The monkey was on the seat with the driver.

  ‘Crumbs!’ gasped William.

  Grandfather Moore was beyond words.

  Almost dazed and drunk with happiness they went out into the darkness at the end. They walked in silence till they were almost at the gate of William’s house.

  Then William spoke.

  ‘I don’t care what they do to me. It was worth it – jolly well worth it.’

  Grandfather Moore gave a chuckle.

  ‘That was a circus, William! I saw a fine one when I was a boy too. I didn’t care what I did to get to a circus.’

  William felt that he had found a kindred spirit.

  ‘Did you learn dancin’?’ he asked with interest.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you like it?’

  ‘No,’ said Grandfather Moore emphatically.

  The bond between them grew stronger.

  The hall and staircase were empty as they crept cautiously in through the front door. Mr Brown, Mrs Brown, Ethel and Aunt Lilian were still playing bridge in the drawing-room. Silently, on tiptoe, they crept upstairs to bed.

  Mrs Brown was apologetic at breakfast.

  ‘I was so sorry about the circus, dear,’ she said to William. ‘It just came on an awkward day when no one could take you. There’s sure to be one again soon. You shall go to that.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother,’ said William, his eyes fixed upon his plate.

  ‘You didn’t mind very much, did you, dear?’ she continued.

  ‘No, Mother,’ said William meekly.

  Aunt Lilian beamed across at her charge.