‘Gently!’ groaned Henry, still nursing his saintly head. ‘You were tearing it out by the roots.’
‘Well, come on!’ said St Ginger impatiently, ‘let’s begin now. What did you say we were goin’ to do first?’
‘Preachin’ to animals is the first thing,’ said William in his most business-like manner. ‘I’ve got Brother Jumble here. Ginger – I mean St Ginger, you hold Brother Jumble while I preach to him ’cause he’s not used to it, an’ he might try to run away, an’ St Henry an’ St Douglas go out an’ preach to birds. The St Francis man did a lot of preachin’ to birds. They came an’ sat on his arms. See if you can gettem to do that. Well now, let’s start. Ginger – I mean St Ginger – you catch hold of Brother Jumble.’
Henry and Douglas departed. Douglas’s dressing-gown, made by a thrifty mother with a view to Douglas’s further growth, was slightly too big and tripped him over every few steps. Henry’s was made of bath towelling and was rather conspicuous in design. They made their way slowly across a field and into a neighbouring wood.
St Ginger encircled the reluctant Jumble with his arms, and St William stood up to preach.
‘Dearly beloved Jumble—’ he began.
‘Brother Jumble,’ corrected St Ginger, with triumph. He liked to catch the founder of the order tripping.
Jumble, under the delusion that something was expected of him, sat up and begged.
‘Dearly beloved Brother Jumble,’ repeated William. He stopped and cleared his throat in the manner of all speakers who are not sure what to say next.
Jumble, impatient of the other saint’s encircling arms, tried another trick, that of standing on his head. Standing on his head was the title given to the performance by Jumble’s owner. In reality it consisted of rubbing the top of his head on the ground. None of his legs left the ground, but William always called it ‘Jumble standing on his head’, and was inordinately proud of it.
ST WILLIAM STOOD UP TO PREACH TO THE RELUCTANT JUMBLE. ‘DEARLY BELOVED JUMBLE,’ HE BEGAN.
‘Look at him,’ he said, ‘isn’t that jolly clever? An’ no one told him to. Jus’ did it without anyone tellin’ him to. I bet there’s not many dogs like him. I bet he’s the cleverest dog there is in England. I wun’t mind sayin’ he’s the cleverest dog there is in the world. I wun’t—’
‘I thought you was preachin’ to him, not talkin’ about him,’ said St Ginger, sternly. Ginger, who was not allowed to possess a dog, tired occasionally of hearing William sing the praises of his.
‘Oh, yes,’ said St William with less enthusiasm. ‘I’ll start all over again. Dearly beloved Brother Jumble – I say, what did that St Francis say to the animals?’
‘Dunno,’ said St Ginger vaguely, ‘I s’pect he jus’ told ’em to – well, to do good an’ that sort of thing.’
‘Dearly beloved Brother Jumble,’ said William again, ‘you mus’ – do good an – an’ stop chasin’ cats. Why,’ he said proudly, ‘there’s not a cat in this village that doesn’t run when it sees Jumble comin’. I bet he’s the best dog for chasin’ cats anywhere round this part of England. I bet—’
Jumble, seizing his moment for escape, tore himself from St Ginger’s unwary arms, and leapt up ecstatically at William.
‘Good old Jumble,’ said the saint affectionately. ‘Good old boy!’
At this point the other two saints returned.
‘Well, did you find any birds?’ said St William.
‘There was heaps of birds,’ said St Douglas in an exasperated tone of voice, ‘but the minute I started preachin’ they all flew off. They din’ seem to know how to act with saints. They din’ seem to know they’d got to sit on our arms an’ things. Made us feel mad – anyway, we gotter thrush’s egg and Henry – I mean St Henry – jus’ wanted one of those—’
‘Well,’ said St William rather sternly, ‘I don’ think it’s the right thing for saints to do – to go preachin’ to birds an’ then takin’ their eggs – I mean their brother eggs.’
‘There was lots more,’ said Henry. ‘They like you jus’ takin’ one. It makes it less trouble for ’em hatchin’ ’em out.’
‘Well, anyway,’ said William, ‘let’s get on with this animal business. P’raps the tame ones’ll be better. Let’s go across to Jenks’ farm an’ try on them.’
They crept rather cautiously into the farmyard. The feud between Farmer Jenks and the Outlaws was one of long standing. He would probably not realise that the Williamcans were a saintly organisation whose every action was inspired by a love of mankind. He would probably imagine that they were still the old unregenerate Outlaws.
‘I’ll do brother cows,’ said St William, ‘an’ St Ginger do brother pigs, and St Douglas do brother goats, an’ St Henry do sister hens.’
They approached their various audiences. Ginger leant over the pigsty. Then he turned to William, who was already striking an attitude before his congregation of cows, and said: ‘I say, what’ve I gotter say to ’em?’
WILLIAM WAS ALREADY STRIKING AN ATTITUDE BEFORE HIS CONGREGATION OF COWS.
At that moment brother goat, being approached too nearly by St Douglas, butted the saintly stomach, and St Douglas sat down suddenly and heavily. Brother goat, evidently enjoying this form of entertainment, returned to the charge. St Douglas fled to the accompaniment of an uproarious farmyard commotion.
Farmer Jenks appeared, and, seeing his old enemies, the Outlaws, actually within his precincts, he uttered a yell of fury and darted down upon them. The saints fled swiftly, St Douglas holding up his too flowing robe as he went. Brother goat had given St Douglas a good start and he reached the farm first.
‘Well,’ said St William, panting, ‘I’ve finished with preachin’ to animals. They must have changed a good bit since his time. That’s all I can say.’
‘Well, what’ll we do now?’ said St Ginger.
‘I should almost think it’s time for dinner,’ said William. ‘Must be after two, I should think.’
No one knew the time. Henry possessed a watch which had been given to him by a great-uncle. Though it may possibly have had some value as an antique, it had not gone for over twenty years. Henry, however, always wore it, and generally remembered to move its hands to a correct position whenever he passed a clock. This took a great deal of time and trouble, but Henry was proud of his watch and liked it to be as nearly right as possible. He consulted it now. He had put it right by his family’s hall clock as he came out after breakfast, so its fingers stood at half-past nine. He returned it to his pocket hastily before the others could see the position of the fingers.
‘Yes,’ he said, with the air of an oracle, ‘it’s about dinner-time.’ Though they all knew that Henry’s watch had never gone, yet it had a certain prestige.
‘Well, we’ve gotter buy our dinner,’ said William. ‘S’pose two of us goes down to the village, an’ buys it now with the two shillings we got for sellin’ our fathers’ things. We’ve gotter buy all our meals now like what they did.’
FARMER JENKS UTTERED A YELL OF FURY AND BORE DOWN UPON THE OUTLAWS. DOUGLAS FLED SWIFTLY.
‘Well, how d’we get the money when we’ve finished this? We can’t go on sellin’ our fathers’ things. They’d get so mad.’
‘We beg from folks after that,’ said Ginger, who was the only one who had paid much attention to the story of the life of St Francis.
‘Well, I bet they won’t give us much if I know ’em,’ said William bitterly. ‘I bet both folks an’ animals must’ve been nicer in those times.’
It was decided that Douglas and Henry should go down to the village to purchase provisions for the meal. It was decided also that they should go in their dressing-gowns.
‘They always did,’ said Ginger firmly, ‘and folks may’s well get used to us goin’ about like that.’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Douglas bitterly. ‘’S easy to talk like that when you’re not goin’ down to the shop.’
Mr Moss, the proprietor of the village sweet-shop, hel
d his sides with laughter when he saw them.
‘Well, I never!’ he said. ‘Well, I never! What boys you are for a joke, to be sure!’
‘It’s not a joke,’ said Henry. ‘We’re Williamcans.’
Douglas had caught sight of the clock on the desk behind the counter.
‘I say!’ he said. ‘It’s only eleven o’clock.’
Henry took out his watch.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as if he had made a mistake when he looked at it before.
For their midday meal the two saints purchased a large bag of chocolate creams, another of bull’s-eyes, and, to form the more solid part of the meal, four cream buns.
Ginger and William and Jumble were sitting comfortably in the old barn when the two emissaries returned.
‘We’ve had a nice time!’ exploded St Henry. ‘All the boys in the place runnin’ after us an’ shoutin’ at us.’
‘You should’ve just stood still an’ preached to ’em,’ said the founder of the order calmly.
‘Preached to ’em!’ repeated Henry. ‘They wun’t have listened. They was shoutin’ an’ throwin’ things an’ running at us.’
‘What’d you do?’
‘Run,’ said the gallant saint simply. ‘An’ Douglas has tore his robe, an’ I’ve fallen in the mud in mine.’
‘Well, they’ve gotter last you all the rest of your life,’ said St William, ‘so you oughter take more care of ’em,’ and added with more interest, ‘what’ve you got for dinner?’
They displayed their purchases and their choice was warmly and unanimously approved by the saints.
‘Wish we’d thought of something to drink,’ said Henry.
But William, with a smile of pride, brought out from his pocket a bottle of dark liquid.
‘I thought of that,’ he said, holding it out with a flourish, ‘have a drink of brother lik’rice water.’
Not to be outdone, Douglas took up one of the bags.
‘An’ have a sister cream bun,’ he said loudly.
When they had eaten and drunk to repletion they rested for a short time from their labours. William had meant to fill in time by preaching to Jumble, but decided instead to put Jumble through his tricks.
‘I s’pose they know now at home that we’ve gone for good,’ said Henry with a sigh.
Ginger looked out of the little window anxiously.
‘Yes. I only hope to goodness they won’t come an’ try to fetch us back,’ he said.
But he need not have troubled. Each family thought that the missing member was having lunch with one of the others, and felt no anxiety, only a great relief. And none of the notes upon the mantelpieces had been found.
‘What’ll we do now?’ said William, rousing himself at last.
‘They built a church,’ said Ginger.
‘Crumbs!’ said William, taken aback. ‘Well, we can’t do that, can we?’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ said Ginger vaguely, ‘jus’ keep on putting stones on each other. It was quite a little church.’
‘Well, it’d take us more’n quite a little time.’
‘Yes, but we’ve gotter do something ’stead of goin’ to school, an’ we may’s well do that.’
‘’S almost as bad as goin’ to school,’ said William gloomily. ‘An’ where’d they get the stones?’
‘They jus’ found ’em lying about.’
‘Well, come on,’ said William, rising with a resigned air and gathering the folds of his dressing-gown about him, ‘let’s see ’f we can find any lyin’ about.’
They wandered down the road. They still wore their dressing-gowns, but they wore them with a sheepish air and went cautiously and furtively. Already their affection for their saintly garb was waning. Fortunately, the road was deserted. They looked up and down, then St Ginger gave a yell of triumph and pointed up the road. The road was being mended, and there lay by the roadside, among other materials, a little heap of wooden bricks. Moreover, the bricks were unguarded and unattended.
It was the British workman’s dinner hour, and the British workman was spending it in the nearest pub.
‘Crumbs!’ said the Williamcans in delight.
They fell upon the wooden bricks and bore them off in triumph. Soon they had a pile of them just outside the barn where they had resolved to build the church – almost enough, the head of the order decided, to begin on. But as they paid their last visit for bricks they met a little crowd of other children, who burst into loud jeering cries.
‘Look at ’em . . . Dear little girlies . . . wearin’ nice long pinnies . . . Oh, my! Oh, don’ they look sweet? Hello, little darlin’s!’
William flung aside his saintly robe and closed with the leader. The other saints closed with the others. Quite an interesting fight ensued. The saints, smaller in number and size than the other side, most decidedly got the best of it, though not without many casualties. The other side took to its heels.
St William, without much enthusiasm, picked his saintly robe up from the mud and began to put it on.
‘Don’ see much sense in wearin’ these things,’ he said.
‘You ought to have preached to ’em, not fought ’em,’ said Ginger severely.
‘Well, I bet he wun’t’ve preached to ’em if they’d started makin’ fun of him. He’d’ve fought ’em all right.’
‘No, he wun’t,’ said Ginger firmly, ‘he din’t b’lieve in fightin’.’
William’s respect for his prototype, already on the wane, waned still farther. But he did not lightly relinquish anything he had once undertaken.
‘Well, anyway,’ he said, ‘let’s get a move on buildin’ that church.’
They returned to the field and their little pile of bricks.
But the British workman had also returned from his dinner hour at the nearest pub, and had discovered the disappearance of the larger part of his material. With lurid oaths he had tracked them down and came upon the saints just as they had laboriously laid the first row of bricks for the first wall. He burst upon them with fury.
They did not stay to argue. They fled. Henry cast aside his splendid robe of multi-coloured bath towelling into a ditch to accelerate his flight. The British workman tired first. He went back after throwing a brick at their retreating forms and informing them lustily that he knew their fathers an’ he’d go an’ tell them, danged if he wouldn’t, and they’d find themselves in jail – saucy little ’ounds – danged if they wouldn’t.
The Williamcans waited till all was clear before they emerged from their hiding places and gathered together dejectedly in the barn. William and Ginger had sustained black eyes and bleeding noses as the result of the fight with the village children. Douglas had fallen during the flight from the British workman and caught Henry on his ankle, and he limped painfully. Their faces had acquired an extraordinary amount of dirt.
They sat down and surveyed each other.
‘Seems to me,’ said William, ‘it’s a wearin’ kind of life.’
It was cold. It had begun to rain.
‘Brother rain,’ remarked Ginger brightly.
‘Yes, an’ I should think it’s about sister tea-time,’ said William dejectedly; ‘an’ what we goin’ to buy it – her – with? How’re we goin’ to get money?’
‘I’ve got sixpence at home,’ said Henry. ‘I mean I’ve gotter brother sixpence at home.’
But William had lost his usual optimism.
‘Well, that won’t keep all of us for the rest of our lives, will it?’ he said; ‘an’ I don’t feel like startin’ beggin’ after the time I’ve had today. I haven’t got much trust in folks.’
‘Henry – I mean, St Henry – oughter give his brother sixpence to the poor,’ said Ginger piously. ‘They uster give all their money to the poor.’
‘Give it?’ said William incredulously. ‘An’ get nothin’ back for it?’
‘No – jus’ give it,’ said Ginger.
William thought deeply for a minute.
‘Well,’ he said at
last, voicing the opinion of the whole order, ‘I’m jus’ about sick of bein’ a saint. I’d sooner be a pirate or a Red Indian any day.’
The rest looked relieved.
‘Yes, I’ve had enough,’ said William, ‘and let’s stop callin’ each other saints an’ brothers an’ sisters an’ wearin’ dressing-gowns. There’s no sense in it. An’ I’m almost dyin’ of cold an’ hunger an’ I’m goin’ home.’
They set off homeward through the rain, cold and wet and bruised and very hungry. The saintly repast of cream buns and chocolate creams and bull’s-eyes, though enjoyable at the time, had proved singularly unsustaining.
But their troubles were not over.
As they went through the village they stopped in front of Mr Marsh’s shop window. There in the very middle were William’s father’s slippers, Douglas’ father’s inkstand, Ginger’s father’s tie and Henry’s father’s gloves – all marked at 1/-. The hearts of the Williamcans stood still. Their fathers would probably not yet have returned from Town. The thought of their seeing their prized possessions reposing in Mr Marsh’s window marked 1/- was a horrid one. It had not seemed to matter this morning. This morning they were leaving their homes for ever. It did seem to matter this evening. This evening they were returning to their homes.
They entered the shop and demanded them. Mr Marsh was adamant. In the end Henry fetched his sixpence, William a treasured penknife, Ginger a compass, and Douglas a broken steam engine, and their paternal possessions were handed back.
They went home dejectedly through the rain. The British workman might or might not fulfil his threat of calling on their parents. The saintly career which had looked so roseate in the distance had turned out, as William aptly described it, ‘wearin’.’ Life was full of disillusions.
William discovered with relief that his father had not yet come home. He returned the slippers, somewhat damp, to the fender box. He put his muddy dressing-gown beneath the bed. He found his note unopened and unread, still upon the mantelpiece. He tore it up. He tidied himself superficially. He went downstairs.
William The Conqueror Page 6