“Honk. Yonk. Ponk.”
William, dressed in a bed sheet and obliging a visiting relative who yearns for an experience of the supernatural. Because William Brown, eleven years old and the scourge of the village, the eternal thorn in the side of his long-suffering family, is not completely devoid of finer feelings. He can feel for the little girl who wants to be May Queen but has no chance. He can understand the plight of a meek and mild-mannered bachelor neighbour who is being preyed upon by another bossy neighbour. He can set out to help, to catch smugglers, to even take it upon himself to reform.
But, all said and done, William is William. A boy who paints a cat green, steals supper for twenty, wants to be apprentice to a burglar, and is constantly driving his family batty. (I began reading More William with the thought that I’d pass it on, a few years down the line, to my rambunctious five year old daughter, but gave up the thought later, fearing it would give her ideas. The very thought of being parent to someone like William gives me the shivers).
Utterly delightful little stories. William is an unforgettable character, and the plots are clever (even if predictable at times, though perhaps the predictability is part of their charm). The other characters, especially William’s family and Joan, the girl next door, are well-etched, and the writing is witty, entertaining, lots of fun.
Plus, there is the little tidbit now and then that an adult will perhaps appreciate more than a child would: “School always bored him. He disliked facts, and he disliked being tied down to detail, and he disliked answering questions. As a politician a great future would have lain before him.”
Highly recommended for anyone who wants a good wholesome laugh. Plus, of course, there’s that old-fashioned feel to the series that often puts me in mind of Wodehouse’s books: vintage Britain in all its countryside glory.