William The Conqueror

by Richmal Crompton

  William joined him, putting his eye to the hole.

  He saw in Mrs Frame’s garden a tall woman who was not Mrs Frame. She sat in a chair reading. William could not see much of her face because it was hidden by the book, so he hoisted himself up and sat on the fence looking down at her. She looked up. He saw a face that did not reassure him – middle-aged and distinctly fierce. She saw – what we have described. It is only fair to her to say that what she saw did not reassure her either. But William, to do him justice, always made an attempt to establish friendly relationships.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I live here. Next door.’

  She looked at him as though she could not believe her eyes, as though he were surely part of a nightmare and must vanish if she looked at him long enough. But no, he stayed there. He was real. This dreadful apparition was real and said it lived next door. Horror and disgust settled upon her face.

  ‘You impertinent little boy!’ she said. ‘Go away! Get down!’

  William considered this command in silence for a minute. He was a stern lover of justice.

  ‘I’m not in your garden,’ he said judicially, ‘an’ I s’pose we join at this fence. You’ve got half an’ we’ve got half. Well, I’m sittin’ on our half. I wun’t mind you sittin’ on your half an’ I don’t see why—’

  ‘Get – DOWN!’

  William got down.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he said to Ginger. ‘Did you hear her carryin’ on? Won’t let me even sit on jus’ our bit of the fence. Thinks it’s all hers. ’F I knew a policeman I’d jus’ go and ask him about it. I bet you could get put in prison for doin’ that, for not lettin’ people sit on their own bits of a fence. Look at cats – cats sit on fences. Is she goin’ to stop all the cats in the world sittin’ on fences? You’d think from the way she went on that no one was allowed to sit on fences. Well, I’d jus’ like to know what fences is for if folks can’t sit on ’em—’

  At this point William’s mother saw him from the morning-room window.

  ‘William!’ she screamed in horror. ‘Come in at once and wash your hands and face and brush your hair.’

  William gave a sigh expressive of philosophic resignation, yelled, ‘G’d-bye’ to Ginger, who, at the maternal scream, had already begun to make his guilty way out of William’s garden, and went indoors.

  ‘I see Mrs Frame’s tenant is here,’ said Mrs Brown at lunch. ‘She’s a Miss Montagu. I must call.’

  ‘I wun’t if I was you,’ said William.

  ‘Whyever not?’ said his mother.

  ‘Well, if she treats you like what she treats me—’ He ended with a dark look and attacked his rice pudding with vigour.

  That evening came a letter from the new tenant complaining that the noise by William and Ginger in the garden had completely (underlined) spoilt her afternoon’s rest which was most (underlined) important to her health. The next morning came a letter saying that William’s singing in his bedroom in the early (underlined) morning was not only audible to her, but had given her a headache (underlined) from which it would probably be many days before she recovered. In the evening came another note to demand that William should not be allowed to look over the fence at her, as the sudden appearance of the boy’s head had a most disastrous (underlined) effect upon her nerves. She added that if these persecutions (underlined) continued she would be obliged to consult her legal adviser.

  William spent the next day with Ginger roaming far afield in search of adventure. But a note arrived in the evening to say that the boy’s whistling as he passed her house on the main road was so penetrating (underlined) that she had been obliged to shut all (underlined) the windows on the front of the house, and her health had suffered considerably (underlined), as fresh air was essential (underlined) to it.

  William’s father divided his wrath impartially between the absent Miss Montagu and the present William. The present William came off the worst.

  The auction sale was William’s idea. He had attended an auction sale with his uncle the week before, and his uncle had purchased a ‘lot’ which included two small pictures of so hideous execution and design that he had generously presented them to William. William, who had been thrilled and surprised by the proceedings of an auction sale, decided to dispose of his two pictures by auction, and invited a select band of potential bidders to his garden.

  ‘We won’t make a noise,’ said William to his mother when she remonstrated. ‘We won’t disturb her. We’ll do it all in whispers.’

  Mrs Brown went indoors hoping for the best. Mrs Brown spent most of her time hoping for the best. From her William had inherited some of his glorious optimism.

  The potential bidders arrived. They were not representative of William’s friends. Most of William’s friends were away for August. These were merely a heterogeneous collection of such of his schoolfellows as he could muster. Most of them would in normal times have been beneath his notice on the score of extreme youth.

  They sat down on the grass in William’s back garden and stared around them suspiciously and critically. William stood behind the upturned wheelbarrow on which were the two pictures and held a gardening fork to represent the hammer. Ginger stood next to him. William held up one of the pictures. It was about ten inches square and represented a female with incredibly long hair and incredibly flowing robes, chained to a stake on a lonely seashore. She was simpering coyly at the spectators out of her ornate frame. It was called ‘The Martyr’.

  ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen,’ began William, ‘first of all, we’re goin’ to sell this picture.’

  ‘Whaffor?’ said a very small person of the female sex, who was sitting on the grass in front. William turned on her a glance that should have annihilated her utterly.

  ‘What do you mean – whaffor?’ he said contemptuously. ‘Why shun’t we sell a picture?’

  ‘Why should you?’ said the small female, quite unannihilated.

  William felt nonplussed. No one at the auction sale he had attended with his uncle had behaved like this. He didn’t quite know how to deal with it. He decided to take the line of the high hand.

  ‘We shall sell,’ he said loftily, ‘’xactly what we like. We shall sell – camels ’f we want to.’

  Camels was an inspiration. He felt that camels was rather good. He prepared to go on with the sale.

  ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen—’ he began again, but the small female, who had been deeply considering his last remark, burst forth again.

  ‘Camels!’ she said. ‘Whaffor d’you want to sell camels?’

  ‘First of all,’ went on William, ‘we’re goin’ to sell this picture. First of all, ladies an’ gentlemen, take a good look at this picture.’

  ‘Who wants to buy camels?’ said the small female passionately. ‘What’s the good of sellin’ ’em?’

  ‘Jus’ look at this picture,’ went on William. ‘It’s prob’ly a picture you’ll never see again – you’ll never again have a chance of buying a beautiful picture like this cheap.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said the small female, looking round the garden with the air of one delivering a crushing argument, ‘where are your camels? Why don’t you bring out your camels and start sellin’ ’em, ’stead of talkin’ about ’em?’

  ‘Kin’ly stop int’ruptin’,’ said William, glaring at her sternly, ‘we’ve not come here to listen to you. We’ve come here to sell these things – Ladies an’ gentlemen, this picture is one of the most beautiful pictures in the world. If you’ll jus’ look at it for a few minutes.’

  A very small boy in the front suddenly burst into tears.

  ‘Boo-hoo!’ he sobbed. ‘Wanter buy a camel!’

  The small female encircled him with tiny motherly arms and turned an indignant glance upon William.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done, you nasty, cruel boy,’ she said. ‘You’ve made him cry. Well, where are your camels you keep talking about?’

  The goaded William turned on her.

  ‘I don’t keep talking
about ’em,’ he said. ‘I never said I had any camels.’

  The small female opened eyes and mouth in horror.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘You did. Oh, you story-teller!’

  The small boy’s wails increased in volume.

  ‘Want a camel,’ he yelled as the tears ran down his cheeks.

  ‘You jus’ don’ know how to act at auction sales,’ stormed William indignantly. ‘I’m tryin’ to sell pictures an’ here you keep carryin’ on about camels.’

  At this point the proceedings were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Brown.

  She looked pale and harassed and carried a note in her hand.

  ‘Oh, William,’ she said, ‘how could you? She’s written again. She says that the noise is ear-splitting and that her nerves can’t stand it. She says –’ she turned the note over helplessly – ‘she says a lot of things all underlined and, oh, William, you did promise to be quiet.’

  ‘I was bein’ quiet,’ said William, ‘then they all started talkin’ about camels, an’ I can’t stop ’em makin’ a noise.’

  William and Ginger sat disconsolately on the still upturned wheelbarrow. The spectators of the auction sale had indignantly departed, the small boy still wailing pitifully, and William and Ginger conversed in whispers.

  ‘We’ll have to have another some time,’ whispered William. ‘That one din’ go right somehow. We’ll have to have another an’ jus’ not lettem get talking about camels an’ things.’

  ‘What’ll we do now?’ said Ginger, looking down with distaste upon the two pictures that shared the wheelbarrow with them.

  ‘Somethin’ quiet,’ groaned William. ‘Let’s play ball.’

  William fetched a ball and threw it to Ginger. Ginger caught it and threw it to William.

  William missed it and it went over the fence into Miss Montagu’s garden.

  William fetched another ball, and threw it to Ginger.

  Ginger missed it and it went over the fence into Miss Montagu’s garden.

  Ginger went home and got his ball. He threw it to William. They threw it to each other and caught it for ten or eleven times.

  Then it went over the fence into Miss Montagu’s garden.

  William fetched his bow and arrows. The fence by Miss Montagu’s garden was the only place to fix the target. Every other side of the garden consisted of flower beds.

  They shot busily at the target for ten minutes.

  At the end of the ten minutes all their arrows were in Miss Montagu’s garden.

  ‘Well,’ whispered Ginger gloomily, ‘what we goin’ to do now?’

  William with all his faults never lacked courage.

  He hoisted himself upon the fence cautiously to survey the enemy’s ground. He was somewhat taken aback to meet the stern gaze of the enemy in person. But even so he was not routed. He met her gaze unflinchingly.

  ‘There’s a few of our balls an’ things,’ he said boldly, ‘come over into your garden. Can I come and gettem, please?’

  ‘No, you may not, you naughty little boy,’ said the enemy furiously. ‘I have collected them and I will keep them. Get down.’

  William deliberately drew his features into a horrible contortion, and then descended from his perch. He had been slightly gratified and cheered by the shudder of horror that passed over the face of his enemy at his grimace. It is almost impossible to describe the gargoylelike masks into which William could twist his countenance.

  ‘Well, what we goin’ to do now?’ whispered Ginger forlornly.

  William looked around.

  At their feet stood his beloved mongrel, Jumble. Jumble had joined in all his master’s late pastimes of dam-building and mud-slinging. The plight of Jumble’s coat was indescribable.

  ‘Let’s wash Jumble,’ said William, making a grab at the unfortunate animal before the fatal word ‘wash’ could send him off like an arrow from a bow. He took off Jumble’s collar and hung it carelessly over the fence.

  Half-an-hour later one fairly dry dog and two fairly damp boys emerged from the wash-shed and made their way over to the fence.

  There they stood and looked around in dismay.

  ‘Where is it?’ said William.

  ‘You put it jus’ there,’ said Ginger.

  They searched the ground at the foot of the fence. It was nowhere to be seen. William again hoisted himself on to the fence and looked down. Again he found himself gazing into the face of his enemy. His enemy held Jumble’s collar in her hand.

  ‘’Scuse me,’ said William severely, ‘that’s mine. I mean it’s Jumble’s.’

  ‘I found it in my garden,’ snapped his enemy.

  ‘It must have fell down, then,’ said William.

  ‘I shall confiscate everything of yours I find in my garden,’ said the enemy sternly.

  She walked indoors. William sat motionless upon his fence. Through the window he could see her enter her dining-room and place Jumble’s collar in a cupboard.

  He descended from the fence. Upon his freckled frowning face was a set look of purpose.

  It was midnight. William, wearing an overcoat and a black mask, climbed cautiously over the fence and crept up Miss Montagu’s garden to Miss Montagu’s dining-room window. In one pocket of his overcoat was his penknife, in the other a handsome pistol which had cost originally one shilling and sixpence, and which figured in most of the Outlaws’ adventures.

  When he reached the dining-room window he took his penknife out of his pocket and began to attack the catch. His black mask kept slipping over his eyes, so he took it off and put it in his pocket. Miss Montagu’s dining-room window was exactly like his own dining-room window, and William, in his character of robber chief, had often slipped back the catch of that with his penknife. It was in any case a catch which an infant burglar could have manipulated in his sleep. William opened the window and entered Miss Montagu’s dining-room. Here he donned his black mask. William, though sternly bent on what he looked upon as an errand of justice, was none the less thoroughly enjoying himself in his role. He opened the cupboard, and his eye beneath the black mask gleamed. There they were – his two balls, Ginger’s ball, all his arrows, Jumble’s collar. With a little snort of triumph he put them all into his overcoat pocket.

  Then a sound at the door made him turn, and his heart seemed to leap up to the top of his head and then down to the bottom of his boots. Miss Montagu stood in the doorway clutching a pink dressing-gown about her. William looked round wildly for escape. There was none. The only alternative to flight was courage. He had recourse to that. He whipped his one-and-sixpenny pistol out of his pocket.

  ‘Hands up,’ he croaked in a deep bass voice. ‘Hands up or I fire.’

  It was a very dark night. All Miss Montagu could see was a vague form behind what was most certainly some sort of a revolver. She put up her hands.

  ‘I – I’m unarmed,’ she said with chattering teeth. ‘I’m a p-p-poor defenceless woman – think of your wife – think of your s-s-sister – think of your m-m-mother – d-don’t, I beg of you, d-do anything rash.’

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered William in his raucous bass.

  She sat down.

  ‘D-do be c-careful,’ she pleaded. ‘You know sometimes j-just an involunt-voluntary movement makes them g-go off. I haven’t anything really v-valuable, I assure you. I – oh, d-do be c-careful,’ she screamed as William made a movement with his pistol.

  William was backing past her slowly to the open window. At last he reached it. To his trembling victim on the chair who still held up her hands rather in the attitude of a lap dog in the act of begging, it seemed as if he vanished suddenly and completely into the night.

  She made her way unsteadily to the window and peered out into the darkness. There was no sign of him.

  The danger was over. It was obviously time for her to faint or have hysterics. But there is something unsatisfactory in fainting or having hysterics without an audience. She rang the bell violently. She screamed ‘Fire! Murder!’ at th
e top of her voice. Her domestics in various stages of undress gathered round her. Then, most effectively and dramatically and carefully, she fainted on to the hearth-rug.

  Meanwhile William, in his bedroom in black mask and pyjamas, was dancing a war dance round three balls, a heap of arrows, and a dog collar.

  William was down in good time the next morning, but he found his next-door neighbour already in the dining-room. She was hatless, and looked disturbed but important.

  ‘Did you hear nothing?’ she was saying excitedly to Mrs Brown – who was smiling quite pleasantly in her relief that the visit had not the usual purpose of complaining of William. ‘My house has been ransacked – ransacked from top to bottom. And when I disturbed him – well, I believe there were two or three of them, yes I’m quite sure there were at least two of them – great big men, my dear Mrs Brown, both wearing masks – they covered me with revolvers.’

  She became dramatic, and William looked on with great interest.

  He saw Miss Montagu cover Mrs Brown with an imaginary revolver. Mrs Brown edged behind the sofa.

  ‘They threatened me with instant death if I moved hand or foot,’ continued Miss Montagu. She advanced threateningly upon Mrs Brown, the imaginary revolver in her hand. Mrs Brown sat down, shut her eyes, and gave a little scream. ‘It was a most terrible experience, I assure you. I’ve been fainting on and off ever since.’

  She sat down in Mrs Brown’s easy chair, evidently with every intention of fainting on and off again. Ellen, the housemaid, was just bringing in the coffee. Mrs Brown flew to meet her, poured out a strong cup and flew back to Miss Montagu, who was wondering whether after all hysterics wouldn’t be more effective. Ellen, startled out of her professional calm, said: ‘What’s ’appened?’ and William watched the scene with his most inscrutable expression. Mrs Brown, in her panic, spilt half the hot coffee over Miss Montagu, and Miss Montagu decided not to have hysterics after all, in case Mrs Brown, who was obviously losing her head, should use the rest of the hot coffee in an attempt to bring her round.