Still William (2 page)

The trouble with Robert was that he imagined himself a wit.

The trouble with William was that he took things literally.

The Bishop was expected in the village the next day. It was the great event of the summer. He was a distant relation of the Vicar’s. He was to open the Sale of Work,
address a large meeting on temperance, spend the night at the Vicarage, and depart the next morning.

The Bishop was a fatherly, simple-minded old man of seventy. He enjoyed the Sale of Work except for one thing. Wherever he looked he met the gaze of a freckled untidy frowning small boy. He
could not understand it. The boy seemed to be everywhere. The boy seemed to follow him about. He came to the conclusion that it must be his imagination, but it made him feel vaguely uneasy.

Then he addressed the meeting on Temperance, his audience consisting chiefly of adults. But, in the very front seat, the same earnest frowning boy fixed him with a determined gaze. When the
Bishop first encountered this gaze he became slightly disconcerted, and lost his place in his notes. Then he tried to forget the disturbing presence and address his remarks to the middle of the
hall. But there was something hypnotic in the small boy’s gaze. In the end the Bishop yielded to it. He fixed his eyes obediently upon William. He harangued William earnestly and forcibly
upon the necessity of self-control and the effect of alcohol upon the liver. And William returned his gaze unblinkingly.

After the meeting William wandered down the road to the Vicarage. He pondered gloomily over his wasted afternoon. Fate had not thrown the Bishop’s handkerchief in his path. But he did not
yet despair.

On the way he met Ginger. Ginger drew out his interminable coloured handkerchief and shook it proudly.

‘D’ye mean to
say
,’ he said to William, ‘that you still use those old
white
ones?’

William looked at him with cold scorn.

‘I’m too busy to bother with you jus’ now,’ he said.

Ginger went on.

William looked cautiously through the Vicarage hedge. Nothing was to be seen. He crawled inside the garden and round to the back of the house, which was invisible from the road. The Bishop was
tired after his address. He lay outstretched upon a deckchair beneath a tree.

Over the head and face of His Lordship was stretched a large superfine linen handkerchief. William’s set stern expression brightened. On hands and knees he began to crawl through the grass
towards the portly form, his tongue protruding from his pursed lips.

Crouching behind the chair, he braced himself for the crime; he measured the distance between the chair and the garden gate.

One, two, three – then suddenly the portly form stirred, the handkerchief was firmly withdrawn by a podgy hand, and a dignified voice yawned and said: ‘Heigh-ho!’

At the same moment the Bishop sat up. William, from his refuge behind the chair, looked wildly round. The door of the house was opening. There was only one thing to do. William was as nimble as
a monkey. Like a flash of lightning he disappeared up the tree. It was a very leafy tree. It completely concealed William, but William had a good bird’s-eye view of the world beneath him. The
Vicar came out rubbing his hands.

‘You rested, My Lord?’ he said.

‘I’m afraid I’ve had forty winks,’ said His Lordship pleasantly. ‘Just dropped off, you know. I dreamt about that boy who was at the meeting this
afternoon.’

‘What boy, My Lord?’ asked the Vicar.

‘I noticed him at the Sale of Work and the meeting – he looked – he looked a soulful boy. I daresay you know him.’

The Vicar considered.

‘I can’t think of any boy round here like that,’ he said.

The Bishop sighed.

‘He may have been a stranger, of course,’ he said meditatively. ‘It seemed an earnest
questing
face – as if the boy wanted something –
needed
something. I hope my little talk helped him.’

‘Without doubt it did, My Lord,’ said the Vicar politely. ‘I thought we might dine out here – the days draw out so pleasantly now.’

Up in his tree, William with smirks and hand-rubbing and mincing (though soundless) movements of his lips kept up a running imitation of the Vicar’s speech, for the edification apparently
of a caterpillar that was watching him intently.

The Vicar went in to order dinner in the garden. The Bishop drew the delicate handkerchief once more over his rubicund features. In the tree William abandoned his airy pastime, and his face took
on again the expression of soulful earnestness that had pleased the Bishop.

The breast of the Bishop on the lawn began to rise and sink. The figure of the Vicar was visible at the study window as he gazed with fond pride upon the slumbers of his distinguished guest.
William dared not descend in view of that watching figure. Finally it sat down in a chair by the window and began to read a book.

Then William began to act. He took from his pocket a bent pin attached to a piece of string. This apparatus lived permanently in his pocket, because he had not given up hope of catching a trout
in the village stream. He lowered this cautiously and drew the bent pin carefully on to the white linen expanse.

It caught – joy!

‘Phut!’ said the Bishop, bringing down his hand heavily, not on the pin, but near it.

The pin was loosened – William drew it back cautiously up into the tree, and the Bishop settled himself once more to his slumbers.

Again the pin descended – again it caught.

‘Phut!’ said the Bishop, testily shaking the handkerchief, and again loosening the pin.

Leaning down from his leafy retreat William made one last desperate effort. He drew the bent pin sharply across. It missed the handkerchief and it caught the Bishop’s ear. The Bishop sat
up with a scream. William, pin and string, withdrew into the shade of the branches. ‘Crumbs!’ said William desperately to the caterpillar, ‘talk about bad
luck
!’

The Vicar ran out from the house, full of concern at the sound of the Bishop’s scream.

FROM THE TREE WILLIAM MADE A LAST DESPERATE EFFORT.

‘I’ve been badly stung in the ear by some insect,’ said the Bishop in a voice that was pained and dignified. ‘Some virulent tropical insect, I should think – very
painful. Very painful indeed—’

‘My Lord,’ said the Vicar, ‘I am so sorry – so very sorry – a thousand pardons – can I procure some remedy for you – vaseline, ammonia – er
– cold cream—?’ Up in the tree the pantomimic imitation of him went on much to William’s satisfaction.

THE BENT PIN CAUGHT THE BISHOP’S EAR, AND THE BISHOP SAT UP WITH A LITTLE SCREAM.

‘No, no, no, no,’ snapped the Bishop. ‘This must be a bad place for insects, that’s all. Even before that some heavy creatures came banging against my handkerchief. I put
my handkerchief over my face for protection. If I had failed to do that I should have been badly stung.’

‘Shall we dine indoors, then, My Lord?’ said the Vicar.

‘Oh, no, no, NO!’ said the Bishop impatiently.

The Vicar sat down upon his chair. William collected a handful of acorns and began to drop them one by one upon the Vicar’s bald head. He did this simply because he could not help it. The
sight of the Vicar’s bald head was irresistible. Each time an acorn struck the Vicar’s bald head it bounced up into the air, and the Vicar put up his hand and rubbed his head. At first
he tried to continue his conversation on the state of the parish finances with the Bishop but his replies became distrait and incoherent. He moved his chair slightly. William moved the position of
his arm and continued to drop acorns.

At last the Bishop noticed it.

‘The acorns seem to be falling,’ he said.

The Vicar rubbed his head again.

‘Don’t they?’ he said.

‘Rather early,’ commented the Bishop.

‘Isn’t it?’ he said as another acorn bounced upon his head.

The Bishop began to take quite an interest in the unusual phenomenon.

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if there was some sort of blight in that tree,’ he said. ‘It would account for the premature dropping of the acorns and for the insects that
attacked me.’

‘Exactly,’ said the Vicar irritably, as yet another acorn hit him. William’s aim was unerring.

Here a diversion was caused by the maid who came out to lay the table. They watched her in silence. The Vicar moved his chair again, and William, after pocketing his friend the caterpillar,
shifted his position in the tree again to get a better aim.

‘Do you know,’ said the Bishop, ‘I believe that there is a cat in the tree. Several times I have heard a slight rustling.’

It would have been better for William to remain silent, but William’s genius occasionally misled him. He was anxious to prevent investigation; to prove once and for all his identity as a
cat.

He leant forward and uttered a re-echoing ‘Mi
-aw-aw-aw
!’

As imitations go it was rather good.

There was a slight silence. Then:

‘It
is
a cat,’ said the Bishop in triumph.

‘Excuse me, My Lord,’ said the Vicar.

He went softly into the house and returned holding a shoe.

‘This will settle His Feline Majesty,’ he smiled.

Then he hurled the shoe violently into the tree.

‘Shh! Scoot!’ he said as he did it.

William was annoyed. The shoe narrowly missed his face. He secured it and waited.

‘I hope you haven’t lost the shoe,’ said the Bishop anxiously.

‘Oh, no. The gardener’s boy or someone will get it for me. It’s the best thing to do with cats. It’s probably scared it on to the roof.’

He settled himself in his chair comfortably with a smile.

William leant down, held the shoe deliberately over the bald head, then dropped it.

‘Damn!’
said the Vicar. ‘Excuse me, My Lord.’

‘H’m,’ said the Bishop. ‘Er – yes – most annoying. It lodged in a branch for a time probably, and then obeyed the force of gravity.’

The Vicar was rubbing his head. William wanted to enjoy the sight of the Vicar rubbing his head. He moved a little further up the branch. He forgot all caution. He forgot that the branch on
which he was was not a very secure branch, and that the further up he moved the less secure it became.

There was the sound of a rending and a crashing, and on to the table between the amazed Vicar and Bishop descended William’s branch and William.

The Bishop gazed at him. ‘Why, that’s the boy,’ he said.

William sat up among the debris of broken glasses and crockery. He discovered that he was bruised and that his hand was cut by one of the broken glasses. He extricated himself from the branch
and the table, and stood rubbing his bruises and sucking his hand.

‘Crumbs!’ was all he said.

The Vicar was gazing at him speechlessly.

‘You know, my boy,’ said the Bishop in mild reproach, ‘that’s a very curious thing to do – to hide up there for the purpose of eavesdropping. I know that you are an
earnest, well-meaning little boy, and that you were interested in my address this afternoon, and I daresay you were hoping to listen to me again, but this is my time for relaxation, you know.
Suppose the Vicar and I had been talking about something we didn’t want you to hear? I’m sure you wouldn’t like to listen to things people didn’t want you to hear, would
you?’

William stared at him in unconcealed amazement. The Vicar, with growing memories of acorns and shoes and ‘damns’ and with murder in his heart, was picking up twigs and broken glass.
He knew that he could not, in the Bishop’s presence, say the things to William and do the things to William that he wanted to do and say. He contented himself with saying:

‘You’d better go home now. Tell your father I’ll be coming to see him tomorrow.’

‘A well-meaning, little boy, I’m sure,’ said the Bishop kindly. ‘Well-meaning, but unwise – er – unwise. But your attentiveness during the meeting did you
credit, my boy – did you credit.’

William, for all his ingenuity, could think of no remark suitable to the occasion.

‘Hurry up,’ said the Vicar.

William turned to go. He knew when he was beaten. He had spent a lot of time and trouble and had not even secured the episcopal handkerchief. He had bruised himself and cut himself. He
understood the Vicar’s veiled threat. He saw his already distant chances of pocket-money vanish into nothingness when the cost of the Vicar’s glasses and plates was added to the landing
window. He wouldn’t have minded if he’d got the handkerchief. He wouldn’t have minded anything if—