‘I’ve not brought my guide-book,’ went on Miss Burford to William, ‘but I reckon there’s other things I oughta see in Stratford.’ She looked across a field and caught sight of the stream that made its sluggish way through William’s native village. ‘The Avon,’ she said, with an ecstatic sigh. ‘Isn’t it just dandy? But now, say, kid, isn’t there anything else I oughta see belongin’ to Shakespeare? I suppose – I suppose, now,’ wistfully, ‘there aren’t any other of his folks about the place – kind of descendants, you know?’
The adventure seemed to be drawing to a close, and William did not want it to draw to a close. The beautiful sapphire eyes fixed on him wistfully had a strange effect on him. Before he knew what he was saying, he had said, modestly:
‘There’s me. I’m one of his folks.’
He was secretly aghast when he heard himself say that. But he merely continued to gaze at her with his most ingenuous expression.
‘Well, now!’ she cried in rapture. ‘Isn’t that jus’ luck! You’re one of his descendants? But – not in the direct line, I reckon.’
If William was going to be a descendant at all he was most certainly going to do the thing properly.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I’m d’rect all right.’
‘Then you’re re-lated to the old lady?’ she said excitedly.
Again this took William out of his depth. He replied to it only by an uncertain smile.
‘Fancy!’ said Miss Burford. ‘Fancy that! I reckon you’ve got letters and records and relics of your house?’
‘Oh, yes – no end of them,’ said William. ‘All over the place.’
Miss Burford thrilled visibly.
‘I guess I was plumb lucky to strike you first go off,’ she said. She looked at William almost with reverence. ‘I can see a most dis-tinct likeness,’ she said at last. ‘I reckon, kid, you’ve been simply brought up on him, haven’t you? I expect you jus’ about know his works by heart.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said William, and quoted dreamily:
‘Fr’en’s, Rome and countrymen, lend me some ears
I come to bury Cassar in his grave.
The evil what he did is in his bones,
The good has entered – entered—’
He had a vague suspicion that he had gone wrong somewhere, and began again: ‘Fr’en’s, Rome, and countrymen—’ But Miss Burford was delighted.
‘Fancy!’ she said at last. ‘Fancy! I once read “The Tempest” – he wrote that, didn’t he? Or am I thinking of “The Rivals”? – but I couldn’t ever remember a line. What’s your name?’
‘William.’
‘Of course,’ she breathed, ‘after him. Of course.’
At that minute Ginger and Henry and Douglas appeared. They stood in a row gazing with interest at William’s new friend. William felt that their presence needed accounting for.
‘Fr’en’s of mine,’ he introduced them laconically.
Miss Burford turned to them.
‘I’m just congratulating William,’ she said, ‘on his famous ancestor.’
William was never one to grudge honours to his friends.
‘They’re all famous descendants, too,’ he said graciously. ‘Ginger – er—’ William’s acquaintance with classical poets was limited, but he did his best, ‘Scott’s, an’ Douglas’ – Douglas’, Wordsworth’s, an’ Henry – er – Henry’s’ – he left the realm of poets in disgust for one with which he was more familiar – ‘Henry’s, Nelson’s.’
Miss Sadie Burford had come over to England with the firmly fixed impression that it was a country in which anything might happen, and her expectations were being gloriously fulfilled.
‘Well, isn’t that just – dandy!’ she burst out with enthusiasm. ‘I’m just thrilled. Now we’re all going to William’s home, where he’s going to show me some of those wonderful relics.’
William was nonplussed. The situation was growing beyond him. He was rather pale as he walked along the road with her. Ginger, Douglas and Henry hadn’t the remotest idea what was happening, but they gladly joined the party, so as to be in any excitement that might be going. Excitement was never far away from William.
Miss Burford was the only happy member of the party. She chattered joyously about the Avon and Anne Hathaway’s cottage and ‘The Tempest’ and the strong family likeness between William and the Bard of Avon. In a fertile attempt to postpone the fatal moment of exposure, William resolutely led the party past the turning that led to his home. But Ginger, ever obtuse, called out lustily: ‘I say, ’f you’re goin’ to William’s home this is the way.’
William glared at him ferociously, then turned to Miss Burford with a sickly smile. He was beginning to wish he’d left her alone. She was pretty, but not pretty enough, he decided sternly, to make up for all this mess she was getting him into.
‘I – I thought we’d go round home by the longer way,’ he said, ‘so – so,’ then with a burst of inspiration, ‘so as to get a better view of the Avon.’
‘What’s the Avon?’ said Henry innocently, and yelled with unnecessary loudness when William kicked him.
William walked on one side of Miss Burford, Ginger on the other, Henry and Douglas behind. William’s depression increased. To add to his troubles Ginger was supplanting him in the vision’s favour. Ginger was prattling engagingly to the vision about the details of his daily life, and the vision was smiling at him affectionately. It was all very well for Ginger to prattle engagingly, thought William gloomily. She wasn’t going to walk into Ginger’s home and demand to see somebody’s relics, whatever ‘relics’ were. He couldn’t put off the fateful moment any longer.
At last the party came within sight of William’s house.
‘Here’s William’s house,’ said Ginger gaily, leading the way into the gate.
‘S-stop a minute,’ said William hoarsely, ‘I – I mus’ jus’ go in and ask—’
He hastened into the house, and stood a moment in the hall trying to evolve some plan. But for once he was at a loss. He could only stem the fatal tide. It would be easier to do something if he knew what ‘relics’ meant.
He returned, looking paler and fiercer than ever.
‘I – I’m afraid,’ he began, ‘I mean, I’ve jus’ found out that they’ve hid away those rel— what you said.’
‘Relics?’
‘Yes, that. Well, they’ve hid ’em away, case of burglary.’
This was an inspiration, but it failed of the desired effect. Miss Burford’s countenance fell, but she did not retreat.
‘What a pity! Well, I’m jus’ disappointed. But I quite understand. I reckon I’d do the same myself. But I must jus’ go in and have a look jus’ so that I can tell ’em about it way back home.’
Determinedly she went up the the front door and rang. William stood behind her betraying his consternation only by the blank expressionlessness of his face. His untidy hair was by this time standing vertically, almost hiding his cap in spite of his midday smoothing.
Mrs Brown herself came to the door.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Miss Burford as she entered the hall, followed by the boys, ‘you’ll pardon me, I’m sure, for intruding like this, but I simply had to see the house where the family lives now, though I understand that all the relics are put away for safety.’
Mrs Brown gazed at her in open-mouthed amazement.
‘I see fine the likeness to the great man in your little boy,’ declared Miss Burford, enthusiastically. ‘I suppose you haven’t kept the name – as a surname, I mean. What is your name?’
‘B-B-Brown,’ stammered William’s mother, who was wondering whether or not to ring up the police at once.
‘But Shakespeare as well, I’m sure,’ went on Miss Burford, placing a hand on William’s tousled head, and smiling down at his expressionless face. ‘As a Christian name, I mean. It’s William Shakespeare Brown, I’m sure. I expect you’re quite used to people forcing their way into your house, aren’t you? It’s so wonderful. I
’m so glad I actually came because you don’t get half the information from the books. I’ve read “The Tempest”, but that’s about all. I’ve had a real grand time, and it’s so good of you to let me come here – standing in the very house where his direct descendants live.’
Mrs Brown sat down weakly in a chair because her knees were too unsteady to support her any more.
‘I must just fly now,’ went on Miss Burford, ‘or Pop will wake up and wonder what’s the matter, and we oughta be getting back to London at once. Goodbye, and it’s been a real honour to me to stand here in this house talking to you. I shall tell them all about it way back home.’
She went off, gaily calling back farewells and thanks as she went.
William, after one glance at the bewildered face of his mother, hastily followed her, murmuring something incoherent about ‘seein’ her off. He saw the moment of explanations looming near, but wished to postpone it as far back as possible. He heard his mother calling him back, but hurried on with the fair sightseer, leaving Mrs Brown to demand explanations from the other Outlaws, whose professed ignorance she regarded with deep distrust.
When William and Miss Burford reached the car ‘Pop’ was just waking up.
‘What – where – why?’ he said sleepily. ‘Where are we?’
‘At Stratford, Pop, darling,’ said his daughter brightly.
‘Seen it?’ asked her parent laconically. ‘Got it ticked off?’
‘Sure,’ said Miss Sadie happily. ‘I’ve had a real grand time.’
‘Wal, come on, then,’ he said, ‘and let’s git back to London for dinner. I’m jes’ one ragin’ vac-u-um.’
She got up beside him, smiling brightly.
‘I guess I won’t miss the way back,’ she said. ‘We came pretty straight. Say, kid –’ she slipped something into William’s hand – ‘buy yourself some candy.’
They were gone.
William stood in the middle of the road, watching the cloud of dust till it had vanished. Then he stared almost incredulously at the ten-shilling note he held.
He had decided on his course of action when he reached home.
Mrs Brown had recovered slightly, but she was still curious and suspicious.
‘I felt she might become violent any minute and murder us all,’ she said. ‘William, who was she, and why on earth did you bring her here?’
‘I dunno who she was ’cept that she said she was called Miss Burford, an’ I din’ bring her. She jus’ said she wanted to come.’
‘But why?’
‘You heard her talkin’. She jus’ kep’ goin’ on like that. She jus’ said she wanted to come to our house. That’s all I c’n tell you. You heard her talking. She jus’ told me that her name was Miss—’
‘But where did you find her?’
‘In a motor-car. Cryin’. She told me she was called Miss Burford.’
‘Do stop saying that. What else did she say? What made her come with you?’
‘I’ve told you. She said her name was Miss— All right, I won’t say it. But I keep telling you what happened. She said that an’ we walked about a bit an’ she said she wanted to come to our house. I din’ want her to. I din’ ask her to. I din’ think you’d like it. But she asked to come an’ I couldn’t stop her. I did all I could. I took her a longer way round. I simply don’t know anything about her ’cept that she said her name was Miss Burford, an’,’ virtuously, ‘I think I’d better go an’ do my homework, cause I want to get on an’ get good marks, an’ – an’ not waste your money, an’ all that.’
The startling nature of this last announcement deprived Mrs Brown of the power of speech. William retreated to the morning-room and sat down at the table with a book. After a few minutes he opened the door cautiously. He could hear his mother talking to his sister.
‘It was the saddest thing,’ she was saying. ‘I’ve no idea how William got hold of her or where she is now. She was quite young, but absolutely mad – raving. I wanted to ask William more about it, but he’s doing his homework and I don’t like to disturb him.’
William closed the door again silently, opened the morning-room window, lightly vaulted into the garden and sauntered down to the gate. There he found Ginger, Douglas and Henry. He took his ten-shilling note out of his pocket and held it up.
Ginger, Douglas and Henry turned head-over-heels in the road with delight.
William climbed to the top rung of the gate and looked down at them.
‘Fr’en’s, Rome and countrymen,’ he began; then proudly and self-consciously through his nose, ‘Say, kids, you’re sure plumb crazy!’
When Miss Burford returned home, she gave a little lecture on her English travels.
She told of her visit to Anne Hathaway’s cottage, whose present occupant was very old and suffering from senile decay.
She told how in the same town she met four boys, one a descendant of Shakespeare, another a descendent of Scott, another a descendant of the poet Wordsworth, and the fourth a descendant of Nelson. It was wonderful, wasn’t it? Her lecture was a great success.
That Christmas one Christmas card was sent to William that never reached him. It was sent from America, and it was addressed to ‘Master William Shakespeare Brown, Stratford-on-Avon, England’.
CHAPTER 6
THE MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE OF MISS MONTAGU
WILLIAM was relieved to hear that his family was not going away for August. William disliked holidays spent away from home. He was not one of those people whose nerves require a frequent change of scene. William could never tire of his beloved familiar woods and fields and ponds, his Outlaw friends, his dog, and a whole long summer’s day before him to do in exactly as he liked.
Holidays away from home involved tidy clothes, hands and face and hair in a perpetual and uncomfortable state of washedness and brushedness, monotonous outings with his family (whose ideas of pleasure were always a source of amazement and horror to William), politeness to people whom he never wished to see again, and unceasing admonitions from every member of his family not to ‘disgrace’ them. Any following of his natural inclinations in any direction at all appeared to ‘disgrace’ them.
But at home, besides the ordinary delights of a carefree holiday, strange things often happened in August. The Vicar (whose quite justifiable dislike of William was returned with interest) was generally away, and a ‘locum’ reigned in his stead. There was always a sporting chance that the ‘locum’ might be better tempered than the Vicar, and the Vicarage garden held endless possibilities of delight as jungle or prairie or goldfield, as well as the thrill of a real live enemy in the shape of the Vicarage gardener, who shared his master’s well-founded dislike of the Outlaws.
This August, however, the ‘locum’ was disappointing. He proved to be an elderly, peevish gentleman, who shuddered at the very sound of the human boy’s voice. To be quite fair to him, less elderly, less peevish men had shuddered at the sound of William’s voice. One glance at him told William all he wished to know about him, and he promptly relinquished any dreams of authorised hunting or gold-digging in the Vicarage garden that he may have cherished. After all, unauthorised hunting and gold-digging were really far more exciting – crawling in through the hole in the hedge, creeping along through the shrubs with Red Indian precaution and silence, and occasionally flying like another Adam from Eden before the rheumaticky avenging angel that was the Vicarage gardener.
On the whole, though friendship with the Vicarage had its advantages, William considered that enmity with the Vicarage was a far, far better and more exciting thing. It was not for nothing that William and his friends called themselves the Outlaws.
But just after William had discovered that the ‘locum’ possessed none of the attributes that would have endeared him to the Outlaws, he made another discovery. He discovered that Mrs Frame, who lived next door, was going away, and had let her house for August. All William could discover was that the lettee was of the female sex. That told him little. His experience ha
d taught him that while women can be much nicer than men, they can, on the other hand, be much more objectionable. On the whole, he would rather have had a man. You know more where you are with men . . .
Henry and Douglas had been reluctantly dragged to the seaside in the wake of families on pleasure bent. Only Ginger was at home. And Ginger, as untidy and tousled and unwashed as William himself, was, in William’s eyes, the ideal companion.
They had raced and rambled and scrambled and wrestled and climbed trees and trespassed to their heart’s content. Their internal mechanism, though fortified through the morning by a heavy diet of unripe wild crab apples, unripe hazel nuts, green blackberries and grass (which they chewed meditatively between their more violent pursuits) told them that the luncheon hour was approaching. Still munching merrily and humming discordantly, they approached William’s house. They crept furtively round the back of it behind the shrubberies.
William did not know what he looked like, but he took for granted that his appearance was such as to provoke exclamations of horror and disgust from his family. He was right. His wiry hair stood up as usual in a thick jungle in the midst of which, at a crooked angle, nestled his cap. They had spent part of the morning damming a stream in the meadow with mud (which they also used as ammunition against each other during any divergence of opinion), and William’s face and collar bore plentiful traces of that material. He had rubbed one eye with a mud-covered hand, and that eye was muddier than all the rest, which is saying a good deal. His collar and tie were at the angle they usually attained after a morning of William’s normal activities.
William was just going into the potting-shed where he and Ginger were keeping a tin of beetles, when Ginger, who was peering through a hole in the fence, said in a sharp whisper: ‘I say – I say – she’s come!’
William The Conqueror Page 8