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

by Richmal Crompton

  William’s solid form. The two struggled on the floor amid the wreckage of the trolley.

  “Fire!” shouted William.

  “Murder!” shouted Ginger.

  “Help!” shouted Mr Miggs, returning from his outing and falling into the wire-netting entanglement.

  The wreckage of the trolley had been cleared away, and William and Ginger were gradually recovering their breath.

  Miss Golightly was addressing them in her best headmistress manner. Mr Wansford watched in ever deepening bewilderment.

  “I know, of course, that it’s an empty house, for the time being,” said Miss Golightly, “but that’s no reason why you boys should appropriate it as a playground.”

  “Yes, but—,” panted William.

  “You have no consideration whatever for other people’s property,” said Miss Golightly. “It’s outrageous! That you should have the impertinence to come here in the absence of the owners and use the house for playing trains or Cowboys and Indians or whatever idiotic game you were playing!”

  “Listen—,” began William, but the flood of Miss Golightly’s eloquence swept over him unabated.

  “You are too old in any case to be playing those rough, senseless, childish games. You deserve to be taught a sharp lesson and if this were not a very important day in my life— a day in which you might say I have found a long-lost relative—I should see that you received it.”

  William turned to Mr Wansford.

  “Aren’t you—aren’t you a detective?” he said.

  “A detective?” said Miss Golightly.

  “Good Lord, no!” said Mr Wansford. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Nothin’,” said William, emerging shattered and bewildered into the world of reality. “Nothin’.”

  “The trolley can no doubt be easily repaired,” said Miss Golightly, “so we will say no more about the matter except that if ever you set foot here again without permission you will be most severely dealt with . . . Now off you go!” William and Ginger turned towards the door. Miss Golightly and Mr Wansford continued their conversation.

  “My aunt has some very interesting diaries,” said Mr Wansford, “that give fascinating details about the family. For instance there was a Cavalier who spent two days and two nights on the roof while Roundheads ransacked his house searching for him. His family sent food up to him through a trap-door and-—”

  “One moment!” said Miss Golightly. She turned a freezing eye upon William and Ginger, who still hovered in the doorway. “Go away at once, you two!”

  William and Ginger went out of the room, out of the front door and down the drive to the gate.

  Jumble, who had left his post and was lurking in the shelter of a laurel bush, joined them at the gate and sloped along behind them. His tail was down. He looked sheepish and guilty, well aware that he had once more failed to fulfil his role. He was not repentant, merely abashed. The three trailed disconsolately down the road.

  “Well, I bet you won’t write any more stories,” said Ginger at last, bitterly.

  “Oh, I dunno,” said William. Something of his old aplomb was returning, the ghost of his old swagger was invading his walk. “That Cavalier on the roof’d make a jolly good tale. I could have Roundheads chasing him all over it an’ up an’ down the chimneys. I could make it jolly excitin’.”

  “But you won’t put real people into it, will you?” said Ginger anxiously.

  “No, I jolly well won’t,” said William. “I’m not goin’ to have anythin’ more to do with that School of Nature. I’m goin’ back to soulless puppets.”

  Chapter 3 – William’s Escape Route

  “My father’s got a book out of the library about wartime escapes,” said Henry. “I’ve been readin’ it an’ it’s jolly int’restin’.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Ginger. “Tunnels.”

  “Wooden horses,” said Douglas.

  “Disguises,” said William.

  William, Ginger, Henry and Douglas were sitting huddled together in William’s tent in the Browns’ garden. It was a dilapidated tent of ancient design with a disconcerting habit of collapsing on its inmates suddenly and for no apparent cause. Every summer they would drag it out from the recesses of the garden shed, devote much time and energy to setting it up and play their parts in it as explorers, Red Indians, Eskimos, roadmenders or mountaineers till it collapsed and had to be set up again. This morning they had been first Eskimos and then Red Indians, and the tent had collapsed on them with monotonous regularity whenever their roles reached a certain pitch of excitement!

  “It jus’ won’t let us get anywhere,” grumbled Ginger, “It came down jus’ when you were wrestlin’ with that polar beer an’ jus’ when I was goin’ to scalp Henry.”

  “I bet you couldn’t have scalped me,” said Henry. “I bet you couldn’t scalp anyone if you tried. I bet it’s jolly difficult. It mus’ take years of practice.”

  “It’d be easy enough scalpin’ anyone with hair,” said Douglas, “but bald ones would be difficult. I expect they have to have special trainin’ for doin’ bald ones.”

  “If I was an Indian I’d tattoo the bald ones,” said William. “I can’t think why bald people don’t get their heads tattooed, anyway. It’d make them look a lot more int’restin’ an’––”

  At this point the tent collapsed again, engulfing them in folds of threadbare canvas.

  “It’s a rotten tent,” said Douglas as he crawled out. “We’ll get suffocated in it one of these days.”

  “Well, a bit of wind must have come,” said William, rising as usual to a half-hearted defence of his tent. “Gosh! Any tent’s li’ble to come down in a gale.”

  “Well, what’ll we do now?” said Ginger.

  “Let’s go ’n’ eat windfalls in the apple tree,” said William.

  They went to the bottom of the garden and climbed up the gnarled old apple tree that afforded a comfortable seat for each of them in its thick curving lichen-covered branches. William had given a liberal interpretation to his mother’s injunction, “only eat the windfalls.”

  “You see,” he said, “if they come off at a little touch it means they’d have come off in the wind, so they’re windfalls.”

  “An’ if they come off at a big touch,” said Ginger, “it means they’d come off in a strong wind, so they’re still windfalls.”

  “I bet there’s not all that wind,” said Henry with a touch of disapproval in his voice as he watched William’s efforts to secure a large red apple that grew just above his head.

  “It blew the tent down,” William reminded him as he secured the apple and drove his teeth into it.

  They munched in comparative silence for some minutes then the process ended, as it generally did, in a competition of core-throwing, and it was not till a core, thrown by William and aimed at the drain-pipe, sailed through the open kitchen window to land in the middle of a half-made shepherd’s pie, that the four found themselves summarily ejected from the premises and making their way down the road in the direction of the village.

  “It was a jolly good shot, axshully,” said William. “Right in the middle of that pie.”

  “But you weren’t aiming at the pie,” said Henry.

  William knit his brows.

  “I’m not sure I wasn’t,” he said.

  “You said the drain-pipe.”

  “I might have changed my mind.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “You didn’t.”

  They stopped in the middle of the road and a short, sharp wrestling match took place, at the end of which they picked themselves up and continued amicably on their way.

  “What were we talkin’ about?”

  “Pies.”

  “No, before that.”

  “Scalpin’ bald people.”

  “No, before that.”

  “About that book Henry had been readin’.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “It was about priso
ners escapin’ from war prisons. Gosh! Some of them were smashin’ escapes.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of ’em,” said William, “an’ I bet I could escape from a war prison jus’ as well as any of ’em.”

  “I bet you couldn’t.”

  “I bet I could . . . I’ve got out of places that no one’d ever have thought I could get out of. I once got out of a shed that–––”

  “Well, I bet you couldn’t get out of a prison. A prison’s a bit diff’rent from a shed an’–––”

  “I bet I could.”

  “I’d like to see you try,”

  “All right. See me try. Lock me up in a prison an’ see if I can’t get out.”

  “We can’t shut you up in a prison ’cause we haven’t got one.”

  “Well, then, you can’t say I couldn’t get out ’cause you don’t know an I bet I could. You can’t prove I couldn’t, anyway.”

  “An' you can’t prove you could ’cause we’ve not got a prison. Well, there isn’t a prison anywhere round here an’ if there was they wouldn’t lend it us jus’ to see if you could get out of it.”

  A thoughtful look had come into Henry’s face.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “There’s Meadowview . . .”

  “Meadowview . . .” said William. “It’s a jolly funny name for a prison an’ I bet they won’t lend it you.”

  “It’s not a prison,” said Henry. “It’s one of those houses in Green Lane. An old man called Mr Fellowes used to live there an’ he died las’ month an’ left this house to his nephew ’cause this nephew’s the executor an’–––”

  “What are you talkin' about?” broke in William irritably. “I’m tryin’ to talk about prisoners escapin’ from prison an’ you start talkin’ about dead old men an’ executioners. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “No. but listen,” said Henry. “Jus’ wait till I’ve finished. This old man had a housekeeper called Miss Barrows ”

  “Yes, my mother knows her ” put in Ginger.

  “An’ this housekeeper’s stayin' on in this house jus’ till this nephew–––”

  “The executioner?” said William.

  “Well, yes . . . jus’ till he’s got time to see to things an’ sell the house, an’ she’s gone away on a holiday now an’ left the key with my mother ’cause the police always want to know who you’ve left the key with when you go away an’—well, it jolly well is a prison. All the windows are: fastened by burglar catches an’ this housekeeper’s taken all the keys away with her an’ the back door’s fastened by a special burglar lock an’ she’s taken the key of that away, too. An’ the front door has a funny sort of lock that if you give it a double turn locks it so’s you can’t even open it from inside an’——”

  “Yes?” said William.

  “Well, don’t you see?” said Henry. “I could get this key from my mother. I mean, I know where she keeps it an’ she’s goin’ to London all day tomorrow so I could get it easy.”

  “Gosh, yes, I see,” said William. “It’s a jolly good idea! You an’ Douglas can lock me an’ Ginger in this house an’ we’ll do a war escape out of it, won’t we Ginger?”

  “Yes, I bet we will,” said Ginger, infected as usual, despite his better judgement, by William’s enthusiasm.

  “Course we will,” said William. “When’ll we start?”

  “Well, my mother’s goin’ up to London by the nine thirty-one,” said Henry, “so I can get the key any time after that.”

  “All right,” said William. “We’ll meet at this house at half past nine.”

  “Yes,” agreed Henry, “an’ we’ll lode you into it an’ give you till lunch time to get out.”

  “Huh!” snorted William. “I bet we won’t need all that time. I bet we’ll be out in ten minutes.”

  “All right,” said Henry. “Half past nine tomorrow.”

  At half past nine the four met outside Meadowview.

  It was a Georgian house set well back from the road, with two rows of sash windows and small pillared porch, approached by a semi-circular drive with two wooden gates. They stood for some moments casting furtive glances up and down the road. No one was in sight. Cautiously, in single file, they made their way up the short drive and mounted the four stone steps that led to the front door. Henry took the key from his pocket, inserted it in the keyhole and flung the door open. It revealed a fair-sized hall with polished chest, wardrobe and a hat rack composed of spreading antlers.

  They entered and stood considering their surroundings with critical interest.

  “I bet I could do somethin’ with those stag horns,” said William. “If I could find a fur rug I might go out disguised as a stag.”

  “Yes, an’ how are you goin’ to get out?” said Henry.

  “There’s nothin’ to stop a prisoner of war breakin’ a window,” said William. “He could do it when no one was lookin’.”

  “You couldn’t break those windows,” said Douglas. "They’re all divided into tiny little panes by wood.”

  “Small-paned sash windows,” said Henry. “Georgian.”

  “Well, I can’t stay chatterin’ to you all day, wastin’ my escape time,” said William with dignity. “You’d better go now.”

  “All right,’ said Henry. “We’ll come an’ let you out at lunch time.”

  The door slammed behind him. William and Ginger heard the sound of the key being turned in the lock and footsteps going down the drive.

  “Well, come on,” said William. “Let’s start.” He pushed open one of the doors that led off from the hall. “Here’s the dinin’ room. I’m gettin’ hungry, aren’t you? Let’s see if there’s anything to eat.” He knelt down, opened a sideboard cupboard, and inserted head and shoulders into it. “Nothin’ at all,” he announced disapprovingly as he emerged. “A biscuit tin with nothin’ in it an’ a date box with jus’ two date stones in it.' Gosh! They might have left jus’ a few biscuits an’ a date or two. ”

  “They didn’t know we were cornin’,” said Ginger mildly. “Anyway, we’re s’posed to be escapin’ not eatin’.”

  “Yes, I know,” said William, “but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do a bit of both. ”

  He returned to the hall. Though he had not lost sight of the main object of his enterprise, he could not resist the temptation to investigate any interesting side-lines that offered themselves.

  “I bet this is the sitting-room,” he said, opening another door. “Yes, it is. There’s a nice big chimney here. I bet we could get out that way. I’ll have a look.” He knelt down on the hearth-rug and again his head and shoulders disappeared from view. His voice came muffled from the chimney aperture. “Yes, I bet I could climb up this an’ get out on to the roof an’ down by a drain-pipe.” More of his person vanished from view and his voice seemed to come from a farther distance. “If I could get hold of somethin’ to pull myself up by . . . There’s nothin’ to hold. Wait a minute. Yes, there is. Yes, I’ve got hold of somethin’.” His legs—all that could now be seen of him—waved wildly in the air. “Yes, I can . . . No, I can’t.” There came a rattle and a clatter and he descended in a shower of brick-

  work and soot. “No, there’s nothin’ to get hold of,” he complained as he scrambled to his feet, “an’ I bet they’ve not had it cleaned for years.”

  “Gosh, you have got in a mess, ’ said Ginger.

  “Well, I bet real escapers get in worse ones,” said William philosophically. “Anyway, it all helps to make a disguise ’case I need one.” He turned to inspect the window. “We can’t get out that way. They’re locked an’ if you broke one you couldn’t even get your head out. Let’s have a look at the other rooms."

  He crossed the hall and opened another door.

  “Here’s the kitchen . . . an’ I bet this is the larder. Let’s have a look at the larder.”

  The larder provided a depressing spectacle of empty shelves except in one corner, where a small jar of honey appeared to have been overlooked.


  “Come on,” said William, unscrewing the lid. “Gosh! It’s only quarter full. They’re the meanest set of people in this house I ever came across. Anyway, let’s find somethin’ to eat it with.” He opened a drawer in the kitchen table j and inspected the contents. “Fish slice, corkscrew, screwdriver . . . I ’spect we can manage with the screw-driver. We’ll have it in turns. I’ll start.” He rammed the tool into the jar and brought out a blob of honey.

  “Your turn,” he said, handing screwdriver and jar to Ginger.

  “A lot’s gone on your face,” said Ginger. “It’s got mixed up with the soot.”

  “It’ll help clean it up,” said William. “Gosh, they might have left a bit more honey . . . I’m goin’ to have another look in the larder. There’s a cake tin there an’ it might have a bit of cake in it.”

  “We’re s’posed to be gettin’ out of this house,” Ginger reminded him again, “not settlin’ down in it.”

  “Well, you’ve got to get to know a place before you can escape from it,” said William. “I’m workin’ all the time. I’m gettin’ to know the background so’s I can plan the escape prop’ly. An’ anyway we’ve got to eat to keep our strength up, haven’t we? We’ve no idea what life-an’-death dangers we’ll have to go through before we get out, an’ we want to get out alive, don’t we? So we’ve got to keep our strength up. . . . Here’s a couple of carrots left in the vegetable rack. They’re not very big but they’re nearly clean . . . Jus’ like ’em not to leave more than two!”

  Having disposed of his carrot in three and a half gigantic bites William turned his attention to the rest of the kitchen. A long-handled ceiling brush caught his attention.

  “It’d make a jolly useful sort of tool,” he said, brandishing it experimentally and sending a Family Butcher’s calendar, which depicted a group of morose-looking Highland cattle, flying off its hook across the room. “Look! What’s that thing with bars up in the wall?”

  “A ventilator,” said Ginger.

  “I bet we could escape through that. We could knock it out an’ it would leave a hole an’ we could sort of—enlarge the hole an’ escape. I bet I could reach it with this brush thing. Look! I’ll get on this chair an’ I’ll jab the end of this brush thing into the ventilator an’ push it out ...”