Just William: William Goes To The Pictures, Part Two

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me for part two of William Goes to the Pictures by Richmald Crompton.

As you might remember,

William has been to the pictures and he's been rather influenced by what he's seen.

We join him again just after he's overheard his sister Ethel talking rather impassionedly to a man called Mr.

Morgan,

Part two.

William had just arrived at Mr.

Morgan's house.

The maid showed him into Mr.

Morgan's sitting room.

Mr.

Brown,

She announced.

The young man rose to receive his guest with politeness,

Not unmixed with bewilderment.

His acquaintance with William was of the slightest.

Good afternoon,

Said William.

I've come from Ethel.

Yes.

Yes.

William fumbled in his pocket and at last drew forth a rosebud,

Slightly crushed by its close confinement in the company of the gooseberry eyes,

A penknife,

A top and a piece of putty.

She sent you this,

Said William gravely.

Mr.

Morgan gazed at it with the air of one who is sleepwalking.

Yes.

Very kind of her.

Kinder keepsake.

Souvenir,

Explained William.

Yes.

Any message?

Oh,

Yes.

She wants you to come in and see her this evening.

Yes,

Of course.

I've just come from her.

Perhaps she remembered something she wanted to tell me after I'd gone.

Perhaps.

Then any particular time?

No.

About seven,

I expect.

Mr.

Morgan's eyes were fixed with a fascinated,

Wandering gaze upon the limp and by no means spotless rosebud.

You say she sent this?

Yes.

And no other message?

No.

Well,

Say I'll come with pleasure.

Will you?

Yes.

Silent.

Then she thinks an awful lot of you,

Ethel does.

Mr.

Morgan passed a hand over his brow.

Yes.

Kind,

Very kind,

I'm sure.

Always talking about you in her sleep,

Went on William,

Warming to his theme.

I sleep in the next room and I can hear her talking about you all night.

Just saying your name over and over again.

Jack Morgan,

Jack Morgan,

Jack Morgan.

William tried to make his voice husky and soulful.

Just like that,

Over and over again.

Jack Morgan,

Jack Morgan,

Jack Morgan.

Mr.

Morgan was speechless.

He sat gazing with horror stricken face at his young visitor.

Are you sure?

He said at last.

It might be someone else's name.

No,

It isn't,

Said William firmly.

It's yours.

Jack Morgan,

Jack Morgan,

Jack Morgan.

Just like that.

And she eats nothing now.

Always hanging around the windows to watch you pass.

The perspiration stood out in beads on Mr.

Morgan's brow.

It's horrible,

He said at last,

In a hoarse whisper.

William was gratified.

The young man had at last realised his cruelty.

But William never liked to leave a task half done.

He still sat on and calmly and silently considered his next statement.

Mechanically,

He put a hand into his pocket and conveyed a gooseberry eye to his mouth.

Mr.

Morgan also sat in silence with a stricken look upon his face,

Gazing into vacancy.

She's got your photo,

Said William at last,

Fixed up into one of those little round things on a chain around her neck.

Are you sure?

Said Mr.

Morgan desperately.

Sure as fate,

Said William,

Rising.

Well,

I'd better be going.

She particular wants to see you alone tonight.

Goodbye.

But Mr.

Morgan didn't answer.

He sat huddled up in his chair,

Staring in front of him long after William had gone jauntily on his way.

Then he moistened his dry lips.

Good Lord,

He groaned.

William was thinking of the pictures again as he went home.

The painter one was jolly good.

When they all got all over paint,

And when they all fell downstairs.

William suddenly guffawed out loud at the memory.

But what had the painter chap been doing at the very beginning before he began to paint?

He'd been getting off the old paint with a sort of torch thing and a knife.

Then he began putting the new paint on,

Just sort of melting the old paint and then scraping it off.

William had never seen it done in real life.

But he supposed that was the way you did get old paint off,

Melting it with some sort of fire,

Then scraping it off.

He wasn't sure whether it was that,

But he could find out.

As he entered the house,

He took his pen knife from his pocket,

Opened it thoughtfully and went upstairs.

Mr.

Brown came home about dinner time.

How's your head father?

Said Ethel sympathetically.

Rotten,

Said Mr.

Brown,

Sinking wearily into an armchair.

Perhaps dinner will do it good,

Said Mrs.

Brown.

It ought to be ready now.

The housemaid entered the room.

Mr.

Morgan,

Mum,

He wants to see Miss Ethel.

I've shown him into the library.

Now,

Exploded Mr.

Brown.

Why the Dickens is the young idiot coming at this time of day?

Seven o'clock?

What time does he think we have dinner?

What does he mean by coming round paying calls on people at dinner time?

What?

Ethel dear,

Interrupted Mrs.

Brown,

Do go and see what he wants and get rid of him as soon as you can.

Ethel entered the library,

Carefully closing the door behind her to keep out the sound of her father's comments,

Which were plainly audible all across the hall.

Good evening,

Miss Brown.

Good evening,

Mr.

Morgan.

Then they sat in silence,

Both awaiting some explanation of the visit.

The silence became oppressive.

Mr.

Morgan,

With an air of acute misery and embarrassment,

Shifted his feet and coughed.

Ethel looked at the clock.

Then,

Was it raining when you came,

Mr.

Morgan?

Raining?

Er,

No,

No,

Not at all.

Silent.

I thought it looked like rain this afternoon.

Yes,

Er,

Of course,

But no,

Not at all.

Silence.

It does make the roads so bad around here when it rains.

Yes,

Mr.

Morgan put up a hand as though to loosen his collar.

Er,

Very bad.

Almost impassable.

Er,

Quite.

Silence again.

Inside the drawing room,

Mr.

Brown was growing restive.

Is dinner to be kept waiting for that youth all night?

Quarter past seven.

You know,

It's just what I can't stand,

Having my meals interfered with.

Is my digestion to be ruined simply because this young nincompoop chooses to pay his social calls at seven o'clock at night?

Then we must ask him to dinner,

Said Mrs.

Brown.

We really must.

We must not,

Said Mr.

Brown.

Can't I stay away from the office for one day with a headache,

Without having to entertain all the young jackasses for miles around?

The telephone bell rang.

He raised his hands above his head.

Oh!

I'll go dear,

Said Mrs.

Brown hastily.

She returned with a worried frown on her brow.

It's Mrs.

Clive,

She said.

She says Joan has been very sick because of some horrible sweets William gave her,

And she said she was so sorry to hear about William and hoped he'd be better soon.

I couldn't quite make it out,

But it seems that William has been telling them that he had to go and see a doctor about his lungs,

And the doctor said they were very weak and he'd have to be careful.

Mr.

Brown sat up and looked at her.

But why on earth,

He said.

I don't know dear,

Said Mrs.

Brown.

I don't know anything about it.

He's mad,

Said Mr.

Brown with conviction.

Mad,

It's the only explanation.

Then came the opening and shutting of the front door,

And Ethel entered.

She was very flushed.

He's gone,

She said.

Mother,

It's simply horrible.

He didn't tell me much,

But it seems that William actually went to his house and told him I wanted to see him alone at seven o'clock this evening.

I've hardly spoken to William today.

He couldn't have misunderstood anything I'd said,

And he actually took a flower with him,

A dreadful looking rosebud,

And said I'd sent it.

I simply didn't know where to look or what to say.

It was horrible.

Mrs.

Brown sat gazing weakly at her daughter.

Mr.

Brown rose with the air of a man goaded beyond endurance.

Where is William,

He said.

I don't know,

But I thought I heard him go upstairs some time ago.

William was upstairs.

For the last 20 minutes he had been happily and quietly engaged upon his bedroom door,

With a lighted taper in one hand and penknife in the other.

There was no doubt about it.

By successful experiment,

He had proved that that was the way you got old paint off.

When Mr.

Brown came upstairs,

He had entirely stripped one panel of its paint.

An hour later,

William sat in the back garden on an upturned box,

Sucking,

With a certain dogged defiance,

The last and dirtiest of the gooseberry eyes.

Sadly,

He reviewed the day.

It had not been a success.

His generosity to the little girl next door had been misconstrued into an attempt upon her life.

His efforts to help on his only sister's love affair had been painfully misunderstood.

And lastly,

Because among other things he had discovered a perfectly scientific method of removing old paint,

He had been brutally assaulted by a violent and unreasonable parent.

Suddenly,

William began to wonder if his father drank.

He saw himself through a mist of pathos as a drunkard's child.

He tried to imagine his father weeping over him in hospital and begging his forgiveness.

It was a wonder he wasn't there now anyway.

His shoulders drooped,

His whole attitude His shoulders drooped,

His whole attitude became expressive of extreme dejection.

Inside the house,

The father,

Reclining at length in an armchair,

Discoursed to his wife on the subject of his son.

One hand was pressed to his aching brow and the other gesticulating freely.

He's insane,

He said.

Stark,

Raving,

Insane.

You ought to take him to a doctor and get his brain examined.

Look at him today.

He begins by knocking me into the middle of the rhododendron bushes under no provocation,

Mind you.

I hadn't even spoken to him.

Then he tries to poison the nice little thing next door with some vile stuff I thought I'd thrown away.

Then he goes about telling people he's consumptive.

Then he takes extraordinary messages and love tokens from Ethel to strange young men and brings them here just when we're going to begin dinner and then goes around burning and hacking at the doors.

Where is the sense in it,

In any of it?

They're the acts of a lunatic.

You ought to have his brain examined.

Mrs Brown cut off her darning wool and laid aside the sock she had just finished darning.

It certainly sounds very silly,

Dear,

She said mildly,

But there might be some explanation of it all,

If only we knew.

Boys are such funny things.

She looked at the clock and went over to the window.

William,

She called,

It's your bedtime,

Dear.

William rose sadly and came slowly into the house.

Goodnight,

Mother,

He said.

Then he turned a mournful and reproachful eye upon his father.

Goodnight,

Father,

He said.

Don't think about what you've done.

I forgive.

He stopped and decided,

Hastily but wisely,

To retire with all possible speed.