‘Give me time,’ she answered with dignity. ‘I must decipher the code first.’
They all looked at the twins. George smiled through a thick covering of honey. John smiled through a thick covering of jam. They sat in pools of jam and honey.
‘He’ll make me pay for that,’ said the young man. ‘He’ll say I’m responsible.’
‘You are, dear, legally,’ said the stout one brightly. ‘Now, I’m going to talk to these dear children, and get to the bottom of this. Now, darlings, who’s William?’
‘Willum’s nice!’ said George.
‘Yes, darling, but what does he do? Who is he?’ ‘Willum sells us!’ said John proudly. ‘He doesn’t sell little boys, surely?’ said the tall lady, aghast.
George and John nodded their heads.
‘Yiss, he does.’
‘He’s not your father, is he?’
‘Oh, no,’ they chorused. ‘He’s Willum. He sells us.’
‘A kidnapper!’ said the stout lady sharply. ‘That’s it. A kidnapper! We must get to the bottom of this. We must confront the man . . .’
‘I still think,’ said the other dreamily, ‘that it’s a – plant – or a code.’
‘Do you know where William lives?’ asked the stout lady of George.
‘Oh, yiss!’ said George proudly.
‘I will confront this man,’ she said dramatically, ‘and you must support me.’
The young man groaned.
‘It’s all like a nightmare,’ he said. ‘It’ll knock me off work for months.’
‘Couldn’t you use it?’ suggested the stout lady. ‘It would make a most sensational plot . . . the mysterious children . . . the code . . . the—’
‘Thank you,’ said the young man coldly, ‘I don’t go in for sensational plots.’
The procession set out – first, John and the stout lady, then George and the thin lady, then the young man, wearing a set agonised expression.
‘And I came here for quiet and rest,’ he muttered pathetically.
‘Take us to William’s house, darling,’ said the stout lady to John.
‘We ought to have brought some sort of a weapon,’ said her sister grimly.
‘Vivian will protect us,’ said the other bravely.
Vivian groaned again in the gathering dusk.
The twins had led the procession on to the common with every sign of confidence, but now they stopped.
‘Want more dam,’ said John.
‘Wanner go home,’ said George.
‘We’ll just go down this path and see if it leads anywhere,’ said the short lady uncertainly. ‘Vivian will stay with the children.’
They returned in a few minutes.
‘Nothing to be seen – absolutely nothing. It’s most unfortunate. Vivian, where are the children?’
Vivian, who was leaning against a tree, his eyes dreamily fixed on the distance, roused himself.
‘What children? . . . Oh, damn! I’d forgotten them . . . Here, aren’t they? Just messing about . . . they were . . . I’d just got an idea when you disturbed me.’
‘But the children?’ gasped the stout one, staring wildly round the dim landscape. The young man ran his fingers through his hair. The thin lady gave a little scream.
‘It was all a plot. They’ve led us to a lonely spot, and now someone’s going to murder us.’
‘They’ll be all right,’ said the young man, miserably. ‘Children always are. I’m getting a cold. Let’s go home.’
‘Don’t be foolish,’ said the stout one sternly. ‘I will not move from this spot till I have found the children. If necessary I will search all night and you with me.’
They began to trudge wearily in single file along the narrow path.
‘Oo, someone’s coming,’ screamed the thin lady. ‘Let us be brave . . . Offer no resistance . . . They’re sure to be desperate . . . Vivian, for my sake, don’t be rash . . . Don’t kill anyone.’
But it was another little procession that was approaching them, as weary-looking as their own. At the head walked a woman in a tall toque. At the end walked a small boy with freckles and untidy hair and a dejected expression. They peered into each other’s faces.
‘Have you seen two little boys?’ they all began simultaneously.
‘John,’ said the twins’ mother.
‘George,’ said the stout lady
Then the thin lady and the twins’ mother had hysterics.
It was William who found them in a dry ditch near by They were fast asleep, with blissful smiles upon their mouths, besmeared with jam and honey. They awoke and stared in amazement at the crowd of friends and relations.
‘Nice William!’ murmured George sleepily.
‘Wanner be a save adain,’ said John. ‘Want more dam!’
CHAPTER 13
WILLIAM’S HELPING HAND
William was on his way to visit his new friend. He whistled as he went, his lips pursed determinedly, his brows drawn into a scowl of absorption, his untidy hair standing, like a somewhat unsaintly halo, round his head. When William whistled, he could be heard a long way off. It was an affair of great effort and concentration. It was a sound before which strong men quailed.
William’s new friend heard the sound long before William had turned the corner that led to his house. He put his hand to his head and groaned.
William’s new friend was Vivian Strange, the distinguished poet and journalist. Vivian Strange had taken a furnished house in the village in order to enjoy the calm and quiet which were so essential to his literary calling. Instead of calm and quiet he had found William. That is, William had adopted him.
William was attracted to Vivian Strange because, although Vivian Strange belonged to the tyrant race of the ‘grown-ups’ he had never yet told William to wipe his boots or go home at once or not to speak till he was spoken to. This touched William deeply. He was not used to it. He imagined that it must hide a lasting affection for him on the part of Strange. As a matter of fact it did no such thing. The attitude of Vivian Strange to William may be compared to that of a timid fawn before a lion, or a rabbit before a snake. He was not used to the human boy He had never known one before at close quarters. When he gently hinted to William that he must be missed at home, William kindly intimated that they didn’t mind a bit and he could stay a good long time yet.
Such mild sarcasm as Strange could produce had the same effect on William as water on the back of the proverbial duck. William was not used to hints. William was not used either to houses where he could sit in the best chairs and talk to his heart’s content and eat cake unrestrained. He made the most of it. He liked Vivian Strange.
And Vivian told himself bitterly every night that his genius was being ruined, his naturally sweet temper embittered, his constitution undermined by a creature less than half his own size whom he might almost kill with one hand. He often dreamed of William. He often recalled hard things he had read or heard about the human boy, and decided that they were all true. Yet, when he met William’s mother, and William’s mother said, ‘I do hope that William isn’t a nuisance to you,’ he flushed and said hastily, ‘Oh, no, not at all. I like it.’ And William’s mother went placidly on her way and remarked later to an incredulous family circle, ‘There must be something about William for a brilliant literary man like Mr Strange to take pleasure in his company.’ Thereupon the family raised incredulous eyebrows.
On the previous day William had paid three visits to his new friend. The first visit had nipped in the bud a very promising poem written in an uncommon metre.
William entered playing on his mouth organ a tune that he had learnt (not quite correctly, he admitted) that morning. During the third repetition of the tune, Vivian Strange began to see red, but his curse of politeness still clung to him.
‘Hadn’t you better let them hear that at home?’ he said desperately.
William wiped his mouth politely.
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind goin’ on a bit longe
r. ’Sides my family’s not as fond of musick as wot you are.’
When William had gone, Strange returned to the poem, but inspiration had fled.
After lunch he began a strikingly original essay on ‘Nature the Divine’. Then William called again. This time he proudly brought a live mouse and a dead hedgehog to show his friend. He also carried (with difficulty) a jar full of muddy water containing squirming water creatures of repellent appearance and sinister expressions.
Vivian Strange pricked his finger on the dead hedgehog and was bitten by the mouse. On retiring precipitately from the mouse he knocked over the jar of water which William had thoughtfully placed on the edge of his bureau. Holding his bitten finger in his mouth, he watched the water as it dripped partly on the carpet, partly upon a new satin cushion. He also watched his blotting-paper and pens and stamps and literary masterpieces floating in mud amongst wriggling, nightmare creatures. He raised his hand to his head.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is the last straw.’
William, who was on his knees, rescuing as many of the creatures as he could, raised a face purple with effort.
‘ ’S all right,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Don’t you worry about it. I don’t mind. Honest, I don’t. I can get some more. Honest, I can . . . an’ anyway, some’s not dead. You didn’t reely get a proper look at ’em, did you? I’ll get some more tomorrow an’ you can have ’em to keep. But don’t you worry about droppin’ ’em. I don’t mind.’
Half an hour later, his face pale and set, Vivian took up his half-written essay, ‘Nature the Divine’. There was a muddy pool through the middle of it, and a tadpole’s corpse reposed peacefully in one corner. With averted eyes Vivian dropped it into the fire.
As he lay wakeful through the night, he searched in his mind for some form of literature that could resist the blighting effects of his young friend’s frequent and devastating visits. With a lightning flash of inspiration came the answer – a sensational story. Vivian had never before lowered his genius to writing a sensational story, but he felt that the time had come. Some story that would carry itself along of its own momentum, that even a visit from William would not be able to turn from its course.
He was deep in the throes of it the next afternoon when the shrill sound of William’s distant whistle reached him.
William entered cheerfully.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You writin’?’
The victim raised his face from his hands.
‘I was,’ he said pointedly.
‘I thought you was,’ said William. ‘I saw you through the window with your head in your hands, like as if you couldn’t think wot to write nex’. So I knew you’d be glad to see me.’
As he spoke, his rare smile overspread his freckled face.
The young man was dumb.
‘I used to write a bit myself,’ went on William modestly, ‘an’ often I couldn’t think wot to write nex’. I remember once I wrote an orfully good tale about a man wot was a pirate an’ he was run after by a dastardly cannibal round an’ round a desert island an’ then the dastardly cannibal caught him an’ was jus’ goin’ to cook him when some frens of the dastardly cannibal came up, an’ while the dastardly cannibal was saying “good afternoon” to them the pirate got up a tree an’ waved his pocket handkerchief to another pirate wot was on the sea as a sign that he was in deadly danger.’
William stopped. ‘Yes?’ said his unfortunate hearer in a dull voice. William plunged on.
‘An’ the dastardly cannibal sawed down the tree but the other pirate came an’ they escaped an’ the proud an’ beautiful daughter of the dastardly cannibal escaped with them. She wasn’t dastardly like wot her father was. She didn’t like eatin’ human folks. She didn’t like the taste, so she was glad to get to a country where they didn’t do it an’ they was married an’ she was the queen of the pirates an’ he was the king of the pirates, an’ she was proud an’ beautiful an’ said ‘Avaunt!’ when anyone tried to cheek her jus’ like a reel queen. Is your tale anything like that?’
‘No,’ groaned Mr Strange.
‘Well,’ said William, comfortably ensconced in an armchair, ‘now I’ve told you my tale, you oughter tell me yours. I say, is there any of that cake left wot you so kin’ly gave me some of yesterday?’
The young man waved a limp hand towards the sideboard cupboard.
William took a large slice of plum cake and returned to his chair.
‘I always get so’s I mus’ have something to eat about this time, don’t you?’ he said pleasantly. ‘I can eat mos’ times but sometimes I feel so’s I mus’ eat . . . Well, go on an’ tell me about your tale, now. I’ve told you about mine an’ I’ll help you, you know, about wot to write nex’.’
‘I don’t want you to,’ said the young man desperately.
‘Oh, it’s no bother,’ said William, kindly. ‘Don’t you think about that. I wanter help you. You gave me big bits of cake today an’ yesterday an’ I wanter help you an’ I’ve wrote tales myself an’ I know wot it’s like. An’ don’t worry about knockin’ over my water things. I’ve gotter fren who’s promised to catch some more tomorrow an’ we’ll bring them along soon’s we’ve gottem. That was jolly good cake.’ The young man automatically waved a hand towards the cupboard again.
‘Thanks. I don’t mind a bit more. It’s jolly good cake . . . Now tell me about your tale so’s I can help. Wot’s it about?’
‘It’s – it’s just about a man,’ said Mr Strange feebly.
‘Wot sort of a man?’ said William with his mouth full of cake.
‘Just a man – he’s going home one night—’
‘Goin’ home, where from?’ demanded William.
‘That doesn’t come into the story,’ said the young man irritably. ‘He was just going home.’
‘All right,’ said William soothingly. ‘Only if he was goin’ home he must ’a’ been somewhere, an’ I jus’ wondered where he’d been to be coming home from.’
‘Well, as he’s coming home he gets a message that a girl – a girl—’ the young man hesitated.
‘The girl wot he’s in love with?’ supplied William earnestly.
‘Er – yes,’ said the young man. ‘He gets a message that she’s in danger and he must go to her at once, so he follows the man, you see—’
‘Which follows which?’ said William judicially.
‘The man the story begins with—’
‘The one wot you didn’t know where he was goin’ home from?’
‘Yes. That. Well, he follows the man that tells him the girl’s in danger and really the man—’
‘If you don’t call ’em names,’ said William, ‘I can’t tell which is which. Let’s call the man wot you don’t know where he was goin’ home from Alberto (that’s a good tale name), and the one wot says that the girl wot Alberto’s in love with’s in deadly danger Rudolpho (they all end with – o in a book I’ve been readin’; it sounded fine). Well then, Rudolpho tells Alberto that the girl wot Alberto’s in love with’s in deadly danger. I think that’s a jolly good tale, but I think that Alberto oughter have a secret treasure somewhere, an’ let’s have another man in called Archibaldo (I’ve gotter nuncle called Archibald) wot wants the secret treasure an’ he’s gotter trail of dynamite laid to right under Alberto’s bed to blow him up in the night when’s he’s asleep, an’ let’s have another girl in called Rosabellina wot Rudolpho’s in love with – a proud an’ beautiful maiden, you know, an’ Rudolpho gets hold of her an’ she yells out, “Avaunt! Unhand me, varlet! . . .” Well, you finish yours first an’ we’ll put in my bits afterwards. You’d jus’ got to Alberto comin’ home from somewhere you din’t know where an’ followin’ Rudolpho . . . Wot comes next?’
Vivian Strange stared in front of him. He was once more the rabbit and William the snake. Some power in William’s earnest, freckled countenance compelled him to proceed.
‘The – er – the second man was really a secret service agent—’
‘Wot�
��s that?’ inquired William disapprovingly.
‘Oh, it’s – er – it’s a kind of glorified policeman, I suppose.’
‘Much better have him a pirate or a red injun,’ said William, ‘but never mind. Go on.’
‘Well, he wants to get hold of some letters that – er – Alberto has, and leads him to a lonely house and locks him up there, and says he’ll keep him there till he gives them up.’
‘Hurlin’ vile threats?’ said William, his face alight with earnestness. ‘Let him say it hurlin’ vile threats an’ precautions an’ insults in his teeth. Wot happens nex’?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the young man. ‘That’s as far as I got. I can’t get on with it. I can’t think what he’d say or do next.’
William drew his brows together in deep thought.
‘I should think Alberto oughter say “Ha! Villain! Never shalt thou worst me” – or something like that.’
‘People don’t talk like that in real life.’
‘Oh, reel life!’ said William scornfully. ‘I thought we was talkin’ about books.’
‘Don’t you think your friends want you to play with them?’ said Mr Strange with emphasis. ‘Don’t you think you’ve left them for quite long enough?’
William arose and brushed the cake crumbs from his coat to the carpet.
‘P’raps I’d better be goin’,’ he agreed. ‘But I’ll be thinkin’ over wot comes nex’. You say you want it real life an’ not books. I think you oughter have more people in it. Can’t you have them all on a desert island an’ make Rudolpho get eaten by cannibals in mistake for Alberto? . . . Oh, well, jus’ as you like, of course. I’ll bring you my tales to read one day an’ I’ll bring you some water things tomorrow. Did you know tadpoles ate tadpoles? Talk about cannibals! . . . I say, that’s a jolly fine penknife.’
Vivian Strange, whose proud spirit was broken, handed him the knife with a despairing gesture.
‘Take it!’ he moaned. ‘Take it and go!’
William was touched.
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I’d better not take such a jolly fine penknife as that. You’re sure to be wantin’ it again. But – but I’ll borrow it for a bit if you don’t mind. I’ll bring it back when I bring the water animals. I say, it’s jolly kind of you. Well, goodbye.’
William Again Page 16
