William and the Pop Singers (Just William, Book 35)

by Richmal Crompton

  Other Books In The Series

  Just - William

  More William

  William Again

  William - The Fourth

  Still - William

  William - The Conqueror

  William - The Outlaw

  William - In Trouble

  William - The Good

  William

  William - The Bad

  William’s Happy Days

  William’s Crowded Hours

  William - The Pirate

  William - The Rebel

  William - The Gangster

  William - The Detective

  Sweet William

  William - The Showman

  William - The Dictator

  William and Air Raid Precautions

  William and the Evacuees

  William Does His Bit

  William Carries On

  William and the Brains Trust

  Just William’s Luck

  William - The Bold

  William and the Tramp

  William and the Moon Rocket

  William and the Space Animal

  William’s Television Show

  William - The Explorer

  William’s Treasure Trove

  William and the Witch

  William and the Pop Singers

  William and the Masked Ranger

  William the Superman

  William the Lawless

  Just - William a facsimile of the first (1922) edition

  Just William - As Seen on TV

  William at War

  Just William at Christmas

  Just William on Holiday

  Just William at School

  Just William - and Other Animals

  William and the Pop Singers

  Richmal Crompton

  Illustrated by Henry Ford

  MACMILLAN CHILDREN’S BOOKS

  Copyright

  For Jill, Kirsty and Robert

  First published 1965

  This edition first published 1993 by

  Macmillan Children’s Books

  Reprinted 2001 by Macmillan Children’s Books

  A division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  25 Eccleston Place, London SW1W 9NF

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  www.macmillan.com

  Associated companies throughout the world

  ISBN 0 333 58231 4

  Text copyright © Richmal C. Ashbee

  Illustrations copyright © 1990 Pan Macmillan Ltd

  The right of Richmal Crompton to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or

  transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written

  permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized

  act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  3579864

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from

  the British Library.

  Phototypeset by Intype London Ltd

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  Mackays of Chatham pic, Kent

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 – William and the Pop Singers

  Chapter 2 – William and the School of Nature

  Chapter 3 – William’s Escape Route

  Chapter 4 – William and the Holiday Task

  Chapter 5 – William and the Protest Marchers

  Chapter 6 – The Outlaws and the Ghost

  Chapter 1 – William and the Pop Singers

  “He ought to be here by now,” said William.

  “We said ten o’clock,” said Ginger.

  “He’s always late when we’ve got something important to do,” said Henry.

  They stood in the doorway of the old bam, watching the stile that led from the road into the field.

  “We’ll start without him if he doesn’t come soon,” said William.

  But already the figure of Douglas could be seen, climbing over the stile and walking slowly across the field.

  “You’re jolly late,” said William as he reached them. “You know we’d planned to build that tree house this mornin’ an’ . . .” He stopped, struck by the lugubrious expression on Douglas’s face. “What’s the matter? Are you in trouble?”

  “Trouble?” said Douglas with a mirthless laugh. “I don’t think anyone’s been in worse trouble since the world began.”

  “Why?” said William. “What’s happened?”

  They drew him into the barn and stood round him. A gleam of self-importance broke through the gloom of Douglas’s countenance.

  “It’s the most ghastly trag’dy I’ve ever had in all my life.”

  “Well, go on . . . Tell us."

  “It’s Hector’s electric razor.”

  Hector was Douglas’s elder brother. He was a youth of high spirit and uncertain temper. Between him and Douglas an intermittent feud had ranged over the years.

  “What about the electric razor?” said William. “If you thought you were gettin’ a moustache it mus’ have been choc’late. Choc’late can look jus’ like a moustache.”

  “’Course I didn’t think I was gettin’ a moustache,” said Douglas. “I used it for a plane.”

  “What d’you mean, a plane?” said William.

  “Well, I was makin’ a little boat. Jus’ a little one an I wanted a little plane to plane the sides to make ’em nice an’ smooth an’ I thought an electric razor would be jus’ the thing for it, so I borrowed it. I didn’t mean to do it any harm. Well, I jus’ planed the wood same as people plane a face with it. It only caught on a nail once an’ I don’t see that could do it any harm, but he said I’d ruined it. He went on at me as if I was a murderer. An’ he said I’d got to pay for a new one an’—Gosh! It cost two pounds fifteen.”

  They gazed at him in silent horror.

  “But he can’t do that,’ said William at last.

  “Oh, can’t he?” said Douglas bitterly. “You don’t know him if you think he can’t do that. He’s a tyrant, same as the ones in hist’ry. An’ you’d think my father’d do somethin’ to save me, wouldn’t you? Not many fathers’d jus’ look on an’ watch their son bein’ robbed an’—an’ plundered like that, but mine does. He says that Hector’s right an’ that it’ll teach me a lesson. They’re all mad with me, anyway, ’cause one of my arrows made a little hole in the window of the car. It wasn’t much of a hole. They needn’t have made all that fuss . . . They’re goin’ to take half the money for the razor out of my post office savings but I’ve got to pay the rest myself. An’ it comes to one pound seven an’ six. An’ I only get two shillin’s a week. I jus’ shan’t have any money for the rest of my life. I’ll be payin’ it back till I’m an old man. Shouldn’t be surprised if it doesn’t take all my old-age pension, too. It’ll be years before I’ve paid it off.”

  “Thirteen weeks and a bit,” said Henry after a moment’s thought.

  “Wel
l, that’s the same as years,” said Douglas. “I mean, it’s somethin’ you can’t see the end of.” He sighed deeply. “Why do these things always happen to me? They never do to other people.”

  “Well, it’s no use talkin’ about it,” said William. “We’ve jus' got to get that money. We’ll put off the tree house till later an we’ll start gettin’ the money now.”

  “How?’ said Henry.

  “There mus’ be ways of gettin’ money,” said William. “People do get money . . . Let’s think over all the people we know that have got money an’ see how they got it.”

  “There’s the Botts,” suggested Ginger.

  “He makes sauce, ” said Henry.

  “We could make sauce all right,” said William, “but I don’t s’pose anyone’d buy it . . . Who else is there?”

  “There’s Sir Gerald Markham,’ said Henry. “He got his money from his father.”

  Douglas produced another mirthless laugh.

  “He mus’ have a jolly diff’rent sort from the one I’ve got.”

  “There’s those people that buy things an’ sell ’em again,” said Ginger.

  “We’ve tried that,” said William. “We ended up with less money than we started with.”

  “You can make money on horses,” said Henry, “but I’m not sure how you do it.”

  “There’s doctors an’ lawyers,” said William, “but you’ve got to pass exams before you can start bein’ one of them an’ it’d take too long.”

  “There’s actors,” said Ginger. “Some of them get jolly rich. Actresses have furs an’ jewl’ry an’ poodle dogs an' actors have yachts an’ big cigars an’ things. They go for holidays to the winter sports an have parties every night. They must have masses of money.”

  “Yes, but that’d take too long, too,” said Henry. “You’ve got to write a play and then find a theatre and if there’s plays on at all the theatres you’ve got to wait till one’s empty and sometimes it’s years.”

  “Well, I can’t go on havin’ no money all that time,” said Douglas miserably. “I was goin’ to start savin’ up to buy roller

  skates an’ I can’t wait till I’m an old man for that. You never see an old man on roller skates. I’d jus’ look silly on them.”

  “Of course it was different in the days of strolling players,” said Henry thoughtfully.

  “What were those?” said William, interested.

  “They were actors," said Henry, “but they didn’t have a theatre. They jus’ went about and acted plays on the greens of villages and places like that and people came round to watch and gave them money ’

  “Gosh! We could do that,” said William, a note of excitement in his voice. “We could do that easy ”

  “I dunno . . " said Henry.

  “’Course we could,” said William. “Now listen. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll be strolling players an’ go round the villages actin’ plays an’ people’ll come round to watch us an’ give us money an’ I bet we get that one pound seven an’ six for Douglas in no time.”

  As usual his optimism communicated itself to the others. Even Douglas’s expression lightened somewhat. Only Henry remained thoughtful.

  “I don’t suppose it’ll be as easy as all that,” he said. “Why not?” challenged William.

  “Well, we’ve got to think out a play.”

  “Gosh, that’s easy enough,” said William. “There’s lots of plays an’ anyway we can always make one up.”

  “There’s a play called Macbeth,” said Ginger vaguely, “about a king that murdered his relations.”

  “An’ there’s one called Bluebell in Fairyland,” said Douglas. “They did it at my cousin’s school.”

  “There’s the clothes . . . ” said Henry.

  “We’ve got lots of dramatic clothes,” said William. “Tell you what! We’ll all bring dramatic clothes here this afternoon an’ see what sort of a play they fit into . . . Now that’s a jolly good idea, isn’t it?”

  “If it works,” said Henry.

  “’Course it’ll work,” said William.

  “I’ve known ’em not to," said Douglas.

  They assembled in the old barn early in the afternoon, each carrying his “costume” bundled under his arm.

  William had brought a white beard, a pair of sun-glasses and a hearth-rug with a hole in the middle (the result of a spitting log on the sitting-room fire).

  Ginger had brought a space helmet, a plastic breastplate, and a stethoscope, the sole remaining piece of a doctor’s outfit that had been given him at Christmas.

  Henry had brought a handleless saucepan, an ancient tweed jacket and the costume that he had worn as Oberon in a school performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Douglas had brought a gas-mask that had reposed in the box-room since the war, a very old dressing-gown of his mother’s (salvaged from the “rummage sack”) and a drum that was in fairly good condition as its use had been forbidden within hearing of his family.

  “Yes, they’re smashing,” said William. “Let’s put ’em on an’ see what we look like in ’em.”

  They put them on.

  William wore his beard and sun-glasses and draped himself in the hearth-rug by the simple means of putting his head through the hole.

  Ginger wore his space helmet and breastplate with his stethoscope dangling round his neck.

  Little could be seen of Douglas beneath his gas-mask and dressing-gown. His drum was slung over his shoulder.

  Still less could be seen of Henry, engulfed in his saucepan, jacket and Oberon draperies.

  William inspected the assembled troupe.

  “It’s jolly fine, he said. There was a faint note of doubt in his voice. “But . . .”

  “It doesn’t look like Macbeth, said Ginger.

  “An’ it doesn’t look like Bluebell in Fairyland,” said Douglas.

  “P’r’aps somethin’ out of hist’ry . . .’’suggested Ginger.

  “It doesn’t look like anythin’ out of hist’ry,” said Henry.

  “It doesn’t look like real people at all,” said Douglas.

  "Tell you what, then!” said William. The note of enthusiasm had returned to his voice. “We won’t have it real people. We’ll have it people in Space. It doesn’t matter how queer we look then ’cause people in Space look jolly queer anyway . . . Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We'll have a play about people in Space.”

  “What play?” said Henry.

  “Oh, it’s easy enough to think out a play,” said William.

  “Well, think one out, then,” challenged Ginger.

  “How can I, when you keep talkin’ an’ interruptin’ all the time?” said William irritably. “I can’t poss’bly keep ideas in my head when you keep drivin’ ’em out with talkin’ an’ interruptin’.”

  “All right,” said Henry pacifically. “Go on. Think.”

  “I’ve nearly got one already,” said William. He drew his features together into their most ferocious scowl. The others watched him in silent expectancy. Gradually the scowl cleared. “I’ve got it all right now,” he said triumphantly. “It’s a smashin’ one, too. Now listen . . . There’s an old professor— I’ll be him ’cause of my beard an’ spectacles an’ hearth-rug. This hearth-rug’s jus like those gowns that professors wear to show they’ve passed exams. Well, nearly like ’em, anyway.”

  “But what does he do?” said Ginger.

  “What am I goin’ to be in it?” said Douglas.

  “Can’t you be quiet an’ listen," said William sternly, “’stead of drivin’ all the ideas out of my head by talkin' an’ interruptin’ all the time. I’m jus’ goin’ to tell you what he does if only you’d keep quiet for two seconds . . . Well, he’s found a secret ray that goes up an’ meets the rays from the moon an’ they mix together an’ make a sort of powerful magnetic force that draws people shootin’ up to the moon without any of that bother with rockets an’ capsules, an’ he doesn’t tell anyone about it ’cause he wants to tr
y it out himself first but he takes a friend with him that knows a bit about Space—that’ll be Ginger ’cause of his space helmet—an’ they go shootin’ up to the moon."

  “How can they keep alive there without any oxygen?” said Henry.

  “He’s invented a special lozenge that keeps ’em alive as long as they go on suckin’ it,” said William, “an’ he takes a big box full of 'em an’ they get to the moon an' they find fierce savage monsters there—they’ll be Henry an’ Douglas—an’ these fierce savage monsters are buildin’ a machine to destroy the earth an’ everyone on it, so Ginger an’ me try to stop them but they kidnap Ginger an’ keep him prisoner in a deep cave an’ I’ve got to try to rescue him ’cause his lozenges are runnin’ out, but they’ve got a specially fierce savage monster guardin’ him with great huge teeth stickin’ out of the top of his head, but I’ve studied hypnotism at this professors’ college I’ve been to an I hypnotise this monster an rescue Ginger an’ we find a way to blow up the machine they’re makin’ an’ they attack us while we’re doin’ it an’ we have a jolly good fight an’ we kill most of them an the ones that are left make me King an’ Ginger Prime Minister an’ we go shootin’ back to the earth to tell people about it an’ we get in the newspapers an’ on TV an’—well, that’s the end. We can put in a bit more if we like. We’ll have to see how long it takes.”

  “Yes, it’s pretty good,” said Henry judicially, “but what do we say? You’ve got to say things in a play. You’ve got to have lines an’ learn them.”

  William dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

  “We can make up things to say as we go along. I bet that’s what those strollin’ players did. They knew what they’d got to do in the play an’ they jus’ talked about it while they were doin’ it. I expect that’s what mos’ actors do anyway.”

  “Oh well. . .’ said Gnger. “Where are we goin’ to start?”