William and the Pop Singers (Just William, Book 35)

by Richmal Crompton

  The bearded man also stopped and turned a searching gaze on William.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “He means, are we on the road to London?” said a girl with a tow-coloured fringe that almost hid her eyes.

  “Gosh, no!” said William. “You’re goin’ in the wrong d’rection for London.”

  The girl flung out her arms in a gesture of exasperation and turned to the bearded man.

  “I told you, Cedric!” she said. “We’re miles out of our way.”

  “It’s not my fault, Constantia,” said the bearded man with dignity. “It’s the fault of that blithering idiot Ferdinand,” and he pointed an accusing finger at a tall thin man in lederhosen and an alpine hat. “He definitely undertook to bring the map.”

  “I can’t think how I came to leave it behind,” said the man. “As a matter of fact I distinctly remember putting it in my rucksack.”

  “You can’t if you didn’t,” said the girl in tartan trews with close-cropped ginger hair. “You can’t remember a thing you haven’t done.”

  “The memory, I admit, Dolores, may refer to some previous occasion. I naturally pack a map whenever I set out on a hike—”

  “You can hardly call this a hike,” put in the bearded man aloofly.

  “What is it, then?” said William, unable to restrain his curiosity any longer.

  They turned to look at him.

  “I think we had better tell him the whole story,” said Cedric. “We are suffering considerable inconvenience—almost persecution—for our principles, and I think it is our duty to hand on those principles to the younger generation.”

  “All right. Anything for a bit of a rest,” said the girl in tartan trews, going to the road verge and seating herself on the top rung of a stile. Several of the others followed her. The rest formed a circle round Cedric and William.

  “Do you believe in freedom?” said Cedric, fixing a piercing gaze on William.

  “Yes,” said William bitterly, “but I never get any. Gosh! Goin’ to school five days out of every seven. Five out of every seven. It’s worse than prison. They don’t do sums in prison, an’—”

  “Never mind that,” said Cedric, cutting him short. “Now listen. We”—he waved his arm in an eloquent gesture that included William, the pig, the group around him, and the group that had draped itself disconsolately on the rungs of the stile—“are students. Undergraduates of Newlick University. You’ve heard, of course, of Newlick University?”

  “No,” said William. “Me an’ Ginger are Oxford and Cambridge turn and turn about for the boat race an’ ”

  Again Cedric cut him short.

  “Oxford and Cambridge!" he said contemptuously. “Those moth-eaten decayed relics of antiquity! No, ours is the University of the Future. It was only completed last year. We are the first students and a heavy load of responsibility rests on our shoulders.”

  “Oh, get on with it, Cedric,” moaned the girl in the tartan trews, “and then let’s do something.”

  Cedric threw her a crushing glance.

  “I am trying to hand on the torch to the younger generation, my dear Dolores,” he said. “Don’t you call that doing something? Kindly refrain from interrupting.” He turned again to William. “As undergraduates of a new university we have traditions to build up, principles of freedom to inaugurate and maintain. We have no use for the outworn traditions of the older universities. We are determined to build up our own traditions and defend them—defend them!”

  “To the death,” said the stocky little man who bore a strong resemblance to Dopey in “Snow White”.

  “Exactly. We have a mascot.” He pointed to the pig. It raised bleary eyes to his and snorted contemptuously.

  “Hannah?” said William, regarding the animal with interest.

  “Hannah,” said Cedric. “The father of one of our students had a farm and he gave us a piglet. It was to be one of the great traditions of our university—the piglet mascot. We each lent a hand towards its housing and upkeep. We made a little thatched cottage for its home. We made a leather collar with its name on in beaten silver. We fed it on the latest scientific principles and kept it scrupulously clean.”

  He paused.

  “Well, what happened then?” said William.

  Cedric bent a sorrowful gaze on Hannah.

  “She grew,” he said. “We were not prepared for the speed with which she attained maturity. She outgrew her little cottage. She broke out of it one evening and went into the Principal’s private garden and ate his lettuces.”

  “Not to speak of his cabbages,” said Ferdinand.

  “And his purple-sprouting broccoli,” said Constantia. “She broke his garden frame.”

  “And made hay of his rockery.”

  “She uprooted his prize delphinium.”

  “She ran amok.”

  “Anyway, after that the Principal forbade animal mascots.”

  “Understandable up to a point.”

  “But an infringement of our liberty. An intolerable infringement of our liberty. It may seem a trivial matter to you but it’s the thin edge of the wedge . . . and it’s our solemn duty towards unborn generations to resist it. As the first students of Newlick University we have not only to originate tradition but to uphold it.”

  “You said all this at the Debating Society,” said Ferdinand, smothering a yawn.

  “And I cannot say it too often,” said Cedric with spirit. “The pig tradition set us apart. As far as I have been able to ascertain, none of the dyed-in-the-wool, moth-eaten, older universities have the pig mascot tradition. We have originated it and we must uphold it.”

  “To the death,” said Dopey.

  “Yes, but what are you goin’ to do about it?” said William, deeply interested in the situation.

  “Can’t you see what we’re doing?” said Cedric haughtily. “We’re staging a protest march. Our original intention was to march to London and lay our case before the Minister of Education but we started late and—well, I must admit that Hannah has not been co-operative.”

  “She was sweet in her little house when she was a piglet,” sighed Constantia.

  “Exactly,” said Cedric, “but, of course, conditions on a protest march are different. I suppose that actually she’s not accustomed to marching—much less marching long distances. Pulling her along is a tiring business and—to make matters worse—that moron”—he darted another fierce look at Ferdinand—“forgot to bring the map. We tried to take a short cut to join the main road and evidently it took us in the wrong direction. A good many of the marchers have dropped out. These”—he waved his arm round the group—“are the sole survivors. Their names will go down in the annals of the university.”

  “Cold comfort for the moment,” said Dolores bitterly. “We have, of course, reconsidered our programme,” said Cedric, assuming his air of detached dignity. “We intend now to go to the nearest town and lay our case before the educational authorities in that town and perhaps persuade the Press to take the matter up. Which is the nearest town?”

  “Hadley,” said William, “but it’s early closing day an’ anyway Ethel—that’s my sister—has gone out with the Press in his car an’ they won’t be back till after tea.”

  “I’d give my soul for a cup of tea,” moaned Constantia.

  “It’s certainly an idea,” said Cedric. He turned again to William. “Is there any sort of cafe in this village?”

  “There’s Mr Bentley’s,” said William, “but he only sells ice-cream an’ raspberry fizz an’ coconut wizards. They’re smashing an’ the coconut wizards only cost threepence an’ the raspberry fiz twopence. ”

  “No, no!” said Constantia with a shudder. “It’s tea I want.”

  Suddenly William remembered Miss Thompson’s garden—the tables and chairs set out so invitingly, the biscuits, the little cakes, the non-existent members of the non-existent branch.

  “I b’lieve I know somewhere where . . . Jus’ wait a minute. I
’ll go ’n’ see. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He turned and went quickly down the road to Miss Thompson’s cottage. Things there were just as he had left them, except that Miss Thompson looked even more harassed and distraught. She was cutting mountains of bread and butter at the kitchen table. A large kettle was boiling on the gas cooker.

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this, William,” she said, “It’s just that I can’t stop, if you know what I mean. The whole thing’s gone to my head. I just must be doing something or I’ll go mad. I can’t just sit and wait to be publicly unmasked and disgraced. Mr Meggison may be here any moment now, and, of course, I may be in prison by this very evening. I know so little of the law.” She stopped and stood looking dreamily into the distance, the bread knife poised in her hand. “The odd thing is that I still half believe in them, you know—Mr Coleman, Mr Flower, Mr Beauchamp, Miss Poppins, Mrs Belmont and the rest. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if I looked out at the gate and saw them all trooping in . . .”

  Sue turned her eyes to the window and stood paralysed by amazement, eyes and mouth wide open. The bread knife dropped from her hand. She grabbed hold of William’s arm.

  “William! Look! Look! There they are!”

  William’s eyes followed hers. There they were—the undergraduates of Newlick University—entering the garden gate. Their longing for tea had overmastered them and they had followed in William’s tracks.

  “William, they’ve come to the meeting. Oh, I always have believed in miracles. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! It’s almost too much . . . But I must see about the tea now.”

  The protest marchers were taking their places at the tables. Cedric had parked Hannah by the herbaceous border. He had stuck the “Hands of Hannah” notice into the soil and tethered Hannah to it by her leather lead. Hannah had sunk on to the ground, abandoning herself, as it seemed, to despair.

  “First bit of luck we’ve had,” said Dolores, “running into a tea garden like this just when we were on the point of collapse.”

  “Funny there was no notice at the gate,” said Ferdinand. “I expect they don’t want to attract the riff-raff,” said Cedric fastidiously.

  Miss Thompson was making tea in her largest teapot, carrying it round the tables, filling the cups, sending William to and fro with plates of bread and butter, basins of sugar, jugs of milk, jars of jam. (Miss Thompson was an inveterate jam maker and jammed fruit all the year round.) An atmosphere of relaxation hung over the little scene. The air was full of a pleasant murmur of conversation. The protest marchers were even beginning to see a certain element of comedy in the situation.

  “Just fancy! Marching miles in the wrong direction!”

  “Look at old Hannah! I believe she’s gone to sleep. We shall have to hire a pram to take her home.”

  “Smashing strawberry jam, isn’t it!”

  Then suddenly a car drew up at the gate and a tubby little man, dressed in dark city clothes, descended from it.

  He opened the gate and walked up the little garden path to the lawn. The protest marchers threw him a casual glance.

  “Mr Meggison!” gasped Miss Thompson.

  The impact of reality on her dream world was for a moment almost too much for her. She had a sudden panic impulse of flight but advanced to meet the newcomer with a set bright smile.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” said Mr Meggison. “I had a little trouble with the car.” He turned a beaming smile on the protest marchers. “Splendid! Splendid! All the members of our little branch assembled. I congratulate you most heartily, Miss Thompson.” His eyes moved on to Hannah, dozing beneath her notice and he rubbed his hands together in delight. “Splendid! Splendid! A truly original touch! Hands off Hannah! A wonderful object lesson of the great principle that we are trying to instil into our fellow beings. Hands off Hannah! Yes, indeed! Why should that beautiful little creature, that exquisitely formed work of nature be sacrificed to man’s greed? Hands off her, indeed! I should think so! Well, I mustn’t stay long. I have another meeting to attend. I’ll just address a few words to your branch.”

  He took up his stand on the farther side of the pond, with the pond between him and the marchers, and the herbaceous border behind him . . . and launched into a dissertation on the right of the cow, the sheep, the pig (“Hannah, ha! ha!”), even the humble prawn and winkle to lead full free happy lives unhampered by man’s greed.

  The protest marchers continued to eat their tea with unabated enjoyment. They didn’t know what he was talking about and it didn’t seem to matter. The little cakes and scones were delicious. The jam was delicious. The chairs, though hard and on the small side, gave comfort to their aching limbs.

  But behind them Hannah was awakening to a sense of her grievances. Till now her life—in her little thatched cottage—had been one of ease and comfort. But today all her finer instincts had been outraged. She had been dragged for miles along a hard hot road. She had not been fed (for the protest marchers, in their zeal, had omitted to bring refreshments for themselves or their mascot). She was tired and hungry, and a dull resentment was smouldering in her breast. She rose to her feet and looked around her.

  The herbaceous border was full of fresh green plants. Surely some of them must be edible. She plunged her nose into a bush of lavender and withdrew it with a squeak. A bee, disturbed at its work, had thrust its sting into the tenderest part of her snout. And suddenly dark, age-old forces began to stir in her. Her instincts returned to the dawn of civilisation when, in some primeval swamp, she had charged her enemies and put them gloriously to flight. Mr Meggison’s back was in her direct line of vision, and it seemed to her that this object was the sole cause of her troubles. It was this object that had brought her, footsore and weary, to this strange place and finally inflicted on her this unendurable pain. With a loud squeak she charged across the lawn and hurled herself full tilt into Mr Meggison’s back.

  Mr Meggison gave a squeak that rivalled hers and fell with a splash into the lily pond. He scrambled out . . . but Hannah, trumpeting her triumph, charged again and tipped him back into the pond before he could recover his balance. And then age-old forces began to stir, too, in Mr Meggison’s breast. He, too, in some primeval swamp had

  charged and vanquished his foes. He kicked out savagely at Hannah, then seized the wooden post on which her notice had been fixed and which still trailed behind her and began to beat her savagely about the head with it. Cedric joined the fray and Hannah charged this new foe with redoubled violence. He fell against one of the little tables and the table gave way, scattering its contents over the lawn. Then quite suddenly Hannah tired of it all. She returned to her station by the herbaceous border and sank again into a state of apathy.

  Miss Thompson was fluttering distractedly around her guests.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Meggison,” she panted. “I simply don’t know what to do. I mean, I could lend you a dressing- gown while your clothes dried, but it’s not really suitable. I mean, it’s rather frilly. I bought it in a sale and it’s not really me . . . but it would at least serve as a covering while ...”

  “No, thank you,” said Mr Meggison. He was soaked from head to foot, but his dignity had not quite deserted him. There was something impressive even in the drops that trickled from his nose. “No, thank you. I will return to my car. I have a raincoat there. It will not take me long to reach home.”

  Miss Thompson accompanied him down the little path to the road. There was a thoughtful look on her face. A confused and confusing account of the affair by William had solved the mystery of the “branch members” and the sight of the water-logged figure before her gave her an unaccustomed courage and confidence.

  “I think, you know,” she said gently, “that we shall have to discontinue the branch. The members are all leaving the neighbourhood shortly and my own plans are very unsettled.”

  Mr Meggison’s tight features relaxed. In his mind was a nightmare picture of himself kicking a young pig, striking it savagely on the head with
a stick . . . The picture would, he knew, gradually fade from his memory, but only if he never again visited the surroundings in which the unspeakable scene had taken place.

  “Perhaps you are right,” he said judicially. “Small branches in these outlying country places are never very satisfactory. Yes, I think we should do well to close this particular branch. I will send you an official letter, of course, thanking you for your co-operation and the splendid work you have done.”

  Then gravely, majestically, he dripped his way into his car, raised his hand in a farewell gesture, started the engine and disappeared round the bend of the road.

  Miss Thompson returned to the lawn. Her face wore a smile of dreamy happiness. William, who had been an enthralled spectator of the scene, stood by the pond munching biscuits.

  “My spirit is freed from a load of guilt, William,” she said. “It’s a beautiful feeling. I don’t know whether you have ever experienced it.”

  William considered.

  “No, I don’ b’lieve I have,” he said at last. “I get loads of guilt, all right, but they don’t bother me. I get used to 'em."

  Cedric approached. He looked bewildered and apprehensive.

  “I don’t know how to apologise for that unfortunate accident,” he said. “If we’d had any idea that it was going to happen we should, of course, have taken precautions. She has always been so even-tempered till today. We feel most mortified that she should have attacked your guest in this unpredictable fashion.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Miss Thompson, giving him a radiant smile. “It’s of no consequence whatever.”

  He glanced at the china scattered over the grass.

  “We must at any rate pay for the damage,” he said.

  “No, no, no!” beamed Miss Thompson. “That’s of no consequence either.”

  “Well, we must pay for our tea and—”

  “Oh no!” said Miss Thompson. “I shouldn’t dream of letting you do that. You must consider yourselves my guests. It’s all too complicated to go into now, but you’ve freed me from a load of guilt and I’m most grateful to you.”