Still William Page 20

  Then he went indoors. There were several people in the drawing-room. He greeted them rather coldly, his eye roving round the while for what he sought. He saw it at last . . . Ethel and a tall, lank young man sitting in the window alcove in two comfortable chairs, talking vivaciously and confidentially. William took a chair from the wall and carried it over to them, put it down by the young man’s chair, and sat down.

  There was a short, pregnant silence.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said William at last.

  ‘Er – good afternoon,’ said the young man. There was another silence.

  ‘Hadn’t you better go and speak to the others?’ said Ethel.

  ‘I’ve spoke to them,’ said William.

  There was another silence.

  ‘Don’t you want to go and play with your friends?’ asked the young man.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said William.

  Silence again.

  ‘I think Mrs Franks would like you to go and talk to her,’ said Ethel.

  ‘No, I don’t think she would,’ said William with perfect truth.

  The young man took out a shilling and handed it to William.

  ‘Go and buy some sweets for yourself,’ he said.

  William put the shilling in his pocket.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get them tonight when you’ve all gone.’

  There was another and yet deeper silence. Then Ethel and the young man began to talk together again. They had evidently decided to ignore William’s presence. William listened with rapt attention. He wanted to know what you said and the sort of voice you said it in.

  ‘St Valentine’s Day next week,’ said Laurence soulfully.

  ‘Oh, no one takes any notice of that nowadays,’ said Ethel.

  ‘I’m going to,’ said Laurence. ‘I think it’s a beautiful idea. Its meaning, you know . . . true love . . . If I send you a Valentine, will you accept it?’

  ‘That depends on the Valentine,’ said Ethel with a smile.

  ‘It’s the thought that’s behind it that’s the vital thing,’ said Laurence soulfully. ‘It’s that that matters. Ethel . . . you’re in all my waking dreams.’

  ‘I’m sure I’m not,’ said Ethel.

  ‘You are . . . Has anyone told you before that you’re a perfect Botticelli?’

  ‘Heaps of people,’ said Ethel calmly.

  ‘I was thinking about love last night,’ said Laurence. ‘Love at first sight. That’s the only sort of love . . . When first I saw you my heart leapt at the sight of you.’ Laurence was a great reader of romances. ‘I think that we’re predestined for each other. We must have known each other in former existences. We—’

  ‘Do speak up,’ said William irritably. ‘You’re speaking so low that I can’t hear what you’re saying.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘DON’T YOU WANT TO GO AND PLAY WITH YOUR FRIENDS?’ ASKED THE YOUNG MAN.

  The young man turned a flaming face of fury on to him. William returned his gaze quite unabashed.

  ‘I don’ mean I want you to shout,’ said William, ‘but just speak so’s I can hear.’

  The young man turned to Ethel.

  ‘Can you get a wrap and come into the garden?’ he said.

  ‘Yes . . . I’ve got one in the hall,’ said Ethel, rising.

  William fetched his coat and patiently accompanied them round the garden.

  ‘NO, THANK YOU,’ SAID WILLIAM.

  ‘What do people mean by sayin’ they’ll send a Valentine, Mother?’ said William that evening. ‘I thought he was a sort of saint. I don’ see how you can send a saint to anyone, specially when he’s dead ’n’ in the Prayer Book.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a figure of speech, William,’ said Mrs Brown vaguely.

  ‘A figure of what?’ said William blankly.

  ‘I mean, it’s a kind of Christmas card only it’s a Valentine, I mean . . . Well, it had gone out in my day, but I remember your grandmother showing me some that had been sent to her . . . dried ferns and flowers pasted on cardboard . . . very pretty.’

  ‘Seems sort of silly to me,’ said William after silent consideration.

  ‘People were more romantic in those days,’ said Mrs Brown with a sigh.

  ‘Oh, I’m romantic,’ said William, ‘if that means bein’ in love. I’m that all right. But I don’ see any sense in sendin’ pasted ferns an’ dead saints and things . . . But still,’ determinedly, ‘I’m goin’ to do all the sort of things they do.’

  ‘What are you talking about, William?’ said Mrs Brown.

  Then Ethel came in. She looked angrily at William.

  ‘Mother, William behaved abominably this afternoon.’

  ‘I thought he was rather good, dear,’ said Mrs Brown mildly.

  ‘What did I do wrong?’ said William with interest.

  ‘Followed us round everywhere listening to everything we said.’

  ‘Well, I jus’ listened, din’ I?’ said William rather indignantly. ‘I din’ interrupt ’cept when I couldn’t hear or couldn’t understand. There’s nothing wrong with jus’ listenin’, is there?’

  ‘But we didn’t want you,’ said Ethel furiously.

  ‘Oh . . . that!’ said William. ‘Well, I can’t help people not wanting me, can I? That’s not my fault.’

  Interest in Saint Valentine’s Day seemed to have infected the whole household. On February 13th William came upon his brother Robert wrapping up a large box of chocolates.

  ‘What’s that?’ said William.

  ‘A Valentine,’ said Robert shortly.

  ‘Well, Miss Lomas said it was a dead Saint, and Mother said it was a pasted fern, an’ now you start sayin’ it’s a box of chocolates! No one seems to know what it is. Who’s it for, anyway?’

  ‘Doreen Dobson,’ said Robert, answering without thinking and with a glorifying blush.

  ‘Oh, I say!’ said William indignantly. ‘You can’t. I’ve bagged her. I’m going to do a fern for her. I’ve had her ever since the Bible Class.’

  ‘Shut up and get out,’ said Robert.

  Robert was twice William’s size.

  William shut up and got out.

  The Lomas family was giving a party on Saint Valentine’s Day, and William had been invited with Robert and Ethel. William spent two hours on his Valentine. He could not find a fern, so he picked a large spray of yew-tree instead. There was no time to dry it, so he tried to affix it to paper as it was. At first he tried with a piece of notepaper and flour and water, but except for a generous coating of himself with the paste there was no result. The yew refused to yield to treatment. It was too strong and too large for its paper. Fortunately, however, he found a large piece of thick cardboard, about the size of a drawing-board, and a bottle of glue in the cupboard of his father’s writing desk. It took the whole bottle of glue to fix the spray of yew-tree on to the cardboard, and the glue mingled freely with the flour and water on William’s clothing and person. Finally he surveyed his handiwork.

  ‘Well, I don’ see much in it now it’s done,’ he said, ‘but I’m jolly well going to do all the things they do do.’

  He went to put on his overcoat to hide the ravages beneath, and met Mrs Brown in the hall.

  ‘Why are you wearing your coat, dear?’ she said solicitously. ‘Are you feeling cold?’

  ‘No. I’m just getting ready to go out to tea. That’s all,’ said William.

  ‘But you aren’t going out to tea for half an hour or so yet.’

  ‘No, but you always say that I ought to start gettin’ ready in good time,’ said William virtuously.

  ‘Yes, of course, dear. That’s very thoughtful of you,’ said Mrs Brown, touched.

  William spent the time before he started to the party inspecting his insect collection. He found that the spider had escaped and the earwig was stuck fast in the raspberry jam. He freed it, washed it, and christened it ‘Fred’. It was beginning to take Albert’s place in his affections.

  Then he set off to Miss
Lomas’s carrying his Valentine under his arm. He started out before Ethel and Robert because he wanted to begin his courtship of Miss Dobson before anyone else was in the field.

  Miss Lomas opened the door. She paled slightly as she saw William.

  ‘Oh . . . William,’ she said without enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve come to tea,’ William said, and added hastily, ‘I’ve been invited.’

  ‘You’re rather early,’ said Miss Lomas.

  ‘Yes, I thought I’d come early so’s to be sure to be in time,’ said William, entering and wiping his feet on the mat. ‘Which room’re we goin’ to have tea in?’

  With a gesture of hopelessness Miss Lomas showed him into the empty drawing-room.

  ‘It’s Miss Dobson I’ve really come for,’ explained William obligingly as he sat down.

  Miss Lomas fled, but Miss Dobson did not appear.

  William spent the interval wrestling with his Valentine. He had carried it sticky side towards his coat, and it now adhered closely to him. He managed at last to tear it away, leaving a good deal of glue and bits of yew-tree still attached to his coat . . . No one came . . . He resisted the temptation to sample a plate of cakes on a side table, and amused himself by pulling sticky bits of yew off his coat and throwing them into the fire from where he sat. A good many landed on the hearthrug. One attached itself to a priceless Chinese vase on the mantelpiece. William looked at what was left of his Valentine with a certain dismay. Well . . . he didn’t call it pretty, but if it was the sort of thing they did he was jolly well going to do it . . . That was all . . . Then the guests began to arrive, Robert and Ethel among the first. Miss Dobson came in with Robert. He handed her a large box of chocolates.

  ‘A Valentine,’ he said.

  ‘Oh . . . thank you,’ said Miss Dobson, blushing.

  William took up his enormous piece of gluey cardboard with bits of battered yew adhering at intervals.

  ‘A Valentine,’ he said.

  Miss Dobson looked at it in silence. Then:

  ‘W-what is it, William?’ she said faintly.

  ‘A Valentine,’ repeated William shortly, annoyed at its reception.

  ‘Oh,’ said Miss Dobson.

  Robert led her over to the recess by the window which contained two chairs. William followed, carrying his chair. He sat down beside them. Both ignored him.

  ‘Quite a nice day, isn’t it?’ said Robert.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ said Miss Dobson.

  ‘Miss Dobson,’ said William, ‘I’m always dreamin’ of you when I’m awake.’

  ‘What a pretty idea of yours to have a Valentine’s Day party,’ said Robert.

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Miss Dobson coyly.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re like a bottled cherry?’ said William doggedly.

  ‘Do you know . . . this is the first Valentine I’ve ever given anyone?’ said Robert.

  Miss Dobson lowered her eyes.

  ‘Oh . . . is it?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about love at first sight,’ said William monotonously. ‘I got such a fright when I saw you first. I think we’re pre-existed for each other.’

  ‘Will you allow me to take you out in my sidecar tomorrow?’ said Robert.

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ said Miss Dobson.

  ‘No . . . pre-destinated . . . that’s it,’ said William.

  Neither of them took any notice of him. He felt depressed and disillusioned. She wasn’t much of a catch anyway. He didn’t know why he’d ever bothered about her.

  ‘Quite a lady-killer, William,’ said General Moult from the hearthrug.

  ‘WHAT IS IT, WILLIAM?’ ASKED MISS DOBSON. ‘A VALENTINE,’ REPEATED WILLIAM. ‘MY VALENTINE.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ said William.

  ‘I say you’re a lady-killer.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said William, indignant at the aspersion. ‘I’ve never killed no ladies.’

  ‘I mean you’re fond of ladies.’

  ‘I think insects is nicer,’ said William dispiritedly.

  He was quiet for a minute or two. No one was taking any notice of him. Then he took up his Valentine, which was lying on the floor, and walked out.

  The Outlaws were in the old barn. They greeted William joyfully. Joan, the only girl member, was there with them. William handed her his cardboard.

  ‘A Valentine,’ he said.

  ‘What’s a Valentine?’ said Joan who did not attend Miss Lomas’s class.

  ‘Some say it’s a saint what wrote soppy letters to girls ’stead of gettin’ martyred prop’ly, like Peter an’ the others, an’ some say it’s a bit of fern like this, an’ some say it’s a box of chocolates.’

  ‘Well, I never!’ said Joan surprised. ‘But it’s beautiful of you to give it to me, William.’

  ‘It’s a jolly good piece of cardboard,’ said Ginger, ‘ ’f we scrape away these messy leaves an’ stuff.’

  William joined with zest in the scraping.

  ‘How’s Albert?’ said Joan.

  After all there was no one quite like Joan. He’d never contemplate marrying anyone else ever again.

  ‘He’s been took off me,’ said William.

  ‘Oh, what a shame, William!’

  ‘But I’ve got another . . . an earwig . . . called Fred.’

  ‘I’m so glad.’

  ‘But I like you better than any insect, Joan,’ he said generously.

  ‘Oh, William, do you really?’ said Joan, deeply touched.

  ‘Yes – an I’m goin’ to marry you when I grow up if you won’t want me to talk a lot of soppy stuff that no one can understand.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, William . . . No, I won’t.’

  ‘All right . . . Now come on an’ let’s play Red Indians.’

  Richmal Crompton was born in Lancashire in 1890. The first story about William Brown appeared in Home magazine in 1919, and the first collection of William stories was published in book form three years later. In all, thirty-eight William books were published, the last one in 1970, after Richmal Crompton’s death.

  ‘Probably the funniest, toughest children’s books ever written’

  Sunday Times on the Just William series

  ‘Richmal Crompton’s creation [has] been famed for his cavalier attitude to life and those who would seek to circumscribe his enjoyment of it ever since he first appeared’

  Guardian

  Books available in the Just William 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 at War

  First published 1925

  This selection first published 1984 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This edition published 2011 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  This electronic edition published 2011 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

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  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-54352-1 EPUB

  All stories copyright © Richmal C. Ashbee

  This selection copyright © Richmal C. Ashbee 1984

  Foreword copyright © Tony Robinson 2010

  Illustrations copyright © Thomas Henry Fisher Estate

  The right of Richmal C. Ashbee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person w
ho does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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