‘Oh, yes,’ said William sarcastically, ‘so big that none of us could see it. If it was as big as what you say it is why din’ you tell us, then we could have had a look at it?’
‘I din’ want to scare it away,’ said Douglas indignantly; then with a faint emulation of William’s sarcasm, ‘Fancy you not knowin’ that. Fancy you not knowin’ that fishes get scared of you shoutin’ an’ yellin’ about. I’m not s’prised that you only catch ole tins an’ things that can’t hear you shoutin’ an’ yellin’ about. I should think all the fishes for miles round’ve got headaches the way you’ve been shoutin’ an’ yellin’ about. I know the one I caught looked’s if it’d got a headache with it.’
William was taken aback by this outburst, but he quickly recovered.
‘Oh, yes, I dare say it looked pretty funny altogether, the one you caught. I’m sure if you caught a fish at all it was a pretty funny one.’
‘D’you say I din’t catch a fish?’ said Douglas furiously, squaring up to William.
‘I say no one saw your ole fish, ’an you oughter ask your mother to buy you a pair of spectacles s’as you can see what is fish an’ what’s your own ’magination.’
Ginger and Henry sat on the ground to watch the fight. It was not a long one, because Douglas lost his footing soon after they had begun and fell into the pond and was rescued by William, and the excitement of this proceeding dimmed the memory of Douglas’s alleged ‘catch’.
Then Henry thought that he saw a rabbit on the edge of the wood, so the Outlaws invaded the wood in a body with Jumble, William’s mongrel, at their head. Jumble hunted imaginary rabbits with yelps and barks and futile rushes, and the Outlaws urged him on with war-whoops and cries of ‘Good old Jumble! Fetch him out.’ Jumble caught and dismembered a leaf after pursuing it with wild excitement from tree to tree in the breeze, worried a clump of fungus, pricked his nose badly on a holly bush, and retired to bark defiance at it from a safe distance.
Tiring of rabbit hunting, the Outlaws climbed trees, and when Ginger had torn his coat and Henry split his trousers with the effort of attaining dangerous heights, they abandoned that occupation. They ‘tracked’ each other with much ostentatious secrecy and noisy ‘silence’ and crawling about on stomachs and sibilant whispering and ‘Sh’s’ and stepping upon twigs and exclamations. Finally they were chased into the road again by a furious keeper and were given a ride in a farm waggon by a passing labourer, who was blessed with a good nature and rather liked the daredevil looks of the Outlaws.
William, drunk with ecstasy, drove and narrowly escaped precipitating the equipage into the ditch, and Ginger, while experimenting how far he could lean out at the back without falling, overbalanced and fell into the road. He climbed back cheerful and unhurt, if somewhat dishevelled.
Arrived at the village, they descended with much exuberant thanks and made their way to the disused barn that was the scene of most of their activities.
There they had a shooting match with the homemade bows and arrows that they kept concealed at the back of the barn. After breaking the window of a neighbouring cottage by accident they fled to the other end of the village, where they watched the blacksmith shoeing a horse. Ginger, to his great delight, was allowed to hold the hammer for a minute. This made him rather uppish, and his subsequent boasts of the honour thus paid him annoyed the other Outlaws so much that they all sat upon him (literally) in the ditch till he promised as well as his mouthful of mud would allow him not to mention it again.
It had been, on the whole, a thoroughly satisfactory morning. A similar afternoon was hardly to be hoped for, but the Outlaws were notoriously optimistic.
‘What we goin’ to do this afternoon?’ repeated William.
A look of despondency came over Ginger’s face.
‘Gotter stay in at home,’ he said mournfully.
‘Why?’ said the Outlaws.
‘Gotter naunt comin’ to stay. She’s not comin’ till tea-time, but they say they want her to see me clean, so I gotter stay in clean all afternoon.’
There was a murmur of indignation at this inhuman cruelty.
‘Jus’ like grown-ups,’ said William bitterly.
‘What’s your aunt like?’ said Henry with interest. ‘Sorter one who gives decent tips?’
The Outlaws always ‘went shares’ in tips, and therefore each one took a personal interest in the visits of the other members’ relations.
‘Never seen her before,’ said Ginger disconsolately. ‘Don’t know what she’s like.’
‘Sure to be awful,’ said Douglas unfeelingly.
‘But we don’ mind that if she gives a decent tip,’ added Henry.
‘Oh, no,’ said Ginger bitterly. ‘You don’ mind. You’ve not gotter sit all afternoon clean an’ doin’ nothin’, have you? Oh, no, I’m sure you don’t mind.’
‘She might poss’bly be nice,’ said William, without much conviction.
‘Oh, yes. She might,’ said Ginger still more bitterly. ‘S’easy for you to talk, isn’t it? You don’ mind. Oh, no! An’ she might be nice. Oh, yes, you’d talk like that if it was your aunt what was comin’ an’ you what had to sit clean all afternoon, wun’t you?’
When roused, Ginger could emulate William’s sarcastic manner rather well . . .
The afternoon passed happily enough. William, Douglas and Henry practised lassoing Jumble in the back garden of William’s house. Jumble enjoyed the game immensely. The lasso never caught him, but occasionally he caught the lasso and worried it zestfully. When, however, they had by mistake lassoed a flower pot on to and through the glass of a cucumber frame, the Outlaws very quietly left the precincts of William’s home and spent the rest of the afternoon sliding down a battered hayrick in one of Farmer Jenks’ fields, and bringing down a considerable portion of hay with each descent. At intervals they thought of Ginger sitting in solitary cleanliness and boredom in his family’s drawing-room waiting for his aunt.
‘Poor old Ginger!’ said Henry, as he descended from the hayrick with a bump.
‘She’ll have come by now p’raps,’ said Douglas.
‘Hope she’s rich,’ said William cheerfully.
‘Let’s go’n look at her,’ said Henry.
The idea appealed to the Outlaws, and they set off at once for Ginger’s house.
Dusk was falling when they reached it. They crept round to the back of the house, where they knew that Ginger’s drawing-room window was. There they crouched among the ivy and peered cautiously into the lighted window.
The first thing they saw was Ginger dressed in his best suit, made unfamiliar with gleaming cleanliness of face and collar, sitting on a chair opposite the window. The first thing they noticed was that he was not looking bored. He was, in fact, beaming delightedly, though he had not yet seen his friends . . .
Then the eyes of the Outlaws wandered across to Ginger’s aunt. She was sitting in front of the fire. The Outlaws’ eyes and mouths grew wide as they watched. Their noses were pressed flat against the window pane. For Ginger’s aunt was young and radiantly pretty.
‘Crumbs!’ gasped William ecstatically.
Ginger found himself unusually and unexpectedly popular the next day.
‘Hello, Ginger!’
‘G’mornin’, Ginger.’
‘How’s your aunt, Ginger?’
Ginger at first suspected sarcasm in this question, then realised with surprise that there was none.
‘V’well,’ he said laconically; ‘she’s a jolly lot better than I thought she was going to be.’
‘Nicer than you thought she was goin’ to be!’ repeated William sternly. ‘You’re jolly well not to talk like that about her. You don’ deserve her, that’s what it is; you don’ deserve an aunt like wot she is. You—’
‘You don’t know anything about her,’ said Ginger amazed and indignant.
‘Oh, don’ I?’ said William. ‘I bet I do. I bet I know all there is to know about her. I bet I know she’s beauteous an’ good an’ �
�� an’ – good an’ – an’ – beauteous—’
‘Here!’ interrupted Ginger pugnaciously. ‘What you talkin’ like that about her? She’s not your aunt. She’s mine.’
‘I’ll fight you for her,’ said William.
‘A’right,’ agreed Ginger, taking off his coat.
They fought and William won.
‘Now she’s my aunt,’ said William complacently, as he put on his coat and felt tenderly and proudly a fast-swelling eye with his grimy hand.
‘Well, you can call her your aunt,’ said Ginger, ‘but the fac’ remains she’s my father’s sister.’
‘But I’ve fought you for her,’ said William indignantly.
‘A’right,’ agreed Ginger. ‘I said she was your aunt all right, but ’f you want her to be your father’s sister you’ll have to get your father to fight my father for her, an’ even then I don’ see—’
‘Let’s have her for all our aunts,’ suggested Douglas pacifically.
‘It’s her birthday next week,’ added Ginger, ‘while she’s staying with us.’
‘I say!’ said William, as though struck by a sudden brilliant idea, ‘let’s get up a sort of treat for her.’
‘Crumbs!’ said the Outlaws. ‘Yes, let’s.’
‘What’ll we have?’ said Henry brightly. ‘A picnic?’
‘No,’ said William decidedly. ‘The only decent picnic places are trespass places, an’ prob’ly she can’t run’s fast as what we can ’f anyone comes.’
‘Let’s act something,’ said Douglas.
‘Don’t forget she’s my aunt,’ said Ginger proudly. ‘I mean William’s aunt,’ he corrected himself as he met William’s eye. ‘William’s aunt an’ my father’s sister.’
‘What’ll we act?’ said Henry.
‘Oh, anythin’. ’S easy’s easy to act. Jus’ make somethin’ up or do somethin’ out of a book.’
‘Means learnin’,’ said Ginger despondently. ‘Jus’ like lessons. Might’s well be doin’ hist’ry or g’ography as learnin’ actin’ stuff.’
‘We needn’t learn it,’ said Douglas. ‘We can jus’ make it up as we go along.’
‘Well, you know what that’s like,’ said Ginger sternly. ‘You oughter, anyway, ’cause we’ve done it. You jus’ dunno what to say when it comes to the time, or someone else says the thing you wanted to say, an’ you int’rupt each other an’ get fightin’. It wun’t be much of a birthday treat for my aunt. I mean William’s aunt an’ my father’s sister.’
‘Well, let’s do it dumb show, then,’ said Douglas, ‘let’s act without speakin’. Jus’ move our arms an’ legs about an’ things like that an’—’
He stopped. The Outlaws were looking at William. Upon William’s freckled, homely countenance was dawning an expression that those who knew him recognised as inspiration. At last he spoke.
‘I know!’ he said. ‘Waxworks?’
‘Crumbs!’ chorused the Outlaws in delight. ‘Waxworks?’
‘What’ll we be?’ said Henry. ‘People out of history?’
‘’F you know enough history to go actin’ it you can,’ said William scathingly.
‘Well, we could have someone bein’ murdered or hung or somethin’. It’d be sort of excitin’.’
‘Well, who was murdered or hung?’
‘Er – Henry VIII.’
‘No, he wasn’t, then. He was the one what had seven wives.’
‘You’re gettin’ a bit muddled. That was the man goin’ to St Ives.’
‘No, it wasn’t neither. It was Henry VIII.’
‘Anyway, we’re not enough to do Henry VIII an’ seven wives.’
‘Yes – one of us could be Henry VIII, an’ another could be the seven wives. We could have a label round his neck with “Seven Wives” wrote on.’
‘Well, we’re not goin’ to. We’d rather have someone bein’ murdered some way.’
‘Well, let Henry VIII murder his seven wives.’
‘Oh, do shut up about Henry VIII. Who was murdered in hist’ry?’
‘Charles the something.’
‘Charles the First – we did him last week. His head was chopped off an’ he said he was sorry he took such a long time dyin’ of it an’ keepin’ everyone waitin’.’
‘Hangin’d be easier for a waxwork,’ said William thoughtfully, ‘’cause their head wouldn’t have to come off. They could jus’ give a deep an’ holier groan an’ close their eyes . . . Yes, we’ll have who-did-you-say-it-was bein’ hung for one. We’ll have to get a bit of string for it from somewhere an’ we’ve gotter crown somewhere in our house what Ethel once had. We’ll jus’ have to practise it a bit, that’s all. Ginger be who-did-you-say – the man, you know, in a crown an’ a dressing-gown or a mackintosh or somethin’ an’ Douglas be the policeman with a bit of string hangin’ him. Well, that’s that one. We’ll have to practise movin’ jerky, that’s all. We’d better not have any more history. She mayn’t be much int’rested in hist’ry. She din’t look’s if sh’d be int’rested in hist’ry. She looked – awful nice.’
‘What’ll we have next, then?’
‘Let’s have somethin’ funny. Let’s have ole General Moult walkin’. I can do him.’
As a matter of fact, William could do the half strut, half run that was General Moult’s normal mode of procedure to the life.
‘That oughter make her laugh,’ he added complacently.
‘An’ what else’ll we have?’ said Douglas. ‘’S not much so far.’
‘Well, we can’t arrange a whole long performance in one breath,’ said William sternly. ‘We’ve gotter think a bit.’
There was a short silence tense with mental effort. Then Ginger said:
‘I know, let’s have Dick Turpin holdin’ up a coach. I’ve gotter pistol an’ some caps.’
‘An’ we could borrer a wheelbarrow for the coach,’ suggested Douglas excitedly.
‘Henry be Turpin Dick,’ said William, ‘an’ Douglas his horse an’ Ginger in the wheelbarrow an’ me pushin’ it. An’ I’ll do the talkin’ in them all.’
‘What else’ll we have?’ said Douglas.
‘That’ll do to start practisin’ on,’ said William; ‘we can think of more things’s we go on.’
Rehearsals in the old barn took place daily.
William’s mother noticed vaguely that life seemed very peaceful, but she happened to be very busy herself and had no time to wonder what William was doing. She had become a member of the New Era Society. The New Era Society existed chiefly to educate the village and entice speakers down from London to speak on subjects of which the village knew nothing either before or after the lectures. The Society wanted the village to be ‘in the swim’. The kindred expression ‘at sea’ aptly describes the feelings of most of the audience. The subject this month was ‘Egyptology’, and in the absence of the Secretary, Mrs Brown, William’s mother, and Mrs Flowerdew, Ginger’s mother, were arranging for the speaker.
Mrs Brown was relieved that William seemed suddenly so unobtrusive . . .
In the intervals of hanging Charles I and holding up the stage coach with strange jerky movements as demonstrated by William, the Outlaws dogged the footsteps of Ginger’s aunt. They pursued her in a body with languishing eyes and bouquets of wild flowers which were generally also languishing. And, strange to say, Miss Flowerdew liked it. She received the drooping bouquets with profuse thanks. She listened with due and proper excitement to their tales of adventure, she went with Jumble to hunt rats in the barn. (Jumble was wildly excited, but a large number of flies were his net ‘bag’.) They told her that they were arranging a surprise ‘treat’ for her birthday, and she received the news with delight.
‘We’re not goin’ to tell you what it is,’ said William, ‘but it’s goin’ to be in the ole barn at half-past four, an’ you can bring any fr’en’s you like to it free.’
‘How lovely!’ said Miss Flowerdew. ‘I simply don’t know how I can wait till then. I’m sure it will be most exciting
.’
‘Oh, yes, it’s going to be a jolly good show,’ said William complacently.
During the week they had added to their repertoire Columbus discovering America and Jonah and the whale. William was Columbus and Henry, Douglas and Ginger, lying on the ground side by side, were America.
William’s jerky dumb show of looking for America, shading his eyes and gazing into the distance and searching upon the ground near his feet until at last he came upon the three prone forms and sat down upon them heavily was considered by the troupe to be very good.
William was showman as well as actor. As Columbus, he wore his Boy Scout’s costume and an old top hat of his father’s to add distinction to the tout ensemble. As Jonah he wore (appropriately) a mackintosh and (inappropriately) an old boudoir cap of his sister’s rescued from the rag bag. The latter was supposed to add a Biblical touch.
Henry, Ginger and Douglas, were the whale. The swallowing of Jonah was almost worthy of the Russian ballet – full of drama and movement and realism. Then the whale lying upon Jonah emitted deep groans, and Jonah finally emerged quite fresh and perky in his boudoir cap and mackintosh and swam away, leaving the whale still groaning loudly . . .
‘It’s goin’ to be a fine show,’ said William enthusiastically to Miss Flowerdew after a long and energetic rehearsal.
‘Bother!’ said Miss Flowerdew. ‘I’ve just discovered that it’s the same day as the New Era Lecture, but I’ll cut that.’
‘Oh, yes!’ said William. ‘I sim’ly can’t tell you how good ours is goin’ to be. You’ll be awfully sorry if you miss it, an’ it’s bein’ all done for you, too.’
‘Oh, I’ll come. Never fear!’ said Miss Flowerdew.
Mrs Brown and Mrs Flowerdew had made all the arrangements for the New Era Society’s lecture except with regard to the hall. There were two halls in the village, the Parish Room and the Village Hall, and there was some doubt as to which would be the better for the lecture, and the final arrangement of that had been left to Mrs Flowerdew. Mrs Brown had secured as speaker a Professor Smith.
The day of the lecture, which was also the day of Miss Flowerdew’s birthday and the waxwork show, arrived.
William The Conqueror Page 2