‘I did not lose it,’ said the old man, beginning to shape another whistle. ‘I lent it to Charlie an’ he never give it me back.’
‘He says he did an’ you lost it.’
‘It’s only me ’n’ you he says that to,’ said the old man. ‘Others have seen it up there behind his shop. He keeps it on his desk. Makes a joke of it to ’em. He says I can have it if I’ll come for it. If I’d got the use of my legs . . .’
‘I’m sick of hearing about the penknife,’ said the woman. ‘What do you want with penknives at your age?’
‘What’s age got to do with it? You tell me any age a man doesn’t want a good penknife while he’s above ground! Ever since I was a nipper I wanted that penknife of Dad’s. They don’ make penknives like that nowadays. You can’t buy ’em for money. Charlie always wanted it too, but Dad he always said I could have it. He left Charlie his watch, but he left me his penknife.’
‘Well, you got it, din’t you?’ said the woman.
‘Ay. I got it, but Charlie’d had his eye on it all those years, an’ he borrowed it an’ never give it me back.’
The woman sighed impatiently.
‘He gave it you back an’ you lost it. He told me so.’
‘Ay. He told you so. Well, he’s told others different. An’ they’ve seed it. It’s on his desk in the room back of the shop. He told ’em that he’d always meant to have that penknife an’ that I can have it back if I’ll go for it, me that’s lost the use of my legs this twelve-months and more. I tell you that penknife—’
‘I’m sick to death of hearing about that penknife,’ said the woman and went back into the cottage, slamming the door.
The old man had been whittling away at another whistle as he talked. He went on talking and whittling.
‘You don’ find any knives like my old Dad’s now. A great big one of horn with his ’nitials on. Made in the days when a penknife was a penknife. Over an’ over again’s the time my old Dad told us that Charlie was to have his watch an’ me his knife. I might’ve known that Charlie’d get both in the end. Like that he was as a boy an’ a man don’t change his nature. Waits till I’ve lost the use of my legs an’ then borrers it an’ never gives it me back. Always like that, he was. From a boy. Cunnin’ an’ bidin’ his time. If I’d got the use of me legs he wouldn’t have dared. I’d’ve gone up to his place an’ had it off him . . . Now have a blow at that an’ see if it’s all right.’
William had a blow. It was all right, so much all right that the woman shut the window with a bang, saying that she couldn’t stand it and an old man like him ought to know better. The old man was highly delighted by this, and, taking the whistle from William, blew it several times, chuckling to himself between the blasts.
‘Now you make one all yourself,’ he said to William.
He watched as eagerly as if the fate of both of them depended upon the result. When finally William, almost trembling with suspense, raised the whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast, he clapped his gnarled hands and chuckled again.
‘Fine!’ he said. ‘Fine! Now, that’s a proper whistle, that is. Shameful—warn’t it?—to think of a boy of your age not being able to make a whistle. Hundreds of them I’ve made, hundreds, with my old Dad’s knife when I was a boy. If I’d got my old Dad’s knife—when I think of that Charlie havin’ it—well, it keeps me awake at night, it does . . .’
‘FINE!’ SAID THE OLD MAN. ‘NOW, THAT’S A PROPER WHISTLE, THAT IS.’
‘Where does he live?’ asked William.
‘Got a little tobacconist’s in High Street next the boys’ outfitters. I’ve never been down there since he took it. If I’d got the use of my legs—well, now you can make a whistle, can’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said William and blew another piercing blast.
The woman came out of the cottage, and addressed William irritably.
‘I’m sick of that noise,’ she said. ‘Get off with you! He’s trouble enough alone, but when he gets with the likes of you . . .’
The old man chuckled.
‘You’d better be goin’,’ he said to William. He glanced at the basket. ‘Shoppin’ for your ma, I reckon?’
‘Yes,’ said William.
‘Mind you take back the right change . . . Blow again an’ make sure it’s all right.’
William blew again.
‘Be off with you!’ said the woman.
The old man chuckled.
‘Thanks awfully,’ said William to the old man, and, seeing the woman advancing threateningly upon him, hastily departed.
He walked up the road to High Street as light-heartedly as if he trod air. He did tread air. He was in the seventh heaven of pride and rapture. He could make whistles. He saw himself in the future making hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of whistles. Life seemed all too short for the whistles he meant to make. He’d teach Ginger and Douglas and Henry. They’d all make whistles . . .
And together with the pride and rapture, his heart overflowed with gratitude to his benefactor—the marvellous old man who had taught him how to make whistles.
Now gratitude with William was not a passive quality but an active one. When William felt grateful to anyone, his spirit knew no rest till he had expressed that gratitude in action. And he felt so grateful to the old man that his gratitude was as if it were a balloon blown up inside him so taut that soon it must burst, and he with it, unless the pressure were relieved by action. His old Dad’s penknife . . . William slackened his pace, and began to examine the shops he passed. A tobacconist’s, and next door to it a boys’ outfitters. There couldn’t be any mistake about that. William stood still, and gazed cautiously about him. An afternoon drowsiness possessed the little street. No one was passing. The shops all seemed asleep. He peered into the tobacconist’s shop. It was empty of shopkeeper and customers alike. He tiptoed into it, prepared to demand a cigarette card, then if necessary fly for his life should anyone come forward from the inner room to accost him. But no one came. Summoning all his courage, he tiptoed to the doorway of the inner room and looked about. It was empty. In the corner by the window was an old-fashioned desk. On it was a pen tray and on the pen tray was a pen, a pencil and—an enormous ancient horn penknife. William’s eyes gleamed. He darted forward, seized it, then turned to run back to the road. But unfortunately in his haste he overturned a chair. He heard an angry shout behind him, and knew that someone had come running down a small flight of stairs at the sound and had caught sight of his vanishing figure. He leapt through the shop to the street, and cast a lightning glance up and down. It was a long street without any side turnings. His pursuer was so near him now that there was no doubt at all of his capture if he ran in either direction. The door of the boys’ outfitting shop next door was open. William plunged into it. A bald-headed man was fast asleep in a basket chair behind the counter. William’s entry roused him. He stirred. The chair creaked. He was obviously about to open his eyes. William looked about him desperately. There wasn’t a fraction of an inch of hiding place in the shop. Without stopping to consider, William pulled aside a curtain and leapt into the window where stood a row of wax models about his own size wearing tweed suits. He snatched a label ‘Latest Fashion 63s.’ from the nearest, pinned it on to his own suit, and took his place at the end of the row. Immediately afterwards, just as the bald-headed man was opening his eyes and looking about him in a bewildered fashion, a short stout man plunged through the doorway.
The bald-headed man looked at him sternly. It was evident that he put down to his entry the noise that had roused him from his slumbers.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he said indignantly. ‘Anyone would think the place was on fire.’
‘A boy,’ panted the stout man. ‘In my shop . . . in my back room . . . chased him out . . . came in here . . .’
The bald-headed man looked about him.
‘Nonsense!’ he said. ‘No boy’s been in here.’
‘I saw him. I tell you, I saw him.’
The bald-
headed man was rather annoyed.
‘Very well. Find him, then. See if you can find him. I’ve seen no boys.’
The stout man began to examine the shop, peering into corners and crevices that could not possibly contain a boy, opening cupboards and even drawers.
‘Well, have you found him?’ said the bald-headed man sarcastically.
‘He probably slipped past you into the back room. He did that with me. That was where I found him.’
‘Did he take anything?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve not had time to find out. I just saw him and ran after him.’
‘All right. Look in the back room if you think he’s there,’ said the bald-headed man. He’d been awakened too suddenly, and was still feeling irritable. ‘Look all over the house if you want to. Why don’t you accuse me of harbouring thieves right out?’
‘Oh nonsense,’ said the stout man, ‘but he broke into my house and I want to bring him to justice.’
With that he went into the inner room, and later could be heard upstairs searching the bedroom.
William stood in the window with the row of models, holding his breath, his heart in his mouth. Several people had passed outside, but no one had happened to look into the window.
The stout man came downstairs.
‘No,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t seem to be anywhere about here . . .’
‘Are you sure he came in here at all?’ said the bald-headed man.
The other was obviously rather disconcerted by his failure to find the culprit.
‘I could swear he did,’ he said, but he spoke rather uncertainly.
‘Well, I could swear he didn’t,’ said the boys’ outfitter. ‘He probably went next door, and he’ll have got off safe and sound while you’ve been wasting your time here. I don’t believe there ever was a boy. You fell asleep and had a nightmare . . .’
But the other had already gone next door—a sweet shop with little tables for the consumption of ice cream and lemonade.
He returned excitedly a few seconds later.
‘A boy did go in there,’ he said. ‘Just about the time it would have been. He bought a pennyworth of sweets, and then went away. He must have just given me the slip by doing that. I’m going to ring up the police. I’m going to ring up the police at once.’ With that he turned, and hastened out of the shop.
The boys’ outfitter cluck-clucked with annoyed contempt, muttered ‘What a fuss! What a fuss! He must have dreamed it!’ put on his spectacles, took out a ledger, drew his chair up to the counter, and began to study it. William, still standing to attention among the row of models, was beginning to feel more and more ill at ease each second. At first it had seemed to him as if he had gloriously saved the situation, but he was realising that the situation was by no means saved, that the dénouement was merely postponed and might be doubly horrible, as he would now, when discovered, have a second enemy in the bald-headed man whose window he at present adorned. He could see no possible way of avoiding it. The bald-headed man was fully awake now, and sat barring his only way of escape. At any minute he might be discovered. He had taken advantage of the fluster of the entry of Charlie, to seize a straw hat from the floor near him and put it on his head, dragging it down far over his eyes. It certainly helped to cover his face, but it rather drew attention to his figure than otherwise, because it was so much too big for him. The mid-day hush was lifting from the little street. Shoppers were appearing. They passed the shop in twos or threes, talking, paying little attention, fortunately, to the models in the boys’ outfitter’s window. William scanned them fearfully from beneath the brim of his large straw hat, standing very, very still, trying not to breathe. One woman, who held a little girl by the hand, stopped and looked at the models attentively. A ventilator at the top of the window was open, and William could hear their comments.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I don’t think much of the suit the end one’s got on, do you, Ermyntrude?’
‘Naw,’ said the little girl.
‘I may be short sighted, but it’s not a suit I’d like to pay sixty-three shillings for. Looks a proper bad shape to me. And knocked about. And if the boots and stockin’s go with it, I don’t think much of ’em, do you, Ermyntrude?’
‘Naw,’ said Ermyntrude. ‘And it’s ’at’s too big for it too.’
‘Not what they used to be—none of these shops.’
Ermyntrude was bending down in order to see under the large brim.
‘It’s gotter nugly face too,’ she commented dispassionately.
‘Well, they can’t ’elp their faces,’ said the woman. ‘They make ’em with wax out of a sort of mould, and when the mould gets old the faces begin to come out queer. An’ sometimes they get a bit pushed out of shape.’
‘This one’s mould was old,’ said Ermyntrude with interest, ‘an’ pushed out of shape, too, I should think.’
‘Yes, I ’ates wax figures in any case. Unnatural I calls ’em. But if they’ve got to ’ave them they needn’t ’ave them lookin’ like nightmares wearin’ clothes that look fit for a rummage stall. None of them shops are anythin’ like as good as they used to be when I was a girl. Come on, love. We’ll never get the shoppin’ done at this rate.’
They passed on. William heaved a sigh of relief—a relief that was tempered with indignation at the strictures that had been passed upon his appearance. It had needed a superhuman effort to refrain from pulling his most diabolical face at Ermyntrude from beneath his hat. The hat was becoming something of a problem. It had slipped forward over his nose so that he had to tilt his face up to keep it on. He dared not raise his hand to put it back, and he was afraid every minute of its falling forward over his face on to the floor and precipitating the crisis. While he was wondering whether he dared to adjust it with a lightning movement of his hand, he discovered that some more spectators had arrived. Half a dozen small boys were flattening their noses against the glass and gazing at the wax models. William realised with relief that their attention was not concentrated on him. They were in fact gazing at the other models.
ERMYNTRUDE BENT DOWN TO SEE UNDER THE LARGE BRIM. ‘IT’S GOT AN UGLY FACE, TOO,’ SHE COMMENTED.
WILLIAM SCANNED THEM FEARFULLY, TRYING NOT TO BREATHE. HE COULD HEAR THEIR COMMENTS.
‘They’re dead boys,’ one of them was saying in low fearful tones. ‘I know they’re dead boys. My brother told me. The shop-man goes out after dark catchin’ ’em. Then when he’s killed ’em he dresses ’em up and puts ’em in his shop window. If you was to come past his shop after dark he’d get you. My brother said so. My brother once met him after dark carryin’ a sack over his shoulder . . .’
The proprietor caught sight of the row of them flattening their noses against his glass, and ran out of his shop to scatter them. He returned to his ledger muttering indignantly. The was figures were a recent purchase. He’d never had them before, and they were the only ones of their kind in the little town. He was very proud of them, but they had attracted so much attention from the juvenile population that he was beginning to resent it. He was tired of seeing crowds of boys hanging about his shop window. He was tired of being asked—from a safe distance—if he was looking for another boy. The rumour had been invented by the older boys as a joke, but it was taken quite seriously by many of the smaller ones, and the proprietor from being amused had come to be irritated.
‘Ridic’lous nonsense!’ he muttered to his ledger, ‘ridic’lous nonsense! Never came across such ridic’lous nonsense!’ The dispersed group of boys was gradually and cautiously reassembling, and now stood in full force again flattening its noses against the glass and gazing with awe and horror at the wax figure.
‘That one’d be just about your age, George—got hair like yours too.’
‘Are those the clothes he found ’em wearing?’
‘No. He puts new clothes on ’em.’
Suddenly the smallest boy gave a scream of excitement.
‘Oo! Look! Look at the one at the end, th
e one with the hat. He forgot to put new clothes on that one. It’s got its old ones on.’
They contemplated William in tense silence. Then the smallest one, who was evidently the most observant, gave another scream of excitement.
‘It’s breathin’. Watch it! It’s breathin’! It’s not dead.’
They gazed at this phenomenon, open-mouthed, open-eyed. William, though trying to retain immobility and to cease breathing, found the spectacle of their noses flattened to whiteness against the glass irresistibly fascinating. Every now and then one of them would wipe away the film of breath from the glass with a sweep of his arm in order to gain a more uninterrupted view. They gazed at him with fascinated horror.
‘Look!’ said the smallest one again, craning his head to look under the hat. ‘It’s movin’ its eyes too. I can see it movin’ its eyes. It’s comin’ alive! It’s coming alive! They do sometimes. Moths do sometimes after you’ve put ’em in a killin’ bottle.’
‘Go an’ tell him it’s comin’ alive,’ said another.
‘You go’n tell ’im.’
At this moment the hat slid forward. Instinctively William caught it and replaced it on his head. Seeing that the situation was completely lost, he relieved his feelings by pulling his most hideous face at the row of gaping spectators, and then put out his tongue.
‘Oo! G’n, tell him quick. It’s come alive. It’ll get away in a minute. Tell him to come quick.’
Their sympathies seemed to have unexpectedly veered round to the shop-owner.
The smallest boy put his head into the shop, and called out excitedly.
‘I say, mister! One of them boys in the window’s comin’ alive—’
With a roar of fury the proprietor rushed out after them. They fled before him down the street. Seizing his opportunity, William leapt from the window out of the shop, and sped up the road like an arrow from a bow. A second and more furious bellow of rage behind him told him that the proprietor had seen him, and had diverted his pursuit to him. He fled breathlessly up the hill and round the group of cottages. The old man still sat outside his cottage door. William flung him the penknife as he passed without even stopping to see if his pursuer were still on his track. The old man’s voice followed him on his headlong flight.
William's Happy Days Page 2
