William in Trouble (7 page)

William had listened to this conversation in silence. William disliked belonging to the majority of the terrorised. He preferred always to belong to the minority of the terror-inspiring, or at
least of the intrepid. He gave a short, scornful laugh.

‘I’m not frightened of him,’ he said with a swagger.

They gazed at him, aghast at this patent untruth.

‘Oh,
aren’t
you?’ said Ginger meaningly.

‘No,
an
’ I’m not,’ retorted William. ‘I wun’t mind sayin’ anythin’ to him, I wun’t. I wun’t mind – I wun’t mind
jus’ tellin’ him what I thought of him any time, I wun’t.’

‘Oh,
wun’t
you?’ said Ginger disagreeably, piqued by this unexpected attitude of William’s. ‘Oh, no,’ sarcastically, ‘you’re not frightened
of him,
you
aren’t.
You
wasn’t frightened of him las’ Tuesday, was you?’

William was momentarily disconcerted by this reference to an occasion when he had incurred the public wrath of the monster for scuffling in prayers, and had been summoned to his study
afterwards. But only momentarily.

‘P’raps you
thought
I was,’ he conceded in a tone of kindly indulgence. ‘I daresay you
thought
I was. I daresay you judge eve’body by yourself
an’
thought
I was.’

‘Well, you
looked
frightened,’ said Henry.

‘An’ you
sounded
frightened,’ said Ginger, and mimicked ‘“Yes, sir . . . No, sir . . . please I didn’t mean to, sir.”’

William looked at them with an air of superior pity.

‘Yes, I daresay you
thought
I was frightened,’ he said, and added darkly, ‘you see you din’t hear what I said to him in his study afterwards. I guess,’ he
added with a short meaning laugh, ‘he’ll leave
me
alone after that.’

The others were dumbfounded by this attitude. For a minute the sheer impudence of it deprived them of the power of speech. Ginger recovered first.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’re jus’ at his house now. All right, if you’re not frightened of him, go in. Jus’ go an’ ring at the door an’ tell
him you’re not frightened of him.’

‘He knows,’ said William simply.

But they were closing him in around the gate, preventing his further progress down the road.

‘Well go in an’ tell him again,’ said Douglas, ‘case he’s forgot.’

William, at bay, looked up at Mr Markson’s house, inappropriately termed The Nest. He wished that he had not made his gesture of defiance in its immediate vicinity. Then a cheering thought
occurred to him.

‘An’ I would, too,’ he said, striking a heroic attitude. ‘An’ I would ’f he was at home. But he’s at school. He’s at school till six o’clock
today.’

‘All right, go an’ walk into his house an’ take somethin’ jus’ to
show
you aren’t frightened of him,’ said Ginger.

‘That’d be stealin’,’ said William piously.

‘You could take it back afterwards,’ said Douglas. ‘You aren’t fright’ned of him, so it’d be all right.’

‘No, I’m not goin’ to,’ said William.

Henry crowed triumphantly.

‘You’re fright’ned of him,’ they jeered.

Suddenly William’s blood was up. When William’s blood was up things happened.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll – I’ll
show
you.’

Without waiting to consider his decision in the calm light of reason he went boldly up to the front door. There his courage began to fail. He knew that no power on earth would nerve his arm to
knock on the ogre’s dreaded front door. But there was a drawing-room to the right of the door. One of the French windows leading from this drawing-room on to the drive was open.

The drawing-room seemed to be empty. Steeling his heart and spurring his flickering courage by the thought of his jeering friends without, William plunged into the room, seized the first thing
he saw, plunged out, and with a beating heart and unsteady knees ran down the drive to join the little crowd of boys gaping through the gate of The Nest.

His panic left him as he neared safety and his swagger returned. He held out his booty on one hand. It was a small and (though William did not know it) very valuable Chinese figure of a god.

‘There!’ he said. ‘I’ve been in his drawing-room and fetched that.’

They gazed at him speechless. William had once again consolidated his position as leader.

‘Sorter pot thing out of his drawin’-room,’ he explained carelessly. ‘D’you think I’m afraid of him
now
?’ he ended with a short derisive
laugh.

Henry found his voice. ‘Well, you’ve gotter put it back now,’ he said, ‘an’ – an’ p’raps that won’t be ’s easy ’s takin’
it.’

‘’F you think it was
easy
takin’ it—’ began William indignantly.

But at that moment a tall figure – ferocious-looking even in the distance – appeared at the end of the lane.

William had been wrong. Mr Markson was not staying at school till six.

By the time Mr Markson reached the gate of The Nest, William and his friends were mere specks on the horizon.

In the safe refuge of his bedroom William took the Chinese figure out of his pocket and looked at it distastefully. He didn’t know how to get the beastly thing back, and
he was sure there’d be a fuss if he didn’t get the beastly thing back, and he wished he’d never taken the beastly thing, and he blamed Douglas and Ginger and Henry for the whole
affair.

If only they’d taken his word that he wasn’t frightened of old Markie, instead of making him go in and get the beastly thing – and ten to one old Markie would catch him as he
was putting it back and – and – and there’d be a
norful
fuss.

He considered the advisability of giving it a temporary hiding place in one of his drawers among his handkerchiefs or shirts or collars, then dismissed the idea. His mother might find it and
demand explanations. On the whole, his pocket was the safest place for the present.

He went downstairs feeling gloomy and disillusioned. All the people one read about in books – Odysseus and Tarzan and the rest of them – could do anything they liked and nothing ever
happened to them, while he couldn’t even say he wasn’t fright’ned of old Markie without getting a beastly little pot thing shoved on to him, that there’d be an awful fuss
about if anyone found out he’d got it.

He wandered downstairs, his mind still occupied with the problem of returning the china image before Mr Markson had discovered its absence. Suppose someone had seen him go in and fetch it and
told old Markie, and old Markie summoned him into his study tomorrow morning after prayers. William turned hot and cold at the thought. That gesture of defiance and courage had been very effective
and enjoyable at the time, but its consequences might be unpleasant.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ inquired Mrs Brown solicitously as William entered the drawing-room.

‘Why?’ said William guiltily, afraid that in some way his appearance betrayed his late escapade.

‘You look so sad,’ said his mother fondly.

William emitted his famous laugh – short and bitter.

‘Huh!’ he ejaculated. ‘I bet
you’d
be sad if—’

He decided on second thoughts not to make any detailed explanation and stopped short.

‘If what, dear?’ said Mrs Brown sympathetically.

‘If you’d got all the troubles what I’ve got,’ said William darkly.

‘Yes, but what sort of troubles, dear?’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Oh, people botherin’ you an’ not b’lievin’ what you say an’ – an’ gettin’ things you don’t want shoved on to you,’ said William
gloomily.

At this point he caught sight of his reflection in a full-length mirror on the wall and was greatly disconcerted to discover that the Chinese figure made a bulge in his pocket that seemed to
call aloud for comment. At any minute his mother might demand to know what it was. He took advantage of her turning to the window to transfer the figure from his pocket to a small table by the wall
just where he stood. He put it well at the back of a lot of other ornaments. Surely no one would notice it there. It could surely stay there quite safely till the coast was clear for taking it
back, anyway.

He heaved a deep sigh and passed a hand over his brow. Life was very wearing – and there’d certainly be a most awful fuss if anyone found out – an’ all Henry’s and
Ginger’s and Douglas’s fault – it ought to be a lesson to them to believe what people said in the future. Anyway – he found great comfort in the thought – he’d
shown
’em.

He joined his mother at the window, scowling gloomily. Suddenly his gloomy scowl changed to a look of rigid horror. Mr Markson was coming along the road with Ethel . . . now they were turning in
at the gate of William’s house. And there on a table in the drawing-room, which presumably they would soon enter, reposed Mr Markson’s Chinese image. William had had many nightmares in
his time but none as bad as this.

Ethel, although William’s sister, was admittedly the prettiest girl for miles around, and Mr Markson, although William’s headmaster, was beneath his mask of ferocity quite a
simple-hearted man, who liked pretty girls and had been much attracted by Ethel when introduced to her the week before.

They entered the room almost immediately, followed by two old ladies who were friends of Mrs Brown. Mr Markson took no notice of William. He knew, of course, that there was a small boy in the
room who might or might not be a pupil at his school, but out of school hours Mr Markson ignored all small boys on principle.

To William suddenly the Chinese image on the little table seemed to dominate the room. It seemed to tower above every other object, not excluding the grandfather clock. It seemed to yell aloud
to its owner: ‘Hi, you! I’m here! I’m here! I’m here! I’m here!’

Instinctively William stepped in front of the table, placing his small but solid person between the now hateful image and its rightful owner. Standing thus, red-faced with apprehension and
determination, he glared fiercely around the room as though daring anyone to attempt to dislodge him. There was a How-Horatius-kept-the-Bridge air about him.

Ethel and Mr Markson and Mrs Brown and one of the old ladies sat at the other end of the room and began to discuss animatedly a forthcoming village pageant. The other old lady drifted across to
William and sat down on a chair near him. She pointed kindly to another chair near her.

‘Sit down, little boy,’ she said, ‘pray don’t stand, though it’s nice to see a little boy so polite nowadays.’

William’s scowl deepened.

‘I’d rather stand, thanks,’ he said.

But the old lady persisted.

‘No, do sit down,’ she said with a pleasant smile. ‘I want to have a nice long talk with you; I’m so fond of little boys. But you must sit down or I shan’t feel
comfortable.’

William was disconcerted for a minute, then he recovered his aplomb.

‘I – I can’t sit down,’ he said mysteriously.

The lady gaped at him, amazed.

‘Why, dear?’ she said sympathetically.

‘I’ve hurt my legs,’ said William with a flash of inspiration. ‘I can’t bend my knees. Not for sitting down. I
gotta
stand.’

He scowled at her more ferociously than ever as he spoke.

‘My poor little boy,’ said the old lady sympathetically. ‘I’m
so
sorry. Do you have to stand up all the time? What do the doctors say?’

‘They say – they say jus’ that,’ said William lamely, ‘that I’ve gotta stand up all the time.’

‘But there’s – hope of your being cured, I suppose, dear?’ said the old lady anxiously.

‘Oh, yes,’ William reassured her.

‘
When
do they say you’ll be all right?’ went on the lady earnestly.

‘Oh, any time after today,’ said William unthinkingly.

‘You can
lie
down, I suppose?’ said the old lady, evidently much distressed by William’s mysterious complaint.

‘Oh yes,’ said William, who by this time had almost convinced himself of the reality of his disease. ‘I can go to bed at night and that sort of thing.’

‘Well, dear, won’t you come and lie down now?’ said the old lady. ‘We’ll go over to the window and you can lie down on the sofa and I’ll sit on the chair
near, and we’ll have a nice little talk. It’s so nice over there in the sunshine.’

William moistened his lips.

‘I – I think I won’t move, thank you,’ said William.

‘But you can walk, dear, can’t you?’

‘Oh, yes, I can walk, but—’ he stopped and gazed around, seeking inspiration from the wallpaper and ceiling.

‘It’s so nice and light over there,’ coaxed the old lady.

Inspiration came again with a flash. William’s face cleared.

‘I’m not s’posed to be in the light,’ he said brightly, ‘because I’ve got bad eyes.’

‘I’VE HURT MY LEGS,’ SAID WILLIAM, WITH A FLASH OF INSPIRATION. ‘I CAN’T BEND MY KNEES.’

The old lady gazed at him weakly.

‘Bad – bad eyes, did you say?’

‘Yes,’ said William pleasantly, relieved to have found another plausible excuse for not relinquishing his post. ‘I can’t stand the light,’ he explained earnestly.
‘I’ve gotta stay in dark places ’cause of my eyes.’