William

by Richmal Crompton

  CONTENTS

  Foreword by Bonnie Langford

  1. The Mystery of Oaklands

  2. The New Game

  3. William’s Double Life

  4. William and the Waxwork Prince

  5. William the Showman

  6. The Outlaws Deliver the Goods

  7. Fireworks Strictly Prohibited

  8. The Outlaws Fetch the Holly

  9. The Sentimental Widow

  10. William and the Prize Pig

  FOREWORD

  ‘I’ll thcream ’n’ thcream till I’m thick. I can.’ The gleeful threat of Violet Elizabeth Bott. Do I flinch if people say that to me? Absolutely, yes. Do I wish I had never played her? Absolutely not. She was and is a joy! One of my favourite roles. When Richmal Crompton introduced Violet Elizabeth into William’s world, she described how he ‘gazed at this apparition in horror’. Not only was she ‘a girl’ (as far as William was concerned, all girls were aliens from outer space and to be avoided wherever possible), but ‘she lisped!’.

  In 1976, London Weekend Television was producing a television adaptation of Just William to be broadcast on ITV on Sunday afternoons. Already a bit of an old hand at the acting game – and probably a little bit pleased to take the morning off school – I was quite excited to audition for the part of Violet Elizabeth. I didn’t know anything about Just William or Violet Elizabeth Bott, but my father had been a fan and was happy to tell me about the adventures of William and his gang. It was wonderful to see the twinkle in his eye and imagine how he might have played as a carefree young boy, imitating pirates, robbers and outlaws. You never really imagine your parents as children, they’re just born grown up, aren’t they?

  In the audition I had to read the scene from ‘The Sweet Little Girl in White’, where William first meets Violet Elizabeth. She flirts and teases him dreadfully, goading him into playing fairies, and crying when he refuses. When Violet tells William, ‘You with you wath a little girl, don’t you?’ the producers began to laugh hysterically and, thankfully, I got the job! My Violet Elizabeth Bott had arrived. She was spoilt, confident and manipulating, but funny and innocently charming, desperate to be liked and fearless in her pursuit of fun.

  I should say that filming Just William was a joy, because it was – mostly. I just wish (or is that ‘with’?!) that we had been on location in June and not the coldest November on record. Amongst all the crew wrapped in duvet coats and snow boots was me, dressed in a flimsy cotton dress, with ‘white silk socks and white buckskin shoes’, running through the woods in temperatures near to freezing. I spent the entire day chasing William and the gang through slimy, smelly, wet mud. I lost two pairs of shoes, sucked into the squelch, my socks stuck to my legs, my curly hair had mud congealed in the ringlets and, worse still, I had to stay like that through lunch!

  We wrapped up shooting for the day and, thankfully, I was taken to a local house to have a bath, warm up and soak off the dry, cracked mud that covered almost every part of my body. The trouble was, it blocked the plughole! I still think about the poor homeowner who later found the revolting goo of woodland mud in her bath. It was a week before I felt thoroughly clean and dry again, and a while before I wanted to go for a walk in the woods.

  But now I’m thrilled to be transported back to the world of charm and mischievous rebellion created by Richmal Crompton. Young William was a pioneer of youthful adventure in a much simpler and possibly kinder time. Like any young adult, he pushed the boundaries, but he had the best intentions, an indefatigable spirit of optimism and always learned useful life lessons that still apply to this day. I hope you enjoy the glorious adventures of William Brown and all his gang as much as I do. After all, as Violet Elizabeth would say, ‘Ithn’t it fun?’

  Bonnie Langford

  CHAPTER 1

  THE MYSTERY OF OAKLANDS

  It was due partly to a spell of wet weather and partly to a sudden passion for detective novels on the part of Hector and Robert, who were Ginger’s and William’s elder brothers respectively. If Hector and Robert hadn’t been seized with a sudden passion for detective novels, the houses of the Merridews and the Browns wouldn’t have been filled with them from top to bottom, and if there hadn’t been a spell of wet weather William and Ginger wouldn’t have read them. On the first fine day after the wet spell, William and the three other Outlaws met and walked slowly down the road together.

  ‘I bet ole Potty would be glad if he knew what a lot of readin’ I’ve been doin’,’ said William virtuously. ‘He said in my report I oughter read more. Well, I’ve jolly well been readin’ all these wet days. He jolly well oughter be pleased if he knew.’

  ‘What’ve you been readin’?’ said Ginger.

  ‘“The Mystery of the Blue Square”—’ began William importantly.

  ‘I read that, too,’ interrupted Ginger, ‘so you needn’t be so swanky. An’ what’s more I read it before you ’cause it was Hector’s an’ Hector lent it Robert an’ I read it before he lent it Robert.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said William, ‘that’s a good deal better for me than you, then, ’cause with you readin’ it first you’ve probably forgot it an’ with me readin’ it after you I prob’ly remember it much better than what you do.’

  ‘I jolly well bet you don’t. Who killed him?’

  ‘The man livin’ nex’ door.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘A poisoned pen-nib.’

  ‘Well, I bet I remember lots you don’t. What else did you read?’

  ‘The Myst’ry of the Green Light.’

  ‘So’d I.’

  ‘Well, I read that one first ’cause Robert bought it an’ lent it to Hector an’ I read it before he lent it Hector.’

  ‘Well, then, I mus’ remember it better than you accordin’ to you with readin’ it after you.’

  ‘Oh, shut up . . . All right, we both remember them the same. What else did you read?’

  ‘The Mystery of the Lonely House.’

  ‘So’d I. An’ The Myst’ry of the Haunted Wood.’

  ‘So’d I. An’ The Myst’ry of the Seventh Staircase.’

  ‘So’d I.’

  ‘Readin’ all those books makes me wonder whether anyone ever dies natural.’

  ‘They don’t,’ said William mysteriously. ‘Robert says so. At least he says there’s hundreds an’ thousands of murders what no one finds out. You see, you c’n only find out a person’s died nacheral by cuttin’ ’em up an’ they’ve not got time to cut everyone up what dies. They’ve simply not got the time. They do it like what they do with our desks at school. They jus’ open one sometimes to see if it’s all right. They’ve not got time to open ’em all every day. An’ same as every time they do open a desk they find it untidy, jus’ in the same way whenever they do cut anyone dead up they find he’s been poisoned. Practically always. Robert says so. He says that the amount of people who poison people who aren’t cut up and don’t get found out mus’ be enormous. Jus’ think of it. People pois’nin’ people all over the place an’ no one findin’ out. If I was a policeman I’d cut everyone dead up. But they aren’t any use, policemen aren’t. Why, in all those books I’ve read there hasn’t been a single policeman that was any good at all. They simply don’t know what to do when anyone murders anyone. Why, you remember in The Mystery of the Yellow Windows, the policemen were s’posed to have searched the room for clues an’ they di’n’t notice the cigarette end what the murd’rer had left in the fender and what had the address of the people what made it on it an’ what was a sort they made special for him. Well, that shows you what the policemen are, dun’t it? I mean, they look very swanky in their hats an’ buttons an’ all that, but when it comes to a murder or cuttin’ dead people up or findin’ out murd’rers, they aren’t any good at all.
Why, in all those myst’ry tales we’ve read, it’s not been the police that found the murd’rers at all. It’s been ordinary people same as you an’ me jus’ usin’ common sense an’ pickin’ up cigarette ends an’ such-like . . . Tell you what it is,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘policemen have gotter be stupid ’cause of their clothes. I mean, all the policemen’s clothes are made so big that they’ve gotter be very big men to fit ’em an’ big men are always stupid ’cause of their strength all goin’ to their bodies ’stead of their brains. That stands to reason, dun’t it?’

  ‘Course it does,’ agreed Ginger, and added slowly, ‘seems sort of funny they don’t see it.’

  ‘They don’t see it ’cause they’re stupid,’ said William, ‘an’ they’re stupid ’cause they’re so big and they hafter be big ’cause of the uniforms. So there you are,’ ended William on a note of finality.

  Henry and Douglas, who had listened to this conversation with deep interest, agreed that William’s logic was unanswerable.

  They were just passing two small houses called Oaklands and Beechgrove, that stood together on the outskirts of the village. A man was working in the garden of each – an old man in the garden of Oaklands, and a young man in the garden of Beechgrove. The old man had only lately come to the village. The Outlaws did not know his name but had christened him Scraggy. The Outlaws never troubled to learn the family names of newcomers to the village. Like the savages they resembled in so many other ways, they preferred to call them by a name descriptive of their appearance or character. The owner of Oaklands had earned his name by a neck that was longer than perfect proportions warranted and of a corrugated character. He had a grey beard and wore dark spectacles. They stood at the gate and watched him at work. The Outlaws never made the pretence affected by the super-civilised, of indifference to their neighbours’ affairs. On the other hand, the Outlaws took an absorbing interest in their neighbours’ affairs and had no compunction about showing it. It would have been evident to anyone more sensitive than were the Outlaws that the owner of Oaklands objected to them as interested spectators of his horticultural labours. He frequently raised his head and scowled at them. It took, however, as he soon discovered, more than a scowl to dislodge the Outlaws from any position they had taken up. So, finally, he raised himself from his stooping position, glared at them and said:

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ said William pleasantly.

  ‘What are you standin’ there for?’

  ‘Watchin’ you,’ said William, still pleasantly.

  ‘Well, go away.’

  ‘A’ right,’ said William still pleasantly but without moving.

  ‘Go away,’ said the old gentleman irritably. ‘Did you hear me? Go away!’

  Reluctantly and slowly the Outlaws moved off to the gate of Beechgrove and hung over that. The owner of Beechgrove objected to their hanging over his gate (one hinge was already broken) as much as did his neighbour, but he wasted less time in roundabout methods. He filled his syringe with water from a bucket that stood near him and levelled it at them with a curt ‘Clear off!’ Hastily the Outlaws cleared off.

  ‘Might have killed us,’ said William indignantly. ‘You could drown anyone like that. Stands to reason. Givin’ ’em a great mouthful of water so’s they can’t get their breath. Then when you can’t get your breath you die. Stands to reason. No one can go on livin’ without breathin’. Then he’d’ve got hung for murder an’ jolly well serve him right.’

  ‘I bet he wouldn’t’ve got hung for murder,’ said Ginger gloomily, ‘what with the police bein’ so stupid they’d prob’ly think we died natural unless some ord’n’ry man came along same as they did in all those books an’ got hold of a clue. Found our mouths full of water an’ his syringe buried in the garden or somethin’ like that.’

  ‘D’you remember in The Myst’ry of the Lighted Room,’ said William excitedly, ‘when the man found that the top of the murd’rer’s umbrella unscrewed into a dagger an’ that was what he murdered folks with. I think that was jolly clever. I’d never have thought of that. I wouldn’t before I read that book, I mean. I would now, of course. I’d always look to see if a person’s umbrella unscrewed into a dagger first thing now if I thought they’d murdered someone. Then I’d look to see if they’d got poison at the end of their tiepin same as the man in The Myst’ry of the Empty House. I think that was a jolly clever thing to think of. If I wanted to kill anyone now I know lots of clever ways of doin’ it after reading all those books. I bet I could do it so’s the police wouldn’t find out too, now, after reading all those books. And I bet if I found anyone murdered I’d pretty soon find out who did it. It’s always the one you wouldn’t’ve thought did it and of course the police don’t know that. It seems sort of silly to me not to make the police read all these myst’ry books. They’d soon find out murd’rers then. D’you remember in “The Black Mask” how he’d got a flower with a pois’nous scent and he jus’ asked people to smell it and they died straight off lookin’ as if they’d died natural so that no one thought of cuttin’ ’em up to see if there was any poison inside of ’em. Till that man came along what found out all about it. I think that was jolly clever.’

  ‘Let’s be detectives when we grow up,’ suggested Douglas.

  ‘No,’ said William. ‘It’s more fun bein’ the man that comes along an’ finds out all about it when the detectives have stopped tryin’. I’m goin’ to be one of that sort. I’m goin’ to go on readin’ myst’ry tales all the time from now till I’m grown up an’ then I bet there won’t be any way of killin’ folks that I won’t know all about so I’ll be able to catch all the murd’rers there are an’ I bet I’ll be famous an’ they’ll put up a stachoo to me when I’m dead.’

  ‘I bet they won’t,’ said Ginger, irritated by William’s egotism. ‘You’ll prob’ly get murdered yourself before you’ve found out anythin’ at all an’ then Douglas an’ Henry an’ me’ll find out who did it an’ get famous.’

  ‘Oh, will I?’ said William, stung by this prophecy. ‘Well, I jolly well won’t be an’ if I am you can kin’ly leave me alone an’ not come fussin’ tryin’ to find out who did it. If I’m murdered so’s I can’t find out who did it I jolly well don’t want anyone else to. An’ anyway I won’t let anyone murder me. I’d always carry round a bottle of the stuff you drink that stops poisons pois’nin’ you called Anecdote or somethin’ like that an’ whenever anyone tried to poison me I’d drink a bit. And I’d always carry a pistol in my pocket so if anyone ever tried to shoot me I’d shoot him first.’

  ‘You’re jolly clever, aren’t you?’ said Ginger sarcastically.

  ‘Yes,’ said William simply, ‘I am. I mayn’t be clever at Latin an’ G’om’try an’ things like that – though I bet I’m not as bad as what they try to make out on my reports – but I am clever at findin’ out murd’rers.’

  ‘All right. Kindly tell us one murd’rer you’ve ever found out,’ challenged Ginger.

  ‘Kin’ly tell me,’ retorted William heatedly, ‘when I’ve ever had a chance to find out a murderer. If I came across anyone murdered I’d find out who did it pretty quick. I’ve read so many myst’ry books that I know all the ways there are of killin’ folks and I know just what the sort that do it are like.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ said Ginger.

  They had reached the old barn where they always held their meetings and games.

  ‘Let’s play at something,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Let’s play a sort of myst’ry game,’ said William. ‘Let Henry be murdered an’ Ginger the one that really did it an’ Douglas the one everyone thinks did it an’ I’ll be the man that comes along and finds that it was Ginger that did it and not Douglas.’

  But the Outlaws refused thus to offer themselves as food to William’s self-glorification. They each agreed, however, to play the game on condition that William should be the murdered man and he the one who disclosed the murderer, so finally the idea was given up and
they played Red Indians till bed-time.

  There followed a long spell of fine weather. Robert’s and Hector’s passion for adventure tales died. The books were given away and no further ones bought. The Outlaws’ interest in it, too, would have waned had it not been for the owner of Beechgrove. Every day they passed the two houses. Every day they hung over the gate of Oaklands watching the tenant of Oaklands at his labours till he ordered them off. Then they passed on to Beechgrove. It is probable that the owner of Beechgrove had had wide experience of boys of their age and disposition. The minute they appeared at his gate he made savagely threatening gestures with either syringe or spade and they fled incontinently down the road. These episodes kept alive William’s interest in criminology.

  ‘I bet you anything,’ he said, ‘that that bucket he puts his squirt into is full of poison. Bet you anything he killed hundreds of folks that way. Squirting them with poison out of a bucket like that. He looks jus’ the sort that would squirt poison at people. I bet he’s got poison on his spade, too. D’you remember the man in “The Mystery of the Odd Glove” what had poison in his garden forks? To me he looks just that sort of man. If we hadn’t run away quick we’d’ve been dead now. An’ the police would’ve come along and found us dead an’ took for granted we’d died natural ’cause of being so stupid. Jolly good thing we c’n run. Bet you we shouldn’t be alive now if we couldn’t.’

  ‘But why should he want to kill us, William?’ said Henry the practical.

  ‘Why not?’ said William. ‘A murderer’s gotter be murderin’ someone or else he isn’t a murderer, is he? You get sort of fond of it same as you do of anythin’ else. Football or cricket or draughts or collectin’ stamps. When you’ve murdered one person you want to go on an’ murder another. You keep thinkin’ out better ways of murd’rin’ people an’ then nacherally you want to try ’em on someone. I bet he’d jus’ thought out that way of squirtin’ poison at someone an’ wanted to try it on us jus’ to see if it acted all right. Of course he may’ve got a real reason. He may’ve found out that one of us is goin’ to come into a lot of money what we don’t know anythin’ about yet an’ he may be the next heir though none of us know him ’cause of everyone thinkin’ his father was drowned in a shipwreck. It was like that in “The Mystery of the Greenhouse”. It might be like that with him. He’s try in’ to kill us so as to get the money himself.’