Still William (17 page)

Yours with love,

E
THEL
B
ROWN
(soon I hope to be March).

The reference to William had been the subject of much discussion, but William had overborne Joan’s objections.

‘I reely only want it put because it makes it seem more nat’ral. It’s only nat’ral she should want him to be kind to her brother. I mean, not knowin’ Ethel as well
as I do, he’ll
think
it nat’ral.’

The stage managing of the actual encounter was the most difficult part of all. Ethel’s reception of her swain’s supposed compliments had not been such as to make William feel that a
request to meet him at Fisher’s Lock would be favourably received. He was feeling a little doubtful about the working of Joan’s love charm in the case of Ethel, but with his usual
optimism he was hoping for the best.

‘Ethel,’ he said at lunch, ‘Gladys Barker wants to see you this afternoon. I met her this morning.’

‘Did she say any time?’ said Ethel.

‘Soon after three,’ said William.

‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me sooner?’ said Ethel.

The road to Gladys Barker’s house lay by the river past Fisher’s Lock.

‘ ’S not tellin’ a story,’ William informed his conscience. ‘I did meet her this mornin’ an’ I don’ know that she doesn’t want to see Ethel
this afternoon. She prob’ly does.’

About quarter to three William came in from the garden carefully holding a rose. He wore his most inscrutable expression.

‘I thought you might like to wear this, Ethel,’ he said. ‘It goes nice with your dress.’

Ethel was touched.

‘Thank you, William,’ she said.

She watched him as he returned to the garden, humming discordantly.

She wondered if sometimes she misjudged William . . .

It was ten minutes past three. On the path by the river near Fisher’s Lock stood Mr March with a red carnation in his buttonhole. Concealed in a tree just above his head
were Ginger, Douglas, William and Joan.

Down the path by the river came Ethel wearing her red rose.

Mr March started forward.

‘Well, little girl?’ he said with roguish tenderness.

Ethel stopped suddenly and stared at him in amazement.

‘Ah!’ said Mr March, shaking a fat finger at her. ‘The time has come to drop the mask of haughtiness. I know all now, you know, from your own sweet lips, I mean your own sweet
pen . . . I know how your little heart beats at the thought of your George. I know who is your ideal . . . your beloved knight . . . your all those sweet things you wrote to me. Now, don’t be
frightened, little girl. I return your affection, but not Monday afternoon! I don’t think we can manage it quite as soon as that.’

‘Mr March,’ said Ethel, ‘are you ill?’

‘Ill, my little precious?’ ogled Mr March. ‘No, well, my little popsie! Your dear loving letters have made me well. I was so touched by them, little Ethelkins! . . . You
thinking me so handsome and clever and, you know, I admire you too.’ He touched the red rose she was wearing playfully. ‘The gage of your love, eh?’

‘Mr March,’ said Ethel angrily, ‘you must be mad. I’ve never written to you in my life.’

‘Ah,’ he replied, ‘do not deny the fond impeachment.’ He took a bundle of typewritten letters out of his pocket and handed them to her. ‘You have seen these
before.’

‘NOW, DON’T BE FRIGHTENED, LITTLE GIRL,’ SAID MR MARCH. ‘I KNOW HOW YOUR LITTLE HEART BEATS AT THE THOUGHT OF YOUR GEORGE.’
‘MR MARCH!’ EXCLAIMED ETHEL, ‘ARE YOU ILL?’

She took them and read them slowly one by one.

‘I’ve never heard such rubbish,’ she said at last. ‘I’ve never seen the idiotic things before. You must be crazy.’

Mr March’s mouth fell open.

‘You – didn’t write them?’ he said incredulously.

‘Of course not!’ snapped Ethel. ‘How could you be such a fool as to think I did?’

He considered for a minute, then his expression of bewilderment gave place again to the roguish smile.

‘Ah, naughty!’ he said. ‘She’s being very coy! I know better! I know—’

He took her hand. Ethel snatched it back and pushed him away angrily. He was standing on the very edge of the river and at the push he swayed for a second, clutching wildly at the air, then fell
with a loud splash into the stream.

‘Oh, I say, Ethel,’ expostulated William from his leafy hiding place. ‘Don’t carry on like that . . . drownin’ him after all the trouble we’ve took with him!
He’s gotter lot of money an’ a nice garden an’ a big house. Anyone’d think you’d want to marry him ’stead of carryin’ on like that!’

At the first sound of his voice, Ethel had gazed round open-mouthed, then she looked up into the tree and saw William.

‘You
hateful
boy!’ she cried. ‘I’m going straight home to tell Father!’

She turned on her heel and went off without looking back.

Meanwhile Mr March was scrambling up the bank, spitting out water and river weeds and (fortunately) inarticulate expletives.

‘I’ll have damages off someone for this!’ he said as he emerged on to the bank. ‘I’ll make someone pay for this! I’ll have the law on them! I’ll . .
.’

He went off dripping and muttering and shaking his fist vaguely in all directions . . .

Slowly the Outlaws climbed down from their tree.

‘Well, you’ve made a nice mess of everything!’ said Ginger dispassionately.

‘I’ve took a lot of trouble trying to get her married,’ said William, ‘and this is how she pays me! Well, she needn’t blame me.’ He looked at the indignant
figure of his pretty nineteen-year-old sister which was still visible in the distance and added gloomily: ‘She’s turnin’ out an old maid an’ it’s not my fault.
I’ve done my best. Seems to me she’s goin’ to go on livin’ in our house all her life till she dies, an’ that’s a nice look out for me, isn’t it? Seems to
me that if she won’t even get married when you practically fix it all up for her an’ save her all the trouble like this, she won’t
ever
marry an’ she needn’t
blame me ’cause she’s an old maid. I’ve done everythin’ I can. An’ you,’ he transferred his stern eye to Joan. ‘Why don’ you read books with a bit of
sense
in them? This Shake man simply doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about. It’s a good thing for him he
is
dead, gettin’ us all into a mess like
this!’

‘What are you goin’ to do now?’ said Douglas with interest.

‘I’m goin’ fishin’,’ said William, ‘an’ I don’ care if I don’t get home till bedtime.’

It was a week later. The excitement and altercations and retaliations and dealing out of justice which had followed William’s abortive attempt to marry Ethel were
over.

Ethel had gone into the morning-room for a book. The Outlaws were playing in the garden outside. Their strong young voices floated in through the open window.

‘Now let’s have a change,’ William was saying. ‘Ginger be Mr March an’ Joan be Ethel . . . Now, begin . . . go on . . . Joan, come on . . . walkin’ kind of
silly like Ethel . . . an’ Ginger go to meet her with a soft look on your face . . . That’s it . . . now, start!’

‘Well, little girl?’ said Ginger in a shrill affected voice. ‘I know how your little heart beats at me. I know I am your knight an’ all that.’

‘You’ve left a lot out,’ said William. ‘You’ve left out where he said he wouldn’t marry her on Monday. Now you go on, Joan.’

‘Mr March,’ squeaked Joan in piercing hauteur, ‘are you mad?’

‘No,’ corrected William. ‘“ Are you feelin’ ill?” comes first. Let’s start again an’ get it all right . . . ’

Ethel flounced out of the room and slammed the door. She found her mother in the dining-room darning socks.

‘Mother,’ she said, ‘can’t we
do
anything about William? Can’t we send him to an orphanage or anything?’

‘No, darling,’ said Mrs Brown calmly. ‘You see, for one thing, he isn’t an orphan.’

‘But he’s so
awful
!’ said Ethel. ‘He’s so unspeakably dreadful!’

‘Oh, no, Ethel,’ said Mrs Brown still darning placidly. ‘Don’t say things like that about your little brother. I sometimes think that when William’s just had his
hair cut and got a new suit on, he looks quite sweet!’

CHAPTER 9

W
illiam went to church with his family every Sunday morning but he did not usually listen to the sermon. He considered it a waste of time. He
sometimes enjoyed singing the psalms and hymns. Any stone-deaf person could have told when William was singing the psalms and hymns by the expressions of pain on the faces of those around him.
William’s singing was loud and discordant. It completely drowned the organ and the choir. Miss Barney, who stood just in front of him, said that it always gave her a headache for the rest of
the week. William contested with some indignation that he had as good a right to sing in church as anyone. Besides, there was nothing wrong with his voice . . . It was just like everyone
else’s . . .

During the Vicar’s sermon, William either stared at the curate (William always scored in this game because the curate invariably began to grow pink and look embarrassed after about five
minutes of William’s stare) or held a face-pulling competition with the red-haired choir boy or amused himself with insects, conveyed to church in a matchbox in his pocket, till restrained by
the united glares of his father and mother and Ethel and Robert . . .

But this Sunday, attracted by the frequent repetition of the word ‘Christmas’, William put his stag beetle back into its box and gave his whole attention to the Vicar’s
exhortation . . .

‘What is it that poisons our whole social life?’ said the Vicar earnestly. ‘What is it that spoils even the holy season that lies before us? It is deceit. It is untruthfulness.
Let each one of us decide here and now for this season of Christmas at least, to cast aside all deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another . . . It will be the first step to a holier
life. It will make this Christmas the happiest of our lives . . . ’

William’s attention was drawn from the exhortation by the discovery that he had not quite closed the matchbox and the stag beetle was crawling up Ethel’s coat. Fortunately Ethel was
busily engaged in taking in all the details of Marion Hatherly’s new dress across the aisle and did not notice. William recaptured his pet and shut up the matchbox . . . then rose to join
lustily and inharmoniously in the first verse of ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’. During the other verses he employed himself by trying a perfectly new grimace (which he had been
practising all week) on the choir boy. It was intercepted by the curate who shuddered and looked away hastily. The sight and sound of William in the second row from the front completely spoilt the
service for the curate every Sunday. He was an aesthetic young man and William’s appearance and personality hurt his sense of beauty . . .

But the words of the sermon had made a deep impression on William. He decided for this holy season at least to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and speak the truth one with another . . . William
had not been entirely without aspiration to a higher life before this. He had once decided to be self-sacrificing for a whole day and his efforts had been totally unappreciated and misunderstood.
He had once tried to reform others and the result had been even more disastrous. But he’d never made a real effort to cast aside deceit and hypocrisy and to speak the truth one with another.
He decided to try it at Christmas as the Vicar had suggested.

Much to his disgust William heard that Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma had asked his family to stay with them for Christmas. He gathered that the only drawback to the arrangement in the eyes of
his family was himself, and the probable effect of his personality on the peaceful household of Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma. He was not at all offended. He was quite used to this view of
himself.

‘All right!’ he said obligingly. ‘You jus’ go. I don’ mind. I’ll stay at home .
.
. you jus’ leave me money an’ my presents an’ I
won’t mind a bit.’

William’s spirits in fact soared sky-high at the prospect of such an oasis of freedom in the desert of parental interference. But his family betrayed again that strange disinclination to
leave William to his own devices that hampered so many of William’s activities.

‘No, William,’ said his mother, ‘we certainly can’t do that. You’ll have to come with us but I do hope you’ll be good.’

William remembered the sermon and his good resolution.

‘Well,’ he said cryptically, ‘I guess ’f you knew what I was goin’ to be like at Christmas you’d almost
want
me to come.’

It happened that William’s father was summoned on Christmas Eve to the sickbed of one of his aunts and so could not accompany them, but they set off under Robert’s
leadership and arrived safely.

Uncle Frederick and Aunt Emma were very stout and good-natured-looking, but Uncle Frederick was the stouter and more good-natured-looking of the two. They had not seen William since he was a
baby. That explained the fact of their having invited William and his family to spend Christmas with them. They lived too far away to have heard even rumours of the horror with which William
inspired the grown-up world around him. They greeted William kindly.