Still William (3 page)

‘Don’t suck your hand, my boy,’ said the Bishop. ‘An open cut like that is most dangerous. Poison works into the system by it. You remember I told you how the poison of
alcohol works into the system – well, any kind of poison can work into it by a cut – don’t suck it; keep it covered up – haven’t you a handkerchief? – here, take
mine. You needn’t trouble to return it. It’s an old one.’

The Bishop was deeply touched by what he called the ‘bright spirituality’ of the smile with which William thanked him.

William, limping slightly, his hand covered by a grimy rag, came out into the garden, drawing from his pocket with a triumphant flourish an enormous violently-coloured silk
handkerchief. Robert, who was weeding the rose-bed, looked up. ‘Here,’ he called, ‘you can jolly well go and put that handkerchief of mine back.’

William continued his limping but proud advance.

‘ ’S’ all right,’ he called airily, ‘the Bishop’s is on your dressing-table.’

Robert dropped the trowel.

‘Gosh!’ he gasped, and hastened indoors to investigate.

William went down to the gate, smiling very slightly to himself.

‘The days are drawing out so pleasantly,’ he was saying to himself in a mincing accent. ‘Vaseline – ammonia – er – or cold cream— Damn!’

He leant over the gate, took out his caterpillar, satisfied himself that it was still alive, put it back and looked up and down the road. In the distance he caught sight of the figure of his
friend.

‘Gin –
ger
,’ he yelled in hideous shrillness.

He waved his coloured handkerchief carelessly in greeting as he called. Then he swaggered out into the road . . .

CHAPTER 2

I
t was Joan who drew William and the Outlaws from their immemorial practice of playing at Pirates and Red Indians.

‘I’m tired of being a squaw,’ she said plaintively, ‘an’ I’m tired of walking the plank an’ I want to be something else an’ do something
else.’

Joan was the only girl whose existence the Outlaws officially recognised. This was partly owing to Joan’s own personal attractiveness and partly to the fact that an admiration for Joan was
the only human weakness of their manly leader, William. Thus Joan was admitted to all such games as required the female element. The others she was graciously allowed to watch.

They received her outburst with pained astonishment.

‘Well,’ said Ginger coldly, ‘wot else is there to do an’ be?’

Ginger felt that the very foundation of the Society of Outlaws was being threatened. The Outlaws had played at Pirates and Red Indians since their foundation.

‘Let’s play at being ordinary people,’ said Joan.

‘Ordinary people—!’ exploded Douglas. ‘There’s no
playin’
in bein’
ordinary
people. Wot’s the good—?’

‘Let’s be Jasmine Villas,’ said Joan, warming to her theme. ‘We’ll each be a person in Jasmine Villas—’

William, who had so far preserved a judicial silence, now said:

‘I don’ mind playin’ ornery people s’long as we don’ do ornery things.’

‘Oh, no, William,’ said Joan with the air of meekness with which she always received William’s oracles, ‘we needn’t do ornery things.’

‘Then bags me be ole Mr Burwash.’

‘And me Miss Milton next door,’ said Joan hastily.

The Outlaws were beginning to see vague possibilities in the game.

‘An’ me Mr Luton,’ said Ginger.

‘An’ me Mr Buck,’ said Douglas.

Henry, the remaining outlaw, looked around him indignantly. Jasmine Villas only contained four houses.

‘An’ wot about
me
?’ he said.

‘Oh, you be a policeman wot walks about outside,’ said William.

Henry, mollified, began to practise a commanding strut.

In the field behind the old barn that was the scene of most of their activities they began to construct Jasmine Villas by boundary lines of twigs. Each inhabitant took up their position inside a
twig-encircled enclosure, and Henry paraded officiously around.

‘Now we’ll jus’ have a minute to think of what things to do,’ said William, ‘an’ then I’ll begin.’

William was sitting in his back garden thinking out exploits to perform that afternoon in the character of Mr Burwash. The game of Jasmine Villas was ‘taken on’
beyond all expectation. Mr Burwash stole Miss Milton’s washing during her afternoon siesta, Mr Buck locked up Mr Luton in his coal cellar and ate up all his provisions, and always the entire
population of Jasmine Villas was chased round the field by Henry, the policeman, several times during a game. Often some of them were arrested, tried, condemned and imprisoned by the stalwart
Henry, to be rescued later by a joint force of the other inhabitants of Jasmine Villas.

William, sitting on an inverted flower pot, absent-mindedly chewing grass and throwing sticks for his mongrel, Jumble, to worry, was wondering whether (in his role of Mr Burwash) it would be
more exciting to go mad and resist the ubiquitous Henry’s efforts to take him to an asylum, or marry Miss Milton. The only drawback to the latter plan was that they had provided no clergyman.
However, perhaps a policeman would do . . . Finally he decided that it would be more exciting to go mad and leave Miss Milton to someone else.

‘ ’Ello!’

A thin, lugubrious face appeared over the fence that separated William’s garden from the next door garden.

‘ ’Ello!’ replied William, throwing it a cold glance and returning to his pastime of entertaining Jumble.

‘I weesh to leearn ze Eengleesh,’ went on the owner of the lugubrious face. ‘My godmother ’ere she talk ze correct Eengleesh. It ees ze idiomatic Eengleesh I weesh to
leearn – how you call it? – ze slang. You talk ze slang – ees it not?’

William gave the intruder a devastating glare, gathering up his twigs and with a commanding ‘Hi, Jumble’, set off round the side of the house.

‘Oh, William!’

William sighed as he recognised his mother’s voice. This was followed by his mother’s head which appeared at the opening drawing-room window.

‘I’m busy
jus’
now –’ said William sternly.

‘William, Mrs Frame next door has a godson staying with her and he is so anxious to mix with boys and learn colloquial English. I’ve asked him to tea this afternoon. Oh, here he
is.’

The owner of the thin lugubrious face – a young man of about eighteen – appeared behind William.

‘I made a way – ’ow say you? – through a ’ole in ze fence. I weeshed to talk wiz ze boy.’

‘Well, now, William,’ said Mrs Brown persuasively, ‘you might spend the afternoon with Henri and talk to him.’

William’s face was a study in horror and indignation.

‘I shan’t know what to say to him,’ he said desperately. ‘I can’t talk his kind of talk.’

‘I’m sure that’ll be quite all right,’ said Mrs Brown, kindly. ‘He speaks English very well. Just talk to him simply and naturally.’

She brought the argument to an end by closing the window and leaving an embittered William to undertake his new responsibility.

‘ ’Ave you a ’oliday zis afternoon,’ began his new responsibility.

‘I ’ave,’ said William simply and naturally.

‘Zen we weel talk,’ said Henri with enthusiasm. ‘We weel talk an’ you weel teach to me ze slang.’

‘ ’Fraid I’ve gotter play a game this afternoon,’ said William icily, as they set off down the road.

‘I weel play,’ said Henri pleasantly, ‘I like ze games.’

‘I’m ’fraid,’ said William with equal pleasantness, ‘there won’t be no room for you.’

‘I weel watch zen,’ said Henri, ‘I like too ze watching.’

Henri, who had spent the afternoon watching the game, was on his way home. He had enjoyed watching the game. He had watched a realistically insane Mr Burwash resist all
attempts at capture on the part of the local policeman. He had watched Mr Luton propose to Miss Milton, and he had watched Mr Buck in his end house being gloriously and realistically drunk. This
was an accomplishment of Douglas’s that was forbidden at home under threat of severe punishment, but it was greatly appreciated by the Outlaws.

Henri walked along jauntily, practising slang to himself.

‘Oh, ze Crumbs . . . oh, ze Crikey . . . ze jolly well . . . righto . . . git out . . . ze bash on ze mug . . . ’

General Moult – fat and important-looking – came breezily down the road.

‘Ah, Henri . . . how are you getting on?’

‘Ze jolly well,’ said Henri.

‘Been for a walk?’ said the General yet more breezily.

‘Non . . . I been to Jasmine Villas . . . Oh, ze Crumbs . . . I see ole Meester Burwash go – ’ow you say it? – off ze head – out of ze chump.’

‘What?
’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Henri, ‘an’ the policeman ’e come an’ try to take ’im away an’ ’e fight an’ fight, an’ ze policeman ’e go
for ’elp—’

The General’s mouth was hanging open in amazement.

‘B-but, are you
sure
?’ he gasped.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Henri cheerfully. ‘I ’ave
been
zere, I ’ave ze jolly well watch eet.’

‘But, good heavens!’ said the General, and hastened in the direction of Jasmine Villas.

Henri sauntered on by himself.

‘Ze ’oly aunt . . . a’right . . . ze booze . . .’ he murmured softly.

At the corner of the road he ran into Mr Graham Graham. Mr Graham Graham was tall and lank, with pince-nez and an earnest expression. Mr Graham Graham’s earnest expression did not belie
his character. He was, among other things, the President of the local Temperance Society. He had met Henri with his godmother the day before.

‘Well, Henri,’ he said earnestly. ‘And how have you been spending your time?’

‘I ’ave been to Jasmine Villas,’ said Henri.

‘Ah, yes – to whom—?’

Henri interrupted.

‘An’ I ’ave seen Meester Buck . . . oh, ze crumbs . . . ’ow say you? . . . tight . . . boozed . . . derrunk.’

Mr Graham Graham paled.

‘Never!’ he said.

Mr Buck was the Secretary of the local Temperance Society.

‘Oh, yes, ze ’oly aunt!’ said Henri, ‘ze policeman ’e ’elp ’im into the ’ouse – ’e was, ’ow say you? Ro-o-o-o-olling.’

‘This is impossible,’ said Mr Graham Graham sternly.

‘I ’ave seed it,’ said Henri simply. ‘I laugh . . . oh, ze Crikey
. . .’ow
I laugh . . .’

Mr Graham Graham turned upon Henri a cold condemning silent glance then set off in the direction of Jasmine Villas.

Henri wandered homewards.

He met his godmother coming out of her front gate.

‘We’re going to Mrs Brown’s to tea, you know, Henri,’ she reminded him.

‘A’right,’ said Henri. ‘A’right – righto.’

He accompanied her to Mrs Brown’s.

‘And did you spend the afternoon with William?’ said Mrs Brown pleasantly.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Henri as he sat down comfortably by the fire, ‘at ze Jasmine Villas . . . Mr Luton e’ kees Miss Milton in the garden.’

Henri’s godmother dropped her buttered scone.

‘Nonsense!
’ she said.

‘ ’E did,’ said Henri calmly. ‘I ’ave seed ’im. An’ she gave ’im – ’ow say you? – ze bash on ze mug. But she tell me she
goin’ to marry ’im – righto.’

‘She
told
you?’ gasped Mrs Brown.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Henri, ‘she tell me so ’erself.’

Both Mrs Brown and Henri’s godmother were pale.

‘Do you think she doesn’t know that he’s married and separated from his wife?’ said Henri’s godmother.

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘I feel that I can’t eat a thing now. Someone ought to tell her at once.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Henri’s godmother suddenly, ‘before she tells anyone else. The poor woman!’

They went out quickly, leaving Henri alone in the drawing-room. Henri chose a large sugared cake and began to munch it,

‘Ze jolly well good,’ he commented contentedly.

The General approached Mr Burwash’s house cautiously. There was no sign of a disturbance. Evidently the policeman had not yet returned with help. The General entered the
garden and went on tiptoe to the morning-room window. He was full of curiosity. There was the madman. He was sitting at a table with his back to the window. There was a mad look about his very
back. The General was suddenly inspired by the idea of making the capture single-handed. It would be a glorious page in the annals of the village. The front door was open. The General entered and
walked very slowly down the hall. The morning-room door was open. It was here that the General made the painful discovery that his boots squeaked. The squeaking would undoubtedly attract the
attention of the lunatic as he entered. The General had another inspiration. He dropped down upon his hands and knees. He could thus make his way unseen and unheard to the back of the madman, then
spring to his feet and overpower him.

He entered the room.

He reached the middle of the room.

Then Mr Burwash turned round.

Mr Burwash was met by the sight of the General creeping gingerly and delicately across his morning-room carpet on hands and knees. Mr Burwash leapt to the not unreasonable conclusion that the
General had gone mad. Mr Burwash knew that a madman must be humoured. He also dropped upon his hands and knees.

‘Bow-wow!’ he said.

If the General thought he was a dog, the General must be humoured.

‘Bow-wow!’ promptly replied the General.

The General also knew that madmen must be humoured.

They continued this conversation for several minutes.

Then Mr Burwash, intent on escape, made a leap towards the door, and the General, intent on capture, made a leap to intercept him.

They leapt about the room excitedly uttering short, shrill barks. The General never quite knew what made him change into a cat. It was partly that he was tired of barking and partly that he
hoped to lure Mr Burwash after him into the more open space of the hall and there overpower him. Mr Burwash’s pursuit was realistic, and the General, violently chased into the hall, decided
to leave the capture to the police after all, and made for the hall door. But a furiously barking Mr Burwash cut off his retreat. The General, still miaowing unconsciously in a high treble voice,
scampered on all fours up the stairs and took refuge in a small room at the top, slamming the door against the pursuing lunatic. They key was turned in the lock from outside.