William Carries On (Just William, Book 24)

by Richmal Crompton

  “A foolish woman,” said Mrs. Monks, and dismissed the whole thing with an airy wave of the hand. Having launched the idea of a party, she left it to sink or swim. Mrs. Monks was always doing that, launching things and leaving them to sink or swim. She had Ideas and a mind above details, and already-overworked people were always finding themselves saddled with the organisation of Mrs. Monks’ casually launched Ideas, while Mrs. Monks herself passed gaily on to fresh fields, disclaiming all further responsibility.

  The responsibility in this case fell chiefly upon William’s mother and Ginger’s mother, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Merridew. Ralph’s mother was away, and the mothers of the three little girls said quite frankly that they could hardly find food for their own children, much less other people’s. So Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Merridew set out upon the thankless task of obtaining provisions for the party. People were kind and did all they could but there was little to spare from the family rations, and so small were the offers of tea and butter and jam and cake that Mrs. Brown said despairingly: “There’ll hardly be a mouthful for each of them.”

  To make things worse, the Lanes had hit on a revenge that anyone who knew them might have foreseen. If Hubert were not to go to the village party, then Hubert should have a party of his own, and it should outshine the village party as the sun outshines the moon. It happened that the Lanes were little troubled by rationing problems. Mr. Lane had what his wife sometimes referred to as “Ways and Means”, and sometimes as “Influence”. Whatever this meant, the fact remained that the Lanes had meat and poultry in abundance, almost as much fat and tea and sugar (even icing sugar) as in pre-war days and tinned goods on a wholesale scale without having to consider such details as “points”. It was common knowledge, of course, that Mrs. Lane had “hoarded” shamelessly from the first whisper of scarcity, but even that did not account for the flourishing state of the Lane larder. Mr. Lane generally brought a laden suitcase back with him each evening from town, and Mrs. Lane did her bit by going round every shop in Hadley every day and buying up whatever she could find in it.

  With characteristic cunning, they decided to hold the party the day after the village party, in order to emphasise the comparison. If they were to hold it on the same day as the village party, everyone would be too busy to compare them, but the next day, when the news of the sparsely-provided party in the Village Hall had spread through the neighbourhood, the news of the Lane feast should burst on the world like a blaze of glory, and the children who had eaten of bread and scrape and characterless buns there could gather in the road outside the Lane house and watch through the window the Lane guests stuffing themselves on pre-war dainties.

  “That’ll teach them to leave Hubie out of things!” said Mrs. Lane viciously.

  All Hubert’s friends were invited and all Hubert’s friends accepted the invitation.

  Hubert was not an original child and could think of no other tactics than his familiar ones of shouting out to the prospective guests of the rival party the dainties that were being prepared for his own.

  “Jellies and cream!” said William incredulously. “You can’t get jellies and you can’t get cream.”

  “My father can,” sniggered Hubert.

  “Your father’s a black marketer,” said William sternly.

  Hubert smiled his sly smile.

  “You can’t prove it,” he said, “and that’s all that matters.”

  Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Merridew did their best. Miss Milton, after saying she could give them nothing, relented and sent round a quarter of a pound of caraway seeds. Mrs. Monks brought round a tin of powdered milk but sent for it back later that evening because she’d “run out”. General Moult offered a rabbit and a couple of cabbages, neither of which Mrs. Brown thought would be suitable. Mrs. Bott was away—unfortunately, for, though difficult of temper, she was not ungenerous. By a persistence quite alien to her nature, Mrs. Brown succeeded in “raking together”, as she put it, the nucleus of a tea, but she began to look worn and haggard. The day before the party was to be held, however, William came home and found her to his surprise looking quite cheerful.

  “Well, it’s off,” she said, “and I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “Off?” repeated William.

  “The party. They’ve got mumps in the village school, so we’ve all agreed that it’s best to put it off.”

  “It wouldn’t have been much of one,” said William gloomily. “I don’t know whether it’s better to have a rotten one or none at all with ole Hubert Lane havin’ the sort of one he’s goin’ to have. It was all spoilt, anyway.”

  “Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Brown, “we’ll try to have a really nice one later on, when,” with vague optimism, “things are a bit easier. Now will you be really helpful, William, and take out these notices cancelling the party? I’ve got them all ready and addressed. There’s one for each child who was coming to the party. You’ll take them, won’t you, dear?”

  “Yes,” said William dispiritedly. “It’s a rotten ending to it all, though. Hubert Lane’ll crow over us more than ever. I’d thought out some jolly good games for it, too.”

  * * *

  William walked slowly past the Lanes’ house on his way to the old barn. The party was to be held to-morrow, and Hubert’s Aunt Emmy had come over to help. She stood at the gate now talking to a neighbour. William looked at her with interest. She was vague and elderly and good-natured and short-sighted and absent-minded. He chuckled as he remembered the trick that he and the Outlaws had once played on her. She did not recognise him and went on talking to the neighbour.

  “Yes, Hubie and his mother have gone to London to get chocolates and sweets for the party. They know a place where they can get them. Eight-and-six a pound, mind you, but that’s nothing to them. Everything else is ready—cakes, jellies, trifles, everything. I believe in having everything ready the day before, don’t you? You never know what might go wrong on the day, and if you’ve got everything ready—well, you’ve got everything ready, haven’t you? We’ve given the maid the day off to make up for the extra work to-morrow and—”

  William passed on down the road, still chuckling at the memory of the trick they had once played on Aunt Emmy. That had had to do with a party of Hubert’s, too. They had locked Hubert and his guests into the attic just before tea and then impersonated them at the tea table. Aunt Emmy had been officiating in Mrs. Lane’s absence and had never realised that they were not the same boys who had arrived for the party earlier in the afternoon.

  He had reached the main road and was just going to climb the stile by the Village Hall leading to the old barn when he noticed a little group of children standing patiently outside the door. They shone with cleanliness. They wore obviously their best clothes. Their faces glowed with eager expectation. William approached them. There was an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

  They turned their glowing faces to him.

  “We’re waiting for the doors to open for the party,” they said simply.

  The uneasy feeling at the pit of William’s stomach increased in intensity. He remembered the little pile of notices that his mother had given him to distribute, remembered taking them upstairs, meaning to distribute them when he went out with Ginger later in the evening, remembered going out to meet Ginger at the old barn. He hadn’t taken the notices with him. He hadn’t distributed them. He hadn’t in fact given them another thought from the moment his mother had handed them to him till now. They were still in the drawer in his dressing-table into which he had carelessly slipped them on going upstairs; because there didn’t seem to be room for them anywhere else. These children had come to a party that didn’t exist . . . and it was all his fault. He opened his mouth to explain, then closed it again, staring at them in silent horror. He didn’t know how to tell them. A little boy and girl joined the group. The little girl wore a pink silk dress that reached her ankles, and the little boy a velveteen suit. William realise
d that the garments were wildly unsuitable, but he realised, too, that it would be tragic for them, having put them on, just to go home and take them off again, he felt like Cain, like Nero, like Hitler himself, like all the villains he had ever heard of.

  “There—there isn’t a party,” he managed to say at last.

  “Yes, there is,” said the little girl in the pink silk dress confidently. “We’ve had invitations to it.”

  “And it’s after the time,” said another little girl. "It’s time they opened the doors.”

  A little boy put his ear to the keyhole.

  “I think I can hear them,” he said with a happy smile.

  It was plain that he pictured frantic last-minute preparations behind the closed doors—gay decorations, laden tables, bustling aproned “helpers”. His eyes were almost popping out of his face with excitement. And, behind the closed doors, as William alone of the group knew, was a bare, empty room, the forms piled up, the trestle tables stacked against the wall. More children were joining the group every minute.

  “I tell you there isn’t any—” began William hoarsely, then stopped.

  He was going to say again that there wasn’t any party, but suddenly he realised that there was a party. There was a party, ready and complete, only a few yards away. There was Hubert Lane’s party . . . The guests were gazing at him in silence, waiting for him to finish his sentence. Some still looked eager and confident, but in the eyes of others there was a dawning horror, as if half expecting some incredible and crushing blow. There couldn’t be no party, after all. There couldn’t . . .

  William formed his plans swiftly. Aunt Emmy was still Aunt Emmy. A trick that had succeeded once sometimes succeeded again. No harm in trying, anyway.

  “The party’s not being here,” he said. “It’s been changed. It’s at another place. I’ll take you to it.”

  A buzz of eager comment arose and they swarmed trustingly around him.

  “Where is it?” “Come on!” “Let’s go there quick!” “Is it far?”

  Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, William set off down the road, followed by the festive train of excited chattering children. Down the road, in at the green painted gate of the Lanes’ house. William knocked at the door with quickly beating heart. Suppose that Hubert and his mother had already returned. Generally, when they went to London, they came home by a late train, partly to show their superiority to people who bought “cheap day tickets”, and so had to come home early, partly in order that Hubert might see some film that was likely to come to Hadley later, so that, when it did come, he could say: “That old thing! Good Lord! I saw it in London ages ago!” But to-day, as the party had been arranged for to-morrow, they might come back earlier, might come back any minute, might be back already. Aunt Emmy opened the door, and William drew a quick breath of relief. The house seemed empty and silent. There were no signs of the return of Hubert and his mother. Aunt Emmy gazed in surprise and bewilderment at the crowd of children that filled the front garden.

  “Please, we’ve come to the party,” said William, assuming a bland expression.

  Aunt Emmy’s surprise and bewilderment gave place to consternation.

  “B-b-but the party’s not till to-morrow,” she stammered.

  “No, it’s to-day,” said William firmly. He turned to his flock. “It’s to-day, isn’t it?”

  A shrill chorus arose.

  “Yes, it is to-day.” “Yes, it said to-day.” “It said to-day on the card.” “It said it.”

  “To-day . . .” “To-day . . .” “To-day . . .” they clamoured anxiously.

  Aunt Emmy had grown pale.

  “There must have been some mistake. I suppose they put the wrong date on the card. Oh, dear, oh dear, what shall I do? . . . Listen, children, there’s been a mistake. Can you all come back to-morrow at the same time?”

  “No,” said William politely but firmly, “I’m ’fraid we can’t come to-morrow.” He turned to his followers: “We can’t come to-morrow, can we?”

  “No,” shrilled his followers anxiously. To-morrow? To-morrow didn’t exist. Only to-day and to-day’s party existed. To-morrow? There was no such thing . . .

  Still politely but very firmly, William pushed past Aunt Emmy into the hall. His flock swarmed after him.

  “Shall we take our things off here?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer announced: “We’ll take our things off here.”

  Coats, hats, scarves were flung on to hatstand, chest and floor, then, eagerly expectant, the flock swarmed into the drawing-room in the wake of its self-appointed leader.

  Aunt Emmy stood in a sea of coats and hats and scarves, staring wildly around her. It was like a nightmare. What should she do? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, what should she do? Then the nice polite little boy who had been at the head of the children came out of the drawing-room and said politely: “Shall I help you get tea while the others play games in there?”

  It seemed to Aunt Emmy what she always called a lead. She’d never been able to do anything without a lead. She had to be shown what to do and then she could do it. She couldn’t do anything otherwise. She was that sort of person. And this nice helpful little boy seemed to be showing her, to be giving her a lead. Now that the party was actually here, the only thing to do, of course, was to give it the tea that had been prepared for it. After all, if it couldn’t come to-morrow, it stood to reason that it must have it to-day. She knew that Hubert and his mother had an engagement for the day after to-morrow, and things didn’t keep indefinitely. She hoped that Hubert and his mother would think she had done the right thing. Anyway, she couldn’t turn dear Hubert’s little guests from the door when the party tea was actually there ready for them. What a good thing she’d got everything ready the day before! It always paid to be prepared. The nice helpful little boy was already carrying trifles, jellies, cakes, biscuits from the larder to the dining-room. So kind of him! The maid’s being out made things a little difficult, of course, but one must just do the best one could . . .

  “It won’t take me a minute to set the table,” she said. “Then I’ll make some bread and butter. Everything’s ready but that.”

  “Don’t you bother with bread and butter,” said the little boy. “No one’ll eat it with all this.”

  “There’s just the lemonade and tea, then,” said Aunt Emmy. “Oh dear! Hubert will be sorry to have missed you.”

  “I bet he will,” said the little boy.

  “You must all make yourselves at home till he comes and he might come any minute. It would be nice if he came now before we started tea, wouldn’t it?”

  “Wouldn’t it!” agreed the little boy.

  “I think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you?” said Aunt Emmy anxiously.

  The little boy assured her that she was.

  Meantime, the party in the drawing-room was certainly “making itself at home.” Shouts of laughter, bumps, bangs issued from the room.

  “I’m sure that, even though Hubert isn’t here,” said Aunt Emmy, “he’ll be glad to hear that they enjoyed it.”

  “Won’t he just!” said the little boy.

  “Well, I think everything’s ready now,” said Aunt Emmy. “Here’s a box of crackers that Hubert’s father had a great deal of difficulty in getting. We mustn’t forget those!”

  “Rather not!” agreed the little boy.

  “And now, dear, will you call them in to tea?”

  William called them in to tea. They swarmed across the hall into the dining-room, then stood, transfixed by amazement, gazing at the jellies, trifles, jugs of cream, iced cake, chocolate biscuits . . . Few of them had ever seen such a feast in their lives. None of them had seen it since the war started.

  “I’m so sorry there’s been this mistake,” said Aunt Emmy, “but you must all try and imagine dear Hubie here, going about among his little guests, so happy to see you all enjoying yourselves. And now eat everything up. That’s what Hubie would want you to do.”

  “Wouldn�
��t he just!” said the little boy.

  William took his own seat by the window, so that he could keep an eye on the gate. He didn’t know quite what he was going to do if Hubert and his mother appeared, but his immediate aim was to get the tea eaten as quickly as possible. He did his own share towards accomplishing this, and encouraged the others to do theirs, though, indeed, little encouragement was needed. Aunt Emmy fluttered about, serving jelly and trifle, cutting cake, refilling cups and saying at intervals: “I’m sure I’ve done the right thing. It was the only thing I could do. Now try to enjoy yourselves as much as if Hubie were here, children.”

  The children certainly enjoyed themselves. Urged on by William, they soon cleared up everything, leaving empty jelly dishes, empty trifle dishes, empty cake and biscuit plates, empty jugs of cream. Then they pulled the crackers and the air resounded with shrieks of laughter and the blowing of musical instruments.

  “And now what would you like to do?” said Aunt Emmy when comparative quiet was restored.

  “We’ll have some games, shall we?” suggested William.

  “Yes, dear,” said Aunt Emmy, “if you know some nice quiet ones.”

  It appeared that William knew plenty of games, though perhaps the description “quiet” did not apply to any of them. Fortunately Aunt Emmy was rather deaf, and was busy washing up in the kitchen. It was a good thing, she thought, as she plunged the empty dishes into the water, that she had that nice helpful little boy to entertain the guests. Hubert would be grateful to him.