William Carries On Page 3

  She handed the box to Mrs. Fountain with the air of Royalty presenting some coveted decoration, and stood smiling complacently as Mrs. Fountain unwrapped it. Mrs. Fountain laid the brown paper neatly aside and opened the box, revealing six compartments, in the middle of each of which reposed an apple core. This insult, coming on top of her recent disappointment, was too much for her. She dropped on to the settee and burst into tears. Violet Elizabeth, who had been unaware that the box her mother had brought with her was the one that had lain for so long in her wardrobe, and who had been watching proceedings with an air of boredom, started in sudden surprise.

  “It muth be William,” she said indignantly. “He’th eaten them. The greedy boy!”

  “Eaten them?” said Mrs. Bott, who was staring at the apple cores in amazement. “Eaten what?”

  “The appleth,” said Violet Elizabeth.

  “Apples!” screamed Mrs. Bott, succumbing into the settee next to the weeping cookery expert. “What apples?”

  “There were thix of them,” said Violet Elizabeth. “Thix lovely appleth an’ he’th eaten them all. He’th a greedy boy. If I’d known he wath going to eat them I’d have had thome too.”

  “I don’t know what the child’s talking about,” said Mrs. Bott helplessly to the others. “It was a box of soap.”

  Violet Elizabeth shook her head.

  “There wathn’t ever any thoap in it,” she said firmly. “It was beautiful pre-war soap,” wailed Mrs. Bott. “It had been left over from our last sale, but it was good soap, and I thought it would make a nice little gift.”

  “It wath appleth,” said Violet Elizabeth with quiet persistence.

  "It was not apples, you bad untruthful child!” said Mrs. Bott hysterically. “D’you think I don’t know what’s apples and what isn’t? I tell you it was soap.”

  “Oh, no,” agreed Violet Elizabeth, carrying her mind with difficulty back into the past. “It wathn’t alwath appleth. It wath lemonth firtht.”

  “Lemons?” said Mrs. Bott, who had quite forgotten the particular kind of soap the box contained. “I never heard such a thing! Am I mad or are you?”

  “I’m not,” said Violet Elizabeth reassuringly. “An’ it wath lemonth. It wath lemonth firtht an’ then it wath appleth, ’cauth of you goin’ to prithon.”

  “What?” gasped Mrs. Bott. “Me goin’ to prison?”

  “Yeth,” said Violet Elizabeth, unperturbed. “You were goin’ to be put in prithon for hoardin’ thingth an’ William wanted to thave you ’cauth of athid dropth an’ you taking me to the pictureth, tho he took out the lemonth and put appleth in inthtead but he’th a greedy boy.”

  “Stop!” said Mrs. Bott, her usually resonant voice a mere whisper. “The child’s mad. Stark, staring—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mr. Devizes, picking up the cardboard box from the floor. “Perhaps this will explain it. ‘Lemon Soap. Guest Size.’”

  “Oh, I didn’t know it wath thoap,” said Violet Elizabeth. “William didn’t know it wath thoap either.” She stared suddenly and pointed to the window. “He’th there. He’th lithening.”

  William, aware that events had taken a dramatic turn but unable to hear what was being said, had inadvertently thrust his head right through the open window. At Violet Elizabeth’s cry of discovery he dived back into the bushes, but too late. Mr. Devizes reached out of the window and grabbed him by the ear.

  “Lemme go,” said William, wriggling helplessly in his grasp. “Lemme go . . . All right, I won’t run away if you’ll lemme go.”

  “Tell us the whole story,” said Mr. Devizes sternly.

  “All right,” said William, standing at the open window and nursing his ear, which Mr. Devizes had now released. “It wasn’t my fault. Honest, it wasn’t my fault. I knew she wanted to give you a good lunch ’cause of this cookery page an’ she wanted some lemons an’ she hadn’t any an’ Violet Elizabeth said there were some in a box in her mother’s bedroom an’ I told her it was hoardin’ an’ she’d get put in prison an’ she said she’d get ’em an’ she did an’ I brought em’ here an’ I wanted ’em to be a surprise an’ I went into the kitchen when no one was there an’ I put two in the soup an one in the puddin’ ’cause I wanted her to get this cookery page an’ I put the rest in the larder.” He paused a moment for breath then continued. “You see I di’n’t know that he di’n’t like soup or puddin’ an’ that Miss Griffin wasn’t feelin’ well or I wouldn’t’ve wasted ’em like that . . .”

  Mr. Devizes burst into a roar of laughter.

  “So that’s what it tasted of,” he said, “Lemon soap. Guest size.”

  “Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Fountain, aghast. “No wonder you didn’t take soup or pudding.”

  It was at this point that Miss Griffin entered the room again. She looked pale and wan but mistress of herself.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologised. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “We do,” said Mr. Devizes. “It was ‘Lemon Soap. Guest Size.’” He held out his hand and solemnly shook hands with her. “Allow me to congratulate you. You behaved like a heroine. You ate it to the last sud.”

  William had now entered the room by the door in order to justify himself more fully.

  “She,” nodding to Violet Elizabeth, “said they were lemons, and she," nodding to Mrs. Fountain, “said she wanted lemons. How was I to know it was soap?”

  “Fanthy eating them all!” said Violet Elizabeth. “He ith a greedy boy!”

  “Ere! I still don’t know what’s ’appened,” said Mrs. Bott, dropping aitches wildly in her bewilderment. “’Ow could the boy eat a boxful of soap and leave apple cores?”

  “Let’s all have some coffee,” said Mrs. Fountain. “I’m sure we need it. You’ll have some now, won’t you?” to Mr. Devizes.

  “Yes, please,” he replied. “I’ll have some with pleasure now that I know there won’t be any lemon soap in it . . . Let me give you a hand with it. Miss Griffin ought to sit still and rest. She’s been through a very trying experience.”

  “Well,” admitted Miss Griffin, smiling faintly, “I do feel a tiny bit shaky still.”

  Mrs. Fountain and Mr. Devizes went into the kitchen and returned afterwards with the coffee. Mrs Fountain’s small good-humoured face was alight with pleasure.

  “We’ve fixed up the contract for the Cookery Page,” she said to Miss Griffin. “I’ve signed it on the kitchen table. And he says he can get me some broadcasting. Isn’t it wonderful!”

  “I do wish I knew what’s ’appened,” said Mrs. Bott plaintively as she took her cup of coffee. “Lemons an’ soap an’ apple cores an’ cookery pages! It’s all beyond me.” She sipped her coffee and her face brightened. “This ’ere’s the best coffee I’ve ’ad since war started. ’Ow d’you make it?”

  “Mrs. Fountain is probably going to broadcast on the making of coffee,” said Mr. Devizes.

  “Lawks!” said Mrs. Bott, impressed.

  William sat sunk in deep dejection.

  “I thought I was helpin’ to make it a jolly good lunch,” he said. “How was I to know it was soap?”

  “Cheer up, old chap,” said Mr. Devizes. “You’ve given me my first good laugh since the blitz started. I think that’s worth half a crown.”

  “Gosh!” said William brightening. “Half a crown! Coo! Thanks!”

  “Well, I give them apple cores up,” sighed Mrs. Bott, “but it’s such lovely coffee that I don’t care what ’appened.”

  “I think I will try some coffee, dear,” said Miss Griffin. “I’m feeling better every minute.”

  “I can tell the girlth at thchool that I know thomeone that broadcath,” said Violet Elizabeth proudly.

  “I’ve always wanted to broadcast,” said Mrs. Fountain.

  “Coo!” murmured William ecstatically. “Half a crown! I’d almost forgot what they look like.”

  “Oh, it’s not a bad old war at times,” said Mr. Devizes, summing up the situation.

  Chapter 2
– William and the Bomb

  It caused quite a sensation among the Outlaws when they heard that the Parfitts were coming back from London to live in the village again because of the war. Joan Parfitt was the only girl of whom the Outlaws had ever really approved. She was small and dark and shy and eager and considered the Outlaws the embodiments of every manly virtue. They were afraid that her sojourn in London might have spoilt her, but to their relief they found that she had not altered at all. She was still small and dark and shy and eager, and she still considered the Outlaws the embodiments of every manly virtue. She was not even infected by the bomb snobbery that the inhabitants of the village found so exasperating in most of its London visitors. She did not describe her methods of dealing with “incendiaries”, her reactions to “screamers”, her shelter life, the acrobatics she performed when taking cover at various sinister sounds.

  The village was sick of such descriptions from evacuees. It was perhaps unduly sensitive on the subject, suffering from what might be called a bomb inferiority complex. For, though enemy aeroplanes frequently roared overhead during the night watches, and a neighbouring AA gun occasionally made answer, providing the youthful population with the shrapnel necessary for their “collection”, no bombs had as yet fallen on the village.

  Mrs. Parfitt had taken Lilac Cottage, recently vacated by Miss Cliff, and there the Outlaws went to call for Joan the morning after her arrival.

  “It’s lovely to be back,” she greeted them. “I can hardly believe it’s true.”

  The Outlaws were flattered by this attitude.

  “I expect London’s a bit more excitin’ really,” said William modestly.

  “London’s horrible,” said Joan with a shudder. “All streets and houses. I can’t tell you how horrible it is.”

  “Well, come on,” said William happily. “Let’s go to the woods an’ play Red Indians.”

  For in the old days Joan had always been their squaw, and no one else had ever been found to fill the role satisfactorily.

  In the course of the morning, during which Joan showed no falling off in her squaw performance, it turned out that she would celebrate her birthday while she was staying in the village.

  “And Mummy says I can have a birthday party,” she said. “It would have been terribly dull in London, but it will be lovely to be able to have you all to a birthday party.”

  Further investigation revealed that Joan’s birthday was on the same day as Hubert Lane’s. And then the Outlaws became really excited. For Hubert Lane—the inveterate enemy of the Outlaws—was having a birthday of (as far as possible) pre-war magnificence and he was inviting to it all his own supporters. He had, indeed, arranged the party chiefly in order to exclude from it the Outlaws and their friends and to jeer at them as the Boys Who Were Not Going to a Birthday Party. He was aghast when he heard about Joan’s. He continued to jeer, but a note of anxiety crept into his jeering.

  “We’re goin’ to have jellies,” he shouted to the Outlaws, when he met them in the village.

  “So’re we,” the Outlaws shouted back.

  “We’re goin’ to have a trifle.”

  “So’re we.”

  “We’re goin’ to have crackers.”

  “So’re we.”

  Joan’s mother appreciated the importance of the occasion. Without aspiring to put Hubert’s in the shade, the Outlaws’ party (for so they looked on it) was to be every bit as good.

  “We’re goin’ to get Mr. Leicester to come and bring his kinematograph,” said Hubert.

  “He won’t,” said William. “He’s a warden an’ he says he’s not got time. We’ve tried him.”

  “Then we’ll borrow it off him. My mother can work it.”

  “So can Joan’s mother, but he won’t lend it. We’ve tried.”

  “Huh!” said Hubert. “I bet he’ll lend it us."

  But he was wrong. Mr. Leicester most emphatically refused either to bring his kinematograph to the party or to lend it.

  In pre-war days the crowning glory of every children’s party for miles round had been Mr. Leicester’s kinematograph. It was his greatest pride and joy, and he loved to take it about with him and show it off. No children’s party indeed was complete without Mr. Leicester, his kinematograph and his collection of Mickey Mouse films. No date was ever fixed for a party without first making sure that Mr. Leicester would be free . . .

  Since the war, however, Mr. Leicester had become a District Warden and was taking life very seriously. He had no time for such childish things as kinematographs and had, in fact, locked it up in the big cupboard in his dressing-room, announcing that it would not reappear till after the war. He refused indignantly all suggestions that he should lend it. No one but he, he said, understood its delicate mechanism.

  Approached by the organisers to both parties, Mr. Leicester remained firm. Did they realise, he asked sternly, that there was a war on and that such things as kinematographs were wholly out of place? He would neither bring it nor lend it. It should not, in fact, see the light of day till Victory should have crowned the wardens’ efforts (for Mr. Leicester considered the war to be waged entirely by wardens, magnificently ignoring army, navy and air force). Then and not till then, he would take it out, and it would accompany him on the usual round of local festivities . . .

  Both the Outlaws and the Hubert Laneites finally resigned themselves to the absence of this central attraction, but rivalry between them still ran high.

  “We’re goin’ to have some jolly excitin’ games.”

  “So’re we.”

  “We’re goin’ to have some you’ve never heard of.”

  “An’ we’re going to have some you’ve never heard of.”

  “Anyway, you’re not goin’ to have Mr. Leicester’s cinema thing.”

  “Neither are you.”

  Hubert was afraid that the Outlaws, being admittedly more enterprising than his own followers, would evolve a more exciting programme for Joan’s party than he and his followers could evolve for theirs.

  “Wish somethin’d happen to them,” he muttered darkly as he passed Lilac Cottage and saw through the window Joan and her mother making decorations for the party out of some coloured paper left over from Christmas.

  And—as if his wishes had the power of a magician’s wand—something did happen.

  The bomb fell that night.

  It was literally a bomb.

  For the first time since the outbreak of war a German bomber, passing over the village, chose, for no conceivable reason, to release part of its load there.

  Fortunately, most of it fell in open country and there were no casualties, but one bomb fell in the roadway just outside the Hall, blew up the entrance gates and made a deep crater in the road.

  Mr. Leicester, complete with overalls and tin hat, was on the spot immediately. It was he who descried, at the bottom of the crater, the smooth rounded surface of a half-buried “unexploded bomb”.

  All through the months of inactivity he had longed for an Occasion to which he could rise, and he rose to this one superbly. The road must be roped off. Traffic must be diverted. All houses in the immediate neighbourhood must be evacuated. Fortunately the Botts were away, so the many complications that Mrs. Bott would inevitably have introduced into the situation were absent. But Lilac Cottage was among the houses that Mr. Leicester ordered to be evacuated, and at first Mrs. Parfitt did not know where to go. Then Miss Milton came to the rescue. Miss Milton was prim and elderly and very very houseproud. She had had several evacuees billeted on her, but none of them had been able to stay the course and all had departed after a few weeks. So now she had a spare bedroom to offer Mrs. Parfitt and Joan.

  “I shall look on it as my war work,” she said to Mrs. Parfitt. “It will mean a good deal of inconvenience for me—I quite realise that—but one must put up with inconvenience these days.”

  Mrs. Parfitt hesitated.

  “It’s very kind of you,” she said at last. “I hope, of course, that it w
on’t be for long. Poor Joan! We were going to have her birthday party at the end of the month.”

  Miss Milton paled.

  “A party!” she gasped. “She must not, of course, expect anything of that sort in my house. I was going to make it a condition that no other child entered the house at all. I have a horror of children, and I shall expect Joan to conform to the rules I laid down for my other evacuees . . . You will be coming at once, I suppose?”

  Mrs. Parfitt sighed.

  “Yes . . . Thank you so much. I hope we shan’t trouble you for long.”

  But days passed and still the bomb failed to explode. The spirits of the Hubert Laneites rose.

  “Yah!” they jeered. “Who’s not goin’ to have a birthday party?”

  They taunted Joan and the Outlaws with the dainties they were preparing for their own feast, following them through the village and shouting:

  “Trifle . . . jellies . . . choc’late cake . . . An’ who’s not goin’ to have any of ’em? Yah! Who’s not goin’ to have a party at all? Yah!”

  It seemed, indeed, very unlikely that Joan’s party would take place now. Mr. Leicester would go at frequent intervals to lean over the barrier and gaze with fond but modest pride at his unexploded bomb.

  “No,” he would say, “I don’t know when it will go off. It might go off any minute or it might not go off for weeks. I am taking every precaution.”

  Meantime Joan was not finding life easy at Miss Milton’s. Miss Milton had drawn up an elaborate code of rules. Joan was not to use the front door. She was to take off outdoor shoes immediately on entering the house. She was not to speak at meals. If inadvertently she touched any article of furniture, Miss Milton would leap at it with a duster, lips tightly compressed, in order to rub off any possible finger marks. Miss Milton rested upstairs in her bedroom from lunch-time till tea-time. She was, she said, a “light sleeper”, so Joan had to creep about the house during that time on tiptoe and not raise her voice above a whisper.