Still William Page 18

  ‘Not like these,’ objected William who was wearing the horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Not great thick ’uns like these.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Ginger. ‘I’ve gotter aunt what’s got false teeth.’

  ‘That’s nothin’,’ said William. ‘False teeth isn’t like spectacles. They look just like ornery teeth. You can’t see they’re false teeth.’

  ‘No, but you can hear ’em,’ said Ginger. ‘They tick.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Douglas, ‘my cousin knows a man what’s gotter false eye. It stays still while the other looks about.’

  ‘Well,’ said William determined not to be outdone, ‘my father knows a man what’s gotter false leg.’

  ‘I think I remember once hearin’,’ said Ginger somewhat vaguely, ‘ ’bout a man with all false arms an’ legs an’ only his body real.’

  ‘That’s nothin’,’ said William giving rein to his glorious imagination. ‘I once heard of a man with a false body an’ only legs an’ arms reel.’

  His companions’ united yell of derision intimated to him that he had overstepped the bounds of credulity, and, adjusting his horn-rimmed spectacles with a careless flourish, he continued unperturbed: ‘Or I might have dreamed about him. I don’ quite remember which.’

  ‘I bet you dreamed about him,’ said Ginger indignantly. ‘I bet it isn’t possible. How’d his stomach work ’f he hadn’t gotter real one?’

  ‘An’ I bet it is possible,’ said William stoutly. ‘It’d work with machinery an’ wheels an’ springs an’ things same as a clock works an’ he’d hafter wind it up every mornin’.’

  The other Outlaws were impressed by William’s tone of certainty.

  ‘Well,’ said Ginger guardedly, ‘I don’ say it isn’t possible. I only say it isn’t prob’le.’

  The vast knowledge of the resources of the English language displayed by this remark vaguely depressed the others, and they dropped the subject hastily.

  ‘I can walk like a man with a false leg,’ said William, and he began to walk along, swinging one stiff leg with a flourish.

  ‘Well, I can click my teeth ’s if they was false,’ said Ginger, and proceeded to bite the air vigorously.

  ‘I bet I can look ’s if I had a glass eye,’ said Douglas, making valiant if unsuccessful efforts to keep one eye still and roll the other.

  They walked on in silence, each of them wholly and frowningly absorbed in his task, William limping stiffly, Ginger clicking valiantly, and Douglas rolling his eyes.

  A little short-sighted man who met them stopped still and stared in amazement.

  ‘Dear me!’ he said.

  ‘I’ve gotter false leg,’ William condescended to explain, ‘and he,’ indicating Douglas, ‘ ’s gotter glass eye, an’ he’s got false teeth.’

  ‘Dear me!’ gasped the little old man. ‘How very extraordinary!’

  They left him staring after them . . .

  Douglas, wildly cross-eyed, set off at the turning to his home. He was labouring under the delusion that he had at last acquired the knack of keeping one eye still while he rolled the other, though William and Ginger informed him repeatedly that he was mistaken.

  ‘They’re both movin’.’

  ‘They’re not, I tell you. One’s keepin’ still. I can feel it keepin’ still.’

  ‘Well, we can see it, can’t we? We oughter know.’

  ‘I don’ care what you can see. I know what I do, don’ I? It’s my eye an’ I move it an’ I oughter be able to tell when I’m not movin’ it . . . So there!’

  He rolled both eyes at them fiercely as he departed.

  William and Ginger went on together, stumping and clicking with great determination. Suddenly they both stopped.

  On the footpath just outside a door that opened straight on to the street, stood a bath-chair. In it were a rug and a scarf.

  ‘Here’s my bath-chair,’ said William. ‘ ’S tirin’ walkin’ like this with a false leg all the time.’

  He sat down in the chair with such a jerk that his hornrimmed spectacles fell off. Though it was somewhat of a relief to see the world clearly, he missed the air of distinction that he imagined they imparted to him and, picking them up, adjusted them carefully on his nose. The sensation of being the possessor of both horn-rimmed spectacles and a false leg had been a proud and happy one. He wrapped the rug around his knees.

  ‘You’d better push me a bit,’ he said to Ginger. ‘ ’S not tirin’ havin’ false teeth. You oughter be the one to push.’

  But Ginger, unlike William, was not quite lost in his rple.

  ‘It’s not our bath-chair. Someone’ll be comin’ out an’ makin’ a fuss if we start playin’ with it. Besides,’ with some indignation, ‘how d’you know havin’ false teeth isn’t tirin’? Ever tried ’em? An’ let me tell you clickin’ is tirin’. It’s makin’ my jaws ache somethin’ terrible.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ said William impatiently. ‘Do stop talkin’ about your false teeth. Anyway it couldn’t rest your jaws ridin’ in a chair, could it? A chair couldn’t rest your jaw or your teeth, could it? Well, it could rest my false leg an’, anyway, we’ll only go a bit an’ whosever it is won’t miss it before we bring it back, an’ anyway I don’t suppose they mind lendin’ it to help a pore ole man with a false leg an’ another with false teeth.’

  ‘Not much helpin’ me pushin’ you!’ said Ginger bitterly.

  ‘Your false teeth seems to be makin’ you very grumpy!’ said William severely. ‘Oh, come on! They’ll be comin’ out soon.’

  Ginger began to push the bath-chair at first reluctantly, but finally warmed to his task. He tore along at a breakneck speed. William’s face was wreathed in blissful smiles. He held the precious horn-rimmed spectacles in place with one hand and with the other clutched on to the side of the bath-chair, which swayed wildly as Ginger pursued his lightning and uneven way. They stopped for breath at the end of the street.

  ‘You’re a jolly good pusher!’ said William.

  Praise from William was rare. Ginger, in spite of his breathlessness, looked pleased.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothin’,’ he said modestly. ‘I could do it ten times as fast as that. I’m a bit tired of false teeth though. I’m goin’ to stop clickin’ for a bit.’

  William tucked in his rug and adjusted his spectacles again.

  ‘Do I look like a pore old man?’ he said proudly.

  Ginger gave a scornful laugh.

  ‘No, you don’t. You’ve gotter boy’s face. You’ve got no lines nor whiskers nor screwedupness like an old man.’

  William drew his mouth down and screwed up his eyes into a hideous contortion.

  ‘Do I now?’ he said as clearly as he could through his distorted mask of twisted muscles.

  Ginger looked at him dispassionately.

  ‘You look like a kinder monkey now,’ he said.

  William took the long knitted scarf that was at the bottom of the bath-chair and wound it round and round his head and face till only his horn-rimmed spectacles could be seen.

  ‘Do I now?’ he said in a muffled voice.

  Ginger stared at him in critical silence for a minute and said, ‘Yes, you do now. At least you look’s if you might be anything now.’

  ‘All right,’ said William in his far-away muffled voice. ‘Pretend I’m an old man. Wheel me back no . . . slowly, mind ’cause I’m an old man!’

  They began the return journey. Ginger walked very slowly, chiefly because it was uphill and he was still out of breath. William leant back feebly in his chair enjoying the role of aged invalid, his horn-rimmed spectacles peering out with an air of deep wisdom from a waste of woollen muffler.

  Suddenly a woman who was passing stopped.

  ‘Uncle George!’ she said in a tone of welcome and surprise.

  She was tall and thin and grey-haired and skittish-looking and gaily dressed.

  ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ she said. ‘When you didn’t answer our letter we thought you r
eally weren’t going to come to see us. We really did. And now I find you on your way to our house. What a treat for us! I’d have known you anywhere, dear Uncle George, even if I hadn’t recognised the bath-chair and the muffler that I knitted for you on your last birthday. How sweet of you to wear it! And you’re looking so well!’ She dropped a vague kiss upon the woollen muffler and then turned to Ginger. ‘This little boy can go. I can take you on to the house.’ She slipped a coin into Ginger’s hand. ‘Now run away little boy! I’ll look after him.’

  Ginger, after one bewildered look, fled, and the lady began to push William’s chair along briskly. William was so entirely taken aback that he could for the moment devise no plan of action, and meekly allowed himself to be propelled down the village street. With an instinctive desire to conceal his identity he had pulled the rug up to his elbows and arranged the flowing ends of the all-enveloping scarf to cover the front of his coat. Wistfully he watched Ginger’s figure which was fast disappearing in the distance. Then the tall female bent down and shouted into his ear.

  ‘And how are you, dear Uncle George?’

  William looked desperately round for some chance of escape, but saw none. Feeling that some reply was necessary, and not wishing to let his voice betray him he growled.

  ‘So glad,’ yelled the tall lady into the muffler. ‘So glad. If you think you’re better, you will be better you know, as I always used to tell you.’

  To his horror, William saw that he was being taken in through a large gateway and up a drive. He felt as though he had been captured by some terrible enemy. Would he ever escape? What would the dreadful woman do to him when she found out? He couldn’t breathe, and he could hardly see, and he didn’t know what was going to happen to him . . . He growled again rather ferociously, and she leant down to the presumptive region of his ear and shouted.

  ‘Much better, dear Uncle George! . . . Ever so much better . . . it’s only a question of willpower.’

  She left him on a small lawn and went through an opening in the box hedge. William could hear her talking to some people on the other side.

  ‘He’s come! Uncle George’s come!’ she said in a penetrating whisper.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ said another voice. ‘He’s so trying! What shall we do?’

  ‘He’s wealthy. Anyway we may as well try to placate him a bit.’

  ‘Hush! He’ll hear you.’

  ‘Oh, no, he’s been as deaf as a post for years.’

  ‘How did you meet him, Frederica, darling?’

  ‘I met him quite by accident,’ said Frederica darling in her shrill and cheerful voice. ‘He was being brought here by a boy.’

  ‘And did you recognise him? It’s ten years since you saw him last.’

  ‘I recognised the bath-chair. It’s the one poor, dear Aunt Ferdinanda used to have, and the darling was wearing that scarf I knitted for him. Oh, but I think I’d have recognised the old man anyway. He hasn’t changed a bit; though he’s dreadfully muffled up. You know he was always so frightened of fresh air . . . and he’s shrunk a bit, I think . . . you know, old people do – and I’m afraid he’s as touchy as ever. He was quite huffy on the way here because I said that if he’d will to be well he would be well. That always annoyed him, but I must be true to my principles, mustn’t I?’

  ‘Hadn’t someone better go to him? Won’t it annoy him to be left alone?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s not sociable, you know – and as deaf as a post and—’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better explain to the boys, Frederica—’

  ‘Oh yes! It’s your Great-Uncle George, you know – ever so old, and we’ve not seen him for ten years, and he’s just come to live here with his male attendant, you know – taken a furnished house, and though we asked him to come to see us (he’s most eccentric, you know – simply won’t see anyone at his own house) he never even answered and we thought he must still be annoyed. I told him the last time I saw him, ten years ago, that if only he’d think he could walk, he’d be able to walk, and it annoyed him, but I must be true to my principles – anyway to my surprise I found him on his way to our house this afternoon and—’

  Frederica paused for breath.

  ‘We’d better go to him, dear. He might be feeling lonely.’

  William was far from lonely. He was listening with mingled interest and apprehension to the conversation on the other side of the hedge and revolving in his mind the question whether they’d see him if he crawled across the lawn to the gate – or perhaps it would be better to make a dash for it, tear off the rug and muffler and run for all he was worth to the gate and down the road.

  He had almost decided to do that when they all suddenly appeared through the opening in the hedge. William gave a gasp as he saw them. First came Frederica, the tall and agile lady who had captured him, next a very old lady with a Roman nose and expression of grim determination and a pair of lorgnettes, next came a young curate, next a muscular young man in a college blazer, and last a little girl.

  William knew the little girl.

  Her name was Emmeline, and she went to the same school as William – and William detested her. William now allowed himself the slight satisfaction of putting out his tongue at her beneath his expanse of muffler.

  But his heart sank as they surrounded him. They all surveyed him with the greatest interest. He looked about desperately once more for some way of escape, but his opportunity had gone. Like the psalmist’s enemies, they closed him in on every side. Nervously he pulled up his rug, spread out his muffler and crouched yet further down in his bath-chair.

  ‘You remember Mother, dear Uncle George, don’t you?’ screamed Frederica into the muffler.

  The dignified dame raised the lorgnettes and held out a majestic hand. William merely growled. He was beginning to find the growl effective. They all hastily took a step back.

  ‘Sulking!’ explained Frederica in her penetrating whisper. ‘Sulking! Just because I told him on the way here that if he willed to be well he would be well. It always annoyed him, but I must be true to my principles, mustn’t I? – Even if it makes him sulk – even if he cuts me out of his will I must—’

  ‘Hush, Frederica! He’ll hear you!’

  ‘No, dear, he’s almost stone deaf.’

  She leant down again to his ear.

  ‘Is your DEAFNESS any better, Uncle George?’ she screamed.

  She seemed to regard Uncle George as her own special property.

  William growled again.

  ‘YOU REMEMBER MOTHER, DEAR UNCLE GEORGE, DON’T YOU?’ FREDERICA SCREAMED INTO THE MUFFLER. WILLIAM MERELY GROWLED.

  The circle drew another step farther back. The old lady looked anxious.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s ill,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s nothing infectious! James, I think you’d better examine him.’

  THEY ALL SURVEYED THE OCCUPANT OF THE BATH-CHAIR WITH GREAT INTEREST.

  Frederica drew one of the bashful and unwilling young men forward.

  ‘This is your great-nephew, James,’ she shouted, ‘DEAR Uncle George. He’s a MEDICAL STUDENT, and he’d SO love to talk to you.’

  The rest withdrew to the other end of the lawn and watched proceedings from a distance. It would be difficult to say whether James or William felt the more desperate.

  ‘Er – how are you, Uncle George?’ said James politely, then, remembering Uncle George’s deafness, changed his soft bass to a shrill tenor. ‘HOW ARE YOU?’

  William did not answer. He was wondering how long it would be before one of them tore off his rug and muffler and horn-rimmed spectacles, and hoping that it would not be either of the young men who would administer punishment.

  ‘Er – may I – er – feel your pulse?’ went on James, then remembered and yelled ‘PULSE’.

  William sat on his hands and growled. James mopped his brow.

  ‘If I could see your tongue – er – TONGUE – you seem to be in pain – perhaps – TONGUE – allow me.’

  He took hold of the
muffler about William’s head. William gave a sudden shake and a fierce growl and James started back as though he had been bitten. William was certainly perfecting the growl.

  It was gaining a note of savage, almost blood-curdling ferocity. James gazed at him apprehensively, then, as another growl began to arise from the depth of William’s chair, hastily rejoined the others.

  ‘I’ve – er – examined him,’ he said, making a gesture as though to loosen his collar, and still gazing apprehensively in the direction of Uncle George. ‘I’ve – er – examined him. There’s nothing – er – fundamentally wrong with him. He’s just – er – got a foul temper, that’s all.’

  ‘It is a case for you, then, I think, Jonathan,’ said the old lady grimly.

  Frederica drew the second reluctant youth across the lawn.

  ‘This is your great-nephew Jonathan,’ she yelled into the muffler. ‘He’s in the CHURCH. He’s looking forward SO much to a TALK with you, DEAR Uncle George.’

  With a sprightly nod at the horn-rimmed spectacles, she departed. Jonathan smiled mirthlessly. Then he proceeded to shout at William with sotto voce interjections.

  ‘GOOD AFTERNOON, UNCLE GEORGE – confound you – WE’RE SO GLAD TO SEE YOU – don’t think – WE EXPECT TO SEE A LOT OF YOU NOW – worse luck – WE WANT TO BE A HAPPY, UNITED FAMILY – you crusty old mummy – WE HOPE – er – WE HOPE – er—’

  He couldn’t think what else to hope, so, purple with the effort of shouting, he stopped for breath. William, who was enjoying this part, chuckled. Jonathan with a sigh of relief departed. He went to the others who were watching expectantly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said airily. ‘The old chap’s quite good-tempered now. My few words seemed to hit the spot.’

  William watched the group, wondering what was going to be done next and who was going to do it. He hardly dared move in case his spectacles or muffler or rug fell off and revealed him to the cold light of day. He felt instinctively that the cold light of day would have little pity on him.

  Then he saw two maids come round the house to the lawn. One carried a table and the other a tray on which were some cakes that made William’s mouth water. Would he— oh, would he have to sit fasting and watch these unworthy people eat those glorious cakes? and – oh, scrummy! – there was a bowl of fruit salad. Surely—