Just William (22 page)

‘Ethel, don’t get mad at Mr French. He di’n’t mean anything! He only wanted to do sumthin’ for you ’cause he was mad on you.’

‘It’s
horrible
!’ said Ethel. ‘First you bringing that dreadful animal to church, and then I find that he’s deceived me and you helped him. I hope Father
takes the other one away.’

‘He won’t,’ said William. ‘He never said anything about that. The other’s learnin’ to be friends with Jumble in the shed. I say, Ethel, don’t be mad at
Mr French. He—’

‘Oh, don’t
talk
about him,’ said Ethel angrily.

William, who was something of a philosopher, accepted failure, and the loss of any riches a future allied with Mr French might have brought him.

All right!’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve got the other one left, anyway.’

They entered the drive and began to walk up to the front door. From the bushes came a scampering and breaking of twigs as Jumble dashed out to greet his master. His demeanour held more than
ordinary pleasure: it expressed pride and triumph. At his master’s feet he laid his proud offering — the mangled remains of Cromwell.

William gasped.

‘Oh, William!’ said Ethel. ‘I’m so
sorry.
’

William assumed an expression of proud, restrained sorrow.

All right!’ he said generously. ‘It’s not your fault really An’ it’s not Jumble’s fault. P’r’aps he thought it was what I was tryin’ to
teach him to do. It’s jus’ no one’s fault. We’ll have to bury it.’ His spirits rose. ‘I’ll do the reel buryin’ service out of the prayer
book.’

He stood still gazing down at what was left of Jumble’s friend. Jumble stood by it, proud and pleased, looking up with his head on one side and his tail wagging. Sadly William reviewed the
downfall of his hopes. Gone was Mr French and all he stood for. Gone was Rufus. Gone was Cromwell. He put his hand into his pocket and it came in contact with the two-shilling piece.

‘Well,’ he said slowly and philosophically, ‘I’ve got
that
left, anyway.’

CHAPTER 12

W
illiam’s father carefully placed the bow and arrow at the back of the library cupboard, then closed the cupboard door and locked it in grim
silence. William’s eyes, large, reproachful, and gloomy, followed every movement.

‘Three windows and Mrs Clive’s cat all in one morning,’ began Mr Brown sternly.

‘I didn’t
mean
to hit that cat,’ said William earnestly. ‘I didn’t – honest. I wouldn’t go round teasin’ cats. They get so mad at you, cats
do. It jus’ got in the way. I couldn’t stop shootin’ in time. An’ I didn’t
mean
to break those windows. I wasn’t
tryin’
to hit them.
I’ve not hit anything I was trying to hit yet,’ he said wistfully. ‘I’ve not got into it. It’s jus’ a knack. It jus’ wants practice.’

Mr Brown pocketed the key.

‘It’s a knack you aren’t likely to acquire by practice on this instrument,’ he said drily.

William wandered out into the garden and looked sadly up at the garden wall. But the Little Girl Next Door was away and could offer no sympathy, even if he climbed up to his precarious seat on
the top. Fate was against him in every way. With a deep sigh he went out of the garden gate and strolled down the road disconsolately, hands in pockets.

Life stretched empty and uninviting before him without his bow and arrow. And Ginger would have his bow and arrow, Henry would have his bow and arrow, Douglas would have his bow and arrow. He,
William, alone would be a thing apart, a social outcast, a boy without a bow and arrow; for bows and arrows were the fashion. If only one of the others would break a window or hit a silly old cat
that hadn’t the sense to keep out of the way.

He came to a stile leading into a field and took his seat upon it dejectedly, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. Life was simply not worth living.

‘A rotten old cat!’ he said aloud. A rotten old cat! – and didn’t even hurt it! It – it made a fuss – jus’ out of spite, screamin’ and
carryin’ on! And windows – as if glass wasn’t cheap enough – and easy to put in! I could – I could mend ’em myself – if I’d got the stuff to do it.
I—’ he stopped. Something was coming down the road. It came jauntily with a light, dancing step, fox-terrier ears cocked, retriever-nose raised, collie-tail wagging, slight dachshund
body aquiver with the joy of life.

It stopped in front of William with a glad bark of welcome, then stood eager, alert, friendly, a mongrel unashamed.

‘Rats! Fetch ’em out!’ said William idly.

It gave a little spring and waited, front paws apart and crouching, a waggish eye upraised to William. William broke off a stick from the hedge and threw it. His visitor darted after it with a
shrill bark, took it up, worried it, threw it into the air, caught it, growled at it, finally brought it back to William and waited, panting, eager, unmistakably grinning, begging for more.

William’s drooping spirits revived. He descended from his perch and examined its collar. It bore the one word ‘Jumble’.

‘Hey! Jumble!’ he called, setting off down the road.

Jumble jumped up around him, dashed off, dashed back, worried his boots, jumped up at him again in wild, eager friendship, dashed off again, begged for another stick, caught it, rolled over with
it, growled at it, then chewed it up and laid the remains at William’s feet.

‘Good ole chap!’ said William encouragingly. ‘Good ole Jumble! Come on, then.’

Jumble came on. William walked through the village with a self-conscious air of proud yet careless ownership, while Jumble gambolled round his heels.

Every now and then he would turn his head and whistle imperiously, to recall his straying protege from the investigation of ditches and roadside. It was a whistle, commanding, controlling, yet
withal careless, that William had sometimes practised privately in readiness for the blissful day when Fate should present him with a real live dog of his own. So far Fate, in the persons of his
father and mother, had been proof against all his pleading.

William passed a blissful morning. Jumble swam in the pond, he fetched sticks out of it, he shook himself violently all over William, he ran after a hen, he was chased by a cat, he barked at a
herd of cows, he pulled down a curtain that was hanging out in a cottage garden to dry – he was mischievous, affectionate, humorous, utterly irresistible – and he completely adopted
William. William would turn a corner with a careless swagger and then watch breathlessly to see if the rollicking, frisky little figure would follow, and always it came tearing eagerly after
him.

William was rather late to lunch. His father and mother and elder brother and sister were just beginning the meal. He slipped quietly and unostentatiously into his seat. His father was reading a
newspaper. Mr Brown always took two daily papers, one of which he perused at breakfast and the other at lunch.

‘William,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘I do wish you’d be on time, and I do wish you’d brush your hair before you come to table.’

William raised a hand to perform the operation, but catching sight of its colour, hastily lowered it.

‘No, Ethel dear, I didn’t know anyone had taken Lavender Cottage. An artist? How nice! William dear,
do
sit still. Have they moved in yet?’

‘Yes,’ said Ethel, ‘they’ve taken it furnished for two months, I think. Oh, my goodness, just
look
at William’s hands!’

William put his hands under the table and glared at her.

‘Go and wash your hands, dear,’ said Mrs Brown patiently.

For eleven years she had filled the trying position of William’s mother. It had taught her patience.

William rose reluctantly.

‘They’re not dirty,’ he said in a tone of righteous indignation. ‘Well, anyway, they’ve been dirtier other times and you’ve said nothin’. I can’t
be
always
washin’ them, can I? Some sorts of hands get dirty quicker than others an’ if you keep on washin’ it only makes them worse an’—’

Ethel groaned and William’s father lowered his paper. William withdrew quickly but with an air of dignity.

‘And just
look
at his boots!’ said Ethel as he went. ‘Simply caked; and his stockings are soaking wet – you can see from here. He’s been right
in
the
pond by the look of him and—’

William heard no more. There were moments when he actively disliked Ethel.

He returned a few minutes later, shining with cleanliness, his hair brushed back fiercely off his face.

‘His
nails
,’ murmured Ethel as he sat down.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘go on telling us about the new people. William, do hold your knife properly, dear. Yes, Ethel?’

William finished his meal in silence, then brought forth his momentous announcement.

‘I’ve gotter dog,’ he said with an air of importance.

‘What sort of a dog?’ and ‘Who gave it to you?’ said Robert and Ethel simultaneously.

‘No one gave it me,’ he said. ‘I jus’ got it. It began following me this morning an’ I couldn’t get rid of it. It wouldn’t go, anyway. It followed me
all round the village an’ it came home with me. I couldn’t get rid of it, anyhow.’

‘Where is it now?’ said Mrs Brown anxiously.

‘In the back garden.’

Mr Brown folded up his paper.

‘Digging up my flower beds, I suppose,’ he said with despairing resignation.

‘He’s tied up all right,’ William reassured him. ‘I tied him to the tree in the middle of the rose bed.’

‘The rose bed!’ groaned his father. ‘Good Lord!’

‘Has he had anything to eat?’ demanded Robert sternly.

‘Yes,’ said William, avoiding his mother’s eye. ‘I found a few bits of old things for him in the larder.’

William’s father took out his watch and rose from the table.

‘Well, you’d better take it to the Police Station this afternoon,’ he said shortly.

‘The Police Station!’ repeated William hoarsely. ‘It’s not a
lost
dog. It – it jus’ doesn’t belong to anyone, at least it didn’t. Poor
thing,’ he said feelingly. ‘It – it doesn’t want
much
to make it happy. It can sleep in my room an’ jus’ eat scraps.’

Mr Brown went out without answering.

‘You’ll have to take it, you know, William,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘so be quick. You know where the Police Station is, don’t you? Shall I come with you?’

‘No, thank you,’ said William hastily.

A few minutes later he was walking down to the Police Station followed by the still eager Jumble, who trotted along, unconscious of his doom.

Upon William’s face was a set, stern expression which cleared slightly as he neared the Police Station. He stood at the gate and looked at Jumble. Jumble placed his front paws ready for a
game and wagged his tail.

‘Well,’ said William, ‘here you are. Here’s the Police Station.’

Jumble gave a shrill bark. ‘Hurry up with that stick or that race, whichever you like,’ he seemed to say.

‘Well, go in,’ said William, nodding his head in the direction of the door.

Jumble began to worry a big stone in the road. He rolled it along with his paws, then ran after it with fierce growls.

‘Well, it’s the Police Station,’ said William. ‘Go in if you want.’

With that he turned on his heel and walked home, without one backward glance. But he walked slowly, with many encouraging ‘Hey! Jumbles’ and many short commanding whistles. And
Jumble trotted happily at his heels. There was no one in the garden, there was no one in the hall, there was no one on the stairs. Fate was for once on William’s side.

William appeared at the tea table well washed and brushed, wearing that air of ostentatious virtue that those who knew him best connected with his most daring coups.

‘Did you take that dog to the Police Station, William?’ said William’s father.

William coughed.

‘Yes, Father,’ he said meekly with his eyes upon his plate.

‘What did they say about it?’

‘Nothing, Father.’

‘I suppose I’d better spend the evening replanting those rose trees,’ went on his father bitterly.

‘And William gave him a
whole
steak and kidney pie,’ murmured Mrs Brown. ‘Cook will have to make another for tomorrow.’