William considered. It was a long story and there seemed no point in telling it.
“Jus’ on the road,” he said.
“Well, I’m so grateful to you.” She took a bag from the table and drew out a pound note. “And here’s the reward. I simply won’t let the little rascal out of my sight for the rest of the day.”
William stared, blinked, gulped, and swallowed. The nightmare had suddenly turned into a dream. He couldn’t believe it. He felt dazed and shaken, only sufficiently in command of his forces to say: “Thanks awfully. C-could you let me have eight half-crowns instead of the note?”
“Certainly, you funny little boy!” said the lady gaily. “I suppose it seems more to you that way, doesn’t it? I know that my little niece would always rather have six pennies than a sixpenny piece!” She burrowed in her bag and brought out eight half-crowns. “There you are, and I’m most grateful.”
“So’m I to you,” said William fervently as he pocketed the coins, “an’ I’d better be goin’ now. It’s nearly lunch-time. Good-bye an’—an’—thanks awfully.”
“Good-bye,” said the lady. She stood at the front door holding the puppy in her arms. The puppy was frantically licking her face, and had obviously already forgotten both William and Honest Jim.
William walked down the road again. So great was his relief that his usually stalwart knees trembled beneath him.
“Gosh!” he ejaculated to the surrounding landscape, and added still more emphatically: “Gosh!”
* * *
Mrs. Brown was awaiting him anxiously.
“Oh, there you are, William,” she said. “How did you get on?”
“Oh, I got on all right,” said William carelessly, laying the eight half-crowns in a neat pile on the table. “I told you I would.”
“I know,” said Mrs. Brown, “but somehow I never thought you would. Well, I’m very grateful to you, dear. You’ve been a long time, though. Did some of them keep you waiting?”
“No,” said William. He thought over the events of the morning and realised that they were best consigned to oblivion. “No. I jus’ went for a little walk round after I’d got ’em.”
Chapter 9 – A Present for a Little Girl
William wouldn’t have noticed the little girl at all if she hadn’t looked so sad. She stood at the gate of Honeysuckle Cottage, gazing into the distance with mournful tear-filled eyes. Mrs. Fountain and Miss Griffin, the former occupants of the cottage, had removed to London, and the little girl, with her mother and aunt and a baby brother, had moved in. William had heard vaguely that their name was Paget, but he was not interested in them. He regarded with complete indifference the shifting population of evacuees who occupied from time to time such cottages as fell vacant in the neighbourhood. As Mr. Moss, of the general shop, put it: “’Ere to-day an’ gorn to-morrer, so wot’s the use of wearin’ oneself out over ’em?”
But, as he walked on towards the village, William found his thoughts dwelling on the little girl. Had she been crying or not? Certainly she had been nearly crying . . . Beneath William’s rugged exterior was a deeply hidden vein of chivalry. He didn’t like to think of the little girl’s being unhappy. He couldn’t get it out of his head. It worried him. He didn’t want to, but he felt he must go back to see if she really was crying, and, in that case, to find out if he could help. Slowly, reluctantly, he retraced his steps to Honeysuckle Cottage.
The little girl still stood gazing into the distance with mournful tear-filled eyes. As William watched, a tear brimmed over and trickled down her cheek.
“What’s the matter?” said William gruffly.
She looked at him.
“They’re going to kill Ernest,” she said, and another tear brimmed over.
“Gosh!” said William. “Is that your baby brother?”
“Goodness, no!” said the little girl, forgetting to cry for the moment. “Goodness, I wouldn’t mind them killing him. He’s a frightful nuisance. He’s always pulling my things to pieces. No, Ernest’s my darling little grey rabbit.”
“Why are they goin’ to kill him?” said William.
“They’re goin’ to kill him for dinner on Sunday,” said the little girl. “They think he’s just an ordinary rabbit, but he’s not an ordinary rabbit. He’s my darling Ernest and he knows me and wriggles his darling little nose up and down at me and—oh, I can’t bear it if they kill him!” Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’ve told them that I won’t eat any of him, and they just say I needn’t. I can’t bear to think of them eating Ernest. Eating him! Ernest!” Her voice was lost in sobs.
William watched her in sympathetic concern. He didn’t think much of rabbits himself, but he could understand what she felt.
“Is he the only one?”
The little girl took out a grubby handkerchief and dried her tears.
“No. They’ve got lots. That’s what’s so mean. They’ve got more than twenty and yet they want to kill Ernest. Oh, it’s cruel,” she said with a fresh burst of tears.
“Have you told ’em you don’t want ’em to?” said William.
“’Course I have,” said the little girl. “They just say it’s war-time and they’re only keeping rabbits for food and I must get used to eating them. They say they’ve left Ernest as long as they can and if they leave him any longer he won’t be fit to eat.”
“Where do they keep them?”
“In the back garden. Would you like to see them? You can come round. Mother and Auntie and the baby are down in Hadley, so there’s no one here but me. You’ll love Ernest. He’s not an ordinary rabbit at all. He’s got a little tuft of white hair right on the top of his head.”
William followed her round to the back of the house and into a shed full of rabbit hutches. In the hutch nearest the door was a grey rabbit with a tuft of white hair on its head. The little girl opened the door of the hutch and took it into her arms.
“This is Ernest,” she said, kissing it affectionately. “Isn’t he sweet!”
The rabbit stared at William with an expression that could only be interpreted as a sneer.
“You must see him eat,” said the little girl. “He’s sweetest of all when he eats.”
She put the rabbit back into the hutch and ran round to the vegetable garden, returning with some cabbage leaves, which she thrust through the wire netting. The rabbit ate them in the manner of his kind.
“Isn’t he lovely!” said the little girl, clasping her hands ecstatically. “Have you ever seen a sweeter rabbit! Oh, dear! How can I bear it if they kill him?”
“Well, don’t start crying again,” said William.
“I can’t help it,” said the little girl. “I can’t bear to think of it.”
William was silent for a moment, then said: “Can’t you hide it?”
“How can I?” said the little girl. “They’d find it if I put it anywhere in my bedroom, and that’s the only place I have to hide things in. I once thought of letting him go free rather than having him eaten, but I suppose, if I did, dogs or real rabbits would kill him.”
She looked at William and her face suddenly shone.
“Oh!” she exclaimed breathlessly.
“What’s the matter?” said William.
“You could help.”
“Me?” said William, taken aback. “How could I help?”
“You could hide him for me. They’d never think of coming to your house to look for him. They’d just think he must have escaped.”
“Y-yes,” said William doubtfully, “but what could I do with him?”
“Oh, just keep him,” said the little girl vaguely. “Keep him and feed him and look after him and don’t let anyone know about him, of course.”
“Yes, but for how long?” said William, still more doubtfully.
“Oh, till they’ve forgotten they were going to kill him or till he’s too old to kill or till after the war.”
“Yes, but where can I keep him?” said William.
“Anywhere,
” said the little girl. She spoke impatiently as if she considered that William was raising trivial and irrelevant objections. “It doesn’t matter where you keep him as long as you keep him.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .” said William. Knight-errantry in general appealed to him but not in this particular form. He had, in any case, never met a less inspiring rabbit than Ernest.
The little girl’s eyes brimmed again with tears, and her lip trembled.
“I think you’re being very unkind,” she said. “You aren’t even trying to help.”
“I am,” protested William. “Honest, I am. Listen. I’ll take it. Stop cryin’ an’ I’ll take it.”
The little girl’s face cleared. She smiled at him.
“Oh thank you. That’s lovely of you. You must take him now, ’cause they might come back an’ kill him any minute and I couldn’t bear it.”
She opened the door of the hutch, took out Ernest and kissed him tenderly.
“Good-bye, my darling.” She thrust him into William’s arms. “You will take care of him, won’t you? He likes carrots chopped up very small and warm bread and milk. And you’ll see that he’s warm and comfy at nights, won’t you? Now take him away quickly. They’ll be coming back any minute . . .”
With obvious enjoyment of the dramatic nature of the situation, she bundled Ernest under his coat and hustled the two of them in a conspiratorial manner down to the gate.
“Don’t breath a word to anyone,” she said in a hoarse whisper, then closed the gate on him and ran back to the house.
William stood for a minute in the road, feeling slightly bewildered. He didn’t want a rabbit. He disliked rabbits. He particularly disliked Ernest. But he’d undertaken the job and he must see it through. He walked on slowly down the road. Ernest appeared to be of a philosophical disposition and beyond small movements of a somewhat tickling nature made no effort to escape from his confined quarters. William walked still more slowly as he approached his garden gate. He had no idea what to do with Ernest when he got him home . . . where to keep him, how to feed him. He had read many stories of refugees secreted in households during the Civil War and other historical crises. It had seemed a simple enough process. One rabbit surely could not be more difficult to conceal than a Cavalier or a Roman Catholic priest. But William had a foreboding that Ernest would be. He would not realise the position and would somehow or other cause trouble. Fortunately rabbits had not loud voices. Or had they? He had never met a bored or exasperated rabbit, and he had a suspicion that Ernest would be both.
He opened the garden gate, and there a complication he had not foreseen met him. For Jumble sprang upon him in a state of wild excitement, barking furiously, leaping up, scratching at his overcoat . . .
“Down, Jumble!” said William, but that only seemed to excite him the more.
Mrs. Brown came into the hall as he entered.
“What on earth’s the matter with that dog?” she said.
“Dunno,” muttered William, hurrying past her to the stairs.
Fortunately Mrs. Brown was too much taken up by Jumble to notice the bulge under William’s coat.
“I’ve never seen him like this before,” she said. “I believe he’s going mad.”
“No, he’s not,” said William, plunging upstairs. “He’s all right.”
Jumble accompanied him, always on the stair just in front of him, leaping up at the bulge in his overcoat, barking furiously, growling, snarling.
“Be careful, dear,” said Mrs. Brown anxiously. “He seems to be turning quite savage. Perhaps I’d better ring up the vet.”
William dived into his bedroom, slamming the door upon Jumble, who hurled himself upon it in a state of uncontrollable agitation.
In his bedroom, William brought out Ernest and put him on the bed. Ernest looked round him superciliously, then sat up and scratched his ear. Jumble had thrust his nose right under the door and was snarling so violently that he could hardly get his breath.
“Jumble!” called Mrs. Brown from the hall. “William, we must do something about that dog. He’s dangerous.”
Jumble replied with a fresh outburst of snarls and barks. William realised that the situation must be dealt with at once. He took up Ernest, bundled him into a drawer, closed the drawer and ran downstairs, calling Jumble as he went. Jumble was loth to leave the door of William’s bedroom. He sniffed and snarled for a few more moments, then turned unwillingly to obey the summons.
Mrs. Brown was standing in the hall.
“I don’t like it at all, William,” she said. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”
“He’s all right now,” said William. “I think he was jus’ a bit excited at seeing me.”
“Well, if he gets any worse,” said Mrs. Brown, “you’d better call in at the vet’s. It doesn’t look to me like ordinary excitement.”
“Come on, Jumble!” said William, for Jumble had stopped at the foot of the stairs and was obviously considering a return to the scene of his recent investigations. “Come on!”
Reluctantly Jumble allowed himself to be dragged out of the house, down the lane, across the field and into the woods. There the multiplicity of scents drove Ernest’s from his memory, and he burrowed frantically into rabbit holes and darted off after bigger and better smells till William (as he had meant to) completely lost him.
Slowly and thoughtfully William returned home. The situation would be simpler now that he had temporarily disposed of Jumble, but even so it was far from simple. He could not leave Ernest indefinitely among his underclothing. He had nothing to feed him on and didn’t see the prospect of getting anything. It was all very well for the little girl to talk glibly of carrots chopped up small and warm bread and milk, but where was one to obtain such things in a war-time household? The gardener kept an eagle eye on his vegetables and his mother on the larder and store cupboard, so that Ernest, if he depended on those sources of supply, was likely to fare badly.
As he passed General Moult’s house he stopped. The garage door was open and inside the garage could be seen rows upon rows of rabbit hutches, each with its occupant or occupants. He remembered that General Moult, like most of the inhabitants of the village, had lately “gone in for” rabbits. He had, moreover, gone in for them very thoroughly. He had sixty or seventy, and he spent most of the day tending and grooming and feeding them.
He was there now, pottering about among them, with bits of cabbage leaves and carrot-tops dangling out of his pockets. William stood at the gate watching him. One rabbit more or less among so many would surely never be noticed. It would be tended and groomed and fed along with the others. But he noticed that all the hutches were padlocked. General Moult was an irritable, cantankerous old gentleman with a deep distrust of his fellow men. He had, however, like most people, his weak spot, and William knew what it was. The Boer War had been the highlight of the General’s life, and he had taken part in the Relief of Mafeking. Both the war of 1914 and the war of 1939 were to him petty skirmishes in comparison. When people began to talk of the Battle of the Somme or the Evacuation of Dunkirk, he tried to bring the conversation round to the Relief of Mafeking, and it wasn’t easy. His life, in fact, was one of perpetual frustration. No one seemed to be interested any longer in the Relief of Mafeking. He couldn’t understand it . . .
William set off home at a run, eager to carry out his new plan. He was aware, of course, that it was not ideal—it afforded too many loopholes for the unexpected—but it was the best he could manage at the moment.
He opened the drawer slowly and carefully. Yes, Ernest was still there, and William noticed with some dismay that his sojourn had not improved the state of his underclothing. Ernest, on being restored to a fuller view of life, stared around him with his usual expression of supercilious disdain and scratched his ear . . . William took him up, bundled him under his coat and hurried down the road again to General Moult’s. The Mafeking veteran was still pottering about among his rabbit hutches. William approached
him—warily, for he knew he was no favourite with the warrior. The General looked up as he approached.
“Now then, now then, now then!” he said testily. “What d’you want! What d’you want? Go away, boy. I’m busy.”
William assumed the expression of an earnest seeker after knowledge.
“Please,” he said, “I heard someone talkin’ the other day an’ they said you’d been at the Relief of Mafeking.”
The testiness vanished from the General’s face, and a look of modest—almost coy—pride took its place.
“I was, my boy, I was. You were informed correctly. I was very much at the Relief of Mafeking. Though few people now seem to realise it, it was one of the greatest and most important military exploits in the history of the world.”
“Yes, I think it was, too,” said William. “I’m jolly well sure it was. I’ve always wanted to know ’zactly what happened.”
“Come in, come in, come in,” said the General genially. (He had misjudged this boy, looking on him as an incorrigible young hooligan when actually he had a sense of historical proportion lacking in many of his elders.) “Come in, my boy. Now what is it you want to know?”
William Carries On (Just William, Book 24) Page 15
