26. THE WILLIAMS EFFECT

26. THE WILLIAMS EFFECT

A Chapter by Peter Rogerson
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The post-war years and two young girls.

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Time chased itself along. Soldiers and airmen had all returned to the bosom of their families and everyone said that they’d just fought in the war that must surely end all wars. And still time rolled along.

The flags and bunting had been put away, life was beginning to resume the pattern it had enjoyed during the pre-war years, but with in Swanspottle there was one noteable exception.

On the death of Squire Snootnose, suddenly and from a suspected heart attack at the young age of sixty, the only thing that his good wife, Lady Patience Snootnose, could think of doing was selling the family silver and the building that housed it. Death duties, otherwise, would have been hard to find. The Snootnose family may have had its roots in the past, but that fact alone doesn’t contribute much to today.

By then her only remaining son, Charles, had decided to become an artist living in a garret in London in the company of his servant Billy Gently, though servant was only how the general public assumed the relationship ran. The reality is possibly best glossed over as Lady Patience, who had seen two sons die in the war, couldn’t face the disgrace of her third born.

But Charles began to make a name for himself. He had experienced some harrowing things whilst in France, and somehow they entered into his paintings (no longer etchings, he’d grown tired of them), and he produced a series of highly lauded works on the subject of the bloodiness of war, but always with a hint of the erotic in them.

So Snootnose Manor was put up for sale and became in remarkably short order the Snootnose Academy For Disturbed Juveniles despite a half-hearted protest from a group of single ladies who feared that Disturbed Juveniles might disrupt their harmonious lives. But, thought Lady Snootnose when she thought anything of any consequence, it would be more useful to the planet than being a mausoleum holding the spirits of generations of Snootnoses, going back, they reckoned, to the Norman Conquest.

Her one connection with the past was with her chauffeur. On her return from the land army, Angela Tightbottom had returned to the Manor and been re-employed as the only family chauffeur, and on the death of the Squire Lady Snootnose kept her on because it was too much trouble not to. Anyway, she had questions to ask, like

Did you find him any good between the sheets?” to which the answer was always a variation of,

I could have done without it, madam,”

And Lady Snootnose chose to believe it.

Ursula still owned and ran the village shop, but she employed Janet, the orphaned twin, to run the place when she was otherwise occupied and whilst Janet’s brother, John, had a job working with Farmer Bismuth, who by then was really feeling his age. And anyway, Ursula was otherwise occupied bringing up little Primrose and caring for Greendale, who was only slowly recovering from injuries sustained when his Spitfire was shot down. The little problem that might have affected his fertility proved not to be a problem at all, but a shattered hip was. And with the bones mending (with the assistance of a few screws) he had a pronounced limp and couldn’t stand for long. But he was making progress, with help from Ursula.

Jane Smith became a regular visitor to the shop, and that wasn’t because she was always requiring to do shopping. It had to do with her Susan, who was looked on as being strange or abnormal by those who met her, even by her doctor once the National Health Service meant she could afford to see one. She had been slow to develop through the normal childhood phases, such as talking and walking, and yet she was a warm hearted and happy little girl. As yet no name had been given to her condition and she was just referred to as “backward” which, though there may have been an element of truth about it, was cruel and unkind. There were fewer more delightful little people anywhere, but it would be over a decade before her condition was given a name: she had a genetic disorder that would be identified by a New Zealand specialist called John Williams and named after him. She was an undiagnosed Williams Syndrome child.

What it meant was that she was a sociable and loving little child, and that meant she needed to be in the company of people to love. Hence visits to the shop where she delighted other customers and formed a close fondness for Ursula and Primrose, who, though younger than her, gave every impression of being a great deal older.

Does her father know?” asked Ursula when the question as to what might be causing her slowness cropped up.

No, and I’m not telling him,” replied Jane, moodily. “He did try to see her when he came back from the war with that friend of his, what was his name? Billy something or other, but not for long. It was strange, really.”

How?” asked Ursula.

Well, the bloke who he was with, Billy or whatever, seemed, I don’t like to say it but it’s true, he seemed jealous of us. As if he and I were after the same thing.”

Jealous of Susan?” asked Ursula.

Jane shook her head. “No. Not of her as much as of me. It was almost as if he was jealous of me, that I might interfere with whatever was going on between them.”

And what do you think that was?” asked Ursula.

Like they were a married couple. I know it sounds … disgusting … but that’s what it seemed to be like.”

Ursula nodded. “I got the same idea,” she said, quietly.

Anyway, I don’t want Charles to know anything about her. I love her, she’s so easy to really love, and it crossed my mind that if Charles starts interfering he might want to see if she can be cured.”

Be cured, Jane?”

Yes. From whatever makes her … different.”

She’s lovely just as she is,” Ursula assured her friend, “and I wouldn’t like to see anyone change it.”

She’s already behind your Primrose,” pointed out Jane, “and they start school soon, when they’re five. I know she’s months older than your little lass, but to look at them you’d think it was the other way round.”

Almost a year,” sighed Ursula, “but I wouldn’t let it worry me, Jane. Maybe she’ll catch up. And maybe it isn’t important if she doesn’t. Now listen to that! Here comes trouble!”

That was the sound of Greendale struggling down the stairs from the living accommodation upstairs, his crutch banging on every step as he tried to avoid making a noise, and failed.

Hi there, ladies,” he said with a wince as he eased himself into the shop. “And who’s this little lady there?”

Susan ran up to Greendale and flung her arms round his legs, her bright smile huge on her broad face.

Su-san...” she said, and laughed.

She’s a real delight,” he told Jane.

And what about me?” demanded Primrose, “aren’t I a delight too, daddy?”

You’re two delights,” Greendale assured her, seriously, “two very delightful little girls and I’m trying to work out who to give a sweetie to first.”

Me!” both children shouted in chorus.

It must be remembered that sugar products were still suffering from wartime rationing, and would be for a few more years yet, and the gift of something as simple as a sweet meant a great deal more to children in those post-war years than it would to children in a later age.

You’ll spoil them,” smiled Jane.

And when Jane and little Susan had left the shop, Susan still in a push-chair, he turned to Ursula and grinned the boyish grin she’d first fallen for before the war had come along to spoil things.

I do love you,” she whispered.

And I love you,” he said, “now how about shutting up shop for the day, sending Primrose out with Janet and spending an hour with me?”

© Peter Rogerson 04.08.18




© 2018 Peter Rogerson


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Added on August 4, 2018
Last Updated on August 11, 2018
Tags: Manor, Academy, Child, Williams Syndrome, gentle, loving, affectionate

A WOMAN OF EXCELLENT TASTE


Author

Peter Rogerson
Peter Rogerson

Mansfield, Nottinghamshire, United Kingdom



About
I am 80 years old, but as a single dad with four children that I had sole responsibility for I found myself driving insanity away by writing. At first it was short stories (all lost now, unfortunately.. more..

Writing