Free Just William's New Year's Day by Richmal Crompton Page B

want now?’ he demanded.
    William was hurt.
    ‘I’m only bein’ p’lite. It’s – you know – one of those things you take on New Year’s Day. Well, I’ve took one to be p’lite.’
    His father apologised. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You see, I’m not used to it. It startled me.’
    At breakfast William’s politeness shone forth in all its glory.
    ‘Can I pass you anything, Robert?’ he said sweetly.
    His elder brother coldly ignored him. ‘Going to rain again,’ he said to the world in general.
    ‘GOOD MORNIN’, FATHER,’ SAID WILLIAM WITH WHAT HE FONDLY IMAGINED TO BE A COURTLY MANNER.
    ‘If you’ll ’scuse me contradicting of you Robert,’ said William, ‘I heard the milkman sayin’ it was goin’ to be fine. If you’ll ’scuse me
contradictin’ you.’
    ‘Look here!’ said Robert angrily. ‘Less of your cheek!’
    ‘Seems to me no one in this house understands wot bein’ p’lite is,’ said William bitterly. ‘Seems to me one might go on bein’ p’lite in this house for
years an’ no one know wot one was doin’.’
    His mother looked at him anxiously.
    ‘You’re feeling quite well, dear, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You haven’t got a headache or anything, have you?’
    ‘No. I’m bein’ p’lite ,’ he said irritably, then pulled himself up suddenly. ‘I’m quite well, thank you, Mother dear,’ he said in a tone of
cloying sweetness.
    ‘Does it hurt you much?’ inquired his brother tenderly.
    ‘No thank you, Robert,’ said William politely.
    After breakfast he received his pocket money with courteous gratitude.
    ‘Thank you very much, Father.’
    ‘Not at all. Pray don’t mention it, William. It’s quite all right,’ said Mr Brown, not to be outdone. Then, ‘It’s rather trying. How long does it
last?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The resolution.’
    ‘Oh, bein’ p’lite! He said they didn’t often do it after the first day.’
    ‘He’s quite right, whoever he is,’ said Mr Brown. ‘They don’t.’
    ‘He’s 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 blessed.
    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