William's Happy Days

by Richmal Crompton

  To Christopher, Martin and Elizabeth, with love

  CONTENTS

  Foreword by Daniel Roche

  1. William Goes Shopping

  2. William and the School Report

  3. The Christmas Truce

  4. William Helps the Cause

  5. William and the Cow

  6. William’s Birthday

  7. The Outlaws and the Hidden Treasure

  8. William the Superman

  9. William Puts Things Right

  10. William and the Twins

  FOREWORD

  I’ve loved Just William for a long, long time and never in my wildest dreams did I think one day I’d be playing my childhood hero. I was about two when I first started listening to Martin Jarvis reading the Just William stories on CD, and I think the only time I ever sulked at that age was when I didn’t have my CDs playing as I drifted off to sleep. Although I’ve always been a huge William Brown fan, it was only when my friends found out I was auditioning for the part that I realized how well known William actually is. Lots of my friends also idolized William while growing up, just as I did, along with the Outlaws (the other boys in William’s gang) and all the other amazingly realistic characters Richmal Crompton created.

  When I got the first audition for the BBC Just William adaptation, I was really excited, but there were so many other boys there I didn’t think I’d get any part – least of all the role of William Brown. Then when I received the call back, it felt phenomenal. After a long series of auditions, where Paul Seed (the Director) and I simply recited the lines and chatted about rugby and dogs, I was shocked to hear that I’d been offered the part of William himself.

  After a week of rehearsals (and a lot of reluctant haircuts), the other boys playing the Outlaws and I were already firm friends. I could see how many people in the script run-throughs were huge Just William fans, and also how many talented actors there were in the cast. I felt like a dwarf against giants. But the filming was really fun and everyone was so welcoming, whether we were strolling through a cornfield or eating breakfast in the Brown family’s kitchen. With a great director like Paul I knew all the early mornings were definitely worth it. The filming included so many first experiences, such as filming with actors my own age, filming with animals, and I also learned to do my own stunts, which was a brilliant experience. Even Ivor, the friendly dog playing Jumble (William’s scruffy mongrel), began to sink into the world of William and, after a while, followed me like his owner.

  I know and love the fact that this book is going to make so many people happy. I remember the great feeling when my mum came back from shopping with a brand-new Just William CD. William Brown is a character who will never grow old. Adults love him because they grew up with him or were just like him, and kids like me love him because he brings out the tree-climbing, pond-swimming child in all of us that can sometimes get lost in video games and cartoons. If I had the chance to switch lives with William I would do so without a care in the world, and so would many other fans. I feel so lucky to have not only acted in the series, but to have had the opportunity to play my childhood idol. I, like so many others, will never forget the Red Indian, pirate-ship captain eleven-year-old known as William Brown.

  Daniel Roche

  CHAPTER 1

  WILLIAM GOES SHOPPING

  It was the first day of the Christmas holidays, and William had spent a happy morning roaming the countryside with Ginger, Douglas and Henry. They had made fires and tracked each other through forbidden woods, they had fished in forbidden streams, and they had discussed at length that insoluble mystery—why a morning passes so much more quickly in holiday than in term time.

  ‘Seems ext’ordin’ry to me,’ said William, ‘it’s nearly lunch time now, an’ it only seems a minute since we started out, an’ in term time a mornin’ always seems as long as a week. I think they do something to the clocks in holiday time,’ he added darkly. ‘Put ’em all on to go fast or somethin’. I don’ see how it could be like that if they didn’t.’

  ‘My father’s goin’ to give me a watch for a Christmas present,’ said Henry without much enthusiasm. ‘I don’t think much of watches. They always seem to come to pieces the minute you try to find out how they’re made.’

  ‘I’m goin’ to buy my mother a pincushion,’ said Ginger. ‘I know where you can get them for twopence an’ they look as if they’d cost about sixpence.’

  ‘Oh crumbs!’ said William. ‘I forgot about givin’ presents to people.’

  ‘Fancy forgettin’ about Christmas!’ said Ginger.

  ‘I din’ forget about Christmas,’ said William simply. ‘I remembered about people givin’ me presents. I forgot that I’d have to give ’em to people. I don’t see how I can, anyway. I haven’t any money.’

  It turned out that William was the only one of the Outlaws who hadn’t any money at all. The others had enough, with strict economy, to provide Christmas presents of a modest sort for all their families. A generous offer to give twopence each to William (which would have enabled him to purchase presents for his whole family at the Penny Bazaar) was gratefully declined.

  ‘No thanks,’ said William. ‘I bet I can get money all right. I bet I’m not goin’ to take your money, anyway. Thanks awfully, all the same.’

  ‘How will you get money?’ said Ginger. ‘I thought you weren’t gettin’ any more pocket money till they’d paid for that last window you broke.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said William bitterly. ‘I’m not, an’ it seems to me window people mus’ be all millionaires, the amount they charge for windows. I bet that’s what I’m goin’ to be when I grow up. I’m goin’ to be a window maker, an’ get to be a millionaire, chargin’ the amount they charge for windows. An’ everyone carries on as if I’d meant to break it ’stead of the ball slipping out of my hand backwards. It’s jus’ like ’em. Takin’ all my money away an’ expectin’ me to give ’em Christmas presents! Still, I bet I’ll get some money somehow. I bet you anything I get some money somehow. I’ll weed a bed for them or somethin’.’

  ‘There aren’t any weeds in winter,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘Well, I’ll do somethin’ there is in winter for ’em then,’ said William. ‘I’ll chop wood or somethin’. I bet I get some money anyway. Seems extr’ordin’ry to me that with all the money there mus’ be in the world I never seem to have any . . .’

  They were walking along the river bank, where some reeds grew from which William knew that whistles could be fashioned, but so far he had failed to discover the art of fashioning them. He cut several, and tried again for the hundredth time to make a whistle. As the resultant failures marked his path in a sort of trail, his spirit sank lower and lower. The whole of creation seemed leagued against him. The very reeds refused to be made into whistles by him.

  The striking of the church clock reminded him that one o’clock was the hour at which his family partook of luncheon. Not wishing to prejudice his chances of money-making more than he could help, he threw away his reeds with a gesture of disgust, and ran homewards.

  He had made no arrangements to meet the other Outlaws in the afternoon, because it so happened that Ginger and Douglas had to go out to tea, and Henry was going to his dancing class.

  He was five minutes late for lunch, but his mother was the only other member of the family present, and her rebuke was half-hearted and mechanical. She was obviously distrait.

  ‘William, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m so worried. I wonder if you’d do something for me this afternoon.’

  William looked at her guardedly. ‘I’m very busy this afternoon,’ he said, ‘it’s the first afternoon of the holidays.’

  As an opening move it was rather good. William had an unexpectedly del
icate hand at bargaining.

  ‘I know, dear,’ said his mother, looking still more worried. ‘I wouldn’t ask you if I could possibly manage without.’

  William assumed an expression of poignant wistfulness.

  ‘I’d thought of goin’ out with Ginger this afternoon,’ he said, assuring himself as he spoke that it was the exact truth. He had thought of going out with Ginger till he heard that Ginger was being compelled reluctantly to attend a birthday party that afternoon.

  ‘I know, dear. I hate spoiling your first day. If Ethel or Robert were home—’

  William exchanged his expression of poignant wistfulness for one of shining and unselfish devotion.

  ‘It’s all right, mother,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you any way I can.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, dear,’ said Mrs. Brown deeply touched. ‘I—I’ll give you a shilling if you will.’

  William felt rewarded for the muscular effort demanded by his expression of wistfulness and devotion. Without them he knew it would have been sixpence at most.

  ‘It’s this, dear,’ went on his mother. ‘I forgot to order the fish for dinner, and I want you to go into Hadley and get it for me.’

  ‘Can’t I get it from the village?’ said William.

  ‘No, dear. You know there isn’t a fish shop in the village. You can get the half-past ’bus, and go into Hadley. You know the fish shop—Hallett’s in High Street—and I’ll write down on a piece of paper just what I want you to get.’

  William mentally surveyed this programme. Then he said, ‘Well, will you give me the shilling before I go, then I can spent it in Hadley?’

  ‘Certainly not, dear,’ said his mother. ‘I shall only give you the shilling if you bring it back properly. Unless you bring it back properly I shan’t give you a penny.’

  The effect of his expressions of wistfulness and devotion was wearing off, and she was beginning to feel that a shilling was rather a lot for one errand.

  William considered this in silence. His mind went back over his past career as an errand goer. He could not remember a single example of unqualified success.

  ‘S’pose,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘s’pose that I do it nearly all right, will you give me sixpence?’

  But Mrs. Brown, who had finally come to the conclusion that a penny and his ’bus fare would have been quite enough, answered with asperity.

  ‘Of course not, William. I shan’t give you anything at all unless you do it perfectly, and a shilling’s far too much in any case.’

  ‘It’d save me a lot of trouble if you’d give me the shilling to spend when I’ve got the fish. I mean, you needn’t think that I could poss’bly do anythin’ wrong when it’s only fish. The other times that p’raps you’re thinkin’ of, there were a lot of things an’ I got muddled up with them, but I cudn’t possibly do anythin’ wrong when it’s only fish. It isn’t ’s if I want to spend it on myself. I want to get Christmas presents for you all. I want—’

  ‘William, do stop talking and go!’

  William with great dignity stopped talking and went.

  He walked slowly down to the ’bus terminus, and waited dejectedly. Giving up a whole afternoon and quite probably going to get nothing for it . . . Something was sure to go wrong. Something always went wrong when he was sent on errands. It wouldn’t be his fault but they’d say it was. They always said it was. They’d give him the wrong change in the shop or something like that. He felt a grim certainty that he’d never see that shilling. Wasting a whole afternoon going into the town like this for nothing . . .

  He took one of his abortive whistles out of his pocket and contemplated it morosely. He didn’t even try to whistle it because he knew it wouldn’t whistle. Everything was rotten. He was still standing staring moodily in front of him, when the ’bus came up. So sunk was he in gloomy reverie that he didn’t see the ’bus till it had nearly knocked him down (he was standing in the middle of the road). The driver leant over in his seat, and gave him a short pithy résumé of his character. William, in order to restore his self-respect, leapt upon the ’bus, and had pulled the bell-rope several times before the conductor indignantly stopped him. Followed a spirited exchange of personalities with the conductor, who finally threatened to take William by the scruff of his neck and deposit him in the road outside. William, clinging to his seat, the lust of battle rising pleasantly within him, dared him to. The ’bus moved off. Whenever the conductor passed William in his duties about the ’bus, he made threatening gestures to which William responded by putting out his tongue or pulling a face. Both of them seemed to enjoy the exchange. William’s spirits had risen considerably. Impossible to be depressed when a ’bus conductor had been lured from his high dignity to bandy insults with you. It was all right about that shilling. You couldn’t possibly make a mistake about one errand at a fish shop. He hadn’t even to remember it. His mother had written it out and put it in his pocket. To avoid any possible mistake, she’d even written it out several times and put a copy in each of his pockets. And it wasn’t a question of change either, now he came to think of it. The exact money was wrapped up in paper, put into an envelope and pinned with a large safety pin into his jacket pocket. Certainly it was not going to be Mrs. Brown’s fault if anything went wrong . . . And considering the matter with rising spirits, William didn’t see how anything possibly could go wrong. Hurling his most hideously contorted grimace at the conductor in answer to his shaken fist, and seeing the whole world flooded with a rosy light, he felt as sure of that shilling as if he held it in his hand. Even the whistles, he felt certain, would whistle with a very little more cutting . . .

  The ’bus stopped at the top of the hill leading into Hadley. William preferred to get out here rather than to go on to High Street, because he knew that there was a half-built house near the top of the hill, and William loved half-built houses. He rang the ’bus bell seven or eight times in swift succession, dodged a well-aimed box on the ear from the conductor, and leapt to the ground. Having reached it, he stood and exchanged verbal hostilities with the conductor till the ’bus was out of sight. Then he turned his attention to the house. He had climbed up the scaffolding and walked several times backwards and forwards across a narrow plank that joined two unfinished walls, before one of the workmen discovered him and sent him about his business. He had only just time to snatch a piece of putty from another workman in his headlong flight. A piece of hard cement caught him neatly on the ear as he fled. Having got out of range, he sat down on the roadside to experiment with his piece of putty. He made it into all the shapes he could think of, then put it in his pocket and sauntered on down the road. No need, of course, to hurry. There was only the fish to get, and he needn’t be back before tea time. He took up his whistle and his penknife again, and began to cut the hole a little wider. Perhaps that was what was wrong. He blew . . . not a sound. He felt suddenly that life would hold no more savour for him if he couldn’t find out how to make whistles. Suddenly he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘An’ what are ye tryin’ to do, young sir?’

  He turned round.

  An old man sat on a chair outside a cottage door. So intent had William been upon putty and his whistle that he had not noticed him before.

  ‘Make a whistle,’ he said shortly and returned to his attempts.

  ‘It’s the wrong way,’ quavered the old man. ‘Ye’ll never make a whistle that way.’

  William wheeled round, open-mouthed. ‘D’you know how to make a whistle?’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Ay. Course I do,’ said the old man. ‘Course I do. I were the best hand at makin’ a whistle for miles when I were your age. Let’s look at it now . . . let’s look at it.’

  He inspected William’s abortive attempt at whistle-making with unconcealed contempt.

  ‘Ye’ll never make a whistle this way. Never, never. Where’s your sense, boy? Where’s your sense?’

  The ’bus conductor would have been amazed at William’s humility before this mast
er of his craft.

  ‘I dunno,’ said William. ‘I—I sort of thought that was how you did it.’

  ‘Tch! Tch!’ said the old man testily. ‘What on earth are boys coming to? How old are you?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Eleven an’ can’t make a whistle! I’d ’a’ bin ashamed at your age! I would for sure.’

  William received all this meekly, only saying at the end:

  ‘Could you show me how to do it?’

  ‘How can I!’ said the old man irritably, ‘now you’ve cut it about like this? How could anyone make a whistle o’ this? You’ll have to get me another reed. Quickly.’

  ‘I don’t know where there are any,’ said William.

  ‘Tch! Tch!’ said the old man. ‘Fancy not knowing where there are any. At your age. I don’t know what boys are coming to, I don’t. Through that stile, across the field, down to the river. You’ll find them growing by the river. Why, when I was a boy—’

  But William had already vaulted the stile, and was halfway across the field. He returned panting a few minutes later with an armful of reeds. The old man was waiting for him with his penknife. William handed him a reed, and he began to cut it at once, as earnest and intent as William himself.

  ‘This way . . . an’ then that . . . don’ make the hole too big . . . I wish I’d got my ole Dad’s penknife. An’ I ought to have it by rights, too.’

  ‘Now, Dad,’ said a woman’s voice from inside the cottage. ‘Don’t start on that again.’

  ‘All very well sayin’ don’ start on that again,’ said the old man. ‘All very well sayin’ that . . . mind you cut enough away here . . . I ought to have my ole Dad’s penknife by rights. He’d promised it me an’ he left it to me in his will. Charlie always wanted it too, but my ole Dad he promised it to me an’ left it to me in his will.’

  A middle-aged woman came to the cottage door to continue the discussion.

  ‘Yes, he left it to you in his will and you lost it.’