William At War

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘That’s a good one!’ chuckled the policeman.

  ‘Juvenile crime!’ said Mr Balham, shaking his head mournfully. ‘I’ve heard a lot about it, but I little thought to have it brought home to me like this. Why, he’s a mere child!’

  ‘Lucky for us we got that call,’ said the policeman. ‘Ten to one he’d have got away with it if we hadn’t. Yes, young feller-me-lad, if someone hadn’t rung us up and told us to come along here—’

  ‘It was me rang you up,’ said William. ‘I tell you, it’s him you’ve gotter get hold of. He’s the crim’nal, not me. Look!’

  Before either of them could stop him, he had caught hold of Mr Balham’s moustache and pulled it as hard as he could.

  Mr Balham gave a yell of anguish.

  ‘Assault!’ he said, nursing his face tenderly in both hands. ‘Add assault to your charge, constable. Theft and assault. And I hope the magistrate won’t be lenient.’

  ‘He’s got it stuck on jolly fast,’ said William, ‘or else he’s grown it. I bet that’s it. He’s grown it . . . But it’s a disguise, all right.’

  The policeman took out his notebook.

  ‘I want your name and address, my lad,’ he said, ‘and an explanation of what you’re doing with that silver.’

  ‘Me?’ said William indignantly. ‘Look here! You don’t understand. It’s not me what’s the criminal. It’s him. He’s ole Grissel. He’s handin’ the country over to ole Hitler. I tell you, I’ve seen him doin’ it. He was doin’ it all this mornin’. Listen. If you let him go now he’ll give the country over to ole Hitler straight away. I tell you I’ve heard him doin’ it – telephonin’ people an’ tellin’ ’em that the whole place was blown up jus’ to scare ’em. He’s got people workin’ under him, too, same as he had in Norfolk. They were all telephonin’ an’ tellin’ people the whole place was blown up jus’ to scare ’em. They said that Marleigh police station was blown up. Well, that’s a lie ’cause I passed it. An’ Pithurst Lane an’ Hill Road an—’

  A light was slowly dawning in Mr Balham’s mind.

  ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute,’ he said, giving his injured lip a reassuring final caress. ‘Where were you this morning when you heard all this?’

  *

  William walked slowly down the road homeward. Mr Balham was an extremely patriotic little man, and he felt that William’s zeal, though mistaken, was on the whole commendable. After dismissing the policeman, he had refreshed William with a large currant bun and a glass of lemonade and finally presented him with half a crown. Against his will, William had been persuaded of the innocence of his host. He was reluctant to abandon the carefully built-up case against him, but the currant bun and lemonade and half-crown consoled him. He decided to buy some new arrows with the half-crown. All his old ones, having found unauthorised marks of one sort or another, had been confiscated. He would go to the field behind the old barn with the Outlaws tomorrow morning, and they would have a bow-and-arrow practice. It was a long time since they’d had a bow-and-arrow practice. When he reached home, he found his mother still at work on the table napkins.

  ‘Well, dear,’ she said, looking up from her work, ‘had a nice afternoon?’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ said William absently, wondering whether it wouldn’t be better, after all, to buy water-pistols.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ went on Mrs Brown.

  William drew his mind with an effort from the all-important question of the half-crown (he must not decide in too much of a hurry; he could do with another boat; it was some time since they had had a regatta on the stream) to the details of an afternoon that was already vanishing into the mists of the past.

  ‘Me?’ he said vaguely. ‘This afternoon? Nothin’ much. I caught that man you were all talkin’ about this mornin’, an’ I was arrested for stealin’ silver an’ someone gave me half a crown.’

  Mrs Brown was accustomed to her son’s fantastic imaginary adventures.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you did, dear,’ she said. ‘Will you pass me the scissors?’

  CHAPTER 3

  WILLIAM – THE FIRE-FIGHTER

  WILLIAM and the Outlaws were thrilled to find that an A.F.S. ‘area’ had sprung up overnight in Hadley. At least, it wasn’t there when they went into Hadley one week, and it was there the next. It appeared suddenly in a garage on the outskirts of the town, complete with trailers, pumps, and a heterogeneous collection of cars. Added to this were miles of hose-pipe and a glorious spate of water. All behind an imposing erection of sandbags.

  The Outlaws could not tear themselves away from the fascinating spectacle. God-like beings in long rubber boots reaching almost to their waists waded about the swimming garage floor, polished the trailers, tinkered with the cars and did physical jerks. Occasionally they sallied forth with cars and trailers to neighbouring ponds, where they detached the trailers, unwound the hoses, and sent breath-taking sprays of water in every direction.

  Forgotten were all the other interests which had once filled the Outlaws’ lives. They now went down to Hadley Garage immediately after breakfast and stayed there till it was time to go home for lunch, returning immediately afterwards to stay there till tea-time. A house at the back of the garage was used as cook-house, dining-room and dormitory. Savoury smells came from it. Roars of laughter came from the dining-room when the god-like beings assembled there for meals.

  At first the Outlaws contented themselves with watching this paradise through the gates. Then, cautiously, they entered and hung about just inside. Nothing happened. No one took any notice of them.

  It was William who first dared to give a hand with a trailer that a small man with a black moustache was cleaning. The small man seemed to accept his presence and his help as a matter of course, even addressing him as ‘mate’, which made William feel dizzy with rapture. The other Outlaws followed . . . No one objected to them. Some of the men even seemed pleased to dally in their work to talk to them and explain the various contraptions to them. One of them let William hold a hose-pipe.

  ‘I don’t see why we sh’u’nt join ’em prop’ly,’ said William to the Outlaws as they went home, drunk with pride. ‘Well, we helped, din’ we? I bet we’d be jolly useful to ’m. I don’t see why we sh’u’nt join prop’ly.’

  ‘We’ve not got uniforms,’ Ginger reminded him.

  William dismissed this objection with a sweeping gesture.

  ‘They don’t matter. Anyway, they’ve only got those A.F.S. letters on ordin’ry suits. We could easy get a bit of red cotton an’ put A.F.S. on ours.’

  ‘I bet they wouldn’t let us join,’ said Henry.

  ‘Well, we needn’t ’zactly ask ’em,’ said William. ‘We’ll jus’ go same as we did today, an’ do a bit of helpin’, and they’ll get used to us gradual till they won’t know we weren’t part of ’em right at the start.’

  The others continued to look doubtful.

  ‘The little one was jolly nice to us,’ went on William. ‘I bet they’ll all be nice to us once they get to know us.’

  ‘I’ve known people not be,’ Douglas reminded him.

  ‘I bet these will be,’ said William, the optimist. ‘I bet they’ll be jolly grateful to us. Anyway, I vote we jus’ go an’ join ’em tomorrow an’ do all the things they do. We’ll have badges same as them an’ I bet they’ll think we’ve been part of ’em all along. We’ll make the badges of red cotton—’

  ‘We’ve not got any red cotton,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Well, we can get some, can’t we?’ said William irritably. ‘Goodness me! You all go on an’ on makin’ objections. I bet I find some in Ethel’s work-box. She’s got every poss’ble colour of cotton there is . . . Anyway,’ firmly, ‘we’re part of the A.F.S. now, an’ we’ll go there tomorrow morning an’ do all the things they do . . . I’ll go’n’ have a look for the red cotton now.’

  He found the red cotton (or rather silk) by the simple process of turning out the contents of Ethel’s work-box on to her bedroom floor and r
ummaging among them till he found it. Then conscientiously he bundled everything back and was much aggrieved by Ethel’s reproaches later in the day.

  ‘Well, I put ’em back, din’ I?’ he said. ‘Well, they looked all right to me . . . I put ’em back. Well, I’d gotter have that red cotton . . . No, I can’t tell you why . . . It’s somethin’ to do with winnin’ the war . . . No, I can’t tell you what it is . . . The Gov’ment says we mustn’t go talkin’ about things we’re doin’ to win the war. You don’t know where ole Hitler is, listenin’.’

  He took the reel of red silk to the old barn and also a needle that he had thoughtfully purloined at the same time.

  ‘It’ll be quite easy,’ he said. ‘You jus’ sew A.F.S. on, an’ I bet it’ll look same as theirs.’

  A few moments later he doubtfully surveyed the spidery network of red threads that he had made on his coat.

  ‘Well, anyway,’ he said, ‘you can see it’s meant to be A.F.S. if you look close enough. It’s a jolly good A and the F’s not bad, an’ I bet the S doesn’t matter so much. Well, stands to reason you can’t do a letter like S with an ordin’ry needle. I bet they have special ones.’

  With frowning concentration each of the others outlined spidery hieroglyphics on his coat. They, too, inspected the finished results doubtfully – results more suggestive of laundry marks gone mad than a badge of Government service.

  ‘They’re not bad,’ said William. ‘They’re red, anyway, an’ it doesn’t matter what the ’zact letters are. Well, we’ll be with the real ones, so people’ll know it’s meant to be A.F.S.’

  Wishing to give an impression of good discipline, he marched his band through the main street of Hadley the next morning and then boldly in through the garage gates. It happened that the A.F.S. was drawn up for parade. They stood stiffly in a row, their backs to the gate, waiting for the Section Officer to appear through the door of what had once been the motor sale-room.

  William marched his band up to the end of the line, where they took their places, standing straight to attention. At that moment the Section Officer appeared at the doorway. His eyes swept down the ranks of the men to rest finally upon the Outlaws . . . His face darkened. He was a youthful platinum blond, with an exaggerated idea of his own importance. He couldn’t tolerate anything that made him appear ridiculous, and he considered that the presence of the Outlaws at his firemen parade made him appear ridiculous.

  WILLIAM HAD MARCHED HIS BAND UP TO THE END OF THE LINE, WHERE THEY TOOK THEIR PLACES, STANDING STRAIGHT TO ATTENTION.

  He bore down on them furiously.

  ‘Get out of this at once!’ he thundered. ‘How dare you come in here! Don’t you know that you’re trespassing?’

  ‘Yes, but—’ began William.

  ‘GET OUT OF THIS AT ONCE!’ THUNDERED THE SECTION OFFICER. ‘HOW DARE YOU COME IN HERE! DON’T YOU KNOW THAT YOU’RE TRESPASSING?’

  The Section Officer was large and muscular and he looked like business.

  ‘Al’ right,’ muttered William hastily, and withdrew with his Outlaws in as good order as possible.

  Outside he turned to them.

  ‘Well, I like that!’ he said indignantly. ‘I jolly well like that. I bet he’s no right to go turnin’ people out of the A.F.S. I bet he’d jolly well get into trouble if the King knew that he was goin’ about turnin’ people out of the A.F.S. I’ve a good mind to write and tell him—’

  ‘When we’ve took all that trouble over our badges, too,’ said Ginger gloomily, looking down at the vague and spidery red threads that adorned his coat.

  ‘Let’s wait till he’s done an’ then go in again,’ suggested Henry.

  William shook his head. Despite his youth he was not without judgement and had spent many years of his short life gauging how far one could go with grown-ups of various types. He judged – quite rightly – that, for the present at any rate, it wasn’t safe to go any further with that particular young man.

  ‘No, let’s go home,’ he said. ‘I’m sick of the rotten old A.F.S. Let’s go’n’ play Red Indians—’

  They went home and played Red Indians, but somehow all the glamour had faded from the game. None of them could put any conviction into it. It wasn’t real any longer. Only the A.F.S. was real.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said William finally. ‘We can go’n’ watch ’em same as we used to . . . We can do that, at any rate. He can’t stop us goin’ to watch ’em same as we used to . . . An’ we’ll keep our badges. He can’t stop us havin’ badges . . . They might all fall ill sudden or get burnt up in a fire, an’ then I bet they’d be jolly glad to have us.’

  They went down to Hadley the next morning and took up their old position outside the A.F.S. station, their noses glued as usual to the bars of the gate. But evidently not even that was to be allowed them. Section Officer Perkins espied them, recognised them, and bore down on them, his face flushed with the memory of yesterday’s affront to his dignity and with secret apprehension of another.

  ‘Clear off at once, you boys!’ he said. ‘I won’t have you hanging about like this. If I find you here again, I’ll hand you over to the police.’

  Reluctantly, the Outlaws drifted away.

  ‘Well,’ said William with rising indignation. ‘I like that. I jolly well like that. The street’s not his, is it? The whole place isn’t his, is it? Who does he think he is? Lord Mayor of London or Hitler or what? Let’s go back there. Gosh! He can’t stop people lookin’ at him, can he? He’ll have to make himself invisible if he’s goin’ to stop people lookin’ at him. Crumbs! That’s a new lor, that is, that people aren’t allowed to look at people . . . I bet there’ll be a jolly lot of accidents,’ he went on sarcastically, ‘with people runnin’ into each other an’ suchlike now people aren’t allowed to look at each other . . . Corks! That’s a jolly funny lor, that is!’

  ‘Let’s go back there, then,’ said Ginger.

  But William was reluctant to go back. It wasn’t a question of the law. Grown-ups, as William had learnt by bitter experience, were a law to themselves. William was a brave boy, but not one to court disaster unnecessarily.

  ‘’S no good,’ he said gloomily. ‘He’d only come an’ make us go away again. I’ve met people like him before. Tyrunts same as the ones in hist’ry. Ole Stinks at school’s one. Well, come to that, all schoolmasters are. They’re all tyrunts, same as the ones in hist’ry. An’ this ole Section Officer’s another. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s a schoolmaster in disguise. You can’t mistake ’em, but – well, I’m not goin’ back there. I ’spect he wishes we would. I ’spect he’d jolly well like us to, but I’m not goin’ to . . . Tell you what . . .’ A gleam of inspiration flashed into his face. ‘Tell you what. We’ll have one of our own. Well, he can’t stop us doin’ that, can he? He can stop us joinin’ his, but he can’t stop us havin’ one of our own. We’ll have a sep’rate branch, an’ I bet we put out more fires than what his does.’

  ‘It’ll be a bit difficult, won’t it?’ said Ginger thoughtfully.

  ‘Course it won’t,’ said William stoutly.

  ‘We’ve not got a trailer nor a hose-pipe nor anythin’,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Corks!’ groaned William. ‘You can’t do anythin’ but make objections. I never saw anythin’ like you. We c’n get a wheelbarrow – can’t we? – an’ a hose from the garden an’ we’ve got our badges an’ that’s all we need. We’ll do all the same sort of things they do, an’ we’ll know when there’s a fire ’cause we’ll see them goin’ to it, an’ we can go along an’ help, an’ I bet we can put out fires as well as what they can – or a jolly sight better. You only need water for puttin’ out fires an’ water’s cheap enough, isn’t it? An’ there’s no lor to stop anyone what wants to puttin’ out a fire, is there?’

  His eloquence was, as ever, convincing, and the Outlaws gradually found themselves becoming convinced.

  ‘We’ve gotter have a place to be an A.F.S. in,’ objected Henry feebly, ‘an’ the ole barn’s too far
away. We sh’u’n’t know what they were doin’.’

  ‘Course we can’t use the ole barn,’ said William. ‘It’s miles away. We’ve gotter stay joined to the A.F.S. here. We’re part of the A.F.S. here, whether ole Monkey-face wants us to be or not. I bet he’ll be jolly glad of us before we’ve finished.’

  ‘Yes, but what about a place?’ persisted Henry.

  ‘There’s that bit of empty ground nex’ the garage,’ said William. ‘That’ll do for us, all right.’

  There was, indeed, a small plot of waste ground next the garage and on this the Outlaws took up their position the next morning. They had a wheelbarrow in which was a bucket of water, a length of hose and a garden syringe that Henry had ‘borrowed’ from the tool shed.

  It was of an up-to-date kind and had a little contraption at the end of a length of tubing that you dropped into the bucket of water and that enabled you to spray out the whole of its contents without dipping the nozzle into the water. The gardener, the apple of whose eye it was, had been called up recently, and Henry was hoping for the best.

  ‘I’ll get into an awful row, though, if my father finds out,’ he said.

  ‘Well, goodness!’ said William, indignantly. ‘You’d think that winnin’ the war came before squirtin’ a few roses an’ suchlike, wouldn’t you? Well, it seems a bit more important to me, anyway. Funny thing to think squirtin’ a few roses more important than winnin’ the war. I bet your father could get put in prison for thinkin’ that.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Henry mildly, ‘he’s jolly busy jus’ now so p’raps it’ll be all right. What’ll we do first?’

  ‘We’ll see what they’re doin’ an’ do that,’ said William. ‘Go’n’ see what they’re doin’, Ginger.’

  Ginger went to peep through the gates of the garage.

  ‘They’re doin’ drill,’ he said when he returned. ‘Ole Monkey-face is drillin’ ’em.’