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

  “The main thing is to get it thoroughly organised from the beginning,” said Robert. There were times when Robert suspected that he possessed organising abilities which, properly directed, might sway the fate of nations. “It’s the loose ends that cause trouble. The secret of the whole thing is to leave no loose ends that can possibly cause trouble later.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ethel absently.

  She had discovered that the double reflection of the dressing-table mirror and the shaving mirror over the hand basin gave her a perfect view of her profile and she was studying it with interest.

  William watched sombrely from the hearthrug.

  “I think we should decide first of all the form the entertainment is to take,” said Robert with a magisterial air.

  Ethel tore herself from the study of her profile.

  “Dancing, of course,” she said.

  “Dancing?” echoed William in a tone of surprised disgust “Gosh! I bet I could think of somethin’ better than dancin’. Listen! I could do some conjurin’ tricks for you. I’ve got some jolly good conjurin’ tricks. I’ve got one where I turn a—”

  “Shut up!” said Robert.

  “Or an animal show,” persisted William. “Listen, I could get up a jolly good animal show. There’s Jumble an’ my stag beetle to start with an’ Frankie Parker’s got a white rat that does tricks that he wants to sell an’ there’s Ginger’s cat an’ Henry’s tortoise an’ Douglas’s rabbit. I could get up a smashin’ animal show with those an’ I bet people’d like it better than a lot of dancin’.”

  “We don’t want an animal show,” said Robert crushingly, “so you can shut up.”

  “Well, listen,” said William, uncrushed. “If you don’t want an animal show or conjuring tricks, what about a play? I’ve written a play about crim’nals an’ a ghost that’s jolly good an’ Ginger an’ Douglas an’ Henry an’ me’ll act it for you an’ if you don’t want a play about crim’nals an’ a ghost I can write one about someone travellin’ in space an’ gettin’ stuck on a comet an’—”

  “Will you shut up!” said Robert, half-rising from his chair.

  “Oh, all right,” said William, relaxing despondently on to his hearthrug. “If you don’t want a decent party I can’t help it. I bet you’ll wish you’d listened to me when it’s all over. I bet they’ll feel so fed up when they find it’s only dancin’ that they’ll all go home soon as they get here. I know I would. I know I’d go home if I got to a party an’ found it was only dancin’. That ole dancin’ class I go to—well, it’s jus’ mental torcher.”

  “Strange as it may seem to you,” said Ethel, “we and our friends enjoy dancing.”

  “And one more word from you—” added Robert darkly.

  “Oh, all right,” said William. “Only don’t blame me when it’s all over an’ everybody’s sayin’ what a rotten time they’ve had.”

  “No, we won’t,” said Ethel. “And now about the guests. Who shall we invite, Robert?”

  “Well, I’d like Jameson and Hector and perhaps Ronald . . .”

  “And Rowena,” suggested Ethel kindly.

  “Well—er—yes. I’d like Rowena,” said Robert a little selfconsciously, “and perhaps Peggy and Marion. And what about you? Jimmy Moore?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Ethel. “Jimmy and Charles and Dorita and perhaps Richard . . .”

  Robert’s pencil moved swiftly over the paper as the list of names grew. Gordon Franklin . . . Dolly Clavis . . . Sheila Barron . . .

  “Here!” interposed William at last on a squeak of indignation. “What about me?”

  “What d’you mean, what about you?” said Robert.

  “Well, what about the ones I’m goin’ to invite? I want Ginger an’ Henry an’ Douglas, anyway.”

  “This isn’t a children’s party,” said Ethel.

  “Well, if you’re goin’ to invite people, I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” said William with spirit. “I keep tellin’ you it’s as much my mother an’ father’s wedding thing as it is your mother an’ father’s wedding thing an’ I bet my friends could make a party a jolly sight more excitin’ than yours could.”

  “Well, I know they could. Gosh, that party of Ginger’s last Christmas was wizard. Ginger an’ me made up a new game for it that started with two people havin’ a duel an’ ended with everyone else joinin’ in. Listen! I’ll ’splain about this new game that Ginger an’ me made up an’ I bet if you’d let Ginger an’ me get it started for you it’d turn out the most excitin’ party you’ve ever had.”

  “I’ve no doubt it would,” said Ethel. “That’s exactly what we’re afraid of.”

  “But listen—” began William again.

  “You can have one guest and no more,” said Robert in a tone of finality.

  For a moment William’s sense of outrage deprived him of speech, then speech returned.

  “One? Me only have one an’ you havin’ hundreds an’ hundreds! Gosh! you’re havin’ everyone anyone ever heard of an’—Gosh! me only one!”

  “We’ve already told you this isn’t a children’s party,” said Robert, “and we’ve had quite enough of your cheek, so you can clear out.”

  “All right,” said William. “I don’t want to stay here anyway. I don’t want to go on wastin’ my time tryin’ to help people that don’t want to be helped an’ that don’t know what’s an excitin’ party an’ what isn’t. If I can’t have more ’n one I won’t have any.” He rose with dignity from his seat on the hearthrug. “An’ I wouldn’t help you now, not if—not if you came on your bended knees beggin’ me to.”

  He withdrew from the room, much impressed by his parting speech.

  “Huh!” he said to himself, as he slid down the banisters and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. “I bet they’re feelin’ small.”

  But he was mistaken. Robert and Ethel were not feeling small. Robert was looking at his list of guests as if struck by a sudden doubt.

  “Perhaps they’re a bit young,” he was saying. “For the parents, I mean.”

  “Oh, no, they love young people,” said Ethel carelessly. “They’ll adore it.”

  William had whistled for Jumble and, with Jumble at his heels, was wandering slowly down the road, hands plunged into his pockets, brows drawn into a thoughtful frown. It was going to be a rotten party. Gosh! If they’d only let him help. His thoughts went to the parties in which he and the other Outlaws had turned their respective houses into bedlam for a brief and glorious hour.

  “Dancin’!” he muttered disgustedly, “jus’ dancin’!”

  Even the sight of Jumble worrying a piece of dead wood in the ditch, throwing it into the air, shaking it in his mouth, growling at it threateningly, failed to raise his spirits.

  So absorbed was he in his grievances that he did not notice he was passing the Parkers’ gate and that Frankie Parker was emerging from it till Frankie accosted him with a loud, “Hi William!”

  “Hello,” answered William morosely.

  Then he noticed that Frankie was holding something concealed in his hands. His interest rose and curiosity got the better of his dejection.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  Frankie opened his hands, revealing a sleek white form.

  “It’s that white rat I told you about,” he said. “It’s a wizard rat an’ I’m sellin’ it for sixpence. It’s a bargain, William. You won’t get another white rat like this for sixpence, not all the rest of your life. Not if you went all over the world, you wouldn’t.”

  William’s interest rose higher and something of his animation returned.

  “You said it did tricks,” he said.

  “Yes, it does.”

  “It’s not doin’ any now.”

  “It’s shy,” explained Frankie. “It’ll do them when it comes out of bein’ shy. It’s a smashing rat, William. I bet you’d have to pay pounds for a rat like this in a shop an’ it’s only sixpence.”

  “Well, that’s all the money I’ve got,�
� said William. “I’ve only got sixpence.”

  “Well, you’ve got sixpence,” urged Frankie, “so it’s all right. You can buy it all right if you’ve got sixpence. Gosh! I bet you’ll be sorry all the rest of your life if you don’t buy it. Victor Jameson wants to buy it but I thought I’d give you first chance. I bet there isn’t a boy in the whole world wouldn’t want to buy it, if he got first chance. Gosh, you’re lucky to have first chance.”

  Frankie was a good salesman and, before he quite knew what he was doing, William had handed over his sixpence and taken the white rat in exchange.

  “It’s called Edgar after my father,” said Frankie, “and it’s the most intelligent rat I’ve ever had.”

  Edgar lay on William’s palm, gazing around with a supercilious air.

  Jumble stood on his hind legs, sniffed the newcomer, then walked off casually to investigate the ditch. Jumble’s lack of interest in Edgar increased William’s doubts.

  “It’s still not doin’ tricks,” he said, gazing critically at his purchase.

  “I told you it’s shy,” said Frankie, “jus’ wait till it comes out of bein’ shy. Well, I’ve got to be off now. I’ve got to do some errands for my aunt.”

  With that he set off briskly down the road.

  * * *

  Edgar turned out to be an ancient lethargic rat who dozed away his time either in William’s pocket or in the straw-lined box prepared for it by William in the garage—and consumed unlimited quantities of household scraps.

  Frankie, taxed with the failure of his late pet to make good his promises, was outraged and incredulous. He paid Edgar a visit and interpreted each sleepy movement as a “trick”.

  “Look, William. He’s doing “Eyes Right” like a soldier . . . Now he’s doing “Eyes Left” . . . Now he’s wrinkling up his nose like a rabbit . . . an’ look at him now, William. He’s standing on his hind legs . . . Yes, I know I’m holding his front legs. Well, nat’rally I’ve got to hold his front legs for him to stand on his hind ones . . . Now look at him, William. He’s dancing . . . Yes, I know I’m helping him a little, but I’m only being same as his partner. Well, yumans have to have partners holding them and helping them to dance, don’t they? So it’s a jolly clever trick, dancing like a yuman. I bet not many rats can dance like yumans . . . an’ look!” He drew from his pocket a small unrecognisable object covered with fluff, which he carefully detached from it. “It’s a piece of toffee an’ he’s jolly fond of toffee. Now look!” He held the toffee just out of Edgar’s reach. “Don’t eat it, Edgar. There’s an atom bomb inside it . . . Look! He’s not eating it . . . It’s all right now, Edgar. You can eat it. There isn’t an atom bomb inside it now . . . There! Did you see him eat it?”

  “Well, you practic’ly shoved it in his mouth,” said William, “an’ you held it so far away he couldn’t have got it before that, anyway.”

  “Gosh! He could’ve got it if he’d wanted to,” said Frankie indignantly. “That was his trick, not doin’. A jolly clever trick, too.”

  Frankie was no charlatan. He honestly saw Edgar as a super rat, a wonder rat, a miracle rat. He had sold him only because his other pets—a hedgehog, a tortoise, a guinea pig and a hamster (all of which he considered to be gifted with supreme intelligence) took so much time and food that he had reluctantly decided to part with Edgar.

  Something of his enthusiasm communicated itself to William and gradually he began to look on Edgar’s very inertness as a mark of wisdom and intellect. And Jumble’s lack of interest in the new pet simplified the situation. More than one of the white rats that William had previously owned had fallen a victim to Jumble’s interest.

  He had completely forgotten the party that was to celebrate his parents’ wedding anniversary till he overheard Robert and Ethel discussing the gift—a picnic basket—that they intended to present to them during the course of the party. Then, for the first time, the disturbing thought struck William. He, too, should have some gift to offer . . .

  He examined the shops of the neighbourhood, extending the search as far as Marleigh, where he discovered a glass ash-tray of virulent colour and design marked sixpence. He gazed at it in wistful admiration. It was more striking in every way, he considered, than a picnic basket. It was colourful, handsome and unusual—a worthy memento of a great occasion. And it was only sixpence. His spirits rose . . . then sank, as he remembered that he did not possess sixpence; he had spent his last sixpence on Edgar. He returned home, transferred Edgar from box to his pocket, then went round to Frankie Parker’s, offering to re-sell his pet for the sixpence he had paid for it.

  But Frankie, intent on organising a wrestling match between his guinea pig and hamster, had no interest to spare for Edgar.

  “The ole rat?” he said briefly. “No, thanks.”

  William then proceeded to offer Edgar for sale publicly and privately among his friends, but the few who possessed the sum of sixpence had other plans for it. In any case they didn’t want a white rat. Edgar, exposed in the open market, still failed to find a buyer.

  “Gosh! It looks old, doesn’t it?”

  “Looks bats to me.”

  William rose hotly in defence of his pet, but without avail.

  “Well, he may be intell’gent,” said Johnny Smith, who had been offered Edgar at the reduced price of fivepence three farthings. “All I say is he doesn’t look it.”

  It was not till the day before the party was to take place that the idea occurred to William of offering Edgar to his parents as a gift. After all, he represented sixpence in hard cash, and William had become so accustomed to his bland inoffensive presence that he had begun to conceive a deep affection for him—an affection that, he felt, must be shared by anyone who came to know him. He’s better than those budgie birds, anyway, he ruminated. He stays quiet and doesn’t make a fool of himself tryin’ to talk. But he realised that the idea would take a little leading up to, that to present his father with a white rat in cold blood would be to court rebuff and possibly disaster. Mr Brown would not at first appreciate the unique advantages of Edgar as a pet. He might even view the gesture in the light of an insult.

  He approached his father warily that evening as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire reading the paper.

  “I say, Dad—” he began.

  Mr Brown grunted.

  “You know, white rats make jolly good pets,” said William.

  Mr Brown grunted again.

  “I mean they’re quiet,” went on William, elaborating his theme. “They don’t try to talk, I mean, same as those budgie birds. Well, I mean, you like quiet, don’t you?”

  “I do, my boy,” said Mr Brown meaningly.

  “Well, I b’lieve you’d like a white rat. A quiet one, I mean. One that could do quiet sort of tricks. Well, Jumble likes it an’ he’s got a bit of sense. Well, he doesn’t not like it, I mean. He jus’ doesn’t take any notice of it . . . but I bet you’d like it. It’d be comp’ny. It stays quiet in your pocket for hours an’ hours. You could take it along with you anywhere—to—to golf or the office or anywhere an’—an’—well, it’d be comp’ny.”

  He paused. Mr Brown had lost interest in the subject and returned to his paper. But William now considered that the ground had been sufficiently prepared for the final assault.

  “I say, Dad—” he began again.

  Mr Brown’s answering grunt suggested patience strained almost to breaking point.

  “I say. Dad, I’ve been sort of wondering what you’d like for your present. For this wedding thing party you’re havin’ tomorrow. I was wonderin’ what you’d like for it an’ I was jus’ sort of wonderin’ if you’d like a—”

  He stopped. Mr Brown had lowered his paper abruptly. His expression was not encouraging. Mr Brown had that morning received a bill from his builders that included a window broken by William, a fence broken by William, a gate broken by William, and a greenhouse roof broken by William. Punishment had been meted out on each separate occasion, but the sum total was
such as to cause Mr Brown to regard his son with a far from indulgent eye. Moreover the festivities arranged for his wedding anniversary tomorrow failed to rouse his enthusiasm. Not wishing to show himself churlish and ungrateful, he was trying gallantly to conceal his feelings, but the prospect of seeing his home turned upside down for a young people’s party—when he would rather have spent the evening by the fire alone with his wife or with some old crony—weighed down his spirit . . . and his general feeling of irritation found outlet in his voice as he said, “One human civilised action from you, my boy, would be all I could wish for in the way of a present—but that is, I’m afraid, too much to hope for.”

  “Oh,” said William blankly.

  Mr Brown returned to his newspaper and William went out into the garden to consider the situation. He didn’t know what “one human civilised action” meant, but he was pretty sure it didn’t mean a white rat. There remained the ash-tray, but, first of all, he must somehow or other find the sum of sixpence. He was still standing there, frowning deeply, trying to grapple with the problem that confronted him, when Mrs Brown’s voice roused him from his reverie.

  “Bedtime, William!” she called.

  Oh well, thought William with his usual optimism as he turned to go indoors, there was all tomorrow to get the money and buy the present. Just as well that his father hadn’t wanted Edgar. He’d have missed him . . .

  His optimism still upheld him as he set off after school the next afternoon, with Edgar in his pocket and Jumble at his heels, and made his way along the Marleigh road. He had no very definite plans. He might do an errand for someone or chop firewood for someone or sweep a path for someone . . . and they’d have to give him sixpence for it. Anyway, he trusted to Fate to provide an opening. And Fate did.

  His eye fell suddenly on a notice in a shop window: “boy wanted”. He stopped abruptly and stood considering it. Well, he was a boy, all right and if they wanted a boy it meant they’d be willing to pay for a boy.