Just William Stories: William's Christmas Eve, Part 2 Of 2

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to William's Christmas Eve by Richmal Crompton.

We're going to hear part two of the story tonight,

But before I go ahead,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.

Settle down into your chair or your bed.

Relax your hands.

Loosen your shoulders.

And soften your jaw.

That's great.

So if you're ready,

Then I shall begin.

William's Christmas Eve part two.

The day of William's party drew near.

My party,

He would echo bitterly when anyone of his family mentioned it.

I don't want it.

I don't want old Johnny Brent and all that lot.

I'd just like to uninvite them all.

But you want Ginger and Douglas and Henry,

Coaxed his mother.

I can have them anytime and I don't like them 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.

But 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 scoured and cleaned.

He was compressed into an eaten suit and patent leather pumps.

And finally deposited in the drawing room,

Cowed 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 in ceremonial eaten 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 impromptu 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.

So 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 distant 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.

Brown 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 collars and dainty white-dressed little girls with gay hair ribbons.

William sat in the back row near the window,

And next to him sat Joan.

She gazed at his set,

Expressionless face in mute sympathy.

He listened to the monotonous 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,

Oughtn't 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 scowled,

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 threaded with 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!

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 and sighed.

Anyway,

There'd be supper soon,

And that was a jolly good one,

Because he'd had a good look at it.

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 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.

And 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 blancmange and dishes of trifle,

And round the sides they packed armfuls of crackers.

At the end she whispered softly,

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 donned his own red dressing gown and then wound a white scarf around his head,

Tying it under his chin so that the ends hung down.

I make him believe I'm Father Christmas,

He deigned to explain,

And I make him believe this white stuff is hair and beard,

And this is for you to wear so she won't get cold.

He held out a little white satin cloak edged with swans down.

Oh,

How lovely,

William,

But it's not my cloak,

It's Sadie Murford's.

Never mind,

You can wear it,

Said William generously.

Then,

Taking the handle 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 goldfish in 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 its horrible expanse of empty table,

Was silence.

They walked down the road without speaking till Joan gave an excited little 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 a cross-my-throat promise I wouldn't tell anyone.

All right,

William,

She said sweetly.

I don't mind a bit.

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 in open-mouthed 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,

She said.

I wouldn't like Dad to come and find it not ready.

The woman on the bed closed her eyes wearily.

I don't think he'll come now,

Dearie.

We must just get on without it.

The little girl sprang up,

Her pale cheek suddenly 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 in his strange attire and Joan in her fairy-like white,

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 rapt smile,

Her blue eyes were like stars.

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 place them on the table.

First the jellies and trifles and blancmanges,

Then the meat pies,

Pastries,

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'd have broken her heart if nothing had come and I couldn't do nothing.

Joan,

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?

She's so beautiful.

Joan came forward and kissed her shyly,

And the woman on 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 his six months absence.

He came in no sheepish,

Hangdog fashion.

He entered cheerily and boisterously,

As any parent might on returning from a hard-earned holiday.

Hello,

Missus.

Hello,

Kid.

Hello.

What's all this here?

His eyes fell upon William.

Hello,

Young gent.

Happy Christmas,

William murmured politely.

Same to you,

And many of them.

How are you,

Missus?

Kid looked after you all right?

That's right.

Oh,

I say,

Where's the grub come from?

There makes me mouth water.

I haven't seen nothing like this,

Not for some time.

There was a torrent 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,

Missus,

You have a good feed.

Before we begin,

I say three cheers for the young gent and little lady.

Come on now.

Hip,

Hip,

Hip,

Hooray.

Now,

Little lady,

You come here.

That's fine,

That is.

Now,

Who'll have a meat pie?

Who's for a meat pie?

This year'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 laughing.

Now,

Ladies and gents,

Who's 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 afterwards,

Will I?

I've got some fine songs,

Young gent,

And Kid here will 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 chattered merrily.

The woman sat up in bed,

Her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed.

To William and Joan it 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 twenty pairs of hungry,

Horrified eyes in twenty clean,

Staring,

Open-mouthed little faces surveyed the bare expanse of the dining room table.

And the cry that went up all around was,

Where's William?

And then,

Where's Joan?

They searched the house and garden,

Unstable for them,

In vain.

They sent the twenty enraged guests home,

Supperless and aggrieved.

Has William eaten all our suppers?

They said.

Where is he?

Is he dead?

People will never forget,

Wailed 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.

Meantime there was dancing and singing and games and cracker-pulling 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 of the many games into which William had initiated them.

I've never,

Never,

Never.

We won't forget you in a hurry,

Young man,

Her father added,

Nor this little lady neither.

We'll have many talks about this here.

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 when you go stealing someday.

I'm not going stealing no more,

Young gent,

Said 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 donned 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 ex-burglar and his family with food for many days to come.

Then they took the empty handcart and,

After many fond farewells,

Set off homeward through the dark.

Mr.

Brown had come home and assumed charge of operations.

Ethel was weeping on the sofa in the library.

Oh dear little William,

She sobbed,

I do wish I'd always been kind to him.

Mrs.

Brown was reclining,

Pale and haggard,

In the armchair.

There's the Ruffborough Canal,

John,

She was saying weakly,

And Joan's mother will always say it was our fault.

Oh poor little William.

The canal is a good ten miles away,

Said her husband dryly.

I don't think even William.

He rang up fiercely.

Confound these brainless police.

Hello,

Any news?

A boy and girl and supper for twenty can't disappear off the face of the earth.

And no,

There's 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 twenty?

Why,

One minute.

The front door opened and Mrs.

Brown 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.

William,

Said Mr.

Brown.

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 Joan's mother by means of the telephone.

It was all William's idea,

Joan's mother said plaintively.

Joan 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 rung up to see if Sadie's cloak has turned up.

Will you send it round?

I feel so upset by it all.

If only it wasn't Christmas Eve.

The house,

Occupied by William's and Joan's families respectively,

Was semi-detached.

But William's and Joan's bedroom windows faced each other,

And there was only about five yards between them.

There came to William's ears as he lay drowsily in bed,

The sound of a gentle rattle at the window.

He got up and opened it.

At the opposite window,

A little white-robed 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.

Goodnight,

William.

Goodnight,

Said William,

Sleepily.

Drawing down his window as he spoke.