William the Good Read online

  Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce looked doubtful.

  ‘Is it literary enough, do you think,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Miss Gwladwyn earnestly. ‘It must be. If it’s historical it must be literary, mustn’t it? I mean, it follows, doesn’t it?’

  Apparently the majority of the Literary Society thought it did.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Miss Gwladwyn brightly, ‘I’ll get the book and we’ll have a reading and then vote on it. All I can say is that I’ve seen it and I’ve seen a good many of Shakespeare’s plays too, and I consider this a much sweeter thing than any of Shakespeare’s, and if that doesn’t prove that it’s Literary I don’t know what does.’

  Again the Society seemed to find the logic unassailable and the meeting broke up (after tea and iced cake, a verbatim account of what Mrs Jones said to Mrs Robinson when they’d quarrelled last week, and a detailed description of the doctor’s wife’s new hat), arranging to meet the next week and read Miss Gwladwyn’s play.

  ‘I know that you’ll like it,’ was Miss Gwladwyn’s final assurance as she took her leave. ‘It’s such an awfully sweet little thing.’

  The meeting took place early the next week. Miss Gwladwyn opened it by artlessly suggesting that as she’d seen the play before she should read the heroine’s part. It was generally felt that as she had introduced the play to them, this was only her due.

  The first scene was read fairly briskly. It abounded, however, in such stage directions as ‘When door opens howling of wind is heard outside.’ ‘Crash of thunder without’, and such remarks as: ‘Hark how the storm does rage tonight’, and: ‘Hear the beating of the rain upon the windowpanes.’ ‘Listen! Do you not hear the sound of horses’ hoofs?’

  At the end of the scene Miss Georgine Hemmerseley (who was a notorious pessimist) remarked:

  ‘It will be very difficult to get those noises made.’

  ‘Those who aren’t on the stage must make them,’ said Miss Gwladwyn.

  ‘But we’re all on the stage in this scene,’ objected Miss Georgine Hemmersley.

  ‘Then we must have a special person to make them,’ said Miss Gwladwyn.

  Miss Georgine Hemmersley threw her eye over the stage directions.

  ‘They’ll be very difficult to make,’ she said, ‘especially the wind. How does one make the sound of wind?’

  ‘A sort of whistle, I suppose,’ said Miss Gwladwyn doubtfully.

  ‘Y-yes,’ said Miss Georgine Hemmersley, ‘but how? I mean, I couldn’t do it, for instance.’

  At that moment William passed down the street outside.

  William was whistling – not his usual piercing blast of a whistle, but a slow, mournful, meditative whistle. As a matter of fact he was not aware that he was whistling at all. His mind was occupied with a deep and apparently insoluble problem – the problem of how to obtain a new football with no money or credit at his disposal. Only such an optimist as William would have tackled the problem at all. But William walking down the street, hands in pockets, scowling gaze fixed on the ground mechanically and unconsciously emitting a tuneless monotonous undertone of a whistle, was convinced that there must be a solution of the problem if only he could think of it . . . If only he could think of it . . . He passed by Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s open window and his whistle fell upon a sudden silence within.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

  Miss Georgine Hemmersley went to the window.

  ‘It’s just a boy,’ she said.

  Miss Gwladwyn followed her.

  ‘It’s that rough-looking boy one sees about so much,’ she said.

  Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce joined them at the window.

  ‘It’s William Brown,’ she said.

  They stood at the open window while William, wholly unconscious of their regard, still grappling mentally with his insoluble problem, passed on his way. His faint tuneless strain floated back to them.

  ‘It – it does sound like the wind,’ said Miss Gwladwyn.

  On an impulse Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce put her head out of the window.

  ‘William Brown!’ she called sharply. ‘Come here.’

  William turned and scowled at her aggressively.

  ‘I’ve not done nothin’,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me you saw chasin’ your cat yesterday.’

  ‘Come in here, William,’ she said. ‘We want to ask you something.’

  William stood hesitating, not sure whether to obey or whether to show his contempt of her by continuing his thoughtful progress down the street.

  They probably only wanted him in to make a fuss about something he’d not done. Well, not meant to do anyway; well, not worth making a fuss about anyway. On the other hand it might be something else and if he went on he’d never know what they’d wanted him for. His curiosity won the day.

  Taking a piece of chewing-gum, which he had absently been carrying in his mouth, from his mouth to his pocket, he proceeded to hoist himself up to the windowsill whence he had been summoned.

  ‘Not that way, William!’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce sternly. ‘Come in by the front door, please, in the usual way.’

  William lowered himself to the street again, put the chewing-gum back into his mouth, stood for a minute obviously wondering whether it was worth while to go in by the front door in the usual way, decided apparently that though it probably wasn’t, still there was just a chance that it might be, then, very, very slowly (as if to prove his complete independence, despite his show of obedience), went round to the front door.

  ‘You may open the door and come in,’ called Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce from the window, ‘and don’t forget to wipe your feet.’

  William opened the door and came in. He wiped his feet with a commendable and very lengthy thoroughness (whose object was to keep them waiting for him as long as possible), transferred his chewing-gum from his mouth to his pocket again, carefully arranged his cap between the horns of the stuffed head of an antelope which was hanging on the wall, thought better of it and transferred it to the stuffed head of a fox, which was hanging on the opposite wall, gazed critically for a long time at a stuffed owl in a cage, absently broke off a piece of a fern that grew in a plant pot next to the hat-stand, and finally entered the drawing-room. He stood in the doorway facing them, still scowling aggressively and scattering bits of fern upon the carpet. His mind went quickly over the more recent events of his career in order to account for the summons. He was already regretting having obeyed it. He decided to take the offensive. Fixing a stern and scowling gaze upon Miss Greene-Joanes, he said:

  ‘When you saw me in your garden yesterday I was jus’ gettin’ a ball of mine that’d gone over the wall into your garden. I was simply tryin’ to save you trouble by goin’ an’ getting’ it myself, ’stead of troublin’ you goin’ to the front door. An’ that apple was one what I found lyin’ under your tree an’ I thought I’d pick it up for you jus’ to help you tidy up the place ’cause it looks so untidy with apples lyin’ about under the trees all over the place.’

  ‘William,’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce, ‘we did not ask you to come in in order to discuss your visit to Miss Greene-Joanes’ garden—’

  ‘WILLIAM BROWN!’ MRS MONKTON-BRUCE CALLED SHARPLY. ‘COME HERE.’

  WILLIAM SCOWLED AGGRESSIVELY. ‘I’VE NOT DONE NOTHIN’,’ HE SAID.

  William turned his steely eyes upon her and pursued his policy of taking the offensive.

  ‘Those stones you saw me throwin’ at your tree,’ he said, ‘was jus’ to kill grubs ’n’ things what might be doin’ it harm. I thought I’d help you keep your garden nice by throwin’ stones at your tree to kill the grubs ’n’ things on it for you ’cause they were eatin’ away the bark or somethin’.’

  ‘We didn’t bring you in to talk about that either, William,’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce. Then, clearing her throat, she said: ‘You were whistling as you went down the road, were you not?’

  William’s stern and freckled counte
nance expressed horror and amazement.

  ‘Well!’ he said. ‘Well! I bet I was hardly makin’ any noise at all. ’Sides’ – aggressively – ‘there’s nothin’ to stop folks jus’ whistlin’, is there? In the street. If they want to. I wasn’t doin’ you any harm, was I? Jus’ whistlin’ in the street. If you’ve gotta headache or anythin’ an’ don’ want me to I won’t not till I get into the nex’ street where you won’t hear me. Not now I know. You needn’t’ve brought me in jus’ to say that. If you’d jus’ shouted it out of the window I’d’ve heard all right. But I don’t see you can blame me jus’ for—’

  Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce held out a hand feebly to stem the tide of his eloquence.

  ‘It’s not that, William,’ she said faintly. ‘Do stop talking for two minutes, and let me speak. We – we were interested in your whistle. Would you – would you kindly repeat it in here – just to let us hear again what it sounds like?’

  William was proud of his whistle and flattered to be thus asked to perform in public. He paused a minute to gather his forces together, drew in his breath, then emitted a sound that would have done credit to a factory siren.

  Miss Georgine Hammersley screamed. Miss Gwladwyn, who was poised girlishly on the arm of her chair, lost her balance and fell on to the floor. Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce clapped her hands to her ears with a moan of agony and Miss Greene-Joanes lay back in her chair in a dead faint, from which, however, as no one took any notice of her, she quickly recovered. William, immensely flattered by this reception of his performance, murmured modestly:

  ‘I can do a better one still this way,’ and proceeded to put a finger into each corner of his mouth and to draw in his breath for another blast.

  With great presence of mind, Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce managed to put her hand across his face just in time.

  ‘No, William,’ she said brokenly, ‘not like that – not like that—’

  ‘I warn you,’ said Miss Greene-Joanes, in a shrill, trembling voice, ‘I shall have hysterics if he does it again. I’ve already fainted,’ she went on, in a reproachful voice, ‘but nobody noticed me. I won’t be answerable for what happens to me if that boy stays in the room a minute longer.’

  ‘Send him away,’ moaned Miss Featherstone, ‘and let’s imagine the wind.’

  ‘Let’s leave it to chance,’ pleaded Miss Greene-Joanes. ‘I can’t bear it again. There – there may be a natural wind that night. It’s quite possible.’

  ‘William,’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce weakly, ‘it was a gentle whistle we wanted to hear. A whistle like – like – like the wind in the distance. A long way in the distance, William.’

  William emitted a gentle, drawn-out, mournful whistle. It represented perfectly the distant moaning of the wind. His stricken audience recovered and gave a gasp of amazement and delight.

  ‘That was very nice,’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce.

  William, cheered and flattered by her praise, said, ‘I’ll do it a bit nearer than that now,’ and again gathered his forces for the effort.

  ‘No, William,’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce again stopping him just in time. ‘That’s as near as we want. That’s just what we want. . . . Now, William, we are going to get up a little play, and during the play the wind is supposed to be heard right in the distance – a long, long way in the distance, William. The wind is supposed to be a very distant one indeed, William. Perhaps for a very great treat we’ll let you make that wind, William.’

  William’s mind worked quickly. The apparently insoluble problem was still with him. He saw a means, not to solve it indeed, but to make it a little less insoluble. Assuming his most sphinx-like expression he said unblushingly, unblinkingly:

  ‘Well, of course – that’ll take up a good deal of my time. I dunno quite as I can spare all that time.’

  They were amazed at his effrontery and at the same time his astounding and unexpected reluctance to accept the post of wind-maker increased the desirability of his whistle in their eyes.

  ‘Of course, William,’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce in cold reproach, ‘if you don’t want to help in a good cause like this . . .’ Wisely she kept the exact nature of the good cause vague.

  ‘Oh, I don’ mind helpin’,’ said William; ‘all I meant was that it’d probably be takin’ up a good deal of my time when I might be doin’ useful things for other people. F’rinstance, I often pump up my uncle’s motor tyres for him.’ William’s face became so expressionless as to border on the imbecile as he added: ‘He always gives me sixpence for doing that.’

  There was a short silence and then Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce said with great dignity:

  ‘We will, of course, be pleased to give you sixpence for being the wind and any other little noises that may come into the play, William.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said William, concealing his delight beneath a tone of calm indifference. Sixpence . . . it was something to start from. William was such an optimist that with the first sixpence the whole fund seemed suddenly to be assured to him. . . . He could do something else for someone else and get another sixpence and that would be a shilling, and, well, if he kept on doing things for people for sixpence he’d soon have enough money to buy the football. Optimistically he ignored the fact that most people expected him to do things for them for nothing. . . .

  It was arranged that William should attend the next reading of the play in order to be the wind and whatever other noises might be necessary and then William, transferring his chewing-gum from his pocket to his mouth and scattering bits of fern absently to mark his path as he went, disappeared into the hall, took his cap from the fox’s head, pulled a face at the stuffed owl, then, seeming annoyed by its equanimity, pulled another, absently plucked off another spray of Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce’s cherished fern, and made his devastating way into the street. His piercing and unharmonious whistle shattered the quiet of countless peaceful homes as he strode onwards, cheered and invigorated by his visit, looking forward with equal joy to his role as wind-maker and his possession of the sixpence that was to be the nucleus of his football fund.

  The members of the Literary Society heaved sighs of relief as the sounds of his departure faded into the distance.

  ‘Don’t you think,’ said Miss Greene-Joanes pathetically, ‘that we could find a quieter type of boy?’

  ‘But it was,’ said Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce, ‘it was a very good imitation of the wind. I mean, of course, when he did it softly.’

  ‘But wouldn’t a quieter type of boy do?’ persisted Miss Greene-Joanes. ‘For instance, there’s that dear little Cuthbert Montgomery.’

  ‘But he can’t whistle,’ objected Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce. ‘I’m afraid that you’d always find that the quiet type of boy couldn’t do such a good whistle.’

  So reluctantly the Literary Society decided to appoint William as the wind.

  William put in an early appearance at the next rehearsal. It was in fact a little too early for Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce, at whose house it was held. He arrived half an hour before the time at which it was to begin and spent the half-hour sitting in her drawing-room cracking nuts and practising his whistle. Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce said that it gave her a headache that lasted for a week.

  ‘William,’ she said sternly when she entered the drawing-room, ‘if you don’t learn to do a quiet whistle we won’t have you at all.’

  ‘Wasn’t that quiet?’ said William, surprised. ‘It seemed to me to be such a quiet sort of whistle that I’m surprised you heard it at all.’

  ‘Well, I did,’ she snapped, ‘and it’s given me a headache, and don’t do it any more.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said William succinctly, transferring his whole attention to the nuts.

  Her tone had conveyed to him that his position as wind-maker was rather precarious, so when the other members of the cast arrived he made his wind whistle so low that they had to request him to do it a leetle – just a very leetle – louder. Even then it sounded very faint and far away. William had decide
d not to risk either his sixpence or his place in the cast by whistling too loudly at rehearsals. The actual performance of course would be quite a different matter. His gentle whistle endeared him to them. They unbent to him. He was turning out, Miss Featherstone confided to Miss Gwladwyn in a whisper, a nicer type of boy than she had feared he would be at first. He had helpful suggestions too about the other noises. He knew how to make the sound of horses’ hooves. You did it with a coconut. And he knew how to make thunder. You did it with a tin tray. And he could make revolver shots by letting off caps or squibs or something. Anyway, he could do it somehow. . . . They thought that perhaps he’d better not try those things till nearer the time. He’d better confine himself to the wind – so he confined himself to the wind, a gentle, anaemic sort of wind which he despised in his heart, but which he felt was winning him the confidence of his new friends. They unbent to him more and more. He was rather annoyed that he was not to have the snow-storm. Miss Gwladwyn said that her nephew would manage the snow-storm. She said that her nephew was a dear little boy with beautiful manners, who she admitted regretfully could not whistle, and might not be able to manage the other noises, but would, she was sure, manage the snow-storm perfectly.

  William went home fortified by their praise of his distant whistle and two buns given him by Mrs Bruce Monkton-Bruce. On the way he met Douglas and Henry and Ginger.

  ‘Hello,’ they said, ‘where’ve you been?’

  ‘I’ve been to a rehearsal,’ said William with his own inimitable swagger. ‘I’m actin’ in a play.’