William's Television Show

by Richmal Crompton

  “What can I do for you?” said the woman.

  William had assumed his most business-like air.

  “There’s a notice about a boy in the window,” he said.

  “Yes, I believe there is,” said the woman.

  “Well, I’m one,” said William simply.

  “Yes,” said the woman with another vague smile. She stopped to pick up a stitch and added, “I see you are.”

  “Well, would I do?” said William, dragging Jumble away from a sack of dog biscuits on the floor.

  “I really don’t know,” said the woman. “It isn’t my shop. It’s my sister’s and she’s out. I’m only staying with her.”

  “I s’pose I’d get paid for it,” said William tentatively. “Bein’ a boy, I mean.”

  Edgar, attracted by the smell of a slab of cheese on the counter, poked his head out of William’s pocket. William gently pushed it back.

  “I suppose so,” said the woman. “I don’t know how much, but fair wages, I’m sure. It’s for delivering goods, you know. An errand boy.” She paused and added mildly, “You haven’t a lead for your dog, have you?”

  “No,” said William, retrieving a bedroom slipper that Jumble was in process of worrying and pushing down Edgar, whose nose had again appeared over the top of William’s pocket, quivering in ecstasy at the delicious scent.

  “You seem to have your hands full,” said the woman.

  “They like shops,” said William. “They get a bit excited when they get into them.” He grasped Jumble firmly by the collar with one hand and held down Edgar in his pocket with the other as he continued, “I can’t be a reg’lar boy ’cause of school an’ things.”

  “I thought you looked a bit young for it,” said the woman, “but I didn’t like to say so.”

  “I’m not young,” said William with a touch of dignity. “I’m over eleven—but what I wanted to know was, could I do a bit of bein’ a boy? Jus’—well, jus’ about sixpenny worth, an’ could I do it now ’cause it’s rather important?”

  The woman’s eye roved round the shop and came to rest on a paper bag at the edge of the counter.

  “Well, now,” she said, “it’s a funny thing but Miss Gilpin’s forgot that bag of biscuits. She put all the other things she bought into her bag but forgot the biscuits.” She rose, carefully insinuating her head between a saucepan and a dustpan. “My sister’s a short woman so they don’t worry her but I nearly cut my head open on a garden trowel the other day getting up too quick.” She handed the bag of biscuits to William. “Suppose you take them round to her. She lives at Hillcrest just up the road with her brother. They only moved in last week. She’s sure to give you sixpence for it.”

  “Thanks,” said William, his spirits rising.

  He set off down the road, turned to find Jumble following him with a rubber boot in his mouth, went back to the shop to restore the rubber boot, then once more set off in search of Hillcrest.

  It was a small neat house on the top of the hill. William stood looking at it thoughtfully for a few moments, then walked up to the front door and knocked. Jumble stood beside him, wagging his tail in happy anticipation. Jumble always wagged his tail in happy anticipation when awaiting the opening of a door on which William had knocked. No amount of experience could ever convince him that he would not be a welcome and expected guest.

  No one answered the knock. William knocked again. There was still no sound of movement in the house. He walked round to the back door and beat a loud tattoo on it with his knuckles. Still no one answered. But the door stood ajar and, tentatively, curiously, William pushed it open. It revealed an empty tidy kitchen with a glowing boiler fire and a gay woollen rug on the hearth. A chair near the table was piled with paper bags of groceries. Evidently Miss Gilpin had put her purchases there on returning from the shop and then gone out again. William laid the bag of biscuits on the chair with the other things. He’d wait there, he decided, till she came back. He didn’t want to miss his sixpence after taking all this trouble.

  The sound of a hiss and a snarl startled him and he turned to see that a black cat had risen from the hearth-rug and was standing, back arched, fur erect, confronting Jumble. Jumble enjoyed chasing cats but had never yet solved the problem of how to deal with a cat that refused to be chased. So he stood—rigid, growling softly—waiting for his enemy to turn to flight. The cat, however, had no intention of turning to flight. So the two stood, frozen and immobile, staring fixedly at each other. William was just bending down to take Jumble by the collar and lead him from the scene of danger when something wholly unexpected happened. Edgar, intoxicated by the smell of Danish Blue, had shed his usual lethargy. Rakishly, tipsily, he poked his head again from William’s pocket, evaded William’s restraining hand and slid down his legs on to the floor.

  Immediately pandemonium broke out in the kitchen. The cat leapt after Edgar. Jumble leapt after the cat. Edgar, still intoxicated by the memories of Danish Blue, raced with meteor-like swiftness round the room, followed by the cat and Jumble. Jumble crashed against the chair, overturning it. Rice, sugar, currants and biscuits fell to the ground and rolled all over the floor—and still the wild pursuit continued.

  “Hi!” shouted William desperately. “Hi!—Down, Jumble!—Down, Edgar!—Down, cat!”

  Suddenly Edgar fled through the half-open door that led into the hall. The others followed, William just in time to see Edgar slip into the open door of a cupboard beneath the stairs. Anxious to secure his pet, William plunged in after him and, grabbing hold of a hook on the back of the door, slammed it to. Jumble had slipped in after them. The cat fortunately had not. Edgar sat up drunkenly in a comer of the cupboard, combing his whiskers. William secured him, stuffed him into his pocket and then turned his attention to Jumble, who, finding that his enemy had escaped him, was scratching wildly at the door, trying to get out. William took him by the collar and held him firmly.

  “Gosh!” he panted. “Let's get out of this quick as we can.”

  He pushed the door. It refused to move . . . Gradually, with dawning horror, he realised that it was the sort of door that can only be opened from outside. There was no catch or handle of any sort inside it. He was locked into this small dark prison with Edgar and Jumble and with no possibility of escape.

  Gone was the chance of earning sixpence. Gone, in all probability, was the chance of attending his parents’ wedding anniversary celebrations. But those were the least of his fears. What was to happen when the owners of the house returned and found the kitchen carpeted by groceries and a strange boy and dog in possession of the cupboard beneath the stairs? He fiddled about with the fastening of the door and found it solidly immovable. He even held Edgar up to it with vague memories of rats in stories who had gnawed their way through solid barriers, but Edgar, after giving the wood an experimental lick and finding that it was not Danish Blue, relapsed into his old inertia and settled down for a doze.

  William didn’t know how long he had remained in his prison when there came the sound of a woman’s footsteps entering the kitchen. They stopped suddenly and a shrill scream rang through the house.

  “Good Heavens! What’s happened? What on earth’s happened?”

  Jumble uttered a low growl, but William, intent on putting off the moment of their discovery as long as possible, held his muzzle tightly in one hand.

  “Tiddles!” screamed the woman. “What are you doing up there on top of the dresser, my darling? Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What has happened?”

  Jumble’s bark, strangled by William’s restraining hand, floated out from the cupboard.

  “Oh, my goodness!” said the woman on an ascending squeak.

  Her footsteps approached the cupboard. A muffled snarl from Jumble sent her scurrying back to the kitchen.

  Almost immediately there came the sound of more footsteps, and a man’s voice exclaimed: “Good Lord, Agatha! What on earth is all this?”

  The woman’s voice answered tearfully: “Oh, Ambrose, I’m so g
lad you’ve come. The most dreadful thing has happened.”

  “I can see that the most dreadful thing’s happened. Sugar and rice and currants and what-not all over the place! But who on earth did it?”

  “A lunatic, Ambrose. And he’s here in the house.”

  “In the house? Where?”

  “In the cupboard under the stairs. He’s making horrible animal noises.”

  “Animal noises?”

  “Yes, animal noises—Moans and groans—Horrible—He must have escaped from somewhere—I’d been to the shop for the groceries and then I just slipped out to the post to post a letter and when I came back he was here. The groceries were flung all over the floor like this—who but a madman, Ambrose, would throw rice and sugar and biscuits all over the floor?—and poor Tiddles was up there on top of the dresser. She must have sensed that something evil had come into the house. Then I went into the hall and I heard him in the cupboard under the stairs making horrible animal noises. I heard him move, too. He sounded a large powerfully-built man. Perhaps we’d better send for the police, Ambrose.”

  “No, no,” said the man’s voice impatiently. “I’ll tackle him. Where did you say he was? In the cupboard under the stairs?” “Yes—Do be careful, Ambrose.”

  Footsteps approached the cupboard and stopped outside it. Jumble, in a frenzy of excitement, emitted a series of smothered barks between William’s hands.

  “There!” said the woman. “I told you he was making horrible animal noises.”

  A deep smothered growl came from the recesses of the cupboard.

  “Perhaps he’s ill,” said the man. A strangled snarl floated out into the hall. “He sounds ill.”

  “A man who’s ill wouldn’t throw rice and currants all over the floor, Ambrose. Unless, of course, he’s delirious. Perhaps he is delirious . . . Oh, Ambrose, let’s dial 999.”

  “No,” said Ambrose. “Now stand on one side, my dear.” There was a short silence; then the cupboard door was flung open. “I’m armed, my man. You’d better come quietly—” He stopped short and stood gazing in amazement at the small boy and the dog crouching on the floor in front of him.

  As he gazed amazement gave place to anger. That all this worry and upset, all this trepidation and gathering up of his courage should have been caused by one small boy and a mongrel dog! It was outrageous. He would have faced a desperate villain with far less indignation. He caught hold of William’s collar and jerked him out into the hall. Jumble followed, wagging his tail in a deprecating, apologetic fashion, aware that he and his master had once again stumbled into trouble. Edgar, who had exhausted his sudden spurt of energy, slept peacefully among the other oddments in William’s pocket.

  “What do you mean by it?” said the man furiously. He was a large man with flaming red hair and bright blue eyes. “How dare you! . . . I suppose you are responsible for the disgraceful state of the kitchen?”

  “Well, in a kind of a way I am,” admitted William breathlessly, “but it wasn’t my fault. Listen! I—”

  “Forcing your way into a private house, wrecking the kitchen, trespassing—”

  “Frightening the cat,” put in the woman.

  “Is this your idea of a joke?” said the man.

  “No,” said William, wriggling unavailingly in the vice-like grip. “No, it jolly well isn’t my idea of a joke. Listen! I can ’splain it all. I—”

  The man gave him a shake that made his teeth rattle.

  “Where do you live?”

  With a sinking heart William muttered his address.

  “Come on, then,” said the man. “I’ll take you there and your father shall hear of your disgraceful conduct. I hope he’ll deal with you most severely. Forcing your way into people’s houses without so much as a “by your leave”—”

  “I knocked,” put in William.

  “—Flinging groceries all over the floor out of pure devilment, trespassing all over the place, hiding in that cupboard—”

  “Frightening the cat,” put in the woman again.

  “Heaven only knows what damage you’ve done to the rest of the house.” He turned to the woman. “Go up and see what damage he’s done to the rest of the house.”

  The woman went upstairs. William tried again to explain the situation but each attempt was choked at birth by another fierce shaking from his captor.

  “No, he hasn’t done any damage upstairs, Ambrose,” said the woman returning.

  “Only because he didn’t have the chance,” said the man. “He heard you coming and slipped into that cupboard. Well, we’ll see what his father has to say to him, and”—grimly—“I hope do to him. Come along.”

  He jerked William out of the hall and through the kitchen. Jumble followed dejectedly, only stopping to retrieve a biscuit from the kitchen floor, crunching and swallowing it in one swift movement. The cat, restored to its old position on the hearthrug, eyed them with an air of sardonic triumph as they passed. They went down the garden path and along the road towards William’s home, William pouring out a confused explanation of his plight. The man received it in stony silence without relaxing his grip.

  Finally William’s voice died away and the two walked on in silence through the dusk. Apprehension lay like ice at William’s heart. He tried to imagine their arrival at his home, their reception by his father, but even William’s imagination boggled at the prospect. The guests would all be there. The party would be in full swing. Instead of arriving as an honoured son of the house, bearing his gift and presenting it proudly to his parents, he would be dragged in as a criminal to justice. He tried to imagine his father’s and mother’s anger . . . the shame of Robert and Ethel . . . the horror of the guests . . . the endless humiliation . . . the stigma that would attach to him for evermore of having publicly disgraced his family on this great occasion. He hung back, dragging his toes in the dust.

  “Come on,” snapped the man, ruthlessly jerking him forward once more.

  In at the gate . . . up the path to the front door.

  “They’re prob’ly out,” said William, his voice hoarse with desperation.

  “Out!” said the man, raising his hand to the knocker. “Look at all the lights.”

  “They may’ve left them on by mistake,” pleaded William. “They may’ve forgot to turn them off when they went out. They do often forget to turn them off . . . Listen, let’s come tomorrow. I promise I’ll come with you tomorrow. I know they’ll be in tomorrow. I—”

  The door was opened by Mrs Peters—the daily woman, who had come to help with the refreshments—spruced up for the occasion in a dress of purple silk with an osprey in her hair.

  “Come on in,” she said shortly. “You’ll find ’em all somewhere or other. I’m in the middle of a lobster salad. I can’t stop to see to you now.”

  And with a flounce of the purple dress she vanished towards the kitchen.

  The man propelled William across the hall and in the first open doorway.

  Mr Brown was alone in the room. He had retreated from the party for a few moments’ respite. He still felt—secretly, ashamedly, a little aggrieved. This noisy young people’s party was not the celebration he would have chosen. He still felt the wistful longing for a peaceful evening with an old crony . . .

  He looked coldly at William, then, with a sudden opening of mouth and eyes, at the man who followed him. Incredulity, amazement, delight chased each other over his countenance.

  “Well, by everything that’s wonderful, old Sandy!” he said.

  The man’s face showed all the emotions that had chased each other over Mr Brown’s.

  “Great Scott!” he said. “If it isn’t old Podger!”

  “Come along and sit down,” said Mr Brown, drawing up an arm-chair to the fire, his face beaming with pleasure. “Well, well, well! How many years is it since we met? Are you living in the neighbourhood? When did you come?”

  The two began to talk, forgetful of everything and everyone around them. “Do you remember?” “Do you
remember?” ran like a refrain through their conversation.

  William stood watching them while the meaning of the strange situation slowly filtered through to his bemused mind. They were old school friends. They hadn’t met for years. They were delighted to see each other again.

  Silently he tiptoed from the room, replaced Edgar in his box in the garage, then, feeling the need of sustenance, fed himself and Jumble lavishly at the buffet table in the dining-room till discovered and removed by Ethel.

  “You’ve eaten enough to feed a whole zoo,” she said indignantly. “And I should think it’s well past your bedtime.”

  It was well past William’s bedtime. He realised that discretion called for a speedy withdrawal from the festive scene and a pretence of deep sleep in the event of a visit from his father. But the room where his father sat with “Sandy” held an irresistible fascination for him. Cautiously, warily, he re-entered it. Dancing was going on in the room now, but Mr Brown and his friend, ensconced in their arm-chairs by the fire, seemed unaware of it. They were happy and content on an island of shared memories amid the raging sea of the dancers. Gone was the slightly hang-dog air that Mr Brown had worn earlier in the evening. His face shone with happiness. The impossible had happened. He was spending the evening by his fireside with an old crony . . .

  Mrs Brown watched her husband, as happy as he at the turn events had taken.

  “He’s an old friend of your husband’s, isn’t he, Mrs Brown?” said Dorita Merton. “They seem to be enjoying their talk.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Brown, “and we owe it all to William.” She looked down at William who was standing near her. William stared glassily in front of him, his face wooden and expressionless. “You see, his father had said that the best present he could give him was a human civilised action and so William managed to find—I don’t know how he did it—this old friend who’s just come to the neighbourhood and brought him along to the party. It was his present, you see, and quite the best my husband’s had. Robert and Ethel had said that William could only have one guest and he brought this guest for his father instead of bringing one for himself. It was such a kind and considerate action.”