“Oh, all right,” he muttered aggrievedly. “I was goin' to tell him about that head but I won’t now.”
He found a suitably sized bag of green sacking in a comer of the tool-shed. It had contained garden peat and was only a little larger than the head. He carried it back to the old barn and placed the head in it. The four set off for William’s house. An air of solemnity hung over them.
“You’ll have to—watch out a bit, you know,” said Henry. “It might turn nasty like that mummy I read about. It doesn’t look the sort that would set curses on you, but that mummy in the picture had a sort of smile on its face too.”
William slowed his pace.
“Isn’t there any way of stopping them?” he said. “Curses, I mean.”
“I dunno,” said Henry vaguely. “They used to put food in mummies’ graves in ancient times to keep ’em happy, an’ they used to offer sacrifices to heathen gods . . . But I ’spect it’ll be all right.”
“Anyway, it’s goin’ to make us famous,” said William. “We won’t let anyone see it till after Thursday an’ after that we’ll let the British Museum come an’ have a look at it.”
They were passing Archie’s cottage. Douglas stopped.
“Let’s go ’n’ see if Archie’s got any sweets,” he said.
Archie had a way of buying packets of boiled sweets and then losing interest in them. He was generally glad to hand over a few sodden little packets of melting sugar to the Outlaws.
“He’s not there,” said William. “I met him goin’ along the road to Hadley. He was jus’ glarin’ in front of him an’ he didn’t seem to see me at all.”
“He was prob’ly gettin’ an idea for a picture,” said Henry. “That’s the way they get ideas, artists. He’s probably sittin’ in a wood now, paintin’ like mad.”
But Archie was not sitting in a wood painting like mad. He was standing in the studio of Hadley Art School talking to Miss Stanton, a member of the staff, whose modelling classes he had been attending for the past few weeks. His face was drawn with anguish and he accompanied his words with sweeping gestures that seemed to agitate his whole body.
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,” he was saying, “and—and—well, I just can’t understand it.”
“What exactly has happened, Mr Mannister?” said Miss Stanton patiently.
“I’m trying to tell you,” said Archie. “You see, I did this head of Ethel—”
“Your girl friend?”
“Y-yes—I mean, she’s more my girl friend than I’m her boy friend, if you know what I mean. I mean, she’s never taken me seriously, but I hoped this head I did of her would show her something of what I felt for her and and show her something of my artistic ability. It was the best thing I’ve ever done. I put my new signature on it, too.”
“Your—?”
“My new signature. Like Whistler’s butterfly. Didn’t I tell you? I’ve decided in future to stamp all my work with an acorn. It’s a symbol of artistic growth.” He stopped and looked at her helplessly. “Or isn’t it?”
Miss Stanton sighed.
“Mr Mannister, I'm rather busy today. Perhaps you could get to the point.”
“I’m trying to,” said Archie. “Honestly I am. You see, I’d finished this head. Quite the best thing I’ve ever done. And I was bringing it to you so that you might perhaps suggest some further touches to make it more perfect. A spot of colour perhaps. Like the old masters. Della Robbia, for instance—"
“Please, Mr Mannister!”
“I’m telling you as quickly as I can,” said Archie in dignified reproach. “Well, I was carrying it along the road when suddenly I saw Ethel coming from the opposite direction. I didn’t want her to see the head just then. I could hardly present it to her in the middle of the village street, and I couldn’t hide it because the piece of paper I’d put round it was very inadequate so . . .”
“Yes?” said Miss Stanton.
“Well, I was passing an excavation in the road and on a sudden impulse I slipped the head into it and pushed the soil down over it with my foot. I meant to get it out as soon as she’d passed, but it turned out that she was taking some things in a suitcase for her mother to the Village Hall for a jumble sale, so of course I had to carry it for her—I mean, I considered it a privilege to carry it for her—and when I got back to the hole—well, you simply won’t believe this—”
“The head had gone,” said Miss Stanton.
Archie gaped at her.
“How did you know?” he said.
“It seemed to be the inevitable denouement,” said Miss Stanton wearily. “The whole story seemed to be leading up to it. How do you account for the loss?”
“I can’t,” said Archie. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about it ever since it happened. I—I wondered . . ."
“Yes, Mr Mannister?”
The tension of Archie’s features had relaxed into an expression that was almost sheepish.
“It’s honestly the best thing I’ve ever done—I just, wondered—I mean, it occurred to me that—well, it really is the best thing I’ve ever done and I thought—I mean, the idea came into my mind that perhaps some— some unprincipled art collector might have seen it (you can see right into the studio of my cottage from the road, you know) and followed me and—well, you do hear of such things, you know. I suppose—I suppose it’s possible.”
“I hardly think so, Mr Mannister,” said Miss Stanton.
“Oh . .” said Archie.
It didn’t take much to deflate Archie. He collapsed like a pricked balloon.
Miss Stanton looked at him. She was tired of Archie. She was tired of teaching him modelling. She was tired of his earnestness, his futility, his pathos. An idea occurred to her.
“Do you know, Mr Mannister,” she said, “I think that Neo-primitive art is really more in your line.”
“What’s that?” said Archie.
“It’s a form of art that breaks away from tradition altogether,” she said. “You just draw as a child or a savage might draw. From the subconscious, as it were. It’s very popular just now ”
“Oh . . .’’ said Archie again.
“I think it’s just down your street, Mr Mannister. I think you’d find that you had a real gift for it.”
Archie brightened.
“Do you really?” he said.
“I do indeed,” said Miss Stanton. She too had brightened. “Mr Jenkins holds a class on Neo-primitive art every Wednesday evening.”
Archie’s face clouded over again. On Wednesday evenings Ethel went to the Country Dancing class and he always accompanied her to carry the bag containing her country dancing outfit to and from the Village Hall.
“On Wednesdays . . .” he said. “I’m not sure about Wednesdays.”
“Well, think about it,” said Miss Stanton.
“Yes, I’ll think about it.”
“And don’t worry about the head.”
“I’ll try not to,” said Archie.
Henry, Ginger and Douglas were looking anxiously from the doorway of the old barn the next morning when William approached it. His face was set and stern. He carried the small green sack.
“What have you brought it back for?” said Henry. “I thought you were goin’ to keep it till Thursday.”
“It’s the curse, ’ said William.
“The curse?”
“Yes. It’s started workin’ already. We’ve had an awful time with it.”
“How?”
William set the sack down on the ground.
“It started last night. Gosh! You never saw anythin’ like it. It was a ghastly trag’dy, all right.”
“Well, what was it?”
“I’m tryin’ to tell you if you wouldn’t keep int’ruptin’. The shelf fell down.”
“What shelf?”
“The shelf in the wardrobe of the spare room.”
“Well, there’s not much of a curse in that.”
“Isn’t there!” said William
with a harsh laugh. There was broken glass an’ jam an’ marmalade an’ plums an’ gooseberries all over the place. With all their juice!”
“Where did it all come from?” said Douglas.
“I keep tellin’ you,” said William impatiently. “From the shelf at the top of the wardrobe in the spare room. My mother had been keepin' all her jam an’ bottled fruit there an’ she’d put the chutney she’d made yesterday on it an’ the whole thing fell down in the night. You never saw such at mess. She was in an awful state. She nearly cried. An’ it was all my fault, hidin’ that ole head under the spare room bed. It started its curse right away. Didn’t even wait till the morning.”
“It might have happened any other time,” said Henry, “It needn’t have been the curse.”
“Well, it didn’t happen any other time,” said William. “Use a bit of sense. An’ it couldn’t have been anythin’ but the curse. What else could it have been?”
“Gravity,” suggested Henry tentatively after a moment’s thought.
“Well, it wasn’t gravity,” said William. “It was the curse. I was there an’ I ought to know. An’ I can’t have it in our house any longer. She said it’d only take one more thing like that to send her into a mental home.”
“I think we’d better give up this head business altogether,” said Douglas. “It’s gettin’ a bit dangerous.”
“No, I don’t want to give it up,” said William. “I took a lot of trouble gettin’ that head an’ it’s the best bit of local antiquity anyone’s ever found round here. It’s only the curse . . .”
“But what can you do about a curse?” said Douglas.
“Well, I’m the one that took it out of its hole,” said William, “so I bet I’m the one it’s after. I think it’d be all right if one of you took it.”
“Let’s have another look at it,” said Ginger.
William’s father had evidently failed to use the entire contents of the bag and through a covering of garden peat the empty eyes seemed to glare at them balefully. The faint smile had lost the suggestion of inane good nature that it had held the day before. It was mocking . . . evil. . . malicious.
“Doesn’t look as nice as it did yesterday,” said Douglas.
“It’s only that stuff it’s got on its face,” said William. “It’ll look better when we’ve washed it. Well, I can’t take it back with me, so one of the rest of you’ll have to take it.”
“I will, ” said Henry. “I’ll put it somewhere where it can’t do any damage.”
“All right,” said William. “Find a good place for it an' it can stay there till Thursday.”
But the next morning when they went to Henry’s house he emerged from it furtively, carrying the small green sack.
“What have you brought it out for?” said William. “You were goin’ to keep it till Thursday.”
“Come to the old barn an’ I’ll tell you,” said Henry, throwing a nervous glance behind him.
They hurried across the field to the old barn.
“Did your mother’s jam fall down, too?” said William.
“No,” said Henry. “It was worse. I hid it in the cupboard in the bathroom where the tank is. That’s next to the nursery, you know where our baby is, an’ jus’ a few minutes after I’d hid it in there, it put the tail of its toy monkey into its mouth an’ it stuck in its throat an’ nearly choked it to death."
“What? The head?”
“No, you idiot! The baby.”
“Well, it didn’t axshully choke it to death, did it?”
“No, ’cause my mother took it out, but it might have done if she’d not been there.”
“It’s always chokin’ over things,” said William. “It doesn’t seem to have much sense.”
“It’s got a jolly sight more sense than most babies,” said Henry with spirit. “It’s on page seven of Mother’s baby book an’ for its age it ought to be only on page five.”
Henry professed a scornful indifference to his baby sister but was apt to rise hotly to her defence when criticism was levelled at her by others.
“Anyway, it never axshully choked,’ said William, “an’ I bet it’d have put that monkey’s tail in its mouth anyway, even if the head hadn’t been in the nex’ room.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ to risk it,” said Henry. “My mother thinks a lot of it. She’d be mad if anythin’ happened to it.”
“I think that baby of yours is jolly selfish,” said Ginger. “Messin’ everything up!”
“P’raps you’d like to keep that ole head for a bit, then?” said Henry aggressively.
“Yes, I wouldn’t mind,” said Ginger. “I’m not scared. Let’s have a look at it.”
“I washed it.’’said Henry. He drew the head from the bag. Though it had collected a fresh coating of garden peat from its sojourn in the bag, the face gleamed through it with a bone-like pallor.
“What’s happened to its nose?” said William.
“I gave it a good scrub and a few bits of its nose came off,” said Henry. “A few bits of its hair came off too.”
“It’s gettin’ a nasty sort of look,” said Ginger judicially.
“Yes, it is, rather,” admitted William, “but p’raps it’s used up its curse now. Or p'raps it doesn’t like bein’ indoors. Try keepin’ it somewhere out of doors. I bet it won’t do any harm out of doors. Anyway, you’ve not got a baby or jam on your wardrobe shelf, so you ought to be all right.”
“Oh, I’m not scared of it,” said Ginger again with a careless laugh.
But somehow they were not surprised to see him approaching the old barn the next morning with the familiar green sack in his hand.
“Gosh! What’s it done now?” said William irritably.
“Well, I did what you said," said Ginger. “I put it out of doors. I put it in the frame in the garden right in the comer, ’cause I wanted it to keep dry ’case it rained. Anyway——”
“Yes? What happened?”
“Well, when we got up this mornin’ a rabbit had got into the garden an’ eaten all my father’s lettuces. Every single one of them. Gosh! He was mad. It was a ghastly trag’dy same as yours. He’d raised them from seed an’ planted them out an’ watered them an’ then it comes along an’ eats every single one of them up.”
“Well, the head hadn’t eaten them,” said William. “You talk as if the head had eaten them. You can’t blame the head."
“Oh, can’t I!” said Ginger. “I bet that rabbit wouldn’t have come if that head hadn’t been there.”
“You’ve had rabbits in your garden before,” said William. “You’re bound to with the wood at the bottom of your garden.”
“We’ve not had one for months an’ months,” said Ginger. “It was jolly funny it came jus’ that day I’d got the head.”
“Well, jus’ try it another night,” said William.
“No, I’m not goin’ to," said Ginger. “I’m not goin’ to have it eatin’ any more stuff an’ puttin’ him in a worse temper than he is already. If it starts on his outdoor tomatoes he’ll jus’ go bonkers. He shot at it but he didn’t kill it. He only scared it an’ it ran off, but I bet if I took that head home again, it’d come back an’ finish off the whole lot.”
“Perhaps you didn’t treat it right,” said Douglas.
“I did everythin’ I could think of,” said Ginger. “I gave it some food same as Henry said they did to mummies to keep ’em happy. I gave it some tinned strawberries an’ I broke a bit off its mouth tryin’ to get some carrot into it.”
He drew the head out of the sack. Its appearance had certainly changed for the worse. A bright red stain adorned its chin, and the broken mouth had lost all traces of its smile, showing a twisted malevolent snarl.
“You’ve made a mess of it all right,” said William.
“Well, I’m not havin’ it any more,” said Ginger. “I’m not goin’ to risk it. Eatin’ every single one of his lettuces! We’re not goin’ to hear the last of it for years.”
> “You keep talkin' as if the head had eaten them,” said William.
Ginger threw a glance at the disfigured object.
“I’m not sure it didn’t,” he said darkly.
William turned to Douglas.
“You’ll have to take it, Douglas. It’s your turn.”
Douglas had been facing this moment ever since he saw Ginger returning with the bag. He had thought out various excuses and discarded them all as useless. He knew that he would have to accept the inevitable.
“All right,” he said gloomily, “but if the worst comes to the worst, I hope you’ll always remember that you made me do it.”
“Yes, we will,” promised William, “but p’raps it’ll have got used to goin’ about with us by now. I spect it was jus’ that it was a bit homesick at first.”
“Funny sort of homesick!” said Douglas with a bitter laugh. “I was homesick when I stayed with my aunt, but I didn’t go about smashin’ people’s jam jars an’ chokin’ their babies an’ eating up their lettuces . . .”
“Never mind,” said William. “It’s only for a few days. It can’t do much damage in a few days.”
“Can’t it!” said Douglas with another bitter laugh.
“Anyway, we’ve jus’ got to have it for this holiday task, now we’ve taken all this trouble,” said William.
“Frankie Dakers has got an ancient oyster shell from the rubbish heap of that Roman villa,” said Henry.
"An’ Jimmy Barlow’s got a photograph of the church before they put in the War Memorial window,” said Ginger.
“Well, that’s nothin' compared with a real heathen god’s statue’s head,” said William. “It’ll be the best of the whole lot.”
“What’s left of it,” said Douglas.
“Well—gosh, ancient things have got to be a bit knocked about. They wouldn’t be ancient if they weren’t. I bet the British Museum wouldn’t even look at anythin’ that wasn’t knocked about . . . Go on, Douglas. I bet it’ll settle down quietly at your house.”
"All right,” said Douglas gloomily. He threw a glance of disfavour at his charge. “I suppose I might try offerin’ it a sacrifice . . .”
They watched him as he went across the field, holding the bag as far as possible away from his person.
William and the Pop Singers (Just William, Book 35) Page 8
