‘A penknife you can’t do any harm with…’
Dear all
In today’s assembly, the last of the Michaelmas Term, I introduced the students to Just William, the eponymous hero – or perhaps antihero – of Richard Crompton’s series of 38 books published across a period of almost 50 years between 1922-1970. William Brown, an 11-year old school boy who lived in a quintessential English village somewhere in the South of England. William was part of a band of friends – Ginger, Douglas and Henry – who called themselves the Outlaws. Together with his scruffy dog Jumble, they got up to all sorts of mischief and adventure, most of which caused his mother a great deal of angst, though despite the many embarrassing and frustrating things he did, she never lost faith in her wayward son, always insisting that he ‘meant well’. William’s father was often called in to discipline his son but often gave subtle clues that perhaps he secretly approved of their adventures, while there was also an older sister and brother in the household, whom William seemed to enjoy winding up.
Our reading came from the book Just William at Christmas, beginning with the boys telling each other about the presents they think they’re about to receive….
‘It was only two days before Christmas and the Outlaws stood in Ginger’s back garden discussing their prospects, somewhat pessimistically. All except Henry, who, in a spirit of gloomy resignation to fate, had gone to spend the festival season with relations in the North.
‘What’re you goin’ to get?’ demanded William of Ginger. The Outlaws generally spent the week before Christmas ascertaining exactly what were the prospects of that day. It was quite an easy task, owing chiefly to the conservative habits of their relatives in concealing their presents in the same place every year. The Outlaws knew exactly in which drawer or cupboard to pursue their search, and could always tell by some unerring instinct which of the concealed presents was meant for them.
‘Nothin’ really excitin’,’ said Ginger, without enthusiasm, ‘but nothin’ awful, ’cept what Uncle George’s giv’n me.’
‘What’s that?’ said William.
‘An ole book,’ said Ginger with withering contempt; ‘an ole book called Kings an’ Queens of England. Huh! An’ I shall have to say I like it an’ thank him an’ all that. An’ I shan’t be able to sell it even, ’cept for about sixpence, ’cause you never can, an’ it cost five shillin’s. Five shillin’s! It’s got five shillins on the back. Well, why can’t he give me the five shillins an’ let me buy somethin’ sensible?’
He spoke with the bitterness of one who airs a grievance of long standing. ‘Goin’ wastin’ their money on things like Kings an’ Queens of England, ’stead of giv’n it to us to buy somethin’ sensible. Think of all the sensible things we could buy with five shillin’s – ’stead of stupid things like Kings an’ Queens of England.’
‘Well,’ burst out Douglas indignantly. ‘S’not so bad as what my Aunt Jane’s got for me. She’s gotter ole tie. A tie!’ He spat the word out with disgust. ‘I found it when I went to tea with her las’ week. A silly ole green tie. Well, I’d rather pretend to be pleased over any ole book than over a silly green tie. An’ I can’t even sell it, ’cause they’ll keep goin’ on at me to wear it – a sick’nin’ ole green tie!’
William was not to be outdone.
‘Well, you don’t know what my Uncle Charles is givin’ me. I heard him tellin’ mother about it. A silly baby penknife.’
‘A penknife!’ they echoed. ‘Well, there’s nothin’ wrong with a penknife.’
‘I’d rather have a penknife than an old Kings an’ Queens of England,’ said Ginger bitterly.
‘An’ I’d rather have a penknife or a Kings an’ Queens of England than a silly ole green tie,’ said Douglas.
‘A Kings an’ Queens of England’s worse than a tie,’ said Ginger fiercely, as though his honour were involved in any suggestion to the contrary.
‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas equally fiercely.
‘’Tis!’ said Ginger.
‘’Tisn’t!’ said Douglas.
The matter would have been settled by physical contest between the protagonists had not William thrust his penknife (metaphorically speaking) again into the discussion.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you don’t know what kind of a penknife, an’ I do. I’ve got three penknives, an’ one’s almost as big as a nornery knife, an’ got four blades an’ a thing for taking stones out of horses’ hoofs an’ some things what I haven’t found out what they’re meant for yet, an’ this what he’s given me is a baby penknife – it’s only got one blade, an’ I heard him tellin’ mother that I couldn’t do any harm with it. Fancy,’ – his voice quivered with indignation – ‘fancy anyone givin’ you a penknife what you can’t do any harm with.’
Ginger and Douglas stood equally aghast at this news. The insult of the tie and the Kings and Queens of England paled before the deadly insult of a penknife you couldn’t do any harm with. William returned home still burning with fury.
As the term draws to a close, we also reflected on the many individual and collective achievements of the year across different teams, ensembles, casts, clubs and other groups to which our students belong and I encouraged everyone, whether it has been their first term at Brentwood or whether they’ve been here for many years to take a moment over the coming weeks to appreciate both the opportunities they have here, the way they’ve made the most of them and how they might do even more so in 2026.
Wishing everyone a wonderful Christmas when it comes.
Michael Bond
