Just William (14 page)

‘Oh, I wouldn’t. Not with a sick headache.’

William gazed hungrily at the eggs and bacon.

‘I think I could eat some, mother. Jus’ a bit.’

‘No, I wouldn’t, dear. It will only make it worse.’

Very reluctantly William returned to his room.

Mrs Brown visited him after breakfast.

No, he was no better, but he thought he’d go for a little walk. Yes, he still felt very sick. She suggested a strong dose of salt and water. He might feel better if he was actually sick.
No, he’d hate to give her the trouble. Besides, it wasn’t
that
kind of sickness. He was most emphatic on that point. It wasn’t
that
kind of sickness. He thought a
walk would do him good. He felt he’d like a walk.

Well wrapped up and walking with little, unsteady steps, he set off down the drive, followed by his mother’s anxious eyes.

Then he crept back behind the rhododendron bushes next to the wall and climbed in at the larder window.

The cook came agitatedly to Mrs Brown half an hour later, followed by William, pale and outraged.

‘’E’s eat nearly everything, ’m. You never saw such a thing. ’E’s eat the cold ‘am and the kidney pie, and ’e’s eat them three cold sausages
an’ ’e’s eat all that new jar of lemon cheese.’

‘
William!
’ gasped Mrs Brown. ‘You
can’t
have a sick headache, if you’ve eaten all that.’

That was the end of the sick headache.

He spent the rest of the morning with Henry and Douglas and Ginger. William and Henry and Douglas and Ginger constituted a secret society called the Outlaws. It had few aims beyond that of
secrecy. William was its acknowledged leader, and he was proud of the honour. If they knew – if they guessed. He grew hot and cold at the thought. Suppose they saw him going – or
someone told them – he would never hold up his head again. He made tentative efforts to find out their plans for the afternoon. If only he knew where they’d be — he might avoid
them somehow. But he got no satisfaction.

They spent the morning ‘rabbiting’ in a wood with Henry’s fox terrier, Chips, and William’s mongrel, Jumble. None of them saw or heard a rabbit, but Jumble chased a
butterfly and a bee, and scratched up a molehill, and was stung by a wasp, and Chips caught a field mouse, so the time was not wasted.

William’s interest, however, was half-hearted. He was turning over plan after plan in his mind, all of which he finally rejected as impracticable.

He entered the dining-room for lunch rather earlier than usual. Only Robert and Ethel, his elder brother and sister, were there. He came in limping, his mouth set into a straight line of agony,
his brows frowning.

‘Hello! What’s up?’ said Robert, who had not been in at breakfast and had forgotten about the Band of Hope.

‘I’ve sprained my ankle,’ said William weakly.

‘Here, sit down, old chap, and let me feel it,’ said Robert sympathetically.

William sat down meekly upon a chair.

‘Which is it?’

‘Er-this.’

‘It’s a pity you limped with the other,’ said Ethel drily.

That was the end of the sprained ankle.

The Band of Hope meeting was to begin at three. His family received with complete indifference his complaint of sudden agonising toothache at half past two, of acute rheumatism at twenty-five to
three, and of a touch of liver (William considered this a heaven-sent inspiration. It was responsible for many of his father’s absences from work) at twenty to three. At a quarter to three he
was ready in the hall.

‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, William,’ said Mrs Brown soothingly. ‘I expect you’ll all play games and have quite a good time.’

William treated her with silent contempt.

‘Hey, Jumble!’ he called.

After all, life could never be absolutely black, as long as it held Jumble.

Jumble darted ecstatically from the kitchen regions, his mouth covered with gravy, dropping a half-picked bone on the hall carpet as he came.

‘William, you can’t take a dog to a Band of Hope meeting.’

‘Why not?’ said William, indignantly. ‘I don’t see why not. Dogs don’t drink beer, do they? They’ve as much right at a Band of Hope meeting as I have,
haven’t they? There seems jus’ nothin’ anyone
can
do.’

‘Well, I’m sure it wouldn’t be allowed. No one takes dogs to meetings.’

She held Jumble firmly by the collar, and William set off reluctantly down the drive.

‘I hope you’ll enjoy it,’ she called cheerfully.

He turned back and looked at her.

‘It’s a wonder I’m not
dead
,’ he said bitterly, ‘the things I have to do!’

He walked slowly – a dejected, dismal figure. At the gate he stopped and glanced cautiously up and down the road. There were three more figures coming down the road, with short intervals
between them. They were Henry, Douglas and Ginger.

William’s first instinct was to dart back and wait till they had passed. Then something about their figures struck him. They also had a dejected, dismal, hang-dog look. He waited for the
first one, Henry. Henry gave him a shamefaced glance and was going to pass him by.

‘You goin’ too?’ said William.

Henry gasped in surprise.

‘Did she come to
your
mother?’ was his reply.

He was surprised to see Ginger and Douglas behind him and Ginger was surprised to see Douglas behind him. They walked together sheepishly in a depressed silence to the Village Hall. Once Ginger
raised a hand to his throat.

‘Gotter beas’ly throat,’ he complained, ‘I didn’t ought to be out.’

‘I’m ill, too,’ said Henry; ‘I
told ’em
so.’

‘An’ me,’ said Douglas.

‘An’ me,’ said William with a hoarse, mirthless laugh. ‘Cruel sorter thing, sendin’ us all out ill like this.’

At the door of the Village Hall they halted, and William looked longingly towards the field.

‘It’s no good,’ said Ginger sadly, ‘they’d find out.’

Bitter and despondent, they entered.

Within sat a handful of gloomy children who, inspired solely by hopes of the annual treat, were regular attendants at the meeting.

Mrs de Vere Carter came sailing down to them, her frills and scarfs floating around her, bringing with her a strong smell of perfume.

‘Dear children,’ she said, ‘welcome to our little gathering. These,’ she addressed the regular members, who turned gloomy eyes upon the Outlaws, ‘these are our dear
new friends. We must make them
so
happy.
Dear
children!’

She led them to seats in the front row, and taking her stand in front of them, addressed the meeting.

‘Now, girlies dear and laddies dear, what do I expect you to be at these meetings?’

And in answer came a bored monotonous chant:

‘Respectful and reposeful.’

‘I have a name, children dear.’

‘Respectful and reposeful, Mrs de Vere Carter.’

‘That’s it, children dear. Respectful and reposeful. Now, our little new friends, what do I expect you to be?’

No answer.

The Outlaws sat horrified, outraged, shamed.

‘You’re
such
shy darlings, aren’t you?’ she said, stretching out an arm.

William retreated hastily, and Ginger’s face was pressed hard against a diamond brooch.

‘You won’t be shy with us long, I’m sure. We’re
so
happy here. Happy and good. Now, children dear, what is it we must be?’

Again the bored monotonous chant:

‘Happy and good, Mrs de Vere Carter.’

‘That’s it. Now, darlings, in the front row, you tell me. Willy, pet, you begin. What is it we must be?’

At that moment William was nearer committing murder than at any other time in his life. He caught a gleam in Henry’s eye. Henry would remember. William choked but made no answer.

‘You tell me then, Harry boy.’

Henry went purple and William’s spirits rose.

‘Ah, you won’t be so shy next week, will they, children dear?’

‘No, Mrs de Vere Carter,’ came the prompt, listless response.

‘Now, we’ll begin with one of our dear little songs. Give out the books.’ She seated herself at the piano. ‘Number five, “Sparkling Water”. Collect your
thoughts, children dear. Are you ready?’

She struck the opening chords.

The Outlaws, though provided with books, did not join in. They had no objection to water as a beverage. They merely objected to singing about it.

Mrs de Vere Carter rose from the piano.

‘Now, we’ll play one of our games, children dear. You can begin by yourselves, can’t you, darlings? I’ll just go across the field and see why little Teddy Wheeler
hasn’t come. He must be
regular,
mustn’t he, laddies dear? Now, what game shall we play. We had “Puss in the Corner” last week, didn’t we? We’ll have
“Here we go round the mulberry bush” this week, shall we? No, not “Blind Man’s Buff”, darling. It’s a horrid, rough game. Now, while I’m gone, see if you
can make these four shy darlings more at home, will you? And play quietly. Now before I go tell me four things that you must be?’

‘Respectful and reposeful and happy and good, Mrs de Vere Carter,’ came the chant.

She was away about a quarter of an hour. When she returned the game was in full swing, but it was not ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush’. There was a screaming, struggling crowd of
children in the Village Hall. Benches were overturned and several chairs broken. With yells and whoops, and blows and struggles, the Tamers tried to tame; with growls and snarls and bites and
struggles the animals tried not to be tamed. Gone was all listlessness and all boredom. And William, his tie hanging in shreds, his coat torn, his head cut, and his voice hoarse, led the fray as a
Tamer.

‘Come on, you!’

‘I’ll get you!’

‘Gr-r-r-r-r!’

‘Go it, men! Catch ’em, beat ’em, knife ’em, kill ’em.’

The spirited roarings and bellowing of the animals was almost blood-curdling.

Above it all Mrs de Vere Carter coaxed and expostulated and wrung her hands.

‘Respectful and reposeful’, ‘happy and good’, ‘laddies dear’, and ‘Willy’ floated unheeded over the tide of battle.

Then somebody (reports afterwards differed as to who it was) rushed out of the door into the field and there the battle was fought to a finish. From there the Band of Hope (undismissed)
reluctantly separated to its various homes, battered and bruised, but blissfully happy.

Mrs Brown was anxiously awaiting William’s return.

When she saw him she gasped and sat down weakly on a hall chair.

‘William!’

‘I’ve not,’ said William quickly, looking at her out of a fast-closing eye, ‘I’ve not been playing at either of them – not those what you said I’d not
to.’

‘Then – what—’

‘It was – it was – “Tamers an Crocerdiles”, an’ we played it at the Band of Hope!’

CHAPTER 8

I
t was a half-holiday and William was in his bedroom making careful preparations for the afternoon. On the mantelpiece stood in readiness half a
cake (the result of a successful raid on the larder) and a bottle of liquorice water. This beverage was made by shaking up a piece of liquorice in water. It was much patronised by the band of
Outlaws to which William belonged and which met secretly every half-holiday in a disused barn about a quarter of a mile from William’s house.

So far the Outlaws had limited their activities to wrestling matches, adventure seeking, and culinary operations. The week before, they had cooked two sausages which William had taken from the
larder on Cook’s night out and had conveyed to the barn beneath his shirt and next to his skin. Perhaps ‘cooked’ is too euphemistic a term. To be quite accurate, they had held the
sausages over a smoking fire till completely blackened, and then consumed the charred remains with the utmost relish. William put the bottle of liquorice water in one pocket and the half-cake in
another and was preparing to leave the house in his usual stealthy fashion – through the bathroom window, down the scullery roof, and down the water pipe hand over hand to the back garden.
Even when unencumbered by the presence of a purloined half-cake, William infinitely preferred this mode of exit to the simpler one of walking out of the front door. As he came out on to the
landing, however, he heard the sound of the opening and shutting of the hall door and of exuberant greetings in the hall.