William The Conqueror (3 page)

The first thing they saw was Ginger dressed in his best suit, made unfamiliar with gleaming cleanliness of face and collar, sitting on a chair opposite the window. The first thing they noticed
was that he was not looking bored. He was, in fact, beaming delightedly, though he had not yet seen his friends . . .

Then the eyes of the Outlaws wandered across to Ginger’s aunt. She was sitting in front of the fire. The Outlaws’ eyes and mouths grew wide as they watched. Their noses were pressed
flat against the window pane. For Ginger’s aunt was young and radiantly pretty.

‘Crumbs!’ gasped William ecstatically.

Ginger found himself unusually and unexpectedly popular the next day.

‘Hello, Ginger!’

‘G’mornin’, Ginger.’

‘How’s your aunt, Ginger?’

Ginger at first suspected sarcasm in this question, then realised with surprise that there was none.

‘V’well,’ he said laconically; ‘she’s a jolly lot better than I thought she was going to be.’

‘Nicer than you thought she was goin’ to be!’ repeated William sternly. ‘You’re jolly well not to talk like that about her. You don’
deserve
her,
that’s what it is; you don’
deserve
an aunt like wot she is. You—’

‘You don’t know anything about her,’ said Ginger amazed and indignant.

‘Oh,
don
’ I?’ said William. ‘I bet I
do.
I bet I know all there is to know about her. I bet I know she’s beauteous an’ good an’ –
an’ – good an’ – an’ – beauteous—’

‘Here!’ interrupted Ginger pugnaciously. ‘What you talkin’ like that about her? She’s not your aunt. She’s mine.’

‘I’ll fight you for her,’ said William.

‘A’right,’ agreed Ginger, taking off his coat.

They fought and William won.

‘Now she’s my aunt,’ said William complacently, as he put on his coat and felt tenderly and proudly a fast-swelling eye with his grimy hand.

‘Well, you can call her your aunt,’ said Ginger, ‘but the fac’ remains she’s my father’s sister.’

‘But I’ve fought you for her,’ said William indignantly.

‘A’right,’ agreed Ginger. ‘I said she was your aunt all right, but ’f you want her to be your father’s sister you’ll have to get your father to fight my
father for her, an’ even then I don’ see—’

‘Let’s have her for all our aunts,’ suggested Douglas pacifically.

‘It’s her birthday next week,’ added Ginger, ‘while she’s staying with us.’

‘I say!’ said William, as though struck by a sudden brilliant idea, ‘let’s get up a sort of treat for her.’

‘Crumbs!’ said the Outlaws. ‘Yes, let’s.’

‘What’ll we have?’ said Henry brightly. ‘A picnic?’

‘No,’ said William decidedly. ‘The only decent picnic places are trespass places, an’ prob’ly she can’t run’s fast as what we can ’f anyone
comes.’

‘Let’s act something,’ said Douglas.

‘Don’t forget she’s my aunt,’ said Ginger proudly. ‘I mean William’s aunt,’ he corrected himself as he met William’s eye. ‘William’s
aunt an’ my father’s sister.’

‘What’ll we act?’ said Henry.

‘Oh, anythin’. ’S easy’s easy to act. Jus’ make somethin’ up or do somethin’ out of a book.’

‘Means learnin’,’ said Ginger despondently. ‘Jus’ like lessons. Might’s well be doin’ hist’ry or g’ography as learnin’ actin’
stuff.’

‘We needn’t learn it,’ said Douglas. ‘We can jus’ make it up as we go along.’

‘Well, you know what
that’s
like,’ said Ginger sternly. ‘You oughter, anyway, ’cause we’ve done it. You jus’ dunno what to say when it comes to
the time, or someone else says the thing you wanted to say, an’ you int’rupt each other an’ get fightin’. It wun’t be much of a birthday treat for my aunt. I mean
William’s aunt an’ my father’s sister.’

‘Well, let’s do it dumb show, then,’ said Douglas, ‘let’s act without speakin’. Jus’ move our arms an’ legs about an’ things like that
an’—’

He stopped. The Outlaws were looking at William. Upon William’s freckled, homely countenance was dawning an expression that those who knew him recognised as inspiration. At last he
spoke.

‘I know!’ he said. ‘
Waxworks
?’

‘Crumbs!’ chorused the Outlaws in delight. ‘
Waxworks
?’

‘What’ll we be?’ said Henry. ‘People out of history?’

‘’F you know enough history to go actin’ it you can,’ said William scathingly.

‘Well, we could have someone bein’ murdered or hung or somethin’. It’d be sort of excitin’.’

‘Well, who was murdered or hung?’

‘Er – Henry VIII.’

‘No, he wasn’t, then. He was the one what had seven wives.’

‘You’re gettin’ a bit muddled. That was the man goin’ to St Ives.’

‘No, it wasn’t neither. It was Henry VIII.’

‘Anyway, we’re not enough to do Henry VIII an’ seven wives.’

‘Yes – one of us could be Henry VIII, an’ another could be the seven wives. We could have a label round his neck with “Seven Wives” wrote on.’

‘Well, we’re not goin’ to. We’d rather have someone bein’ murdered some way.’

‘Well, let Henry VIII murder his seven wives.’

‘Oh, do shut
up
about Henry VIII. Who
was
murdered in hist’ry?’

‘Charles the something.’

‘Charles the First – we did him last week. His head was chopped off an’ he said he was sorry he took such a long time dyin’ of it an’ keepin’ everyone
waitin’.’

‘Hangin’d be easier for a waxwork,’ said William thoughtfully, ‘’cause their head wouldn’t have to come off. They could jus’ give a deep an’
holier groan an’ close their eyes . . . Yes, we’ll have who-did-you-say-it-was bein’ hung for one. We’ll have to get a bit of string for it from somewhere an’
we’ve gotter crown somewhere in our house what Ethel once had. We’ll jus’ have to practise it a bit, that’s all. Ginger be who-did-you-say – the man, you know, in a
crown an’ a dressing-gown or a mackintosh or somethin’ an’ Douglas be the policeman with a bit of string hangin’ him. Well, that’s
that
one. We’ll have to
practise movin’ jerky, that’s all. We’d better not have any more history. She mayn’t be much int’rested in hist’ry. She din’t look’s if sh’d be
int’rested in hist’ry. She looked – awful nice.’

‘What’ll we have next, then?’

‘Let’s have somethin’ funny. Let’s have ole General Moult walkin’. I can do him.’

As a matter of fact, William could do the half strut, half run that was General Moult’s normal mode of procedure to the life.

‘That oughter make her laugh,’ he added complacently.

‘An’ what else’ll we have?’ said Douglas. ‘’S not much so far.’

‘Well, we can’t arrange a whole long performance in one
breath
,’ said William sternly. ‘We’ve gotter
think
a bit.’

There was a short silence tense with mental effort. Then Ginger said:

‘I know, let’s have Dick Turpin holdin’ up a coach. I’ve gotter pistol an’ some caps.’

‘An’ we could borrer a wheelbarrow for the coach,’ suggested Douglas excitedly.

‘Henry be Turpin Dick,’ said William, ‘an’ Douglas his horse an’ Ginger in the wheelbarrow an’ me pushin’ it. An’ I’ll do the talkin’
in them all.’

‘What else’ll we have?’ said Douglas.

‘That’ll do to start practisin’ on,’ said William; ‘we can think of more things’s we go on.’

Rehearsals in the old barn took place daily.

William’s mother noticed vaguely that life seemed very peaceful, but she happened to be very busy herself and had no time to wonder what William was doing. She had become a member of the
New Era Society. The New Era Society existed chiefly to educate the village and entice speakers down from London to speak on subjects of which the village knew nothing either before or after the
lectures. The Society wanted the village to be ‘in the swim’. The kindred expression ‘at sea’ aptly describes the feelings of most of the audience. The subject this month
was ‘Egyptology’, and in the absence of the Secretary, Mrs Brown, William’s mother, and Mrs Flowerdew, Ginger’s mother, were arranging for the speaker.

Mrs Brown was relieved that William seemed suddenly so unobtrusive . . .

In the intervals of hanging Charles I and holding up the stage coach with strange jerky movements as demonstrated by William, the Outlaws dogged the footsteps of Ginger’s aunt. They
pursued her in a body with languishing eyes and bouquets of wild flowers which were generally also languishing. And, strange to say, Miss Flowerdew liked it. She received the drooping bouquets with
profuse thanks. She listened with due and proper excitement to their tales of adventure, she went with Jumble to hunt rats in the barn. (Jumble was wildly excited, but a large number of flies were
his net ‘bag’.) They told her that they were arranging a surprise ‘treat’ for her birthday, and she received the news with delight.

‘We’re not goin’ to tell you what it is,’ said William, ‘but it’s goin’ to be in the ole barn at half-past four, an’ you can bring any
fr’en’s you like to it free.’

‘How lovely!’ said Miss Flowerdew. ‘I simply don’t know how I can wait till then. I’m sure it will be most exciting.’

‘Oh, yes, it’s going to be a jolly good show,’ said William complacently.

During the week they had added to their repertoire Columbus discovering America and Jonah and the whale. William was Columbus and Henry, Douglas and Ginger, lying on the ground side by side,
were America.

William’s jerky dumb show of looking for America, shading his eyes and gazing into the distance and searching upon the ground near his feet until at last he came upon the three prone forms
and sat down upon them heavily was considered by the troupe to be very good.

William was showman as well as actor. As Columbus, he wore his Boy Scout’s costume and an old top hat of his father’s to add distinction to the
tout ensemble.
As Jonah he wore
(appropriately) a mackintosh and (inappropriately) an old boudoir cap of his sister’s rescued from the rag bag. The latter was supposed to add a Biblical touch.

Henry, Ginger and Douglas, were the whale. The swallowing of Jonah was almost worthy of the Russian ballet – full of drama and movement and realism. Then the whale lying upon Jonah emitted
deep groans, and Jonah finally emerged quite fresh and perky in his boudoir cap and mackintosh and swam away, leaving the whale still groaning loudly . . .

‘It’s goin’ to be a fine show,’ said William enthusiastically to Miss Flowerdew after a long and energetic rehearsal.

‘Bother!’ said Miss Flowerdew. ‘I’ve just discovered that it’s the same day as the New Era Lecture, but I’ll cut that.’

‘Oh, yes!’ said William. ‘I sim’ly can’t tell you how good ours is goin’ to be. You’ll be awfully sorry if you miss it, an’ it’s bein’
all done for you, too.’

‘Oh, I’ll come. Never fear!’ said Miss Flowerdew.

Mrs Brown and Mrs Flowerdew had made all the arrangements for the New Era Society’s lecture except with regard to the hall. There were two halls in the village, the Parish Room and the
Village Hall, and there was some doubt as to which would be the better for the lecture, and the final arrangement of that had been left to Mrs Flowerdew. Mrs Brown had secured as speaker a
Professor Smith.

The day of the lecture, which was also the day of Miss Flowerdew’s birthday and the waxwork show, arrived.

‘I don’t yet know which room,’ Mrs Brown said distractedly at breakfast. ‘I wish Mrs Flowerdew would send a message.’

William was too much intent upon his own thoughts and plans to listen to his mother’s jeremiads. He went out into the garden – moving his arms to and fro with eloquent gestures and
murmuring, ‘An’ now, ladies an’ gentlemen, kin’ly allow me to introjuce to you King Charles bein’ hung in the tower by a policeman, like what he was in ole days . . .
lifelike on’ nat’ral . . . ladies and gen’l’men, kin’ly notice the policeman tyin’ the string round his neck—’

He was interrupted by a tall, pale young man who came in at the front gate and said to him:

‘Are you Mrs Brown’s little boy?’

‘Yes,’ said William ungraciously.

‘Well, Mrs Flowerdew says the Parish Room,’ said the young man; and hastily departed.

Now, the young man did not speak very distinctly, and William’s mind and heart were full of ‘Miss Flowerdew’. As a matter of fact, William rarely thought of Ginger’s
mother as ‘Mrs Flowerdew’. She was just ‘Ginger’s mother’. Also William’s thoughts were full of his waxwork show.

William went off to the barn where the rest of the troupe were assembled.

‘I say,’ said William importantly, ‘she must have invited a lot of fr’en’s. I’ve just gotter message from her to say we’re to do it in the Parish Room,
not the ole barn. She must’ve got a
lot
of people to come an’ watch.’

‘Crumbs!’ said the Outlaws, deeply gratified.

Then they fell to rehearsing with renewed energy.

Four-thirty arrived. The Parish Room was filled with a despondent-looking crowd of villagers whipped up by the energetic members of the New Era Society. The village was less anxious to be
educated than the Society was to educate it. The speaker had arrived and had lunch with the Vicar. He and the Vicar were still talking earnestly in the Vicar’s study. They were discussing the
morals of the younger generation.

‘Terrible,’ sighed Mr Monks, the Vicar. ‘The modern child is utterly devoid of those qualities of sensitiveness and humility and reverence that one used to associate with
childhood. There is a boy in this very village – a boy of the name of William Brown—’ he shuddered as at many painful memories.

‘I say,’ said Professor Smith, ‘it’s nearly half-past. Ought we to—’

‘It only takes a minute across the field,’ said the Vicar, ‘we’ll give them time to settle down. They’re never punctual.’

And he went on talking with deep feeling about the boy of the name of William Brown . . .

The Outlaws arrived at the Parish Room and entered by the door behind the platform.

‘I say,’ whispered Ginger, impressed, ‘it’s
full.
She must’ve invited a whole
lot
’f ’em.’

‘I can’t see her, can you?’ said William.

‘No, but there’s such crowds of ’em.’

‘Well, we’d better not keep ’em waitin’,’ said William importantly.