William Again (22 page)

She took up their labels again, and studied them with knitted brows.

‘I’ve come to the definite conclusion,’ she said at last, ‘that it’s a code . . . It’s some kind of message.’

‘But who from?’ said the other.

‘Give me time,’ she answered with dignity. ‘I must decipher the code first.’

They all looked at the twins. George smiled through a thick covering of honey. John smiled through a thick covering of jam. They sat in pools of jam and honey.

‘He’ll make me pay for that,’ said the young man. ‘He’ll say I’m responsible.’

‘You are, dear, legally,’ said the stout one brightly. ‘Now, I’m going to talk to these dear children, and get to the bottom of this. Now, darlings, who’s
William?’

‘Willum’s nice!’ said George.

‘Yes, darling, but what does he do? Who is he?’ ‘Willum sells us!’ said John proudly. ‘He doesn’t sell little boys, surely?’ said the tall lady,
aghast.

George and John nodded their heads.

‘Yiss, he does.’

‘He’s not your father, is he?’

‘Oh, no,’ they chorused. ‘He’s Willum. He sells us.’

‘A kidnapper!’ said the stout lady sharply. ‘That’s it. A kidnapper! We must get to the bottom of this. We must confront the man . . .’

‘I still think,’ said the other dreamily, ‘that it’s a – plant – or a code.’

‘Do you know where William lives?’ asked the stout lady of George.

‘Oh, yiss!’ said George proudly.

‘I will confront this man,’ she said dramatically, ‘and you must support me.’

The young man groaned.

‘It’s all like a nightmare,’ he said. ‘It’ll knock me off work for months.’

‘Couldn’t you use it?’ suggested the stout lady. ‘It would make a most sensational plot . . . the mysterious children . . . the code . . . the—’

‘Thank you,’ said the young man coldly, ‘I don’t go in for sensational plots.’

The procession set out – first, John and the stout lady, then George and the thin lady, then the young man, wearing a set agonised expression.

‘And I came here for quiet and rest,’ he muttered pathetically.

‘Take us to William’s house, darling,’ said the stout lady to John.

‘We ought to have brought some sort of a weapon,’ said her sister grimly.

‘Vivian will protect us,’ said the other bravely.

Vivian groaned again in the gathering dusk.

The twins had led the procession on to the common with every sign of confidence, but now they stopped.

‘Want more
dam,’
said John.

‘Wanner go
home,
’ said George.

‘We’ll just go down this path and see if it leads anywhere,’ said the short lady uncertainly. ‘Vivian will stay with the children.’

They returned in a few minutes.

‘Nothing to be seen – absolutely nothing. It’s most unfortunate. Vivian, where are the children?’

Vivian, who was leaning against a tree, his eyes dreamily fixed on the distance, roused himself.

‘What children? . . . Oh, damn! I’d forgotten them . . . Here, aren’t they? Just messing about . . . they were . . . I’d just got an idea when you disturbed
me.’

‘But the children?’ gasped the stout one, staring wildly round the dim landscape. The young man ran his fingers through his hair. The thin lady gave a little scream.

‘It was all a plot. They’ve led us to a lonely spot, and now someone’s going to murder us.’

‘They’ll be all right,’ said the young man, miserably. ‘Children always are. I’m getting a cold. Let’s go home.’

‘Don’t be foolish,’ said the stout one sternly. ‘I will not move from this spot till I have found the children. If necessary I will search all night and you with
me.’

They began to trudge wearily in single file along the narrow path.

‘Oo, someone’s coming,’ screamed the thin lady. ‘Let us be brave . . . Offer no resistance . . . They’re sure to be desperate . . . Vivian, for my sake, don’t
be rash . . . Don’t kill anyone.’

But it was another little procession that was approaching them, as weary-looking as their own. At the head walked a woman in a tall toque. At the end walked a small boy with freckles and untidy
hair and a dejected expression. They peered into each other’s faces.

‘Have you seen two little boys?’ they all began simultaneously.

‘John,’ said the twins’ mother.

‘George,’ said the stout lady

Then the thin lady and the twins’ mother had hysterics.

It was William who found them in a dry ditch near by They were fast asleep, with blissful smiles upon their mouths, besmeared with jam and honey. They awoke and stared in
amazement at the crowd of friends and relations.

‘Nice William!’ murmured George sleepily.

‘Wanner be a save adain,’ said John. ‘Want more dam!’

CHAPTER 13

WILLIAM’S HELPING HAND

W
illiam was on his way to visit his new friend. He whistled as he went, his lips pursed determinedly, his brows drawn into a scowl of absorption,
his untidy hair standing, like a somewhat unsaintly halo, round his head. When William whistled, he could be heard a long way off. It was an affair of great effort and concentration. It was a sound
before which strong men quailed.

William’s new friend heard the sound long before William had turned the corner that led to his house. He put his hand to his head and groaned.

William’s new friend was Vivian Strange, the distinguished poet and journalist. Vivian Strange had taken a furnished house in the village in order to enjoy the calm and quiet which were so
essential to his literary calling. Instead of calm and quiet he had found William. That is, William had adopted him.

William was attracted to Vivian Strange because, although Vivian Strange belonged to the tyrant race of the ‘grown-ups’ he had never yet told William to wipe his boots or go home at
once or not to speak till he was spoken to. This touched William deeply. He was not used to it. He imagined that it must hide a lasting affection for him on the part of Strange. As a matter of fact
it did no such thing. The attitude of Vivian Strange to William may be compared to that of a timid fawn before a lion, or a rabbit before a snake. He was not used to the human boy He had never
known one before at close quarters. When he gently hinted to William that he must be missed at home, William kindly intimated that they didn’t mind a bit and he could stay a good long time
yet.

Such mild sarcasm as Strange could produce had the same effect on William as water on the back of the proverbial duck. William was not used to hints. William was not used either to houses where
he could sit in the best chairs and talk to his heart’s content and eat cake unrestrained. He made the most of it. He liked Vivian Strange.

And Vivian told himself bitterly every night that his genius was being ruined, his naturally sweet temper embittered, his constitution undermined by a creature less than half his own size whom
he might almost kill with one hand
.
He often dreamed of William. He often recalled hard things he had read or heard about the human boy, and decided that they were all true. Yet, when he met
William’s mother, and William’s mother said, ‘I do hope that William isn’t a nuisance to you,’ he flushed and said hastily, ‘Oh, no, not at all. I like
it.’ And William’s mother went placidly on her way and remarked later to an incredulous family circle, ‘There must be
something
about William for a brilliant literary man
like Mr Strange to take pleasure in his company.’ Thereupon the family raised incredulous eyebrows.

On the previous day William had paid three visits to his new friend. The first visit had nipped in the bud a very promising poem written in an uncommon metre.

William entered playing on his mouth organ a tune that he had learnt (not quite correctly, he admitted) that morning. During the third repetition of the tune, Vivian Strange began to see red,
but his curse of politeness still clung to him.

‘Hadn’t you better let them hear that at home?’ he said desperately.

William wiped his mouth politely.

‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind goin’ on a bit longer. ’Sides my family’s not as fond of musick as wot you are.’

When William had gone, Strange returned to the poem, but inspiration had fled.

After lunch he began a strikingly original essay on ‘Nature the Divine’. Then William called again. This time he proudly brought a live mouse and a dead hedgehog to show his friend.
He also carried (with difficulty) a jar full of muddy water containing squirming water creatures of repellent appearance and sinister expressions.

Vivian Strange pricked his finger on the dead hedgehog and was bitten by the mouse. On retiring precipitately from the mouse he knocked over the jar of water which William had thoughtfully
placed on the edge of his bureau. Holding his bitten finger in his mouth, he watched the water as it dripped partly on the carpet, partly upon a new satin cushion. He also watched his
blotting-paper and pens and stamps and literary masterpieces floating in mud amongst wriggling, nightmare creatures. He raised his hand to his head.

‘This,’ he said, ‘is the last straw.’

William, who was on his knees, rescuing as many of the creatures as he could, raised a face purple with effort.

‘ ’S all right,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Don’t you worry about it. I don’t mind. Honest, I don’t. I can get some more. Honest, I can . . . an’
anyway, some’s not dead. You didn’t reely get a proper look at ’em, did you? I’ll get some more tomorrow an’ you can have ’em to keep. But don’t you worry
about droppin’ ’em. I don’t mind.’

Half an hour later, his face pale and set, Vivian took up his half-written essay, ‘Nature the Divine’. There was a muddy pool through the middle of it, and a tadpole’s corpse
reposed peacefully in one corner. With averted eyes Vivian dropped it into the fire.

As he lay wakeful through the night, he searched in his mind for some form of literature that could resist the blighting effects of his young friend’s frequent and devastating visits. With
a lightning flash of inspiration came the answer – a sensational story. Vivian had never before lowered his genius to writing a sensational story, but he felt that the time had come. Some story
that would carry itself along of its own momentum, that even a visit from William would not be able to turn from its course.

He was deep in the throes of it the next afternoon when the shrill sound of William’s distant whistle reached him.

William entered cheerfully.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You writin’?’

The victim raised his face from his hands.

‘I
was,’
he said pointedly.

‘I thought you was,’ said William. ‘I saw you through the window with your head in your hands, like as if you couldn’t think wot to write nex’. So I knew
you’d be glad to see me.’

As he spoke, his rare smile overspread his freckled face.

The young man was dumb.

‘I used to write a bit myself,’ went on William modestly, ‘an’ often I couldn’t think wot to write nex’. I remember once I wrote an orfully good tale about a
man wot was a pirate an’ he was run after by a dastardly cannibal round an’ round a desert island an’ then the dastardly cannibal caught him an’ was jus’ goin’
to cook him when some frens of the dastardly cannibal came up, an’ while the dastardly cannibal was saying “good afternoon” to them the pirate got up a tree an’ waved his
pocket handkerchief to another pirate wot was on the sea as a sign that he was in deadly danger.’

William stopped. ‘Yes?’ said his unfortunate hearer in a dull voice. William plunged on.

‘An’ the dastardly cannibal sawed down the tree but the other pirate came an’ they escaped an’ the proud an’ beautiful daughter of the dastardly cannibal escaped
with them. She wasn’t dastardly like wot her father was. She didn’t like eatin’ human folks. She didn’t like the taste, so she was glad to get to a country where they
didn’t do it an’ they was married an’ she was the queen of the pirates an’ he was the king of the pirates, an’ she was proud an’ beautiful an’ said
‘Avaunt!’ when anyone tried to cheek her jus’ like a reel queen. Is your tale anything like that?’

‘No,’ groaned Mr Strange.

‘Well,’ said William, comfortably ensconced in an armchair, ‘now I’ve told you my tale, you oughter tell me yours. I say, is there any of that cake left wot you so
kin’ly gave me some of yesterday?’

The young man waved a limp hand towards the sideboard cupboard.

William took a large slice of plum cake and returned to his chair.

‘I always get so’s I mus’ have something to eat about this time, don’t you?’ he said pleasantly. ‘I
can
eat mos’ times but sometimes I feel
so’s I
mus’
eat . . . Well, go on an’ tell me about your tale, now. I’ve told you about mine an’ I’ll help you, you know, about wot to write
nex’.’

‘I don’t want you to,’ said the young man desperately.

‘Oh, it’s no bother,’ said William, kindly. ‘Don’t you think about that. I wanter help you. You gave me big bits of cake today an’ yesterday an’ I
wanter help you an’ I’ve wrote tales myself an’ I know wot it’s like. An’ don’t worry about knockin’ over my water things. I’ve gotter fren
who’s promised to catch some more tomorrow an’ we’ll bring them along soon’s we’ve gottem. That was jolly good cake.’ The young man automatically waved a hand
towards the cupboard again.

‘Thanks. I don’t mind a bit more. It’s
jolly
good cake . . . Now tell me about your tale so’s I can help. Wot’s it about?’

‘It’s – it’s just about a man,’ said Mr Strange feebly.

‘Wot sort of a man?’ said William with his mouth full of cake.

‘Just a man – he’s going home one night—’

‘Goin’ home, where from?’ demanded William.

‘That doesn’t come into the story,’ said the young man irritably. ‘He was just going home.’

‘All right,’ said William soothingly. ‘Only if he was goin’ home he must ’a’ been somewhere, an’ I jus’ wondered where he’d been to be
coming home from.’

‘Well, as he’s coming home he gets a message that a girl – a girl—’ the young man hesitated.

‘The girl wot he’s in love with?’ supplied William earnestly.