More William (9 page)

Several people came to tea that afternoon, and there was a sudden silence when Mrs Clive, Joan and Cuthbert entered. Cuthbert was in a white silk tunic embroidered with blue, he wore white shoes
and white silk socks. His golden curls shone. He looked angelic.

‘Oh, the darling!’

‘Isn’t he adorable?’

‘What a
picture
!’

‘Come here, sweetheart.’

Cuthbert was quite used to this sort of thing.

They were more delighted than ever with him when they discovered his lisp.

His manners were perfect. He raised his face, with a charming smile, to be kissed, then sat down on the sofa between Joan and Mrs Clive, swinging long bare legs.

William, sitting, an unwilling victim, on a small chair in a corner of the room, brushed and washed till he shone again, was conscious of a feeling of fury quite apart from the usual sense of
outrage that he always felt upon such an occasion. It was bad enough to be washed till the soap went into his eyes and down his ears despite all his protests. It was bad enough to have had his hair
brushed till his head smarted. It was bad enough to be hustled out of his comfortable jersey into his Eton suit which he loathed. But to see Joan,
his
Joan, sitting next to the strange,
dressed-up, lisping boy, smiling and talking to him, that was almost more than he could bear with calmness. Previously, as has been said, he had received Joan’s adoration with coldness, but
previously there had been no rival.

‘William,’ said his mother, ‘take Joan and Cuthbert and show them your engine and books and things. Remember you’re the
host
, dear,’ she murmured as he
passed. ‘Try to make them happy.’

He turned upon her a glance that would have made a stronger woman quail.

Silently he led them up to his play room.

‘There’s my engine, an’ my books. You can play with them,’ he said coldly to Cuthbert. ‘Let’s go and play in the garden, you and me, Joan.’

But Joan shook her head.

‘I don’t thuppoth the’d care to go out without me,’ said Cuthbert airily. ‘
I’ll
go with you. Thith boy can play here if he liketh.’

And William, artist in vituperation as he was, could think of no response.

He followed them into the garden, and there came upon him a wild determination to show his superiority.

‘You can’t climb that tree,’ he began.

‘I can,’ said Cuthbert sweetly.

‘Well,
climb
it then,’ he said grimly.

‘No, I don’t want to get my thingth all methed. I
can
climb, but you can’t. He can’t climb it, Joan, he’th trying to pretend he can climb it when he
can’t. He knowth I can climb it, but I don’t want to get my thingth methed.’

Joan smiled admiringly at Cuthbert.

‘I’ll
show
you,’ said William desperately. ‘I’ll just
show
you.’

He showed them.

He climbed till the treetop swayed with his weight, then descended, hot and triumphant. The tree was covered with green lichen, a great part of which had deposited itself upon William’s
suit. His efforts had also twisted his collar round till its stud was beneath his ear. His heated countenance beamed with pride.

For a moment Cuthbert was nonplussed. Then he said scornfully:

‘Don’t he look a
fright
, Joan?’

Joan giggled.

But William was wholly engrossed in his self-imposed task of ‘showing them’. He led them to the bottom of the garden, where a small stream (now almost dry) disappeared into a narrow
tunnel to flow under the road and reappear in the field at the other side.

‘You can’t crawl through that,’ challenged William, ‘You can’t
do
it. I’ve
done
it, done it often. I bet
you
can’t. I bet you
can’t get halfway. I—’

‘Well,
do
it, then!’ jeered Cuthbert.

William, on all fours, disappeared into the mud and slime of the small round aperture. Joan clasped her hands, and even Cuthbert was secretly impressed. They stood in silence. At intervals
William’s muffled voice came from the tunnel.

‘It’s jolly muddy, too, I can
tell
you.’

‘I’ve caught a frog! I say, I’ve caught a frog!’

‘Crumbs! It’s got away!’

‘It’s nearly quicksands here.’

‘If I tried I could nearly
drown
here!’

At last, through the hedge, they saw him emerge in the field across the road. He swaggered across to them aglow with his own heroism. As he entered the gate he was rewarded by the old light of
adoration in Joan’s blue eyes, but on full sight of him it quickly turned to consternation. His appearance was beyond description. There was a malicious smile on Cuthbert’s face.

‘Do thumthing elth,’ he urged him. ‘Go on, do thumthing elth.’

‘Oh, William,’ said Joan anxiously, ‘You’d better not.’

But the gods had sent madness to William. He was drunk with the sense of his own prowess. He was regardless of consequences.

He pointed to a little window high up in the coalhouse.

‘I can climb up that an’ slide down the coal inside. That’s what I can do. There’s
nothin’
I can’t do. I—’

‘All right,’ urged Cuthbert, ‘If you can do that, do it, and I’ll believe you can do anything.’

For Cuthbert, with unholy glee, foresaw William’s undoing.

‘Oh, William,’ pleaded Joan, ‘I
know
you’re brave, but don’t—’

‘I CAN CLIMB UP THAT AN’ SLIDE DOWN THE COAL INSIDE. THAT’S WHAT I CAN DO. THERE’S NOTHIN’ I CAN’T DO!’ SAID WILLIAM.

But William was already doing it. They saw his disappearance into the little window, they heard plainly his descent down the coal heap inside, and in less than a minute he appeared in the
doorway. He was almost unrecognisable. Coal dust adhered freely to the moist consistency of the mud and lichen already clinging to his suit, as well as to his hair and face. His collar had been
almost torn away from its stud. William himself was smiling proudly, utterly unconscious of his appearance. Joan was plainly wavering between horror and admiration. Then the moment for which
Cuthbert had longed arrived.

‘Children! Come in now!’

Cuthbert, clean and dainty, entered the drawing-room first and pointed an accusing finger at the strange figure which followed.

‘He’th been climbing treeth an’ crawling in the mud, an’ rolling down the coalth. He’th a nathty rough boy’

A wild babel arose as William entered.

‘
William!
’

‘You
dreadful
boy!’

‘Joan, come right away from him. Come over here.’

‘What
will
your father say?’

‘William, my
carpet!
’

For the greater part of the stream’s bed still clung to William’s boots.

Doggedly William defended himself.

‘I was showin’ ‘em how to do things. I was bein’ a host. I was tryin’ to make ’em
happy!
I—’

‘William, don’t stand there talking. Go straight upstairs to the bathroom.’

It was the end of the first battle, and undoubtedly William had lost. Yet William had caught sight of the smile on Cuthbert’s face and William had decided that the smile was something to
be avenged.

But fate did not favour him. Indeed, fate seemed to do the reverse.

The idea of a children’s play did not emanate from William’s mother, or Joan’s. They were both free from guilt in that respect. It emanated from Mrs de Vere Carter. Mrs de Vere
Carter was a neighbour with a genius for organisation. There were few things she did not organise till their every other aspect or aim was lost but that of ‘organisation’. She also had
what amounted practically to a disease for ‘getting up’ things. She ‘got up’ plays, and bazaars, and pageants, and concerts. There were, in fact, few things she did not
‘get up’. It was the sight of Joan and Cuthbert walking together down the road, the sun shining on their golden curls, that had inspired her with the idea of ‘getting up’ a
children’s play. And Joan must be the Princess and little Cuthbert the Prince.

Mrs de Vere Carter was to write the play herself. At first she decided on Cinderella. Unfortunately there was a dearth of little girls in the neighbourhood, and therefore it was decided at a
meeting composed of Mrs de Vere Carter, Mrs Clive, Mrs Brown (William’s mother), and Ethel (William’s sister), that William could easily be dressed up to represent one of the ugly
sisters. It was, however, decided at a later meeting, consisting of William and his mother and sister, that William could not take the part. It was William who came to this decision. He was adamant
against both threats and entreaties. Without cherishing any delusions about his personal appearance, he firmly declined to play the part of the ugly sister. They took the news with deep apologies
to Mrs de Vere Carter, who was already in the middle of the first act. Her already low opinion of William sank to zero. Their next choice was Little Red Riding Hood, and William was lured, by
glowing pictures of a realistic costume, into consenting to take the part of the Wolf. Every day he had to be dragged by some elder and responsible member of his family to a rehearsal. His hatred
of Cuthbert was only equalled by his hatred of Mrs de Vere Carter.

‘He acts so
unnaturally
,’ moaned Mrs de Vere Carter. ‘Try really to
think
you’re a wolf, darling. Put some spirit into it. Be –
animated
.’

William scowled at her and once more muttered monotonously his opening lines:

‘Take a breath after “bent”, darling. Now say it again.’

William complied, introducing this time a loud and audible gasp to represent the breath. Mrs de Vere Carter sighed.

‘Now, Cuthbert, darling, draw your little sword and put your arm round Joan. That’s right.’

Cuthbert obeyed, and his clear voice rose in a high chanting monotone:

‘That’s beautiful, darling. Now, William, slink away.
Slink
away, darling. Don’t stand staring at Cuthbert like that. Slink away. I’ll show you.
Watch me slink away.’

Mrs de Vere Carter slunk away realistically, and the sight of it brought momentary delight to William’s weary soul. Otherwise the rehearsals were not far removed from torture to him. The
thought of being a wolf had at first attracted him, but actually a wolf character who had to repeat Mrs de Vere Carter’s meaningless couplets and be worsted at every turn by the smiling
Cuthbert, who was forced to watch from behind the scenes the fond embraces of Cuthbert and Joan, galled his proud spirit unspeakably. Moreover, Cuthbert monopolised her both before and after the
rehearsals.

‘Come away, Joan, he’th prob’bly all over coal dutht and all of a meth.’

The continued presence of unsympathetic elders prevented his proper avenging of such insults.

The day of the performance approached, and there arose some little trouble about William’s costume. If the wearing of the dining-room hearthrug had been forbidden by Authority it would
have at once become the dearest wish of William’s heart and a thing to be accomplished at all costs. But, because Authority decreed that that should be William’s official costume as the
Wolf, William at once began to find insuperable difficulties.

‘It’s a dirty ole thing, all dust and bits of black hair come off it on me. I don’t think it
looks
like a wolf. Well, if I’ve gotter be a wolf folks might just as
well
know
what I am. This looks like as if it came off a black sheep or sumthin’. You don’t want folks to think I‘m a
sheep
’stead of a
wolf
, do you?
You don’t want me to be made look ridiclus before all these folks, do you?’

He was slightly mollified by their promise to hire a wolf’s head for him. He practised wolf’s howlings (though these had no part in Mrs de Vere Carter’s play) at night in his
room till he drove his family almost beyond the bounds of sanity.

Mrs de Vere Carter had hired the Village Hall for the performance, and the proceeds were to go to a local charity.

On the night of the play the Hall was packed, and Mrs de Vere Carter was in a flutter of excitement and importance.

‘Yes, the dear children are splendid, and they look
beautiful
! We’ve all worked so
hard.
Yes, entirely my own composition. I only hope that William Brown won’t
murder
my poetry as he does at rehearsals.’

The curtain went up.

The scene was a wood, as was evident from a few small branches of trees placed here and there at intervals on the stage.

Joan, in a white dress and red cloak, entered and began to speak, quickly and breathlessly, stressing every word with impartial regularity