She was a dignified, grey-haired, little, old lady, and treated him with a formal courtesy that he found very impressive. Instead of telling him that he must be punctual for meals and never come into a room in muddy shoes, she offered him the freedom of the house and urged him to make himself completely at home.
“I wish your stay here to be a pleasant one, dear boy,” she said, “and I hope that, if there is anything you want, you will not fail to ask for it. I shall not see much of you, as I spend my time chiefly in my room, but I have told everyone to do all they can to make you comfortable, and if there is anything I personally can do, you must not fail to let me know. I shall hope to see you from time to time."
William was deeply touched by this concern for his welfare. It was unlike anything that he had ever experienced at the hands of a grown-up in all his life before. The old lady, however, as she had said, spent most of her time upstairs, and her young guest saw nothing of her for the next few days. They passed happily enough. There were walks with Aunt Louie, who remained a congenial, understanding companion, games in the wood, and expeditions with Thor, in which Thor was initiated into his rightful kingdom of puppy-hood. By the end of two days Thor quivered from nose to tail at the word “rats!” while the sight of one sent him into a state bordering on madness. He learnt, also, to stay and guard William’s camp in the wood when William went in pursuit of (imaginary) hostile tribes or to accompany him on his reconnoitring expeditions, creeping silently through the bushes in his wake. William, in fact, had never come across any dog (except Jumble), who entered so heartily into the spirit of all his games, and picked up the general idea of them so quickly. Indoors, Aunt Louie provided books and games, and Aunt Belle’s cook, meals that, both in quality and quantity, exceeded all William’s previous experience. But, beneath the surface of this pleasant life, William soon detected an element of strain and anxiety. Aunt Louie would suddenly become silent and absent, frowning anxiously into space and not hearing what he said. She would go in to Aunt Belle’s room for long and earnest talks, to come out looking worried and distrait.
A tall, important-looking man arrived and was closeted for a long time with Aunt Louie. Aunt Louie told William, when he had gone, that he was a solicitor. William was an adept at sensing when anything was afoot in the grown-up world, and he sensed it here almost at once. He didn’t feel much curiosity, or even interest, however, as he. knew that the grown-ups’ attitude to life in general was wholly inexplicable. They worried about things that didn’t seem worth worrying about and were pleased by things that seemed to William to contain small cause for rejoicing. He would not, therefore, have troubled himself with the mysterious undercurrent of grown-up emotion, had not Aunt Louie suddenly broken off a game of draughts on the last evening but one of his visit, to confide in him. At first he was rather annoyed because he was obviously winning, and he thought it a ruse on her part to avoid defeat, but he soon forgot all about the game in his interest in Aunt Louie’s story.
“Poor Aunt Belle’s very worried just now,” she said with a sigh.
“Is she?” said William, crowning his latest king.
“Yes. It’s about the bequest. The Holewood bequest.”
“What’s that?” said William, and added: “It’s your turn.”
But Aunt Louie only glanced absently at the draughtboard and sighed again.
“It’s a very complicated story,” she said. “I don’t know if you’d understand it.”
“Oh, I’d understand it all right,” said William airily. “I’m jolly good at understanding things.” He glanced wistfully at the board. “I’d have won in about three more moves, wouldn’t I?”
“Yes, dear. We’ll count it that you’ve won.”
Honour being thus satisfied, William turned his attention to the matter in hand.
“All right,” he said. “Well, now about this request thing—”
“Bequest, dear. It means a legacy. Well, it began with Aunt Belle’s father.”
“Gosh!” said William, thinking of Aunt Belle’s venerable figure. “As far back as that?”
“He was a colonel in the army.”
“What did he fight in?” asked William with interest. “The Wars of the Roses? We’ve just started them at school.”
“No, dear. Not quite as far back as that. Anyway, he was out in the East for some time, and he brought back with him a very beautiful carving of Kuan-yin, dating from the end of the Ming dynasty.”
“Oh, yes,” said William helplessly.
“Kuan-yin is the Chinese Goddess of Mercy,” explained Aunt Louie, “and the end of the Ming Dynasty was about the middle of the seventeenth century.”
“Oh, yes,” said William more helplessly still.
“Well, Colonel Holewood left it in his will to the town. He was a J.P. and a Councillor and all that sort of thing, and it was arranged that it was to be kept in the free library under a glass case, and it was always called the Holewood bequest.”
William smothered a yawn. It was turning out to be the dullest story he’d ever heard. He’d much rather have finished the game of draughts. Or gone out for a run with Thor.
“But, when he died,” went on Aunt Louie, “no one could find it. What probably happened was that it was stolen, because it was very valuable and everyone knew about the Holewood bequest. It was stolen, I am afraid, in the confusion of his last illness. He died very suddenly, and Aunt Belle was abroad at the time, and so there was a great deal of upset. Anyway, the thief, whoever it was, got away scot-free, and the town never had the Holewood bequest.”
“An’ is she still worryin’ about it?” said William incredulously. “Well, I jolly well wouldn’t worry about that if I was her.”
“That’s not the end of the story,” said Aunt Louie. “She thought that she’d like to carry out the plan in her father’s place, and leave a bequest to the town when she died.”
“Jolly good idea!” agreed William. “So she got another of these Ying things from that Ming thing?”
“No, she couldn’t do that,” interrupted Aunt Louie. “The little statue was absolutely unique. There wasn’t another like it in the world. But she’s always been fond of travelling and of collecting, and she made a sort of museum of her travelling souvenirs and she wanted to bequeath that to the town as the Holewood bequest in place of the Kuan-yin.”
“Jolly good idea!” said William again, thinking that now she’d finished the not very interesting story he might suggest some more diverting occupation. But Aunt Louie’s anxious expression did not lighten.
“I’m afraid it isn’t, dear,” she sighed. “You see—well, I’ll show you her travel museum to-morrow morning, and I think you’ll understand. You see, the loss of this little statue has always been a great grief to her and she’s most anxious that there should be a Holewood bequest to the town, as her father meant there to be, and—well, to be frank, dear, she thinks that this travel museum of hers is much more interesting than it really is. It’ll break her heart for there to be no Holewood bequest, but I’m afraid she’ll have to face it.”
“Why won’t this travel museum do for one?” asked William.
Aunt Louie became still more confidential.
“I’m afraid they don’t want it,” she said, “and, really, I don’t wonder. One can’t tell her, of course, because, in a way, she spent her life making it, but it’s of no value or interest at all to anyone in the world beside herself. She always meant it to take the place of the original Holewood bequest, and it will be a terrible shock to her to realise that they don’t want it.”
“Have they said they don’t want it?” said William indignantly.
He liked Aunt Belle and thought that they ought to want anything she wanted them to want.
“Her solicitor’s been instructed to offer it to them and they’ve sent back a message to say that they can’t accept it. They’ve put it very nicely, of course, but that’s what it comes to. We haven’t dared to tell her yet. It isn’t that she wa
nts to glorify herself and her travels, you know, dear. She’d much rather that they had the original bequest—the loss of that’s a great grief to her—but she does want her father’s idea to be carried out in some form or another, and she’s always thought that her travel museum would take its place.”
“What’s it like?” said William curiously. “Can I see it?”
“It’s your bedtime now, isn’t it?” said Aunt Louie, glancing at the clock. “I’ll show it you first thing in the morning.”
William went to bed and had a dream in which all his memories of museums in general tangled themselves gloriously together, and skeletons of prehistoric animals engaged in deadly combat with Egyptian mummies, watched by stone statues wearing the Crown Jewels, sitting astride Crimean War gun-carriages. The actual travel museum in the library, to which Aunt Louie conducted him after breakfast the next morning, proved a much tamer affair. It was, indeed, almost amazingly tame, though it covered a fair amount of space. On a table was ranged a large number of bottles, each containing water and each neatly labelled: “Water from the River Nile”, “Water from the River Danube”, “Water from the River Euphrates”, etc. Aunt Belle’s journeys had been extensive and few rivers of any importance were omitted. On a desk nearby was ranged a number of pebbles, such as one might pick up on any English beach. These, too, were neatly labelled: “Pebble from Adelaide”, “Pebble from Beira”, “Pebble from Malaga”, “Pebble from San Francisco”, etc. On yet another table were a large number of tram and bus tickets, each with its appropriate label in Aunt Belle’s copperplate hand. “Tram ticket from Rome”, “Tram ticket from Moscow”, “Tram ticket from Budapest”, etc. Even this was not all. There was a collection of pressed, wild flowers—all of them flowers that grew quite commonly in England—each of them neatly labelled: “Celandine picked in the Forum”, “Daisy found growing on Acropolis”, “Fern picked in Pompeii”, etc.
Aunt Louie looked round helplessly.
“You see, dear,” she said with a sigh, “it’s full of interest to her, of course, but it’s of no intrinsic value at all. I mean no public body could possibly accept it. She can’t understand that. She connects each of them with her travels and adventures, and when she sees them she sees the place they came from and all the interesting things there, and she can’t understand that other people don’t. To an ordinary person, of course, they mean nothing at all. They’re just—they really are, I’m afraid—rubbish. There’s a book of snapshots, too, that’s part of her collection, but they’re very poor. She doesn’t see how poor they are, of course. She sees the thing itself, not the snapshot of it. Well, I’m afraid that it’s going to be a dreadful shock to her when she knows that the town has refused it.”
“When will she know?” said William.
“She’ll have to know to-day. The Town Clerk’s coming to tell her. It’s—well, as I said before—it’s just that she wants there to be a Holewood bequest. She’s always been so distressed by the loss of that statuette her father meant them to have.”
“What time is this Town Clerk man coming?” asked William.
“About four o’clock this afternoon, dear. But there’s no need for you to worry over it. I only told you so that you’d understand why the old lady is just a little worried and absent-minded. It’s a lovely day. isn’t it? You ought to be taking Thor for a run.”
William went slowly put into the garden for Thor. Four o’clock. That gave him almost the whole day to ginger up the museum. He’d meant to spend his last day very differently, but he was determined that there should be a Holewood bequest, and he intended to spare no pains or effort to ensure it. Thor was disconcerted to find him so unusually sedate. William was thinking hard. The problem he’d set himself was a very difficult one, and the time in which he had to solve it was very short. Thor, who was an understanding sort of dog, followed quietly at his heels, waiting patiently till he should have time to attend to him and continue his education in puppyhood.
But William remained deep in thought. It was, except for one incident, a very uneventful walk, and even the one incident didn’t seem particularly eventful at the time. A small, dejected-looking boy, standing in the doorway of a cottage, accosted William gloomily.
“Want a white rat?” he said.
“’Course I do,” replied William. “Anyone would. Why?”
“I’ve gotter get rid of mine. It’s et up my mother’s bedroom slippers, an’ she’s mad at me.”
“Well . . .” William considered. “I dunno as my mother would want it if it eats bedroom slippers.”
“It doesn’t really,” the boy assured him earnestly. “It’s all right, if you remember to feed it. That’s what I told her,” he continued aggrievedly. “I said: ‘It’s all right when I remember to feed it. It’s only when I forget to feed it it starts on bedroom slippers an’ things. An’ I promised I’d never forget again, but she wouldn’t listen. Just as if a rotten ole pair of bedroom slippers mattered to anybody. They’re jolly useful things, rats are. I told her so, but she wouldn’t listen. It might give the alarm in case of fire, or somethin’ like that. It’d serve her jolly well right if there was a fire an’ we all got burnt up, with this rat not bein’ there to give the alarm.”
“How much d’you want for it?” enquired William in a businesslike tone.
“It’s a jolly good rat,” replied the boy. “I bet you’d have to give a lot for it in a proper animal shop. I bet I could have taught it tricks easy if I’d tried. An’ it won’t eat bedroom slippers if you remember to feed it. It was only hunger made it eat my mother’s. I kept tellin’ her so but she wouldn’t listen. It’s worth a jolly sight more, but I’ll take a shilling.”
“You can’t,” said William simply. “’Cause I’ve only got sixpence.”
“All right,” said the boy equally simply, “I’ll take sixpence then. I’ll get it you now.”
William looked down at Thor, who had been listening to the conversation with an interested air.
“I’d better not take it with him here,” he said. “He’s mad on rats. I’ve taught him to be. Look at him now,” he went on proudly, for Thor, on hearing the word “rats” , had pricked his ears again and stood, quivering with eagerness. “If he saw even a tail of one, he’d go mad. So I’ll have to keep it a secret from him. But it’ll be all right, ’cause I’m goin’ home to-morrow, so I’ll come round for it this afternoon without him, an’ keep it in my bedroom till I go. He’s not allowed upstairs, so he won’t know I’ve got it.”
“A’right,” said the boy, “an’ this rat’s quite tame. He’ll stay in your pocket or anywhere. It was only ’cause he was hungry he et those bedroom slippers. I said to her: ‘You can’t expect an animal to starve, can you?’ but she wouldn’t listen. I expect he thought her slippers were put there for him to eat. He prob’ly et them out of politeness ’cause he thought they’d been put there for him to eat. I told her that, but she wouldn’t listen. He must’ve had awful stomach-ache after them. You’d think she’d be sorry for him—wouldn’t you?—’stead of bein’ mad at him. Anyway, if you bring your sixpence this afternoon, I’ll have him all ready. He’s called Wilfred with the boy I got him from’s father bein’ a Fashist.”
“All right,” said William. “I’ll come round for him this afternoon,” and set off again briskly down the road with Thor at his heels.
Aunt Belle was to meet the Town Clerk in the library at four o’clock and hear from him the news of the rejection by the town of the Holewood bequest. She had been partially prepared for the shock by Aunt Louie, but couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
“The collection of a lifetime,” she had said. “It’s absolutely unique. Of course, I know they’d rather have had the Ming statuette. I’d rather myself that they had it. But, surely, they won’t refuse my collection.”
Aunt Louie had said that she was afraid they would, and there the matter had rested. And now she had come down to see that the library was ready for the fateful interview She w
alked in and threw an absent glance around—then stood, petrified by horror. For William had, in the meantime, gingered up the collection to the best of his ability. No longer did the bottles contain merely colourless river water One had been filled with red ink and, beneath it was a notice in William’s uneven handwriting: “Water from the Red Sea.” One was a bright blue and beneath it William (with vague memories of popular songs), had written: “Water from the Danube”. Another was filled with black ink and had the label: “Water from the Black Sea”. In another there floated a selection of dead insects and several dead minnows. This was labelled: “Water from the Dead Sea”. The collection of pressed flowers had been swept away and in its place stood an extraordinary array of botanical specimens brought in from the garden and freely adapted by William. There was a tulip with a daffodil’s head wired on just below the tulip’s head, there were primroses painted green and black, there was a fern decorated with gold and silver paint, grape hyacinths grew, surprisingly, from an apple-tree branch, and curious blooms formed of multi-coloured plasticine alternated with yellow azaleas on a hawthorn twig. Each of these horticultural phenomena bore an appropriate (if erratically spelt) label: “Flower from Sellon”, “Flower from Veenner”, “Flower from Parris”, etc.
The pebbles, too, had been swept away and in their place were strange strips of clay, painted bright colours. As Aunt Louie stood there, petrified with horror, William entered, smiling complacently. He had just been round to collect Wilfred, who was now reposing peacefully in his coat pocket. He was, as the boy had said, a very tame rat, and seemed quite content to stay in William’s pocket, nibbling at his handkerchief.
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