William's Happy Days

by Richmal Crompton

  WILLIAM BENT DOWN AND LIFTED THE INKSTAND. ‘HERE IT IS.’

  ‘Peggy Marsden. She was so fed up with me because she said she always wrote to me for my birthday and I never wrote to her for hers. She told me to take down the date so that I shouldn’t forget again, and I did, but I lost the bit of paper. Trixie says it’s the seventh of October. I remember now. I put down P.M. 7.10 on a bit of paper to remind me. It was the bit of paper I’d begun to design Gladys’s and John’s new garden on. They’ve built a house down at Broadstairs, you know, and they were asking me to design a garden and I’d only just begun. I’d given them a copper beech and a cedar tree and a sundial just between them, and then Peggy came in, and I made a note of her birthday on the paper and then lost it.’

  ‘HOW WONDERFUL!’ BREATHED MISS PEACHE.

  William and Ginger crept brokenly out of the room. Brokenly they told the other two of the ruin of their hopes.

  The four of them gazed sadly into the distance, watching their millionaire-life, described so alluringly by William, vanish into thin air.

  Then William took the half-crown from his pocket, and looked at it thoughtfully.

  ‘Well,’ he said brightening a little, ‘it’s enough for one ice-cream an’ ginger beer for us all, anyway.’

  It wasn’t much to salvage from the wreck of their fortunes, but it was something . . .

  CHAPTER 8

  WILLIAM THE SUPERMAN

  The Outlaws, having met as usual at the corner of William’s road, ambled slowly along the road to school engaged in desultory conversation.

  William had propounded the question: ‘What would you be if you couldn’t be a yuman?’ and the matter was being discussed with animation. Ginger had chosen a lion, Douglas an eagle, Henry a frog, and William a ghost, and each was heatedly defending his choice. William’s choice had at first met with protest, but he had clung to it.

  ‘Course a ghost’s not a yuman. How could it be? Can’t eat, can it? All right, nex’ time I see a ghost eatin’ I’ll let you have it it’s a yuman.’

  ‘You’ve never seen a ghost at all,’ objected Douglas.

  ‘How d’you know I haven’t?’ said William, and added with a sound that was meant to be a sarcastic laugh, ‘I’ve cert’nly never seen one eatin’.’

  ‘Besides, it isn’t eatin’ that makes a yuman,’ said Ginger, ‘animals eat.’

  ‘I never said it was, did I?’ said William, ‘all I said was you’ve never seen a ghost eatin’. Well, when you see a ghost eatin’ kin’ly come’n’ tell me, that’s all.’

  The air of triumph with which William said this made the others feel somehow that they’d got the worst of the argument.

  ‘Anyway,’ said William pursuing his advantage, ‘all you’ll get killed or die of starvation same as what animals do, an’ I’ll go on livin’ for ever, jumpin’ out at people an’ scarin’ ’em stiff. I bet I have a better time than any of you. Lions!’ he said contemptuously to Ginger, ‘they’ve nothin’ to do all day but kill things an’ eat ’em, an’ I bet they have a rotten time gettin’ bones an’ horns’ an’ fur an’ things in their throats. An’,’ his scorn deepened as he turned his gaze to Henry, ‘frogs!’

  Henry felt that his choice needed defence, and began to defend it rather feebly.

  ‘It’s the splashin’ I’d like,’ he said, ‘an’ the hoppin’—great long hops.’

  ‘Hoppin’!’ said Douglas scornfully. ‘What’s hoppin’ to shootin’ through the air like what I’m goin’ to do when I’m an eagle an’ swooshin’ down on things? Yes, an’ I bet there won’t be much left of you when you’ve been swooshed down on by me an’ et in one mouthful.’

  ‘Yes an’ I bet you’d be jolly soon as dead as me if you tried eatin’ me. They don’t eat frogs an’ I bet it’d kill you.’

  ‘I bet they do.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘They don’t.’

  ‘An’ you’d better look out for me when you’re foolin’ about catchin’ frogs,’ said Ginger sternly to Douglas, ‘or I’ll be springin’ out at you an’ that’ll be the end of you.’

  ‘Oh will it,’ said Douglas with spirit. ‘Let me tell you that I’ll be up again an’ swooshin’ down on you before you know where you are an’ then there won’t be much left of you.’

  William interrupted with a sinister laugh.

  ‘Yes, an’ you all wait till I get hauntin’ the wood where you all are, an’ there won’t be much left of any of you. You’ll be scared dead with me groanin’ an’ moanin’ an’ rattlin’ chains an’—’

  ‘Yes, you’ll be groanin’ an’ moanin’ all right when I—’ began Ginger, then stopped.

  They had reached the school door. A procession of boys wearing grey flannel suits was streaming into it, and in the procession appeared an amazing figure—dressed in a white sailor suit with long flapping trousers, and a white sailor’s cap perched on a riot of golden curls. So jauntily and assuredly did it walk that the horror plainly visible on the faces around it was paralysed into silence. It passed on its way, leaving behind it a furious medley of sounds in which indignant small boys told each other all the things they were going to say to it the next time they saw it. The Outlaws forgot their imaginary rôles in the excitement.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘What’s he comin’ dressed up like that for?’

  ‘Oughter be in a baby show, that’s where he oughter be.’

  ‘I bet they turn him out.’

  But they didn’t turn him out. When the Outlaws entered their form room, he was already seated at a desk, calmly examining some books and exercise books that had been given to him by the form master. Even the form master seemed slightly disconcerted by his appearance. He explained his presence shortly to the others. His father had taken a house in the neighbourhood for a few months, and the head master had given him permission to attend the school while he was there. The head master unfortunately was not present to see the result of this permission. The head master was away with a nervous breakdown, and had left in charge the sixth form master—a muscular young man with a keen eye, upon whose notice William had always modestly shrunk from obtruding himself.

  The form gazed with indignation at the white-clad curly-headed newcomer, restrained only from open demonstration by the presence of Authority. The white-clad child was wholly unmoved by their glances and comments. With an expression of the utmost complacency he settled himself down to receive—and impart—knowledge. His fluency was amazing, his French accent unexceptionable, his way with sums and problems breath-taking. The masters who visited them in the course of the morning commented on his ability, comparing it favourably with the ability of his classmates and drawing attention to his tender years (he was, as they were repeatedly informed during the morning, two years younger than any of them). Indignation against him rose higher each moment. But all attempts to express this indignation met with failure. Grimacing at him was like grimacing at a stone wall—a stone wall moreover with an impregnable conviction of its own superiority. A threat of stronger measures was met with: ‘All right. You touch me an’ my father’ll go to see your father an’ then you’ll catch it.’

  There was something so suggestive of anticipatory enjoyment on the part of the white-clad child, something so calm and assured as of a prophecy often fulfilled that the would-be assailant melted away. During the next lesson, however, one of them managed to flick a large-sized ink blot on to the white sailor suit from his fountain pen when going up to write something on the board for the Latin master. On returning to his seat he sat down unsuspectingly into a little pool of ink. How it had come to be on his seat was a mystery. The white-clad child was apparently deeply absorbed in writing out the Latin for ‘The General, having summoned his soldiers, gave the signal for battle.’ But no one cared to experiment further upon the white suit. The Outlaws watched the newcomer with feelings of puzzled dislike, which grew stronger as the morning wore on. Their desks were too far
removed from his to allow of their making personal experiment upon him, but they watched the experiments of their classmates with interest.

  After school they followed him from the cloakroom to the road. The dapper, swaggering little figure had a strange fascination for them. It made its way to a large motor-car that stood in the road. A uniformed chauffeur leapt down to open the door for it. The Outlaws advanced nearer. Just as the white-clad child was about to step into the car, he turned and saw the Outlaws standing round him—an interested but hostile little group. His eyes met William’s in a challenging stare.

  ‘You’d look a bit better,’ said William sternly, ‘with your hair cut off.’

  ‘An’ you’d looka bit better,’ said the amazing child without a moment’s hesitation, ‘with your face cut off.’

  Then he stepped airily into the car and drove away, leaving the Outlaws gaping after him, open-eyed and open-mouthed.

  ‘Well,’ said William shortly, ‘well, somethin’ wants doin’ to him.’

  It was evident that the others were entirely in agreement with this cryptic statement.

  ‘What he wants,’ said Ginger vehemently, ‘is the cheek takin’ out of him. An’ I votes we start by cuttin’ off his hair.’

  ‘Let’s kidnap him,’ said William.

  ‘In masks,’ put in Ginger eagerly.

  ‘Take him to the old barn,’ said Henry.

  ‘Cut his hair off an’ dress him in proper clothes, and burn his ole white things.’

  ‘Wearin’ masks all the time.’

  ‘Spring out at him from somewhere, an’ tie him up an’ carry him off to the ole barn.’

  ‘All wearin’ masks.’

  The object of the kidnapping expedition was fading into insignificance before this sinister mental picture of four masked men leaping out of ambush . . .

  ‘Let’s hold up the car an’ tie up the shofer . . .’ said Ginger excitedly.

  But despite their impressive vision of themselves, even Ginger felt this to be going a little too far and ended rather feebly, ‘I’ve seen it done on the pictures, anyway.’

  ‘No,’ said William firmly. ‘The shofer’s not done nothin’ to us. It’s not fair to get him into trouble. No . . . it’s this boy we’ve gotter kidnap. We’ve gotter knock some of the cheek out of him, that’s what we’ve gotter do. We’ve gotter cut his hair off an’ put some decent clothes on to him ’stead of those ole white things. I know where an ole suit of mine is what’s put in the box-room ready for the rummage sale, an’ I’ll get it an’ bring it to the ole barn an’ I bet we’ll knock some of the cheek out of him. We’ll have a bonfire of his hair an’ his ole white suit an’ I bet he’ll be scared stiff of us in masks an’ things an’ I bet that’ll knock the cheek out of him.’

  Life had been rather dull lately, and the Outlaws welcomed the prospect of an adventure.

  ‘We’ll have to think it out very carefully,’ said William, ‘and we’ll have to keep it jolly secret, too. We don’t want Scotland Yard gettin’ to hear of it.’

  The Outlaws agreed that they didn’t want Scotland Yard getting to hear of it, and separated, having arranged to meet the next evening after school to arrange the details of the coup.

  But before the next evening something had happened that took William’s mind entirely off kidnapping. William was not on the whole susceptible. He did not easily fall a victim to feminine wiles. There had only been one serious love passage in his life, and that had been when he had lost his heart to Joan, the little girl next door, who had long since left the neighbourhood.

  Though William had forgotten her, and now treated the whole race of girls with coldness and disdain, he would occasionally meet one whose likeness to Joan would stir a tender chord in his heart. And this was what happened this afternoon. She was about William’s size and she had the demure, dimpled face and dark hair that always made him think of Joan. She met William in the road, looked at him with tentative friendliness, and said, ‘Hello!’ It was the dimples (Joan had had them like that at the corners of her lips) that made him hesitate and finally return the greeting. He returned it scowling, in a fierce and threatening tone of voice, but he returned it, and then stood glaring at her waiting for her next move. Her next move was to dimple again and say: ‘What’s your name?’

  He scowled more fiercely than ever, muttered ‘William’ and swung on his heel to walk away from her. She trotted lightly at his side. ‘Mine’s Angela,’ she said. William unbent very slightly. ‘Is it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said the little girl, flattered by the interest implied in the question. ‘Yes, it is . . . William, do you go to school?’

  ‘Course,’ said William gruffly.

  ‘Do you go to the school here, William?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She clasped her hands.

  ‘Oh, William, William, will you do something for me?’

  William looked at her. Blue eyes, fixed on him imploringly. Dimples still faintly visible.

  ‘A’right,’ he said ungraciously. ‘What?’

  ‘Look after my little brother, William. He’s gone to that school too.’

  ‘A’right,’ said William. ‘A’right, I’ll look after him all right.’ His mind passed in a mental review the members of the junior forms, whom he treated usually with hauteur and contempt. It was going to be galling to his pride to display friendliness towards one of these inferior creatures, but—the dark eyes were fixed on him, the dimples coming and going anxiously, and William was as Samson shorn of his locks.

  ‘A’right,’ he said again, ‘I’ll look after him for you.’

  Her gratitude was touching.

  ‘Oh, William!’ she said, ‘I knew you would. I knew you were kind,’—William hastily assumed an imbecile expression meant to imply kindness—‘and I know he’ll be all right if you look after him.’

  William uttered a short laugh—a laugh that hinted vaguely at a vast and sinister power.

  ‘Oh, yes, I bet anyone’s all right if I look after him. I bet anyone’s jolly well all right if I look after him.’

  ‘You won’t let anyone be unkind to him, will you, William?’

  ‘No,’ said William, repeating his short laugh. ‘No. If anyone’s unkind to him they’ll be jolly sorry. I bet they won’t do it twice. I bet, once they know I’m lookin’ after him. I bet there’s a lot of people what’ll be scared of lookin’ at him once they know I’m takin’ care of him.’

  ‘Oh, William!’

  Her eyes shone with an admiration that went to William’s head like wine. His swagger became outrageous. He repeated his short laugh, which had now passed the fine point of perfection and become a rather meaningless snort.

  ‘Then you will look after my little brother, William?’ she repeated.

  William was rather annoyed to have the little brother dragged into the conversation again. He didn’t take any interest in the little brother. Again he passed the members of the junior form before his mental gaze. He hoped that it wasn’t the one that squinted, or the one that howled when you looked at him. And he hoped that no one would see him speaking to the kid. And, above all, he hoped that she realised what she was asking of him.

  ‘What’s his name?’ he said without enthusiasm.

  ‘Reggie.’

  The name did little to inspire confidence. If it wasn’t the one that squinted, it was sure to be the one that howled.

  ‘What’s he look like?’ he said. ‘Does he squint?’

  ‘Oh, no, William. He’s sweet. He’s a darling. He’s got lovely curls and he always wears a white sailor suit.’

  The blood in William’s veins turned to ice.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘W-w-what?’

  ‘He’s sweet,’ repeated Reggie’s sister, ‘and he’s ever so clever, and you’ll know him by his white sailor suit. Didn’t you hear me say it the first time?’

  William swallowed.

  ‘No,’ he said faintly, ‘no, I din’t quite hear the first time.’

>   ‘Well, you’ll be able to recognise him now, won’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said William bitterly. ‘Yes, I’ll be able to recognise him now all right.’

  ‘He goes to school in the car because his school’s farther away than mine, and I’m older. You’ll know him when you see him, William. He’s ever so sweet.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said William again slowly, ‘I’ll know him when I see him all right.’

  William made his way slowly and reluctantly to the meeting at the old barn.

  Alas for the fickleness of man! With his faithful band of followers William had undergone innumerable adventures, risked innumerable perils, performed innumerable deeds of daring. And at a glance from a pair of dark eyes, at the flicker of a dimple in a pair of smooth cheeks, it was all to count for nothing. William was going to meet his comrades with treachery in his heart. They turned trusting eyes on him as he entered.

  ‘Now,’ said Ginger, ‘now let’s make up a plan. I’ve found out where he’s livin’. The question is where’s the best place to ambush him.’

  William assumed his best air of mystery.

  ‘I’ve gotter plan,’ he said unblushingly, ‘I’ve gotter plan what’s better’n that.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Ginger.

  ‘I’ve not got it quite ready yet,’ said William, ‘an’ I’m not goin’ to tell you till I’ve got it quite ready.’

  It is eloquent of the depths to which William had sunk that he met the trusting gaze of his followers without compunction.

  ‘When’ll you have it ready?’ said Ginger.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said William, ‘an’ we mustn’t let him get suspicious. We mus’ be all right to him so’s he won’t get suspicious of us. My plan won’t be any good at all if he gets suspicious of us.’

  It was obvious that, though still trusting, his followers were disappointed.

  ‘I don’t see what was wrong with kidnappin’ him in masks,’ said Ginger. ‘I think that was a jolly good plan.’

  ‘Well, wait till you hear mine,’ said the perfidious William.