More William (5 page)

‘You got ’em cut off in the war,’ said William firmly.

‘I didn’t. I bin in the wor orl right. Stroike me pink, I bin in the wor and
that’s
the truth. But I didn’t get ’em cut orf in the wor. Well, I’ll stop
kiddin’ yer. I’ll tell yer strite. I never ‘ad none.
Nar!’

William stood on tiptoe to peer under the untidy hair at the small apertures that in his strange new friend took the place of ears. Admiration shone in William’s eyes.

‘Was you
born
without ’em?’ he said enviously.

His friend nodded.

‘Nar don’t yet go torkin’ about it,’ he went on modestly, though seeming to bask in the sun of William’s evident awe and respect. ‘I don’t want all
folks knowin’ ’bout it. See? It kinder
marks
a man, this ’ere sort of thing. See? Makes ’im too easy to
track
, loike. That’s why I grown me hair long.
See? ’Ere, ’ave a drink?’

He put his head inside the window of the White Lion and roared out, ‘Bottle o’ lemonide fer the young gent.’

William followed him to a small table in the little sunny porch, and his heart swelled with pride as he sat and quaffed his beverage with a manly air. His friend, who said his name was Mr Blank,
showed a most flattering interest in him. He elicited from him the whereabouts of his house and the number of his family, a description of the door and window fastenings, of the dining-room silver
and his mother’s jewellery.

William, his eyes fixed with a fascinated stare upon Mr Blank’s ears, gave the required information readily, glad to be able in any way to interest this intriguing and mysterious
being.

‘Tell me about the war,’ said William at last.

‘It were orl right while it larsted,’ said Mr Blank with a sigh. ‘It were orl right, but I s’pose, like mos’ things in this ’ere world, it couldn’t
larst fer ever. See?’

William set down the empty glass of lemonade and leant across the table, almost dizzy with the romance of the moment. Had Douglas, had Henry, had Ginger, had any of those boys who sat next him
at school and joined in the feeble relaxations provided by the authorities out of school, ever done
this
– ever sat at a real table outside a real public-house drinking lemonade and
talking to a man with no ears who’d fought in the war and who looked as if he might have done
anything?

Jumble, meanwhile, sat and snapped at flies, frankly bored.

‘Did you’ – said William in a loud whisper – ‘did you ever
kill
anyone?’

Mr Blank laughed a laugh that made William’s blood curdle.

‘DID YOU’ – SAID WILLIAM IN A LOUD WHISPER – ‘DID YOU EVER KILL ANYONE?’

‘Me kill anyone? Me kill anyone?
’Ondreds!’

William breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Here was romance and adventure incarnate.

‘What do you do now the war’s over?’

Mr Blank closed one eye.

‘That ’ud be tellin’, wudn’t it?’

‘I’ll keep it awfully secret,’ pleaded William. ‘I’ll never tell anyone.’

Mr Blank shook his head.

‘What yer want ter know fer, anyway?’ he said.

William answered eagerly, his eyes alight.

‘’Cause I’d like to do jus’ the same when I grow up.’

Mr Blank flung back his head and emitted guffaw after guffaw of unaffected mirth.

‘Oh ’ell,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘Oh, stroike me pink! That’s good, that is. You wait, young gent, you wait till you’ve growed up and see what yer pa says
to it. Oh ’ell!’

He rose and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

‘Well, I’ll say good day to yer, young gent.’

William looked at him wistfully.

‘I’d like to see you again, Mr Blank, I would, honest. Will you be here this afternoon?’

‘Wot d’yer want to see me agine fer?’ said Mr Blank suspiciously.

‘I
like
you,’ said William fervently. ‘I like the way you talk, and I like the things you say, and I want to know about what you do!’

Mr Blank was obviously flattered.

‘I may be round ’ere agine this arter, though I mike no promise. See? I’ve gotter be careful, I ’ave. I’ve gotter be careful ’oo sees me an’ ’oo
’ears me, and where I go. That’s the worst of ’aving no ears. See?’

William did not see, but he was thrilled to the soul by the mystery.

‘An’ you don’t tell no one you seen me nor nothing abart me,’ went on Mr Blank.

Pulling his cap still farther over his head, Mr Blank set off unsteadily down the road, leaving William to pay for his lemonade with his last penny.

He walked home, his heart set firmly on a lawless career of crime. Opposition he expected from his father and mother and Robert and Ethel, but his determination was fixed. He wondered if it
would be very painful to have his ears cut off.

He entered the dining-room with an air of intense mystery, pulling his cap over his eyes, and looking round in a threatening manner.

‘William, what
do
you mean by coming into the house in your cap? Take it off at once.’

William sighed. He wondered if Mr Blank had a mother.

When he returned he sat down and began quietly to remodel his life. He would not be an explorer, after all, nor an engine driver nor chimney sweep. He would be a man of mystery, a murderer,
fighter, forger. He fingered his ears tentatively. They seemed fixed on jolly fast. He glanced with utter contempt at his father who had just come in. His father’s life of blameless
respectability seemed to him at that minute utterly despicable.

‘The Wilkinsons over at Todfoot have had their house broken into now,’ Mrs Brown was saying. ‘
All
her jewellery gone. They think it’s a gang. It’s just the
villages round here. There seems to be one every day!’

William expressed his surprise.

‘Oh, ’ell!’ he ejaculated, with a slightly self-conscious air.

Mr Brown turned round and looked at his son.

‘May I ask,’ he said politely, ‘where you picked up that expression?’

‘I got it off one of my fren’s,’ said William with quiet pride.

‘Then I’d take it as a personal favour,’ went on Mr Brown, ‘if you’d kindly refrain from airing your friends’ vocabularies in this house.’

‘He means you’re never to say it again, William,’ translated Mrs Brown sternly.
‘Never.’

‘All right,’ said William. ‘I won’t. See? I da—jolly well won’t. Strike me pink. See?’

He departed with an air of scowling mystery and dignity combined, leaving his parents speechless with amazement.

That afternoon he returned to the White Lion. Mr Blank was standing unobtrusively in the shadow of the wall.

‘’Ello, young gent,’ he greeted William, ‘nice dorg you’ve got.’

William looked proudly down at Jumble.

‘You won’t find,’ he said proudly and with some truth, ‘you won’t find another dog like this – not for
miles
!’

‘Will ’e be much good as a watchdog, now?’ asked Mr Blank carelessly.

‘Good?’ said William, almost indignant at the question. ‘There isn’t any sort of dog he isn’t good at!’

‘Umph,’ said Mr Blank, looking at him thoughtfully.

‘Tell me about things you’ve
done
,’ said William earnestly.

‘Yus, I will, too,’ said Mr Blank. ‘But jus’ you tell me first ’oo lives at all these ’ere nice ’ouses an’ all about ’em. See?’

William readily complied, and the strange couple gradually wended their way along the road towards William’s house. William stopped at the gate and considered deeply. He was torn between
instincts of hospitality and a dim suspicion that his family would not afford to Mr Blank the courtesy which is a guest’s due. He looked at Mr Blank’s old green-black cap, long, untidy
hair, dirty, lined, sly old face, muddy clothes and gaping boots, and decided quite finally that his mother would not allow him in her drawing-room.

‘Will you,’ he said tentatively, ‘will you come roun’ an’ see our back garden? If we go behind these ole bushes and keep close along the wall, no one’ll see
us.’

To William’s relief Mr Blank did not seem to resent the suggestion of secrecy. They crept along the wall in silence except for Jumble, who loudly worried Mr Blank’s trailing boot
strings as he walked. They reached a part of the back garden that was not visible from the house and sat down together under a shady tree.

WILLIAM DEPARTED WITH AN AIR OF SCOWLING MYSTERY, LEAVING HIS PARENTS SPEECHLESS WITH AMAZEMENT.

‘P’raps,’ began Mr Blank politely, ‘you could bring a bit o’ tea out to me on the quiet like.’

‘I’ll ask Mother—’ began William.

‘Oh no,’ said Mr Blank modestly. ‘I don’t want ter give no one no trouble. Just a slice o’ bread, if you can find it, without troublin’ no one.
See?’

William had a brilliant idea.

‘Let’s go ’cross to that window an’ get in,’ he said eagerly. ‘That’s the lib’ry and no one uses it ’cept Father, and he’s not in till
later.’

Mr Blank insisted on tying Jumble up, then he swung himself dexterously through the window. William gave a gasp of admiration.

‘You did that fine,’ he said.

Again Mr Blank closed one eye.

‘Not the first time I’ve got in at a winder, young gent, nor the larst, I bet. Not by a long way. See?’

William followed more slowly. His eyes gleamed with pride. This hero of romance and adventure was now his guest, under his roof.

‘Make yourself quite at home, Mr Blank,’ he said with an air of intense politeness.

Mr Blank did. He emptied Mr Brown’s cigar box into his pocket. He drank three glasses of Mr Brown’s whiskey and soda. While William’s back was turned he filled his pockets with
the silver ornaments from the mantelpiece. He began to inspect the drawers in Mr Brown’s desk. Then:

MR BLANK MADE HIMSELF QUITE AT HOME.

‘William! Come to tea!’

‘You stay here,’ whispered William. ‘I’ll bring you some.’

But luck was against him. It was a visitor’s tea in the drawing-room, and Mrs de Vere Carter, a neighbour, there, in all her glory. She rose from her seat with an ecstatic murmur.

‘Willie!
Dear
child!
Sweet
little soul!’

With one arm she crushed the infuriated William against her belt, with the other she caressed his hair. Then William in moody silence sat down in a corner and began to eat bread and butter.
Every time he prepared to slip a piece into his pocket, he found his mother’s or Mrs de Vere Carter’s eyes fixed upon him and hastily began to eat it himself. He sat, miserable and hot,
seeing only the heroic figure starving in the next room, and planned a raid on the larder as soon as he could reasonably depart. Every now and then he scowled across at Mrs de Vere Carter and made
a movement with his hands as though pulling a cap over his eyes. He invested even his eating with an air of dark mystery.

Then Robert, his elder brother, came in, followed by a thin, pale man with eyeglasses and long hair.

‘This is Mr Lewes, Mother,’ said Robert with an air of pride and triumph. ‘He’s editor of
Fiddle Strings
.’

There was an immediate stir and sensation. Robert had often talked of his famous friend. In fact Robert’s family was weary of the sound of his name, but this was the first time Robert had
induced him to leave the haunts of his genius to visit the Brown household.