The idea appealed to the others.
‘Yes,’ said William, ‘that’s the best thing to do. We’ve got to try’n’ do it prop’ly like what she said about it bein’ a good work an’ that sort of thing. Well, we won’t be doin’ that if we bring home a lot of dead droopin’ holly at the end of the day, with gettin’ it too soon. We shan’t feel those feelin’s she says we ought to feel when we see our holly all dead an’ droopin’ round the pillars an’ things. No, I think we’d better have a few games first an’ then get the holly. Well, that’s how it seems to me,’ he ended with an unconvincing air of modesty. That apparently was how it seemed to all of them. Even Douglas’s conscience, that tender but easily appeased organ, was satisfied.
‘Where’ll we go?’ said Ginger who was lying full length in the wheelbarrow with William.
‘She said Mell’s Wood,’ said Douglas tentatively.
‘Yes, but everyone goes there,’ objected Ginger. ‘No one minds you goin’ there. It isn’t even a trespass wood. I mean – well, there’s nothin’ about Mell’s Wood.’
‘Crown Wood’s better,’ suggested William.
Crown Wood had the allurement of (almost) impenetrable barbed wire barriers, frequent notice boards that warned trespassers of prosecution, and a ferocious keeper armed with a gun and a dog that, the Outlaws firmly believed, would rend them limb from limb if ever he caught them. Moreover, Crown Wood belonged to an elderly professor of science who was reported to be eccentric and, according to the juvenile population of the village, used trespassers found on his land for ‘human experiments’.
‘Yes, that’s more excitin’,’ agreed Ginger, his spirits rising.
So they marched along the road to Crown Wood, singing joyously and inharmoniously, and wheeling each other in turns in the wheelbarrow. Near one of the private entrances to it they met the keeper with his dog and gun. Their song died away and they hastily assumed expressions suitable to those who are quietly and industriously engaged in the work of the Church.
‘Where are you off to?’ he challenged them sternly.
‘Jus’ doin’ a little errand for the Vic’rage,’ said William unctuously.
The man passed on growling.
The Outlaws executed a war dance in the middle of the road.
‘I bet he’s goin’ over to Marleigh,’ chanted William. ‘I bet he won’t be comin’ home till tonight. I bet we’ll have all day there with no one to stop us.’
‘An’ we’ll be able to get some jolly fine holly,’ put in Douglas, who evidently still felt faint stirrings of his conscience.
‘Oh, yes,’ said William, ‘we’ll be able to get some jolly fine holly. That’s why we’re goin’ there, of course.’
The morning passed quickly. They lit a fire and played Red Indians, adorned with the feathered head-dress that they always carried with them. The wheelbarrow played the parts successively of fortress, wagon, cave and mountain top. Even Douglas forgot the holly till they were on their homeward way. Then he said in a voice of pained surprise:
‘Why – why – we haven’t got any holly.’
‘No,’ agreed William hastily from the wheelbarrow where he was lying recumbent in the character of a mortally wounded chieftain. ‘No . . . you know we thought we’d better not get it in the mornin’ case it got dead an’ droopin’, you know, cause we wanted it to be the best holly an’ – an’ worthy of the Church, same as what she said.’
‘So we’ll start gettin’ it this afternoon,’ said Douglas.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the wounded chieftain, ‘course we will.’
After lunch they approached the keeper’s cottage, whose front door fortunately opened on to the lane bordering the wood, and William tactfully ascertained from the keeper’s youngest child (who was sitting at the door engaged in watching the effect of its saliva upon the newly whitened step) that the keeper had gone into Marleigh and would not be back till evening. The Outlaws danced another dance of exultation in the lane, then crawled once more through the barbed wire fence, after throwing the wheelbarrow over it. Then they proceeded into the heart of the woods.
‘What’ll we do this afternoon?’ said Henry. ‘Red Indians again?’
But William felt that one morning’s Red Indians was enough.
‘Let’s think of somethin’ else,’ he said, ‘somethin’ more excitin’.’
‘Pirates,’ suggested Ginger.
‘Robbers,’ suggested Douglas.
‘Smugglers,’ suggested Henry.
William shook his head.
‘We’ve played them so often,’ he said. ‘Let’s think of somethin’ quite diff’rent. I know!’ His freckled face lit up with inspiration. ‘I know . . . Arabs!’
‘What?’ said the Outlaws.
‘Arabs!’ said William excitedly. ‘Arab chiefs fightin’ each other in the desert with camels an’ things. Come on . . . Arabs!’
At the mention of Red Indians the Outlaws had taken out their feathered head-dresses. Now they looked at them rather regretfully.
‘I s’pose,’ said Henry, ‘Arabs don’t wear anything like this.’
‘No,’ said William, ‘only Injuns.’
He frowned thoughtfully. He saw the difficulty.
‘What do they wear?’ said Ginger and added, with vague memories of the Tower of London, ‘Coat o’ mails an’ armour an’ such like, I s’pose.’
‘No, they don’t,’ said William. ‘I’ve seen pictures of them. They wear sort of dressing-gowns an’ bath towels round their heads.’
‘Why?’ said Douglas.
‘Oh, shut up always wanting to know why,’ said William. ‘What does it matter why if they do? . . . The dressing-gowns don’t really matter, but they have things wrapped round their heads like bandages. That ought to be easy enough. Tell you what,’ again his freckled face shone with inspiration. ‘Tell you what . . . I’ll go home’n’ get some things like that. My mother’s gone out for the afternoon,’ he added simply, ‘so I c’n get what I want.’
Secure in the absence of the keeper he set off gaily through the wood homewards and reappeared in less than half an hour with a bundle under his arm.
‘I’ve got some fine things,’ he called as he came. ‘She’d locked the linen cupboard but I got some things that were in the rag bag. An’ I’ve got some corks and matches to make whiskers an’ beards for us too.’
They crowded round him eagerly to share in the division of the spoil. He had indeed found some treasures. There was a tattered bedspread and a sheet with a hole in the middle that did admirably as a head opening. There was an old pair of pants of his father’s and a pair of ancient pyjamas that had once belonged to his elder brother. There were – marvellously – two old bath towels that, torn across, would furnish headgears for all four of them.
They set about accoutring themselves. William appropriated to his own use the sheet with the hole in the middle. He made two further holes for his arms, taking off his coat and shirt so that bare arms might protrude. His robe flowed about his feet in a way that made him almost decide to give up the Arab idea altogether and be someone out of the Old Testament. He wrapped his half bath towel about his head and plentifully adorned his face with burnt cork. As he had no mirror and was anxious to make his general appearance as impressive as possible, he erred on the side of generosity as far as the burnt cork was concerned. In fact, when he had tied about his waist a girdle from a derelict dressing-gown of Robert’s, there was no doubt at all of his fitness to play the part of Chieftain. The other Outlaws, though less gloriously apparelled, were striking enough figures – Ginger in the tattered pants, Douglas in the bedspread and Henry in the old pyjamas, all of them with plentifully-corked beards and moustaches and with bath towels round their heads. They gazed at each other with deep satisfaction. They did not see each other quite as an impartial observer would have seen them. They saw each other as commanding figures, handsomely robed, fit lords of the desert. The wheelbarrow, of course, was a camel, and at first William a
s chieftain rode upon it while the others in turn guided its course. William occasionally put up his hand as if to shade his eyes from the glaring sun and gazed about him slowly from side to side. He did not see the bushes and trees that actually surrounded him. He saw a vast expanse of sand, stretching as far as the eye could see. At last, however, he proclaimed that he had espied an oasis, and following his direction the company made their way to it. There they rested under the shade of a palm tree that to the impartial observer would have suggested a hawthorn tree, and refreshed themselves with small red dates that grew upon it. Then they made a fire to protect them from prowling beasts and lay down to sleep, leaving Ginger on guard with a bow and arrow that he had improvised for the purpose. During the night (which was of short duration) Ginger occupied himself by shooting the innumerable wild animals that drew near to attack the camp. Some he wrestled with and throttled with his bare hands in order to vary the monotony of shooting. In the morning the space about the camp was entirely covered by the dead bodies of hundreds of wild animals killed by Ginger. They breakfasted on dates, then left the oasis and set off again over the boundless desert, Ginger riding the camel and the others guiding it in turn. During the day they met and vanquished several hostile tribes and large bands of wild animals. Finally they reached another oasis where they spent the night. They spent a day or two more in this way, but the imaginary dangers were beginning to pall and they decided to split up into two hostile tribes, scout each other over the desert, and join in combat whenever they met. They were to share the camel, having him for a day each. They drew lots as to how they should separate their forces and the result ranged William and Henry against Douglas and Ginger. Douglas and Ginger departed, leading the camel that had fallen to their lot for the first day, and that seemed more likely to be an incubus than a help to them in their scouting operations.
William and Henry found an oasis where they rested and refreshed themselves with dates. Then they set out on the task of tracking down the hostile tribes.
‘I bet I can see them from yon tall tree,’ said William, who fitfully tried to invest his speech with such dignity as befitted an Arab chief. ‘Methinks I’ll have a jolly good try anyway.’
The tall tree was an evergreen oak, thickly leaved and easy of ascent, that had more than once served William, in his role of pirate, as a ship on his previous lawless expedition in the wood. Henry was enjoined to stay to guard the camp; an elaborate system of signs in whistles was arranged between them and William set off jauntily to his tree, his sheet trailing about him. Garbed thus, he was finding the ascent more difficult than usual but was accomplishing it quite creditably when to his horror he heard voices just beneath the tree – feminine voices speaking with the indefinable intonations of those who are not trespassers but have every right to be where they are. William froze into silent immobility, and peered down through the branches. He could just see them. There was a girl with fair hair and a girl with dark hair. They were talking earnestly and in low voices, but their words reached William quite plainly in his leafy bower.
‘But why must he come here?’ said the girl with fair hair.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ said the other. ‘He’s brilliant in every way except for this extraordinary bee that he’s got in his bonnet about Mars. You know he’s convinced that he’s been getting messages from Mars. And what’s more, he’s convinced that the messages say that an inhabitant of Mars is going to visit him today and that he’ll meet him just here. He was out all yesterday doing most complicated measurements to find the exact spot where he was going to meet him. He says that the messages were very involved but that at last he’s worked them out and that the place arranged for the meeting is just here under this tree.’
WILLIAM PEERED DOWN THROUGH THE BRANCHES. THE GIRLS’ WORDS REACHED HIM QUITE PLAINLY.
‘BUT WHY MUST HE COME HERE?’ SAID THE GIRL WITH FAIR HAIR.
‘But – but how does he think that the – the Mars person will get here?’
‘He’s no idea, but he’s certain that he’ll come. I’m afraid that the poor old man will be terribly disappointed. He’s been simply living for it, you see, all the time that he’s been getting these messages, as he imagines.’
‘Of course,’ said the girl with fair hair, ‘there may be something in it. “More things in heaven and earth” you know, and that sort of thing.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said the other. ‘So many people have thought they’ve had messages from Mars, and there’s never anything in it. It’s such a pity, because you know he’s not really potty. It’s just this one subject he’s got a bee in his bonnet about. Here he is!’
Still peering down from his leafy retreat, William saw an elderly gentleman armed with rulers and other measuring instruments drawing near.
‘It should be just about here,’ he said excitedly. ‘I’ve verified all the measurements. There can’t possibly be any mistake and,’ he took out his watch, ‘if I’ve interpreted the messages correctly it should be within the next five minutes.’
‘B-but, grandfather,’ said the dark-haired girl, ‘I – I think you’d better – better not expect too much. You know it may be a – mistake.’
‘You ought to be prepared for disappointment, I think, Professor,’ said the fair-haired girl, ‘because so many people have been mistaken. The whole thing’s so incalculable.’
‘Nonsense,’ said the old gentleman. ‘I’ve calculated it most carefully. I’ve given months – years of work to it. I’m sure I’ve made no mistake.’ He knelt down and busied himself with the measuring instruments, then drew a small square on the ground with his walking stick.
‘He should arrive upon this planet at this spot exactly within the next few minutes,’ he said, ‘assuming, of course, that my calculations are correct . . .’
William, greatly interested, bent forward to see what the elderly gentleman was doing, overbalanced and fell – exactly into the square that the elderly gentleman had traced with his walking stick.
He sat up blinking, then looked up at them aggressively, expecting to be fiercely denounced, if not actually assaulted as a trespasser. The three faces gazed at him open-eyed, open-mouthed, slowly paling. Then the old gentleman spoke in a faint voice.
‘This – this is a very great moment in my life,’ he said.
‘Where have you come from?’ said the fair-haired girl sharply to William.
The elderly gentleman smiled.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘it’s no use addressing him in our tongue. He has his own language, of course. I have had no opportunity of studying that. The signals were flashed to me by code.’
William had grasped the situation and decided to sustain the only character in which he would not be subjected to vituperation or personal violence. He stood up silently, arranged his robe around him, and continued to glare aggressively at the three amazed faces. The elderly gentleman drew a notebook from his pocket.
‘I must get down the salient points about him,’ he said eagerly, ‘in case – in case his visit is not of long duration.’
He made a hasty and not very flattering sketch of William and wrote underneath, ‘small stature – flowing robes confined at waist – face painted (cf. Ancient Britons)’.
Then he slipped the book back into his pocket and said:
‘But the intrepid explorer must be weary. We do not know what dangers he has faced to reach us, only we may be sure that the way was not easy. We must take him home for rest and refreshment. I will beckon to him. Doubtless he will understand the sign.’
He beckoned, accompanying the gesture by a smile of invitation, and then turned to go along a narrow path through the wood that led by a short cut to his house. Every few minutes he turned and repeated his beckoning gesture and inviting smile. The Martian, wearing an inscrutable and slightly forbidding expression, followed, his long robe trailing about him. The amazed girls brought up the rear.
On reaching his house, the Professor led his protégé through the French
windows into his study and there, still smiling reassuringly, invited him to take an armchair. The Martian, still retaining his inscrutable and forbidding expression, and preserving complete silence, took it. The Professor immediately brought out his little book again and wrote: ‘Chairs and furniture similar to ours evidently found in Mars. Visitor expressed no surprise at seeing them. Action of sitting upon chair performed as if familiar one.’
He then rang the bell and ordered an astounded housemaid to bring refreshment. Meantime, the reassuring and apologetic smile much in evidence, he examined his visitor from a polite distance, wrote in his notebook and expounded his views to the still speechless girls.
‘It’s what I’ve always said,’ he said. ‘The main features of life are the same as ours. The material from which his robe is made,’ he touched it, glancing up at its wearer with the reassuring and apologetic smile, ‘is, I should guess, made by a process roughly similar to the process by which we make such materials in this country. I have always insisted that the main features of life upon the two planets are the same. Ah, thank you, Jane,’ as the housemaid entered with a tray, ‘thank you. Put it by that gentleman, will you? He is a traveller from a distant planet who, I hope, will be an inmate of my house for some little time.’
The housemaid stared at William, more amazed than ever. Then she withdrew to the kitchen to tell the cook that she’d never worked in a loonies’ asylum before and wasn’t going to start it at her time of life, and she’d give in her notice that very day.
Meanwhile William raised the glass of wine to his lips with gusto, thinking that it was blackcurrant tea of which he was very fond, then hastily set it down with an expression of acute nausea.
The Professor took out his notebook and wrote:
‘Alcohol evidently unknown in Mars.’
He ordered the housemaid to bring some grapes, and these William consumed with evident familiarity and relish. The Professor wrote: ‘Grapes evidently known and eaten as fruit but not fermented to make wine.’
William at Christmas Page 11
