CONTENTS
Foreword by Francesca Simon
1. William the Outlaw
2. The Terrible Magician
3. Georgie and the Outlaws
4. William Plays Santa Claus
5. William and the White Elephants
6. Finding a School for William
7. The Stolen Whistle
8. William Finds a Job
9. William’s Busy Day
10. William is Hypnotised
FOREWORD
William Brown terrified me. I’d never heard of him when I was growing up in America, but once I’d come to Britain and started writing Horrid Henry I couldn’t escape him. Whenever I told anyone what Horrid Henry was like, they invariably said, ‘Oh, he sounds exactly like a modern-day Just William.’
These are words guaranteed to horrify any writer. Who was this William anyway? Had I accidentally copied him? Was I doomed so early in my career? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
I didn’t dare open a William book until I’d written four Horrid Henry’s. Then I bravely thought it was time. I’d established Henry and his family, and was hopefully safe from being unduly influenced. So I borrowed a Martin Jarvis recording from the library, and one memorable day, travelling by car to France with my husband and young son, I pressed Play.
And what total joy awaited us. First that Horrid Henry was actually very different from William, who is so much kinder, and often well-intentioned, and not motivated at all by sibling rivalry. That was a great relief. Now I could just enjoy the sheer brilliance and humour of Richmal Crompton’s iconic character.
Why is William so wonderful? First and foremost, he’s hilarious. He is also indomitable, imaginative, fearless, spontaneous, resilient and constantly puncturing the pretensions of the rigid society he’s trapped in. He is never defeated, never civilized into the proper, conforming little boy his parents long for. (‘He’s a bit – individualistic,’ grimaces William’s hapless father to a schoolteacher who promises – as if – to tame him.)
Instead William is in perpetual revolt against the conventional world his parents are trying to shove him into, sabotaging fetes, thwarting field trips, swapping Christmas gifts (why should the Infants get smaller gifts than the OAPs?). In the story ‘Finding a School for William’, Mrs Brown thinks wistfully about the bliss of a sedate, shiny-shoed boy with plastered down hair, instead of her own leaping, diving, tree-climbing, shouting, toe-dragging urchin. We know better. Who wouldn’t want to join the Outlaws ‘on their paths of lawlessness and hazard’ rather than sticking to the paved road?
But why do we all love mischievous, rebellious characters (at least safely tucked within the pages of a book)? Why didn’t Richmal Crompton write about Hubert Lane and his followers? Or make Georgie Murdoch, from my favourite story ‘Georgie and the Outlaws’, with his impeccable manners and his hatred of mud and dirt and rough games, her hero?
Quite simply, I think William’s imaginative engagement and delight in his world reconnect us all to the liberating energy of the child we once were. He’s the person we wish we dared to be. We all enjoy reading about people who go against convention, and get a thrill from someone who acts on impulse and never worries about the consequences. In real life if you pass a door marked ‘No Entry’ you walk on by. William barges right through it. And – joy of joys – we get to enter with him.
Francesca Simon
CHAPTER 1
WILLIAM THE OUTLAW
WILLIAM and Ginger and Douglas and Henry (known as the Outlaws) walked slowly down the road to school.
It was a very fine afternoon – one of those afternoons which, one feels – certainly the Outlaws felt – it is base ingratitude to spend indoors. The sun was shining and the birds were singing in a particularly inviting way.
‘G’omtry,’ said William with scornful emphasis and repeated bitterly, ‘G’omtry!’
‘Might be worse,’ said Douglas, ‘might be Latin.’
‘Might be better,’ said Henry, ‘might be singin’.’
The Outlaws liked singing lessons not because they were musical, but because it involved no mental effort and because the master who taught singing was a poor disciplinarian.
‘Might be better still,’ said Ginger, ‘might be nothin’.’
The Outlaws slackened their already very slack pace and their eyes wandered wistfully to the tree-covered hill-tops which lay so invitingly in the distance.
‘Afternoon school’s all wrong,’ said William suddenly. ‘Mornin’s bad enough. But afternoon—!’
That morning certainly had been bad enough. It had been the sort of morning when everything goes wrong that can go wrong. The Outlaws had incurred the wrath of every master with whom they had come in contact.
‘An’ this afternoon!’ said Ginger with infinite disgust. ‘It’ll be worse even than an ordinary afternoon with me havin’ to stay in writin’ lines for old Face.’
‘An’ me havin’ to stay in doin’ stuff all over again for ole Stinks.’
It turned out that each one of the four Outlaws would have to stay in after afternoon school as the victim of one or other of the masters whose wrath they had incurred that morning.
William heaved a deep sigh.
‘Makes me feel mad,’ he said. ‘Miners havin’ Trades Unions an’ Strikes an’ things to stop ’em doin’ too much work an’ us havin’ to go on an’ on an’ on till we’re wore out. You’d think Parliament’d stop it. People go on writin’ in the papers about people needin’ fresh air an’ then ’stead of lettin’ people have fresh air they shut ’em up in schools all day, mornin’ an’ afternoon, till – till they’re all wore out.’
‘Yes,’ said Ginger in hearty agreement. ‘I think that there oughter be a law stoppin’ afternoon school. I think that we’d be much healthier in every way if someone made a law stoppin’ afternoon school so’s we could get a bit of fresh air. I think,’ with an air of unctuous virtue, ‘that it’s our juty to tr’n get a bit of fresh air to keep us healthy so’s to save our parents havin’ to pay doctor’s bills.’
Ginger ignored the fact that so far no one in all his healthy young life had ever paid a doctor’s bill for him.
‘I’ve a good mind to be a Member of Parliament when I grow up,’ threatened Douglas, ‘jus’ to make all schools have a holiday in the afternoons.’
‘An’ the mornin’,’ added Henry dreamily.
But, attractive as this idea was, even the Outlaws felt it was going rather too far.
‘No, we’ll have to keep mornin’ school,’ said Douglas earnestly, ‘’cause of – ’cause of exams an’ things. An’ school-masters’d all starve if we didn’t have any school.’
‘Do ’em good,’ said Ginger bitterly and added, darkly, ‘I’d jolly well make some laws about schoolmasters if I was a Member of Parliament.’
‘What I think’d be a good idea,’ said William, ‘would be jus’ to have school on wet mornin’s. Not if it’s fine ’cause of gettin’ a little fresh air jus’ to keep us healthy.’
This was felt by them all to be an excellent idea.
‘The rotten thing about it is,’ went on William, ‘that by the time we’re in Parliament makin’ the laws we’ll be makin’ it for other people an’ too late to do us any good.’
‘An’ it seems hardly worth botherin’ to get into Parliament jus’ to do things for other people,’ said Ginger the egoist.
They were very near the school now and instinctively had slowed down to a stop. The sun was shining more brightly than ever. The whole countryside looked more inviting than ever. There was a short silence. They gazed from the school building (grim and dark and uninviting) to the sunny hills and woods and fields that surrounded it. At last William spoke.
‘Seems ridic’lous to go in,’ he said slowly.
And Ginger said, still with his air of unctuous virtue, ‘Seems sort of wrong to go when we reely don’t believe that we oughter go. They’re always tellin’ us not to do things our conscience tells us not to do. Well, my conscience tells me not to go to school this afternoon. My conscience tells me that it’s my juty to go out into the fresh air gettin’ healthy. My conscience—’
Douglas interrupted gloomily: ‘’S all very well talkin’ like that. You know what’ll happen to us tomorrow morning.’
The soaring spirits of the Outlaws dropped abruptly at this reminder. The general feeling was that it was rather tactless of Douglas to have introduced the subject. It was difficult after that to restore the attitude of reckless daring which had existed a few minutes before. It was William of course who restored it, swinging well to the other extreme in order to repair the balance.
‘Well, we won’t go tomorrow mornin’ either,’ he said. ‘I’m jolly well sick of wastin’ my time in a stuffy old school when I might be outside gettin’ fresh air. Let’s be Outlaws. Let’s be real Outlaws. Let’s go right away somewhere to a wood where no one’ll find us an’ live on blackberries an’ roots an’ things an’ if they come out to fetch us we’ll climb trees an’ hide or run away or shoot at ’em with bows an’ arrows. Let’s go’n’ live all the rest of our lives as Outlaws.’
And so infectious was William’s spirit, so hypnotic was William’s glorious optimism that the Outlaws cheered jubilantly and said, ‘Yes, let’s . . . Hurrah!’
‘And never go to school no more,’ said Douglas rapturously.
‘No, never go to school no more,’ chanted the Outlaws.
They decided not to go home for provisions because their unexpected presence there would be sure to raise comment and question.
And as William said, ‘We don’t want any food but blackberries an’ mushrooms an’ roots an’ things. People used to live on roots an’ I bet we’ll soon find some roots to live on. It’ll be quite easy to find what sort to eat and what sort not to eat. An’ we’ll kill rabbits an’ things an’ make fires an’ cook them. That’s what real Outlaws did, an’ we’re real Outlaws now. An’ we don’t want any clothes but what we’ve got. When they fall to pieces we’ll make some more out of the skins of rabbits we’ve killed to eat. That’s what real Outlaws did, I bet.’
‘Where’ll we go to?’ said Douglas. William considered.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we must be in a wood. Outlaws are always in woods ’cause of hiding an’ eating the roots and things. And we oughter be on a hill ’cause of seeing people comin’ when they come tryin’ to catch us—’
‘Ringers’ Hill, then,’ said Ginger blithely.
Ringers’ Hill was both high and wooded.
The Outlaws cheered again. They were still drunk with the prospect of freedom, intoxicated by William’s glorious optimism. They marched down the road that led away from the school singing lustily. The Outlaws were very fond of community singing. They liked to sing different songs simultaneously. William in sheer lightness of heart was singing – very unsuitably – ‘Home Sweet Home’, Ginger was singing, ‘We won’t go to school no more’, to the tune of ‘It ain’t go’n rain no more’, Douglas was singing ‘Shepherd of the Hills’, and Henry was singing ‘Bye-bye, Blackbird’.
Suddenly two of their class-mates – Brown and Smith – came round the corner on their way to school. They looked at the Outlaws in surprise. Brown was deprived of the power of speech by a twopenny bull’s eye of giant proportions which he had just purchased at the village shop, but Smith said, ‘Hello! You’re going the wrong way.’
‘No, we aren’t,’ said William blithely, ‘we’re going the right way.’
Brown made an inarticulate sound through his bull’s eye, meant to convey interest and interrogation, and Smith, interpreting it, said, ‘Where are you going?’
‘To Ringers’ Hill,’ said William defiantly and passed on, leaving Brown and Smith gazing after them amazedly.
‘You di’n’ ought to have told them,’ said Ginger. But William was in a mood of joyous defiance.
‘I don’t care,’ he said, ‘I don’t care who knows. I don’t care who comes to fetch us home. We won’t go. We’ll climb trees an’ shoot at ’em and throw stones at ’em. I bet no one in the whole world’ll be able to catch us. I’m an Outlaw I am,’ he chanted. ‘I’m an Outlaw.’
Again his spirit infected his followers. They cheered lustily. ‘We’re Outlaws, we are,’ they chanted, ‘we’re Outlaws.’
They sat under the largest tree on Ringers’ Hill. They had been Outlaws now for half an hour and it somehow wasn’t going as well as they’d thought it would. Douglas, wishing to test the food-producing properties of the place at once, had eaten so many unripe blackberries that he could for the time being take little interest in anything but his own feelings. Ginger had from purely altruistic motives begun to test the roots and was already regretting it.
‘Well, I din’ ask you to go about eatin’ roots,’ said William irritably. William had for the whole half hour been trying to light a fire and was by this time feeling thoroughly fed up with it. He had just used the last of a box of matches which he had abstracted from the lab that morning.
‘I did it for you,’ said Ginger indignantly, ‘I did it to find the sort of roots that people eat, so you’d be able to eat ’em. Well, you can jolly well find your own roots now and I jolly well hope you find the one I did – the last one. It’s the sort of taste that goes on for ever. I don’ s’pose if I go on livin’ for years an’ years, I’ll ever get the taste of it out of my mouth—’
‘Taste!’ said Douglas bitterly. ‘I wun’t mind a taste . . . it’s pain I mind – orful pain – gnawin’ at your inside.’
‘I wish you’d shut up,’ said William yet more irritably, ‘an’ help me with this fire. All the wood seems to be damp or somethin’. I can’t get anythin’ to happen.’
‘Blow it,’ suggested Ginger, taking his mind temporarily from his taste.
Douglas, tearing himself metaphorically speaking from his pain, knelt down and blew it.
It went out.
William raised his blackened face.
‘That’s a nice thing to do,’ he said bitterly. ‘Blowin’ it out. All the trouble I’ve had lightin’ it an’ then you jus’ go an’ blow it out. An’ there isn’t another match.’
‘Well, it’d’ve gone out if we hadn’t blown it out,’ said Ginger optimistically, ‘so it doesn’t matter. Anyway, let’s do somethin’ int’restin’. We’ve not had much fun so far – eatin’ roots an’ things an’ messin’ about with fire. We don’t want a fire yet. It’s warm enough without a fire. Let’s leave it till tonight when we need a fire, to sleep by and to keep the wild animals off. We’ll light one with,’ vaguely, ‘flint an’ steel lyin’ about anywhere. But we won’t light another now. We’re all sick of it and if we go burnin’ up all the firewood in the wood an’—’
‘All right,’ said William, impressed by the sound logic of the argument, ‘I don’t mind. I’m jus’ about sick of it. I’ve simply wore myself out with it an’ you’ve not been much help, I must say.’
‘ALL THE TROUBLE I’VE HAD LIGHTIN’ IT AN’ THEN YOU JUS’ GO AN’ BLOW IT OUT.’
‘Well, I like that,’ said Douglas, ‘an’ me nearly dyin’ of agony from blackberries.’
‘An’ me riskin’ my life testin’ roots,’ said Ginger. ‘I can still taste it – strong as ever. It seems to be gettin’ stronger ’stead of weaker. It’s a wonder I’m alive at all. Not many people’d suffer like what I’ve suffered an’ still go on livin’. If I wasn’t strong I’d be dead of it now.’
Douglas, stung by Ginger’s self-pity, again rose to the defence of his own martyrdom.
‘A taste,’ he said. ‘I could stand any amount of tastes. I—’
At this moment a diversion was caused by the return of Henry. Henry had been out to catch rabbits to cook over the
fire for supper. He looked hot and cross.
‘Couldn’t catch any,’ he said shortly. ‘I saw a lot on the other side of the hill. I hid behind a tree till they came out an’ then I ran out after them, and I’m absolutely wore out with runnin’ out after them an’ I’ve not caught one.
‘Let’s go down to the river,’ said Ginger, ‘I’m jus’ about sick of messin’ about here. There isn’t anything to do here, ’cept eat roots, an’ I’ve had enough of that.’
‘No,’ said William firmly, ‘we’ve gotter stay up here. If we go down an’ they start comin’ out to fetch us home they’ll overpower us easy. It’s a – a sort of vantage ground up here. We can see ’em comin’ up here an’ escape or throw things down on ’em.’
‘Well, I’m sick of stayin’ up here,’ said Ginger.
‘Think of ’em,’ said William tactfully, ‘doin’ G’omtry at school.’
At this the Outlaws’ discontent faded and their spirits rose.
‘Hurrah!’ said Ginger, who now had completely forgotten his taste, ‘and I bet we can easy make up a game to play here an’—’
‘Look!’ gasped Douglas suddenly, pointing down into the valley.
The Outlaws looked.
Then they stood motionless as if turned to stone.
There was no doubt about it.
Down in the valley coming along the path that led up to Ringers’ Hill could be seen the figures of the headmaster and the second master.
For some moments horror and surprise robbed the Outlaws of the power of speech.
Then William said:
‘Crumbs!’ but no words could describe the tone in which he said it.
‘They’re – they’re comin’ after us,’ gasped Ginger.
‘Smith must have told him where we’d gone,’ gasped Henry.
Ginger, recovering something of his self-possession, turned to William.
‘I said you din’ oughter’ve told him,’ he said with spirit.
‘B-but,’ gasped William, still paralysed with amazement, ‘how’d he know we’re Outlaws an’ never goin’ back?’
William The Outlaw Page 1