William closed the door behind him. The sudden peace and silence of the room seemed to Strange too blissful to be real. But the door opened and William’s tousled head and earnest face appeared again.
‘I say,’ he said. ‘How about having a burglar in an’ a detective after him, you know, an’ mysterious signs an’ clues an’ bloodhounds – as well as the other people? . . . Not? . . .Well, it’s your tale, so you jus’ do it how you like. I’ll see you again soon. Well, goodbye.’
William disappeared and the front door opened and shut. With anxious eyes Vivian Strange watched through the window for William’s youthful form to appear in the drive leading to the gate. It did not do so. Instead, the familiar untidy head appeared once more round the door.
‘I say!’ he said. ‘I was jus’ tryin’ to remember – did I have three pieces of cake in here, or only two? . . . Oh, thanks . . . I say, it’s jolly kind of you.’
‘Take it all,’ said Mr Strange, ‘and go!’
William was still more touched.
‘Oh, no!’ he said as he opened the cupboard. ‘I won’t take it all – not jus’ now. I’ll take one more piece now an’ I’ll come round for another piece later on. It gets so messed up carryin’ it about in your pockets, cake does. I’ve tried it. Gets all mixed up with marbles an’ bits of clay an’ string an’ things. It doesn’t spoil the taste but it wastes it – gettin’ it all crumby . . .Well, goodbye.’
Once more the front door opened and shut. Once more there was silence and peace. Vivian Strange, with a deep sigh, stretched out for his pen. Then an expression of wild despair came over his face . . . The well-known footsteps sounded in the hall again and the door opened.
‘I nearly went away,’ said William affectionately, ‘without showin’ you my new whistle. I’ve been practisin’ an’ practisin’ so’s to show it you this afternoon. An’ I nearly forgot an’ I’d have had to come all the way back. This is it.’
He placed two fingers in the corners of his mouth and emitted a siren-like sound that caused his friend to leap suddenly into the air in terror and surprise. William smiled with pride and friendliness.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ he said. ‘My family doesn’t care for it at home, but they don’t care for any whistles. They don’t reely like musick – not like you do. Well, goodbye.’
William walked along the road, humming happily to himself. His humming was, if possible, more dreadful than his whistling. William only hummed when he was happy. He enjoyed the sound of his humming. In this he was absolutely unique . . .
He was extremely happy today. His heart warmed at the thought of his friend’s kindness . . . the confidential literary chat . . . the cake . . . the penknife . . . He took out the knife and looked at it. His heart swelled with pride and pleasure . . . a knife like that . . . and he’d been ready to give it . . . give it . . . it was jolly decent of him . . . William had no other friend in the whole world who would have thought of lending him a knife like that, much less giving it.
William’s sense of gratitude was not easily stirred, but it was stirred this afternoon. When stirred, it demanded immediate and practical expression . . . He must do something for his friend . . . now .. . at once . . . But what? . . . He could get him the water things, of course, but that wasn’t enough. What did Mr Strange really want?. . . Suddenly William’s sombre countenance lit up . . . He’d wanted to know what Alberto would have said and done in real life . . . He should know.
Mr Porter was walking home. Mr Porter was an eminently respectable gentleman who lived a quiet, hardworking life divided between an eminently respectable office and an eminently respectable home. Mr Porter was on his way home from the station, carrying his attaché case in his hand as he had done for the last thirty years.
In his mind was a pleasurable anticipation of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of good wine, an excellent cigar, and the evening paper. Mr Porter had walked home with this pleasurable anticipation in his mind for the last thirty years, and it had always been fulfilled. There was a rosy glow over all his thoughts. He hardly noticed the small boy with the freckled, scowling countenance till he actually addressed him.
‘The lady wot you’re in love with,’ said the boy to him suddenly in an expressionless tone, ‘is in deadly danger, an’ says you’re to go to her at once.’
Mr Porter stopped short and peered through the dusk. He felt a little frightened. ‘The lady wot—’ he repeated. Then, ‘Would you mind sayin it again?’
William didn’t mind.
‘The lady wot you’re in love with,’ he said clearly and distinctly, ‘is in deadly danger an’ says you’re to go to her at once.’
‘The lady wot—’ began Mr Porter again. ‘What a curious expression! Do you – er – do you mean my wife?’
‘I s’pose so,’ said William guardedly.
‘Er – did she tell you to say that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she a tall lady?’
‘Yes,’ said William, taking the line of least resistance.
‘With a mole on her left cheek?’
‘Yes.’
‘Grey hair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Most curious!’ said Mr Porter. ‘That’s certainly my wife. What did you say she said?’
‘The lady wot you’re in love with,’ said William monotonously, ‘is in deadly danger, an’ says you’re to go to her at once.’
‘But – where is she?’
‘She said you was to follow me.’
‘Most curious!’ said Mr Porter uncertainly. ‘Most curious! Well – er – I suppose I’d better – er – one never knows – is it far?’
William’s eye gleamed with victory
‘Oh, no,’ he said soothingly, ‘not far.’
But Mr Porter’s heart had sunk. The rosy vision of the warm fire, the comfortable bedroom slippers, well-cooked dinner, glass of wine, cigar, evening paper seemed to have retreated to an incalculable distance.
‘Be as quick as you can,’ he said irritably. ‘I can’t stand here all night catching my death of cold. How do I know it’s not some cock-and-bull story? Hurry up! Hurry up!’
Silently and happily William led the way. Silently and miserably Mr Porter followed. Mr Porter disliked above all things departing a hair’s breadth from his usual routine. What was it all about, anyway? What was Mary thinking of, sending that curious message? Who was this strange boy? His self-pity and righteous indignation increased at every step. Down the street . . . round a corner . . . in at a side-gate . . . down a side-path past a house . . . into a back garden . . . What the—? The strange boy was holding open the door of a kind of outhouse.
‘THE LADY WOT YOU’RE IN LOVE WITH,’ SAID WILLIAM, ‘IS IN DEADLY DANGER, AN’ SAYS YOU’RE TO GO TO HER AT ONCE.’
‘She said particular you was to go in here,’ said the boy simply.
‘What the—?’ blazed Mr Porter. ‘What the—?’ he sputtered again.
The boy looked at him dispassionately.
‘She said particular you was to go in here.’
‘Into a—? Into a dirty, empty coal-shed? What—?’
Mr Porter stepped into the outhouse and flashed his electric torch around it. In that second he satisfied himself that the shed was empty. In that second also the door banged to behind him and a key was turned in the lock.
‘Here!’ cried Mr Porter angrily. ‘Where the—?’
There was no answer.
Mr Porter banged ferociously at the door.
‘Open the door, you young villain!’ he shouted.
There was no answer.
Mr Porter kicked the door, and shook the door, and rattled the door, and cursed the door. The door remained immovable, and only the silence answered him. Having recourse once more to his electric torch, he discovered a small window high up at the back of the shed and beneath it a pile of coal. Mr Porter determined to reach the window over the coal. He climbed the coal, and slipped in
the coal, and waded in the coal, and rolled in the coal, and wallowed in the coal, and lost his collar in the coal.
Finally he let fly a torrent of language whose eloquence, and variety, and emphasis, and richness surprised even himself. Mr Porter, an hour ago, would have believed himself incapable of such language. Then, panting, covered with coal dust, his collar gone, his coat torn, he surveyed the scene of his imprisonment, and there came to him a vision of a warm fire, comfortable bedroom slippers, a well-cooked dinner, a glass of wine, a good cigar and the evening paper . . . In sudden frenzy he flung himself bodily upon the door.
Vivian Strange had given up all attempt to write. He was sitting in the armchair by the fire reading poetry to soothe his nerves. His nerves were very much upset. He kept imagining that he heard strange noises – bangs and shouts, and once he shuddered, imagining that he heard William’s whistle. He decided to go back to town as soon as possible. The much vaunted peace of the countryside was a fiction. The country was not peaceful. It contained William, and William’s whistle, and William’s water creatures, and William’s conversations. There was more peace in the middle of Piccadilly – without William – than there was in the country with William.
The door opened suddenly and William appeared. There was on his face, a look of conscious pride as of one who has something attempted something done, but is prepared to be quite modest about it.
‘You can go an’ hear wot he says an’ does in reel life,’ he said. ‘He’s sayin’ an’ doin’ it now in the coal-shed. I’ve been listenin’ for ever so long.’
Mr Strange rose wildly.
‘But—’ he began.
The curious sounds increased. They were real, not a delusion of his overwrought nerves, as he had supposed. William was real too.
‘Where—?’ he said still more wildly.
‘In the coal-shed,’ said William impatiently. ‘Hurry up or he’ll be gettin’ tired an’ stoppin’. Take some paper an’ then you can copy down some of the things he says in reel life. I told you I was right.’
There came a sudden crashing and rending of wood, the sound of angry steps on the gravel, and in front of the house appeared a nightmare figure, black, gesticulating, ragged, collarless, hatless. It was the eminently respectable Mr Porter. ‘Police’, and ‘pay for this’, and ‘scoundrel’, were among the words that reached the bewildered Mr Strange through the window. Then, shaking its fist, the figure disappeared into the dusk.
‘There,’ said William. ‘You’re too late. He’s got out. He’s broke the door down an’ got out. Anyway, you know now wot he does in reel life. He breaks the door down an’ gets out. An’ I can remember lots of the things he said. I listened quite a long time. I’ll take another piece of that cake now, if you don’t mind. You said I could. Thanks awfully. I took a lot of trouble gettin’ that reel life thing for you. Could – could I keep that penknife jus’ for another day? I’ve got some frens I’d like to show it to. An’ if there’s anything else you’d like me to find out in reel life, I’ll try. I don’t bother with reel life myself when I do tales, but if you . . . Oh, I say, are you goin’ on with the tale now?’
Mr Strange was not. He was writing a telegram form. It ran:
‘Secure berth on any boat sailing anywhere. Complete nervous prostration. Change and rest urgent.’
‘I ’speck I’d better go,’ said William regretfully. ‘It’s after my supper-time. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No,’ said the young man wildly. ‘No, I don’t mind. I’m going away myself tomorrow, going away for good.’
‘Oh, are you?’ said William sadly. ‘I’m sorry. I shall miss you quite a lot an’ I ’speck you’ll miss me.’
‘Oh, yes,’ answered Mr Strange. ‘I shall miss you. I hope I shall miss you.’
‘Well, don’t worry about it,’ said William kindly. ‘I ’speck you’ll be comin’ back soon. Goodbye, an’ you can get on with your tale now, can’t you, now you know wot he says an’ does in reel life? Well, goodbye.’
He went briskly out of the front door.
Mr Strange drew a deep, quivering breath of relief. But not for long. Two apparitions appeared before the window, coming up the drive, one the blackened and battered remains of Mr Porter and the other a stalwart arm of the law, carrying a notebook.
There was a gleam in Mr Porter’s eye. He was going to execute justice but, justice executed, there lay before him the warm fire, and comfortable bedroom slippers, and well-cooked dinner, and glass of wine, and excellent cigar, and evening paper of his dreams.
But Vivian’s horrified gaze was drawn from them by the near vision of William’s face pressed against the glass.
‘I say,’ called William. ‘You did say I could keep that knife for a bit, didn’t you?’
Vivian Strange made a wild gesture that might have been assent or dissent or mere frenzy.
‘Thanks awfully,’ shouted William. ‘Well, goodbye.’
William strolled home through the dusk. He was sorry his friend was going, but, after all, he would be able to keep all the water creatures himself. Giving away water creatures was always a great sacrifice to William. Anyway, he’d had quite a decent day . . . all about that tale had been interesting and exciting, and that was a jolly good cake and a jolly good penknife and – his thoughts flew to that thrilling five minutes spent in rapt silence outside the coal-house – he’d learnt a lot of new words.
CHAPTER 14
WILLIAM GETS WRECKED
William laid aside Robinson Crusoe with a sigh. His dreams of pirate-king and robber-chief vanished. The desire of his heart now was to be shipwrecked on a desert island. He surveyed his garden and the next garden and the fields beyond with an impatient scowl. He felt bitterly that it was just his luck to live in an overpopulated world with ready-made houses and where everything one could possibly need could be purchased at the shop round the corner . . .
Yet he felt that within reach there must be a desert island, or at any rate some spot which a very little imagination could transform into a desert island. He decided to set out on a voyage. He filled his pockets with biscuits and pieces of string. String was always useful.
He went into the morning-room where his mother and grown-up sister sat. He felt strongly that a mariner just about to be shipwrecked ought to bid a fond farewell to his family.
‘Goodbye,’ he said in a deep voice, ‘case I’m not back.’
‘I wish you’d remember to wipe your boots when you come into the house,’ said his mother patiently.
‘You’d better be back if you want any tea,’ said Ethel.
William felt that they lacked every quality that the family of a shipwrecked mariner should possess. Not for the first time he washed his hands of them in disgust.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Don’t blame me if – if you’re sorry when it’s too late.’
With this cryptic remark he left them.
To a casual observer William looked only a small boy walking slowly down a road, frowning, with his hands in his pockets. He was really an intrepid mariner sailing across an uncharted sea.
‘Hello, William.’
William had a weak spot in his heart for Joan. He rather liked her dimples and dark curls. In his softer moments he had contemplated Joan actually reigning by his side as pirate-queen or robber-chieftainess. Now he felt that her presence might enliven a somewhat lonely voyage.
‘I’m an explorer,’ he said, ‘sailin’ along an’ lookin’ for new lands.’
‘Oh, William,’ Joan pleaded, ‘may I come with you?’
He considered the matter with a judicial frown.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘Will you come in my ship or will you have a ship of your own?’
‘I’d rather come in your ship, please.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re in my ship. Come on.’
She walked along by his side. The best part of Joan was that she asked very few questions.
‘We’re probably goin�
�� to come to a desert island soon,’ said William. ‘I speck we shall come to a desert island soon if we get through these icebergs all right. There’s a pretty awful wind blowin’, isn’t there – lashin’ the sails an’ tackin’ an’ all that an’ no land in sight an’ all these whales an’ things all about?’
‘Yes, William,’ said Joan obediently.
‘You’d better be chief mate,’ William advised. ‘I’ll be skipper. You don’t see any land in sight, do you, mate?’
Joan gazed at the road before them, the hedges around them, the cow’s head above the hedge, and the figure of the Vicar in the distance.
‘No, Will— I mean skipper,’ she said.
William heaved a sigh of relief. For a minute he had thought she was going to fail him.
They proceeded in silence for a time.
‘The mast’s gone now,’ said William, ‘all crashin’ down on the deck before the terrible hurricane wot sweeps all before it. I thought it was goin’ to crash on your brave head, mate.’
‘Yes, Will— I mean skipper,’ said Joan.
She was quite satisfactory. She entered into the spirit of a thing and had the additional advantage of not demanding a prominent role.
The Vicar had come up to them. He looked at William with disapproval.
‘Fine day, young man,’ he said breezily.
‘Awful,’ said William gruffly, ‘blowin’ an’ hurricanin’ an’ lashin’ at everything. Come on, mate.’
They left the Vicar staring after them.
‘I wonder,’ he said to the landscape, ‘whether that boy is deficient or merely impudent?’
He was still wondering when they vanished from sight. They reached the river.
‘The waves is lashin’ up at us,’ said William, surveying the placid stream. ‘I don’t think this ole boat will stick together much longer if we don’ see a bit of land soon. I’m jus’ drenched through – spite of my tauparlings – an’ almost perishin’ of hunger ’cause the provisions was swep’ overboard, aren’t you, mate?’
William Again Page 17
