The words reached “Sandy” across the room.
He looked at William and slowly dropped one eyelid.
Chapter 8 - William and the National Health Service
William and Ginger walked slowly down the road and stopped outside the gate of a largish detached house surrounded by a pleasant wooded garden. At the end of the lawn near the hedge grew a tall chestnut tree with regular symmetrical branches rising to a tapering point. William’s eyes were fixed on the tree. Ginger’s on the back of the square red brick house that stood at the further end of the lawn.
“They’ve moved in, you see,” said Ginger. “They’ve got curtains up an’ everything.”
William had been confined to bed for a week with an attack of ’flu and now, returning to normal life, was outraged to find the empty house, whose garden he and Ginger had appropriated to their own use, occupied by strangers.
“Gosh, it’s not fair,” he said indignantly, turning his eyes from the tree to the now trim lawn and neatly curtained windows. “They’ve no right!”
“They’ve bought it,” said Ginger mildly. “When people buy a thing it’s theirs. That’s the lor, anyway.”
“Well, it’s rotten,” said William. “Gosh! All the time I was in bed I was thinkin’ about it.”
“I told you someone had bought it.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know they were goin’ to sneak into it like this while I was in bed. It’s a jolly mean trick.”
“You couldn’t have stopped them even if you’d been up!”
“Huh!” said William in a voice that implied dark and sinister powers.
“What would you’ve done to stop ’em when they’d bought it by lor?” challenged Ginger.
“Well, never mind that,” said William evasively. “What are they like, anyway?”
“Dunno. They’re a man an’ a woman an’ they’re called Birtley. They were in the front garden with Archie when I came along to fetch you.”
“Archie?” said William in surprise.
“Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you that,” said Ginger. “Archie put an advertisement in the local paper saying he’d paint pictures of people’s houses for them at a reas’nable price an’ this was the only answer he got. I s’pose they were the only ones that didn’t know what Archie’s paintings are like.”
“Let’s go round to the front an’ see if they’re still there,” said William.
“I dunno that we’d better,” said Ginger uncertainly.
William’s insatiable interest in his fellow creatures had, on more than one occasion, landed them in difficulties.
“I only want to have a look at ’em an’ see what they’re like,” explained William.
“Alright,” agreed Ginger doubtfully.
The Laurels was at the juncture of two roads. William and Ginger skirted the hedge till they came to the front of the house, then hovered in the shelter of the gateway watching the scene that was taking place on the drive.
Archie, looking even more harassed than usual, stood before an easel, with a palette in one hand and a paint brush in the other. On one side of him stood a bristly little man with a face like a Yorkshire terrier’s and, on the other, a stout woman with large pendulous cheeks and a small tight mouth. She was inspecting the unfinished painting of the house with a look of grim disapproval.
“I don’t like it,” she said.
Archie blinked at her.
“But I haven’t finished it,” he expostulated. “You can’t judge it before it’s finished.”
“Yes, I can,” said the woman.
“I’ve only done half of it.”
“Well, I don’t like the half you’ve done.”
“If you can suggest any improvement . . . ” said Archie with dignity.
“I’d like a bay window.”
Archie threw a startled glance at the house.
“There isn’t a bay window,” he said.
“Well, there’s nothing to stop you putting one in, is there?” said the woman tartly. “I’m paying for the paint, aren’t I?” Archie struggled for a moment in silence with his artistic conscience. The struggle was a short one and the issue never for a moment in doubt. This was the first commission that Archie had ever received in the whole course of his professional career.
“I’ll put in a bay window, of course, if you wish,” he said distantly.
The small tight mouth tightened still further.
“What sort of one? I don’t want anything cheap-looking.”
“Well—er—” said Archie, baffled. “I—er—don’t quite know. I don’t pretend to be an expert on the subject of bay windows.”
“Now listen,” said Mrs Birtley. “I went to tea with some people at Upper Marleigh yesterday—The Poplars the house was called—and they’d got a real posh slap-up bay window. Built right out into the garden, not just stuck on same as a greenhouse like some of ’em, wasn’t it, Wilfred?”
“Certainly, certainly, certainly,” barked the Yorkshire terrier.
Again she looked with disfavour at Archie’s painting.
“No, I don’t like it. You haven’t put any character or old-world charm in it, and the house agent’s paper said most particular that it had got character and old-world charm.”
Archie brought an envelope and a pencil out of his pocket.
“If you’ll describe this particular bay window,” he said in as icy a tone as he could command.
“You’d only make a mess of it if I did,” snapped the woman. “The best thing for you to do is to go and have a look at it. It’s next door to Boulter's Farm.”
“Come on,” said William, drawing Ginger away.
“I didn’t see anythin’ wrong with it,” said Ginger, as they walked down the road. “It looked like a house, anyway, an’ most of Archie’s paintings don’t look like anything at all.”
But William was not interested in Archie’s painting. He was only interested in the new occupants of The Laurels.
“Gosh, weren’t they awful!” he said.
“Yes, we’d better keep clear of ’em,” agreed Ginger.
“Not much use askin’ them to let us play in the wood part of their garden.”
They had reached the road that led past the back of the house. William stopped and looked again at the chestnut tree.
“I said you couldn’t get to the top,” said Ginger with a note of satisfaction in his voice.
“I nearly did the last time I tried,” said William, “an’ I jolly well will the next.”
“There isn’t goin’ to be a next,” said Ginger.
“Yes, there is,” said William. His face was set in lines of grim determination, “an’ I’ll jolly well show you.”
“Gosh!” said Ginger in dismay. “You can’t do it now, William. They’d murder you as soon as look at you. I shouldn’t be s’prised if they’re murderin’ poor ole Archie. You’d be takin’ your life in your hands an’ goin’ into the jaws of death.”
“Well, I’ve often been there an’ come out again,” said William. “It’ll be all right, they’re both at the front with Archie an’ I bet they’ll be there for hours talkin’ about bay windows an’ old-world greenhouses an’ things. I’m goin’ to have another shot at it, anyway, an’ I bet I get to the top this time.”
Ginger watched helplessly as William made his way through the hedge and began his assault on the tree. His previous efforts had made him familiar with the lower branches and his progress was rapid. Then, slowly, carefully, he climbed the higher branches till his head emerged at the top. He was on the point of giving vent to a yell of triumph when he noticed that Ginger, in the road below, was making frantic signs to him, waving his arms and pointing to the house.
William peered through the branches. Mr Birtley had just come out of a side door, carrying a deck chair. He carried it across the lawn, set it up at the foot of the chestnut tree, took a newspaper out of his pocket, leant back with an air of relaxation and began to read.
Ginger’s sign
s had become yet more frantic. He was dancing about in the road, pointing up and down the tree and in all directions. William considered his tactics. He couldn’t stay where he was much longer. His foothold at the top was precarious and a short broken branch was digging into his stomach. He waited for a few minutes, gazing down at his unconscious host. The hands that held the newspaper dropped . . . the grizzled head dropped . . . there came the sound of deep rhythmic snores: Mr Birtley was asleep. William decided on action. He would descend silently and cautiously on the side of the tree away from Mr Birtley, then creep through the hedge to the road.
Silently and cautiously he began the descent. The only difficult part was a spot half-way down the tree, where a large gap between the branches made it necessary to make use of a foothold on the other side. Clasping the trunk with his arms, he edged himself round, found the foothold, lost it, struggled wildly to regain it, then fell, crashing through the branches on to the sleeping form of Mr Birtley. William, the now fully awakened Mr Birtley and the wreckage of the deck chair rolled together on the ground for a few seconds, then William and Mr Birtley sprang to their feet.
Nimbly, breathlessly, William dodged among the trees. A little less nimbly, a little more breathlessly, Mr Birtley followed. Mr Birtley’s Yorkshire terrier face bristled with anger. He uttered short sharp barks of rage as he ran. At one moment his outstretched hand caught William by the neck, but William, neatly disengaging himself, plunged through the hedge and joined Ginger in a headlong flight down the road.
“Gosh!” said William when at last they paused and, looking back apprehensively, found themselves unpursued. “Gosh! He nearly got me once.”
“I told you you were goin’ into the jaws of death,” said Ginger.
“Well, I got out of ’em,” said William airily, “an’ I got to the top of that tree, too, an’ we needn’t worry about him, ’cause he doesn’t know who we are so he can’t tell our fathers. Anyway, it was jolly excitin’ an’ I’m beginning to feel jolly hungry. I bet it’s lunch time. What shall we do this afternoon?”
He had dismissed the morning from his mind. The afternoon, full of glorious possibilities, stretched before him.
“I’ve got to go an’ help my aunt clearing out for removing,” said Ginger. “She’s goin’ to give me two an’ six for it, so it’s not too bad an’ it won’t take long.”
“Yes, an’ I’ve jus’ remembered,” said William. “I’ve got to go into Hadley for my mother to take somethin’ to the cleaners. I’ll come round an’ call for you at your aunt’s soon as I’ve done it.”
After lunch William set off for Hadley. He deposited his parcel safely at the cleaners, then walked back towards the bus stop, gazing idly into the shop windows. A model launch in a toy shop attracted his notice. He was looking at it intently when suddenly he heard, as it seemed, a short sharp bark and, turning, saw Mr Birtley, his face distorted by rage, bearing down on him through the crowd. Without a moment’s hesitation, William set off at a run. Mr Birtley, too, set off at a run, dodging after William in hot pursuit.
“That’s the boy!” he barked as he ran. “That’s the boy!”
They threaded their way through the passers-by. The passers-by watched them, transfixed by amazement.
“Stop him!” barked Mr Birtley.
The passers-by showed signs of recovering from their paralysis. An old lady in a lobster-coloured plush coat made an ineffectual grab at William as he went by. Desperately he plunged into a side street . . . into another side street . . . in at a pair of wide-open gates . . . across a courtyard and through an open doorway. He found himself in a large institutional-looking hall. A queue of people stood before a sort of hatch marked “Enquiries.” A man lay on an ambulance stretcher by the wall. Another man hobbled towards the door on crutches with a bandaged foot.
William realised that he had made his way into Hadley hospital. No one took any notice of him. He hovered for a few moments by the door, then peeped out. Mr Birtley stood at the gate, throwing quick suspicious glances round the courtyard. Hastily William darted back, colliding with a woman who carried a large shopping basket of groceries.
“Look where you’re going, can’t you?” she said, putting the basket on to the floor and stooping to pick up a jar of pickles. “I’ve just ’ad me feet done an’ you’ve got to go tramplin’ on em.”
“Sorry,” said William.
He looked out again.
Slowly, resolutely, Mr Birtley was making his way across the courtyard. It was clear that he had seen William enter the gates and was determined not to abandon the chase till he had run his quarry to earth.
“Gosh!” said William despairingly. “He’s turned into a bloodhound now.”
Looking round for further refuge, he tripped over the shopping basket, scrambled to his feet and darted into a room that opened from the entrance hall. It was a long narrow room with chairs ranged on both sides. Most of the chairs were occupied but half-way down the room there was a vacant chair between two large women. Gratefully William slipped into it. After a few moments he peeped out between his two bulwarks. Through the open doorway he could see Mr Birtley hovering in the entrance of the hall. He was evidently a man who did not readily abandon any task that he had set himself. William withdrew again behind his bulky ramparts.
“Wonderful thing, this health service,” one of them remarked to the other over his head. She had a flat placid good-natured face with a slight squint. “Least thing that goes wrong with you, you can come along and get it put right. Takes a load off your mind. A boon to sufferers, it is. Hardly a week goes by,” she added proudly, “that I don’t come along and get somethin’ put right. After all, you’re payin’ for it so you might as well get value for it. No good lettin’ the nation’s money run to waste.” She held out her hand showing a bandaged finger. “Broke me finger last week, fallin’ off a step-ladder, got it fixed up here in no time—X-ray an’ all. Wonderful things, those X-rays. I’ve felt a new woman since I had ’em. Put new life into me, they did.” She gazed with interest at the other woman’s arm, encased in plaster of Paris and resting on a sling. “What happened to you?”
“Broke it,” said the other woman. Her flabby double chin wobbled gloomily over a purple knitted scarf. “Jus’ my luck. It couldn’t have happened to anyone but me. And,” darkly, “I don’t think much of this ’ere health service. A racket, that’s what it is.”
“Oh, I dunno,” said her neighbour.
“A racket,” persisted the other. “Well, someone must be makin’ somethin’ out of it—stands to reason—an’ it’s not me. Who is it, then? That’s what I want to know.”
William’s eyes were wandering round the room. A woman in a white overall was evidently in charge of it. She held a sheet of paper in her hand and every now and then would call out a name, at which one of the patients would rise and go out of a further door. William threw an anxious glance towards the entrance hall, wondering if the coast was clear. A trapped feeling was coming over him. Probably, even if the coast was clear, he couldn’t get up and make good his retreat without attracting the attention of the keen-eyed woman in the white overall. Suddenly he realised that both his neighbours were gazing down at him. The woman with the squint was bending down examining his feet and legs and arms.
“Don’t often see anyone at this fracture clinic without splints or plaster,” she said. “What’s your trouble, young ’un? Somethin’ internal?”
“Yes,” agreed William hastily. “Yes, that’s what it is. It’s somethin’ awfully internal.”
“I ’ad a cousin once that broke four ribs,” she said with gloomy relish.
“I’ve broke all mine,” said William, anxious to establish his right to this temporary refuge. “Every single one of them.”
“A martyr to bad luck, same as me,” said the woman with the double chin.
“You don’t look as if you were in pain,” said the other.
“You can’t tell from my face when I’m in pain,” said W
illiam. “I look jus’ the same when I’m in pain an’ when I’m not in pain. It’s the way my face is made. It can’t change.”
“Courage, that’s what you’ve got,” said the woman with the squint. “Courage an’ spirit. A lesson to us all.” She inspected him with deepening interest. “But it mus’ give you a stab of agony sometimes. There mus’ be times when you can’t hide it.”
“Oh, yes,” said William, ready to sustain his role. He contorted his face into an expression of blood-curdling ferocity. “It gave me one jus’ then.”
“One of them broken ribs diggin’ into your stomach, likely.”
“All of e’m diggin’ into it in diff’rent places,” said William, repeating the grimace. He was beginning to enjoy himself. “An’ into my lungs, too. There’s one broke right off that’s got into my lungs. It’s worked its way there through my blood vessels.”
“Mrs Porter,” called the woman in the white overall.
Still looking back at William in fascinated horror, the woman got up and went through the further door.
“How did you do it?” said his remaining neighbour, fixing her eyes on him avidly. “Go on. Tell us about it, ducks.”
“I—I fell from a great height,” said William after a moment’s reflection.
“What height?” she said.
The credulity of his audience urged him to wilder flights of fancy. He toyed for a moment with the idea of being a paratrooper, then dismissed it. “A roof,” he said. “The roof of a burning house.”
“I once heard of a fireman doin’ that,” she said, “an’ there wasn’t a whole bone left in his body.”
“There isn’t in mine,” said William, who now felt a sort of jealousy for his imaginary exploit and wasn’t going to have it outshone even by a fireman. So completely was he carried away on the wings of his imagination that he saw the scene quite clearly—the leaping flames, the crashing masonry, the final desperate jump on to the pavement below. “All over the place, my bones are. There isn’t a single one that—”
William's Television Show Page 17
