Still William by Richmal Crompton Page B

anyone’ he remarked virtuously to his brush and comb . . . His father frequently remarked that William’s early morning songs
were enough to drive a man to drink . . . He brushed his hair with unusual vigour and descended to breakfast looking (for William) unusually sleek and virtuous. His father was reading the paper in
front of the fire.
    ‘Good mornin’, Father,’ said William in a voice of suave politeness.
    His father grunted.
    ‘Did you hear me not singin’ this mornin’, Father?’ said William pleasantly. It was as well that his self-denials should not be missed by the family circle.
    His father did not answer. William sighed. Some family circles were different from others. It was hard to imagine his father happy and grateful and admiring. But still, he was going to have a
jolly good try . . .
    His mother and sister and brother came down. William said ‘Good mornin’!’ to them all with unctuous affability. His brother looked at him suspiciously.
    ‘What mischief are you up to?’ he said ungraciously.
    William merely gave him a long, silent and reproachful glance.
    ‘What are you going to do this morning, William dear?’ said his mother.
    ‘I don’ mind what I do,’ said William. ‘I jus’ want to help you. I’ll do anything you like, Mother.’
    She looked at him anxiously.
    ‘Are you feeling quite well, dear?’ she said with concern.
    ‘If you want to help ,’ said his sister sternly, ‘you might dig up that piece of my garden you and those other boys trampled down yesterday.’
    William decided that a life of self-denial and service need not include fagging for sisters who spoke to one in that tone of voice. He pretended not to hear.
    ‘Can I do anything at all for you this morning, Mother dear?’ he said earnestly.
    His mother looked too taken aback to reply. His father rose and folded up his newspaper.
    ‘Take my advice,’ he said, ‘and beware of that boy this morning. He’s up to something!’
    William sighed again. Some family circles simply didn’t seem able to recognise a life of self-denial and service when they met it . . .
    After breakfast he wandered into the garden. Before long Ginger, Douglas and Henry came down the road.
    ‘Come on, William!’ they called over the gate.
    For a moment William was tempted. Somehow it seemed a terrible waste of a holiday to spend it in self-denial and service instead of in search of adventures with Ginger, Douglas and Henry. But he
put the temptation away. When he made up his mind to do a thing he did it . . .
    ‘Can’t come today,’ he said sternly, ‘I’m busy.’
    ‘Oh, go on !’
    ‘Well, I am an’ I’m just not comin’ an’ kin’ly stop throwin’ stones at our cat.’
    ‘Call it a cat! Thought it was an ole fur glove what someone’d thrown away!’
    In furious defence of his household’s cat (whose life William in private made a misery) William leapt to the gate. The trio fled down the road. William returned to his meditations. His
father had gone to business and Ethel and Robert had gone to golf. His mother drew up the morning-room window.
    ‘William, darling, aren’t you going to play with your friends this morning?’
    William turned to her with an expression of solemnity and earnestness.
    ‘I want to help you, Mother. I don’t wanter play with my friends.’
    He felt a great satisfaction with this speech. It breathed the very spirit of self-denial and service.
    ‘I’ll try to find that bottle of tonic you didn’t finish after whooping cough,’ said his mother helplessly as she drew down the window.
    William stared around him disconsolately. It was hard to be full of self-sacrifices and service and to find no outlet for it . . . nobody seemed to want his help. Then a brilliant idea occurred
to him. He would do something for each of his family – something that would be a pleasant surprise when they found out . . .
    He went up to his bedroom. There in a drawer was a poem that he had found in