William Carries On (Just William, Book 24)

by Richmal Crompton

  “I’d like to know everything,” said William earnestly. “Right from the beginning.”

  The General straightened his drooping shoulders and twirled his drooping moustache.

  “You shall, my boy,” he said. “You shall indeed. It’s all as fresh in my memory as if it had happened yesterday . . . Our journey to Mafeking itself, of course, was one of considerable difficulty. We started from Beira, transferred by narrow-gauge railway to Bamboo Creek, changed to a broader gauge to Marendellas, travelled in coaches to Bulawayo, after that the five-hundred-mile journey to Ootsi. Then began our march of a hundred miles over some of the most difficult country in the world. We marched twenty-five miles a day. I remember one day . . .”

  In his excitement he had left the door of one of the hutches open and William, murmuring: “’Scuse me. I think one of your rabbits has got out,” darted from the garage and dived into the bushes just outside. He emerged holding a grey rabbit with a white tuft on its head.

  “Put it back with the others,” said the General impatiently. “Put it back, put it back . . . Well, the two columns arrived at Masibi Stadt within an hour of each other, to find that the enemy had possession of the only water supply and of the hills surrounding it . . .”

  William heaved a sigh of relief. There was Ernest comfortably housed and with the prospect of a decent supper. Ernest, for his part, sat up and surveyed the other occupants of the hutch with his most offensive sneer and began to scratch himself. It was a relief, but William realised that it had to be paid for. The General, having found what he supposed to be an appreciative audience, after years of waiting, was not going to let him off lightly. It was a worn and exhausted boy, who, three-quarters of an hour later, staggered out of General Moult’s front door.

  He found the little girl in the lane outside his own home. She wore an exaggeratedly conspiratorial air and glanced around her in the manner of a film spy, as, lowering her voice to a whisper, she said: “Where is he? I’ve come to see him.”

  William was taken aback. Somehow he hadn’t expected that visits to the evacuee would form part of the programme.

  “He—he’s not in at the minute,” he said.

  The little girl’s expression registered resentful suspicion.

  “Not in?” she echoed. “What d’you mean, not in? You’ve got him, haven’t you? If—you’ve—gone—and—lost—him—”

  Her eyes took on a glassy stare and her voice a low threatening tone. William realised that, despite her sex and size, she could be dangerous.

  “No, I haven’t,” he said nervously. “Honest, I haven’t. He’s jus’—gone away for a bit. He’s quite safe an’ he’s havin’ a jolly good time. You see, my dog didn’t sort of take to him, so I took him away to stay with a friend for a bit.”

  The little girl was scowling at him in a manner that detracted considerably from her charm.

  “Where is he?” she demanded.

  William realised that it would be fatal to reveal Ernest’s whereabouts to her. She would haunt General Moult’s garage, and trouble would inevitably ensue.

  “I can’t tell you that,” he said, lowering his voice and copying her conspiratorial manner. “It’s a secret. I can’t tell you why, but it’s gotter be a secret. He—he sends you his love.”

  For some strange reason this seemed to satisfy the little girl. Her scowl cleared and she nodded.

  “You’re sure he’s all right?” she said.

  “Quite sure,” said William. “This friend that’s looking after him for me, he’s crazy on rabbits, and he thinks Ernest’s the finest one he’s ever seen.”

  The little girl sighed.

  “I miss him terribly,” she said. “I feel so sad and lonely without him.”

  “He misses you, too,” said William, “but he’s havin’ a jolly good time all the same.”

  “When can I go and see him?” said the little girl.

  “Well,” said William, “this friend and me talked it over an’ we thought it was safer for you not to go an’ see him. We thought it might get round to your mother an’ aunt if you did, an’ they’d go and get him back an’ kill him. He’s pretendin’ it’s his own rabbit jus’ to put people off the scent.”

  Again the little girl nodded, satisfied. She was evidently a little girl with a weakness for intrigue, and she liked to feel plots thicken around her.

  For the next few days William carefully avoided both her and General Moult. The situation was, he realised, a complicated one, and complicated situations were best left to themselves.

  He felt a little apprehensive when his mother said one morning: “I’ve asked Mrs. Paget and her little girl to lunch to-morrow. It’s very lonely for them away from home, and I thought it would be a nice change for them.”

  “I don’t think we oughter have people to lunch in wartime,” said William virtuously. “I think it’s wrong.”

  “Oh no, William,” said Mrs. Brown. “We must be neighbourly.”

  “Neighbourly,” snorted William. “To her? Huh!”

  There was no reason why the subject of Ernest should obtrude itself on a quiet war-time luncheon party, but from the beginning William had a suspicion that it would.

  At first everything went smoothly. Mrs. Paget talked volubly about the superiority of her home surroundings to those among which she now found herself, while her daughter ate her way stolidly and silently through her portion of “game pie”, eyeing William occasionally in a thoughtful manner that, William felt, boded no good. He suspected that very shortly he would be put through another searching cross-examination on Ernest’s whereabouts and well being. He had not seen Ernest since depositing him in his new home. He had felt that he couldn’t endure another description of the Relief of Mafeking, and he was afraid of rousing the General’s suspicions by an undue interest in his unofficial evacuee.

  They went into the garden after lunch.

  “There’s nothing to-see but a few vegetables, of course,” said Mrs. Brown, “but the carrots are going to be really good this year.”

  “You don’t keep rabbits?” said Mrs. Paget.

  “No,” said Mrs. Brown. “I haven’t time to look after them, and William would never remember.”

  “Jumble’s not keen on ’em,” put in William.

  “One of ours escaped the other day,” said Mrs. Paget. “I don’t suppose he lived long. He wouldn’t be able to feed himself in a wild state.”

  The little girl winked at William behind her mother’s back and gave him an elaborately secret smile.

  “That was a delicious game pie we had at lunch,” went on Mrs. Paget.

  “Oh, it was just odds and ends,” smiled Mrs. Brown. “A neighbour of ours, General Moult, had kindly sent round a rabbit. We had to skin and clean it ourselves, which was rather a nuisance. I believe that they take the skins as war salvage. I must ask the dustman. There it is. I put it out to dry.”

  They all turned to look at the skin, which hung on a hook outside the kitchen door. It was quite an ordinary rabbit skin except that there was a tuft of white between the ears.

  The secret smile dropped from the little girl’s face and a look of dawning horror took its place. William’s heart sank. Gosh! He’d never thought of that. He’d never thought that General Moult might kill Ernest and give him away. And to his mother of all people! Gosh! There didn’t seem to be any justice in the world . . .

  “Well, shall we go indoors and sit down comfortably?” said Mrs. Brown, unaware of the bombshell she had dropped. “You children can stay out in the garden.”

  “I—I think I’d like to go indoors an’ sit down comfortably, too,” said William. “I—I think I feel a bit tired.”

  “Nonsense, dear!” said Mrs. Brown. “You must stay out here and look after your little guest. You’d like to stay out in the garden, wouldn’t you, dear?”

  “Yes,” said the little girl, fixing a grim accusing gaze on William.

  “That’s right,” said Mrs. Brown placidly, going in
doors with her guest and leaving William to his fate.

  “Now,” said the little girl grimly, as soon as they had gone. “What’s the name of that friend you said you’d left Ernest with?”

  “I can’t tell you,” said William. “I told you I couldn’t tell you. It’s a secret. It’s gotter be a secret.”

  The little girl’s face was a mask of quivering fury.

  “If it was General Moult and if—it—was—Ernest—we—had—in—that—pie—”

  “’Course it wasn’t,” said William, but without much conviction. “’Course it wasn’t.”

  “Then take me to him and show him me,” said the little girl.

  “I can’t,” said William desperately. “Not jus’ now. I keep tellin’ you. It wouldn’t be safe.”

  With one of her swift, dramatic changes of mood, the little girl abandoned her fury and burst into tears.

  “I can’t bear it,” she sobbed. “You cruel boy to pretend to help me and then make me eat him! Eat him! I’d rather have died than eaten my darling Ernest. Oh, I can’t bear it!” Her sobs increased in volume. “You cruel boy! I hate you!”

  William glanced anxiously towards the house. Her voice had taken on a shrill hysterical note and at any moment might attract the notice of his mother or hers. Then the whole story would come out, and he, of course, would be blamed.

  “Now look here,” he said reassuringly. “It’s all right. Don’t you worry about it. ’Course it wasn’t Ernest.”

  “If it wasn’t Ernest, then,” she said stormily, “get Ernest back for me.”

  “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll do that all right. Now don’t you cry any more.”

  For a moment her face cleared then she broke out into a shrill wail.

  “Oh, but if you do, they’ll only kill him for dinner, and I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Now don’t you worry,” said William. “I’ll fix it up for you all right. You jus’ stop cryin’ an’ I’ll fix it up.”

  “And I haven’t eaten him, have I?” said the little girl. “If I have, I’ll start crying again and I shan’t ever be able to stop.”

  She was already gathering breath for a fresh burst of tears.

  “’Course you haven’t,” said William hastily. “’Course you haven’t.”

  “And you’ll get him back for me? I can’t go on living without him.”

  “’Course I’ll get him back for you,” promised William.

  “And not let them kill him for dinner when you’ve got him back for me?”

  “’Course not,” said William rather faintly as he realised the rashness of these promises.

  “All right,” said the little girl with the air of one conceding a great favour. “Then I won’t start crying again.”

  At that moment Mrs. Paget came out of the house, followed by Mrs. Brown.

  “We must go now, dear,” she said to the little girl. “Thank William for the lovely time you’ve had.”

  “And I’m sure William’s enjoyed it, too, haven’t you, William?” said Mrs. Brown.

  “Yes, haven’t I!” said William, with a mirthless smile.

  * * *

  The next morning, immediately after breakfast, William went round to General Moult’s. General Moult was there, pottering about among his hutches. William threw a quick glance around and to his immense relief saw Ernest sitting inside the wire netting nibbling a cabbage leaf. There was no mistaking him. It was certainly Ernest. Even while eating his cabbage leaf, he continued to survey his surroundings with his usual air of sneering contempt.

  “Yes?” said the General, turning round as William entered. “What is it? What is it?”

  “I didn’t quite understand,” said William, who had thought up the question on the way, “when you were telling me about the Relief of Mafeking, how the other column got there, the one you joined up with.”

  “Didn’t I make that clear?” said the General, brightening. “Well, I think I’d better start again right at the beginning. I mean, the whole thing is such a—a whole. If you don’t understand one part you don’t understand any of it. Well, my boy . . .”

  It took longer—much longer—than last time. The General had remembered many more details in the meantime and was delighted at having an opportunity of bring them out. It began among the rabbit hutches and continued in the General’s study, the table littered with maps and the ancient notebooks in which the General had kept his diaries during the campaign. It was nearly lunch-time when William staggered out, pale and exhausted. But he had not forgotten the object of his visit.

  “Please, can I have another look at your rabbits before I go?” he said.

  “Certainly, my boy,” said the General genially. He was once again the debonair young officer who had been such a success with Boer children. He had a snapshot of himself giving a Boer child, about William’s age, a ride on his horse. “Certainly, my boy. Nice little creatures, rabbits. There were quite a lot on the veldt, I remember. Bigger than these, of course, and with a much better flavour.”

  William took up his position in front of Ernest, watched him for a few minutes in silence, then heaved a long and gusty sigh.

  “What’s the matter, my boy?” said the General.

  “I wonder if you can tell me how to get a rabbit like that,” said William.

  “What d’you want it for?” said the General.

  “I want to give it to a little girl,” said William. “She says she wants a rabbit jus’ like that—with a white blob on its head—an’ I’d like to give it her.”

  “Haw, haw!” chuckled the General. “So that’s it, is it? A present for a little girl! Haw, haw! Well, take it, my boy, take it. I sent your mother one just like it the other day. Oddly enough, I didn’t realise I’d got two of ’em just alike, but with so many, of course, one’s apt to lose track. By the way, my boy, before we actually attacked Mafeking we’d been strengthened by the addition of C Battery of four twelve-pounder guns of Canadian Artillery and a small body of Queenslanders. They’d come from Beira, making a detour of thousands of miles, and arrived in the nick of time.”

  “Yes,” said William, “yes, that’s jolly int’restin’. About this rabbit. You see, this little girl’s mother keeps rabbits an’ the other day one escaped an’ she might think this one was that one back an’ kill it for dinner. The little girl doesn’t want it to be killed. She wants it for a pet.”

  “Haw, haw!” chuckled the General. “I remember we had a rabbit for a pet when we were children. Haw, haw! Or was it a goat? ’Pon my soul, I forget. But we had a pet. Yes, yes, I’m pretty sure we had a pet . . . Now about this rabbit. Tell you what, my boy. I’ll write a letter to the child’s mother and tell her that I’ve given the rabbit to you to give to the little girl for the little girl to keep as a pet. That should put the matter fair and square and above board, shouldn’t it? A present for a little girl! Bless my soul! Haw, haw! I’ll go and write it now.”

  He went into the house and returned a few minutes later with an envelope which he gave to William. Then he unlocked the door of Ernest’s hutch, took him out by the ears and put him into William’s arms.

  “There, my boy. That should simplify the situation for you. A present for a little girl! Haw, haw! And proof positive that it’s not one of the runaway family rabbits. Haw, haw! No, I’ve had that rabbit since it was born. Must have done or it wouldn’t be here. Take it, my boy, with my good wishes and good luck to you! Oh, by the way, these Queenslanders I just mentioned were part of a small army that had come with General Carrington and . . .”

  It was not till half an hour later that William managed to escape, still clutching Ernest, and make his way to the little girl’s house.

  He found her sitting on the wooden seat in the back garden. On her knee was a large fluffy Chinchilla rabbit.

  “Oh, do come and look at him, William,” she called. “Isn’t he lovely, Auntie’s brought him from Hadley for me. They keep these for their fur so he won’t ever be killed
. Isn’t he beautiful! I’m calling him Laurence.” William brought Ernest from under his coat and the letter from his pocket.

  “I’ve brought Ernest back,” he said, “an’ here’s a note from Gen’ral Moult, sayin’ that he’s not to be killed ’cause he’s a present from him an’ he’s gotter be a pet.” The little girl stared at Ernest with an expression of contempt that almost rivalled Ernest’s own.

  “Oh, that thing!” she said. “Goodness, I’d quite forgotten it! It’s only an ordinary table rabbit. Mother!” she called, “here’s this ole rabbit back we lost. Can we have it for supper?”

  Chapter 10 – Hubert’s Party

  It was Mrs. Monks’ idea that the children whose fathers were not serving in the forces should give a party to the children whose fathers were serving in the forces. “Such a nice gesture,” she said, adding vaguely: “Of course, it will take a little organising.” It took more organising than she had realised, for evacuees had swollen the child population of the village to many times its pre-war figure. It was finally decided that, though all the children of men serving in the forces must attend the party, it would be impossible to find room for all the others. They, therefore, as hosts and hostesses, must provide the tea and entertainment, but only half a dozen of them must actually attend the party, and the half-dozen must be chosen by lot. Excitement rose high as the time for the drawing of the lots came near. They were drawn by Mrs. Monks herself, looking like a composite incarnation of Fate and Justice. The names were William, Ginger, a boy called Ralph, and three little girls of the type who are seen and not heard and give no trouble. There was, of course, a good deal of disappointment, but, on the whole, people were sporting about it. Even if their children were not to be at the party, they promised to give what help they could.

  All except Mrs. Lane. And Mrs. Lane was furious. If darling Hubie were not to be at the party, she said, she wouldn’t raise a finger to help. On the contrary, she would do all she could to hinder. It was a shame, it was a scandal, it was a conspiracy. Hubie was heartbroken. She would never forgive them for it. She went to Mrs. Monks’ and made a scene. She went to Mrs. Brown’s and made a scene. She went to Ginger’s home and made a scene. She went to the homes of the three little girls and made scenes. She told them all that it was a shame and a scandal and a conspiracy, and that Hubert had more right than any of them to go to the party and that they wouldn’t get a crumb or a penny out of her, so they needn’t waste their time trying. She added that Hubert’s father was just as angry as she was about it and that no one need think they were going to take an insult like this lying down, because they weren’t.