William Carries On Page 2

  “Oh, thank you, William,” said Violet Elizabeth gratefully. “You’re tho kind.”

  “Well, the first thing to do,” said William, so deeply impressed by his own cunning that for the moment he couldn’t think what was the first thing to do. “Well—er—the first thing to do is to get those lemons off her before the police find out that she’s got ’em an’ start puttin’ her in prison. Could you get ’em?”

  “Oh, yeth, William,” said Violet Elizabeth. “I could get them eathily. I know juth where they are. They’ve been there for month an’ month.”

  “Well, you get ’em an’ bring ’em along,” said William. “Could you get ’em first thing to-morrow morning?”

  “Oh, yeth,” said Violet Elizabeth. She was silent for a moment then said: “I wouldn’t mind her going to prithon for juth one day, William. I could do nearly all the thingth thee dothn’t let me do in one day.”

  “Goodness!” said William. “They’d put her in prison for years. Jus’ think. You’d have no acid drops for years. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

  “Oh, no,” agreed Violet Elizabeth with a shudder. “I thouldn’t like that. I’ll get the lemonth for you firtht thing to-morrow, then, William.”

  “All right,” said William. “I’ll be in your summerhouse d’rectly after breakfast an’ you bring ’em along.”

  “Yeth, I will,” promised Violet Elizabeth serenely. True to her word, she came trotting along to the summer-house the next morning, carrying a cardboard box.

  “Here they are, William,” she said. “They’re lovely lemonth. Thee needn’t go to prithon now—need thee?—’cauth thee’s going to take me to the pictureth an’ I do tho want to go to the pictureth.”

  “No, it’s all right now,” William assured her. “She won’t have to go to prison now.”

  He opened the box. There were six small lemons, each in a separate compartment.

  “Thanks,” he said gratefully. He took them out of the box and slipped them into the pocket of his coat, then hesitated.

  “Seems sort of stealin’ jus’ to take ’em,” he said, assailed suddenly and belatedly by faint scruples. “P’raps we oughter put some other sort of fruit in their place, then it’d only be exchangin’.”

  “What about appleth?” suggested Violet Elizabeth brightly. “We’ve got loth an’ loth of appleth thtored in the bocth-room.”

  “Yes, that’ll do fine,” said William. “You fetch them an’ we’ll put ’em in, then it won’t be stealin’.”

  Violet Elizabeth trotted off obediently, to return a few minutes later with six rosy apples.

  “We’ll put one in each hole, thall we?” she suggested. Then hopefully: “If thee openth it p’rapth thee’ll forget it wath lemonth an’ think it wath appleth all the time.”

  “Thee’th got a very bad memory. Thee’th alwayth forgetting thingth.”

  At this moment a voice was heard from the direction of the house calling “Violet Eliza—beth!"

  “P’rapth I’d better go,” said Violet Elizabeth hurriedly. “They make thuth a futh if they think I’m lotht. You put the appleth into the holth, William, an’ leave the bocth here an’ I’ll come back for it an’ put it back where it wath in Mother’s cupboard.”

  “All right,” agreed William.

  He watched Violet Elizabeth trot off in the direction of the house, then turned his attention to the apples that she had put on the table. He fitted them slowly and carefully into the spaces of the box where the lemons had been. They were larger than the lemons and took up so much room that the lid didn’t quite close. They were much too large for the box, thought William, looking at them longingly . . . Perhaps if he just took one bite out of each they’d fit better and it wouldn’t do any real harm. They’d look the same from the top anyway, and probably Mrs. Bott had forgotten all about the box by now, and would never think of it again. Violet Elizabeth had said that she had a very bad memory and the box had been there for months.

  He took a bite out of the largest and most tempting-looking . . . then another . . . then stood gazing down in horror at the core.

  “Gosh!” he said aloud to himself in a tone of stern indignation. “Fancy eatin’ it all! You’d better be more careful with the next.”

  He certainly meant to be more careful with the next. He meant to take only one—or at most two—bites out of it, but he happened to catch sight, through the summerhouse window, of two sparrows fighting, and the spectacle so engrossed him that he found he had eaten the whole apple before he realised it. Again only the core was left. After that William surrendered to Fate. He was never a boy to go in for half measures. After all, one might as well eat six apples as two. He ate them with relish and dispatch and put the six cores carefully in the centre of the partitions in the box. They at least proved, he considered, his good intentions, were evidence that he had meant to replace the six lemons by six apples, and would have done so, had not Fate been too much for him. He shut the box, placed it on the seat of the summer-house, the precious lemons safely in his pocket, and quietly departed.

  A few minutes after he had gone, Violet Elizabeth returned, took the box and put it back at the bottom of her mother’s wardrobe.

  She did not open the box, and therefore did not notice that it contained only six apple cores.

  Neither she nor William had noticed that the lid of the box bore the words: “Lemon Soap. Guest Size.”

  * * *

  No one seemed to be about when William approached Honeysuckle Cottage. Mrs. Fountain had given a lecture on war-time cookery to the Women’s Institute yesterday afternoon, and Miss Griffin was busy typing out the notes of it. Mrs. Fountain herself had got the lunch under way and was upstairs changing her dress. William entered the cottage by the back door and looked about the kitchen uncertainly. It would be nice, he thought, if the lemons could come as a surprise, if Mrs. Fountain, thinking that she had no lemons for lunch, could suddenly and unexpectedly find that she had. A saucepan was boiling on the gas stove. William lifted the lid and sniffed tentatively. Soup. Unmistakably soup. He remembered Mrs. Fountain’s saying that she would put lemons into soup if she had them, so he slipped two of the lemons from his pocket into the soup. She should have lemons in her soup and it should come as a lovely surprise . . .

  Then he opened the oven door. Some sort of meat was cooking in a casserole. You couldn’t have lemons in meat. It was a pity but there it was . . . On another shelf of the oven some sort of pudding was cooking. William remembered that Mrs. Fountain had said that she was going to have an apple pudding and that you needed lemons for apple pudding. There was a sort of crust on the top. Very carefully he moved the crust aside and slipped a lemon underneath, replacing the crust so that no one would know it had been disturbed. Another lovely surprise for her, he thought with satisfaction. He still had three more lemons, but he didn’t see how he could use them. He’d put them on the larder shelf, so that she could have a lemon pudding to-morrow . . .

  * * *

  Mr. Devizes arrived at Honeysuckle Cottage on the stroke of one o’clock. He had had a long and troublesome journey and he was looking forward to a good lunch. He had thought that he would enjoy a day in the country, but the country had proved disappointing. It was definitely unlike the country that his pre-war memories and the Views depicted on the cards and calendars he had received at Christmas had led him to expect. The trees dripped in a drizzle of rain, and the horizon was shrouded in a grey mist. It made him look forward to his lunch all the more. Some of Mrs. Fountain’s recipes—even the war-time ones—had made his mouth water. He had the contract for the Cookery Page in his attache case all ready for her signature.

  Ah, this must be the cottage. A nice neat little cottage with a nice neat little garden. It suggested homeliness and comfort and—good food. A small boy seemed to be skulking in the bushes outside one of the windows. A gardener’s boy, probably, intent on acquiring a gardener’s skill in appearing to be engaged in some horticultural pursuit w
hile in reality doing nothing at all.

  He knocked at the door. A small woman with grey hair and a pleasant expression opened the door.

  “Mrs. Fountain?” said Mr. Devizes.

  “No. I’m her secretary, Miss Griffin. Do come in . . .”

  Mrs. Fountain was in the sitting-room hovering about a bottle of sherry. He liked the sherry and he liked Mrs. Fountain and he liked Miss Griffin and he liked the cottage and he was sure that he was going to like the lunch.

  Mrs. Fountain led him into the pleasant little dining room with yellow curtains and table mats, and a bowl of bronze chrysanthemums in the middle of the table.

  “Now I’m going to ask you to excuse me while you have your soup,” said Mrs. Fountain. “I’m not taking soup and I have one or two finishing touches to put to the rest of the meal.”

  She set down two steaming soup bowls on the table and scurried back to the kitchen.

  William, from the shelter of the bushes outside the window, watched with interest. Now he would see the result of the trouble he had taken to make this meal a success. He waited confidently for smiles of delight and surprise to appear on the faces of the lunchers . . . but he waited in vain.

  Mr. Devizes tasted the soup, and a peculiar expression spread over his countenance. It certainly contained surprise, but there was no delight in it. He laid down his spoon with an air of finality.

  “So sorry,” he said. “I ought to have told you that I didn’t take soup. I’m afraid that I wasn’t listening to what Mrs. Fountain said. I—I never take soup.”

  Miss Griffin murmured perfunctory sympathy. She was obviously wrestling with some deep emotion. She took another spoonful . . . and another . . . and another . . . Priscilla had evidently tried some new flavouring in the soup, and it wasn’t a success. At least one couldn’t say that anything of dear Priscilla’s wasn’t a success, but, whatever it was, it was an acquired taste . . . and it didn’t seem easy to acquire. On the contrary it seemed extremely difficult. She’d already drunk more than half her bowl and it tasted as queer as ever. It was making her feel queer, too . . . But one couldn’t let dear Priscilla down. One must just go on . . . She went or determinedly, her small face a mask of anguish. Mr. Devizes watched her with mingled horror and admiration. How on earth could she eat the stuff? But probably she was used to it. Probably they lived on these foul concoctions. He was glad that a merciful Providence had prevented his giving Mrs. Fountain the contract to sign before lunch. He couldn’t possibly give his precious Cookery Page to a woman who turned out stuff like this.

  Mrs. Fountain had come back into the room. “I do hope you liked the soup . . . Oh, dear!” Her face fell as she looked at Mr. Devizes’ bowl. “Oh, dear! You’ve hardly eaten any.”

  “I—I don’t take soup,” said Mr. Devizes. “I’m afraid I forgot to mention it in time.”

  “I hope it was all right,” said Mrs. Fountain anxiously to Miss Griffen.

  “It was lovely,” said Miss Griffin, her lips set in a mirthless smile. (One mustn’t let her dear Priscilla down.) “It was simply delicious.”

  Mrs. Fountain looked at her in surprise. There was something almost hysterical in dear Lavinia’s voice, and—how odd she looked! Perhaps she was finding the strain too much. It was, of course, a very important occasion. But there was nothing for her to worry about. She threw her a reassuring smile.

  “I’ll get the meat, then,” she said. “No, don’t move. I like to be waitress. I know just where everything is.”

  Miss Griffin stood up as if to assist, then sat down suddenly, staring glassily in front of her.

  A pity Mr. Devizes didn’t like soup, thought William regretfully, as he watched Mrs. Fountain collecting the soup bowls and bustling out of the room. He’d missed a jolly good taste of lemon. The meat would be a bit dull, of course, because there wasn’t any lemon in it, but there was a good bit of lemon in the pudding. It would be a jolly nice surprise for all of them to find the lemon in the pudding. Mr. Devizes would probably give Mrs. Fountain twice as much money as he’d meant to for the Cookery Page once he’d tasted the pudding.

  Mr. Devizes’ spirit rose when he tasted the veal stew. It was delicious and quite definitely pre-war. There were peas in it and—yes, actually onions—and bacon and little balls of forcemeat and a delicious flavour of herbs. It was succulent and savoury and—in short, delicious. Yes, she certainly could cook. Perhaps he hadn’t given the soup a fair trial. After all, he’d only had one spoonful . . .

  Miss Griffin ate her veal stew slowly, and didn’t take much part in the conversation. That new soup of Priscilla’s had left the oddest taste in her mouth. It made even this delicious veal stew taste queer. A most extraordinary taste . . . Not really pleasant at all.

  Mrs. Fountain changed the plates and brought in the pudding and a wine jelly. Mr. Devizes and Miss Griffin served the pudding, and her heart sank afresh as she did so. It was of a most curious consistency. Oh dear! Priscilla must have been trying another experiment, and it hadn’t come off. So unlike dear Priscilla . . . and so unlike dear Priscilla’s experiments. She took a mouthful and blenched. It surely couldn’t taste as bad as that. Perhaps it was the taste of the soup that was still haunting her. Perhaps, she thought wildly, she was ill, and this dreadful taste was one of the symptoms. Yes, that must be it. Nothing—certainly nothing that dear Priscilla had cooked—could possibly taste as horrible as the soup had seemed to taste and as the pudding now seemed to taste. She must be ill . . . As a matter of fact she felt ill. Very ill indeed. But one mustn’t let dear Priscilla down.

  “Delicious!” she murmured faintly as she carried yet another spoonful to her lips with a nervous hand.

  Mr. Devizes took a spoonful . . . and the smile froze on his lips. He’d never tasted anything so foul in all his life. Still, he’d give it a fair trial. He took three spoonfuls and each was fouler than the last.

  Mrs. Fountain ate her wine jelly slowly and contentedly at the head of the table. The bowl of chrysanthemums hid both Mr. Devizes’ and Miss Griffin’s plates from her. She prattled away gaily about the weather and the garden and the village and the war.

  “I don’t see how they can get far if they do invade,” she said. “There are tank traps all the way along Hadley High Street.”

  Miss Griffin rose abruptly from her seat. She had drained the bitter cup to its dregs and a pea-green world rocked about her.

  “I don’t feel very well, Priscilla,” she managed to articulate. “I—I think I’ll go and rest.”

  With that she plunged from the room.

  Mrs. Fountain gazed after her in surprise. Poor Lavinia! She certainly looked pretty bad. Such a pity that she was taken ill to-day of all days, when there was such a delicious lunch!

  She craned her head round the chrysanthemums to see if Mr. Devizes had finished his pudding. He had evidently only had a few mouthfuls, but he had put his fork and spoon together.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I—I ought to have told you. I—I never take sweets.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Mrs. Fountain, disappointed. “What a pity! It’s a speciality of my own. Don’t you like it?”

  “Delicious,” said Mr. Devizes faintly. “But, as I said, I never touch sweets. I’m—er—inclined to be liverish.”

  Yes, he didn’t look any too good, thought Mrs. Fountain, inspecting him critically. The weather, perhaps. It frequently upset the digestion.

  “I really don’t think that it could have done you any harm,” she said wistfully. “But you must let me give you the recipe,” she went on. “It’s really delicious.”

  “Er—thank you,” murmured Mr. Devizes.

  He had decided—reluctantly but quite firmly—not to hand over his Cookery Page to her. The stew, of course, had been all right, but the soup and the sweet had been ghastly. The very memory of them made him feel sick. Again he thanked his stars that he hadn’t asked her to sign the contract before lunch. He’d nearly done so. She’d have killed off his readers like flies.<
br />
  “’Fraid I must run away now,” he said uncomfortably.

  “Oh, but won’t you have coffee?” pleaded Mrs. Fountain.

  “I—I never take coffee,” he said firmly. (Heaven alone knew what her coffee would be like!)

  “B-but,” she faltered,“I thought—I’d hoped that we were going to have a little business talk.”

  “I’ll write,” he said uncomfortably. “I’ll write. Thank you so much for your hospitality.”

  She gazed at him in dismay. She knew as well as if he had told her in so many words that he’d changed his mind about the Cookery Page, that he wasn’t going to give it to her, after all. It was so dreadful that she could hardly believe it.

  “B-b-but,” she began and was aghast to find herself on the verge of tears.

  “Good-bye,” he said hurriedly. “’Fraid I must fly. Got an important engagement in Town . . .”

  He dived towards the door and—ran into Mrs. Bott and Violet Elizabeth.

  Mrs. Bott carried a box tied up in brown paper. She was impressively dressed in her visiting clothes, and seemed to fill the little room so completely that she left no means of escape. Mr. Devizes stared at her, fascinated by her bulk and the magnificence of her ospreyed hat and fur-trimmed coat.

  Mrs. Fountain, still aghast and bewildered by the dashing of her most treasured hopes, introduced them.

  “Pleased to meet you. I’m shar,” said Mrs. Bott affably. She turned to Mrs. Fountain. “We all enjoyed your little talk so much at the W.I. yesterday, Mrs. Fountain, and we thought that we’d like to make you a little acknowledgement. Just a teeny trifle to mark our appreciation, as it were. Nothing much, of course, but war’s war, so to speak, and we all ’ave to draw in our ’orns these days. It’s just a little something to show you ’ow much we appreciated your kindness.”