He addressed the girls:
‘And I only hope, my dears, that we shall not corrupt this civilisation, as we have corrupted so many others, by teaching them the use of alcohol. It is a wonderful thing to look at this inhabitant from a distant planet – small but sturdy and virile – and notice his natural aversion from the degrading liquid. Look at him.’
They gazed in silence at William, who was zestfully consuming the sandwiches and biscuits that were on the tray. The elderly gentleman watched his every movement, making frequent and copious notes in his little book. Finally he said in wistful tones to the two girls:
‘What I’m hoping, my dears, is that when he has refreshed himself he will speak a few words in his own language. I hope to be the man to make the first known record of the speech of the Martians.’
William, who was feeling much stimulated by his little meal and was beginning to enjoy being a Martian, decided to please the old gentleman by saying a few words in the Martian language. He turned his fixed, unflinching stare upon him and said:
‘Flam gobba manxy pop gebboo.’
Trembling with eagerness, the old gentleman wrote it in his little notebook:
‘Flam gobba manxy pop gebboo.’
‘It may not be spelt right, of course,’ he said to the girls, ‘but I think that using our native spelling I have more or less correctly reproduced the sounds. I think that I have actually obtained the first phonetic record in our language of the Martian speech . . .’
William, who was warming to his performance, rose from his seat and began to wander round the room, uttering strange sounds and making strange gestures, all of which the elderly gentleman, whose excitement was steadily increasing, noted in his book. Some of them he interpreted to the still paralysed girls.
‘FLAM GOBBA MANXY POP GEBBOO,’ SAID WILLIAM. TREMBLING WITH EAGERNESS, THE OLD GENTLEMAN WROTE IT IN HIS LITTLE NOTEBOOK.
‘That’s the clock. He’s never seen a clock before. Evidently they don’t have them on his planet . . . He’s probably asking what the bureau’s for. He means, I think, that he likes the flowers . . . different flowers probably from the ones that grow on his planet, Did you hear that? “Crumbs.” By “Crumbs”, he evidently means the window. I must get that down.’
By ‘Crumbs’, however, William didn’t mean the window. He meant that he had distinctly caught a glimpse of his father in the wood that surrounded the house.
‘His expression has changed,’ said the old man. ‘Do you notice that a look of weariness has come over his face? All this must be most exhausting for him. He must have passed through a most exhausting time coming here at all. I think that he should have a rest before we continue our investigations any further. I’d like to discover whether the painting of the face is common to all the Martians or whether it is the mark of a particular rank or class. However, all that can come when we have correlated our two languages better. At present I am sure that he needs rest more than anything.’
He turned to William with the reassuring smile and beckoned. William followed him out of the room, up the stairs and into a bedroom. There the Professor waved him to a bed and disappeared. William gazed about him distastefully. He was suddenly tired of being a Martian and his only desire now was to return to his own character. He looked out of the window, but the room was on the third floor and there was no drain-pipe or tree near the window by which he might escape. He went to the door, and opened it very slightly. The Professor sat just outside, so as to be ready to receive his guest immediately on his awaking. He was writing in his little book and had not noticed the opening of the door. William hastily closed it again and considered the situation. There didn’t seem anything to do at present but follow the line of least resistance and wait for Fate to find some way out for him. The bed looked inviting, and William, as Red Indian, Arab Chief and Martian, had had a tiring day. He climbed upon it, composing his robes about him and laying his corked cheek upon a snowy linen pillow. He had a hazy impression of the Professor’s opening the door and gazing at him with a proud and beatific smile before he drifted off into a doze. He was awakened by the sound of voices – his father’s and the Professor’s.
His father was speaking.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, but the boy’s friends say that he’s completely disappeared. They were playing in the wood and they say that he vanished, leaving no trace. They’d no right to be there at all, of course. I expect the young ruffian’s hiding somewhere but his mother’s got worried about him so I said I’d have a look round. I suppose you’ve seen nothing of him?’
‘No,’ said the Professor absently. ‘I’ve seen no boys at all, but,’ he added mysteriously, ‘as you’re the first person who’s come to the house since he arrived I – I’ll show you him.’
‘Whom?’ said William’s father.
‘A Martian,’ said the Professor.
‘A what?’ said William’s father.
‘A Martian,’ said the Professor, ‘an inhabitant of the planet Mars. I’ve been in communication with it for some time. He’s asleep at present, but—’
Cautiously he opened the bedroom door. The Martian leapt from the bed, tore past them with lowered head, dashed down the stairs and out of the door.
The Professor and Mr Brown followed.
‘Into the woods,’ gasped the Professor. ‘We came that way.’
They ran out of the little gate that led to the wood and gazed about. There was no sign of the white-robed figure.
‘I’m afraid he’s gone,’ said the Professor sadly. ‘I’ve been afraid of this from the beginning. You see the atmospheric conditions may possibly be different. I mean, a Martian may only be able to breathe this atmosphere for a short time. I’m afraid he’s gone back.’
‘How do you think he’s gone back?’ said William’s father.
‘The same way as he came,’ said the Professor mysteriously. ‘I don’t know what way that was. Nor does anyone except the man who came by it . . .’
‘And you really believe—’ began William’s father.
‘I know,’ said the Professor solemnly. ‘I don’t expect anyone else to believe me. In fact I know they won’t. No further developments may take place in this particular branch of research for years – probably not till after my death. I do not expect to be recognised as a pioneer in my life-time – but I have my notes – they will still be here after my death and in future years I shall be recognised as the pioneer of communication between the two planets. You saw him, didn’t you?’
‘Y-yes,’ said William’s father and added thoughtfully, ‘there seemed to be something – something familiar about his face.’
The Outlaws were assembled in the tool shed at the bottom of William’s garden. The wheelbarrow was turned upside down to represent a stage and upon it William was precariously executing a clog dance. The others were sitting around him on the floor, watching admiringly. So energetically did William perform his dance and so unsteadily balanced was the wheelbarrow that it seemed that every moment the whole thing must collapse. William had as usual thrown himself so completely into his role of music hall artist that he had entirely forgotten that he had already that day been Red Indian, Arab Chief and Martian. Suddenly Ginger said warningly:
‘I say, your father’s coming, William, with the old man.’
William stopped and listened. Through the open window they could hear William’s father’s voice.
‘Well, I just want you to look at him and see if it’s the same. I don’t suppose you’ll get anything out of him. I’ve already questioned him but one gathers from his answers that he’s never heard of either Crown Wood or Mars. However – just have a look at him. I’m afraid you’ll find it is so. I saw the face quite clearly.’
The door opened and they entered.
‘This is the boy,’ said William’s father, pointing to William.
William hastily descended from his platform and assumed his most expressionless expression. The Professor looked him slowly up and
down – William, rough-headed, freckled, frowning, in his school suit. He’d retrieved his coat and shirt from the wood and he’d washed his face. The Professor burst out laughing.
‘It most certainly isn’t the same, my dear sir. Hardly any resemblance at all. My – my visitor was at least a foot taller and altogether more – more mature. Though of small stature he had an intelligent and thoughtful face. He moved with dignity and grace. This – excuse me, my dear sir – this is an ordinary uncouth English schoolboy.’
William’s face was still drained of expression as he met his father’s gaze.
‘Well,’ said his father, ‘I’m glad to hear you say so. It certainly simplifies the situation as far as I’m concerned.’
Then they departed.
‘Go on dancing, William,’ said Ginger, as soon as they’d gone.
‘I’ve forgotten where I was,’ said William, ‘with everyone interrupting.’
But no sooner had he mounted his platform to continue than there came yet another interruption. It was the Vicar’s wife. She entered, wearing her brisk bright smile.
‘I’ve been waiting for the holly, boys dear,’ she said. ‘I meant you to bring it to the Vicarage, but perhaps you misunderstood me. Where is it?’
The Outlaws gazed at each other open-mouthed. Then: ‘Crumbs!’ gasped William. ‘We quite forgot the holly.’
CHAPTER 8
THE CHRISTMAS TRUCE
It was Hubert’s mother’s idea that the Outlaws versus Hubert Laneites feud should be abolished.
‘Christmas, you know,’ she said vaguely to William’s mother, ‘the season of peace and goodwill. If they don’t bury the hatchet at this season they never will. It’s so absurd for them to go on like this. Think how much happier they’d be if they were friends.’
Mrs Brown thought, murmured ‘Er – yes,’ uncertainly, and added, ‘I’ve tried, you know, but boys are so funny.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Lane earnestly (Mrs Lane was large and breathless and earnest and overdressed), ‘but they’re very sweet, aren’t they? Hubie’s awfully sweet. I simply can’t think how anyone could quarrel with Hubie. We’ll make a real effort this Christmas to put an end to this foolish quarrel, won’t we? I feel that if only your Willie got to know my Hubie properly, he’d simply love him, he would really. Everyone who really knows Hubie loves him.’
Mrs Brown said ‘Er – yes,’ still more uncertainly, and Mrs Lane continued: ‘I’ve thought out how to do it. If you’ll invite Hubie to Willie’s party, we’ll insist on his coming, and we’ll invite Willie to Hubie’s, and you insist on his coming, and then it will be all right. They’ll have got to know each other, and, I’m sure, learnt to love each other.’
Mrs Brown said ‘Er – yes,’ more uncertainly than ever. She felt that Mrs Lane was being unduly optimistic, but still it would be nice to see the end of the feud that was always leading William into such wild and desperate adventures.
‘Then we’ll begin by—’
‘Begin and end, my dear Mrs Brown,’ said Mrs Lane earnestly, ‘by making them attend each other’s Christmas parties. I’m absolutely convinced that they’ll love each other after that. I know anyway that Willie will love Hubie, because, when you really get to know Hubie, he’s the most lovable boy you can possibly imagine.’
Mrs Brown said ‘Er – yes,’ again, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, and so the matter was settled.
When it was broached to William, he was speechless with horror.
‘Him?’ he exploded fiercely when at last the power of speech returned to him. ‘Ask him to my Christmas party? I’d sooner not have a Christmas party at all than ask him to it. Him! Why I wun’t go to the King’s Christmas party, if he was going to be there. Not if I had to be beheaded for it. Him? Well, then I jolly well won’t have a party at all.’
But Mrs Brown was unexpectedly firm. The overtures, she said, had come from Hubert’s mother, and they could not with decency be rejected. It was the season of peace and goodwill (‘No one’s ever peaceful or goodwillin’ to me at it,’ put in William bitterly); and we must all bury the hatchet and start afresh.
‘I don’t want to bury no hatchet,’ said William tempestuously, ‘’cept in his head. Him! Wantin’ to come to my party! Cheek!’
But William’s tempestuous fury was as usual of no avail against his mother’s gentle firmness.
‘It’s no use, William,’ she said. ‘I’ve promised. He’s to come to your party, and you’re to go to his, and Mrs Lane is quite sure that you’ll be real friends after it.’
‘Me friends with him!’ exploded William. ‘I’ll never be friends with him ’cept in a lunatic asylum an’—’
‘But William,’ said his mother, stemming his flood of frenzied oratory, ‘I’m sure he’s a very nice little boy when you get to know him.’
William replied to this by a (partially) dumb and very realistic show of physical nausea.
But faced by the alternative of Hubert Lane and his friends as guests at his party or no party at all, William bowed to the inevitable.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll have him then an’ – all right, I won’t do anythin’ to him or to any of them, I’ll wait till it’s all over. I’ll wait till he’s been to my party an’ I’ve been to his, an’ then – well, you’ll be jolly sorry you ever made us do it ’cause we’ll have such a lot to make up.’
Mrs Brown, however, was content with her immediate victory. She sent an invitation to Hubert Lane and to Bertie Franks (Hubert’s friend and lieutenant) and to Hubert’s other friends, and they all accepted in their best copper-plate handwriting. William and his Outlaws went about sunk deep in gloom.
‘If it wasn’t for the trifle an’ the crackers,’ said William darkly, ‘I wouldn’t have had it at all – not with him. An’ it’ll have to be a jolly fine trifle, practic’ly all cream, to make it worth while.’ His mood grew darker and darker as the day approached. He even discussed with his Outlaws the possibility of making a raid on the larder before the party, and carrying off trifles and jellies and fruit salad into the woods, leaving the Hubert Laneites to arrive and find the cupboard bare and their hosts flown. It was a tempting plan, but after dallying with it fondly for a few days they reluctantly gave it up, as being not really worth its inevitable consequences. Instead, they steeled themselves to go through the affair in the dogged spirit of martyrdom, their sufferings allayed only by the thought of the trifle and crackers, and the riot of hostilities that could take place as soon as the enforced Christmas truce was over. For the prospect of the end of the feud brought no glow of joy to the Outlaws’ hearts. Without the Hubert Lane feud life would be dull indeed.
As the day of the party drew nearer, curiosity lightened the gloom of their spirits. How would the Hubert Laneites behave? Would they come reluctantly, surlily, at the bidding of authority, or would they come in a Christmas spirit of peace and goodwill, genuinely anxious to bury the hatchet? The latter possibility was too horrible to contemplate. Rather let them come in the spirit in which the Outlaws were prepared to receive them – a spirit in which one receives a deadly foe in time of truce, all their thoughts and energies centred on the happy moment when hostilities might be resumed.
William, of course, could not watch the preparations for his party and maintain unbroken his pose of aloof displeasure. The trifle was, he was convinced, the finest trifle that had yet been seen in the neighbourhood; there were jellies of every shape and hue, there was a cream blancmange decorated with cherries and angelica, and there was an enormous iced Christmas cake. And there were crackers. In the eyes of William and his friends it was the crackers that lent the final touch of festivity to the tea.
The Outlaws and their supporters, as arranged, arrived first, and stood around William like a bodyguard awaiting the arrival of the Hubert Laneites. They wore perfectly blank expressions, prepared to meet the Hubert Laneites in whatever guise they presented themselves. And the guise in which they ultimately presented them
selves was worse than the Outlaws’ worst fears. They were not surly foes, forced reluctantly to simulate neutrality, nor were they heralds of peace and goodwill. They advanced upon their host with an oily friendliness that was nauseating. They winked at each other openly. They said, ‘Thanks so much for asking us, William. It was ripping of you. Oh, I say . . . what topping decorations!’
And they nudged each other and sniggered. William clenched his fists in his coat pocket and did swift mental calculations. His party would be over in four hours. In four days’ time Hubert’s party would come, and that would last about four hours, and then, then, THEN they could jolly well look out for themselves. The right hand that was clenched tightly in his coat for safety’s sake was itching to plant itself firmly in Hubert’s smug and smiling face. Mrs Brown, of course, was deceived by their show of friendliness.
‘There, William,’ she whispered triumphantly, ‘I knew it would be all right. They’re so nice really, and so grateful to you for asking them. I’m sure you’ll be the greatest friends after this. His mother said that he was a nice little boy.’
William did not reply to this because there wasn’t anything that he could trust himself to say. He was still restraining himself with great difficulty from hurling himself upon his foes. They went in to tea.
‘Oh, I say, how ripping! How topping!’ said the Hubert Laneites gushingly to Mrs Brown, nudging each other and sniggering whenever her eye was turned away from them. Once Hubert looked at William and made his most challenging grimace, turning immediately to Mrs Brown to say with an ingratiating smile, ‘It’s a simply topping party, Mrs Brown, and it’s awfully nice of you to ask us.’
Mrs Brown beamed at him and said, ‘It’s so nice to have you, Hubert,’ and the other Hubert Laneites sniggered, and William kept his hands in his pockets with such violence that one of them went right through the lining. But the crowning catastrophe happened when they pulled the crackers.
William at Christmas Page 12
