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

by Richmal Crompton

  “I bet it’ll be all right now,” said William with never-failing optimism.

  The next morning they stood at the doorway of the old barn waiting for him in anxious silence. At last his figure was seen in the distance.

  “He’s not got it,” cried William triumphantly.

  But, as Douglas drew nearer, the swelling beneath his coat showed that he was carrying it carefully concealed.

  “Well, you’ve not kept it long,” said William as he reached them. There was a note of cold condemnation in his voice.

  “I’ve kept it as long as the rest of you did,” said Douglas, drawing the green sack from his coat and placing it on the ground. “I kept it as long as I poss’bly could. I only jus’ escaped with my life. I bet my trag’dy’s the ghastliest of the whole lot.”

  “Why? What did it do to you?”

  “Pushed me off the roof.”

  “Pushed you—?”

  “Pushed me off the roof. I wanted to get up to my bedroom without anyone seein’ the head, an’ my mother was in the sittin’-room where she’d have seen me comin' in with it at the gate, so I went round to the back gate an’ round to the back garden an’ I stuck the head up under my pullover an’ got on the fence to climb up the kitchen roof into my bedroom window an’ I’d hardly got on to the roof when I fell right down.”

  “You’ve often fallen off that roof before. ”

  “Yes, but not as badly as this time. I’ve still got the bruises. It was the curse, all right.”

  “Well, it wasn’t as bad as breakin’ jam jars an’ chokin’ babies an’ turnin’ rabbits loose in people’s gardens. Where did you put it in the end?”

  “In the garage behind the old drum an’ I shouldn’t be surprised if there’s somethin’ wrong with the car the next time my father wants to take it out.”

  “Did you try offerin’ it a sacrifice?”

  “Yes, I did. There was a fire at the bottom of the garden that the gard’ner had started an’ it was still burnin’ an’ I put the head at the side of it an’ I burnt my last year’s pocket diary for a sacrifice.”

  “I don’t call that a sacrifice,” said Henry.

  “It was near enough,” said Douglas. “It wouldn’t know it was last year’s.”

  “I bet it did,” said Ginger. “It knows everything.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry I burnt it now. I’d kept it ’cause it told you how gliders were made an’ I thought it might come in useful. An’ all that head did back was to push me off the roof.”

  “Well, I think you might have kept it a bit longer,” said William.

  “I couldn’t now, anyway,” said Douglas, “’cause my mother’s gettin’ suspicious. She saw me takin’ it out this morning’ an’ she said, ‘What have you got in that bag?’ an’ when I said ‘Nothin’,’ she said it was a funny shape for nothin’, an’ I bet if I take it back she’ll be on to it . . . I like her,” he added as an afterthought, “but she’s a bit nosey.”

  “Well,” said William in a tone of finality, “we’ll jus’ have to find somewhere else to keep it. It’s no use havin’ it in any of our houses ’cause we’ve tried.”

  “What about the ditch?” said Henry. “It couldn’t do any harm in a ditch.”

  They turned to look at the ditch that ran between the field and the hedge.

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” said William. “It’s a sort of hole, too. It might feel more at home there.”

  “Let’s take it out of the bag,” said Ginger. “P’raps it doesn’t like bein’ in a bag.”

  Douglas drew the head from its bag and set it on the ground.

  “Gosh!” said William. “Whatever have you done to it this time? It gets worse every time it comes out.”

  “It’s only the smoke from the sacrifice," explained Douglas. “The wind was blowin’ in its direction. I ’spect it’ll wash off.”

  “We’ll jus’ stick it in the ditch, then,” said William. “We can wash it afterwards. We won’t put it back in its bag. P’raps it doesn’t like bein’ in a bag. It wasn’t in a bag in its hole . . . Come on.”

  It was a dry ditch, overgrown with weeds and grass, William placed the head at the bottom, carefully covering it with long grass.

  Old Amos Faversham, one of Farmer Jenks’ labourers, was cutting the hedge by the gate when they reached it. He gave them a cheery wave of his bagging hook and a “Hello, young uns” as they passed. They walked slowly down the road.

  “If it’s all right tomorrow,” said William, “we can leave it there till Thursday. Call for me first thing tomorrow momin’ an’ we’ll go an’ have a look at it.”

  Next morning their families were mildly surprised by the alacrity with which they rose and the scanty appetites they showed for breakfast.

  “I’m jus’ not hungry,” said William impatiently, as he hastily swallowed a few spoonfuls of cereal and made for the door. “There isn’t any law about bein’ hungry, is there?”

  He hurried out of the house and down to the gate, where Ginger, Henry and Douglas awaited him.

  “It’s sure to be all right,” he said, as they made their way down the road. “It can’t have done more than kill a few nettles, anyway.”

  Amos was already at work on the hedge when they reached the field. He looked less cheerful than he had looked the day before.

  “Well, young ’uns,” he said, “an’ how do you find yourselves this mornin’?”

  “Very well, thank you, Mr Faversham,” said Henry. “How do you find yourself?”

  Henry was a stickler for etiquette, a sayer of “How d’you do,” an inquirer after people’s health. He steered his way with easy skill through the complexities of social usage.

  “All right, thankee, except for me rheumatics,” said Amos. “They’ve come on somethin’ cru’l this momin’. Sign of rain, I suppose."

  They stared at him in silent dismay.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Faversham,” said Henry, recovering himself with an effort.

  They began to make their way across the field, their faces set and anxious.

  “’Course it’s not a sign of rain,” said Ginger.

  “No, it’s the curse all right,” said William. “He’s been doin’ that bit jus’ near where the head is.”

  “If he dies of rheumatics,” said Henry, “we’ll have his death on our hands.”

  “An’ he’s got a wife an’ fam’ly,” said Douglas. “They’ll miss him.”

  They peered down half fearfully into the ditch at the spot where they had left the head. It leered up at them through the tangled grass.

  “Well, what are we goin’ to do with it now?” said Ginger.

  “Let’s chuck it in the dustbin,” said Douglas.

  “An’ what about the poor ole dustman an’ his wife an’ family?” said William indignantly. “He’s a jolly nice man, too. He was in the Navy in the war an’ he’s got a jellyfish tattoed on his chest.”

  “Well, what are we goin’ to do, then?” said Henry.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” said William. “You said those things carried on with their curses till they were put back in the places they’d been taken from, so we’ll jus have to put this head back in its hole.”

  “But what about the holiday task?” said Henry.

  “We can’t help that,” said William. “We can’t go on startin’ ghastly trag’dies all over the place like this.”

  “It’s a miracle I’m not dead,” said Douglas gloomily. “You should see the colour of my bruise this mornin’.”

  “Oh, shut up about your bruise,” said William. “We’re not interested in your bruise. Where’s the bag?”

  Douglas drew the bag from his pocket. Carefully they replaced the head.

  “It seemed to grin at me,” said Ginger.

  “I thought it winked,” said Henry.

  “Oh, come on!” said William.

  They made their way to the Post Office. The stretch of road outside was smooth and unbroken. Workmen
were packing equipment into a lorry.

  “Gosh! Have you filled it in?” said William.

  “Yes . . . Job finished,” said one of the men.

  “You couldn’t—you couldn’t jus’ open it up again jus' for a minute or two, could you?” said William, an unusual note of diffidence in his voice.

  “I could not," said the man. “Why?”

  “Oh nothin’,” said William despondently.

  The four turned and trailed off down the road. Suddenly William stopped.

  “I’ve got an idea," he said.

  They looked at him with dawning hope.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, Colonel Masters is havin’ an exhibition of his brother’s African curios this afternoon. His brother’s come home from Africa an’ brought a lot of curios with him an’ he’s stayin’ with Colonel Masters till he gets a house an’ Colonel Masters is havin’ an exhibition of his things this afternoon an’ he’s asked everyone to go to it.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Henry. “He’s asked my family.”

  “An’ mine,” said Ginger.

  “An’ mine,” said Douglas.

  “Well, I heard someone talkin’ about it an’ he’s got a lot of witch doctors’ masks,” said William, “an’ witch doctors have the strongest magic in the world. I bet a heathen god’s head’s magic’s nothin' to a witch doctor’s magic . . . Well, listen. We’ll go to this exhibition with our families, an’ we’ll slip this head in with the witch doctors’ masks an’ I bet their magic’ll kill this ole head’s magic right off. I bet there won’t be any of it left.”

  They considered the suggestion doubtfully.

  “It might work,” said Henry, “an’ it might not.”

  “All right. You think of somethin’ better,” challenged William. “You think of somethin’ that won’t go breakin’ jam jars an’ chokin’ babies an’ pushin’ people off roofs an’ eatin’ lettuces. Go on. Think of it.” Henry frowned thoughtfully and remained silent. “All right, then, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll get that ditch stuff an’ sacrifice stuff off its face an’ slip it in with the witch doctors’ masks till its magic’s gone, then we’ll fetch it away an’ it’ll make a jolly good holiday task.”

  As usual they found themselves infected by William’s optimism.

  “It’s worth tryin’,” said Henry.

  “’Course it is,” said William.

  Colonel Masters’ library was crowded with the guests who had come to see his brother’s collection of African curios.

  Most of the guests had assembled at one end of the room where Colonel Masters was explaining that his brother had been called away on business, but had arranged the collection before his departure. He then proceeded to give a short account of his brother’s journeys and adventures in South Africa.

  The Outlaws had sloped into the room, each behind his own family, and had then furtively gathered together round a table in a small recess on which the witch doctors’ masks were displayed. William’s eyes rested on them in silent satisfaction. They were towering and terrifying, with monstrous painted features and expressions of hideous ferocity. There would be little left of the head’s magic, he thought, after a sojourn in their company.

  Henry carried the head in his school satchel (Henry’s parents were notoriously vague and had accepted his explanation that he was “takin’ somethin’ somewhere” without question) and the other three closed round him to shield him from view as he drew out the head and placed it among the masks. They then wandered over to the opposite side of the room to gaze with eager—and slightly over-acted— interest at the photograph of an elephant shot by Colonel Masters’ brother in 1910.

  Colonel Masters had finished his little lecture and the guests spread out over the room. The largest group gathered round the table that held the witch doctors’ masks.

  William turned to watch the scene. Yes, already the head seemed to have shrunk. Its barely discernible features had lost their expression of malicious triumph. The faint twisted smile was apologetic, almost cringing. The thing wore a beaten, defeated air.

  “It looks scared,” he whispered to Ginger.

  “Serve it right!” said Ginger.

  General Moult was peering with dim, short-sighted eyes at the masks.

  “What’s that small white object?” he asked.

  “It appears to be a head,” said Miss Golightly. “Very roughly executed . . ."

  “Some sort of fetish, perhaps,” said Miss Milton.

  Colonel Masters was consulting his papers.

  “It doesn’t seem to be listed here,” he said, “but my brother arranged the exhibits in rather a hurry and he may have omitted some items from the lists.”

  “Definitely South African workmanship,” said General Moult. “No doubt of that at all.”

  General Moult had served in the South African war and, for that reason, considered himself an authority on every branch of South African culture.

  “Perhaps it’s one of those human heads that savages treat in a special way,” said Miss Milton.

  “They boil them down or something, ” said Miss Thompson vaguely.

  “That’s Borneo, not South Africa,” said Miss Golightly.

  “It must have some bearing on the art or life of South Africa,” said Colonel Masters, “or my brother would not have included it. Part of a witch doctor’s equipment, no doubt.”

  “Perhaps the witch doctor used it for telling people’s bumps,” said Miss Thompson. “It’s got a name . . .”

  “Phrenology,” said Miss Golightly, “but I hardly think so.”

  “I had a curious experience with a witch doctor once,” began General Moult and the crowd melted quickly away. They had heard General Moult’s stories till they almost knew them by heart.

  Archie was left alone in front of the table. His eyes, fixed on the head, grew wider and wider. His mouth dropped open. Bewilderment and dismay chased each other over his features. He had come to the exhibition hoping to get a line on Neo-primitive art, and there—staring at him from its blank eyes—was the head he had left in the hole outside the Post Office. It was battered and disfigured, but there was no mistaking it. It was the head.

  He heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to see Ethel standing by him. Ethel’s eyes, too, were fixed on the head. The expressions that chased each other over her features were those of horror and fury. The base on which the head was set was so small that the Outlaws had not even noticed it, but Ethel saw the letter E faintly but unmistakably inscribed, followed by the indecipherable squiggle by which Archie always indicated her name. Moreover, by the side of the name was—again faint but unmistakable—the acorn which, as Archie had confided to her, he intended to be the distinguishing mark of his work. And—to make matters even worse—the face, battered and disfigured though it was, bore a distinct resemblance to Ethel’s ... It might have been a clever and diabolically cruel caricature.

  “How dare you!” she said under her breath.

  Archie goggled.

  “I didn’t . . ." he said wildly. “I swear I didn’t... I couldn’t ... I don’t know how ... I never ... It can’t be ... It isn’t. . . it . . .”

  “I’ve never been so insulted in my life,” said Ethel. “I shall never speak to you again as long as I live. Get out of my way.”

  She went from the french windows down the drive to the gate. Archie followed her, expostulating frantically in a voice that grew higher and higher, squeakier and squeakier. At the gate Ethel turned to him and addressed! him with icy dignity.

  “If you don’t go away at once,” she said, “I shall call the police.”

  Slowly he made his way up the drive again to the housed He could no longer escort Ethel to and from the Village Hall for her Country Dancing class on Wednesday evenings. She had made that only too clear. His Wednesday evenings would be free. He could join the Neo-primitive class at Hadley Art School. Beneath his bewilderment and dismay stirred a half-guilty sense of relief. Rosy vi
sions danced before his eyes. “The outstanding picture in this exhibition was Archibald Mannister’s.” “Archibald Mannister, the well known Neo-primitive artist.” “It was as a Neo-primitive painter that Archibald Mannister first made his reputation. He . . .”

  Four boys passed him carrying something in a satchel. They called a greeting but he did not even hear it as he neared the house. “At Sotheby’s yesterday an Early Archibald Mannister went for three hundred guineas . . .” But first he must solve the mystery of the head. Had some unscrupulous dealer deliberately stolen it? He entered the library and made his way through the crowd to the table where the witch doctors’ masks were displayed. Again his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

  The head had gone.

  The members of William’s form sauntered one by one into the classroom. William, Henry, Ginger and Douglas took their seats together in the back row. With blank expressionless face William drew the head from its bag and placed it on the desk in front of him. He had given it a “good wash”. Seizing the opportunity when his mother was out of the house, he had plunged it into boiling water with a heavy application of detergent and had scrubbed it as hard as he could with the kitchen scrubbing brush. Every vestige of its features had been removed, leaving an off-white irregularly rounded ball. Victor Jameson threw it a careless glance.

  “What’s that?” he said “A fossilised turnip?”

  William looked at the head with renewed interest. The idea intrigued him. Shorn of its features, the thing certainly bore a stronger resemblance to a fossilised turnip than to any part of a statue.

  “Uh-huh,” he said nonchalantly.

  Hubert Lane gave a derisive chuckle.

  “I bet Mr Mostyn will think my map’s the best of the whole lot,” he said.

  “Mr Mostyn’s not coming,” said Frankie Parker. “Mr French is back. I’ve just seen him. He got over his op. in good time an’ Mr Mostyn’s gone to be an actor.”

  It was true. Mr French had made an unexpectedly quick recovery and Mr Mostyn, who in any case considered himself wasted in the teaching profession, had transferred his gifts and his person to a small but exclusive repertory company that specialised in performing “experimental” drama to a limited audience of left-wing intellectuals.