William in Trouble (6 page)

William’s freckled countenance flamed again.

‘Oh, it’s nothin’,’ he said modestly. ‘It’s nothin’ to what I’d do for you, an’ it’s nothin’ to what I’ve done. Why,
I’ve been where no white man’s ever set his feet before. This is
nothin
’ to that. An’ if they catch you and bring you back,’ he gave a short sinister laugh,
‘well, they’d better look out, that’s all.’

She gazed at him with bright eyes. ‘Oh, it
is
kind of you. I – I’d go now, at once, but I’m so hungry and – it’s treacle-tart today.’

The guests swarmed into the school hall. In the middle of the second row sat William’s father and mother, Mr and Mrs Brown. The room was tastefully decorated with leaves
and bracken.

‘I like to come to all these affairs, don’t you?’ said the lady next to Mrs Brown. ‘I really didn’t
want
to have a big girls’ school so near the
village, but now it’s come it’s best to be sociable, and I must say they’re always very good about sending out invitations to all their little affairs.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Brown vaguely, ‘and it all looks very nice.’

The curtain rose and the two ladies continued their conversation in a whisper.

‘Very pretty,’ said Mrs Brown.

‘Isn’t it?’ said the other. ‘Oh, it’s quite a nice change to come to a thing of this sort once in a way—’

‘Well, I must say,’ admitted Mrs Brown, ‘I like to get right away from home sometimes, because, really, at home I’m on pins the whole time, not knowing whatever
William’s going to do next. At a place like this I feel
safe.
It’s nice to be anywhere where I
know
that William can’t suddenly rise up before my eyes doing
something awful.’

‘Fairy Daffodil!’ called the fairy herald on the stage.

A figure arose from behind a leafy barrier, took an ungraceful step forward, tripped over the leafy barrier and crashed to earth – leafy barrier and all. The yellow headgear rolled off on
to the floor revealing a tousled head over a stern earth-streaked freckled face.

‘What’s your boy like?’ said Mrs Brown’s neighbour, who was not looking at the stage. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.’

But Mrs Brown’s smile had faded. Her face had become a mask of horror. Her mouth had dropped open. Her neighbour followed her eyes to the stage. The strange apparition was in no wise
disconcerted by the contretemps with the leafy barrier. It did not even trouble to recover its headgear. It stood in the middle of the stage and said loudly and ferociously: ‘Here I
am—’

There was a dead silence. Fairy Bluebell, who stood near, inspired by a gallant British determination to carry on in spite of all disasters, prompted, ‘Speak—’

William looked at her haughtily. ‘I’ve just spoke,’ he said.

‘Speak, Queen,’ hissed Bluebell desperately.

‘It’s not my turn,’ hissed the Queen back.

Bluebell stamped.

‘Say, “Speak, Queen,”’ she said to William.

‘Oh,’ said William, ‘I’m sorry. I forgot that bit. I forgot there was something else. Speak, Queen. That’s all, anyway, isn’t it? Where’s the
stool?’

He looked round, then calmly sat down on the stool, sublimely unaware of actors and audience completely paralysed around him.

Slowly, very slowly, the power of speech returned to Mrs Brown. Her horror-stricken eyes left the stage. She clasped her husband’s arm. ‘John,’ she said hysterically, ‘it
– it – it’s William.’ Mr Brown, too, had gazed open-mouthed at this wholly unexpected apparition of his son. Then he recovered himself.

‘Er – nonsense, my dear,’ he said firmly. ‘Never seen the boy before. Do you hear? We’ve never seen the boy before.’

‘B-b-b-but we have, John,’ she said. ‘It’s William!’

‘Who’s William?’ said Mr Brown wildly. ‘There isn’t any William. Temporarily, I’ve disowned him. I’ve disowned him till we meet again under the shelter
of our own roof. I don’t know how he got here or what he’s going to do, and I don’t care. He’s nothing to do with me. I’ve disowned him. I tell you – I’ve
disowned him.’

‘Oh, John,’ wailed Mrs Brown. ‘Isn’t it
awful
!’

‘WHAT’S YOUR BOY LIKE?’ SAID MRS BROWN’S NEIGHBOUR. ‘I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER SEEN HIM.’

Everyone agreed afterwards that somebody ought to have done something at once. But the headmistress was out of the room supervising the tea arrangements, and the mistress who was attending to
the curtain was shortsighted and deaf, and was thinking of something else at the time and didn’t realise that anything was the matter, and the mistress who was prompting said that for all she
knew it was some fresh arrangement made behind her back, and if it had been, it wouldn’t have been the
first
time it had happened, so how was she to know? Anyway, the play dragged on.
But no one took any further interest in the play. The whole interest of the audience was concentrated on the curious apparition inadequately clothed in yellow butter muslin, who had taken its seat
at the foot of the throne.

WILLIAM LOOKED AT FAIRY BLUEBELL HAUGHTILY. ‘IT’S NOT MY TURN,’ HE HISSED. ‘I’VE JUST SPOKE.’

The apparition itself seemed unaware that it was attracting any attention. It sat down and gazed around it, stern, bored, contemptuous – then a light as at some happy memory came into its
face. It pulled up the butter muslin to its waist, revealing muddy boots, muddy legs and muddy trousers, plunged its hand into its pocket and brought out a nut, which it proceeded to crack with
much facial contortion and bared teeth.

At this point the headmistress entered by the door at the back of the hall. Her face wore a proud smile. Her eyes wandered slowly to the stage. The proud smile dropped from her face. A look of
startled horror succeeded it. The Fairy Daffodil had cracked the nut and was proceeding with every appearance of concentration and satisfaction to extract the edible part of it.

With the air of one dashing to a heroic rescue, the headmistress plunged up the hall and drew the curtain.

‘Er – who is that boy?’ said Mr Brown brazenly to a mistress who stood near.

It was the art mistress.

‘He’s our gardener’s boy,’ said the art mistress helplessly, ‘but I don’t know
what
he’s doing on the stage.’

‘You see, dear,’ said Mr Brown to his wife, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘he’s the gardener’s boy.’

‘But he
isn’t
!’ wailed Mrs Brown, ‘he’s William. You
know
he’s William.’

The headmistress, purple with rage, plunged behind the curtain and made a grab at the Fairy Daffodil.

‘What is the meaning of this, you wicked boy!’ she said.

The Fairy Daffodil abandoned his half-eaten nut, dodged what he rightly suspected to be an avenging hand and fled.

‘Catch him!’ panted the headmistress, ‘catch that boy.’

The entire cast followed by the entire staff dashed after William and pursued him in a body. Gathering up his impeding yellow robe, William fled like an arrow from a bow
– out of a door at the back of the hall, across the garden towards the front gate. He would probably have outrun his pursuers had he not collided with a little girl and a tall man who were
just entering the gate. The three of them rolled on the ground together. Then they sat up and looked at each other. The tall man, who had received the full impact of William’s bullet head in
his middle regions, caressed those regions with his hands and moaned softly. But the little girl gave a cry of joy and said:

‘Oh, it’s the nice boy, Daddy.’ Then to William: ‘I met Daddy on the way to the station, boy. I didn’t know he was coming and I feel
quite
happy now.
He’s given me a lovely tip, and I’ve remembered that I’m playing in the netball match next week and I’d
hate
to miss that.’

At this point the gym mistress, the vanguard of the pursuit, arrived and seized William by one ear, the art mistress arrived next and seized him by the other ear. The head girl arrived next,
and, not wanting to be out of it, seized him by the scruff of his neck. The rank and file of the pursuers now arrived and seized him by any portion of his anatomy that happened to be unoccupied.
Thus seized at all available points, he was marched off to the headmistress. A crowd of visitors was pouring out of the side door. Among the first came Mr and Mrs Brown. Mr Brown gave one glance at
his son in this ignominious plight and plunged back to lose himself among the crowd. Mrs Brown, distraught and torn between husband and son, finally followed him.

‘Oh, John,’ she said wringing her hands, ‘aren’t you going to
do
anything?’

‘Not I,’ said Mr Brown. ‘I told you I’d disowned him.’

It was an hour later. The visitors had been collected again. A concert and many recitations had been given. The prizes had been distributed. The headmistress, at the earnest
request of the tall man, had pardoned William’s escapade. The visitors were having tea in the garden. William sat at a little table with the tall man and the little girl. He was blissfully
happy. He was consuming unlimited quantities of cakes, and every now and then the little girl smiled at him very sweetly.

‘I won’t be so silly any more, Daddy,’ she said. ‘We’d had a midnight feast last night and I’d eaten thousands and thousands of mince tarts and that
always
makes me feel a little sad the next day and—’

‘One minute,’ said her father. ‘I can see a business friend of mine there. Hello, Brown,’ he called.

Mr Brown approached the table. William’s jaunty air dropped from him. He blinked. His jaw dropped. Crumbs! His father! He bent down as if to pick something off the ground and remained in
that position, hoping thus to remain undiscovered.

‘This is my daughter, Brown,’ said the tall man after greeting him. Then he seized William by the scruff of his neck and raised his head. William tried to avold his father’s
gaze. ‘I’m not sure who this youngster is, so I can’t introduce him properly. All I know about him is that he’s been where no white man ever set foot before and he’s
had all his teeth taken out without gas – but perhaps you know him?’

‘I didn’t know either of those facts about him,’ admitted Mr Brown drily, ‘but,’ his sardonic eye forced his son’s to meet it, ‘I
have
met him
before.’

CHAPTER 3

M
r Markson, the headmaster of William’s school, was very large and very red-faced and very loud-voiced and very irascible. Behind this mask
of terror Mr Markson was in reality a rather shy and very well-meaning man. He liked big boys and got on well with them. He disliked small boys and glared at them and roared at them on
principle.

William and his friends came in contact with this ogre seldom, and on occasions of decided unpleasantness.

In their eyes he was all the fabulous masters of antiquity and all the ogres of fairyland rolled into one. They trembled beneath his rolling eye and booming voice. Which was just as well,
because these were about the only things beneath which they did tremble.

They were discussing this grim potentate on their way home from school.

‘He’s the nasty temperedest man in the world,’ said Ginger solemnly. ‘I know he is. I know there’s not another man as nasty tempered as what he is in all the
world.’

‘He swished Rawlings for jus’ walkin’ through the stream in the playground,’ contributed Henry, ‘an’ Rawlings is short-sighted, you know. An’ he said he
din’t
see
the stream till he’d got right over it, but ole Markie swished him jus’ the same.’

‘When he jus’
looks
at me,’ admitted Ginger, ‘it makes me feel kinder queer.’

‘Yes, an’ when he
yells
like what he does,’ said Douglas, ‘it makes me jump like – like—’

‘Like a frog,’ suggested Ginger helpfully.

‘Frog yourself!’

‘I din’ mean you
was
a frog,’ explained Ginger. ‘I only meant you jumped like a frog.’

‘Well, I don’t jump like a frog more’n other people do,’ said Douglas pugnaciously.

‘Oh, shut up arguing,’ said Henry, who had been enjoying the collective indictment of ‘Old Markie’, and did not wish it to tail off into a combat between Douglas and
Ginger. ‘I guess,’ he went on darkly, ‘that if some people knew what he was like really an’ – an’ the way he shouts an’ swishes people an’ –
an’ carries on, I guess he’d be put in prison or hung or something. There’s laws,’ he added vaguely, ‘to stop people goin’ on at other people the way he
does.’