William At War

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘I can thay Cargoeth,’ said Violet Elizabeth proudly.

  They ignored her.

  ‘You can, can’t you, Joan?’ said William.

  ‘I can try,’ said Joan doubtfully. ‘I once wrote a poem about a mouse.’

  ‘Thay it,’ challenged Violet Elizabeth.

  Again they ignored her.

  ‘Then we’ll get some boys to be soldiers,’ said William. ‘Marchin’ an’ drillin’ and so on . . .’

  ‘I don’t thee what mithe have got to do with a Victory pageant,’ said Violet Elizabeth.

  ‘Nobody asked you,’ said William. ‘I wish you’d shut up.’

  ‘All right,’ said Violet Elizabeth, with unexpected meekness. ‘I only thought it was thilly thaying po’try about mithe at a Victory pageant and it ith.’

  ‘Well, let’s get on with things,’ said William. There was no doubt that Violet Elizabeth’s interruptions had a disintegrating effect on the discussion. It was difficult to pick up the threads again. ‘After these soldiers, we’ll have Germany. I bet we’ll get a jolly good Germany an’ we’ll get a jolly good dress for whoever it is, too, with sackcloth and swastikas and things.’

  ‘It’th thuth a pretty pink thilk dreth, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth wistfully. ‘It’th got little pearl beadth thewn on for dew dropth. I don’t know why you won’t let me wear it.’

  ‘Well, we won’t,’ said William testily. ‘We only want you to shut up.’ He turned to the others. ‘Then, after Germany, we’ll have the captured German prisoners . . . I say! Couldn’t we get Hubert Lane and his gang to be the captured German prisoners?’

  The Outlaws thought of the Hubert Laneites, between whom and the Outlaws a feud had existed as long as any of them could remember.

  ‘They’d make jolly good German prisoners,’ agreed Ginger, ‘but I bet they wouldn’t do it.’

  ‘Couldn’t we capture them?’

  ‘If we did, we couldn’t keep them till the pageant.’

  ‘Let’s ask them to do it. Let’s make out that it’s the most important part. They’re jolly stupid.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re not quite as stupid as that.’

  ‘Where shall we have it, anyway? Where do people have pageants?’

  ‘They generally have them in the grounds of castles or big houses,’ said Henry.

  ‘Our houthe ith the only big houthe in the village,’ said Violet Elizabeth triumphantly, ‘an’ I won’t let you have it in our garden unleth you let me be Britannia and wear my pink thilk dreth, tho there! I don’t thuppothe,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘that my mother would let you have it there, anyway, ’cauthe thee doethn’t like you. Thee thayth that you’re rough, an’ rude, an’ badly behaved, and you are, and I’m going home now, and you’ll be thorry one day that you’ve been tho nathty to me.’

  Thereupon, Violet Elizabeth withdrew with an impressive air of dignity which did not quite desert her even when she turned at the door and put out her tongue at them.

  ‘Well, thank goodness she’s gone!’ said William. ‘Now we can get on with things a bit.’

  But their project was still beset with difficulties – Germany, the German prisoners, the scene of the pageant . . .

  ‘We can’t have it at the Hall now Violet Elizabeth’s not in it.’

  ‘There’s the Manor at Marleigh,’ said Joan.

  ‘They wouldn’t let us have it there.’

  ‘They’re away. I heard my mother saying that Sir Gerald and Lady Markham had shut up the Manor and gone to Scotland. And they’ve let nearly all the garden to a market gardener at Marleigh. They’ve only kept the lawn and the part just outside the house and one old gardener.’

  ‘That sounds all right,’ said William, brightening. ‘An’ I bet they won’t be there for Vict’ry. They’ll go to London for it. High-up people do. I bet he’ll be carryin’ a banner or holdin’ a sceptre or somethin’ in the procession. An’ I know that ole gardener. He’s got an arm-chair in the greenhouse, an’ he does his Football Pools there all day, an’ he’s deaf an’ nearly blind, an’ never takes any notice of anythin’. He’d probably think we’d got permission . . .’

  This was felt to be a little over-optimistic, but it seemed to be the best plan in the circumstances.

  ‘We’ll rehearse ordin’ry in the old barn,’ said William, ‘but we’ll have the dress rehearsal an’ the real show at the Manor. You’ll start writin’ your po’try, won’t you, Joan?’ and, with a somewhat confused memory of Violet Elizabeth’s strictures, added: ‘It needn’t be about mice, you know.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Joan, a little irritably. ‘I only said I once wrote a poem about a mouse.’

  ‘An’ we’ll get some boys for soldiers, an’’ – not very hopefully – ‘I’ll try an’ fix up with the Hubert Laneites to be German prisoners.’

  He approached Hubert Lane the next day.

  ‘Say, Hubert,’ he said. ‘We’re goin’ to get up a sort of Vict’ry pageant.’

  Hubert’s fat face spread into a grin.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  There seemed to be something more offensive than usual in the grin, but William ignored it.

  ‘I wonder whether you an’ your gang’d like parts in it?’

  Again Hubert said: ‘Yeah?’

  ‘They’re the best parts in the show,’ said William. ‘We thought it wasn’t worth offerin’ you anythin’ but the best parts. We don’t mind takin’ the worst parts ourselves ’cause we’re gettin’ it up an’ we don’t want the best parts. We want you to have ’em.’

  ‘Kind of you,’ said Hubert, with a sneer, but the sneer was so much his usual expression that, again, William ignored it.

  ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘What parts are they?’ said Hubert.

  ‘Jolly important ones,’ said William. ‘They’re – they’re German prisoners.’

  ‘Funny, that,’ said Hubert ruminatively.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was jus’ goin’ to ask you an’ your gang to be German prisoners in our pageant.’

  ‘Your pageant?’ said William.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hubert, with an intensification of his sneer. ‘We’re gettin’ up a Vict’ry pageant. Violet Elizabeth’s goin’ to be Britannia – her mother’s got a jolly good Britannia costume – an’ we’re goin’ to be British soldiers, an’ we’re goin’ to get someone to be Germany, an’ we were goin’ to ask you to be German prisoners. All you’d need would be a rope tied round your necks . . .’

  William stared at him, speechless with horror. He had not thought even Violet Elizabeth capable of such depths of perfidy . . .

  ‘Violet Elizabeth’s goin’ to make up some po’try about it,’ continued Hubert suavely. ‘It ought to be a jolly good pageant. Mrs Bott’s goin’ to let us do it on the lawn at the Hall, an’ all the children in the village have promised to come. We’re goin’ to give ’em tea . . . Well, what about it? Will you be German prisoners? You’d make jolly good German prisoners.’

  Then, seeing the light of battle in William’s eye, he took to flight. William pursued him half-heartedly for a few yards, then returned to break the news to the others.

  ‘She’s pinched our pageant an’ she’s gettin’ it up with the Hubert Laneites,’ he announced. ‘Would anyone have thought she’d be as mean as that?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Joan simply.

  ‘What are we goin’ to do?’ said Ginger.

  ‘We’re goin’ on with it,’ said William firmly. ‘We’re not goin’ to give it up jus’ for a mean ole girl like that. Gosh! Would you have thought it? Jus’ because she couldn’t be Britannia! Sickening! I bet even Hitler wouldn’t have done a thing like that.’

  So, doggedly, they continued their preparations for their pageant, but somehow the zest had gone out of it. It wasn’t only the fact of the rival pageant that was being organised and rehearsed in the grounds of the Hall under Violet Elizabeth’s despotic rule. It was the absence of Violet Elizabeth herself. Th
ey had resented her presence among them and heartily wished her away but, now that she had gone, they missed her – missed her dynamic personality, her unreasonableness, her contrariness, her varying moods, her uncertain temper, even her lisp . . . Their loyalty to Joan was unchanged, but she was almost too docile and amenable and ready to fall in with their suggestions. She failed to provide the stimulus that Violet Elizabeth had always provided. And, though they would not have admitted it, they felt wounded and betrayed. That Violet Elizabeth, their most troublesome but most loyal follower, should have joined the Hubert Laneites was almost too monstrous for belief.

  Joan did her best. She wrote her ‘poetry’ with frowning concentration, sucking her pencil to induce inspiration and drawing it across her forehead in moments of deep thought till her brow resembled a complicated railway map. For the Britannia costume she had decided to stitch flags on to her white frock, but she had not yet been able to obtain any flags. Everyone who had them was keeping them for their own Victory decorations and the village shop was sold out.

  ‘I’m sure to get some before the day,’ she said. ‘I expect there’ll be heaps in the shop by then.’

  William concentrated his efforts on drilling his band of soldiers. He had found no difficulty in obtaining recruits. The only difficulty was in organising them. They were apt to scuffle and scrimmage and indulge in horseplay highly unsuitable to British soldiers in a Victory parade. The rehearsals offered an excellent opportunity of paying off private scores and generally ended in a free fight in which everyone joined just for the fun of the thing whether he had any private scores to pay off or not. William tried to divide them into groups of soldiers, sailors, airmen, Commandos and paratroops, but the free fight would break out again immediately and the ranks would become inextricably mingled.

  ‘You can’t go on like this,’ he said despairingly, ‘fightin’ all the time.’

  ‘That’s what soldiers are for, isn’t it?’ they replied.

  ‘They’re for fightin’ an enemy, not each other,’ said William.

  ‘Give us an enemy, then.’

  ‘I tried to,’ said William. ‘I tried to get the Hubert Laneites, but they wouldn’t come.’

  The Hubert Laneites were keeping well out of the Outlaws’ way, while carrying on energetic preparations for their own pageant. The Outlaws watched them from the road through the hedge, as Violet Elizabeth rehearsed them ruthlessly in the garden of the Hall.

  ‘Gosh! She’s puttin’ ’em through it,’ said William. ‘Thank goodness it’s them, not us, now!’

  ‘Thank goodness!’ echoed the Outlaws with relief that did not ring quite true.

  Once they met Violet Elizabeth in the road outside the Hall. She passed them without looking at them, head in air. They passed her in silence, refraining by tacit consent from jeers or hostilities. Her treachery went too deep for that . . .

  They gathered that the Hubert Laneites, like themselves, had been unable to persuade anyone to take the parts of Germany or of the German prisoners. Otherwise their preparations were on a lavish scale. Mrs Bott had promised cakes, lemonade and ice cream..

  ‘I don’t see what good it is, goin’ on with the thing at all,’ said Ginger gloomily. ‘No one’ll come to it, anyway, with the Hubert Laneites havin’ it at the Hall on the same day an’ givin’ them tea.’

  ‘I’m not goin’ to stop it ’cause of them,’ said William firmly. ‘I’m jolly well goin’ on with it, whether anyone comes or not.’

  A reconnoitring expedition to Marleigh Manor proved on the whole satisfactory. It was empty and deserted. The front lawn slept peacefully in the sunshine. The gardener slept peacefully in the greenhouse. Trees screened the lawn from observation on all sides except the house.

  ‘It’s a jolly good place for it,’ said William. ‘We’ll have the dress rehearsal as soon as we’ve got it ready.’

  The dress rehearsal was fixed for the next Saturday, and the cast assembled in the old barn early in the afternoon. Joan had tried up to the last minute to obtain some flags but without success, and had had to content herself with pinning a red, white and blue rosette and a Royal Engineers’ badge on her white frock and putting a green silk tea cosy on her head. She carried a toasting fork for a trident and the costume was considered by the others to be an adequate, if not striking, representation of Britannia. William, as Commander-in-Chief, wore a tin hat and his father’s Home Guard boots. The others, who had been told to collect ‘uniforms’ from whatever sources they could, presented a motley spectacle. One wore a fancy-dress costume of Robin Hood and carried a poker. Another wore a very ancient fancy-dress costume of Henry the Fifth, the coat of mail knitted in dishcloth cotton from which the aluminium paint had long since disappeared, and from which dangled several tempting odds and ends of dishcloth cotton. Another wore a red Indian costume with feathered head-dress. Another, who had once taken part in a charade as an Ancient Briton, wore a fur rug, with a tray for a shield. One wore a gas mask, another a saucepan, another a fire guard . . .

  Putting an end, as well as he could, to the inevitable skirmish, William addressed them in his most impressive manner.

  ‘Now look here,’ he said. ‘Stop messin’ about an’ listen to me. We’re goin’ over to Marleigh Manor for the dress rehearsal an’ – stop bangin’ your tray, Victor Jameson – an’ we’ll go by the fields an’ keep by the hedge ’cause we don’t want a lot of people seein’ us – stop blowin’ that trumpet, George Bell – an’ we’ll go on to the lawn through the shrub’ry from the road an’ do it under the tree at the end of the lawn same as we said – stop pullin’ the fur out of his rug, Ginger. He told you it’d got the moth in – an’ I bet it’ll be all right with it bein’ Sat’day. That ole gardener always takes Sat’day off, so we can go right through the pageant without bein’ int’rupted. Stop unwinding his coat of mail, Freddie Parker. I don’t care if you are windin’ it into a nice ball. What’s he goin’ to do with only about an inch of coat of mail left? Now get into line – Joan first, then me, then the rest of you – an’ don’t make so much noise. We don’t want everyone knowin’ about it before the day.’

  It had been decided to dispense with the chariot for the dress rehearsal, so Joan, looking solemn and intense in her white dress and green tea cosy, the exercise book containing her ‘poetry’ under her arm, set off at the head of the procession. William followed, leading his motley band of warriors, still scuffling and scrimmaging but in a more subdued manner.

  They climbed the hill to Marleigh by way of the fields, keeping to the shadow of the hedge, as William had directed, and attracting no attention except from an old horse, who gazed at them with an expression of incredulous amazement and then uttered a neigh that sounded like a burst of derisive laughter.

  ‘Shut up!’ said William. ‘You look a jolly sight funnier than we do, anyway.’

  They made their way through the shrubbery and on to the front lawn of Marleigh Manor.

  And there they had their first shock.

  For the lawn was full of children – bored, listless-looking children – sitting in serried rows facing the empty space under the copper beech where William had planned to hold his pageant. For a few moments he was much too taken aback to do anything but stare at them; then, reacting automatically to the situation, he led his band on to the open space and started proceedings.

  ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen,’ he began. ‘This is our Vict’ry pageant, an’ this is Joan – I mean Britannia. Go on, Joan.’

  Joan opened her book, glanced at it for a moment or two to refresh her memory, and began her recital.

  ‘I am Britannia, ruling the waves

  And Britons that never, never, never,

  Never shall be slaves.’

  She stood aside and motioned forward the motley band of warriors.

  ‘These are British soldiers that won the war

  And aren’t going to fight any more.

  Soldiers on land and sailors on the seas

  And Command
os jumping down from trees,

  And paratroops coming down from the skies,

  And now the war’s over it’s going to be very nice.’

  Here each branch of the services, as drilled by William, was to have given a display of its particular activity. The soldiers were to march and make a show of shooting with imaginary rifles, the sailors to scan the horizon with imaginary telescopes, Commandos and paratroops to swarm up the copper beech and drop lightly from its branches. This had never yet gone according to plan, and it was obvious that it was not going to do so today. In fact, the usual scrimmage was just in process of forming itself, when—

  The Outlaws received their second shock.

  For Violet Elizabeth, dressed in her pink silk rose costume, appeared at the head of the Hubert Laneites and led them up to William, smiling radiantly.

  ‘I wath only teathing you, William,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a lovely thurprithe for you.’

  She turned the radiant smile on to the audience and, striking an attitude, proclaimed:

  ‘I am ole Germany, Beat in the war,

  A goothe that won’t go goothe-thtepping any more.’

  She pointed to Hubert, who wore a row of medals on his coat.

  ‘Here’th ole Goering,

  He ithn’t purring

  Any more.’

  She next pointed to Bertie Franks, who had a short moustache corked upon his upper lip.

  ‘Here’th the ole Führer.

  He won’t go to Nürnberg any more.’

  Next she waved her hand airily to Claude Bellew, a thin, undersized member of Hubert’s gang.

  ‘Here’th ole Goebbleth the liar.

  He won’t say London’s on fire