‘I must get down the salient points about him,’ he said eagerly, ‘in case – in case his visit is not of long duration.’
He made a hasty and not very flattering sketch of William and wrote underneath, ‘small stature – flowing robes confined at waist – face painted (cf. Ancient Britons)’.
Then he slipped the book back into his pocket and said:
‘But the intrepid explorer must be weary. We do not know what dangers he has faced to reach us, only we may be sure that the way was not easy. We must take him home for rest and refreshment. I will beckon to him. Doubtless be will understand the sign.’
He beckoned, accompanying the gesture by a smile of invitation, and then turned to go along a narrow path through the wood that led by a short cut to his house. Every few minutes he turned and repeated his beckoning gesture and inviting smile. The Martian, wearing an inscrutable and slightly forbidding expression, followed, his long robe trailing about him. The amazed girls brought up the rear.
On reaching his house, the Professor led his protégé through the French windows into his study and there, still smiling reassuringly, invited him to take an armchair. The Martian, still retaining his inscrutable and forbidding expression, and preserving complete silence, took it. The Professor immediately brought out his little book again and wrote: ‘Chairs and furniture similar to ours evidently found in Mars. Visitor expressed no surprise at seeing them. Action of sitting upon chair performed as if familiar one.’
He then rang the bell and ordered an astounded housemaid to bring refreshment. Meantime, the reassuring and apologetic smile much in evidence, he examined his visitor from a polite distance, wrote in his note-book and expounded his views to the still speechless girls.
‘It’s what I’ve always said,’ he said, ‘the main features of life are the same as ours. The material from which his robe is made,’ he touched it, glancing up at its wearer with the reassuring and apologetic smile, ‘is, I should guess, made by a process roughly similar to the process by which we make such materials in this country. I have always insisted that the main features of life upon the two planets are the same. Ah, thank you, Jane,’ as the housemaid entered with a tray, ‘thank you. Put it by that gentleman, will you? He is a traveller from a distant planet who, I hope, will be an inmate of my house for some little time.’
The housemaid stared at William, more amazed than ever. Then she withdrew to the kitchen to tell the cook that she’d never worked in a lunies’ asylum before and wasn’t going to start it at her time of life, and she’d give in her notice that very day.
Meanwhile William raised the glass of wine to his lips with gusto, thinking that it was blackcurrant tea, of which he was very fond, then hastily set it down with an expression of acute nausea.
The Professor took out his note-book and wrote:
‘Alcohol evidently unknown in Mars.’
He ordered the housemaid to bring some grapes, and these William consumed with evident familiarity and relish. The Professor wrote: ‘Grapes evidently known and eaten as fruit but not fermented to make wine.’
He addressed the girls:
‘And I only hope, my dears, that we shall not corrupt this civilisation, as we have corrupted so many others, by teaching them the use of alcohol. It is a wonderful thing to look at this inhabitant from a distant planet – small but sturdy and virile – and notice his natural aversion from the degrading liquid. Look at him.’
They gazed in silence at William, who was zestfully consuming the sandwiches and biscuits that were on the tray. The elderly gentleman watched his every movement, making frequent and copious notes in his little book. Finally he said in wistful tones to the two girls:
‘What I’m hoping, my dears, is that when he has refreshed himself he will speak a few words in his own language. I hope to be the man to make the first known record of the speech of the Martians.’
William, who was feeling much stimulated by his little meal and was beginning to enjoy being a Martian, decided to please the old gentleman by saying a few words in the Martian language. He turned his fixed, unflinching stare upon him and said:
‘Flam gobba manxy pop gebboo.’
Trembling with eagerness, the old gentleman wrote it in his little note-book:
‘Flam gobba manxy pop gebboo.’
‘It may not be spelt right, of course,’ he said to the girls, ‘but I think that using our native spelling I have more or less correctly reproduced the sounds. I think that I have actually obtained the first phonetic record in our language of the Martian speech . . .’
William, who was warming to his performance, rose from his seat and began to wander round the room, uttering strange sounds and making strange gestures, all of which the elderly gentleman, whose excitement was steadily increasing, noted in his book. Some of them he interpreted to the still paralysed girls.
‘That’s the clock. He’s never seen a clock before. Evidently they don’t have them on his planet . . . he’s probably asking what the bureau’s for. He means, I think, that he likes the flowers . . . different flowers probably from the ones that grow on his planet. Did you hear that? “Crumbs.” By “Crumbs”, he evidently means the window. I must get that down.’
By ‘Crumbs’, however, William didn’t mean the window. He meant that he had distinctly caught a glimpse of his father in the wood that surrounded the house.
‘His expression has changed,’ said the old man. ‘Do you notice that a look of weariness has come over his face? All this must be most exhausting for him. He must have passed through a most exhausting time coming here at all. I think that he should have a rest before we continue our investigations any further. I’d like to discover whether the painting of the face is common to all the Martians or whether it is the mark of a particular rank or class. However, all that can come when we have correlated our two languages better. At present I am sure that he needs rest more than anything.’
He turned to William with the reassuring smile and beckoned. William followed him out of the room, up the stairs and into a bedroom. There the Professor waved him to a bed and disappeared. William gazed about him distastefully. He was suddenly tired of being a Martian and his only desire now was to return to his own character. He looked out of the window, but the room was on the third floor and there was no drainpipe or tree near the window by which he might escape. He went to the door, and opened it very slightly. The Professor sat just outside, so as to be ready to receive his guest immediately on his awaking. He was writing in his little book and had not noticed the opening of the door. William hastily closed it again and considered the situation. There didn’t seem anything to do at present but follow the line of least resistance and wait for Fate to find some way out for him. The bed looked inviting, and William, as Red Indian, Arab Chief and Martian, had had a tiring day. He climbed upon it, composing his robes about him and laying his corked cheek upon a snowy linen pillow. He had a hazy impression of the Professor’s opening the door and gazing at him with a proud and beatific smile before he drifted off into a doze. He was awakened by the sound of voices – his father’s and the Professor’s.
His father was speaking.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but the boy’s friends say that he’s completely disappeared. They were playing in the wood and they say that he vanished, leaving no trace. They’d no right to be there at all, of course. I expect the young ruffian’s hiding somewhere but his mother’s got worried about him so I said I’d have a look round. I suppose you’ve seen nothing of him?’
‘No,’ said the Professor absently. ‘I’ve seen no boys at all, but,’ he added mysteriously, ‘as you’re the first person who’s come to the house since he arrived I – I’ll show you him.’
‘Whom?’ said William’s father.
‘A Martian,’ said the Professor.
‘A what?’ said William’s father.
‘A Martian,’ said the Professor, ‘an inhabitant of the planet Mars. I’ve been in communication with it for some
time. He’s asleep at present, but—’
Cautiously he opened the bedroom door. The Martian leapt from the bed, tore past them with lowered head, dashed down the stairs and out of the door.
The Professor and Mr Brown followed.
‘Into the woods,’ gasped the Professor, ‘we came that way.’
They ran out of the little gate that led to the wood and gazed about. There was no sign of the white-robed figure.
‘I’m afraid he’s gone,’ said the Professor sadly. ‘I’ve been afraid of this from the beginning. You see the atmospheric conditions may possibly be different. I mean, a Martian may only be able to breathe this atmosphere for a short time. I’m afraid that he’s gone back.’
‘How do you think he’s gone back?’ said William’s father.
‘The same way as he came,’ said the Professor mysteriously. ‘I don’t know what way that was. Nor does anyone except the man who came by it . . .’
‘And you really believe—’ began William’s father.
‘I know,’ said the Professor solemnly, ‘I don’t expect anyone else to believe me. In fact I know they won’t. No further development may take place in this particular branch of research for years – probably not till after my death. I do not expect to be recognised as a pioneer in my life-time – but I have my notes – they will still be here after my death and in future years I shall be recognised as the pioneer of communication between the two planets. You saw him, didn’t you?’
‘Y-yes,’ said William’s father and added thoughtfully, ‘there seemed to be something – something familiar about his face.’
The Outlaws were assembled in the tool shed at the bottom of William’s garden. The wheelbarrow was turned upside down to represent a stage and upon it William was precariously executing a clog dance. The others were sitting around him on the floor, watching admiringly. So energetically did William perform his dance and so unsteadily balanced was the wheelbarrow that it seemed that every moment the whole thing must collapse. William had as usual thrown himself so completely into his role of music hall artist that he had entirely forgotten that he had already that day been Red Indian, Arab Chief and Martian. Suddenly Ginger said warningly:
‘I say, your father’s coming, William, with the old man.’
William stopped and listened. Through the open window they could hear William’s father’s voice.
‘Well, I just want you to look at him and see if it’s the same. I don’t suppose you’ll get anything out of him. I’ve already questioned him but one gathers from his answers that he’s never heard of either Crown Wood or Mars. However – just have a look at him. I’m afraid you’ll find it is so. I saw the face quite clearly.’
The door opened and they entered.
‘This is the boy,’ said William’s father, pointing to William.
William hastily descended from his platform and assumed his most expressionless expression. The Professor looked him slowly up and down – William, rough-headed, freckled, frowning, in his school suit. He’d retrieved his coat and shirt from the wood and he’d washed his face. The Professor burst out laughing.
‘It most certainly isn’t the same, my dear sir. Hardly any resemblance at all. My – my visitor was at least a foot taller and altogether more – more mature. Though of small stature he had an intelligent and thoughtful face. He moved with dignity and grace. This – excuse me, my dear sir – this is an ordinary uncouth English schoolboy.’
William’s face was still drained of expression as he met his father’s gaze.
‘Well,’ said his father, ‘I’m glad to hear you say so. It certainly simplifies the situation as far as I’m concerned.’
Then they departed.
‘Go on dancing, William,’ said Ginger as soon as they’d gone.
‘I’ve forgotten where I was,’ said William, ‘with everyone interrupting.’
But no sooner had he mounted his platform to continue than there came yet another interruption. It was the Vicar’s wife. She entered, wearing her brisk bright smile.
‘I’ve been waiting for the holly, boys dear,’ she said. ‘I meant you to bring it to the Vicarage, but perhaps you misunderstood me. Where is it?’
The Outlaws gazed at each other open-mouthed. Then: ‘Crumbs!’ gasped William, ‘we quite forgot the holly.’
CHAPTER 9
THE SENTIMENTAL WIDOW
William had very few adult friends but Mrs Roundway was one of them. Mrs Roundway was small and fat and pleasant-looking, and she lived in a little cottage just outside the village. She was a woman of few words and many smiles. William had known her ever since he could remember. Always when he passed down the lane where she lived she would nod and smile at him from the window and then come running down the garden path to him with a cookie boy. She made cookie boys better than anyone William had ever known. The efforts of William’s mother and her cook were puerile in comparison. She made them out of both gingerbread and dough. They had currants for eyes and buttons. They had arms and legs and fingers and toes. Some of them even had hats. There was an amazingly lifelike air about them. At the age of four or thereabouts William had almost lived for them. To nibble them slowly bit by bit from toe to head or from head to toe afforded him a sensation that nothing else on earth could ever afford him.
In his more ruthless moods he was a cannibal chief and the cookie boy a rash white man who had ventured into his territory. In his milder moments he was merely a lion and the cookie boy a jackal or an antelope. Now that he was eleven and a leader of men, of course, he pretended to regard the cookie boys with amused indulgence, but secretly they gave him almost as much pleasure as ever, and he wandered just as often past Mrs Roundway’s cottage, wearing a rather inane expression of absent-mindedness that was meant to indicate that the last thing he expected to see was the sight of Mrs Roundway smiling and beckoning from the window and holding a cookie boy in her hand.
He was surprised and slightly embarrassed one morning when Mrs Roundway, instead of thrusting the cookie boy into his hands and running back to her cottage as usual, suddenly began to talk to him. She seemed very much excited. She told him that her sister was coming to live with her. Her sister, she said, was a widow who had been a housekeeper in Sydney and whose employer had just died, leaving her a handsome legacy.
‘I ain’t seed her for nigh on twenty years,’ ended Mrs Roundway breathlessly. ‘I’m that excited I can’t tell you, dearie. There you are – though I’m afraid that what with the excitement an’ all his legs isn’t quite straight, but he’ll taste all right.’
William walked down the road, thoughtfully nibbling his cookie boy. He was wondering how the arrival of Mrs Roundway’s sister would affect his supply of cookie boys. It would be too much to hope that she should be another Mrs Roundway. William had a large experience of elderly ladies and most of them were as unlike Mrs Roundway as it is possible to imagine. Mrs Roundway was, in fact, in William’s eyes a sort of oasis in a desert.
He threw a very cautious glance at the cottage window when he passed it the next week.
‘Shouldn’t be surprised,’ he muttered to himself morosely, ‘if she even stops her making cookie boys.’
But that cautious glance reassured him. It was as if there were two Mrs Roundways standing at the cottage window – both nodding and smiling and beckoning. They came down together to the cottage gate.
‘This is my sister, William,’ said Mrs Roundway, smiling, ‘and this is William, Maggie. He’s the friend of mine I told you about who likes cookie boys. Here it is, love. She helped to make it. Isn’t he a beauty? Look, she’s put buttons on his boots.’
Mrs Roundway’s sister was exactly like Mrs Roundway to look at – small and round and fair and smiling. But she talked. She was as garrulous as Mrs Roundway was silent. On the whole William didn’t like her quite as much as he liked Mrs Roundway. She insisted on telling him all about Sydney, and he didn’t want to know about Sydney. And she made the cookie boys too elaborate.
Then she pointed down the road, where the figure of her sister could be seen disappearing in the distance in company with a stalwart-looking male.
‘It’s George,’ said Mrs Roundway, smiling mysteriously. ‘He’s always been fond of her. He’d have had her when she was a girl, but for Bert. No, not the one she married, Bert isn’t. He had curly hair, and I never could abide him though she nearly married him. It was all his hair. Golden curls he had, like a girl. She couldn’t resist ’em – till, fortunate like, Pete Hemmings come along. Him what she married. No, it was always George I liked best. I hoped he’d come forward again. He’s bin hangin’ back a bit along of her money till now. He’s taken a bit of encouraging but I think it’s all right now. They seem to be walkin’ out all right now.’
It was the longest speech William had ever heard her make, and William shared something of her enthusiasm. William, too, wanted Maggie to marry George. He wanted Mrs Roundway to be left alone in her cottage again. He didn’t like having to sustain long conversations about Sydney whenever he received his cookie boys, and he didn’t like his cookie boys having buttons on their boots. It seemed to him new-fangled and unnecessary, and William was very conservative by nature.
But the next time he passed the cottage it was a dolorous face that tried unconvincingly to smile at him through the window. William’s heart sank. He was loyal to his friends and always took their troubles as his own. Mrs Roundway came down slowly to the cottage gate with his cookie boy and disclosed her grief almost tearfully.
‘It’s that Bert,’ she said sadly. ‘He’s come back, curls an’ all. He’s heard of her bein’ back home an’ an heiress, as you might say, an’ he’s took rooms at the White Lion an’ cornin’ here every day. His curls is as yellow as ever, an’ it was his yellow curls she never could resist. No woman could resist ’em. His curls and his blue eyes. An’ he’s made up his mind to get Maggie along of her money. He’ll spend her money an’ drive her to her grave. I know ’im. Never was no good. An’ poor George has stopped cornin’ all along of him. Here’s your cookie boy, love. She helped me make it. She put the buttons on its boots. She’s that clever.’
William Page 18