“There isn’t in mine,” said William, who now felt a sort of jealousy for his imaginary exploit and wasn’t going to have it outshone even by a fireman. So completely was he carried away on the wings of his imagination that he saw the scene quite clearly—the leaping flames, the crashing masonry, the final desperate jump on to the pavement below. “All over the place, my bones are. There isn’t a single one that—”
The woman in the white overall called another name and, slowly, reluctantly, William’s audience rose to its feet and went through the further door.
William looked uneasily around. The crowd in the room had thinned. There was only a handful of people left. He took up a woman’s magazine from a chair near him and, bending his head over it, pretended to be deeply absorbed in an article on “Do Careers Women Make Good Wives?” Furtively he glanced up. A thrill of horror ran through him as he saw his pursuer’s bristly little face in the doorway.
“James Green,” called the woman in the white overall.
The remnants of the fracture clinic—four women and an old man—looked round at each other. No one moved.
“Don’t seem to be here,” said the old man.
“He’s a schoolboy, that’s all I know about him,” said the woman in the white overall petulantly. “I’m not really supposed to be on duty here. I’m supposed to be in the physiotherapy department, but half the staff are down with ’flu and we’re all at sixes and sevens . . .”
“Well, he don’t seem to be here,” said the old man again. “These young people of today are all the same. No sense of responsibility.”
“Unreliable,” said the woman in a patchy fur beret. “Woolgathering. In at one ear and out of the other.”
“No sense of duty,” said the old man.
“No respect,” said the woman in the fur beret.
“James Green!” said the woman in the white overall again.
Mr Birtley was still there. Obviously he was on the point of entering the room in a final effort to run his prey to earth.
Keeping his face turned away from the door, William rose to his feet.
“Why can’t you listen!” snapped the woman in the white overall. “I’ve called your name twice.”
“Sorry,” muttered William.
He plunged through the further door into a corridor. Someone opened a door on the other side of it, announced “James Green” and propelled him through it. A man with a luxuriant moustache, a beaked nose and a high domed forehead sat at a small table beneath a window. Two women in white overalls sat at a desk near him behind a pile of files and papers.
“James Green,” read the man from a case-sheet. “Fracture of the femur . . .” He raised his eyes from the paper to William’s leg. “Good Lord! Where’s the plaster?”
“It came off,” said William desperately.
The three were gazing at him, speechless with amazement.
“No, it didn’t come off,” said William, plunging on wildly. “It got all right, so I took it off. My leg got all right, I mean. I mean, I got hold of a sort of secret cure that cured it. A sort of rare Eastern herb given me by an Indian Yo-yo an’ I tried it on my leg an’ it cured it so I took off this plaster an’ . . .”
His voice trailed away. Though still speechless, his listeners were obviously labouring under some strong emotion and it was clear that in a moment the storm would break.
He rose to his feet with a fixed and glassy smile.
“Well, thank you very much,” he said. “p’raps I’d better be goin’ now—”
“This is outrageous!” exploded the doctor.
The door opened and a thin lank boy, his leg encased in plaster of Paris, entered the room, followed by the waiting-room attendant.
“I don’t know what’s happened,” she said helplessly. “This boy says he’s James Green. He was waiting in the wrong place. He—”
In a flash, William was out of the door, down the corridor, across the courtyard and in the street. There were no signs of Mr Birtley. He had evidently abandoned the chase. William plunged down the street into the main road and, still running, reached the bus stop. The bus was on the point of starting. He flung himself on to it and made his way home.
Mrs Brown came out of the kitchen as he entered the hall.
“Oh, there you are, dear. Did you leave the parcel at the cleaners?”
“Oh, yes,” said William. “I left it at the cleaners’ all right.”
“You’ve been a long time. I suppose you’ve been having a look round Hadley.”
“Yes,” agreed William. “I’ve been havin’ a good look round Hadley. I’m goin’ to Ginger’s aunt’s now. He’s helpin’ her get ready to remove. I thought I’d jus’ call for Jumble an’ take him along with me.”
“Oh, yes, poor Jumble! He must have caught his leg on a thorn or something. It’s not much of a scratch. He’s limping a bit but I think he’s putting it on.”
Hearing William’s voice. Jumble came rollicking in at the door. He leapt exuberantly at William, then, remembering the gratifying interest his limp had caused earlier in the morning, began to limp round the room, a complacent expression on his long foolish face.
“It ought to be in plaster of Paris,” said William, adopting a professional air and frowning down at Jumble. “He’s prob’ly fractured his femur.”
“Nonsense, dear! He’s not fractured anything. A walk will do him good.”
Jumble seemed to agree and the two set off. Jumble frisking about as usual except when, occasionally, he remembered his limp and turned melancholy soulful eyes on William to make sure that he was watching.
Ginger was at the door of his aunt’s house when William reached it.
“I’ve been helpin’ her clear out cupboards an’ things,” he said. “It’s all finished now, an’ she’s given me the half-crown so—”
“One moment, boys!” called Ginger’s aunt from upstairs.
They clattered up the wooden uncarpeted staircase, enjoying the sound of their heavy shoes, stamping on each step to extract the utmost enjoyment from it.
Ginger’s aunt—a brisk, pleasant-looking woman—stood at the top of the stairs, holding a cardboard hat-box.
“We cleared out the medicine cupboard, you remember, dear,” she said to Ginger, “and packed the things in here, but I’ve decided not to keep them, after all . . . I’ve had most of them for years and I expect they’ve lost any goodness they had by now, so I think I’ll start from scratch, as it were, in the new house and just buy new medicines as I need them. So will you two boys take them and tip them into the dust-bin as you go out?”
Ginger took the box and the two clattered downstairs again.
“Here’s the dust-bin,” said Ginger, opening the door that led into the backyard.
A thoughtful look had come into William’s face.
“Wait a minute!” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What is it?”
“Well, listen,” said William earnestly. “This health service. It’s a smashing idea, this health service, an’ I don’t see why animals shouldn’t have it, same as yumans. Look at poor ole Jumble. He’s got a bad foot an’ nowhere for him to go to get it put right.”
“He doesn’t look as if he had a bad foot,” said Ginger, watching Jumble, who was chasing a dead leaf round the garden.
“That’s his courage an’ his spirit,” said William. “He’s a lesson to us all. Anyway, I don’t think it’s right for yumans to have this health service an’ not animals. There isn’t any justice in it.”
“There’s vets,” said Ginger.
“Yes, but you’ve got to pay vets. This other thing’s free.”
“No, it’s not. You pay a bit each week.”
“Well, animals could pay a bit each week. I don’t see why they shouldn’t have this load taken off their mind, same as yumans.”
“Well, there isn’t one for animals, so we can’t do anythin’ about it.”
“Yes, we can. We can start one. Look a
t all the things in this box.” He turned over the bottles and cartons, reading their labels. “There’s stuff for indigestion an’ coughs an’ sore throats an’—an’ brittle nails an’ open pores. There’s somethin’ for everythin’ that could poss’bly go wrong with them. Gosh, Ginger! We could start one straight away.”
“I bet no one’d come to it.”
“I bet they would. They’d have to pay a penny a week, of course.”
“Well, I bet they wouldn’t do that.”
“P’raps not,” said William, reluctantly facing reality, “but they might pay a bullseye or a lollypop or somethin’. It’d be better than nothin’.”
“I bet they wouldn’t.”
“I bet they would.” He turned to look at the box again. “We’ve got a smashin’ lot of stuff. Let’s try somethin’ out on Jumble. Hi, Jumble!”
He caught the reluctant Jumble, found the small harmless-looking scratch on his leg and held his struggling form with difficulty.
“Find somethin’ for it, quick. Ginger.”
Ginger rummaged in the box.
“Here’s somethin’ for heartburn,” he said.
William, tightening his hold on Jumble, placed a hand on his backbone.
“No, I can’t feel his heart burnin’,” he said. “Find somethin’ else.”
“Here’s somethin’ called “embrocation”,” said Ginger, reading the label on the bottle. “It says it’s good for sprains an’—an’ spavin an’—”
“I ’spect spavin’s what he’s got,” said William. Jumble’s struggles were growing uncontrollable. “Shove some on quick.”
Ginger uncorked the bottle and dabbed the white liquid on Jumble’s leg. Jumble freed himself with a final effort and, light-headed with relief, raced madly round the garden.
“There! It’s cured him,” said William. “I knew it would . . . Now let’s get the thing started. Let’s go’n’ write out the notice an’ fetch Henry an’ Douglas.”
They carried the box to Ginger’s house, wrote the notice in Ginger’s bedroom, then went to the old barn to fix the notice on the door.
Annymals nashonal helth servis.
annymals kured of all deceases starting too oklock tomorro fre ecsept for peny a week bulseys and loly-pops kan be givven insted William Brown will make a speach.
cined William Brown.
“There!” said William as he secured the notice to the door with a rusty nail, using the heel of his shoe as a hammer. “I bet they’ll all come.”
At two o’clock the next afternoon William, Ginger, Henry, Douglas and Jumble had taken up their positions in the old barn.
“I bet it’ll get into even more of a muddle than that old Pets’ Club did,” said Douglas gloomily, “if anyone comes, that is, an’ I bet they won’t.”
But already patients and their escorts were arriving. Frankie Miller came first, carrying a cat; Ella Poppleham followed with a Pekinese; Freddy Parker brought a canary in a cage; Victor Jameson a lizard in a box and Jimmy Barlow a dejected-looking hen under his arm, William noted with relief that Arabella Simpkin (who had a gift for trouble-making which she had brought to a fine art) was not among them. Odds and ends of children straggled in, carrying a varied selection of dogs, cats, birds and insects. An animated hubbub arose—barks, mews, growls and high-pitched children’s voices.
“Go on, William! Tell us about it!”
William had dragged forward the packing-case that was the sole furniture of the old barn and mounted it carefully.
“Ladies an’ gentlemen an’ animals,” he began, “an’ shut up, everyone. I’m goin’ to make this speech.” The uproar continued unabated. “Shut up, everyone! I can’t hear myself speak.”
“Well, you’re not missing much,” said Maisie Fellowes.
William ignored the interruption.
“Shut up!” he said again, raising his voice to a raucous bellow.
The uproar died away.
William cleared his throat with an air of self-importance.
“I’ll start all over again, ’case you didn’t hear me the first time.” He cleared his throat again. “Ladies an’ gentlemen an’ animals. I’m goin’ to tell you about this animals’ national health service we’ve started. It takes this load off these animals’ minds an’ it’s a boon to sufferers. You’ve got to pay a penny a week for it.” A rising murmur of protest interrupted him. “Well, anyway a lolly-pop or a bulls-eye or somethin’, an’ we’ll cure your animals of all their diseases. Now listen”—he raised his voice to quell the renewed uproar—“I’ll show you a cure I’ve done on Jumble. Jumble hurt his foot yesterday, so’s he couldn’t walk without limpin’ an’ I cured him with medicine out of this box.” He got down from the packing-case and lifted the hat-box on to it. “Today he’s running about as if he’d never hurt his foot at all.” He looked round. “Hi, Jumble!”
Ginger dragged Jumble from a game of catch-as-catch-can with the Pekinese and put him at William’s feet.
“There he is!” said William, pointing to him dramatically. “Cured!“
Jumble, finding all eyes turned on him, decided to repeat the trick that had originally won him his position as centre of attention. Slowly and as if painfully, he limped across the barn. William was disconcerted, but only for a moment.
“He’s tryin” to show you what he was like before he was cured,” he said. “It’s jolly intelligent of him. He’ll start showin’ you he’s cured soon.”
William’s prophecy was fulfilled, for Jumble, in his slow laborious progress, suddenly met the Peke again, and the game of catch-as-catch-can was resumed with increased vigour.
“There!” said William triumphantly. “I told you, didn’t I? Now make a queue an’ come up an’ bring your animals to be cured.”
Frankie Miller came first with his cat—an ancient, somnolent tortoiseshell with rusty fur.
“What’s wrong with it?” said William.
Frankie considered.
“It’s got a funny mew,” he said at last.
“What d’you mean, a funny mew?” said William.
“Well, it mews like this,” said Frankie, emitting a deep husky roar, “’stead of like this same as other cats.” He gave a shrill squeak.
“Got a sore throat,” said William. He turned to his assistants. “Find somethin’ for a sore throat.”
“Here’s somethin’,” said Henry, bringing a bottle out of the box. “It says “Throat Paint” an’ there’s a little brush tied on to it.”
“That’ll do,” said William.
He parted the fur on the cat’s neck, plunged the paintbrush in to the bottle and dabbed it on. The cat gave a shrill cry of protest.
“Gosh, that’s a better mew,” said Frankie. “It’s cured all right.”
“Next!” said William.
“It’s a lizard,” said Victor Jameson, opening his box.
“What’s wrong with it?” said William.
“Well, it sleeps nearly all the time an’—an’ it’s got a funny sort of look on its face.”
It was clear that the animal-owners had come more in a spirit of curiosity than because their pets were suffering from any specific diseases.
“Here’s a face lotion,” said Ginger, dragging a bottle out of the box and reading the label. “It says it imparts new life to the complexion.”
“That’ll do,” said William.
The lizard opened its eyes and gave William a reproachful look as he anointed it generously from the bottle.
“Yes, it looks a bit diff’rent now,” admitted Victor as he gazed down at his pet, thickly coated with the preparation of a famous beauty expert.
“Wash it off before it goes to bed,” said William. “Next!”
A three-year-old pushed his way to the front, holding up a scratched finger.
“Make it better,” he demanded.
“Gosh, no! You’re a yuman,” said William indignantly. “I don’t do yumans.”
The small face crumpled up into tea
rs.
“Want it made better,” he wailed.
“Oh, all right,” said William, seizing the nearest bottle and pouring liquid “Toothache Cure” over the outstretched finger.
The chubby face broke into a beaming smile.
“Better now,” he said as he trotted happily away.
Then Arabella Simpkin appeared. She carried a basket and there was a look of malicious triumph on her face. She approached William and held out the basket.
“It’s a hedgehog,” she said, “an’ it’s got backache. You’ll have to rub something in.”
It was clear that Arabella had given much thought and care to the preparation of her patient.
But the time for detailed diagnosis was past. The crowd was milling round William, demanding instant treatment for their pets. William took hold of a bottle of eye lotion and sprinkled it lavishly over the hedgehog’s spikes.
“You’ve got to rub it in,” said Arabella.
“No, that sort of backache cure’s got to soak in,” said William. “It won’t do any good unless it soaks in.”
“Oh,” said Arabella, accepting defeat and walking quietly away.
William continued to treat his patients. He gave castor oil to a dormouse, a mild sleeping draught to the hen, a cough lozenge to a Corgi and a puff of deodorant to the canary in the cage.
Then a diversion was caused by the entrance of Caroline Jones, leading a young pig by her skipping rope.
“It doesn’t belong to me,” she said, “but I haven’t got an animal an’ I wanted to come an’ I found it in Emstead Lane an’ I thought it didn’t look well so I brought it along.”
The piglet sat down on its haunches and gazed trustingly at William. The others gathered round discussing its symptoms.
“Looks like heartburn to me,” said Ginger.
“I think it’s jus’ tired,” said Henry.
“Wants a tonic,” said Douglas.
“Here’s some hair tonic,” said Henry, diving into the hat-box.
“That’ll do,” said William. “It’ll do its hair good, anyway.”
But the pig had got up and made its way to a small empty carton that had contained a bottle of aspirins. It ate it with every appearance of enjoyment, moved on a few paces, ate a paper bag in which Victor Jameson had brought an ice-cream, moved on further, ate some orange peel and a banana skin, then sat down again on the ground and gazed round, granting contentedly.
William's Television Show (Just William, Book 31) Page 18