William Carries On Page 11

  “I didn’t know you’d have to go so early,” said Mrs. Parfitt. “She’s out playing with her friends. They generally play somewhere near that old barn you see from the road. I’ll come to the station with you and perhaps we’ll see her on the way.”

  “No, no,” said Miss Cummins imperiously. “I prefer to speak to the child alone. No child is perfectly natural in the presence of its parents. I would not, of course, say this to everyone, but the influence of a normal parent upon a normal child is one that definitely retards the development. I will go myself to the station and hope to meet Joan on the way. I’ve never seen her, have I?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Parfitt, “but she’s wearing a green coat and hat. You can’t mistake her. It’s the only one in the neighbourhood. Of course, they may have gone into the woods.”

  “Then I’ll just take my chance and hope for the best,” said Miss Cummins. “Good-bye. So nice to have seen you again after all these years. I find you have changed very little, and I hope you can say the same of me. You may leave Joan in my charge with a clear mind. She will have every possible advantage. I strive to implant in my pupils those qualities that I have always striven to attain myself.”

  She walked briskly down the path to the road.

  Mrs. Parfitt watched her out of sight, then turned to the handsomely bound school prospectus that Miss Cummins had left and stood absently turning over the pages. It was an imposing prospectus, showing spacious classrooms and palatial assembly hall, swimming-bath and acres of beautifully tended grounds . . . but Mrs. Parfitt looked at it with singularly little pleasure.

  * * *

  William, wearing Joan’s coat and hat—the hat pulled well down over his eyes—came out of the old barn and addressed the guards outside in a high-pitched squeaky voice.

  “Thank thee, varlets,” he said, “for letting me visit my husband, Mr. Guy Fawkes. I won’t forget the bulls’ eyes on Saturday. Good afternoon,” and hurried away across the field down towards the road.

  In order to make the situation more exciting, the guards had agreed to wait about five minutes before discovering the “trick” played on them. This would give William time to escape and afford an opportunity for a hunt over the countryside.

  William had decided to make for the woods, where he knew of several good hiding-places. He had entered fully into his role and saw himself as Guy Fawkes, dressed in his wife’s clothes, bent on eluding his pursuers. It was annoying to run straight into a tall woman walking down the road.

  She gazed at him through horn-rimmed spectacles. Miss Cummins had noticed the old barn and had seen the figure in green coat and hat leave it to hurry across the field.

  “It’s Joan, isn’t it?” she said tentatively.

  “Uh-huh,” said William, looking up at her.

  Miss Cummins started. As head mistress of a large girls’ school she was familiar with various degrees of plainness in her pupils, but she thought she had never come across such an uncompromisingly ugly little girl in all her life before. And not only ugly—but hard, brazen, tough. Yes, tough was the word. A tough little girl. Miss Cummins shuddered at the combination. Scowling aggressively, William returned her gaze.

  “D’you want anything?” he said impolitely.

  “Are you Joan Parfitt?” said Miss Cummins.

  “Yeah,” said William, determined to sustain his disguise. How did he know who the woman was? A spy probably. Ginger’s family had a schoolmistress billeted on them, whom William had not seen yet and who. Ginger said, was one of those sickening people who were always trying to “enter into the children’s games”. Ginger had said yesterday that he had with difficulty stopped her coming with him to play Red Indians in the wood. For all he, William, knew, she had found out about this game and was “entering into it”, pretending to be a detective.

  Miss Cummins glanced with increasing disapproval at the short stocky figure. The stubby wiry hair beneath the green hat was cropped short like a boy’s. The child was evidently wearing a battered pair of boy’s shorts. Her knees were filthy, her stockings rumpled, and she wore a pair of stout clumsy hobnailed shoes. Odd, because her green coat and hat were well-tailored, though the child had obviously outgrown them. The child, of course, could not help her looks, but her manners seemed to be as ungainly as her appearance. It would certainly be one of the hardest cases her school had ever tackled.

  “And where are you off to?” said Miss Cummins.

  William’s suspicion that the unknown was Ginger’s family’s evacuee “butting into the game” deepened. He decided to nip it in the bud.

  “You mind your own business,” he said brusquely.

  Miss Cummins blenched. Never in all her life had a child spoken to her like that before.

  “You’ll have to learn to be more polite than that if you come to my school,” she said grimly.

  “I’m not coming to your rotten ole school,” said William.

  At this point a crowd of children suddenly appeared, tearing down the field, tumbling over the stile, obviously in pursuit of Miss Cummins’ companion.

  Miss Cummins’ companion gave an ear-splitting yell and tore off down the road, followed by the others. In a few moments the whole pack—all uttering ear-splitting yells—had plunged across another field, into a wood . . . and peace descended once more upon the countryside.

  Miss Cummins continued her progress towards the railway station. She didn’t remember feeling so shaken since the time a visiting lecturer had deliberately introduced Socialism into a lecture on Economics. Her nerves were a-jangle, her head aching from the ear-splitting yells.

  “No,” she said with a little shudder. “I couldn’t bear it. War work or no war work, I simply couldn’t bear it.”

  * * *

  Joan and her mother were having breakfast the next morning. Mrs. Parfitt was depressed and distrait.

  “I wish you’d seen Miss Cummins yesterday, Joan,” she said. “I’d like to know whether you felt you were really going to be happy with her. I didn’t feel sure, but—” she sighed.

  “No. I didn’t see her at all,” said Joan. “William said that that school mistress that’s at Ginger’s came and tried to join in the game and he told her we didn’t want her, but Ginger says she couldn’t have because she was at home all day.”

  But Mrs. Parfitt wasn’t listening. She was reading a letter, and her air of dejection was vanishing. The letter was from Miss Cummins and explained that she would not, after all, be able to take Joan into her school next term. Evidently she had made a mistake about numbers and accommodation. She appeared, in fact, not to have known exactly how many pupils she had or how many dormitories. It all boiled down to the fact that she much regretted that she had no room for Joan next term. If there were room later, she would let Mrs. Parfitt know . . .

  “Isn’t it lovely!” said Mrs. Parfitt, handing the letter to Joan. “I tried to like her, but I couldn’t. It was a beautiful school, but I was miserable whenever I thought of your going there.”

  “Hurray!” said Joan, reading the letter. “I was trying not to think of it, but whenever I did think of it I simply couldn’t bear it.”

  “And it can’t have been anything to do with us,” said Mrs. Parfitt, “because she left here with it all settled and she never even saw you.”

  Joan suddenly remembered the tall, spectacled figure whom William had taken for Ginger’s evacuee, though Ginger said that his evacuee had not left the house. William had been wearing her green coat and hat . . .

  “I wonder . . .” she began.

  “What, dear?” said Mrs. Parfitt.

  But, thinking the matter over, Joan decided that it was one of those cases where you let sleeping dogs lie.

  “Oh, nothing,” she said.

  Chapter 7 – William Works for Peace

  “I was listenin’ to someone talkin’ at our house the other night,” said William, “an’ they were talkin’ about us all doin’ our part for the peace.”

  “How do you
mean, us all doin’ our part for the peace?” said Ginger.

  “Well, this person said that it wasn’t any good expectin’ the world to be at peace if we weren’t at peace ourselves. He said we’d gotter prepare for the peace by makin’ up our own quarrels. He said it would bring peace nearer.”

  “Sounds batty to me,” said Ginger.

  “It didn’t sound batty the way he said it,” said William. “It sounded jolly fine. We’ve gotter make friends with our enemies an’ reconcile people what have quarrelled. He said peace’d come soon if we all did that. Gosh! I’d like peace to come soon. I’m sick of not bein’ able to get any bulls’ eyes.”

  “Well, you can’t do anythin’ about it,” objected Ginger.

  “Yes, I can. He said everybody could. He said we’d all gotter make friends with enemies an’ then peace’d come soon.”

  “What’re you goin’ to do, then?” said Ginger. “Are you goin’ to make friends with Hubert Lane?”

  William considered this suggestion in silence for some moments, then said simply: “No, I’d rather keep Hubert Lane for an enemy.”

  “Then you can’t do anythin’,” said Ginger triumphantly.

  “Yes, I can,” persisted William, “I can reconcile someone else what’s enemies. That counts as much as making friends with an enemy yourself. Anyway, I want Hubert Lane for an enemy, so I’m goin’ to do someone else instead.”

  “Who’re you goin’ to do?” demanded Ginger.

  “Dunno yet,” said William. “I’ve gotter think. Who is there who’s quarrelled?”

  “There’s Miss Milton an’ Mrs. Bott,” said Ginger.

  “Gosh, yes!”, said William with interest. “I forgot them. Yes, they’d do fine.”

  “You’ll have a job reconcilin’ them,” said Ginger doubtfully. “They’ve been at it a good long time.”

  Miss Milton and Mrs. Bott had not been on speaking terms for several months. The breach had arisen from trivial causes, as such breaches usually do. There had been the little matter of Mrs. Bott’s summarily dismissing a proposal of Miss Milton’s at a meeting of the Committee of the Church Rooms Canteen. There had been another little matter of Mrs. Bott’s housemaid’s repeating to Miss Milton’s charwoman various derogatory remarks that she had heard Mrs. Bott make about Miss Milton—remarks that the charwoman had thought fit to report, suitably embellished, to Miss Milton. There had been various other little matters, all slight in themselves, but causing the coldness between the two ladies to increase to open hostility. Neither now acknowledged the existence of the other. They sat on the same committees, they passed each other regularly in the village street and magnificently ignored each other. Each had given a small tea-party purposely in order not to invite the other.

  “I bet I manage it all right,” said William. “I’ve never tried reconcilin’ anyone, but I bet it’s easy enough once you start.”

  “I dunno how you’re goin’ to start,” said Ginger. “’Tisn’t as if they liked you.”

  Even William had to admit that he was not popular with either of the two ladies.

  “They’re mean ole things, both of ’em,” he said. “Jus’ as if I meant to scare Miss Milton’s rotten ole cat or break those cucumber frames in ole Mrs. Bott’s garden. Why, I made that noise at ole Miss Milton’s cat to cheer it up. ’Tisn’t my fault if it doesn’t want to be cheered up. An’ I was practisin’ walking on a tree branch when l fell into those rotten ole frames. Gosh! You’d’ve thought she’d be sorry for me cuttin’ myself ’stead of carryin’ on like what she did. Anyway,” firmly, “I’m goin’ to reconcile ’em whether they want it or not. I’m goin’ to do my bit for the peace same as what this man said. I’m sick of not bein’ able to get any bulls’ eyes.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Ginger, “I feel the same as what you do about bulls’ eyes, but I don’t see how reconcilin’ ’em’s goin’ to start bulls’ eyes again, an’ I don’t see how you’re goin’ to reconcile ’em. I think you’d better stick to things you can do, same as fightin’ an’ such-like, an’ not try this peace stuff.”

  “Huh!” said William. “You’ll think a bit different when I’ve done it an’ peace comes an’ you can get bulls’ eyes again. You wait! I’m jolly good at ideas.”

  And, sure enough, William got his idea. That afternoon his mother took him to the pictures to see “Target for To-night” and by a strange coincidence the other picture was the story of the quarrel of two women and their final reconciliation. One was the mother of a winsome, curly-headed child, the other saved the child from an express train, and the two embraced tearfully over the winsome curly head.

  William was very silent on the way home. Everything fitted in amazingly. Violet Elizabeth Bott was about the same size as the child in the picture. She was curly-headed and, in the opinion of most people, though not of William, winsome. It only remained for Miss Milton to rescue Violet Elizabeth Bott from an express train. The details might present minor difficulties, but William was not to be balked by minor difficulties.

  Violet Elizabeth Bott, when approached, was inclined to be recalcitrant.

  “But I don’t want to be rethcued from a train,” she objected, her habitual lisp accentuated by resentment at the suggestion. “I don’t want to be.”

  “Goodness!” said William sternly. “Fancy not wantin’ to be rescued from a train. Fancy wantin’ to be run over!”

  “I don’t want to be run over,” said Violet Elizabeth.

  “Well, you’ve gotter be rescued, then,” said William.

  Violet Elizabeth looked slightly bewildered.

  “I don’t thee why,” she said at last simply.

  “Now, listen,” said William patiently. “You want the war to end so’s you can get,” he remembered her weakness, “acid drops again, don’t you?”

  “I can get athid dropth thometimeth now,” said Violet Elizabeth.

  “Yes, but you can’t get ’em every Saturday same as you used to, can you?” said William.

  “No,” admitted Violet Elizabeth.

  “Well, then, you want the war to end so that you can. Well, this man said that we’d never get peace between nations till we’d got peace between ourselves. He kept on sayin’ it. So we’ve gotter make peace between Miss Milton and your mother.”

  “My mother dothen’t want peath with Mith Milton,” said Violet Elizabeth. “Thee thayth thee’th a nathty dithagreeable old woman.”

  “Well, she won’t feel like that when Miss Milton’s rescued you from a train.”

  “But I don’t want to be rethcued from a train,” persisted Violet Elizabeth, bringing the conversation round to its starting point.

  “Now, listen,” said William. “All you’ve gotter do is to lie down between the lines. Then if the train does go over you it won’t hurt you. I’ve often read tales of people lyin’ down between the lines an’ the trains don’t hurt them. They go straight over ’em. Anyway, I’ll fetch Miss Milton an’ she’ll pull you out an’ take you to your mother an’ then they’ll kiss each other.”

  “An’ thall I have loth an’ loth of athid dropth to-morrow morning?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” said William doubtfully. “I expect you’d have to wait a bit.”

  “Well, I’m not goin’ to, anyway,” said Violet Elizabeth with unexpected firmness. “I don’t like trainth. It maketh me thick to be in them. I ecthpect it’d make me thicker lying between the lineth. An’ I’d get all dirty an’ methy. I’m not goin’ to.”

  “All right,” said William, realising that compromise was called for at this point. “All right. You needn’t lie between the lines. Listen. You jus’ stay near the lines. On the bank, if you like. An’ I’ll take your hat to Miss Milton an’ say I found it on the lines. An’ then she’ll come runnin’ down an’ find you lying near the lines an’ she’ll think you’ve been knocked down by the train. You can be moanin’ an’ groanin’ an’ she’ll take you home an’ your mother’ll kiss her.”

  “I th
an’t have to kith her, thall I?” asked Violet Elizabeth anxiously. “I don’t like her fathe.”

  “No, you needn’t kiss her,” William reassured her. “I bet I wouldn’t want to kiss her either. Now, come on. All you’ve gotter do is to let me have your hat an’ lie down on the edge of the railway bank moanin’ an’ groanin’ an’ carryin’ on an’ saying ‘Where am I?’ same as people do when they’ve had an accident. Miss Milton’s house is just near the railway line, you know, so you won’t have to wait long.”

  Despite herself, Violet Elizabeth was becoming interested in the idea. Games with William were never devoid of excitement, and time happened to be hanging heavy on her hands. She might as well do that as anything.

  * * *

  Miss Milton herself opened the door to William and stood, stern and unsmiling, gazing down at him. William was no favourite with Miss Milton.

  “Well?” she said grimly.

  William held up Violet Elizabeth’s brown cloth hat, in which he had thoughtfully made a dent intended to represent the wheel of a train.

  “I found this on the railway line,” he said. “It’s Violet Elizabeth’s. An’ Violet Elizabeth’s lyin’ jus’ near where I found it moanin’ an’ groanin’ as if she’d been run over by a train.”

  For a moment Miss Milton looked startled. Then her eye caught Violet Elizabeth’s rosy face peeping over the hedge at the bottom of the garden. For Violet Elizabeth was a self-centred child and wished to witness the gratifying spectacle of Miss Milton’s distress on hearing of her accident. She thought that she could easily slip down to the railway line again in time to receive Miss Milton with the moans and groans in which William had painstakingly instructed her.

  “You naughty boy!” said Miss Milton severely. “How dare you play such tricks on me?” and slammed the door.