“Where did you say they did those plays, Henry?” said William.
“On village greens, but I expect anywhere’d do.”
“There’s a village green at Applelea,” said William. “Come on. Let’s start at Applelea.”
The others felt a little bewildered by the speed with which William was marshalling events, but it was a familiar feeling and it never lasted long.
“We’ll take our things off now,” said William. “We don’t want everyone to see them before we start actin’. An’ we’ll take the short cut to Applelea over the fields.” They divested themselves of their costumes, bundled them under their arms and set off over the fields to Applelea.
The green at Applelea was a fair-sized, squarish stretch of grass with a chestnut tree in the middle and one or two seats ranged at the sides. All the seats were empty except one, which was occupied by an old man and a solidly built, pudding-faced child of about two.
“Lots more people’ll come when we get started,” said William. “I bet all the people that live here will come on’ all the people that come along the road in cars.”
He approached the seat, cleared his throat and addressed his audience in a loud authoritative voice.
“Lady an’ gentleman,” he said, “we’re strollin’ players an’ we’re goin’ to act a smashin’ play for you an’ when we’ve finished we’ll pass a hat round an’ you can give us money an’—an’ if you’ve not got any with you you can go home an’ fetch it.”
He waited for some response, but his audience continued to stare at him blankly without change of expression.
“Come on,” said William impatiently. “Let’s dress up. I bet they’ll get interested once we start. ”
“They don’t look as if they've got much money,” said Douglas.
“Well, other people’ll come along,” said William. “Let’s go behind the tree an’ put our things on.”
They changed behind the tree and emerged wearing their costumes. Douglas’s gas-mask had refused to stay in place, so he wore it as a sort of head piece, and Henry’s saucepan showed a tendency to escape the moorings of his ears and lodge itself on his chin . . . but on the whole they made an impressive appearance as they approached the seat again. The old man and the child continued to gaze at them with blank expressionless faces.
“Lady an’ gentleman,” said William, “the play’s jus’ goin’ to begin. I’m a professor an’ I’ve invented a ray that shoots people up to the moon. An this play starts with me an’ Gin—I mean this man here in the space helmet— gettin’ to the moon an’ meetin’ these fierce savage monsters here”—he pointed to Henry and Douglas—“who live on the moon. They’re mad ’cause we’ve got to the moon, you see, an’ they want to know how we got there. Go on, Henry. Say somethin’.”
“Whence has thou come, thou villain?” said Henry, baring his teeth savagely.
“You needn’t talk hist’ry,” said William. “It’s modem times.”
“Where have you come from, you old beast?” said Henry.
“Never mind where we’ve come from,” growled William. “We’ve come to stop your little game an’ break up that machine you’re makin’ to destroy the earth.”
“How dare you!” said Henry. “I’m goin* to push you off the moon ... an’ you can jolly well go back to where you came from.”
A scuffle followed which brought all four to the ground.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” said William heatedly. “We don’t start fightin’ till near the end. You’ve got to kidnap Ginger first an’ . . .”
“What’s all this?” said a voice behind them.
They turned to see a young man in tight black trousers, black jacket, white shirt and sleeked black hair.
“We’re strollin’ players,” said William. “They went about villages, actin’ plays an’ . . .”
“I know, I know,” said the young man. “Art for art’s sake. Those were the days I should have lived in.”
William looked at him. There was something vaguely familiar about him but he couldn’t think what it was.
“Strolling players . . .” said the young man again, as if the words held some magic for him. He sighed deeply. “I’ve half a mind to join you.”
“Well, there isn’t a part for you in this play,” said William. “We could put one in, of course. You could be another fierce savage monster.”
“No, no,” said the young man. “It’s too late.” He made a sweeping gesture of despair, strode off to a near-by seat, sat down on it, and dropped his head on to his hands.
William approached him, followed by Ginger, Henry and Douglas.
The old man and the child turned blank expressionless faces in their direction.
“What’s the matter?” said William.
The young man raised his head and made another despairing gesture.
“I’ve wasted my life,” he said. “I’ve cheapened and debased my talent on soul-destroying trivialities.”
“What d’you mean?” said William with a puzzled frown.
“I was born out of my time,” said the young man. “The age of noise and mechanisation has killed art. I should have
been a troubadour, a jongleur, a strolling player.”
“Well, why aren’t you, then?” said William.
“I’ve told you. Because I’ve wasted my life and my talents. But”—he sat upright in his seat and fixed a piercing gaze on William—“why should it be too late?”
“I don’t know,” said William. “It was you that said it was.”
The young man flung an arm in the direction of the road.
“Where does that lead to?”
“Hadley,” said William.
“I’ll go there. I’ll go to Hadley. I’ll go where no one knows me and start life afresh—I don’t care how humbly. I’d be a farm labourer if I knew a little more about agriculture. But it shall be a life that will redeem the misspent years. I have the soul of a poet, a dreamer, a dramatist.”
“Well, I’m one of them, said William, “an’ if you’ll kin’ly stop talkin’ we’ll get on with my play If you want to watch it you can sit down with the rest of the audience”— he pointed to the old man and the child who were gazing vacantly in front of them—“an’ we’ll begin.”
The young man seemed to notice the equipment of the strolling players for the first time.
“What play is it?” he said curiously.
“It’s one I made up,” said William, “an’ it’s a smashin’ one. I’ll tell you about it an’ I bet you’ll want to watch it. You needn’t bother about payin’ money till the end an’ if you don’t like it you needn’t pay.”
“An excellent idea,’ said the young man. “It should be more widely adopted. What’s the play about?”
“It’s about a professor that found a secret ray,” said William, “an’ this ray joined with the moonbeams an’ sent people shootin’ up to die moon an’ . . .”
But the young man wasn’t listening. A light had broken out over his face. The drooping corners of his mouth took an upward curve. He sprang to his feet.
“I think you’ve got something there,” he said. “I think you’ve given me something . . . Wait a minute. I must work this out alone.”
He strode over the green, crossed the road and disappeared into the wood on the other side.
They watched him in silent amazement for some moments.
“He’s mad,” said William. “Good thing he didn’t turn violent an’ start murderin’ us! Now come on. Let’s do it again from the beginning. Ginger an’ me’s jus’ got to the moon an’ we’re makin’ our way over it, suckin’ our lozenges, when we come across the machine Henry an’ Douglas are makin’ to destroy the earth an’ suddenly Henry springs out an’ kidnaps Ginger an’ . . .”
The scene ended once more in chaos. William arose breathlessly from the melee, straightened his beard and hearth-rug and retrieved his sun-glasses from the ground.
“You keep startin’ f
ightin’ too soon," he said testily. “Now let’s start again an’ . . .”
He stopped. A car had drawn up at the side of the green and three young men were getting out of it. They wore tight black trousers, black jackets and white shirts. Their black hair was sleeked away from their foreheads. One of them carried a brief-case. They approached the Outlaws.
“Have you seen a young man anywhere about here?” said the tallest; “A young man who looks . . .”
“Like us,’ said one of the others.
The Outlaws were gazing at them open-mouthed.
“Gosh!” said William. “You’re the—”
“Argonauts!” said Henry.
“That’s right,” said the tallest young man.
“Gosh!” breathed the Outlaws in unison.
“Why, we’ve seen you an’ heard you on TV,” said Henry.
“We’ve got your photos,” said Ginger.
"Out of a packet of Sugar Mints,” said Douglas.
“You’re Ted.”
“You’re Johnny.”
“You’re Pete.”
“An’ the one that was talking to us is-—”
“Chris.”
“I thought I knew him,” said William, “but I couldn’t remember . . .”
“Well, have you seen him anywhere round here?” said Peter.
“Yes,” said William. “He was here jus’ a minute ago. He went into the woods over there. You’ll catch him up if you hurry.”
“No,” said Johnny, shaking his head. “We must give him time to work it out of his system.”
“Work what out of his system?” said Henry.
“His education, said Johnny with a reverent hush in his voice. “He’s educated. It was him that made us call ourselves the Argonauts.”
“It’s a foreign language,” said Ted.
“Out of his education,” said Johnny.
“He’s our leader,” said Pete.
“The brains of us,” said Johnny.
“The life and soul of us,” said Ted.
“We couldn’t get on without him,” said Peter.
“But what’s happened?” said William.
“Why’s he gone off?” said Henry.
“It’s his education,” said Johnny. “Sometimes it comes over him, like, and he’s got to work it out of his system.”
“He’s temperamental,” said Ted.
“Excitable,” said Pete.
“He’s classy,” said Johnny. “He’s had a classy education and taken classy exams and sometimes it comes over him that he’s wastin’ his life singin’ pop songs and—he’s got to work it out of his system.”
“He’ll go on all right for months and months,” said Ted, “and then it comes over him all of a sudden.”
“We were staying the night in Fellminster on the way to the Midlands,” said Pete. “He was all right last night and this morning it suddenly came over him and he walked out on us.”
“Said he was going to start his life afresh and make it more worthy of his talents,” said Ted.
“He always says that when it comes over him,” said Pete.
“It was partly because of the mail this morning,” said Johnny.
“It was late, you see,” said Pete, “and he thought he hadn’t got any fan-mail and when he doesn’t get any fan-mail he thinks he’s finished and it comes over him that he’s wasted his life. It doesn’t last long but it’s touch and go while it lasts.”
“Temperamental,” said Ted.'
“Excitable,” said Pete.
“It’s his education,” said Johnny.
“So he walked out on us,” said Ted.
“And we couldn’t carry on without him,” said Pete.
“The mail came after he’d gone,” said Ted, “and— Boy!” He held up the brief-case. “He’s got the biggest fan–mail he’s ever had in his life. I’ve brought it along with me.”
“Well, he’s only gone into the wood,” said William again. “You’ll soon catch him up.”
“We’ll give him time to get over it,” said Ted. “It’s no use chasin’ him. It only makes him worse, chasin’ him.”
“But we’re due at a show in the Midlands tonight,’ said Pete. “We’ll be dished if he doesn’t come back soon. ’
“Sh!” said Johnny. “I think he’s comin’ ”
The figure of Chris came slowly out of the wood, crossed the road and joined them.
Ignoring the others, he snatched the drum from Douglas, slipped the strap over his head and began to beat on it with the sticks.
His voice rose, nasal and strident, over the beats of the drum.
“Moon girl, my moon girl, I’m cornin’ to you soon, girl, Shootin’ up the moonbeams, ’Cos I’m in love with you. ”
The other three were swinging and writhing their bodies in time with the rhythm.
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” yelled Ted.
“Up the silvery beams, girl,
Where l seen you in my dreams, girl,
Dream girl, dream girl,
I’m in love with you.”
The others shouted the words after him. The drum beats were intensified. Their slim bodies squirmed and writhed with snake-like movements.
“Dream girl, dream girl,
I’m in love with you.”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”
“It’s a winner, boys!” shouted Chris exultantly, throwing the drum on to the ground. “It’s a winner!”
“It’ll need a bit of fixing,” said Ted, “but it’s a winner all right. And—Chris, boy, you’re not wasting your life. You’re bringing joy to youth an’ youth to old age. You’re bringin’ joy an’ hope an’ youth to a weary world.”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” yelled Pete.
Chris’s face was alight with smiles. There were tears of emotion in his eyes.
“You’re right, boy,” he said brokenly. “You’re sure right.”
“He’s worked it off,” whispered Johnny to William. “He’ll be O.K. now for a few months.”
“An’ look, Chris,” said Ted, opening the brief-case. “The mail came after you’d gone an’ there’s a pile of fan-mail for you.
An’ we got a tip that we’ll be in the top ten this week an' pretty near the top.”
“Oh, boy!” said Chris ecstatically.
“An’ we’d better be gettin’ on,” said Pete, “or we won’t make it in time for the show tonight.”
“What’s this?” said Chris, drawing a small package from the depth of the brief-case.
“An electric razor,” said Pete carelessly. “From those people that had your photo usin’ it for an advert.”
“Well, I’ve got about six of ’em,” said Chris. He turned to the Outlaws. “Any of you kids like an electric razor?”
“Yes, please,” said Douglas faintly.
Chris threw it into the air
“Oo, thanks,” said Douglas. “Thanks."
The Argonauts piled into the car, waved to the Outlaws and drove off.
Dazedly the Outlaws watched them out of sight. Then suddenly they seemed to be galvanized into action. Their solid young bodies writhed and squirmed in ineffectual imitation of the Argonauts. Their voices rose, nasal and strident, against the beating of the drum.
“We’ve got a ’lectric razor, boys,
We’ve got a ’lectric razor.”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” yelled Douglas.
“Come on,” said William. “Let’s go an’ start the tree house now.”
Shouting, yelling, beating the drum, stopping only to retrieve such of their equipment as dropped from them in their flight, they made their way in running leaps along the road.
“We’ve got a ’lectric razor, boys, We’ve got a ’lectric razor.”
“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!”
The raucous young voices died slowly away in the distance.
Peace descended again on Appielea green. The old man and the child continued to gaze stolidly in front of them.
Chapter 2 – Wil
liam and the School of Nature
“I’ve started writin’ another story,” said William. His tone held the note of mingled secrecy and importance with which he was wont to refer to his literary activities.
“What’s it about?” asked Ginger. “An’ stop pushin’ your feet down my neck.”
“Well, move on to another branch, then. I’ve got to put my feet somewhere, haven’t I? I can’t turn ’em into air. An’ I’ve got to move ’em about sometimes to give ’em a bit of exercise. It’s a jolly excitin’ story.”
“But what’s it about?" repeated Ginger, transferring himself at considerable personal risk to a branch beyond the range of William’s stout footwear.
The two had started the day at the Browns’ house, where Mrs Brown had set them to tidy the shed in which the logs were kept. When she returned some time later to see how the work was progressing, she found them constructing a space ship out of the logs, the mowing machine the wheelbarrow, Ethel’s bicycle, Mrs Brown’s new umbrella and a vegetable rack filched from the kitchen.
Summarily ejected from the premises, they were now resting from their labours in the apple tree at the bottom of Ginger’s garden.
“Go on! Tell me what it’s about.”
“Well, it’s jolly excitin’,” said William. “It’s about a gang of international diamond smugglers an’ they all pretend to be members of a golf club, but really this golf club’s a sort of blind. It’s the headquarters of this smugglin’ gang. They only pretend to play golf. Really they’re smugglin’ diamonds all the time.”
Ginger considered this in comparative silence as he plunged his teeth into a large red Worcester Pearmain.
“Sounds like all your other stories to me,” he said at last.
“Well, it isn’t,” said William indignantly. “It’s absolutely diff’rent. It’s diff’rent from every other story I’ve ever written in all my life.”
“You’ve had international gangs an’ smugglers in nearly all of them,” said Ginger. “There was the one where the man hid watches in jars of honey an’ got stung to death by bees. Then there was the one where the man was head of an international gang that pretended to be frogmen an’ had meetings in an ole wreck under the sea an’ got caught by a seal that Scotland Yard had trained to catch international gangs that pretended to be frogmen an’ had meetings in ole wrecks under—”
William and the Pop Singers (Just William, Book 35) Page 2