William

by Richmal Crompton

  The Outlaws were holding another meeting in the old barn to discuss the next day’s waxwork show.

  ‘I bet they enjoyed this one so much they’ll pay to come to the nex’ one,’ said William optimistically.

  ‘I bet they won’t,’ protested Ginger. ‘I bet you anythin’ you like they won’t.’

  ‘Well, but we’ll all be diff’rent people,’ said William, ‘it’ll be quite a fresh show.’

  ‘I’ve heard ’em sayin’ they won’t come again,’ said Douglas sadly.

  ‘Well, I can’t understand why not,’ said William with spirit. ‘I simply can’t understand why not. It seems to me it’s jus’ like the sort of waxwork show people do pay money to see. It’s the meanness of folks round here—’

  They hastily pulled him down from his favourite hobby-horse.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Ginger. ‘Let’s try ’n’ think what we can do to make ’em pay to come in.’

  ‘Have animals as well. I mean dress up as waxwork animals,’ suggested Henry.

  This suggestion was dismissed as impracticable. Then Douglas said, ‘Of course most waxworks have ladies in. Queens an’ such-like. P’raps that’s why they don’t want to come. P’raps if we had ladies in—’

  ‘All right,’ said William, ‘I’ll dress up as a lady if you’ll be the showman. I had jus’ about enough of bein’ the showman yesterday. I’m sick of people askin’ questions an’ pretendin’ to know such a lot. An’ then everyone startin’ fightin’.’

  ‘You don’t look much like a lady,’ said Ginger, eyeing William’s countenance doubtfully.

  ‘Well, I can disguise myself to look like a lady, can’t I?’ said William. ‘Anyone can shurely disguise themselves to look like a lady.’

  ‘Yes, but they always have to be beautiful ladies for waxwork shows an’ such-like,’ said Douglas, ‘not the ordinary sort.’

  ‘Well, shurely I can disguise myself to look like a beautiful lady, can’t I?’ challenged William with spirit.

  Nobody accepted the challenge. They merely gazed incredulously at William’s freckled homely countenance.

  ‘’S easy enough,’ said William carelessly; ‘you jus’ put on a sort of soppy look. The sort of soppy look Ethel’s got.’

  William here rolled up his eyes and assumed the expression commonly attributed to a dying duck in a thunderstorm. The others blinked and blenched, but, not wishing the discussion to descend to the physical plane before some agreement had been reached, refrained from comment.

  ‘What about clothes anyway?’ said Douglas, ‘it’s harder to get ladies’ clothes than men’s.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said William, ‘Ethel had a dress once when she was smaller than what she is now. She went to a fancy-dress dance in it. It’s Mary Queen of Scots or somethin’ like that. I know where it is. I could borrow it from her. I’d put it back afterwards an’ no one’d ever know.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ginger, ‘we’d better put up a notice about it.’

  ‘Yes, we will,’ said William. ‘I’ll make it up. An’ we won’t pretend to be reel waxworks this time ’cause they know now we aren’t. We’ll jus’ pretend to be people pretendin’ to be waxworks. An’ we’ll have a notice about the lady. I bet they’ll all want to come and see her. An’ I bet they’ll none of them know it’s me. I bet when I’m dressed up as a lady an’ put on my soppy look they’ll none of them know it’s me.’

  William’s notice was the result of much hard labour and deep thought. He broke three nibs (William was rather hard on nibs) and dyed all his fingers black to the bone in the process. It ran as follows:

  ‘there will be annuther sho of wonderful yuman beings actin waxworks so you cudent tell the diffrance tomorro the most wonderful acters of waxworks in the world no one can tell the diffrance there will be a new lady acter with them tomorro the most wonderful lady acter of waxworks in the world speshully butiful come from along way of at grate expence to be in the sho the most butiful lady acter of waxworks ever none ax before kings and queens in speshully butiful clos william brown.’

  ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’ he said with modest pride as he showed it to the Outlaws.

  ‘I bet it’s spelt wrong,’ said Ginger, irritated by William’s superior manner.

  ‘What’s spelt wrong?’ challenged William.

  ‘Lots of it,’ said Ginger, not liking to commit himself too definitely; ‘you’ve never wrote anythin’ yet that wasn’t all spelt wrong.’

  ‘Neither’ve you,’ said William. ‘I don’t see that it matters. I know that to me there always seems to be more sense in my sort of spelling than there is in the sort of spelling you find in books. Seems to me people ought to be let spell the way that comes easiest to them.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Ginger, retreating from a position which in view of his own spelling capabilities he felt to be untenable. ‘So do I. I think so, too. Yes, I think it’s a jolly good notice but I think all our names ought to be on it, too.’

  ‘All right,’ said William obligingly, ‘I’ll put your names on too.’

  ‘An’ you oughter begin, “We the undersigned,” that’s what they always do.’

  ‘We the what?’

  ‘The undersigned.’

  ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s the proper way to begin a notice. What are you goin’ to be doin’ as Mary Queen of Scots? Bein’ killed or somethin’?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said William, ‘I’m goin’ to be jus’ lookin’ soppy same as Ethel does. I’ll be holdin’ some flowers. There’s a photograph of Ethel in our drawing-room lookin’ soppy holding flowers what everyone says is very beautiful. I’ll be lookin’ jus’ like it.’

  Again Ginger gazed doubtfully at William’s countenance, but again, for the sake of peace, refrained from comment.

  William successfully ‘borrowed’ the Mary Queen of Scots costume from Ethel’s bedroom in her absence.

  It had been made for Ethel many years ago, when she was at school and taking part in some theatricals, and it fitted William fairly well. It cannot be said that it suited him. William’s bullet head with its shock of wiry hair and William’s stern, homely, freckled face emerged strangely from the elaborate ruff. He ‘borrowed’ a boudoir cap of Ethel’s to enhance the general effect, but his face looked more unromantic than ever when framed in cascades of lace and baby ribbon. Even William could not pretend that he was satisfied with his appearance, nor could he deceive himself so far as to believe that it would be accepted without protest by his audience as that of the most beautiful actress in the world. It was still William – shock-headed, carroty, lacking in almost every element of beauty. But William was a born optimist. Flowers. Ethel in the much-admired photograph was holding flowers. Flowers would probably make all the difference. It was useless to try to get flowers at home. Relationships between William and the gardener were more strained than usual owing to the fact that William had recently ‘borrowed’ some of the gardener’s plant stakes to use as arrows. It would be useless to ask the gardener for flowers and it would be more useless still to try to get them without asking the gardener, because the gardener had formed the habit of watching William’s every movement when William was in the garden. William therefore changed into his actress’s dress and, clad in a long mackintosh, made his way as unobtrusively as possible to the old barn where the performance was to be held, arriving half an hour before the time advertised for its opening. The gardens of The Hall ran alongside the field where the old barn was, and from their garden William hoped to cull the armful of flowers that was to dower him with beauty.

  He got through the hedge and wandered for some time through the shrubbery, looking for flowers and finding none. At last he saw a blaze of bloom just beyond the shrubbery across a gravelled path. It was farther than he meant to venture, but William never liked to relinquish any undertaking half performed. He ventured cautiously on to the gravelled path, darted forward and – collided with the little g
irl who was just coming round the corner. Both sat down on the gravel very suddenly and stared at each other in breathless surprise.

  The little girl’s surprise needs no accounting for. William’s appearance has already been described. William’s surprise will be understood when I say that the little girl, too, was in fancy dress – an elaborate affair of satin and pearls – and that her fancy dress was obviously meant to impersonate Mary Queen of Scots. She looked very pretty in it. William gaped at her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘what are you doing in our garden?’

  ‘Jus’ lookin’ round,’ said William loftily as he straightened his boudoir cap.

  ‘You’re the boy that pulled a face at me.’

  ‘I know,’ said William and did it again.

  She retaliated.

  ‘That’s a good one,’ said William condescendingly. ‘How do you do it?’

  ‘You start with your nose and then you do your mouth,’ said the little girl. ‘Like this.’

  William tried it.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, ‘you do it jolly well,’ and added admiringly, ‘you are an ugly boy. Why are you dressed up?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be? Why are you, anyway?’

  WILLIAM COLLIDED WITH THE LITTLE GIRL. BOTH SAT DOWN ON THE GRAVEL SUDDENLY. ‘HELLO,’ SAID THE LITTLE GIRL.

  ‘I hate it. I’ve got to go to a silly place they’ve made for me in the garden and be talked to by a stupid woman.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be?’

  ‘No, I hate it. I hate everything. There’s only one thing in the whole world I want and that’s to go to a boarding school and they won’t let me. Now why are you dressed up? You are ugly.’

  William accepted this – as indeed it seemed to be meant – as a compliment.

  ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ he said modestly; ‘I’m dressed up for a waxwork show.’

  ‘Oh what fun! You are lucky!’ said the little girl.

  William looked at her in silence for a minute and his eyes gleamed suddenly as if with a brilliant idea. No doubt at all about the little girl’s beauty. Surely anyone would pay to see her . . .

  ‘You can go ’stead of me if you like,’ he said carelessly.

  ‘Oh, may I?’ she said excitedly, then her excitement faded; ‘but I’m s’posed to be going to that silly place to be talked to by that stupid woman.’

  ‘I’ll do that for you,’ volunteered William. ‘I’m dressed same as you – well, nearly same as you. Only – I s’pose she’d know I wasn’t you.’

  The little girl’s eyes were gleaming.

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ she said, ‘she’s never seen me. She’s come to ask me a lot of stupid questions in a silly place they’ve made for me that I hate. Then there’s going to be a silly photograph, but I’ll be back in time for that. Oh, I’d love to go and play at being a waxwork.’

  ‘All right,’ said William, ‘you go. It’s over in that barn in that field. There’s a hole in the hedge. You’ll find three boys there. Tell ’em I’ve sent you ’stead of me to be Mary Queen of Scots. What about flowers? Oh, but you don’t need ’em. Well, I’ll go to this place you say. What sort of questions she goin’ to ask? Not lessons?’ suspiciously.

  ‘Oh, no . . . just stupid questions. It will be fun. I’ll go now before anyone comes along and stops me—’

  She flitted through the shrubbery, through the gap in the hedge, and disappeared across the field. William was left alone on the garden path. The zest with which he had originated the plan was fading and he was beginning to see some of its disadvantages. His mackintosh had fallen off in the shrubbery. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that his appearance was not such as to inspire confidence should he meet anyone in this garden. Where was this ‘silly place’ the little girl had mentioned? He proceeded cautiously down the path, ready to turn tail and run into the shrubbery if he met anyone. He didn’t meet anyone. At the end of the path he found an elaborate little garden house with two small but luxuriously furnished rooms. William entered one of them and sat down. A middle-aged woman with very large spectacles and carrying an attaché case was approaching from the opposite direction.

  Miss Perkins had been sent by her paper, Woman’s Sphere, to interview Rosemary, the daughter of Clarice Verney, the famous actress. At a series of tableaux lately given in London by the children of famous actors and actresses Rosemary had appeared as Mary Queen of Scots and her appearance had created something of a furore. Woman’s Sphere had at once conceived the plan of an illustrated interview and had approached Rosemary’s mother. Rosemary’s mother had no objection at all, provided that she herself figured largely in both interview and illustration. Miss Perkins had already interviewed Rosemary’s mother, and the photographer was now engaged in posing Rosemary’s mother for the photograph. Miss Perkins had been told that she would find Rosemary in the dress in which she had appeared in the tableaux in the beautiful little garden house that had been her mother’s last birthday present to her, and that was her favourite haunt. Miss Perkins approached the little house, wearing her most engaging smile. She saw the flicker of a fancy dress, and the smile broadened.

  ‘So this is the little—’

  Then her mouth dropped open. She had come face to face with the little occupant of the garden house in fancy dress. She blinked and blenched and swallowed. Extraordinary how standards were changing all the world over. That this child should be considered beautiful! It was amazing. The effect, of course, of jazz and cubism, thought Miss Perkins. Miss Perkins put everything down to the effect of jazz and cubism. This child – Miss Perkins met its unblinking stare and again blenched and swallowed. She was, she knew, short-sighted, but – this – well, short-sight or no short-sight, this would never have been called beauty when she was young. With an almost superhuman effort she summoned back the ghost of her engaging smile.

  ‘And this is Rosemary, is it?’ she said.

  ‘Uh – huh,’ said the child in a gruff voice. Miss Perkins shuddered again.

  ‘And is this the garden house we’ve heard so much about?’

  ‘Uh – huh,’ said the child again in the same voice. The dress wasn’t at all what she’d been led to believe it was going to be, either, thought Miss Perkins. It was really rather a cheap-looking affair of sateen and imitation lace. She’d heard that it was the most exquisite Mary Queen of Scots costume in miniature. People seemed to be losing their standards about everything nowadays. What a funny head-dress, too. She’d never have thought it was meant to be a Mary Queen of Scots head-dress.

  ‘And this is where you spend nearly all your time, isn’t it, dear?’ she went on.

  ‘Uh – huh,’ said the child again, in the same gruff voice.

  ‘And what are your favourite games?’ went on Miss Perkins heroically, taking out a little note-book.

  ‘Red Indians,’ said the child in the same unbeautiful voice. ‘Red Indians an’ Pirates.’

  Miss Perkins shuddered.

  ‘You like playing with your dolls here, don’t you, dear?’

  ‘Me?’ said the child fiercely and with a glance before which Miss Perkins quailed. She hastily passed on to the next question.

  ‘You love to be alone here with your books, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said the child succinctly.

  ‘What sort of books do you like best? Your mother said you love everything beautiful. You read a lot of poetry, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said the child. ‘Soppy stuff.’

  Again Miss Perkins shuddered. These were not the answers she had come to write down in her little notebook. She made another great effort and assumed a roguish air.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘but your mother told me a secret about you.’

  ‘Uh – huh,’ said the child without interest.

  ‘You believe in fairies,’ said Miss Perkins, still more roguishly.

  ‘Me?’ said the terrible child again, so terribly that Miss Perkins hastily passed on to the next question.

  ‘
What’s your favourite story, dear?’

  ‘Dick of the Bloody Hand,’ said the child.

  Miss Perkins wrote down ‘Cinderella.’ One did, after all, owe a duty to one’s readers.

  ‘What do you like doing best of all?’ went on the interviewer.

  ‘Jus’ messin’ about,’ said the child, ‘messin’ about an’ goin’ in woods an’ makin’ fires an’ climbin’ trees an’ such-like.’

  Miss Perkins hastily closed the note-book. She was feeling rather faint. To her relief a distant clock struck, marking the end of the interview.

  ‘It’s time for the photograph now, dear,’ she said to the terrible child. ‘It’s to be in the arbour by the yew hedge. That’s just along here, isn’t it? I’m sure you just adore this beautiful garden, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said the child coldly. They walked slowly down the path towards the arbour by the yew hedge.

  ‘Don’t you love the sound of the birds?’ said Miss Perkins as they walked along, making a last attempt to reach any beautiful child soul that might underlie this unprepossessing exterior.

  ‘Noise of the birds?’ said the child; ‘birds don’t make any noise. Not worth speakin’ of, that is. I had a thing once that was s’posed to make a noise like a canary an’ I got so’s I could do it so’s you could hear it a mile off. People said it went through their heads. It was fine.’

  ‘And the scent of the flowers?’ persisted Miss Perkins faintly in a dying effort.

  ‘Flowers don’ smell, not to call a real smell,’ said the child. ‘I once found a dead cat in a hedge. You should’ve smelt that.’

  They had reached the arbour by the yew hedge now. A camera stood in place before it and behind the camera was a young man with a harassed expression. In the arbour by the yew hedge sat Clarice Verney, the actress, very carefully posed. It had taken the young man with the harassed expression over an hour to pose her to her complete satisfaction. He had acquired the harassed expression in the process. But now Clarice Verney was posed to her complete satisfaction in such a way to show to best advantage her hair and eyes and nose and teeth and chin and figure and legs and ankles – all of which she considered to be her chief good points. She was bending forward so as to show off her figure and chin and neck, and smiling so as to show off her teeth. She was bending forward and gazing towards the right because she considered the left side of her face to be the better one. Miss Perkins and the child approached from the left. The actress did not move her head or look towards them for fear of upsetting the pose.