Just William (16 page)

‘I hope that cow won’t hurt the “kidnap”,’ said Douglas suddenly. ‘Go and see, William; it’s your kidnap.’

‘Well, an’ it’s Henry’s cow, and I’m sorry for that cow if it tries playin’ tricks on that baby.’

But he rose from his knees reluctantly, and threw open the barn door. The cow and the baby were still gazing admiringly at each other. From the cow’s mouth at the end of a long, sodden
ribbon, hung the chewed remains of the baby’s hat. The baby was holding up the dog biscuit and crowed delightfully as the cow bent down its head and cautiously and gingerly smelt it. As
William entered, the cow turned round and switched its tail against the baby’s head. At the piercing howl that followed, the whole band of outlaws entered the barn.

‘What are you doing to the poor little thing?’ said Douglas to William.

‘It’s Henry’s cow,’ said William despairingly. ‘It hit it. Oh, go on, shut up! Do shut up.’

The howls redoubled.

‘You brought it,’ said Henry accusingly, raising his voice to be heard above the baby’s fury and indignation. ‘Can’t you stop it? Not much sense taking babies about
if you don’t know how to stop ’em crying!’

The baby was now purple in the face.

The Outlaws stood around and watched it helplessly.

‘P’raps it’s hungry,’ suggested Douglas.

He took up the half-cake from the remains of the stores and held it out tentatively to the baby. The baby stopped crying suddenly.

‘Dad – dad – dad – dad – dad,’ it said tearfully.

Douglas blushed and grinned.

‘Keeps on thinking I’m its father,’ he said with conscious superiority. ‘Here, like some cake?’

The baby broke off a handful and conveyed it to its mouth.

‘It’s eating it,’ cried Douglas in shrill excitement. After thoroughly masticating it, however, the baby repented of its condescension and ejected the mouthful in several
instalments.

William blushed for it.

‘Oh, come on, let’s go and look at the fire,’ he said weakly.

They left the barn and returned to the scene of the fire-lighting. The cow, still swinging the remains of the baby’s hat from its mouth, was standing with its front feet firmly planted on
the remains of what had been a promising fire.

‘Look!’ cried William, in undisguised pleasure. ‘Look at Henry’s cow! Pretty nice sort of cow you’ve brought, Henry. Not much sense taking cows about if you
can’t stop them puttin’ folks’ fires out.’

After a heated argument, the Outlaws turned their attention to the cow. The cow refused to be ‘shoo’d off’. It simply stood immovable and stared them out. Ginger approached
cautiously and gave it a little push. It switched its tail into his eye and continued to munch the baby’s hat string. Upon William’s approaching it lowered its head, and William
retreated hastily. At last they set off to collect some fresh wood and light a fresh fire. Soon they were blissfully consuming two blackened slices of ham, the popcorn, and what was left of the
cake.

After the ‘feast’, Ginger and William, as Wild Indians, attacked the barn, which was defended by Douglas and Henry. The ‘kidnap’ crawled round inside on all fours,
picking up any treasures it might come across en route and testing their effect on its palate.

Occasionally it carried on a conversation with its defenders, bringing with it a strong perfume of paraffin oil as it approached.

‘Blab – blab – blab – blab – blub – blub – Dad – dad – dad – dad – dad. Go — o — o — o.’

William had insisted on a place on the attacking side.

‘I couldn’t put any feelin’,’ he explained, ‘into fightin’ for that baby.’

When they finally decided to set off homewards, William gazed hopelessly at his charge. Its appearance defied description. For many years afterwards William associated babies in his mind with
paraffin oil and potato.

‘Just help me get the potato out of its hair,’ he pleaded; ‘never mind the oil and the rest of it.’

‘My hat! Doesn’t it smell funny! — and doesn’t it look funny – all oil and potato and bits of cake?’ said Ginger.

‘Oh! Shut up about it,’ said William irritably.

The cow followed them down to the stile and watched them sardonically as they climbed it.

‘Bow-wow!’ murmured the baby in affectionate farewell.

William looked wildly round for the pram, but – the pram was gone – only the piece of string dangled from the railings.

‘Crumbs!’ said William. ‘Talk about bad luck! I’m simply statin’ a fact. Talk about bad luck!’

At that minute the pram appeared, charging down the hill at full speed with a cargo of small boys. At the bottom of the hill it overturned into a ditch accompanied by its cargo. To judge from
its appearance, it had passed the afternoon performing the operation.

‘That’s my pram!’ said William to the cargo, as it emerged, joyfully, from the ditch.

‘Garn! S’ours! We found it.’

‘Well, I left it there.’

‘Come on! We’ll fight for it,’ said Ginger, rolling up his sleeves in a businesslike manner. The other Outlaws followed his example. The pram’s cargo eyed them
appraisingly.

‘Oh, all right! Take your rotten old pram!’ they said at last.

Douglas placed the baby in its seat and William thoughtfully put up the hood to shield his charge as far as possible from the curious gaze of the passers-by. His charge was now chewing the pram
cover and talking excitedly to itself. With a ‘heart steeled for any fate’ William turned the corner into his own road. The baby’s mother was standing at his gate.

‘There you are!’ she called. ‘I was getting quite anxious. Thank you
so
much, dear.’

BUT THAT IS WHAT SHE SAID BEFORE SHE SAW THE BABY!

CHAPTER 9

‘I
’d simply love to have a page,’ murmured Miss Grant wistfully. ‘A wedding seems so – second-rate without a
page.’

Mrs Brown, her aunt and hostess, looked across the tea table at her younger son, who was devouring iced cake with that disregard for consequences which is the mark of youth.

‘There’s William,’ she said doubtfully. Then, ‘You’ve had quite enough cake, William.’

Miss Grant studied William’s countenance, which at that moment expressed intense virtue persecuted beyond all bearing.

‘
Enough!
’ he repeated. ‘I’ve had hardly any yet. I was only jus’ beginning to have some when you looked at me. It’s a plain cake. It won’t do me
any harm. I wun’t eat it if it’d do me any harm. Sugar’s
good
for you. Animals eat it to keep healthy.
Horses
eat it an’ it don’t do ’em any
harm,
an’ poll parrots an’ things eat it an’ it don’t do ’em any—’

‘Oh, don’t argue, William,’ said his mother wearily.

William’s gift of eloquence was known and feared in his family circle.

Then Miss Grant brought out the result of her study of his countenance.

‘He’s got such a –
modern
face!’ she said. ‘There’s something essentially medieval and romantic about the idea of a page.’

Mrs Brown (from whose house the wedding was to take place) looked worried.

‘There’s nothing mediæval or romantic about William,’ she said.

‘Well,’ – Miss Grant’s intellectual face lit up – ‘what about his cousin Dorita. They’re about the same age, aren’t they? Both eleven. Well, the
two
of them in white satin with bunches of holly. Don’t you think? Would you mind having her to stay for the ceremony?’ (Miss Grant always referred to her wedding as ‘the
ceremony’.) ‘If you don’t have his hair cut for a bit, he mightn’t look so bad?’

William had retired to the garden with his three bosom friends – Ginger, Henry, and Douglas – where he was playing his latest game of mountaineering. A plank had been placed against
the garden wall, and up this scrambled the three, roped together and wearing feathers in their caps. William was wearing an old golf cap of his mother’s, and mentally pictured himself as an
impressive and heroic figure. Before they reached the top they invariably lost their foothold, rolled down the plank and fell in a confused and bruised heap at the bottom. The bruises in no way
detracted from the charm of the game. To William the fascination of any game consisted mainly in the danger to life and limb involved. The game had been suggested by an old alpenstock which had
been thoughtlessly presented to William by a friend of Mr Brown’s. The paint of the staircase and upstairs corridor had been completely ruined before the family knew of the gift, and the
alpenstock had been confiscated for a week, then restored on the condition that it was not to be brought into the house. The result was the game of mountaineering up the plank. They carried the
alpenstock in turns, but William had two turns running to mark the fact that he was its proud possessor.

Mrs Brown approached William on the subject of his prospective role of page with a certain apprehension. The normal attitude of William’s family towards William was one of
apprehension.

‘Would you like to go to Cousin Sybil’s wedding?’ she said.

‘No, I wun’t,’ said William without hesitation.

‘Wouldn’t you like to go dressed up?’ she said.

‘Red Injun?’ said William with a gleam of hope.

‘Er – no, not exactly.’

‘Pirate?’

‘Not quite.’

‘I’d go as a Red Injun, or I’d go as a Pirate,’ he said firmly, ‘but I wun’t go as anything else.’

‘A page,’ said Miss Grant’s clear, melodious voice, ‘is a medieval and romantic idea, William. There’s the glamour of chivalry about it that should appeal strongly
to a boy of your age.’

William turned his inscrutable countenance upon her and gave her a cold glare.

They discussed his costume in private.

‘I’ve got a pair of lovely white silk stockings,’ said his mother. ‘They’d do for tights, and Ethel has got a satin petticoat that’s just beginning to go in
one place. I should think we could make some sort of costume from that, don’t you? We’ll buy some more white satin and get some patterns.’

‘No, I won’t wear Ethel’s ole clothes,’ said William smouldering. ‘You all jus’ want to make me look ridiclus. You don’t care how ridiclus I look. I
shall be ridiclus all the rest of my life goin’ about in Ethel’s ole clothes. I jus’ won’t do it. I jus’ won’t go to any ole weddin’. No, I
don’t
want to see Cousin Sybil married, an’ I jus’
won’t
be made look ridiclus in Ethel’s ole clothes.’

They reasoned and coaxed and threatened, but in vain. Finally William yielded to parental authority and went about his world with an air of a martyr doomed to the stake. Even the game of
mountaineering had lost its charm and the alpenstock lay neglected against the garden wall. The attitude of his select circle of friends was not encouraging.

‘Yah!
Page!
Who’s goin’ to be a
page
? Oh, crumbs. A page all dressed up in white.
Dear
little Willie. Won’t he look swe-e-e-et?’