 CHAPTER XII. THE REFORM OF WILLIAM To William the idea of reform was new and startling and not wholly unattractive. It originated with the housemaid whose brother was a reformed burglar, now employed in a grocer's shop. He's got conversion, she said to William. He got it quite sudden-like, and he give up all his bad way straight off. He's been like a heavenly saint ever since. William was deeply interested. The point was all innocently driven in later by the Sunday School mistress. William's family had no real faith in the Sunday School as a corrective to William's inherent wickedness, but they knew that no Sabbath peace or calm was humanly possible while William was in the house, so they brushed and cleaned and tied him at 245 and sent him pained and protesting down the road every Sunday afternoon. Their only regret was that Sunday School did not begin earlier and end later. Fortunately for William most of his friends' parents were inspired by the same zeal, so that he met his old cronies of the weekdays, Henry, Ginger, Douglas, and all the rest, and together they beguiled the monotony of the Sabbath. But this Sunday the tall, pale lady, who for her sins, essayed to lead William and his friends along the straight and narrow path of virtue, was almost inspired. She was like some prophetess of old. She was so emphatic that the red cherries that hung coquettishly over the edge of her hat rattled against it, as though in applause. "'We must all start afresh,' she said. "'We must all be turned. That's what conversion means.' William's fascinated eye wandered from the cherries to the distant view out of the window. He thought suddenly of the noble burglar who had turned his back upon the mysterious, nefarious tools of his trade, and now dispensed margarine to his former victims. Opposite him sat a small girl in a pink and white checked frock. He often wild away the dullest hours of Sunday school by putting out his tongue at her, or throwing paper pellets at her, manufactured previously for the purpose. But today, meeting her serious eye, he looked away hastily. "'And we must all help someone,' went on the urgent voice, "'if we have turned ourselves, we must help someone else to turn.' Determined and eager was the eye that the small girl turned upon William, and William realized that his time had come. He was to be converted. He felt almost thrilled by the prospect. He was so enthralled that he received absentmindedly and without gratitude. The mountainous bull's eye passed to him from ginger, and only gave a half-hearted smile when a well-aimed pellet from Henry's hand sent one of the prophetesses' cherries swinging high in the air. After the class, the pink-checked girl, whose name most appropriately was Deborah, stalked William for several yards and finally cornered him. "'William,' she said, "'are you going to turn?' "'I'm going to think about it,' said William, guardedly. "'William, I think you ought to turn. I'll help you,' she added sweetly.' William drew a deep breath. "'All right, I will,' he said. She heaved a sigh of relief. "'You'll begin now, won't you?' she said earnestly. William considered. There were several things that he had wanted to do for some time but hadn't managed to do yet. He had not tried turning off the water at the main and hiding the key and seeing what would happen. He hadn't tried shutting up the cat in the hen-house. He hadn't tried painting his long-suffering mongrel jumble with the pot of green paint that was in the tool shed. He hadn't tried pouring water into the receiver of the telephone. He hadn't tried locking the cook into the larder. There were, in short, whole fields of crime entirely unexplored. All these things and others must be done before the Reformation. "'I can't begin just yet,' said William, "'say, day after to-morrow.' She considered this for a minute. "'Very well,' she said at last reluctantly, "'day after to-morrow.' The next day dawned bright and fair. William arose to the distinct sense that something important had happened. Then he thought of the Reformation. He saw himself leading a quiet and blameless life, walking sedately to school, working at high pressure in school, doing his homework conscientiously in the evening, being exquisitely polite to his family, his instructors, and the various foolish people who visited his home for the sole purpose, apparently, of making inane remarks to him. He saw all this, and the picture was far from unattractive, in the distance. In the immediate future, however, there were various, quite important things to be done. There was a whole normal lifetime of crime to be crowded into one day. Looking out of his window, he aspired the gardener bending over one of the beds. The gardener had a perfectly bald head. William had sometimes idly imagined the impact of a pea sent violently from a pea-shooter with the gardener's bald head. Before there had been a lifetime of experiment before him, and he had put off this one idly in favour of something more pressing. Now there was only one day. He took up his pea-shooter and aimed carefully. The pea did not embed itself deeply into the gardener's skull as William had sometimes thought it would. It bounced back. It bounced back quite hard. The gardener also bounced back with a yell of anger, shaking his fist at William's window. But William had discreetly retired. He hid the pea-shooter, assumed his famous expression of innocence, and felt distinctly cheered. The question as to what exactly would happen when the pea met the baldness was now forever solved. The gardener retired grumbling to the potting shed, so, for the present, all was well. Later in the day the gardener might lay his formal complaint before authority, but later in the day was later in the day. It did not trouble William. He dressed briskly and went down to breakfast with a frown of concentration upon his face. It was the last day of his old life. No one else was in the dining-room. It was the work of a few minutes to remove the bacon from beneath the big pewter cover and substitute the kitten, to put a tablespoon of salt into the coffee, and to put a two days old paper in place of that morning's. They were all things that he had at one time were another vaguely thought of doing, but for which he had never yet seemed to have time or opportunity. Warming to a subject he removed the egg from under the egg cosy on his sister's plate, and placed in its stead a worm which had just appeared in the window-box in readiness for the early bird. He surveyed the scene with a deep sigh of satisfaction. The only drawback was that he felt he could not safely stay to watch results. William possessed a true strategic instinct for the right moment for a treat. Hearing, therefore, a heavy step on the stairs, he seized several pieces of toast and fled. As he fled he heard through the open window violent sounds proceeding from the enraged kitten beneath the cover, and then the still more violent sounds proceeding from the unknown person who had removed the cover. The kitten, a mass of fury and lust for revenge, came flying through the window. William hid behind a laurel bush till it had passed, then set off down the road. School, of course, was impossible. The precious hours of such a day as this could not be wasted in school. He went down the road full of his noble purpose. The wickedness of a lifetime was some higher other to be crowded into this day. Tomorrow it would all be impossible. Tomorrow began the blameless life. It must all be worked off to-day. He skirted the school by a field-path, in case any of those narrow souls paid to employ so aimlessly the precious hours of his youth might be there. They would certainly be tactless enough to question him as he passed the door. Then he joined the main road. The main road was empty except for a caravan. A caravan gaily painted in red and yellow. It had little lace curtains at the window. It was altogether a most fascinating caravan. No one seemed to be near it. William looked through the windows. There was a kind of dresser with crockery hanging from it, a small table, and a little oil stove. The further part was curtain off but no sign came from it, so that it was presumably empty too. William wandered round to inspect the quadruped in front. It appeared to be a mule. A mule with a jaundiced view of life. It rolled a sad eye towards William. Then, with a deep sigh, returned to its contemplation of the landscape. William gazed upon caravan and steed fascinated. Never in his future life of noble merit would he be able to annex a caravan. It was his last chance. No one was a bite. He could pretend that he'd mistaken it for his own caravan, or had gone on to it by mistake, or—or anything. Conscience stirred faintly in his breast, but he silenced it sternly. Conscience was to rule him for the rest of his life, and it could jolly well let him alone this day. With some difficulty he climbed on to the driver's seat, took the reins, said, gee up to the melancholy mule, and the whole equipage, with a jolt and a faint rattle, set out along the road. William did not know how to drive, but it did not seem to matter. The mule ambled along, and William, high up on the driver's seat, the reins held with ostentatious carelessness in one hand, the whip poised lightly in the other, was in the seventh heaven of bliss. He was driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan. He was driving a caravan. The very telegraph posts seemed to gait with envy and admiration as he passed. What ultimately he was going to do with his caravan he neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was it was a bright sunny morning, and all the others were in school, and he was driving a red and yellow caravan along the high road. The birds seemed to be singing a peon of praise to him. He was intoxicated with pride. It was his caravan, his road, his world. Carelessly he flicked the mule with the whip. There are several explanations of what happened then. The mule may not have been used to the whip. A wasp may have just stung him at that particular minute. A wandering demon may have entered into him. Mules are notoriously accessible to wandering demons. Whatever the explanation, the mule suddenly started forward and galloped at full speed down the hill. The rains dropped from William's hands. He clung for dear life onto his seat, as the caravans swaying and jolting along the uneven road seemed to be doing its utmost to fling him off. There came a rattle of crockery from within. Then suddenly there came another sign from within. A loud, agonised scream. It was a female scream. Someone who had been asleep behind the curtain had just awakened. William's hair stood on end. He almost forgot to cling to the seat, for not one scream came but many. They rent the still summer air, mingled with the sound of breaking glass and crockery. The mule continued his mad career down the hill, his reins trailing in the dust. In the distance was a little gypsy's donkey cart full of pots and pans. William found his voice suddenly and began to warn the mule. Look out, you old softy, he yelled. Look out for the donkey, old ass! But the mule refused to be warned. He neatly escaped the donkey cart himself, but he crashed the caravan into it with such force that the caravan broke a shaft and overturned completely onto the donkey cart, scattering pots and pans far and wide. From within the caravan came inhuman female yells of fear and anger. William had fallen onto a soft bank of grass. He was discovering to his amazement that he was still alive and practically unhurt. The mule was standing meekly by and smiling to himself. Then out of the window of the caravan climbed a woman, a fat, angry woman, shaking her fist at the world in general. Her hair and face were covered with sugar and a fork was embedded in the front of her dress. Otherwise she too had escaped undamaged. The owner of the donkey cart arose from the mele of pots and pans, and turned upon her facely. She screamed at him furiously in reply. Then along the road could be seen the figure of a fat man carrying a fishing-rod. He began to run wildly towards the caravan. Ach, got in himmel, he cried as he ran. My beautiful caravan! Who has this to it done? He joined the frenzied altercation that was going on between the donkey man and the fat woman. The air was rent by their angry shouts. A group of highly appreciative villagers collected round them. Then one of them pointed to William, who sat feeling still slightly shaken upon the bank. It was him what done it, he said. It was him that was a driving off it down the hill. With one wild glance at the scene of devastation and anger, William turned and fled through the wood. Ach, got in himmel, screamed the fat man beginning to pursue him. The fat woman and the donkey man joined the pursuit. To William it was like some ghastly nightmare after an evening's entertainment at the cinematograph. Meanwhile the donkey and the mule fraternised over the debris, and the villagers helped themselves to all they could find. But the fat man was very fat, and the fat woman was very fat, and the donkey man was very old, and William was young and very fleet, so in less than ten minutes they gave up the pursuit and returned panting and quarrelling to the road. William sat on the further outskirts of the wood and panted. He felt on the hole, exhilarated by the adventure. It was quite a suitable adventure for his last day of unregeneration. But he felt also in need of bodily sustenance, so he purchased a bun and a bottle of lemonade at a neighbouring shop, and sat by the roadside to recover. There were no signs of his pursuers. He felt reluctant to return home. It is always well to follow a morning's absence from school by an afternoon's absence from school. A return in the afternoon is ignominious and humiliating. William wandered round the neighbourhood, experiencing all the thrill of the outlaw. Certainly by this time the gardener would have complained to his father. Probably the schoolmistress would have sent a note. Also, someone had been scratched by the cat. William decided that all things considered it was best to make a day of it. He spent part of the afternoon in throwing stones at a scarecrow. His aim was fairly good, and he succeeded in knocking off the hat and finally prostrating the wooden framework. Followed, an exciting chase by an angry farmer. It was after tea-time when he returned home, walking with careless bravado, as off a criminal who was drunk of crime to its very depth and flunts at before the world. His spirit sank a little as he approached the gate. He could see through the trees the fat caravan owner gesticulating at the door, helped by the villagers he had tracked William. Phrases floated to him through the summer air. Mine beautiful caravan. Ah, got in himmel! He could see the gardener smiling in the distance. There was a small blue bruise on his shining head. William judged from the smile that he had laid his formal complaint before authority. William noticed that his father looked pale and harassed. He noticed also with the thrill of horror that his hand was bound up and that there was a long scratch down his cheek. He knew the cat had scratched somebody but crumbs. A small boy came down the road and saw William hesitating at the open gateway. You'll catch it, he said cheerfully. They've wrote to say you wasn't in school. William crept round to the back of the house beneath the bushes. He felt that the time had come to give himself up to justice, but he wanted, as the popular saying is, to be sure of getting his money's worth. There was the tin half full of green paint in the tool shed. He'd had his eye on it for some time. He went quietly round to the tool shed. Soon he was contemplating with a satisfied smile, a green and enraged cat and a green and enraged hen. Then bracing himself for the effort, he delivered himself up to justice. When all was said and done, no punishment could be really adequate to a day like that. Dusk was falling. William gazed pensively from his bedroom window. He was reviewing his day. He had almost forgotten the stormy and decidedly unpleasant scene with his father. Mr. Brown's rhetoric had been rather lost on William because its pearls of sarcasm had been so far above his head, and William had not been really loathed to retire at once to bed. After all, it had been a very tiring day. Now his thoughts were going over some of its most exquisite moments, the moments when the pea in the gardener's head met and rebounded with such satisfactory force, the moment when he swung along the high road, monarch of a caravan and a mule and the whole wide world, the moment when the scarecrow hunched up and collapsed so realistically, the cat covered with green paint. After all, it was his last day. He saw himself from tomorrow onward, leading a quiet and blameless life, walking sedately to school, working at high pressure and school, doing his homework conscientiously in the evening, being exquisitely polite to his family and instructors. And the vision failed utterly to attract. Moreover, he hadn't yet tried turning off the water at the main, or locking the cook into the larder, or—or hundreds of things. There came a gentle voice from the garden. William, where are you? William looked down and met the earnest gaze of Deborah. Hello, he said. William, she said. You won't forget that you're going to start tomorrow, will you? William looked at her firmly. I can't just tomorrow, he said, I'm putting it off, I'm putting it off for a year or two. End of Chapter 12 The Reform of William Read by Barbara Buckley of BigBible.org More William by Richamal Crompton This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on the volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 13 William and the Ancient Souls The house next to Williams had been unoccupied for several months, and William had made full use of its garden. Its garden was in turn the jungle, a desert, an ocean, and an enchanted island. William invited select parties of his friends to it. He had come to look upon it as his own property. He hunted wild animals with jumble, his trusty hound, he tracked red Indians in it, again with jumble, his trusty hound, and he attacked and sank ships in it, making his victims walk the plank, again with the help and assistance of jumble, his trusty hound. Sometimes, to vary the monotony, he made jumble his trusty hound, walk the plank into the rain-tub. This was one of the many unpleasant things that William brought into jumble's life. It was only his intense love for William that reconciled him to his existence. Jumble was one of the very few beings who appreciated William. The house on the other side was a much smaller one, and was occupied by Mr. Gregorius Lampkin. Mr. Gregorius Lampkin was a very shy and rather elderly bachelor. He issued from his front door every morning at half past eight, holding a neat little attache case in a neatly-loved hand. He spent the day in an insurance office, and returned, still unruffled and immaculate, at about half past six. Most people considered him quite dull and negligible, but he possessed the supreme virtue in William's eyes of not objecting to William. William had suffered much from unsympathetic neighbours who had taken upon themselves to object to such innocent and artistic objects as catapults and pea-shooters and cricket balls. William had a very soft spot in his heart for Mr. Gregorius Lampkin. William had spent a good deal of his time in Mr. Lampkin's garden during his absence, and Mr. Lampkin seemed to have no objection. Other people's gardens always seemed to William to be more attractive than his own, especially when he had no right of entry into them. There was quite an excitement in the neighbourhood when the empty house was let. It was rumoured that the newcomer was a personage. She was the president of the Society of Ancient Souls. The Society of Ancient Souls was a society of people who remembered their previous existence. The memory usually came in a flash. For instance, you might remember in a flash when you were looking at a box of matches that you had been Guy Fawkes, or you might look at a cow and remember in a flash that you had been Nebuchadnezzar. Then you joined the Society of Ancient Souls and paid a large subscription and attended meetings at the house of its president, in costume. And the president was coming to live next door to William. By a curious coincidence her name was Gregoria, Miss Gregoria Marsh. William awaited her coming with anxiety. He had discovered that one's next-door neighbours make a great difference to one's life. They may be agreeable and not object to mouth-organs and whistling and occasional stone-throwing, or they may not. They sometimes, the worst kind, go to the length of writing notes to one's father about one, and then of course the only course left to one is one of revenge. But William hoped great things from Miss Gregoria Marsh. There was a friendly sound about the name. On the evening of her arrival he climbed up on the roller and gazed wistfully over the fence at the territory that had once been his. But from which he was now debarred. He felt like Moses surveying the Promised Land. Miss Gregoria Marsh was walking in the garden. William watched her with bated breath. She was very long and very thin and very angular, and she was reading poetry out loud to herself as she trailed about in her long draperies. Oh, moon of my delight! she exclaimed. Then her eye met Williams. The eyes beneath her pants-nay were like little gimlets. How dare you stare at me, you rude boy! she said. William gasped. I shall write to your father! she said fiercely, and then proceeded still ferociously. That knows no wane! Crumbs! murmured William, descending slowly from his perch. She did write to his father, and that note was the first of many. She objected to his singing, she objected to his shouting, she objected to his watching her over the wall, and she objected to his throwing sticks at her cat. She objected both verbally and in writing. This persecution was only partially compensated for by occasional glimpses of meetings of the ancient souls. For the ancient souls met in costume, and sometimes William could squeeze through the hole in the fence and watch the ancient souls meeting in the dining room. Miss Gregoria Marsh arrayed as Mary Queen of Scots, one of her many previous existences, was worth watching. And always there was the garden on the other side. Mr. Gregorius Lampkin made no objections and wrote no notes. But clouds of fate were gathering round Mr. Gregorius Lampkin. William first heard of it one day, at lunch. I saw the old loony talking to Paul Little Lampkin today, said Robert, William's elder brother. In these terms, did Robert refer to the August President of the Society of Ancient Souls? And the next news Robert brought home was that Paul Little Lampkin had joined the Society of Ancient Souls. But didn't seem to want to talk about it. He seemed very vague as to his previous existence, but he said that Miss Gregoria Marsh was sure that he had been Julius Caesar. The knowledge had come to her in a flash when he raised his hat and she saw his bald head. There was a meeting of the ancient souls that evening and William crept through the hole and up to the dining room window to watch. A gorgeous scene met his eye. Noah conversed agreeably with Cleopatra in the window seat and by the piano, Napoleon discussed the Irish question with Lobengala. As William watched, his small nose flattened against a corner of the window. Nero and Dante arrived, having shared a taxi from the station. Miss Gregoria Marsh, tall and gaunt and angular, presided in the robes of Mary, Queen of Scots, which was her favourite previous existence. Then Mr. Gregorius Lampkin arrived. He looked as unhappy as it is possible for man to look. He was dressed in a toga and a laurel wreath. Heat and nervousness had caused his small waxed moustache to droop. His toga was too long and his laurel wreath was crooked. Miss Gregoria Marsh received him effusively. She carried him off to a corner seat near the window and there they conversed. Or to be more accurate, she talked and he listened. The window was open and William could hear some of the things she said. Now you are a member. You must come here often. You and I, the only ancient souls in this galaxy. We will work together and live only in the past. Have you remembered any other previous existence? No? Ah, try. It will come to you in a flash at any time. I must come and see your garden. I feel we have much in common, you and I. We have much to talk about. I have all my past life to tell you of. What train do you come home by? We must be friends, real friends. I am sure I can help you much in your life as an ancient soul. Our names are almost the same. Fate, in some way, unites us. And Mr. Lampkin sat, miserable and dejected and yet with a certain pathetic resignation. For what can one do against fate? Then the President caught sight of William and approached the window. Go away, boy! She called. You wicked, rude, prime boy, go away! Mr. Lampkin shot a wretched an apologetic glance at William. William pressed his mouth to the open slit of the window. All right, Mrs. Jollies! He called, then turned and fled. William met Mr. Lampkin on his way to the station the next morning. Mr. Lampkin looked thinner and there were lines of worry on his face. I'm sorry she sent you away, William, he said. It must have been interesting to watch. Most interesting to watch. I'd much rather have watched than, but there, it's very kind of her to take such an interest in me. Most kind. But I, however, she is very kind. Very kind. She very kindly presented me with the costume. Hardly suitable, perhaps, but very kind of her. And, of course, there may be something in it. One never knows. I may have been Julius Caesar, but I hardly think. However, one must keep an open mind. Do you know any Latin, William? Just a bit, said William, guardedly. I've learnt a lot, but I don't know much. Say some to me. It might convey something to me, one never knows. She seems so sure. Talk Latin to me, William. Hick, hike, hawk, said William, obligingly. Julius Caesar's reincarnation shook his head. No, he said. I'm afraid it doesn't seem to mean anything to me. Bonk, hank, hawk, went on William, monotonously. No good, said Mr. Lampkin. I'm afraid it just proves I'm not. Still, one may not retain a knowledge of one's former tongue. One must keep an open mind. Of course, I prefer not to, but one must be fair. She's very kind, very kind. Shaking his head, sadly, the little man entered the station. That evening, William hurt his father, say to his mother. She came down to meet him at the station tonight. I'm afraid his doom is sealed. He's no power of resistance, and she's got her eye on him. Who's got her eye on him? Said William with interest. Be quiet, said his father, with the brusqueness of the male parent. But William began to see how things stood. And William liked Mr. Lampkin. One evening, he saw from his window Mr. Gregorius Lampkin walking with Miss Gregoria Marsh in Miss Gregoria Marsh's garden. Mr. Gregorius Lampkin did not look happy. William crept down to the hole in the fence and applied his ear to it. They were sitting on a seat quite close to his hole. Gregorius, the president of the Society of Ancient Souls, was saying, when I found out that our names were the same, I knew that our destinies were interwoven. Yes. Moment, Mr. Lampkin. It's so kind of you, so kind. I'm afraid I'm overstaying my welcome. I must—no. I must say what is in my heart. I must say what is in my heart, Gregorius. You live on the past. I live in the past. We have a common mission. The mission of bringing to the thoughtless and uninitiated the memory of their former lives. Gregorius, our work will be much more valuable if we could do it together. If the common destiny that has united our nomenclatures could unite also our lives. It's so kind of you, murmured the writhing victim. It's so kind. I am so unfit. I—no, friend, she said kindly. I have power enough for both. Human speech is so poor an agent, is it not? The doorbell clanged in the house. Ah! The committee of the ancient souls. They were coming from town to-night. Come here to-morrow night at the same time, Gregorius, and I will tell you what is in my heart. Meet me here at this time to-morrow evening. William here caught sight of a stray cat at the other end of the garden. In the character of a cannibal chief he hunted the white man, otherwise the cat, with blood-curdling war-woops. But felt no real interest in the chase. He bound up his scratches mechanically with an ink-stained handkerchief. Then he went indoors. Robert was conversing with his friend in the library. Well, said the friend, it's nearly a month. Has she landed him yet? By Jove, said Robert, first of April tomorrow, he looked at William suspiciously. And if you try any false tricks on me, you'll jolly well hear about it. I'm not thinking of you, said William crushingly. I'm not going to trouble with you. Has she landed him? said the friend. Not yet. And I heard him saying in the train that he was leaving town on the second and going abroad for a holiday. Well, she'll probably do it yet. She's got all the first. It's bedtime, William, called his mother. Thank heaven, said Robert. William sat gazing into the distance, not seeing or hearing. William! called his mother. All right, said William irritably. I was just thinking something out. William's family went about their ways cautiously the next morning. They watched William carefully. Robert even refused an egg at breakfast because you never knew with that little wretch. What happened? Fancy you're going on April Fool's Day without making a fool of anyone, said Robert at lunch. It's not over, is it? Not yet. said William with the air of a sphinx. But it doesn't count after twelve, said Robert. William considered deeply before he spoke. Then he said slowly, the thing what I'm going to do counts whatever time it is. Reluctantly, but as if drawn by a magnet, Mr. Lampkin set off to the president's house. William was in the road. She told me to tell you, said William unblushingly, that she was busy tonight and would you mind not coming? The tense longings on Mr. Lampkin's face relaxed. Oh, William, he said, it's such a great relief. I'm going away early tomorrow but I was afraid that tonight he was almost hysterical with relief. She's so kind, but I was afraid that, well, well, I can't say I'm sorry. I promised to come and I couldn't break it. But I was afraid. I hear she's sold her house and is leaving in a month. So, but she's kind. Very kind. He turned back with alacrity. Thanks for letting me have the clothes, said William. Oh, quite welcome, William. They're nice things for a boy to dress up in, no doubt. I can't say I, but she's very kind. Don't let her see you playing with them, William. William grunted and returned to his back garden. For some time silence reigned over the three back gardens. Then Miss Gregoria Marsh emerged and came towards the seat by the fence. A figure was already seated there in the half-dark. A figure swathed in a toga, with the toga drawn also over its drooping head. Gregorius, said the president, how dear of you to come in costume. The figure made no movement. You know what I have in my heart, Gregorius? Still no answer. Your heart is too full for words, she said kindly. The thought of having your destiny linked with mine takes speech from you. But have courage, dear Gregorius. You shall work for me. We will do great things together. We will be married at the little church. Still no answer. Gregorius, she murmured tenderly, she murmured tenderly, she murmured tenderly, she lent against him suddenly, and he yielded beneath the pressure with the sudden sound of the solution. Two cushions slid to the ground. The toga fell back, revealing a broomstick with a turnip fixed firmly to the top. It bore the legend April Fool. From the other side of the fence came a deep sigh of satisfaction from the artist behind the scenes. End of Chapter 13 William and the Ancient Souls Read by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 14 of More William This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barbara Bulkley of BigBible.org. More William by Richmal Crumpton Chapter 14 William's Christmas Eve It was Christmas. The air was full of excitement and secrecy. William, whose old-time faith and notes to Father Christmas sent up the chimney, had died a natural death as a result of bitter experience, had thoughtfully presented each of his friends and relations with a list of his immediate requirements. He had a vague and not unfinded misgiving that his family would begin at the bottom of the list instead of the top. He was not surprised, therefore, when he saw his father come home rather than usual, carrying a parcel of books under his arm. A few days afterwards he announced casually at breakfast. Well, I only hope no one gives me the great chief or the pirate ship or the land of danger for Christmas. His father started. Why? He said sharply. Just because I've read them, that's all, explained William with a bland look of innocence. The glance that Mr. threw at his offspring was not altogether devoid of suspicion, but he said nothing. He set off after breakfast with the same parcel of books under his arm and returned with another. This time, however, he did not put them in the library cupboard, and William searched in vain. The question of Christmas festivities loomed large upon the social horizon. Robert and Ethel can have their party on the day before Christmas Eve decided Mrs. Brine, and then William on Christmas Eve. William surveyed his elder brother and sister gloomily. Yes, I must eat up just what they've left, he said with bitterness. I know. Mrs. Brine changed the subject hastily. Now let's see whom we'll have for your party, William, she said, taking out pencil and paper. You say whom you'd like, and I'll make a list. Ginger and Douglas and Henry and Joan said William promptly. Yes, who else? I'd like the milkman. You can't have the milkman, William. Don't be so foolish. Well, I'd like to have Fisty Green. He can whistle with his fingers in his mouth. He's a butcher's boy, William. You can't have him. Well, who can I have? Johnny Brent? I don't like him. But you must invite him. He asked you to his. Well, I didn't want to go. Irritably. You made me. But if he asks you to his, you must ask him back. You don't want me to invite folks. I don't want, William said in the voice of one goaded against his will into exasperation. You must invite people who invite you, he said, Mrs. Brown, firmly. That's what we always do in parties. Then they've got to invite you again. It goes on and on and on, argued William. Where's the sense of it? I don't like Johnny Brent, and he don't like me. And if we go on inviting each other and our mothers go on making us go, it'll go on and on and on. Where's the sense of it? I only just want to know where's the sense of it? His logic was unanswerable. Well, anyway, William, I'll draw up the list. You can go and play. William walked away, frowning with his hands in his pockets. Where's the sense of it? He mattered as he went. He began to wend his way towards the spot where he and Douglas and Ginger and Henry met daily in order to wile away the hours of the Christmas holidays. Then they lived and moved and had their being in the characters of Indian chiefs. As William walked down the back street, which led by a shortcut to their meeting place, he unconsciously assumed a narrow-gant strut suggestive of some warrior prince surrounded by his gallant braves. Garn, swank! He turned with a dark smile. On a doorstep sat a little girl gazing up at him with blue eyes beneath a tisled mop of oborn hair. William's eye travelled sternly from her teetian curls to her bare feet. He assumed a threatening attitude and scyled fiercely. You'd better not say that again, he said darkly. Why not, she said with a jeering laugh. Well, you'd just better not, he said with a still more ferocious smile. What did you do? She persisted. He considered for a moment in silence then. You'd see what I'd do, he said ominously. Swank, she repeated, now do it. Go on, do it. I'll let you off this time, he said judicially. Garn. Softie, you can't do anything you can't. You're a softie. I could cut your head off and scalp you and leave you hanging on a tree, I could, he said fiercely. And I will too if you go on calling me names. Softie, swank! And I cut it off, go on. He looked down to her mocking blue eyes. You're jolly lucky I don't start in you, he said threateningly. Folks I do start on soon get sorry, I can tell you. What do you do to them? He changed the subject abruptly. What's your name, he said. Sheila, what's yours? Red hand. I mean William, I'll tell you something if you come and sit down by me. What will you tell me? Something I bet you don't know. I bet I do. Well, come here and I'll tell you. Through the open door he could see a bed in a corner of the dark dirty room and a woman's white face upon the pillow. Oh, come on to the little girl impatiently. He came on and sat down beside her. Well, he said condescendingly, I bet I knew all the time. No, you didn't. Do you know? She sank her voice to a confidential whisper. There's a chap called Father Christmas what comes down chimneys Christmas Eve and leaves presents in people's houses. He gave a scornful laugh. Oh, that rock. You don't believe that rock, do you? Rot, she repeated indignantly. Why, it's true, true as true. A boy told me what had hanged his stocking up by the chimney and in the morning it was full of things and they was just the things what he'd wrote in a bit of paper and thrown up the chimney to this year Christmas chap. Only kids believe that rock persisted, William. I left off believing it years and years ago. Her face grew pink with the effort of convincing him. But the boy told me the boy what got things from this year chap what comes down chimneys and I've wrote what I want and sent it up the chimney. Don't you think I'll get it? William looked down at her. Her blue eyes big with apprehension were fixed on him. Her little rosy lips were parted. William's heart softened. I don't know, he said doubtfully. You might I suppose. What do you want for Christmas? You won't tell if I tell you? No. Not to no one? No. Say cross me throat. William complied with much interest and stored up the phrase for future use. Well, she sang her voice very low and spoke into his ear. Dad's coming out Christmas Eve. She lent back and watched him. Anxious to see the effect of this stupendous piece of news. Her face expressed pride and delight. William's merely bewilderment. Coming out he repeated. Coming out of where? Her expressions changed to one of scorn. Prison, of course. Silly. William was half offended, half thrilled. Well, I couldn't know it was prison, could I? How could I know it was prison without being told? It might have been out of anything. What? In hushed curiosity and all. What was he in prison for? Stealing. Her pride was unmistakable. William looked at her in disapproval. Stealing's wicked, he said, virtuously. Huh, she jeered. You can't steal. You're too soft. Softie, you can't steal without being copped first go. You can't. I could, he said, indignantly. And anyway, he got copped, didn't he? Or he'd not have been in prison so there. He didn't get copped first go. It was just a sort of mistake, he said. He said it won't happen again. He's a jolly good stealer. The cop said he was and they ought to know. He was changing the conversation. What do you want for Christmas? I wrote it on a bit of paper and sent it up with chimney, she said confidingly. I said I didn't want no toys, nor sweeties, nor nothing. I said I only wanted a nice supper for Dad when he comes out Christmas Eve. We ain't got much money, me and mother, and we can't get him much of a spread. But if this year Christmas chap sends one for him, it'll be fine. Her eyes were dreamy with ecstasy. William stirred uneasily on his seat. I told you it was rot, he said. There isn't any further Christmas, it's just an old tale folks tell you when you're a kid and you find out it's not true. He won't send no supper just because he isn't anything, he's just nothing, it's just an old tale. Oh shut up! William turned sharply at the sound of the shrill voice from the bed within the room. Let the kid have a bit of pleasure looking forward to it, can't you? It's little enough she has, anyway. William arose with dignity. He walked away down the street. Softy, it was a malicious sweet little voice, swank. William flashed but forebored to turn round. That evening he met the little girl from next door in the road outside her house. Hello, Joan. Hello, William. In these blue eyes there was no malice or mockery, to Joan, William was a god-like hero. His very wickedness partook of the divine. Would you, would you like to come and make a snowman in our garden, tentatively? William knit his brides. I don't know, he said, ungraciously. I was just kind of thinking. She looked at him silently, hoping he would deign to tell her his thoughts, but not daring to ask. Joan held no modern use on the subject of the equality of the sexes. Do you remember that old tale about Father Christmas, Joan, he said at last? She nodded. Well, suppose you wanted something very bad and you believed that old tale and sent a bit of paper up the chimney without it. You'd feel kind of rotten, wouldn't you? She nodded again. I did one time, she said. I sent a lovely list up the chimney and I never told anyone about it and I got lots of things for Christmas and not one of the things I'd written for. Did you feel awful, Rotten? Yes, I did, awful. I say, Joan, importantly, I've got her secret. Do tell me, William, she pleaded. Can't. It's her cross-me-throat secret. She was mystified and impressed. How lovely, William. Is it something you're going to do? He considered. It might be, he said. I'd love to help. She fixed adoring blue eyes on him. Well, I'll seize it, the Lord of Creation. I say, Joan, you coming to my party? Oh, yes. Well, there's an awful lot coming, Johnny Brenton, all that lot. I'm jolly well not looking forward to it, I can tell you. Oh, I'm so sorry. Why did you ask them, William? Why did I invite them, he said? I don't invite people to my parties. They do that. In William's vocabulary, they always signified his immediate family circle. William had a strong imagination. When an idea took hold upon his mind, it was almost impossible for him to let it go. He was quite accustomed to Joan's adoring homage. The scornful mockery of his Auburn-haired friend was something quite new, and in some strange fashion it intrigued and fascinated him. Mentally he recalled her excited little face, flushed with eagerness as she described the expected spread. Mentally also he conceived a vivid picture of the long-waiting and Christmas Eve, the slowly fading hope, the final bitter of disappointment. While engaging in furious snowball fights with Ginger Douglas and Henry, while annoying peaceful passers-by with well-aimed snow missiles, while bruising himself and most of his family slides along the garden paths, while prolonging his family's clothes to adorn various unshapily snowmen, while walking across all the ice, preferably cracked in the neighbourhood and being several times narrowly rescued from a watery grave, while following all these light holiday pursuits, the picture of the little Auburn-haired girl's disappointment was ever vividly present in his mind. The death his party drew near. My party he would echo bitterly when any one of his family mentioned it. I don't want it. I don't want old Johnny Brenton all that lot. I'd just like to uninvite him all. But you want Ginger and Douglas and Henry, cooked his mother. I can have them any time and I don't like him at parties. They're not the same. I don't like anyone at parties. I don't want a party. But you must have a party, William, to ask back people who ask you. William took up his previous attitude. Well, where's the sense of it he groaned? As usual, he had the last word but left his audience unconvinced. They began on him a full hour before his guests were due. He was brushed and scrubbed and scarred and clean. He was compressed into an eating suit and painted leather pumps and finally deposited in the drawing room, cied and despondent, his noble spirit all but broken. The guests began to arrive. William shook hands politely with three strangers shining with soap, brushed to excess and clothed eating suits. Who in ordinary life were Ginger, Douglas and Henry? They then sat down and gazed at each other in strained and unnatural silence. They could find nothing to say to each other. Ordinary topics seemed to be precluded by their festive appearance and the formal nature of the occasion. Their informal meetings were usually celebrated by and prompt to wrestling matches. This being debarred, a stiff unnatural atmosphere descended upon them. William was a host. They were guests. They had all listened to final maternal admonitions in which the word manners and politeness recurred at frequent intervals. They were, in fact, for the time being, complete strangers. Then Joan arrived and broke the constrained silence. Hello, William. Oh, William, you do look nice. William smiled with this politeness, but his heart warmed to her. It is always some comfort to learn that one has not suffered in vain. How do you do? He said with a stiff bow. Then Johnny Brent came and after him a host of small boys and girls. William greeted friends and foes alike with the same icy courtesy. Then the conjurer arrived. Mrs. Bryan had planned the arrangement most carefully. The supper was laid on the big dining room table. There was to be conjuring for an hour before supper to break the ice. In the meantime, while the conjuring was going on, the grown-ups who were officiating at the party were to have their meal in peace in the library. William had met the conjurer at various parties and despised him utterly. He despised his futile jokes and high-pitched laugh, and he knew his tricks by heart. They sat in rows in front of him, shining-faced, well-brushed little boys in dark-eaten suits and gleaming colours, and dainty white-dressed little girls with gay hair ribbons. William sat in the back row near him. She gazed at his set expressionist face in mute sympathy. He listened to them and often his voice of the conjurer. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will proceed to swallow these three needles and these three strands of cotton, and shortly to bring out each needle threaded with a strand of cotton. Will any lady step forward and examine the needles? Ladies ought to know all about needles often they. You young gentlemen don't learn to sew at school, do you? Ha-ha! Perhaps some of you young gentlemen don't know what a needle is. Ha-ha! William scyled, and his thoughts flew off to the little house in the dirty back street. It was Christmas Eve. Her father was coming out. She would be waiting, watching with bright expectant eyes for the spread she had demanded from Father Christmas to welcome her returning parent. It was a beastly shame. She was a silly little ass anyway, not to believe him. He told her there wasn't any Father Christmas. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will bring out the three needles and the three strands of cotton. Watch carefully, ladies and gentlemen, there. One, two, three. Now, I don't advise you young ladies and gentlemen to try this trick. Needles are very indigestible to some people. Ha-ha! Not to me, of course. I can digest anything. Needles or marbles or matches or glass bowls as you will soon see. Ha-ha! Now to proceed, ladies and gentlemen. William looked at the clock inside. Anyway, they'd be supper soon, and that was a jolly good one because he had suddenly the inscrutable look left his countenance. He gave a sudden gasp and his whole face lit up. Joan turned to him. Come on, he whispered, rising stealthily from his seat. The room was in half darkness and the conjurer was just producing a white rabbit from his left toe so that few noticed William's quiet exit by the window followed by that of the blindly obedient Joan. You wait! he whispered in the darkness of the garden. She waited, shivering in her little white muslin dress till he returned from the stable wheeling a handcart consisting of a large packing case on wheels and finished with a handle. He wheeled it round to the open French window that led into the dining room. Come on, he whispered again. Following his example she began to carry the plates of sandwiches, sausage rolls, meat pies, bread and butter cakes and biscuits of every variety from the table to the handcart. On the top they balanced carefully the plates of jelly and blemange and dished a trifle on the sides they packed armfuls of crackers. At the end she whispered What's it for, William? It's the secret, he said. The cross me throat secret, I told you. Am I going to help? She said in delight he nodded. Just wait a minute. He added and crept from the dining room to the hall and upstairs. He returned with a bundle of clothing which he proceeded to arrange in the garden. He first dawned his own red dressing gown then wind a white scarf around his head tying it under his chin I make him believe on Father Christmas he danged to explain and I make him believe this white stuff is hair and beard and this is for you to wear so as you won't get cold. He held out a little white satin cloak edged with swan's dine. Oh how lovely William, but it's not my cloak, it's Siddy Murford's. Never mind you can wear it said William generously. Then taking the handles of the cart he set off down the drive. From the drawing room came the sound of a chorus of delight as the conjurer produced a bowl of fish and a glass bowl from his head. From the kitchen came the sound of the hilarious laughter of the maids only in the dining room with his horrible expanse of empty table with silence. They walked down the road without speaking till Joan gave a little excited laugh. This is fun William, I do wonder what we're going to do. You'll see said William, I'd better not tell you yet I promised to cross me through a promise I wouldn't tell anyone. All right William she said sweetly the evening was dark and rather foggy so that the strange couple attracted little attention except when passing beneath the street lamps then certainly people stood still and looked at William and his cart and open-lived amazement. At last they turned down a back street towards a door that stood open to the dark foggy night. Inside the room was a bare table at which sat a little girl her blue anxious eyes fixed on the open door. I hope he gets here before dad I wouldn't like dad to come and find it not ready. The woman in the bed closed her eyes weirdly. I don't think he'll come now dearie we must just get on without it. The little girl sprang up her pale cheeks and they flushed. Oh listen she cried something's coming. They listened in breathless silence while the sound of wheels came down the street towards the empty door. Then an old handcart appeared in the doorway and behind it William and his strange attire and Joan in her fairy like white cloak, white dress, white socks and shoes her bright curls clustered with gleaming fog jewels. The little girl clasped her hands. Her face broke into a wrapped smile. Her blue eyes were like stars. Oh oh she cried it's Father Christmas and a fairy. Without a word William pushed the cart through the doorway into the room and began to remove its contents and placed them on the table. First the jellies and trifles and blumonges then the meat pies, pastry, sausage rolls sandwiches, biscuits and cakes sugar coated, cream interlayered full of plums and nuts and fruit. William's mother had had wide experience and knew well what food most appealed to small boys and girls. Moreover she had provided plentifully for her twenty guests. The little girl was past speech. The woman looked at them in dumb wonder then why you're the boy she was talking to she said at last. It's real kind of you. She was getting that upset. It did have broke her heart if nothing had come and I couldn't do nothing it's real kind of you sir. Her eyes were misty. Joan placed the last cake on the table and William who was rather warm after his exertions removed his scarf. The child gave a little sobbing laugh. Oh isn't it lovely I'm so happy you're the funny boy aren't you dressed up as Father Christmas or did Father Christmas send you or were you Father Christmas all the time may I kiss the fairy would she mind well Joan came forward and kissed her shyly and the woman in the bed smiled unsteadily. It's real kind of you both she murmured again then the door opened and the lord and master of the house entered after six months absence he came in no sheepy shang dog fashion he entered cheerily and boisterously as any parent might and returning from a hard earned holiday hello Mrs hello kid hello what's all this here his eyes fell upon William hello young gent happy Christmas William murmured correctly seem to you and many often how are you Mrs could look dark to you all right that's right boy say where's the grub come from fair makes me mouth water I haven't seen nothing like this not for some time there was a torrid of explanations everyone talking at once he gave a loud guffaw at the end well we're much obliged to this young gent and this little lady and now we'll have a good old supper this is all right this is now Mrs you have a good feed now before we begin I say three cheers for the young gent and little lady come on now yip yip yip hooray now little lady you come here that's fine that is now we'll have a meat pie ooze for a meat pie come on Mrs that's right we'll all have meat pies this here's something like Christmas eh we've not had a Christmas like this not for many a long year now hurry up kid don't spend all your time larvin now ladies and gents ooze for a sausage roll all of us come on then I mustn't eat too heavy or I won't be able to sing to you at all I've got some fine songs young gent and kid here and dance for you she's a fine little dancer she is now come on ladies and gents sandwiches more pies come on they laughed and shattered merrily the woman sat up in bed her eyes brightened her cheeks fleshed to William and Jonah was like some strange and wonderful dream and at that precise moment Mrs Brown had sunk down upon the nearest dining room chair on the verge of tears and 20 pairs of hungry horrified eyes and 20 cleems staring up in my little faces surveyed the bear expanse of the dining room table and the cry that went up all round was where's William and then where's Joan they searched the house and garden and stable for them in vain they sent the 20 enraged guests home supperless and aggrieved has William eaten all our suppers they said where is he is he dead people will never forget well Mrs Brown it's simply dreadful and where is William they rang up police stations for miles around if they've eaten all that food the two of them said Mrs Brown almost distraught they'll die they may be dying in some hospital now and I do wish Mrs Murford would stop ringing up about Sadie's cloak I've told her it's not here meanwhile there was dancing and singing in games and cracker pooling in a small house in a back street not very far away I've never had such a lovely time in my life gasped the kid breathlessly at the end of one games and to which William had initiated them I've never never never we won't forget you and a hurry young man her father added nor the little lady neither we'll have many talks about this year Joan was sitting on the bed laughing and panting her curls all disordered I wish said William wistfully I wish you'd let me come with you and go stealing some day I'm not going stealing no more young gents at his friend solemnly I got a job a real steady job bricklaying and I'm going to stick to it all good things must come to an end and soon William dawned his red dressing gown again and Joan her borrowed cloak and they helped to store the remnants of the feast in the larder the remnants of the feast would provide the expert learned his family with food for many days to come then they took the empty handcart and after many fun farewells set off homeward through the dark Mr Brian had come home and assumed charge of operations Ethel was weeping on the sofa in the library oh dear little William she stopped I do wish I'd always been kind to him Mrs Brian was reclining pale and haggard in the armchair there's the rough for a canal John she was saying weekly and Jones mother will always say it was our fault oh poor little William it's a good 10 miles away said her husband Riley I don't think even William you rang up fiercely can find these brainless police hello any news a boy and girl and supper for 20 can't disappear off the face of the earth no there had been no trouble at home there probably will be when he turns up but there was none before if he wanted to run away why would he burden himself with a supper for 20 why one minute the front door opened and Mrs Brian ran into the hall a well known voice was heard speaking quickly and irritably I just went away that's all I just thought of something I wanted to do that's all yes I did take the supper I just wanted it for something it's a secret what I wanted it for I will William said Mr Brian through the scenes that followed William preserved a dignified silence even to the point of refusing any explanation such explanation as there was filtered through from Jones mother by means of the telephone it was all Williams idea Jones mother said plaintively June would never have done anything if William hadn't practically made her I expect she's caught her death of cold she's in bed now yes so is William I can't think what they wanted to take all the food for and he was just a common man straight from prison it's dreadful I do hope they haven't picked up any awful language have you given Joan some quinine oh Mrs Murford's just wrong to see if Sadie's cloak has turned up will you send it round I feel so upset by it all if it wasn't Christmas Eve the houses occupied by Williams and Jones families respectively were semi-detached but Williams and Jones bedroom windows faced each other and there was only about five yards between them there came to Williams ears as he lay drizzly in bed the scientific gentle rattle of the window he got up and opened it at the opposite window a little white rubbed figure lent out whose golden curls shone in the starlight William she whispered I threw some beads to see if you were awake were your folks mad awful said William laconically mine were too I didn't care did you no I didn't not a bit William wasn't it fun I wish it was just beginning again don't you yes I just do I say Joan wasn't she a jolly little kid and didn't she dance fine yes a pause then William you don't like her better than me do you William considered no I don't he said at last a soft sigh of relief came through the darkness I'm so glad good night William good night said Williams sleepily drawing down his window as he spoke end of chapter 14 Williams Christmas Eve read by Barbara Bulkley of bigbible.org end of more William