Just William (9 page)

‘We’ll search the bushes again, madam,’ said the other voice wearily, ‘but I expect he has escaped by now.’

‘The brute!’ said the fat lady. ‘Oh, the
brute
! And that
face.
If I hadn’t had the courage to cry out—’

The voices died away and William was left alone in a corner of the hen house.

A white hen appeared in the little doorway, squawked at him angrily, and retired, cackling indignation. Visions of lifelong penal servitude or hanging passed before William’s eyes.
He’d rather be executed, really. He hoped they’d execute him.

Then he heard the fat lady bidding goodbye to the policeman. Then she came to the back garden evidently with a friend, and continued to pour forth her troubles.

And he
dashed
past me, dear. Quite a small man, but with such an evil face.’

A black hen appeared in the little doorway, and with an angry squawk at William, returned to the back garden.

‘I think you’re
splendid,
dear,’ said the invisible friend. ‘How you had the
courage.
’

The white hen gave a sardonic scream.

‘You’d better come in and rest, darling,’ said the friend.

‘I’d better,’ said the fat lady in a plaintive, suffering voice. ‘I do feel very . . . shaken. . . .’

Their voices ceased, the door was closed, and all was still.

Cautiously, very cautiously, a much dishevelled William crept from the hen house and round the side of the house. Here he found a locked side-gate over which he climbed, and very quietly he
glided down to the front gate and to the road.

‘Where’s William this evening?’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I do hope he won’t stay out after his bedtime.’

‘Oh, I’ve just met him,’ said Ethel. ‘He was going up to his bedroom. He was covered with hen feathers and holding a bunch of syringa.’

‘Mad!’ sighed his father. ‘Mad! Mad! Mad!’

The next morning William laid a bunch of syringa upon Miss Drew’s desk. He performed the offering with an air of quiet, manly pride. Miss Drew recoiled.

‘
Not
syringa, William. I simply can’t
bear
the smell!’

William gazed at her in silent astonishment for a few moments.

Then: ‘But you
said
. . . you
said
. . . you said you were fond of syringa an’ that you’d like to have them.’

‘Did I say syringa?’ said Miss Drew vaguely. ‘I meant guelder roses.’

William’s gaze was one of stony contempt.

He went slowly back to his old seat at the back of the room.

That evening he made a bonfire with several choice friends, and played Red Indians in the garden. There was a certain thrill in returning to the old life.

‘Hello!’ said his father, encountering William creeping on all fours among the bushes. ‘I thought you did home lessons now?’

William arose to an upright position.

‘I’m not goin’ to take much bother over ’em now,’ said William. ‘Miss Drew, she can’t talk straight. She dunno what she
means.
’

‘That’s always the trouble with women,’ agreed his father. ‘William says his idol has feet of clay,’ he said to his wife, who had approached.

‘I dunno as she’s got feet of clay’ said William, the literal. ‘All I say is she can’t talk straight. I took no end of trouble an’ she dunno what she means. I
think her feet’s all right. She walks all right. ‘Sides, when they make folks false feet, they make ’em of wood, not clay.’

CHAPTER 5

T
he Outlaws sat around the old barn, plunged in deep thought. Henry, the oldest member (aged 12¼) had said in a moment of inspiration:

‘Let’s think of – sumthin’ else to do – sumthin’ quite fresh from what we’ve ever done before.’

And the Outlaws were thinking.

They had engaged in mortal combat with one another, they had cooked strange ingredients over a smoking and reluctant flame with a fine disregard of culinary conventions, they had tracked each
other over the countryside with gait and complexions intended to represent those of the aborigines of South America, they had even turned their attention to kidnapping (without any striking
success), and these occupations had palled.

In all its activities the Society of Outlaws (comprising four members) aimed at a simple, unostentatious mode of procedure. In their shrinking from the glare of publicity they showed an example
of unaffected modesty that many other public societies might profitably emulate. The parents of the members were unaware of the very existence of the society. The ill-timed and tactless
interference of parents had nipped in the bud many a cherished plan, and by bitter experience the Outlaws had learnt that secrecy was their only protection. Owing to the rules and restrictions of
an unsympathetic world that orders school hours from nine to four their meetings were confined to half-holidays and occasionally Sunday afternoons.

William, the ever ingenious, made the first suggestion.

‘Let’s shoot things with bows an’ arrows same as real outlaws used to,’ he said.

‘What things?’ and,

‘What bows an’ arrows?’ said Henry and Ginger simultaneously.

‘Oh, anything – birds an’ cats an’ hens an’ things – an’ buy bows an’ arrows. You can buy them in shops.’

‘We can make them,’ said Douglas, hopefully.

‘Not like you can get them in shops. They’d shoot crooked or sumthin’ if we made them. They’ve got to be jus’ so to shoot straight. I saw some in Brook’s
window, too, jus’ right – jus’ same as real outlaws had.’

‘How much?’ said the outlaws breathlessly.

‘Five shillings — targets for learnin’ on before we begin shootin’ real things an’ all.’

‘Five shillings!’ breathed Douglas. He might as well have said five pounds. ‘We’ve not got five shillings. Henry’s not having any money since he broke their
drawing-room window an’ Ginger only has
3d
a week an’ has to give collection an’ we’ve not paid for the guinea pig yet, the one that got into Ginger’s
sister’s hat an’ she was so mad at, an’—’

‘Oh, never mind all that,’ said William, scornfully. ‘We’ll jus’ get five shillings.’

‘How?’

‘Well,’ uncertainly, ‘grown-ups can always get money when they want it.’

‘How?’ again.

William disliked being tied down to details.

‘Oh – bazaars an’ things,’ he said impatiently.

‘Bazaars!’ exploded Henry. ‘Who’d come to a bazaar if we had one? Who would? Jus’ tell me that if you’re so clever! Who’d come to it? Besides,
you’ve got to sell things at a bazaar, haven’t you? What’d we sell? We’ve got nothin’ to sell, have we? What’s the good of havin’ a bazaar with
nothin’ to sell and no one to buy it? Jus’ tell me that!’

Henry always enjoyed scoring off William.

‘Well – shows an’ things,’ said William desperately.

There was a moment’s silence, then Ginger repeated thoughtfully, ‘Shows!’ and Douglas, whose eldest brother was home from college for his vacation, murmured selfconsciously,
‘By Jove!’

‘We
could
do a show,’ said Ginger. ‘Get animals an’ things an’ charge money for lookin’ at them.’

‘Who’d pay it?’ said Henry, the doubter.

Anyone would. You’d pay to see animals, wouldn’t you? Real animals. People do at the zoo, don’t they? Well, we’ll get some animals. That’s easy enough, isn’t
it?’

A neighbouring church clock struck four and the meeting was adjourned.

‘Well, we’ll have a show an’ get money and buy bows an’ arrows an’ shoot things,’ summed up William, ‘an we’ll arrange the show next
week.’

William returned home slowly and thoughtfully. He sat on his bed, his hands in his pockets, his brow drawn into a frown, his thoughts wandering in a dreamland of wonderful ‘shows’
and rare exotic beasts.

Suddenly from the next room came a thin sound that gathered volume till it seemed to fill the house like the roaring of a lion, then died gradually away and was followed by silence. But only for
a second. It began again – a small whisper that grew louder and louder, became a raucous bellow, then faded slowly away to rise again after a moment’s silence. In the next room
William’s mother’s Aunt Emily was taking her afternoon nap. Aunt Emily had come down a month ago for a week’s visit and had not yet referred to the date of her departure.
William’s father was growing anxious. She was a stout, healthy lady, who spent all her time recovering from a slight illness she had had two years ago. Her life held two occupations, and only
two. These were eating and sleeping. For William she possessed a subtle but irresistible fascination. Her stature, her appetite, her gloom, added to the fact that she utterly ignored him, attracted
him strongly.

The tea-bell rang and the sound of the snoring ceased abruptly. This entertainment over, William descended to the dining-room, where his father was addressing his mother with some heat.

‘Is she going to stay here for ever, or only for a few years? I’d like to know, because—’

Perceiving William, he stopped abruptly, and William’s mother murmured:

‘It’s so nice to have her, dear.’

Then Aunt Emily entered.

‘Have you slept well, Aunt?’

‘Slept!’ repeated Aunt Emily majestically. ‘I hardly expect to sleep in my state of health. A little rest is all I can expect.’

‘Sorry you’re no better,’ said William’s father sardonically.

‘
Better?
’ she repeated again indignantly. ‘It will be a long time before I’m better.’

She lowered her large, healthy frame into a chair, carefully selected a substantial piece of bread and butter and attacked it with vigour.

‘I’m going to the post after tea,’ said William’s mother. ‘Would you care to come with me?’

Aunt Emily took a large helping of jam.

‘You hardly expect me to go out in the evening in my state of health, surely? It’s years since I went out after tea. And I was at the post office this morning. There were a lot of
people there, but they served me first. I suppose they saw I looked ill.’

William’s father choked suddenly and apologised, but not humbly.

‘Though I must say,’ went on Aunt Emily, ‘this place does suit me. I think after a few months here I should be a little stronger. Pass the jam, William.’

The glance that William’s father fixed upon her would have made a stronger woman quail, but Aunt Emily was scraping out the last remnants of jam and did not notice.

‘I’m a bit overtired today, I think,’ she went on. ‘I’m so apt to forget how weak I am and then I overdo it. I’m ready for the cake, William. I just sat out
in the sun yesterday afternoon and sat a bit too long and overtired myself. I ought to write letters after tea, but I don’t think I have the strength. Another piece of cake, William.
I’ll go upstairs to rest instead, I think. I hope you’ll keep the house quiet. It’s so rarely that I can get a bit of sleep.’

William’s father left the room abruptly. William sat on and watched, with fascinated eyes, the cake disappear, and finally followed the large, portly figure upstairs and sat down in his
room to plan the ‘show’ and incidentally listen, with a certain thrilled awe, for the sounds from next door.

The place and time of the ‘show’ presented no little difficulty. To hold it in the old barn would give away to the world the cherished secret of their meeting place. It was William
who suggested his bedroom, to be entered, not by way of the front door and staircase, but by the less public way of the garden wall and scullery roof. Ever an optimist, he affirmed that no one
would see or hear. The choice of a time was limited to Wednesday afternoon, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday. Sunday at first was ruled out as impossible. But there were difficulties about Wednesday
afternoon and Saturday afternoon. On Wednesday afternoon Ginger and Douglas were unwilling and ungraceful pupils at a dancing class. On Saturday afternoon William’s father gardened and would
command a view of the garden wall and scullery roof. On these afternoons also Cook and Emma, both of a suspicious turn of mind, would be at large. On Sunday Cook and Emma went out, William’s
mother paid a regular weekly visit to an old friend and William’s father spent the afternoon on the sofa, dead to the world.

Moreover, as he pointed out to the Outlaws, the members of the Sunday School could be waylaid and induced to attend the show and they would probably be provided with money for collection. The
more William thought over it, the more attractive became the idea of a Sunday afternoon in spite of superficial difficulties; therefore Sunday afternoon was finally chosen.

The day was fortunately a fine one, and William and the other Outlaws were at work early. William had asked his mother, with an expression of meekness and virtue that ought to have warned her of
danger, if he might have ‘jus’ a few friends’ in his room for the afternoon. His mother, glad that her husband should be spared his son’s restless company, gave willing
permission.

By half past two the exhibits were ready. In a cage by the window sat a white rat painted in faint alternate stripes of blue and pink. This was Douglas’s contribution, handpainted by
himself in watercolours. It wore a bewildered expression and occasionally licked its stripes and then obviously wished it hadn’t. Its cage bore a notice printed on cardboard: