by Ruskin Bond
'Well, let's put that down,' said Ginger. 'No punishments and stay up as late as we like.'
'An' what about food?' said Douglas. 'We'd better put down somethin' about that. We need somethin' more than sixpence a week to give us freedom from want. I bet I wouldn't feel free from want - not really, not honestly free from want - without six ice creams a day.'
'An' bananas - after the war.'
'An' cream buns.'
'Yes, an' cream buns.'
'An' bulls' eyes. Lots an' lots of them. As many as we want.'
'An' we can't buy all that out of sixpence a week, so it ought to be extra.'
'Yes, it jolly well oughter be extra.'
They contemplated this blissful prospect in silence for some moments, then William said, 'Now let's get it all put down prop'ly. Give us another piece of paper, Ginger.'
Ginger tore several more sheets from the middle of his mutilated Latin exercise-book.
'It won't matter,' he said carelessly, ''cause we won't be doin' Latin any more after we get this Report thing fixed up.'
William took a sheet and wrote: 'Outlaws' Report' at the head of it.
'They're goin' to make this Beveridge Report thing into an Act of Parliament,' he said, 'so we oughter do somethin' about gettin' ours made into one.'
'What can we put that means that?' asked Ginger.
They all looked at Henry, who was generally considered the best informed of the Outlaws.
'I think it's Habeas Corpus,' said Henry. 'That's somethin' to do with it anyway.'
'No, it isn't. It's Magna Charta,' said Douglas. 'I'm sure it's Magna Charta.'
'We'll put both in,' said William pacifically, 'so as to be on the safe side. How do you spell 'em?'
'Dunno,' said Douglas and Henry, who never liked to own himself at a loss, said airily. 'Oh, jus' as they're pronounced.'
Carefully, laboriously, William wrote:
Outlaws Report.
Habby. Ass. Corpuss.
Magner Carter.
1. As much holidays as term.
2. No afternoon school.
3. Sixpence a week pocket munny and not to be took off.
4. No Latin, no French, no Arithmetic.
5. As much ice-cream and bananas and cream buns as we like free.
6. No punishments and stay up as late as we like.
He looked up from his labours, frowning intently.
'Is there anythin' else?' he said.
The Outlaws drew deep breaths of ecstasy.
'No,' said Ginger in a trance-like voice, 'if we get that, it'll be all right. We'll be freed from want an' fear then, all right.'
'Well, what do we do about it now?' said William.
They awoke slowly and reluctantly from dreams of unlimited ice-cream, bananas and holidays. . . .
'We've gotter get it made into an Act of Parliament,' said Ginger. 'How do we start?'
'Well,' said Henry rather uncertainly, 'I suppose we've got to write to the Government about it.'
'That wouldn't be any good,' said William. 'It never is. D'you remember when we wrote to the Government asking them to let us be commandos, an' they never even answered? An' the time we wrote to them askin' them to shut all the schools an' send all the school masters out to the war to finish it off quick, 'cause of them all bein' so savage, an' they never even answered that.'
'We ought to take it to Parliament ourselves.'
'They wouldn't let us in.'
'Then we ought to give it to a Member of Parliament to take.'
'That wouldn't be any good. There's only one Member of Parliament round here, and he's been mad at us ever since we tried to turn his collie into a French poodle.'
'Then we've gotter find someone else high-up who's goin' to London to see the Government and will take it for us.'
'I know!' said Ginger with a sudden shout. 'There's Major Hamilton. He's high-up in the War Office, an' he's been home for the week end, an' he's going back this mornin'. Let's ask him to take it.'
The Outlaws' faces glowed with eagerness, then gradually the glow faded.
'That wouldn't be any good,' said Douglas with a pessimism born of experience. 'People don't take any notice of children. It's jus' 'cause this ole Beveridge man's grown-up, that they make all this fuss of him. Ours is jus' as good, but I bet they won't take any notice of it.'
'Let's go an' see, anyway,' said William. 'Where does he live?'
'Up at Marleigh,' said Ginger. 'He might be sens'ble enough to see that it's jus' as necess'ry for children to have improved conditions as what it is for grown-ups, but, of course,' he ended gloomily, 'he might not.'
William folded up the document, slipped it into an envelope, wrote, 'Outlaws Report. Pleese give to Parlyment' on the outside, and put it carefully into his pocket, then, accompanied by the other three Outlaws, made his way across the fields to Marleigh.
There, in front of a square Georgian house, stood a car laden with luggage.
'That's it,' said Ginger excitedly. 'That's where he lives an' he's goin' back to London today. His mother told mine he was.'
A man with red tabs on the shoulders of his uniform hurried down to the car, threw a bag on to the top of the other bags and returned to the house.
He wore a lofty, supercilious expression, with a short moustache and an eyeglass.
'He looks high-up, all right,' said William.
'But he doesn't look as if he'd take much notice of us,' said Ginger, his excitement giving place to despondency.
'No, he doesn't,' said William, inspecting him. 'He doesn't look as if he'd even let us explain.'
'He's got some jolly important papers with him,' said Ginger. 'He brought 'em home to go over, an' he's takin' them back with him today. His mother tellin' mine that.'
'Gosh!' said William excitedly. 'Tell you what we could do! We could jus' slip our Report in with his papers an' it would go to the Government with them an' be made an Act of Parliament. That's a jolly good idea.'
'But how're we goin' to slip it in with them?'
William surveyed the back of the car, piled up with cases and rugs.
'I bet they're somewhere there,' he said. 'I bet I could find them if I had a good look. I'll get in an' have a try, anyway.'
With that, William crept up to the car, opened the door, and, crouching under a large rug that was hanging down untidily from the back seat, began his investigations among the cases that were piled there. Almost immediately Major Hamilton came down the garden path, leapt into the driving seat, waved his hand carelessly towards the house and started the car. It drove off, leaving the three remaining Outlaws staring after it, their faces petrified by horror.
William was only slightly perturbed. The car would be sure to stop somewhere for petrol or something, and then, having slipped his Report in among Major Hamilton's other important papers, he would make his way back as best he could. In fact, the element of adventure-in the situation was rather exhilarating than otherwise. . . . Very quietly - so as not to attract the attention of the driver - he continued to burrow among the cases. A locked attaché-case seemed the most likely receptacle. Remembering the satchel of keys that he still carried over his shoulder, he took it off and searched among it. Several keys seemed to be of suitable size. He tried them, one after another. The last one fitted. He opened the case. Yes, it was full of papers that looked important. He decided to put the Outlaws' Report at the bottom, so that it should be taken out with the others, and not attract attention till it was presented to the Government along with them and, with luck, made automatically into an Act of Parliament. Turning the other papers out carelessly, he bundled them into his satchel, with a faint realisation of the fact that, though less important than the Report, they were still important, and must be kept carefully till they could be replaced in the attaché-case. He tried the Report in every position and at every angle, in order to find out which looked most impressive - right way up, with the words 'Outlaws Report. Pleese Give to Parlyment' boldly displaye
d. . . wrong way up. . . sideways. . . corner ways. . . .
Suddenly the car began to slow down. Concerned for the safety of his precious manuscript, William hastily locked the attaché-case, then, concerned for his own safety, crouched beneath the rug. . . .
The car stopped, and William, peeping from a corner of the rug, saw that it had drawn up in front of a hotel. Major Hamilton got out of the car and entered the hotel. William considered his next step. He had done what he had come to do, so he might as well return home before he was discovered. The Report was now on its way to the Government in London. . . and presumably something would be done about it sooner or later.
Very cautiously, he slipped out of the car (on the side away from the hotel) and set off down the road. He'd probably find out where he was from a post office or something. He might even be able to 'hitch hike' home, which would be a novel and enjoyable experience. A motor cyclist passed him, going at a breakneck speed. William put out his hand to stop him, but received only a scowl in reply. Oh well, probably something else would pass him soon, and he'd try again.
He walked on for a short distance then stopped, stunned by a sudden recollection. He'd still got Major Hamilton's papers in his satchel. Gosh! He'd better take them back again, or he'd be getting in a row with the Government, and it might even put them against the Outlaws' Report. He mustn't risk that. . . . Hastily he retraced his steps to the car. At the car he found Major Hamilton and a man, who was evidently the manager of the hotel. Major Hamilton looked white and shaken.
'I was only in the hotel a minute or two,' he was saying. 'It was there on the seat of the car - a locked attaché-case - when I went in, and it's gone now. I must get in touch with the police at once.'
'You didn't lock the car?' said the manager.
Major Hamilton grew paler than ever.
'I'd lost the key,' he said. 'I admit I took a chance. As I said, I wasn't in the hotel more than a minute or two and I thought I'd be able to see it from the window. I suppose that someone knew I'd got the papers and had been following me.'
'What's been lost?' said William, pushing himself between them. 'Your attaché-case?'
Major Hamilton looked at him, as if hoping against all reasonable hope that help might be forthcoming even from this unlikely source.
'Yes. . . Do you know anything about it? There were most important papers in it.'
'I should think there were,' said William indignantly. 'There was our Report. Gosh! If that's been stolen. . . .'
'What on earth are you talking about?' said the Major impatiently. 'I'm speaking of important Government papers and. . . .'
'Oh, them!' said William carelessly. 'I've got them all right. I was jus' comin' to put 'em back.'
With that, he slung off his satchel, took out the papers and thrust them into the astonished Major's hand.
'I've got a lot of keys, too,' he continued calmly. 'I bet I could find one to fit your car.'
There were long explanations, at the end of which (a key was actually found to fit the car) the Major took him into the hotel, gave him a meal that seemed to William one of pre-war magnificence and saw him into a bus that would take him home.
'No, I didn't get it to London,' explained William to the Outlaws. 'It was stole before we got there.'
'Gosh!' said the Outlaws, impressed. 'I shouldn't have thought anyone knew enough about it for that.'
'Oh well,' admitted William, 'there were some other papers, too, but I bet it was our Report they were after really. Someone must have found out about it. . . .'
'Then we won't get an Act of Parliament?' said the Outlaws, disappointed.
'Well, p'raps not an Act of Parliament exactly,' admitted William, 'but this Major Hamilton says he'll do the best he can for us. He'll take us to a pantomime at Christmas.'
The Outlaws' drooping spirits soared.
'A pantomime! Gosh!'
'Hurrah!'
For the Outlaws had acquired a certain philosophy of life and realised that a pantomime in the hand is worth a dozen Acts of Parliament in the bush. . . .
From William and the Brains Trust (1945)
Auntie
Edward Blishen
Edward Blishen was a distinguished editor and children's writer, who published some of my early stories in the anthologies he edited when I was an aspiring young writer: Here is one of his own memorable stories. . .
AUNTIE WAS OUR ART MASTER. I THINK HE MUST HAVE BEEN THE oldest Art master in the world. He was immensely thin, and tall, and such hair as he had - clinging to his otherwise shining bald head - was as white as fresh May blossom. He also had moustaches, that drooped on either side of his mouth like big white commas. When we first met him, Pooh and I had both been reading a story in which there was a character who turned out to be two hundred years old. He'd eaten a fungus, or swallowed some chemical - I can't now remember which it was - and this had made him immortal. Anyway, after the first lesson we had with Auntie, Pooh and I turned to one another with the same dreadful question written, as they say, on each of our faces. Could Auntie have eaten a fungus?
I don't exactly know why he was called Auntie. His real name was Mr Searle. Perhaps it was because of his enormous kindliness, so that you have expected that at the end of a lesson he would present you with half a crown, and pat you on the head with his vast bony hand. I'm afraid most of us, most of the time, weren't very kind to him. Art lessons were larks.
Well, to begin with, Auntie's classroom was in an old hut at the end of the playground. The huts had been put up, temporarily, twenty years ago; the school had bought them from the Army. They were wooden, and rather like big drums, so far as noise was concerned; any sound you made was magnified no end of times. We had desks with lids that could be raised and fixed at any angle you wanted with a screw, and of course, if you were careless with the screw the lid would drop with a hollow bang, and the whole hut thundered with the sound. It was the first thing we did, when we went into the hut for an Art lesson: thirty screws were fumbled with, and thirty lids came crashing down. The hut would shake, and a wincing expression would appear on Auntie's kind face. 'Boys!' he would cry. 'Boys, please take more care!' That was Auntie all over; after all his years of teaching, he believed we crashed those desk lids out of sheer clumsiness. So we'd all put on repentant faces, and the lids would go whispering up into position again, and then, somewhere, one would fall back, with a single ringing thud, and everyone would turn to the offender and hiss, 'You idiot! You clumsy idiot! You heard what Auntie said!' And Auntie would beam at us, never seeming to hear that name we improperly applied to him, and he would gesture towards the little arrangement of cubes and cones that was this week's subject for drawing.
It always seemed to be cubes and cones. This baffled us. We thought Art ought to be drawing country scenes, and battles, and things of that sort. We weren't with Auntie in his passion for cubes and cones. We didn't share his feeling that getting the shading right, in the matter of cubes and cones, was the essence of Art. We'd all groan, 'Oh, sir, not that again!' And Auntie, who must really have been singularly deaf, would smile happily and say, 'You'll see that I've made a new arrangement this week. Slightly more difficult!' Well, we'd think, maybe Auntie could see the difference between one arrangement of cubes and cones and another, but we couldn't. 'It's the same as last week, sir,' we'd shout. And when Auntie went on smiling, one of us would go out and stand close to him and cry, 'It's just the same as last week, sir!' Auntie would look worried and say, 'Oh, I don't think so.' Everyone would stand up, then, and go out to the little table on which the arrangement stood, and push the cubes and cones about, crying, 'That's different, sir!' or, 'Now, that's more like it, Auntie!' And Auntie would flap at us with those huge hands and beg us to sit down and let him work out something that would satisfy us as being really new. Sometimes half a lesson would be taken up with confusion of this kind, the hut booming with our cheerful noise, and, of course, an occasional cube or cone falling to the floor with a big hollow clatter
.
When we did at last get to work, groaning and sighing, the next thing that happened was that we broke the tips of our pencils. Auntie was the greatest pencil-sharpener I've ever known. He was really a genius, in that line. A queue would form at his desk of boys holding broken pencils, and Auntie would sit there, very happy, performing very delicately and swiftly with his penknife, and producing on pencil after pencil a point that was absolutely perfect. The thing was to chat with Auntie as you stood there, saying, 'Oh, sir, how do you do it?' And Auntie, who took his perfect pencil-sharpening for granted, would say, 'Eh? What do you mean?' 'How do you get it so beautifully sharp?' we'd say, and Auntie would beam and tell us about the importance of having a sharply pointed pencil. 'You can't get anywhere with a blunt pencil,' he'd say. 'You can't even begin to draw properly with a blunt pencil.' Then we'd ask him about the different kinds of pencil, and what B and HB meant: and though he must have been asked these questions a score of times every week for years, he always answered as though he'd never heard them before. And the boys round the desk would be a sort of screen between Auntie and the rest of the class who were supposed to be drawing, but who in fact would be reading, or talking, or even singing, or swopping their possessions. Yes, Art lessons were larks.
The trouble for Pooh and me was that we liked drawing and were quite good at it. So, though we joined in the fun, we fretted at it, a little; we even took cubes and cones seriously, every now and then. And when Auntie did get round to looking at what we were doing - that is, when the amusement of having your pencil sharpened had died away for a while - he would stand sometimes beside Pooh and me, whose desks were together, and we would talk seriously about Art. That is, we'd talk about shading, and trying to draw so that a cube or a cone on the paper, and didn't just look hat. And one day Pooh said, 'We'd like to draw out in the open, sir - us two. Churches and things like that. Do you think that would be a good thing, sir?'