William's Television Show (Just William, Book 31)

  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's Television Show

  RICHMAL CROMPTON

  Illustrated by Thomas Henry

  MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  Copyright

  For my great-niece Kate Ashbee

  First published 1958

  This edition first published 1991 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 55548 1

  Text copyright © Richmal C. Ashbee 1958

  Illustrations copyright © Thomas Henry Fisher Estate 1958

  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 - William on the Trail

  Chapter 2 - William Takes the Lead

  Chapter 3 - William Among the Chimney-pots

  Chapter 4 - William’s Thoughtful Act

  Chapter 5 - William’s Television Show

  Chapter 6 - William Does a Bob-a-Job

  Chapter 7 - William and the Wedding Anniversary

  Chapter 8 - William and the National Health Service

  Chapter 1 - William on the Trail

  “It’s a public menace,” said Mr Brown.

  “It certainly never seems to know which way it’s going,” said Mrs Brown a little more mildly.

  “Neither does Archie,” said Robert.

  “It’s fantastic,” said Ethel.

  “I like it,” said William. “It does more excitin’ things than other people’s cars.”

  They were discussing Archie’s new car. Archie Mannister was a feckless unpractical artist who lived at the other end of the village and who had recently astonished the neighbourhood by purchasing a second-hand car and taking driving lessons. Archie cherished a hopeless passion for Ethel and had been goaded to this desperate step by watching Ethel set off, Saturday after Saturday, in dashing-looking cars with dashing-looking escorts. Nothing, Archie realised, as he gazed despondently at the reflection of his thin vague face in the mirror, could make him dashing-looking, but at least he could buy a car. He bought the first car that was offered to him. It was an ancient, weary, disillusioned car, a car without spirit or enterprise or sense of adventure, a car that crawled docilely along the road, obeying clutch and brake and accelerator in a hang-dog, resigned fashion.

  And by some miracle that no one had ever been able to explain Archie passed his driving test. Even Archie was puzzled by it. The only explanation he could offer was that it had been one of his “good days”—one of the days when he remembered quite clearly which was the brake and which was the accelerator, when he reversed in easy masterly fashion without hitting anything. Archie did have those days but they were few and far between and it was a fortunate chance that one of them happened to coincide with the day of his driving test.

  And then, quite suddenly, Archie saw his car as it really was. It was not, he decided, worthy of Ethel. It was not dashing. It was not modem. Beside the cars of his rivals it had a mouldering moth-eaten look. And then, by another unexpected stroke of luck, he sold a picture. It was a “modern” picture, consisting of eyes, nose and mouth set at unusual angles in a face of unusual dimensions, the whole garnished, as it were, by a pair of compasses, a flight of building bricks and a bird of unknown breed perched on what appeared to be a newspaper rack.

  An elderly widower who was contemplating marriage with a young lady of advanced artistic views saw the picture in the window of the shop in Hadley where Archie exposed his paintings for sale and went in and bought it.

  “I’m not sure what it represents,” said the shopkeeper doubtfully. “It may, of course, be symbolic, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you what it symbolises.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said the widower. “She says she can’t live with the “Monarch of the Glen” and it’s about the same size, so it won’t leave a mark on the wall-paper. They do if they aren’t, you know.”

  Archie had been dumbfounded to learn that his picture had been sold (he was not used to selling his pictures) and that the widower (who had made a good thing out of fish paste) had paid without protest the price that Archie had put on it. With a little adjusting of his finances he could now afford a new car, a real car, a dashing car, a car like the ones in which his rivals were wont to take Ethel out on summer evenings and Saturday afternoons.

  The car that he bought was small, but it had zest and spirit and a sense of adventure developed to the highest degree. It was eminentl
y dashing. It dashed continually and unpredictably. At a touch of Archie’s foot on the accelerator it would dash up the nearest bank into the hedge. At a touch of his foot on the brake it would leap and buck like a spirited bronco. It was full of a lively and insatiable curiosity, investigating the contents of ditches and wayside ponds, experimenting with the middle of the road, the right-hand side of the road, the grass verge of the road and even the trees that bordered the road. It acquired a scratched and dented appearance but its spirit remained unbroken.

  Ethel had been out in it three times. The first time it had run into a telegraph post. The second time it had turned in at Jenks’ farmyard and come to test on a midden heap. The third time it had entered a cul-de-sac and Archie, flustered and distracted, had been unable to reverse it, so he and Ethel had got out and walked home, leaving it there.

  It was not only in the Brown household that Archie’s car was being discussed, but Ethel’s experiences lent, perhaps, a particular animation to the discussion, as the Browns sat drinking their after-lunch coffee.

  “I’ve never yet known it end up at the place he’d set out for,” said Ethel.

  “I hope you aren’t letting him take you to the Jamesons’ garden party in it this afternoon,” said Mrs Brown.

  “You’ll probably end up in the Hebrides, if you do,” said Robert.

  “No, I’m not,” said Ethel. “He can’t get there till late, anyway. But I’ve promised to let him bring me home in it afterwards.”

  “We’ll take a long farewell of you, then,” said Robert.

  “Well, I think Archie’s is a jolly int’restin’ car,” said William, “an’ it does some jolly int’restin’ things, too.”

  “Nobody asked you for your opinion,” said Ethel crushingly.

  “And don’t hang round listening to other people’s conversation,” said Robert.

  “Gosh!” said William indignantly. “D’you think I want to? D’you think I’ve nothin’ better to do than listenin’ to you talkin’ about Archie’s car? D’you think I’m int’rested listenin’ to you talkin’ about Archie’s car? Gosh! You mus’ think I’m jolly hard up for things to be int’rested in if you think I’m int’rested listenin’ to you talkin’ about Archie’s car. An’ if—”

  “Now, William,” interrupted Mrs Brown, “it’s a lovely afternoon. Go out and play.”

  “Yes, I’m goin’ to,” said William. “I’m goin’ with Ginger c’lectin’ tadpoles in the pond an’ let me tell you tadpoles are a jolly sight more int’restin’ than listenin’ to you talkin’ about Archie’s car an’—”

  “William!” said Mr Brown sternly.

  William went with silent dignity from the room, shedding both silence and dignity as he joined Ginger, who was waiting for him at the gate.

  “Come on!” he yelled. “I bet I catch more ’n’ you an’ I bet I get to the top of the fir tree an’ I bet I get across the pond on that raft we made an’—Oh, come on!”

  William and Ginger spent an enjoyable afternoon. They filled their jam jars with tadpoles. They climbed to the top of the fir tree. They got half-way across the pond in their improvised raft. They followed the course of the ditch beneath the road to where it came out on the other side. They tried walking on the wall of the pigsties in Jenks’ farmyard and fell into the pigwash.

  William’s thoughts were fully occupied by these activities and it was not till the end of the afternoon that they turned to Archie and Archie’s car amid the Jameson garden party.

  “I’m goin’ home by the Jamesons’,” he said. “I want to see Archie drivin’ Ethel out of the gate. I like watching Archie drive out of gates. An’ p’raps he’ll give me a lift if I’m there.”

  He reached the gate in good time. Archie and Ethel were seated in the car just setting off from the front door. A group of guests was assembled at the door to watch them.

  “Good-bye,” called Archie blithely as he let in the clutch, pressed the accelerator and released the brake.

  The little car gave a leap into the air, sprang across the drive into the shrubbery that bordered it and landed neatly in the middle of a Berberis Darwinii.

  “Sorry,” called Archie. “I’ll reverse.”

  He reversed, shot back up the drive, scattered the group of guests and charged with a dull grating sound into the wall of the house, detaching several strands of ivy.

  “Sorry,” called Archie again. “I think I’ll manage it this time.”

  But he didn’t manage it that time. The little car seemed to have an unconquerable objection to the curved sweep of the drive that led to the gate. It leapt on to the lawn and broke down a couple of standard roses. It returned to the shrubbery to make sure of its victory over the berberis darwinii. It shot back into the drive again and tried to mount the steps to the front door. It returned to the lawn and laid low a bird bath and a garden table. It engaged in an unequal struggle with the gate-post, shot back yet again to the front door then returned undaunted for another round with the gate-post. Archie’s face was pale and tense, his brow glistening with perspiration. Ethel’s lovely mouth was set in lines of fury. The guests watched anxiously from behind the front door, till at long last the little car—its bonnet festooned by sprigs of berberis darwinii, ivy trailing from its roof, half a standard rose dangling from one handle, and pieces of garden table adhering to wings and bumper—sailed jauntily out of the gate into the road.

  And there William was waiting for it with his jam jar of tadpoles. Mud-stained stockings were rucked round mud-stained legs. His shirt was torn. His face—and indeed his whole person—bore marks of his passage through the ditch that ran beneath the road. Even his hair stood up in mud-encrusted spikes and the slime he had collected during his brief immersion in the pond added a greenish tinge to the whole. He was the last bitter drop in Ethel’s cup of humiliation. William himself was unaware of anything unusual in his appearance.

  “Hi, Archie!” he yelled. “Will you give me a lift home?”

  “Certainly,” said Archie, glad to be able to seem to stop the car, which had chosen this moment to stop of its own accord.

  William clambered into the car, spilling a few tadpoles on the way, and settled himself happily in the back seat.

  The car started again, and, its high spirits exhausted for the moment by its performance in the Jameson drive, proceeded decorously down the road.

  Then Ethel’s pent-up fury broke out.

  “I’ve never seen such an exhibition in all my life,” she said.

  “Exhibition?” said Archie. He was aware that the Jamesons’ drive had presented certain difficulties, but he had surmounted them. He had—finally and triumphantly—driven out of the gate. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I’ll tell you what I mean, then,” said Ethel hysterically. “I never thought I’d live to be made such a fool of as you’ve made of me. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, till I was nearly dead with shame. I’ll never forget it if I live to be a hundred. Look at us! We might be a travelling Harvest Festival with half the Jamesons’ garden hanging on to us. If you think—” Archie changed gears and her voice could not be heard again till the echoes of his gear-changing had died away. “Backwards and forwards till I was nearly seasick.”

  “A certain amount of manoeuvring was necessary in the circumstances,” said Archie, adding with a touch of pride, “I got into reverse quite successfully each time.”

  “Got into reverse!” echoed Ethel, almost weeping with rage. “I feel as if I’d been on one of those ghastly switchbacks in a fair. And everyone I know watching me! I shall never be able to look anyone in the face again.”

  “I’m sorry you feel like this, Ethel,” said Archie with quiet dignity. “I did my best.”

  “Well, this is the end,” said Ethel. “I tell you here and now this is the end.”

  “What end?” said Archie, bringing the car from one side of the road to the other with a swift deft turn of the steering-wheel.

  “The end of
everything. I’ve finished with you. I don’t know why I ever started with you. I don’t ever want to see you again as long as I live. You’re the most impossible creature I’ve ever come across in the whole course of my life. You moon about, pretending to be an artist. You couldn’t hold a proper job for a week. I—I—I despise you.”

  The worm did not often turn but quite suddenly it turned now.

  “I shall prove that you’re wrong, Ethel,” said Archie distantly. “I shall get a job and I shall keep it.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” snapped Ethel.

  They had reached the Browns’ house now and Archie drew up the little car at the gate with what was intended to be a flourish but which turned out to be a complicated and highly original ballet step. The suddenness of the finale detached a strand of ivy from the roof and released several sprigs of berberis.

  “Here! Look out!” cried William. “You’re spilling my tadpoles.”

  That brought Ethel’s attention to his presence and afforded her yet another grievance against Archie.

  “And, to crown all,” she said, “you’ve got to bring that object home in the car with us.”

  “What object?” said William, mystified.

  “You,” said Ethel tersely.

  “Me?” said William, staring at her in honest bewilderment from his mud-encrusted countenance. “What’s wrong with me?”

  But Ethel was already walking, head erect, blue eyes bright with anger, up to the Brown front door.

  William scrambled out of the car.

  ”’Fraid I’ve made a bit of a mess,” he said apologetically. “I’ve spilt a bit of water an’ tadpole an’ some bits of mud seem to’ve come off from somewhere.”

  Archie made no comment. He was staring in front of him, his thin face set and resolute.