William Carries On Read online

  Other Books In The Series

  Just - William

  More William

  William Again

  William - The Fourth

  Still - William

  William - The Conqueror

  William - The Outlaw

  William - In Trouble

  William - The Good

  William

  William - The Bad

  William’s Happy Days

  William’s Crowded Hours

  William - The Pirate

  William - The Rebel

  William - The Gangster

  William - The Detective

  Sweet William

  William - The Showman

  William - The Dictator

  William and Air Raid Precautions

  William and the Evacuees

  William Does His Bit

  William Carries On

  William and the Brains Trust

  Just William’s Luck

  William - The Bold

  William and the Tramp

  William and the Moon Rocket

  William and the Space Animal

  William’s Television Show

  William - The Explorer

  William’s Treasure Trove

  William and the Witch

  William and the Pop Singers

  William and the Masked Ranger

  William the Superman

  William the Lawless

  Just - William a facsimile of the first (1922) edition

  Just William - As Seen on TV

  William at War

  Just William at Christmas

  Just William on Holiday

  Just William at School

  Just William - and Other Animals

  William Carries On

  Richmal Crompton

  Illustrated by Thomas Henry

  MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  Copyright

  First published 1939

  This edition first published 1987 by

  Macmillan Children’s Books

  Reprinted 2001 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  A division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  25 Eccleston Place, London SW1W 9NF

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  www.macmillan.com

  Associated companies throughout the world

  ISBN 0 333 46671 3

  Text copyright © Richmal C. Ashbee

  Illustrations copyright © Thomas Henry Fisher Estate

  The right of Richmal Crompton to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or

  transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written

  permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized

  act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  3 5 7 9 8 6 4

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library.

  Phototypeset by Intype London Ltd

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Mackays of Chatham pic, Kent

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 – Too Many Cooks

  Chapter 2 – William and the Bomb

  Chapter 3 – William’s Midsummer Eve

  Chapter 4 – Joan to the Rescue

  Chapter 5 – Reluctant Heroes

  Chapter 6 – Guy Fawkes—with Variations

  Chapter 7 – William Works for Peace

  Chapter 8 – William Spends a Busy Morning

  Chapter 9 – A Present for a Little Girl

  Chapter 10 – Hubert’s Party

  Credits and Information

  Chapter 1 – Too Many Cooks

  “There’s some new people in Honeysuckle Cottage,” said Ginger.

  “There’s always new people in Honeysuckle Cottage,” retorted William.

  The war had brought to the village a new and shifting population of evacuees, both official and unofficial. At first the Outlaws had been deeply interested in them, but by now they had become so much accustomed to them that they hardly noticed the changes. Few of the newcomers remained long. They either went on to stay with relatives still further out of the danger zone or, bored by the apparent lack of incident characteristic of English village life, returned to London.

  But, as time elapsed, the new tenant of Honeysuckle Cottage began to interest the Outlaws deeply. She was a small, vague, rather shy woman who always seemed in a hurry and yet always seemed to have time for a little chat with them. She showed an interest in their concerns that was as unusual in a grown-up as it was flattering. She was interested in Red Indians and tracking and wood-craft and marbles and kites and trains and aeroplanes and bows and arrows and damming streams and climbing trees and making fires. She invited the Outlaws to tea and regaled them with a meal of such pre-war deliciousness that they could hardly realise it was not a dream. It was then that she revealed the nature of the activities that occupied so much of her time.

  “You see,” she explained, “cookery’s my job. I write about it in magazines, and I’ve had several books published on it. Of course,” she sighed, “war-time cookery’s a great problem, but,” she brightened, “it’s always fun to have a problem to tackle isn’t it?”

  At tea they met her secretary, Miss Griffin, who was as small and vague as her employer.

  “Miss Griffin’s business-like,” said Mrs. Fountain in a tone of awe and admiration, “and she types beautifully. By the way, I’m going to try some war-time sweets to-morrow. If you’d like to come round after tea and sample them . . .”

  The Outlaws assuredly would like to. They sampled them to the last crumb. Mrs. Fountain watched them anxiously.

  “I do hope they’re all right,” she said with a question in her voice.

  There was no question in the voices of the Outlaws as they assured her that they were most emphatically all right.

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said gratefully.

  “Then I’ll get the recipes typed out to-night, shall I?” said Miss Griffin.

  Mrs. Fountain took such an interest in the Outlaws’ concerns that the Outlaws couldn’t help taking an interest in hers. They knew the titles of the books she had written and the titles of the books she hoped to write; they knew the names of the magazines she contributed to and the names of the magazines she hoped to contribute to; they knew the recipes she had invented and the recipes she hoped to invent . . . They had fallen into the habit of calling at Honeysuckle Cottage every day about tea-time and she always had some special delicacy, which she presented to them with the air of one asking, not conferring, a favour.

  “I’m so glad you like it,” she would say gratefully, and Miss Griffin, who always watched them as anxiously as her employer, would brighten and say: “I’ll type out the recipe to-night, shall I?”

  One afternoon the Outlaws arrived to find both Mrs. Fountain and her secretary in a state of suppressed excitement.

  “He’s coming to lunch on Tuesday,” they said.

  “Who?” demanded William.

&nbs
p; “Mr. Devizes, the editor of Woman’s Mirror,” said Mrs. Fountain reverently. “I’ve been trying to get that Cookery Page for years. He says that he’s coming to discuss the matter, but, of course, everything will depend on the lunch. Oh”—a far-away look came into her eyes—“how I wish I could get some lemons!”

  “Can’t you buy some?” asked William simply.

  “My dear boy, there aren’t any. Or, if there are, they’re hidden.”

  “Hidden?”

  Her small vague face took on an unaccustomed look of severity.

  “Hoarded,” she explained. “It’s criminal, of course, and people can get put in prison for it, but they still do it. Oh, if only I had some lemons, I could cook a marvellous lunch!”

  “What are you goin’ to have for lunch?” asked William.

  “Soup, first.”

  “You can’t put lemons in soup, can you?” said William.

  Mrs. Fountain sighed.

  “I think I could if only I had them! But it’s a lemon pudding I really want them for. I have a wonderful recipe for a lemon pudding. I think I’ll have to make an apple pudding, but, of course, one really wants lemons even for that.”

  She seemed so preoccupied by the thought of the lunch, so harassed by the absence of lemons, that the Outlaws took their departure earlier than usual.

  William walked home thoughtfully. Thoughtfully he entered the morning-room, where his mother sat darning socks.

  “Mother,” he began, “have you any —”

  “For heaven’s sake, William,” said Mrs. Brown, “take that great stick out of the room. I’m sick and tired of picking up the sticks you leave all over the place. I can’t think why you bring them in at all.”

  “What stick?” said William, surprised, then: “Oh, that!”

  Whenever William went out, he secured a stick from wood or hedgerow in order to wave it about or slash at hedges with it or make lunges at imaginary enemies or use it as jumping pole or walking stick, according to its length. He did this so automatically and took the process so much as a matter of course that he was always genuinely surprised when the presence of these appendages was pointed out to him.

  “Oh, that!” he said, looking down at the stout ash stick that he had laid down negligently across the settee.

  “Take it into the hall if you must have it.”

  “Yes, I mus’ have it,” said William firmly. “It’s a jolly fine stick.”

  He took it into the hall and returned to the morning- room.

  “Mother,” he began again, “have you any—”

  Again Mrs. Brown interrupted him.

  “Take your coat and muffler off if you’ve come home for tea, William.”

  “A’right,” agreed William pacifically. “Mother, have you any—”

  “William!” said Mrs. Brown. “Don’t just throw them on the floor. Take them into the hall and hang them on the hat-stand.”

  “Sorry,” said William, gathering coat and muffler up from the floor. “I wasn’t thinkin’. I’ve got a lot to think of jus’ now.”

  He went into the hall, hung up his coat and muffler and returned to the morning-room. Seeing questions about face-washing and hair-brushing already trembling on his mother’s lips, he said all in one breath:

  “Motherhaveyougotany lemons?”

  “Lemons?” said Mrs. Brown as if she could hardly believe her ears. “Lemons? I hardly remember what they look like.”

  “There’s a picture of ’em in the ’cyclop’dia,” said William helpfully.

  “I don’t think I even want to remember what they look like,” said Mrs. Brown bitterly. “No, I’ve not seen one for weeks.”

  “If you wanted to get hold of one,” said William, “how would you start?”

  “I shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Brown. “I’ve given it up. After all, it’s no use breaking one’s heart over a lemon.”

  “But suppose you had to have one,” said William, “what would you do?”

  “I shouldn’t do anything,” said Mrs. Brown. “What with onions and eggs and icing sugar and cream I’ve just given it up. There’s nothing one can do.”

  “But suppose someone was dyin’ an’ wanted one,” persisted William.

  “I don’t think they would,” said Mrs. Brown, after giving due consideration to this question. “I mean, I can’t imagine anyone wanting a lemon in those particular circumstances.”

  “I bet the thing would be to find one of those hoarders an’ take ’em off him,” said William.

  “Now, William,” said Mrs. Brown firmly, “stop talking nonsense about lemons and go and wash your face and brush your hair.”

  * * *

  William walked slowly down the road towards the village. A night’s sleep had brought him no nearer the solution of his problem. He was still determined to find a lemon or lemons for Mrs. Fountain, and he still believed that the best way of doing this would be to find a hoarder of lemons and rob him of some of his ill-gotten spoils, but the chief difficulty still remained. He couldn’t find a hoarder of lemons . . . He had mentioned lemons tentatively to several people and the wistfulness or bitterness—according to temperament—of their response had cleared them immediately of suspicion.

  “Lemons? Don’t I wish I’d got one!”

  Or: “Lemons? It’s a shame, an outrage, a crying scandal. Hitler shall pay for this!”

  He went to the village shop and demanded a lemon, only to be chased out of it by the indignant shopkeeper.

  “Any more of your sauce an’ I’ll tell your Pa, you cheeky little nipper, you!”

  “Bet I find one before I’ve finished,” muttered William as he went on down the road. “Bet I do . . .”

  It was just at this point that he ran into Violet Elizabeth Bott. Violet Elizabeth Bott was the daughter of the owner of the Hall—a gentleman of obscure origin who had made a fortune out of Bott’s Digestive Sauce. She was seven years old and was possessed of considerable personal charm and a lisp. William was one of the few people who had never yielded to her charm, and she held him accordingly in respect and admiration.

  “Hello, William,” she greeted him with a flutter of her long eyelashes.

  William’s scowl did not relax as his eyes fell upon her.

  “Hello,” he replied distantly and was passing her by without stopping.

  Violet Elizabeth, however, firmly barred his way with her small but solid person.

  “Ith nith to thee you, William,” she said, turning on the famous charm, but William was, as ever, proof against it.

  “It’s not nice to see you,” he countered with regrettable discourtesy. “Get out of my way. I’m busy.”

  “I’m buthy, too,” said Violet Elizabeth sweetly. “Leth be buthy together.”

  “Gosh!” said William severely. “D’you think I want girls meddlin’ in my business?”

  She smiled up at him delightedly. She was always thrilled by William’s brusqueness.

  “What ith your buthineth, William?” she coaxed.

  William hesitated. His first instinct was to refuse to have any further dealings with this immature representative of a despised sex. Then he reconsidered his attitude. He must leave no stone unturned. A lemon hoarder might be discovered even in the most unlikely quarter.

  “My business is lemons,” he said curtly.

  “Lemonth?” echoed Violet Elizabeth, opening her blue eyes wide in surprise. “Why lemonth William?”

  William looked at her.

  “Have you got any lemons?” he said sternly.

  She shook her golden curls.

  “Me? No, William, I’ve not got any lemonth. Why thould I have any lemonth?”

  “Dunno,” said William morosely. “Dunno why anyone should have the beastly things. I wish they’d never been invented. I say, d’you know anyone that’s got any?”

  Violet Elizabeth considered, drawing her brows together in deep thought. Then she brightened.

  “Yeth. Motherth got thome. Thee’s got a whole boc
th full. Thee’th had it in the bottom of her wardrobe for month an’ month an’ month.”

  “Corks!” said William, his eyes opening to their fullest extent. “She’s a hoarder, then, that’s what she is. A hoarder.”

  “Ith thee?” said Violet Elizabeth sweetly and without much interest.

  “Yes, she is,” said William sternly, “an’ we’ve gotter get ’em off her. Gosh! She’ll get put in prison, hoardin’ all those lemons. You wouldn’t like her to get put in prison, would you? I know someone what needs those lemons, so we’ve gotter get ’em from your mother, an’ give ’em to this person what needs ’em.”

  “I’ll athk her for them, thall I?” said Violet Elizabeth serenely.

  “No, you’d better not do that,” said William. “She wouldn’t let you have ’em. She’s a crim’nal—all hoarders are crim’nals—an’ crim’nals get desp’rate when they’re cornered.”

  “What thall I do, then?” asked Violet Elizabeth.

  “Couldn’t you get ’em without her knowin’?” asked William. “Well, I think you ought to stop her bein’ a crim’nal an’ gettin’ put in prison. You wouldn’t like her to get put in prison, would you?”

  Violet Elizabeth considered the question.

  ‘‘Yeth, I think I would,” she said at last cheerfully.

  “I could thtay up ath late ath I like if thee wath in prithon. I’ve alwayth wanted to thtay up ath late ath I like.”

  “But you wouldn’t get any pocket money,” said William cunningly. He remembered Violet Elizabeth’s greatest weakness. “You wouldn’t be able to buy any acid drops.”

  Violet Elizabeth’s face fell.

  “Oh, don’t let her be put in prithon, then, William,” she pleaded. “I do tho love athid dropth.”

  “All right, I won’t,” said William with the air of a knight errant undertaking some dangerous and difficult task. “I’ll try’n’ do that for you. I’ll try’n stop your mother gettin’ put in prison so’s you can go on havin’ acid drops. It’s goin’ to be jolly hard, but I’ll do it jus’ ’cause I don’t want you not to have acid drops with your mother goin’ to prison.”