William Again

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Yes, Will— I mean skipper,’ said Joan, raising blue eyes alight with admiration.

  The path now turned inland. This part of the river was private, and the back garden of a large house swept down to the river’s bank.

  ‘I b’lieve – I b’lieve,’ said William, ‘that I see an island – I b’lieve that at last I see an island jus’ as this ole boat is goin’ to crash to pieces against a towerin’ rock. There! It’s crashed to pieces against a towering rock. My goodness! We’re in the icy water now! Well, you catch hold of an ole splinter or somethin’ an’ I’ll catch hold of somethin’ else, an’ we’ll jus’ make for that ole island with all our might an’ main – spite of the rain an’ wind lashin’ at our faces—’

  With set, grim expression he began to struggle through the garden hedge.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ he called, holding the bushes aside for her, ‘here’s the island at last. Now we’ll lie down on the sand an’ sleep an’ then I’ll go an’ get the things wot will be washed up from the wreck.’

  The part of the garden where they found themselves was out of sight of the house. There was a summer house by the river and near that a clothes line with a tablecloth hung out to dry

  They sat down on the bank of the river.

  ‘Nice to rest, isn’t it,’ said William, ‘after all that strug-glin’ against the fierce wind an’ rain?’

  ‘Yes, Will— I mean skipper.’

  ‘You go on restin’,’ said William, kindly, ‘an’ I’ll go an’ try to find things washed up by the wreck.’

  He crept towards the back of the house. There was no one to be seen. The door stood slightly ajar. Cautiously William peered within. He saw a comfortable kitchen, empty save for the presence of a grey cat washing its face on the hearthrug. It suspended operations for a moment, surveyed William coldly and disapprovingly, and then returned to its ablutions.

  William’s glance fell eagerly on a box of matches on the table and a saucepan in the sink. He waited in the shadow of the doorway. There was no sound in the house. At last, on tiptoe, his brows drawn together, his tongue projecting from his mouth, his eye fixed on the door, his freckled countenance purple and scowling, his hair standing on end, he crept across the room. Returning the cat’s haughty stare, he seized the matches, the saucepan and two cups, and fled down to the river, where his chief mate was sitting on the grass, idly throwing stones into the water.

  ‘Look what I’ve found washed up from the wreck,’ he said proudly. ‘Now we’ll build a fire an’ soon I expect we’ll find a native savage an’ some wild animals.’

  ‘Not – not too wild, William,’ said the chief mate.

  ‘All right,’ said the skipper, ‘not too wild, but anyway it doesn’t matter ’cause you’ve got me an’ there’s nothing much I can’t kill. Now, after the night on the open sea, we’d better make breakfast.’ With indescribable joy they collected twigs, made a fire, filled the saucepan with water from the river, and put it on to boil. When the water was warm, William poured it into two cups and broke his biscuits into them. The water was smoked and the biscuits grimy from their sojourn in William’s pockets, but to the shipwrecked mariners the draught was as of nectar and ambrosia. Both drained their cups.

  ‘That was grand, wasn’t it, mate? I think you oughter say, “Aye, aye, sir.”’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘Well, now, I’d better build us a house out of logs an’ things, an’ you go and see if you can find anything washed up from the wreck.’

  ‘Oh, William – I mean skipper!’

  ‘You won’t mind – there’s no one there but a cat.’

  With mingled apprehension and excitement, Joan stole off to the house.

  William, left alone, turned to the summer house, and in his imagination made it vanish into thin air. Then he went through a ferocious and strenuous pantomime of cutting down trees and piling up logs, and finally beheld the completed summer house with the proud eyes of a creator. Then he opened the door and entered.

  A ragged, unkempt man rose from the seat rubbing his eyes. A black bag was on the floor.

  William and the man stared at each other, neither of them flinching.

  ‘You’re jus’ wot I wanted to find,’ said William at last with excitement and friendliness in his voice; ‘I jus’ wanted a native savage.’

  ‘Oh, yer did, did yer?’ said the man. ‘Glad I’ll do fer yer arl right. An’ ’oo may you be if I may be so bold as to arsk?’

  ‘We’re shipwrecked,’ said William, ‘shipwrecked on a desert island. I’ve jus’ built a hut, an’ my chief mate’s gone to find things washed up from the wreck, an’ you’ll do for the native savage. Do you mind bein’ called Friday?’

  ‘Not at all, young gent,’ said the man, ‘not at all. ’Erbert ’Ammond is my name, but call me Friday, Saturday an’ Sunday, if so you’ve a mind.’ (He ran his eye speculatively over William.) ‘But it seems funny to see a shipwrecked sailor in clothes like them. You’d ’ave thought they’d ’ave all got tore to pieces in the wreck, like.’

  ‘Yes,’ said William eagerly, ‘they did.’

  ‘One would ’ave expected to see you – well, p’raps dressed in a sail or something.’ His eyes narrowed, and he pointed to the ragged tablecloth fluttering in the breeze. ‘That ’ud do fine for a sail.’

  William’s eyes were alight with enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes – it would,’ he said, ‘fine.’

  ‘If I was you an’ bein’ shipwrecked,’ said the man, deftly taking the tablecloth from the line, ‘I’d nip into that there summer house, an’ take off that ordinary-like suit an’ rig up myself in this here sail . . . then you’d feel like as if you was shipwrecked, eh?’

  He threw the tablecloth into the summer house, and William, all excitement, followed. Friday lay on the bank by the river, smoked a foul pipe and winked at the landscape.

  Soon William emerged proudly wearing the tablecloth in the fashion of a Roman toga.

  ‘That,’ said Friday, ‘looks a bit of orl right – if I was you I’d go an’ show it to the hother one wots lookin’ at the wreck. I’ll stay an’ look hafter that there suit of yours so’s no one runs off with it.’

  As William swaggered slowly towards the house, Friday rose, spat into the river, winked at the tree and went into the summer house again.

  Joan was sitting on the step of the house with the cat on her knee.

  ‘Will— I mean skipper,’ she said, ‘it’s a lovely pussy.’ Then, ‘Oh, goodness – William!’

  Her tone hovered between horror and admiration.

  William stepped jauntily up to her. One corner of the tablecloth trailed on the ground behind him.

  ‘It’s a sail,’ he said, proudly. ‘I got all my clothes dashed off me in the wreck, an’ I’m wearing a sail wot got washed up by the waves. It does jolly well, doesn’t it?’

  Joan clapped her hands.

  ‘Oh, an’ I’ve found a native savage,’ went on William, ‘an’ he doesn’t mind bein’ called Friday—’

  ‘Oh, how lovely! An’ the pussy will do for a native wild animal. Oh, William – we’ve got simply everything, haven’t we?’

  They went happily down to the river.

  There William sustained the first shock of that momentous afternoon. Many more were to follow. The native savage had disappeared. Search in the summer house revealed the fact that William’s clothes had also disappeared.

  William’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Stole ’em!’ he ejaculated.

  Joan’s eyes opened wide. The possibilities of the situation were beginning to dawn on both of them.

  ‘William – how’ll you get home?’

  William’s expression was one of pure horror.

  ‘Mean ole thing!’ he said. ‘Simply stole ’em.’

  ‘William – what’ll your mother say?’

  They stared at each other in consternation. William clutched the tablecloth tightly round his neck.

  At this moment a loud,
angry voice came from the house. They fled precipitately to the summer house. Isolated phrases reached them.

  ‘Careless girl . . . gossiping in the grocer’s shop . . . anyone might have come in . . . not even locked the back door . . . Heaven knows—’

  Then they heard the violent slamming of the back door. Both felt that the time had come for the adventure to end. The desert island had lost its charm. It must be after tea-time. The sun was already setting. In normal circumstances, they would have crept quietly from the garden and returned to their respective homes. But circumstances were not normal. Between William’s pants and vest and the world at large was – not his usual long-suffering cloth suit – but a trailing and in certain places inadequate tablecloth. William’s freckled face, with its expression of indignant horror, in its frame of wild, carroty hair, had a curious, unexpected appearance at the top of the long white robe.

  ‘Oh, let’s go home,’ said Joan, with a suspicion of tears in her voice.

  William looked at her desperately.

  ‘I can’t go home like this,’ he said, hoarse with emotion. ‘I can’t go through the village wearin’ a tablecloth. Everybody’d be laughing at me. No one’s ever done it before – not walked through the village in a tablecloth – it’d make me ridic’l’us for the rest of my life.’

  He sat down, staring despondently in front of him.

  ‘Oh, William, what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll stay here till midnight – till everyone else is in bed, an’ I’ll go home then. You’d better be gettin’ home now.’

  ‘Oh, William – I couldn’t, William. I’ll go an’ get you something from our house. I’ll get you some of Daddy’s clothes. Oh, William!’

  William, deeply touched, could only stare at her and mutter gratefully, ‘Thanks – thanks, he’s bigger’n me, but they’ll do – anything’ll do.’

  He watched her anxiously through the dusty little window of the summer house as she crept to the hole in the hedge and disappeared. Then he heaved a deep sigh, drew his covering around him, sat down on the summer-house seat and waited.

  He was not left in peace for long. The voice which had first broken in upon their desert island sounded again – this time nearer. It was evidently walking round the garden with a sympathetic friend.

  ‘And that wicked girl went to the grocer’s and stayed there the whole afternoon – it’s that young man they’ve got now – it’s always the young men, my dear – that’s the worst of girls – and she left the house entirely unguarded, my dear – didn’t even lock the door – and I came back and – yes, my dear, all the silver gone from the dining-room – some thief had been in and – oh, yes, I’ve telephoned the police – and good gracious, the wretch has even taken the tablecloth we had hanging up in the back garden! Did you ever?

  ‘Have you – have you looked in the summer house? He may be hiding there.’

  William grew hot and cold, and took up his position immediately behind the door.

  ‘No, my dear and I’m not going to. I don’t think it’s fair to my friends and relations – I’m not thinking of myself. But – suppose he were there. He’s sure to have a revolver. I’d make a fine target for his revolver, silhouetted against the light.’

  ‘Y-yes. But couldn’t we get pokers and dash in and stun him before he’s time to move?’

  William, pressing himself and his tablecloth tightly into the corner, behind the door, was aware of a curious sinking feeling in his insides. Some people, he decided, hadn’t any hearts at all.

  ‘I don’t think so – we might so easily kill him by mistake.’

  ‘Well, then, at any rate we can lock the door and keep him there till the police come.’

  A cold perspiration broke out over William.

  ‘The lock won’t work. Do you know, my dear, I’d rather go further away just in case there is anyone there. Suppose we go indoors?’

  The voices died away in the distance. The tenseness of William’s form relaxed. His fixed look of horror and apprehension faded. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘Crumbs!’ he whispered.

  It seemed hours before the door opened and Joan staggered in with a bundle.

  ‘Quick, William darling,’ she whispered. ‘Put them on, an’ we’ll go home. No one saw me getting them. I’m ’fraid they’ll be a bit big, but we can turn things up.’

  Her fear was justified. Mr James Clive, her father, was six foot six in height. On William, his coat nearly touched the ground. His trousers, though rolled up bulkily at the ends till they could be rolled up no more, considerably impeded William’s progress.

  ‘Oh, William, they’ll do,’ she whispered at last. ‘They are a bit big, but they’ll do.’

  William, in Mr Clive’s clothes, would have made his fortune on a music-hall stage. Strong men would have wept tears at the sight, but Joan’s loyalty was such that only affectionate concern was in the glance she turned on him. William’s face was set and determined. He thought that the end of his troubles was in sight, as he rolled the tablecloth into a ball and put it beneath his arm.

  ‘They – they may be able to track us if we leave it here,’ he whispered. ‘ ’Sides, someone’s stole my clothes an’ I’m jolly well goin’ to steal someone’s tablecloth.’

  The curious couple walked down the road. Joan kept throwing little anxious glances at her companion. He certainly looked very queer. She hadn’t realised that the suit would be quite so much too big. So far they had not passed a house. Now they were passing a roadside cottage.

  A man came out of the cottage and stared at William open-mouthed. Then he leant against the wall, put his hands to his sides and emitted guffaw on guffaw. William merely threw him a murderous glance and proceeded on his way with as much dignity as his trousers allowed him.

  ‘Missus?’ called the man, wiping his eyes.

  A woman came out, saw William, gave a piercing scream of mirth, and leant helplessly against the wall with the man. Two small children followed and joined in the shrieks of merriment that to William seemed to fill the entire world. Joan put her hand to that part of the long sleeve where she judged William’s hand might be, and gave a sympathetic squeeze. Yet even Joan’s heart sank at the thought of the journey through the village that lay before them.

  The next house they had to pass was the house where Joan lived. To her consternation, Joan saw a figure in a black dress and white apron at the gate. It was too late to turn to flee.

  ‘Well, I never, Miss Joan. Your mother says you’re to come in at once. She’s in a terrible state over you – where ’ave you been?’

  ‘I must go home with William,’ pleaded Joan.

  ‘That you must not,’ said the housemaid, taking her hand. ‘Your mother said I was to find you and tell you to come in immediate. You’ve ’ad no tea nor nothin’. As for you,’ she turned a devastatingly scornful eye upon William, ‘dressin’ up an’ thinkin’ you’re so funny – well, you won’t get me laughin’ at you – you oughter be ashamed of yourself.’

  With a contemptuous sniff she led away the reluctant Joan. William continued his pilgrimage alone. He went slowly. He went slowly for two reasons. One was that the thought of the journey down the village street filled even William’s heart with apprehension. The other was that his trousers were coming unrolled and his hands were so far up the long sleeves of the coat that he could not extricate them. He was glad that dusk was at last falling. He was aware that a tall figure was approaching from the opposite direction. He shrank into the shadow of the hedge, and hoped that it would pass without observing him. It did not. It stood in front of him, barring his way, and slowly adjusted a monocle. With a sinking heart, William looked up into the face of Joan’s father.

  A WOMAN CAME OUT, SAW WILLIAM, AND GAVE A PIERCING SCREAM OF MIRTH. TWO SMALL CHILDREN FOLLOWED AND JOINED IN THE SHRIEKS OF MERRIMENT.

  WILLIAM CERTAINLY LOOKED VERY QUEER. JOAN HADN’T REALISED THAT THE SUIT WOULD BE QUITE SO MUCH TOO BIG.

  ‘Excu
se me, young man,’ said that gentleman, ‘but either you and I patronise the same tailor and have had identical ideas this spring as to style and material, or – or,’ his hand descended firmly and held the back of William’s neck, ‘or you are wearing a suit of my clothes, in which case I must ask you to come home with me and take them off.’

  He began to impel William gently back towards his house.

  ‘If you’d jus’ let me explain,’ said William, pathetically.

  ‘Explanations,’ said Mr Clive, transferring his hold from William’s neck to the collar of his coat, ‘are tedious, unsatisfactory things. Why trouble yourself with them? I merely ask of you, as one gentleman of another, that you will return to me the garments that you seem to have absent-mindedly appropriated.’

  Even William’s spirits were crushed by the repeated blows of fate. He did not speak again till he was face to face with his captor in the library of Joan’s house, but with Joan nowhere to be seen. He was pale and stern.

  ‘But I’ve nothin’ else to wear,’ he said, ‘nothin’. You don’ want me to go all the way home in nothin’?’

  ‘What,’ said Mr Clive, ‘were you wearing before you purloined my suit?’

  ‘I was wearin’ a tablecloth, but—’

  ‘Then I suppose you can go on wearing a tablecloth.’

  ‘But – but you don’t want me to go through the village in a tablecloth? said William in frenzied despair.

  ‘You can go through the village in a table napkin for all I care,’ said Mr Clive, heartlessly. ‘I paid twelve guineas for this suit only last week, and I’m not going to have it mucked up any more. It’ll take about six years in a press to take these creases out, anyway. I don’t know what mischievous business you’ve been engaged in today, but I can guess who got hold of this suit for you, and I’ll have a few words with Miss Joan on the subject this evening.’

  William glared at him savagely.

  ‘Nothin’ to do with Joan,’ he said. ‘I got it myself.’ He divested himself of the suit, shook out his tablecloth and wrapped it round him, scowling darkly. ‘Well,’ he said, slowly and bitterly, ‘if you don’t mind me goin’ through the village in this—’