Then the stout lady presented him with a bowl of hot water, a dish-cloth, and a towel, and told him to wash up. Wash up! He had never washed up before. He swished the water round the bowl with the dishcloth very fast one way, and then quickly changed and swished it round the other. It was fascinating. He lifted the dish-cloth high out of the water and swirled the thin stream to and fro. He soaked his apron and swamped the floor.
Finally, his patroness, who had been indulging in a doze, awoke and fixed eyes of horror upon him.
‘What yer think yer a-doing of?’ she said indignantly ‘Yer think yer at the seaside, don’t yer? Yer think yer’ve got yer little bucket an’ spade, don’t yer? Waistin’ of good water – spoilin’ of a good hapron. Where did ’Erb find yer, I’d like ter know? Picked yer aht of a lunatic asylum, I should say . . . Oh, lumme, ’ere’s toffs comin’. Sharp, now, be ready wiv the hurn an’ try an’ ’ave a bit of sense, an’ heverythin’ double price fer toffs, now – don’t forget.’
But William, with a sinking heart, had recognised the toffs. Looking wildly round he saw a large cap (presumably ’Erb’s) on a lower shelf of the stall. He seized it, put it on, and dragged it over his eyes. The ‘toffs’ approached – four of them. One of them, the elder lady, seemed upset.
‘Have you seen,’ she said to the owner of the stall, ‘a little boy anywhere about – a little boy in an Eton suit?’
‘No, mam,’ said the proprietress, ‘I hain’t seen no one in a heton suit.’
‘He was going out to a party’ went on Mrs Brown breathlessly, ‘and he must have got lost on the way. They rang up to say he hadn’t arrived, and the police have had no news of him, and we’ve traced him to this locality. You – you haven’t seen a little boy that looked as if he were going to a party?’
‘No, mam,’ said the lady of the coffee-stall. ‘I hain’t seen no little boy goin’ to no party this hevening.’
‘Oh, mother,’ said Ethel; and William, trying to hide his face between his cap-brim and his apron, groaned in spirit as he heard her voice. ‘Do let’s have some coffee now we’re here.’
‘Very well, darling,’ said Mrs Brown. ‘Four cups of coffee, please.’
William, still cowering under his cap, poured them out and handed them over the counter.
‘You couldn’t mistake him,’ said Mrs Brown tearfully. ‘He had a nice blue overcoat over his Eton suit, and a blue cap to match, and patent leather shoes, and he was so looking forward to the party, I can’t think—’
‘How much?’ said William’s father to William.
‘Twopence each,’ muttered William.
There was a horrible silence.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said William’s father suavely, and William’s heart sank.
‘Twopence each,’ he muttered again.
There was another horrible silence.
‘May I trouble you,’ went on William’s father – and from the deadly politeness of his tone, William realised that all was over – ‘may I trouble you to remove your cap a moment? Something about your voice and the lower portion of your face reminds me of a near relative of mine—’
But it was Robert who snatched ’Erb’s cap from his head and stripped his apron from him, and said: ‘You young devil!’ and Ethel who said: ‘Goodness, just look at his clothes,’ and Mrs Brown who said: ‘Oh, my darling little William, and I thought I’d lost you’; and the lady of the coffee-stall who said: ‘Well, yer can ’ave ’im fer all ’e knows abaht washin’ up.’
And William returned sad but unrepentant to the bosom of outraged Respectability.
CHAPTER 8
WILLIAM ADVERTISES
A new sweetshop, Mallards by name, had been opened in the village. It had been the sensation of the week to William and his friends. For it sold everything a halfpenny cheaper than Mr Moss.
It revolutionised the finances of the Outlaws. The Outlaws was the secret society which comprised William and his friends Ginger, Henry, and Douglas. Jumble, William’s disreputable mongrel, was its mascot.
The Outlaws patronised Mallards generously on the first Saturday of its career. William spent his whole threepence there on separate halfpennyworths. He insisted on the halfpennyworths. He said firmly that Mr Moss always let him have halfpennyworths. In the end the red-haired young woman behind the counter yielded to him. She yielded reluctantly and scornfully. She took no interest in his choice. She asked him in a voice of bored contempt not to finger the Edinburgh Rock. She muttered as she did up his package – ‘waste of paper and time’ – ‘never heard such nonsense’ – ‘ha’porths indeed.’
William went out of the shop, placing his five minute packets in already over-full pockets and keeping out the sixth for present consumption.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said darkly to Ginger and Henry, who accompanied him – Douglas was away from home – ‘I’m not sure as I’m ever going there again— Have a bull’s eye? – I didn’t like the way she looked at me nor spoke at me – an’ I’ve a jolly good mind not to go to Mallards next Saturday’
‘But it’s cheap,’ said Ginger, taking out his package. ‘Have an aniseed ball? – an’ it’s cheap that matters in a shop, I should think.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said William, with an air of wisdom. ‘That’s all I say – I jus’ don’t know – I jus’ don’t know that cheap’s all that matters.’
‘Well, wot else matters? You tell me that,’ said Henry, crunching up a bull’s eye and an aniseed ball simultaneously, and taking out his package. ‘Have a pear drop? – You jus’ tell me wot matters besides cheap in a shop.’
William, perceiving that the general feeling was against him, put another bull’s eye in his mouth and waxed irritable.
‘Well, don’t talk about it so much,’ he said. ‘You keep talkin’ an’ talkin’—’ Then an argument occurred to him, and he brought it out with triumph. ‘S’pose anyone was a murderer – well, wot would cheap have to do with it? – S’pose someone wot had a shop murdered someone – well, I s’pose if they was cheap you’d say it was all right! Huh!’
With an expression of intense scorn and amusement William put the last bull’s eye into his mouth, threw away the paper, and took out the treacle toffee.
‘Well, who’s she murdered?’ said Ginger pugnaciously ‘Jus’ ’cause she din’ want to give you ha’p’orths you go an’ say she’s murdered someone. Well, who’s she murdered, that’s all? – You can’t go callin’ folks murderers an’ not prove who they’ve murdered. Bring out who she’s murdered – that’s all.’
William was at the moment deeply engrossed in his treacle toffee.
The red-haired girl had given it an insufficient allowance of paper, and in William’s pocket it had lost even this, and formed a deep attachment to a piece of putty which a friendly plumber had kindly given him the day before. The piece of putty was at that moment the apple of William’s eye. He detached it gently from the toffee and examined it tenderly to make sure that it was not harmed. Finally he replaced it in his pocket and put the toffee in his mouth. Then he returned to the argument.
‘How can I bring out who she’s murdered if she’s murdered them. That’s a sens’ble thing to say, isn’t it? If she’s murdered ’em she’s buried ’em. Do you think folks wot murder folks leaves ’em about for other folks to bring out to show they’ve murdered ’em? You’ve not got much sense. That’s all I say. You don’t know much about murderers. Why do you keep talkin’ about murderers if you don’t know anything about ’em?’
Ginger was growing slightly bewildered. Arguments with William often left him bewildered. He was inclined, on the whole, to think that perhaps William was right, and she had murdered someone.
At this point Jumble created a diversion. Jumble loved treacle toffee, and he had caught a whiff of the divine perfume. He sat up promptly to beg for some, but the Outlaws’ mascot was seldom lucky himself. He sat up on the very edge of a ditch, and William could not resist giving him a push.
Jumble
picked himself out of the bottom of the ditch and shook off the water, grinning and wagging his tail. Jumble was a sportsman. William had finished the treacle toffee, but Henry threw Jumble an aniseed ball, which he licked, rolled with his paw, and abandoned, and which Henry then carefully put back with the others in his packet. Then William threw a stick for him; and the discussion of the red-haired girl’s morals was definitely abandoned.
At the corner of the road they espied Joan Crewe. Though fluffy and curled and exquisitely dressed herself, Joan adored William’s roughness and untidiness.
‘Hello!’ said Joan.
‘Hello!’ said the Outlaws.
‘Have you been to Mallards’?’ said Joan.
‘Umph!’ said the Outlaws.
‘It’s a halfpenny cheaper than Moss’s.’
‘Yes,’ said Ginger, ‘but William says she’s a murderer.’
‘I di’n’t,’ said William irritably. ‘You can’t understand English. That’s wot wrong with you. You can’t understand English. Wot I said was—’
Finding that he had entirely forgotten how the argument arose, he hastily changed the subject. ‘Wot you’re goin’ to do now?’ he said.
‘Anything,’ said Joan obligingly.
‘Have a coconut lump?’ said William, taking out his third bag.
‘Have an aniseed ball?’ said Ginger.
‘Have a pear drop?’ said Henry
Joan took one of each and took out a bag from her pocket.
‘Have a liquorice treasure?’ she said.
Munching cheerfully they walked along the road, stopping to throw a stick for Jumble every now and then. Jumble then performed his ‘trick’. His ‘trick’ was to walk between William and Ginger, a paw in each of their hands. It was a ‘trick’ that Jumble cordially detested. He generally managed to avoid it. The word ‘trick’ generally sent him flying towards the horizon like an arrow from a bow. But this time he was hoping that William still had some treacle toffee concealed on his person, and did not take to his heels in time. He was finally released with a kiss from Joan on the end of his nose. In joy at his freedom, he found a stick, worried it, ran after his tail, and finally darted down the road.
‘Have a monkey-nut?’ said William.
They partook of his last packet.
‘I once heard a boy say,’ said Henry solemnly, ‘that people who eat monkey-nuts get monkey-puzzle trees growin’ out of their mouths.’
‘I don’t s’pose,’ said Ginger, as he swallowed his, ‘that jus’ a few could do it.’
‘Anyway it would be rather interestin’,’ said William, ‘going about with a tree comin’ out of your mouth – you could slash things about with it.’
‘But think of the orful pain,’ said Henry dejectedly; ‘roots growin’ inside your stomach.’
Joan handed her monkey-nut back to William.
‘I – I don’t think I’ll have one, thank you, William,’ she said.
‘All right,’ said William, philosophically cracking it and putting it into his mouth. ‘I don’t mind eatin’ ’em. Let ’em start growin’ trees out of my stomach if they can.’
They were nearing a little old-fashioned sweetshop. A man in check trousers, shirt-sleeves, and a white apron stood in the doorway. Generally Mr Moss radiated cheerfulness. Today he looked depressed. They approached him somewhat guiltily.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You coming to spend your Saturday money?’
‘Er – no,’ said William.
‘We’ve spent it,’ said Ginger.
At Mallards’,’ said Henry
‘It’s – it’s a halfpenny cheaper,’ said Joan.
‘Well,’ said Mr Moss, ‘I don’t blame you. Mind, I don’t blame you. You’re quite right to go where it’s a halfpenny cheaper. You’d be foolish if you didn’t go where it’s a halfpenny cheaper. But all I say is it’s not fair on me. They’re a big company, they are, and I’m not. They’ve got shops all over the big towns, they have, and I’ve not. They’ve got capital behind ’em, they have, and I’ve not. They can afford to give things away, an’ I can’t. I’ve always kept prices as low as I could so as jus’ to be able to keep myself on ’em, an’ I can’t lower them no further. That’s where they’ve got me. They can undercut. They don’t need to make a profit at first. An’ all I say is it’s not fair on me. They say as this here place is growin’ an’ there’s room for the two of us. Well, all I can say is not more’n ten people’s come into this here shop since they set up, an’ it’s not fair on me.’
His audience of four, clustered around his shop-door, listened in big-eyed admiration. As he stopped for breath, William said earnestly:
‘Well, we won’t buy no more of their ole stuff, anyway—’
The Outlaws confirmed this statement eagerly, but Mr Moss raised his hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You oughter go where you get stuff cheapest. I don’t blame you. You’re quite right.’
They walked along in silence for a little while. The memory of Mr Moss, wistful and bewildered, with his cheerful hilarity gone, remained with them.
‘I won’t go to that Old Mallards’ again while I live,’ said William firmly.
Anyway she wasn’t nice. I didn’t like her,’ said Joan.
‘She didn’t care what you bought?’ said William indignantly. ‘She didn’t take any interest like wot Mr Moss does.’
‘Yes, an’ if she murders folks as William says she does—’ began Ginger.
‘I wish you’d shut up talking about that,’ said William. ‘I di’n’t say she’d murdered anyone.’
‘You did.’
‘I di’n’t.’
‘You did.’
‘I di’n’t.’
‘Do have another liquorice treasure,’ said Joan.
Peaceful munchings were resumed.
‘Anyway,’ said William, returning to the matter in hand, ‘I’d like to do something for Mr Moss.’
‘Wot could we do?’ said Ginger.
‘We could stop folks goin’ to old Mallards’ – ’Tisn’t as if she took any int’rest in wot you buy.’
‘Well, how could we stop folks goin’ to ole Mallards’?’
‘Make ’em go to Mr Moss.’
‘Well, how – why don’t you say how?’
‘Well, we’d have to have a meeting about it – an Outlaw meeting. Let’s have one now. Let’s go to our woodshed an’ have one now’
Joan’s face fell.
‘I can’t come, can I? I’m not an Outlaw.’
‘You can be an Outlaw ally,’ said William kindly. ‘We’ll make up a special oath for you, an’ give you a special secret sign.’
Joan’s eyes shone.
‘Oh, thank you, William darling.’
Joan had taken the special oath. It had consisted of the words: ‘I will not betray the secrets of the Outlaws, an’ I will stick up for the Outlaws till death do us part.’
The last phrase was an inspiration of Henry’s, who had been to his cousin’s wedding the week before.
They sat down on logs or stacks of firewood or packing-cases to consider the question of Mr Moss.
‘First thing is,’ said William, with a business-like frown, ‘we’ve got to make people go to Mr Moss.’
‘Well, how can we?’ objected Ginger. ‘Jus’ tell me that? How can we make people go to Moss’s when Mallards’ is halfpenny cheaper?’
‘Same way as big shops make people go to them – they put up notices an’ things – they say their things is better than other shops’ things, an’ folks believes ’em.’
‘Well, why should folks believe ’em?’ said Ginger pugnaciously. Henry was engaged upon his last few pear drops and had no time for conversation. ‘Why should folks b’lieve ’em when they say they’re better than other shops? An’ how can we stick up notices an’ where an’ who’ll let us stick up notices? You don’t talk sense. You’re mad, that’s wot you are. First you go about calling folks murderers when you don’t know who they’ve murdered, nor nothin’ about it,
an’ then you talk about stickin’ up notices when there isn’t anyone who’d let us stick up any notices, nor anyone who’d take any notice of notices wot we stuck up nor—’
‘If you’d jus’ stop talkin’,’ said William, ‘an’ deafenin’ us all for jus’ a bit. You’ve been talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all ever since you came out. D’you think we never want to hear anythin’ all our lives ever till death, but you talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all? There is things that we’d like to hear ’sides you talkin’ an’ deafenin’ us all – there’s music an’ birds singing, an’ – an’ other folks talkin’, but you go on so’s anyone would think that—’
Here Ginger hurled himself upon William, and the two of them rolled on to the floor and wrestled among the faggots. Violent physical encounters were a regular part of the programme of the Outlaws’ meetings. Henry watched nonchalantly from his perch, crunching pear drops, occasionally throwing small twigs at them, and saying: ‘Go it!’ – ‘That’s right!’ – ‘Go it!’ Joan watched with anxious horror, and ‘William, do be careful,’ and: ‘Oh, Ginger, darling, don’t hurt him.’
Finally the combatants rose, dusty and dishevelled, shook hands, and resumed their seats on the stacks of firewood.
‘Now, if you’ll only let me speak—’ began William.
‘We will, William, darling,’ said Joan. ‘Ginger won’t interrupt, will you, Ginger?’
Ginger, who had decidedly had the worst of the battle, was removing dust and twigs from his mouth. He gave a non-committal grunt.
‘Well, you know the Sale of Work next week?’ went on William. They groaned. It was a ceremony to which each of the company would be led, brushed and combed and dressed in gala clothes, in a proud parent’s wake.
‘Well,’ went on William. ‘You jus’ listen carefully. I got an idea.’
They leant forward eagerly. They had a touching faith in William’s ideas that no amount of bitter experiences seemed able to destroy.
The day of the Sale of Work was warm and cloudless. William’s mother and sister worked there all the morning. A tent had been erected, and inside the tent were a few select stalls of flowers and vegetables. Outside on the grass were the other stalls. The opening ceremony was to be performed by a real live duke.
William the Fourth Page 9
