William The Conqueror (9 page)

It was the British workman’s dinner hour, and the British workman was spending it in the nearest pub.

‘Crumbs!’ said the Williamcans in delight.

They fell upon the wooden bricks and bore them off in triumph. Soon they had a pile of them just outside the barn where they had resolved to build the church – almost enough, the head of
the order decided, to begin on. But as they paid their last visit for bricks they met a little crowd of other children, who burst into loud jeering cries.

‘Look at ’em . . . Dear little girlies . . . wearin’ nice long pinnies . . . Oh, my! Oh,
don
’ they look sweet? Hello, little darlin’s!’

William flung aside his saintly robe and closed with the leader. The other saints closed with the others. Quite an interesting fight ensued. The saints, smaller in number and size than the other
side, most decidedly got the best of it, though not without many casualties. The other side took to its heels.

St William, without much enthusiasm, picked his saintly robe up from the mud and began to put it on.

‘Don’ see much
sense
in wearin’ these things,’ he said.

‘You ought to have
preached
to ’em, not fought ’em,’ said Ginger severely.

‘Well, I bet
he
wun’t’ve preached to ’em if they’d started makin’ fun of him. He’d’ve fought ’em all right.’

‘No, he wun’t,’ said Ginger firmly, ‘he din’t b’lieve in fightin’.’

William’s respect for his prototype, already on the wane, waned still farther. But he did not lightly relinquish anything he had once undertaken.

‘Well, anyway,’ he said, ‘let’s get a move on buildin’ that church.’

They returned to the field and their little pile of bricks.

But the British workman had also returned from his dinner hour at the nearest pub, and had discovered the disappearance of the larger part of his material. With lurid oaths he had tracked them
down and came upon the saints just as they had laboriously laid the first row of bricks for the first wall. He burst upon them with fury.

They did not stay to argue. They fled. Henry cast aside his splendid robe of multi-coloured bath towelling into a ditch to accelerate his flight. The British workman tired first. He went back
after throwing a brick at their retreating forms and informing them lustily that he knew their fathers an’ he’d go an’ tell them, danged if he wouldn’t, and they’d
find themselves in jail – saucy little ’ounds – danged if they wouldn’t.

The Williamcans waited till all was clear before they emerged from their hiding places and gathered together dejectedly in the barn. William and Ginger had sustained black eyes and bleeding
noses as the result of the fight with the village children. Douglas had fallen during the flight from the British workman and caught Henry on his ankle, and he limped painfully. Their faces had
acquired an extraordinary amount of dirt.

They sat down and surveyed each other.

‘Seems to me,’ said William, ‘it’s a
wearin
’ kind of life.’

It was cold. It had begun to rain.

‘Brother rain,’ remarked Ginger brightly.

‘Yes, an’ I should think it’s about sister tea-time,’ said William dejectedly; ‘an’ what we goin’ to buy it – her – with? How’re we
goin’ to get money?’

‘I’ve got sixpence at home,’ said Henry. ‘I mean I’ve gotter brother sixpence at home.’

But William had lost his usual optimism.

‘Well, that won’t keep all of us for the rest of our lives, will it?’ he said; ‘an’ I don’t feel like startin’ beggin’ after the time I’ve
had today. I haven’t got much
trust
in folks.’

‘Henry – I mean, St Henry – oughter give his brother sixpence to the poor,’ said Ginger piously. ‘
They
uster give all their money to the poor.’

‘
Give
it?’ said William incredulously. ‘An’ get nothin’ back for it?’

‘No – jus’ give it,’ said Ginger.

William thought deeply for a minute.

‘Well,’ he said at last, voicing the opinion of the whole order, ‘I’m jus’ about sick of bein’ a saint. I’d sooner be a pirate or a Red Indian any
day.’

The rest looked relieved.

‘Yes, I’ve had
enough
,’ said William, ‘and let’s stop callin’ each other saints an’ brothers an’ sisters an’ wearin’
dressing-gowns. There’s no
sense
in it. An’ I’m almost dyin’ of cold an’ hunger an’ I’m goin’ home.’

They set off homeward through the rain, cold and wet and bruised and very hungry. The saintly repast of cream buns and chocolate creams and bull’s-eyes, though enjoyable at the time, had
proved singularly unsustaining.

But their troubles were not over.

As they went through the village they stopped in front of Mr Marsh’s shop window. There in the very middle were William’s father’s slippers, Douglas’ father’s
inkstand, Ginger’s father’s tie and Henry’s father’s gloves – all marked at 1/-. The hearts of the Williamcans stood still. Their fathers would probably not yet have
returned from Town. The thought of their seeing their prized possessions reposing in Mr Marsh’s window marked 1/
-
was a horrid one. It had not seemed to matter this morning. This
morning they were leaving their homes for ever. It did seem to matter this evening. This evening they were returning to their homes.

They entered the shop and demanded them. Mr Marsh was adamant. In the end Henry fetched his sixpence, William a treasured penknife, Ginger a compass, and Douglas a broken steam engine, and their
paternal possessions were handed back.

They went home dejectedly through the rain. The British workman might or might not fulfil his threat of calling on their parents. The saintly career which had looked so roseate in the distance
had turned out, as William aptly described it, ‘wearin’.’ Life was full of disillusions.

William discovered with relief that his father had not yet come home. He returned the slippers, somewhat damp, to the fender box. He put his muddy dressing-gown beneath the bed. He found his
note unopened and unread, still upon the mantelpiece. He tore it up. He tidied himself superficially. He went downstairs.

‘Had a nice day, dear?’ said his mother.

He disdained to answer the question.

‘There’s just an hour before tea,’ she went on; ‘hadn’t you better be doing your homework, dear?’

He considered. One might as well drink of tragedy the very dregs while one was about it. It would be a rotten ending to a rotten day. Besides, there was no doubt about it – Mr Strong was
going to make himself very disagreeable indeed, if he didn’t know those French verbs for Monday. He might as well – If he’d had any idea how rotten it was being a saint he jolly
well wouldn’t have wasted a whole Saturday over it. He took down a French grammar and sat down moodily before it without troubling to put it right way up.

CHAPTER 5

W
ILLIAM, Ginger, Douglas and Henry were on their way home from school. Owing to the absence of one of the masters they had been given an extra hour
to learn their homework. William had not used it to the best advantage. He had spent the first part of it making rats out of ink-sodden blotting-paper till he was summoned to the front of the room
where his activities should be under the eye of Authority.

There, under compulsion, he opened his Shakespeare and idly committed to memory the lines chosen for his edification by his English master:

he murmured monotonously to himself, rubbing his eyes with his ink-stained fingers till the ink gradually overspread his freckled countenance. There was nothing unusual in that.
As his mother plaintively remarked, William could never touch ink without ‘getting all over with it’. She would have felt almost uneasy had William ever returned home from school
without his customary coating of ink or mud.

William wandered home with Ginger and Douglas and Henry, chanting blithely: ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.’

‘Who was this Shakespeare, anyway?’ said William.

‘He was a pote,’ said Douglas unctuously, ‘an’ he – well, he just lived an’ died.’

‘Din’ he
do
anythin’?’ said William.

‘He wrote po’try.’

‘That’s not
doin
’ anythin’,’ said William contemptuously. ‘I can write po’try – I mean din’ he
fight
or
somethin’?’

‘It says in the beginning of the book he
acted
,’ said Henry rather vaguely.

‘Huh!’ said William. ‘That’s nothin’.
I
can act. I don’ think much of
him.
’

‘There’s stachoos up to him in places,’ said Henry, still with his air of comprehensive knowledge.

‘Well, if
that’s
all he did,’ said William with disgust, ‘they might jus’ as well put stachoos up to
me.
I can write po’try an’ act if
that’s
all he did.’

William’s heroes were all men of action. He was not a patron of the Arts.

They were passing Mrs Maloney’s cottage. Mrs Maloney lived alone with a dog and a cat and a canary. She was very old and very cantankerous.

She hated everyone, but her hatred of boys was the absorbing passion of her life. And of all boys in the world the boys she most hated were the Outlaws. It was probably that alone which kept her
alive. She visibly failed in health on the days on which she had no encounter with the Outlaws. On the days when she had joined battle with them she looked less infirm. On the date when she
successfully routed them she looked almost hale and hearty.

The Outlaws were afraid of Mrs Maloney and Mrs Maloney’s dog and Mrs Maloney’s cat. They firmly believed her to be a witch. It was that fear which made it a point of honour with them
never to pass the cottage without some act of daring aggression. To the Outlaws danger was the very breath of life.

There was a hole in the side of her garden hedge that bordered the field by the side of the road, and on their way home the Outlaws took it in turn to enter the field, crawl through the hole,
and walk (or generally run) down Mrs Maloney’s garden path to her gate and out into the road. They did no harm to the garden. But the sight of the hateful creatures in her garden threw the
old lady into a frenzy. Considering her age and infirmities, she could move with remarkable speed, and not infrequently one or other of the Outlaws fell into her clutches.

That was a thrill full of ecstasy and terror for the Outlaws – a thing to dream of and talk of with bated breath and – dare again. Her cat and dog were loyal lieutenants who shared
her hatred of the whole race of boys. The dog had bitten Henry and the cat had scratched Ginger only the week before.

Today it was William’s turn to creep through the hole. Mrs Maloney was standing near the door. She was generally there ready for the fray when the Outlaws came home from school. Today Fate
was not on their side. Ginger, Henry and Douglas were at the gate ready to open it for William’s flying figure, but on this occasion William’s figure did not fly. It was stuck in the
hole.

When it emerged it was to face a furious Mrs Maloney, who grabbed his ears with claw-like hands, and thrusting her witch’s face close to his, shook his head till it seemed to him that
every one of his teeth was permanently loosened from its setting. He tore himself away at last and fled down to the gate that his friends were holding open for him. But that was not the end.
William’s cap had been shaken off, and with horror they saw Mrs Maloney pick it up, carry it up to her door and fling it down furiously and contemptuously upon the bench outside.

The Outlaws held a hasty meeting. It was unthinkable to go home in defeat, leaving their leader’s cap in the hands of the enemy. They would never hold up their heads again. They discussed
plans, standing in the middle of the road, watched suspiciously by the enemy from her back-door, where she still kept guard over her trophy.

‘We’ve gotter get it back,’ said Ginger sternly. ‘It’s William’s cap, so I votes William goes in an’ gets it back.’

‘Yes,
you’d
feel like going back,’ said William bitterly, ‘if she’d shook everything loose in
your
head. All the bones an’ muscles an’
brains an’ things that oughter be stickin’ together’s all loose all over the place.
You
don’ know what it feels like.’

William being literally shaken from his position of leadership and being able to discuss nothing but the hypothetical condition of the inside of his head, Ginger evolved a masterly plan.

He found a long stick, and while William, Douglas and Henry drew down the enemy to the gate by short and daring excursions into the garden as if in attempts at rescue, Ginger leant over the
hedge by the side of the cottage and fished up William’s cap with his stick. The Outlaws then marched off yelling triumphantly, carrying William’s cap proudly upon the end of the stick,
while its late captor gibbered at them over the gate in inarticulate rage.

It was a half-holiday, and after, at his mother’s earnest request, removing as much ink from his face and hands as could be removed by that hurried process known to William as
‘washing’, he sat down to lunch with a clear conscience.

‘Half-holiday,’ he murmured, ‘an’ I’ve done my homework – at least,’ he qualified his assertion, ‘I’ve done some of it – “The
good has often entered into bones”.’

‘What
are
you talking about, William?’ said his mother. ‘And your face isn’t clean yet.’

‘Well, I’ve done all I can to it,’ said William virtuously, ‘I’ve
washed
it.’ He threw a glance at his reflection in the glass. ‘You oughter be
able to tell by my hair that I’ve
washed
it.’

William’s hair stood up round his face in damp, vertical spikes.

‘Go and brush it, William,’ said Mrs Brown wearily.

‘Well, you know,’ said William as though delivering a final deeply considered judgment, ‘I’ve sometimes thought it’s best to let your hair grow the way it grows
nat’rally.
Some hair grows flat nat’rally. Then you oughter brush it flat. But mine doesn’t. It nat’rally grows up like this, an’ I’ve sometimes thought
it’s better to leave it to grow its own way. It’s more
nat’ral.
If—’