William Again by Richmal Crompton

annoying to William. He thought
it only right that any young man who was interested in Ethel should ensure his (William’s) sympathy by practical means. Mr Romford treated him as if he did not exist. William resented this
very much.
    ‘Wot’s he come for?’ he said, indignantly. ‘He doesn’t take no interest in Jumble, nor the rats, nor the toolshed, nor the bridge wot I’m making over
the stream, nor me. Wot’s he come for?’ he demanded of his assembled family.
    They all replied to him.
    Ethel said coldly: ‘Don’t talk about things that aren’t your business.’
    His mother said: ‘William, I wish something could be done about your hair. It never looks tidy!’
    His father said: ‘That reminds me, William, you’d better go and weed your garden. It’s in a disgraceful state.’
    William went slowly to the door.
    ‘Mr Romford’s going to give me a Persian cat for a Christmas present,’ Ethel went on to her mother.
    William stopped.
    ‘Wot about Jumble?’ he said, indignantly. ‘Wot about Jumble with an ole cat about the place? Wot about my rats? How d’you think they’ll like an ole cat about the
place? My rats ’ve got as much right to live’s an ole cat, you’d think, wun’t you? My rats an’ poor ole Jumble came here first, I think – I think they
did, considering that the ole cat hasn’t come yet. You’d think that Jumble an’ the poor ole rats deserved a bit of peace . . . ’
    ‘Go and give your hair a good brushing, William,’ said his mother.
    ‘Take every one of those weeds up. You can’t have touched it for weeks,’ said his father.
    ‘You aren’t the only person in the world who can keep animals,’ said Ethel.
    ‘A lot of int’rest you take in animals, don’t you? – in real animals.’ William exploded bitterly. ‘A lot of int’rest you take in my insecks an’
rats an’ things, don’t you? I mus’ say you take a lot of int’rest in them,’ he went on in heavy sarcasm.
    ‘Cats! Who’d call cats an animal? They aren’t int’restin’, are they? Who ever found cats int’restin’? They don’t follow you like dogs, do they?
They haven’t int’restin’ habits like insecks – oh, I mus’ say they’re very int’restin’!’
    He saw Ethel and his mother gathering breath to speak. His father had retired behind a paper.
    He hastily went out, shutting the door firmly behind him.
    ‘Cats!’ he remarked, contemptuously, to the empty hall.
    William was walking slowly along the road, with his hands in his pockets, whistling. He felt at peace with all the world. He had a half-crown in his pocket. It would soon be Christmas. He was
going to have a bicycle for Christmas. Ethel had insisted on his having a bicycle for Christmas, not for love of William, but because William’s secret experiments with her bicycle had such
dire results.
    ‘He’ll only smash it up, if he has one, dear,’ his mother had said.
    ‘Well, he’ll only smash up mine, if he doesn’t,’ Ethel had replied.
    So William was going to have a bicycle and a mouth organ and pocket-compass in addition, of course, to the strange things always sent as presents by distant aunts and uncles. Those did not count
– pencil-boxes, and storybooks about curious, exemplary boys, and boxes of crayons and pens and things. They didn’t count.
    Anyway, a bicycle was a bicycle. He wanted to be able to take a bicycle right to pieces and put it together again. He’d never been able to have a really good try at Ethel’s. She made
such a fuss. He was thinking about this, with a faint smile on his face, when he observed a man coming along with a covered basket in his hands. It was Mr Romford. William looked at him coldly. He
had no hopes of a Christmas present from Mr Romford but Mr Romford stopped.
    ‘Are you going home, William?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes,’ said William ungraciously.
    ‘Would you mind taking this to your sister? It’s a present I am giving her for Christmas. Don’t open the lid.