William the Fourth (13 page)

Jumble picked himself out of the bottom of the ditch and shook off the water, grinning and wagging his tail. Jumble was a sportsman. William had finished the treacle toffee, but Henry threw
Jumble an aniseed ball, which he licked, rolled with his paw, and abandoned, and which Henry then carefully put back with the others in his packet. Then William threw a stick for him; and the
discussion of the red-haired girl’s morals was definitely abandoned.

At the corner of the road they espied Joan Crewe. Though fluffy and curled and exquisitely dressed herself, Joan adored William’s roughness and untidiness.

‘Hello!’ said Joan.

‘Hello!’ said the Outlaws.

‘Have you been to Mallards’?’ said Joan.

‘Umph!’ said the Outlaws.

‘It’s a halfpenny cheaper than Moss’s.’

‘Yes,’ said Ginger, ‘but William says she’s a murderer.’

‘I
di’n’t,’
said William irritably. ‘You can’t understand English. That’s wot wrong with you. You can’t understand English. Wot I said
was
—’

Finding that he had entirely forgotten how the argument arose, he hastily changed the subject. ‘Wot you’re goin’ to do now?’ he said.

‘Anything,’ said Joan obligingly.

‘Have a coconut lump?’ said William, taking out his third bag.

‘Have an aniseed ball?’ said Ginger.

‘Have a pear drop?’ said Henry

Joan took one of each and took out a bag from her pocket.

‘Have a liquorice treasure?’ she said.

Munching cheerfully they walked along the road, stopping to throw a stick for Jumble every now and then. Jumble then performed his ‘trick’. His ‘trick’ was to walk
between William and Ginger, a paw in each of their hands. It was a ‘trick’ that Jumble cordially detested. He generally managed to avoid it. The word ‘trick’ generally sent
him flying towards the horizon like an arrow from a bow. But this time he was hoping that William still had some treacle toffee concealed on his person, and did not take to his heels in time. He
was finally released with a kiss from Joan on the end of his nose. In joy at his freedom, he found a stick, worried it, ran after his tail, and finally darted down the road.

‘Have a monkey-nut?’ said William.

They partook of his last packet.

‘I once heard a boy say,’ said Henry solemnly, ‘that people who eat monkey-nuts get monkey-puzzle trees growin’ out of their mouths.’

‘I don’t s’pose,’ said Ginger, as he swallowed his, ‘that jus’ a few could do it.’

‘Anyway it would be rather interestin’,’ said William, ‘going about with a tree comin’ out of your mouth – you could slash things about with it.’

‘But think of the orful pain,’ said Henry dejectedly; ‘roots growin’ inside your stomach.’

Joan handed her monkey-nut back to William.

‘I – I don’t think I’ll have one, thank you, William,’ she said.

‘All right,’ said William, philosophically cracking it and putting it into his mouth. ‘I don’t mind eatin’ ’em. Let ’em start growin’ trees out of
my
stomach if they
can.
’

They were nearing a little old-fashioned sweetshop. A man in check trousers, shirt-sleeves, and a white apron stood in the doorway. Generally Mr Moss radiated cheerfulness. Today he looked
depressed. They approached him somewhat guiltily.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘You coming to spend your Saturday money?’

‘Er – no,’ said William.

‘We’ve spent it,’ said Ginger.

At Mallards’,’ said Henry

‘It’s – it’s a halfpenny cheaper,’ said Joan.

‘Well,’ said Mr Moss, ‘I don’t blame you. Mind, I don’t blame you. You’re quite right to go where it’s a halfpenny cheaper. You’d be foolish if
you didn’t go where it’s a halfpenny cheaper. But all I say is it’s not fair on me. They’re a big company, they are, and I’m not. They’ve got shops all over the
big towns, they have, and I’ve not. They’ve got capital behind ’em, they have, and I’ve not. They can afford to give things away, an’ I can’t. I’ve always
kept prices as low as I could so as jus’ to be able to keep myself on ’em, an’ I can’t lower them no further. That’s where they’ve got me. They can undercut.
They don’t need to make a profit at first. An’ all I say is it’s not fair on me. They say as this here place is growin’ an’ there’s room for the two of us. Well,
all I can say is not more’n ten people’s come into this here shop since they set up, an’ it’s not fair on me.’

His audience of four, clustered around his shop-door, listened in big-eyed admiration. As he stopped for breath, William said earnestly:

‘Well, we won’t buy no
more
of their ole stuff, anyway—’

The Outlaws confirmed this statement eagerly, but Mr Moss raised his hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You oughter go where you get stuff cheapest. I don’t blame you. You’re
quite right.’

They walked along in silence for a little while. The memory of Mr Moss, wistful and bewildered, with his cheerful hilarity gone, remained with them.

‘I won’t go to that Old Mallards’ again while I live,’ said William firmly.

Anyway she wasn’t nice. I didn’t like her,’ said Joan.

‘She didn’t
care
what you bought?’ said William indignantly. ‘She didn’t take any
interest
like wot Mr Moss does.’

‘Yes, an’ if she
murders
folks as William says she does—’ began Ginger.

‘I wish you’d shut
up
talking about that,’ said William. ‘I di’n’t say she’d murdered anyone.’

‘You did.’

‘I di’n’t.’

‘You
did.
’

‘I
di’n’t.
’

‘Do have another liquorice treasure,’ said Joan.

Peaceful munchings were resumed.

‘Anyway,’ said William, returning to the matter in hand, ‘I’d like to
do
something for Mr Moss.’

‘Wot
could
we do?’ said Ginger.

‘We could stop folks goin’ to old Mallards’ – ’Tisn’t as if she took any
in
t’rest in wot you buy.’

‘Well,
how
could we stop folks goin’ to ole Mallards’?’

‘Make
’em go to Mr Moss.’

‘Well,
how
– why don’t you say
how
?’

‘Well, we’d have to have a meeting about it – an Outlaw meeting. Let’s have one now. Let’s go to our woodshed an’ have one now’

Joan’s face fell.

‘I can’t come, can I? I’m not an Outlaw.’

‘You can be an Outlaw ally,’ said William kindly. ‘We’ll make up a special oath for you, an’ give you a special secret sign.’

Joan’s eyes shone.

‘Oh, thank you, William darling.’

Joan had taken the special oath. It had consisted of the words: ‘I will not betray the secrets of the Outlaws, an’ I will stick up for the Outlaws till death do us
part.’

The last phrase was an inspiration of Henry’s, who had been to his cousin’s wedding the week before.

They sat down on logs or stacks of firewood or packing-cases to consider the question of Mr Moss.

‘First thing is,’ said William, with a business-like frown, ‘we’ve got to make people go to Mr Moss.’

‘Well, how can we?’ objected Ginger. ‘Jus’ tell me that? How can we make people go to Moss’s when Mallards’ is halfpenny cheaper?’

‘Same way as big shops make people go to them – they put up notices an’ things – they say their things is better than other shops’ things, an’ folks believes
’em.’

‘Well, why should folks believe ’em?’ said Ginger pugnaciously. Henry was engaged upon his last few pear drops and had no time for conversation. ‘Why should folks
b’lieve ’em when they say they’re better than other shops? An’ how can we stick up notices an’ where an’ who’ll let us stick up notices? You don’t
talk sense. You’re mad, that’s wot you are. First you go about calling folks murderers when you don’t know
who
they’ve murdered, nor nothin’ about it, an’
then you talk about stickin’ up notices when there isn’t anyone who’d let us stick up any notices, nor anyone who’d take any notice of notices wot we stuck up
nor—’

‘If you’d jus’ stop talkin’,’ said William, ‘an’ deafenin’ us all for jus’ a bit. You’ve been talkin’ an’ deafenin’
us all ever since you came out. D’you think we never want to hear anythin’ all our lives ever till death, but you talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all? There
is
things
that we’d like to hear ’sides you talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all – there’s music an’ birds singing, an’ – an’ other folks
talkin’, but you go on so’s anyone would think that—’

Here Ginger hurled himself upon William, and the two of them rolled on to the floor and wrestled among the faggots. Violent physical encounters were a regular part of the programme of the
Outlaws’ meetings. Henry watched nonchalantly from his perch, crunching pear drops, occasionally throwing small twigs at them, and saying: ‘Go it!’ – ‘That’s
right!’ – ‘Go
it
!’ Joan watched with anxious horror, and ‘William, do be
careful,’
and: ‘Oh, Ginger, darling, don’t hurt
him.’

Finally the combatants rose, dusty and dishevelled, shook hands, and resumed their seats on the stacks of firewood.

‘Now, if you’ll only let me
speak
—’ began William.

‘We will, William, darling,’ said Joan. ‘Ginger won’t interrupt, will you, Ginger?’

Ginger, who had decidedly had the worst of the battle, was removing dust and twigs from his mouth. He gave a non-committal grunt.

‘Well, you know the Sale of Work next week?’ went on William. They groaned. It was a ceremony to which each of the company would be led, brushed and combed and dressed in gala
clothes, in a proud parent’s wake.

‘Well,’ went on William. ‘You jus’ listen carefully. I got an idea.’

They leant forward eagerly. They had a touching faith in William’s ideas that no amount of bitter experiences seemed able to destroy.

The day of the Sale of Work was warm and cloudless. William’s mother and sister worked there all the morning. A tent had been erected, and inside the tent were a few
select stalls of flowers and vegetables. Outside on the grass were the other stalls. The opening ceremony was to be performed by a real live duke.

William absented himself for the greater part of the morning, returning in time for lunch, and meekly offering himself to be cleaned and dressed afterwards like the proverbial lamb for the
slaughter.

‘William,’ said Mrs Brown to her husband, ‘is being almost too good to be true. It’s such a comfort.’

‘I’m glad you can take comfort in it,’ said Mr Brown. ‘From my knowledge of William, I prefer him when you know what tricks he’s up to.’

‘Oh, I think you misjudge him,’ said Mrs Brown, whose trust in William was almost pathetic.

‘Ethel and I can’t go to the opening, darling,’ said Mrs Brown at lunch. ‘I’m rather tired. So I suppose you’ll wait and go with us later.’

William smiled his painfully sweet smile.

‘I might as well go early. I might be able to help someone,’ he said shamelessly.

Half an hour later William set off alone to the Sale of Work. He wore his super-best clothes. His hair was brushed to a chastened, sleek smoothness. He wore kid gloves. His shoes shone like
stars.

He walked briskly down to the Sale of Work. Already a gay throng had assembled there. Joan was there, looking like a piece of thistledown in fluffy white, with her mother. Ginger was there,
stiff and immaculate, with his mother.

William, Ginger, and Henry joined forces and stood talking in low, conspiratorial voices, looking rather uncomfortable in their excessive cleanness. Joan looked at them wistfully but was kept
close to the maternal side.

The real live duke arrived. He was tall and stooping, and looked very bored and aristocratic.

Everything was ready for the opening. It was to take place on the open space of grass at the back of the tent. The chairs for the committee and the chair for the duke were close to the tent.
Then a space was railed off from the crowd – from the ordinary people.

At the other side of the tent the stalls were deserted. His Grace stood for a few minutes in the tent by one of the stalls talking to the Vicar’s wife. Then he went out to open the Sale of
Work. A few minutes after his Grace had departed, William might have been seen to emerge from beneath the stall, his cap gone, his hair deranged, his knees dusty, and join Ginger and Henry in the
deserted space behind the tent.

His Grace stood and uttered the few languid words that declared the Sale of Work open. But the committee who were a few yards behind him sat in open-mouthed astonishment. For a large placard
adorned his Grace’s coat behind.

The committee could think of no course of action with which to meet this crisis. They could only gasp with horror, open-eyed and open-mouthed.

The few gracious words were said. The applause rose. His Grace turned round to converse pleasantly with the Vicar’s wife, exposing his back to the view of the crowd. The applause wavered,
then redoubled ecstatically

‘Some kind of an advertising job,’ said the organist’s wife.

But the crowd did not mind what it was. They held their sides. They clung to each other in helpless mirth. They followed that tall, slim, elegant figure with its incongruous placard as it went
with the Vicar’s wife round the tent to the stalls. The Vicar’s wife talked nervously and hysterically. ‘My dear, I
couldn’t,
’ she said afterwards. ‘I
didn’t know how to put it. I couldn’t think of words – and I kept thinking, suppose he knows and
means
it to be there. It somehow seemed better bred to ignore
it.’

The committee clustered together in an anxious group.

‘It wasn’t there when he came. Someone must have put it on.’

‘My dear, someone must tell him.’

‘Or creep up and take it off when he isn’t looking.’

‘My dear – one couldn’t. Suppose he turned round when one was doing it, and thought one was putting it
on
!’

‘The Vicar must tell him – let’s find the Vicar. I think it would come better from a clergyman, don’t you?’

‘Yes, and he might – well, he couldn’t say much before a clergyman, could he?’