Just William - Richmal Crompton (have you read this book .TXT) 📗

goin’ to ask her again,” volunteered William.

“Who ask who what?” said Mr. Brown, but William had departed. He was already on his way to Mr. Moss’s shop.

Mr. Moss was at the door, hatted and coated, and gazing anxiously down the street.

“Goo’ mornin’ Mr. Moss,” said William politely.

Mr. Moss took out a large antique watch.

“He’s late!” he said. “I shall miss the train. Oh, dear! It will be the first New Year’s Day I’ve missed in ten years.”

William was inspecting the sweets with the air of an expert.

“Them pink ones are new,” he said at last. “How much are they?”

“Eightpence a quarter. Oh, dear, I shall miss the train.”

“They’re very small ones,” said William disparagingly. “You’d think they’d be less than that⁠—small ones like that.”

“Will you⁠—will you do something for me and I’ll give you a quarter of those sweets.”

William gasped. The offer was almost too munificent to be true.

“I’ll do anythin’ for that,” he said simply.

“Well, just stay in the shop till my nephew Bill comes. ’E’ll be ’ere in two shakes an’ I’ll miss my train if I don’t go now. ’E’s goin’ to keep the shop for me till I’m back an’ ’e’ll be ’ere any minute now. Jus’ tell ’im I ’ad to run for to catch my train an’ if anyone comes into the shop before ’e comes jus’ tell ’em to wait or to come back later. You can weigh yourself a quarter o’ those sweets.”

Mr. Moss was certainly in a holiday mood. William pinched himself just to make sure that he was still alive and had not been translated suddenly to the realms of the blest.

Mr. Moss, with a last anxious glance at his watch, hurried off in the direction of the station.

William was left alone. He spent a few moments indulging in roseate daydreams. The ideal of his childhood⁠—perhaps of everyone’s childhood⁠—was realised. He had a sweet-shop. He walked round the shop with a conscious swagger, pausing to pop into his mouth a Butter Ball⁠—composed, as the label stated, of pure farm cream and best butter. It was all his⁠—all those rows and rows of gleaming bottles of sweets of every size and colour, those boxes and boxes of attractively arranged chocolates. Deliberately he imagined himself as their owner. By the time he had walked round the shop three times he believed that he was the owner.

At this point a small boy appeared in the doorway. William scowled at him.

“Well,” he said ungraciously, “what d’you want?” Then, suddenly remembering his resolution, “Please what d’you want?”

“Where’s Uncle?” said the small boy with equal ungraciousness. “ ’Cause our Bill’s ill an’ can’t come.”

William waved him off.

“That’s all right,” he said. “You tell ’em that’s all right. That’s quite all right. See? Now, you go off!”

The small boy stood, as though rooted to the spot. William pressed into one of his hands a stick of liquorice and into the other a packet of chocolate.

“Now, you go away! I don’t want you here. See? You go away you little⁠—assified cow!”

William’s invective was often wholly original.

The small boy made off, still staring and clutching his spoils. William started to the door and yelled to the retreating figure, “if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

He had already come to look upon the Resolution as a kind of god who must at all costs be propitiated. Already the Resolution seemed to have bestowed upon him the dream of his life⁠—a fully-equipped sweet-shop.

He wandered round again and discovered a wholly new sweetmeat called Cokernut Kisses. Its only drawback was its instability. It melted away in the mouth at once. So much so that almost before William was aware of it he was confronted by the empty box. He returned to the more solid charms of the Pineapple Crisp.

He was interrupted by the entrance of a thin lady of uncertain age.

“Good morning,” she said icily. “Where’s Mr. Moss?”

William answered as well as the presence of five sweets in his mouth would allow him.

“I can’t hear a word you say,” she said⁠—more frigidly than ever.

William removed two of his five sweets and placed them temporarily on the scale.

“Gone,” he said laconically, then murmured vaguely, “thank you,” as the thought of the Resolution loomed up in his mind.

“Who’s in charge?”

“Me,” said William ungrammatically.

She looked at him with distinct disapproval.

“Well, I’ll have one of those bars of chocolates.”

William looking round the shop, realised suddenly that his own depredations had been on no small scale. But there was a chance of making good any loss that Mr. Moss might otherwise have sustained.

He looked down at the twopenny bars.

“Shillin’ each,” he said firmly.

She gasped.

“They were only twopence yesterday.”

“They’re gone up since,” said William brazenly, adding a vague, “if you’ll kin’ly ’scuse me sayin’ so.”

“Gone up⁠—?” she repeated indignantly. “Have you heard from the makers they’re gone up?”

“Yes’m,” said William politely.

“When did you hear?”

“This mornin’⁠—if you don’t mind me saying so.”

William’s manner of fulsome politeness seemed to madden her.

“Did you hear by post?”

“Yes’m. By post this mornin’.”

She glared at him with vindictive triumph.

“I happen to live opposite, you wicked, lying boy, and I know that the postman did not call here this morning.”

William met her eye calmly.

“No, they came round to see me in the night⁠—the makers did. You cou’n’t of heard them,” he added hastily. “It was when you was asleep. If you’ll ’scuse me contradictin’ of you.”

It is a great gift to be able to lie so as to convince other people. It is a still greater gift to be able to lie so as to convince oneself. William was possessed of the latter gift.

“I shall certainly not pay more than twopence,” said his customer severely, taking a bar of chocolate and laying down twopence on the counter. “And I shall report this shop to the Profiteering Committee. It’s scandalous. And a pack of wicked lies!”

William scowled at her.

“They’re a shillin’,” he said. “I don’t want your nasty ole tuppences. I said they was a shillin’.”

He followed her to the door. She was crossing the street to her house. “You⁠—you ole thief!” he yelled after her,