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Authors: Richmal Crompton
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consumption.
‘Jus’ soon after lunch,’ he said with rising cheerfulness. ‘Now I’d better be goin’, I think. Good afternoon.’
He left Mrs Morrison still gasping upon the sofa and in the act of ringing for her maid to fetch her smelling salts.
William walked down the road with a swagger. He was managing jolly well . . . The next visit was easier. He simply told Mrs Helm’s maid at the front door to tell Mrs Helm that Ethel
would be able to come tonight after all, thank you very much.
Then he swung off to the woods with Jumble, his faithful dog. In accordance with his new life of virtue he walked straight along the road without burrowing in the ditches or throwing stones at
telegraph posts. His exhilaration slowly vanished. He wondered where Ginger and Henry and Douglas were and what they were doing. It was jolly dull all alone . . . but still the happiness and
gratitude and admiration of his family circle when they found out all he had done for them would repay him for everything. At least he hoped it would. His mother . . . he had done nothing for his
mother yet. He must try to do something for his mother . . .
V
When he returned home it was almost dinner time. His mother and Ethel and Robert were still out. The Cook met him with a lugubrious face.
‘Now, Master William,’ she said, ‘can I trust you to give a message to your ma?’
‘Yes, Cook,’ said William virtuously.
‘Me cold in me ’ead’s that bad I can’t stand on me feet no longer. That ’ussy Ellen wouldn’t give up ’er night hout to ’elp me – not she,
and yer ma said if I’d leave things orl ready to dish hup I might go and rest afore dinner ’f I felt bad. Well, she’ll be hin hany minute now and just tell ’er it’s
hall ready to dish up. Tell ’er I ’aven’t made no pudd’n but I’ve hopened a bottle of stewed pears.’
‘All right, Cook,’ said William.
Cook took the paperback copy of A Mill Girl’s Romance from the kitchen dresser and slowly sneezed her way up the back stairs.
William was to all intents and purposes alone in the house. He wandered into the kitchen. There was a pleasant smell of cooking. Several saucepans simmered on the gas stove. On the table was a
glass dish containing the stewed pears. His father hated cold stewed fruit. He often said so. Suddenly William had yet another brilliant idea. He’d make a proper pudding for his father. It
wouldn’t take long. The cookery book was on the dresser. You just did what the book told you. It was quite easy.
He went over to the gas stove. All the gas rings were being used. He’d better get one clear for his pudding. He supposed his pudding would need a gas ring same as all the other things.
There were two small saucepans each containing dark brown stuff. They might as well be together, thought William, with a business-like frown. He poured the contents of one of the saucepans into the
other. He had a moment’s misgiving as the mingled smell of gravy and coffee arose from the mixture. Then he turned to his pudding. He opened the book at random at the puddings. Any would do.
‘Beat three eggs together.’ He fetched a bowl of eggs from the larder and got down a clean basin from the shelf. He’d seen Cook doing it, just cracking the eggs, and the egg
slithered into the basin and she threw the shells away. It looked quite easy. He broke an egg. The shell fell neatly on to the table and the egg slithered down William on to the floor. He tried
another and the same thing happened. William was not easily baulked. He was of a persevering nature. He went on breaking eggs till not another egg remained to be broken, and then and then only did
he relinquish his hopes of making a pudding. Then and then only did he step out of the pool of a dozen broken eggs in which he was standing and, literally soaked in egg from the waist downward, go
to replace the basin on the shelf.
WILLIAM WENT ON BREAKING EGGS TILL NOT ANOTHER EGG REMAINED TO BE
‘Jus’ soon after lunch,’ he said with rising cheerfulness. ‘Now I’d better be goin’, I think. Good afternoon.’
He left Mrs Morrison still gasping upon the sofa and in the act of ringing for her maid to fetch her smelling salts.
William walked down the road with a swagger. He was managing jolly well . . . The next visit was easier. He simply told Mrs Helm’s maid at the front door to tell Mrs Helm that Ethel
would be able to come tonight after all, thank you very much.
Then he swung off to the woods with Jumble, his faithful dog. In accordance with his new life of virtue he walked straight along the road without burrowing in the ditches or throwing stones at
telegraph posts. His exhilaration slowly vanished. He wondered where Ginger and Henry and Douglas were and what they were doing. It was jolly dull all alone . . . but still the happiness and
gratitude and admiration of his family circle when they found out all he had done for them would repay him for everything. At least he hoped it would. His mother . . . he had done nothing for his
mother yet. He must try to do something for his mother . . .
V
When he returned home it was almost dinner time. His mother and Ethel and Robert were still out. The Cook met him with a lugubrious face.
‘Now, Master William,’ she said, ‘can I trust you to give a message to your ma?’
‘Yes, Cook,’ said William virtuously.
‘Me cold in me ’ead’s that bad I can’t stand on me feet no longer. That ’ussy Ellen wouldn’t give up ’er night hout to ’elp me – not she,
and yer ma said if I’d leave things orl ready to dish hup I might go and rest afore dinner ’f I felt bad. Well, she’ll be hin hany minute now and just tell ’er it’s
hall ready to dish up. Tell ’er I ’aven’t made no pudd’n but I’ve hopened a bottle of stewed pears.’
‘All right, Cook,’ said William.
Cook took the paperback copy of A Mill Girl’s Romance from the kitchen dresser and slowly sneezed her way up the back stairs.
William was to all intents and purposes alone in the house. He wandered into the kitchen. There was a pleasant smell of cooking. Several saucepans simmered on the gas stove. On the table was a
glass dish containing the stewed pears. His father hated cold stewed fruit. He often said so. Suddenly William had yet another brilliant idea. He’d make a proper pudding for his father. It
wouldn’t take long. The cookery book was on the dresser. You just did what the book told you. It was quite easy.
He went over to the gas stove. All the gas rings were being used. He’d better get one clear for his pudding. He supposed his pudding would need a gas ring same as all the other things.
There were two small saucepans each containing dark brown stuff. They might as well be together, thought William, with a business-like frown. He poured the contents of one of the saucepans into the
other. He had a moment’s misgiving as the mingled smell of gravy and coffee arose from the mixture. Then he turned to his pudding. He opened the book at random at the puddings. Any would do.
‘Beat three eggs together.’ He fetched a bowl of eggs from the larder and got down a clean basin from the shelf. He’d seen Cook doing it, just cracking the eggs, and the egg
slithered into the basin and she threw the shells away. It looked quite easy. He broke an egg. The shell fell neatly on to the table and the egg slithered down William on to the floor. He tried
another and the same thing happened. William was not easily baulked. He was of a persevering nature. He went on breaking eggs till not another egg remained to be broken, and then and then only did
he relinquish his hopes of making a pudding. Then and then only did he step out of the pool of a dozen broken eggs in which he was standing and, literally soaked in egg from the waist downward, go
to replace the basin on the shelf.
WILLIAM WENT ON BREAKING EGGS TILL NOT ANOTHER EGG REMAINED TO BE
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