William tried to explain. It was a confused explanation—all about sanctuaries and colonies, things that didn’t seem to have anything to do with picnics and fairy feasts—but from it Mrs. Darlington gathered that her instinct had been right. As soon as she’d seen this boy’s freckled, homely face confronting her in the garden, she’d had a feeling that he would be able to help her and she’d been justified. She’d told him her trouble and somehow or other, by what seemed little short of a miracle, he’d managed to pull her out of the difficulty. Sally darted out of the spinney again to hug her ecstatically.
“Oh, Mummy, it was a lovely idea! They’re all saying that it’s the loveliest picnic they’ve ever been to in all their lives.”
Ginger, Henry, and Douglas, who had been standing in an apprehensive group by the gate, ready to come to William’s rescue if necessary, or if necessary join him in flight, had been swept up by the chattering throng of little girls, and were now accompanying them round the spinney, pointing out such of the hidden dainties as might have otherwise have escaped their notice. Sally and her friends thought that Mrs. Darlington had invited them, and Mrs. Darlington thought that Sally and her friends had brought them with them, but in any case the whole party was so merry and excited that it didn’t matter where they’d come from. Screams of merriment came from the spinney, where the little girls were kneeling round the bird bath lapping lemonade. In the middle of the excitement a policeman arrived to tell Mrs. Darlington that the stolen car had been recovered.
“They got ’im over at Hadley,” he said. “Drivin’ it cool as brass, he was. But there weren’t no basket be’ind.”
“No,” said Mrs. Darlington, “this little boy bravely rescued it.” She had a confused vision of William’s holding up the car and engaging in a desperate fight with the car-thief to secure the precious hamper for her. The policeman threw a suspicious glance at William. It was difficult, from his experience of William, to imagine him on the side of law and order.
“I know ’oft,” he said, darkly.
“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Darlington. “A delightful child. So serious minded. Interested in the colonial question and things like that, and yet with such pretty ideas about fairies."
William, though he flinched inwardly at the last sentence, returned the policeman’s gaze with a glassy stare, and the policeman, dismissing the problem with a shrug (always trouble of some sort where that young limb was), returned to his duties.
Tea was still in progress in the spinney, but the little girls were far too excited to eat much, and the pile of dainties had hardly seemed to diminish at all.
Then they went into the house, and William organised a game of Hide and Seek, and they chased each other up and down the back and front stairs, and clattered noisily all over the empty rooms. It was becoming just a little too rough, as games under William’s direction were apt to do, when Sally suddenly discovered that it was nearly six o’clock and that they must start back for school at once.
They thanked Mrs. Darlington profusely.
“It’s been the loveliest party, Mrs. Darlington.”
“I shall never forget the fairy feast.”
“I’m going to try to get my mummy to have a party just like it. It’s the most exciting I’ve ever been to.” The clock struck six as the sound of their voices died away down the lane, and immediately other voiced began to draw near—the sniggering, low-pitched voiced of the Hubert Laneites.
“I bet they’ve not got a col’ny at all.”
“They’ve not got food, anyway. Not the sort they said. Cream buns, I don’t think. They’ve not got any money to buy ’em, an’ who’d give ’em to ’em?”
“An’ they’ll have to s’render an’ give up bein’ Green shirts.”
“An’ we jolly well won’t let ’em forget it. Yah!”
William approached Mrs. Darlington, who was leaning back in the deck-chair with her eyes closed. She opened them as William came near.
“Oh, dear!” she said. “It’s been such a tiring day. But I’m so glad it went off so well. That fairy feast was such a marvellous idea of yours. I can’t think how you managed it so quickly, either. I shall never forget how you came to my help in the crisis, my dear boy. If there’s anything I can do for you in return.”
“Well,” said William, “there’s some friends of mine outside. I wonder if I can let ’em go through that wood place—”
“The spinney?” said Mrs. Darlington.
“Yes,” said William. “They’re—they’re sort of interested in spinneys.”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Darlington. “The taxi’s coming for me at half past, and I’ll go straight off to Hadley to collect the car. Oh, what a day I’ve had! But you and your friends can stay here as long as you like.”
“There’s a lot of food left over,” began William, tentatively.
Mrs. Darlington waved the food away.
“Keep it, dear, if it’s any use to you. If not, just throw it away. And I shall never forget how you’ve helped me to-day with that charming idea of yours of a fairy feast. I’m sure it will make Sally popular for the rest of the term, and I was so terribly afraid that she’d be absolutely disgraced. She would have been if—”
But William was already opening the gate of the spinney to the Hubert Laneites.
“Come in,” he said, shortly. “Here’s our col’ny.”
The Hubert Laneites stared till their eyes seemed in danger of dropping out of their sockets at the succulent feast that confronted them.
“You can eat as much as you like,” said William generously, “an’ then you can s’render an’ give us up your arm things.”
But the Hubert Laneites had lost their appetites—those usually hearty organs. They went along the path, their faces blank with dismay, half-heartedly eating a doughnut or cream bun, more in order to assure themselves that these dainties were real than because they had any stomach for them.
Hubert gazed through the trees at the recumbent figure of Mrs. Darlington in the chair on the lawn.
“Who’s that?” he said, suspiciously.
“Her?” said William. “Oh, she’s just a woman. She said she was tired an’ we let her come an’ rest in our col’ny. Go on. Have a lap at the lemonade.”
Hubert Lane put in his finger tentatively and licked it. He was disappointed to find that it really was lemonade.
“Now you promised to s’render an’ hand us your arm things,” said William.
The Hubert Laneites glanced round, obviously weighing the chances of avoiding the indignity of the proceedings by flight, but the Outlaws had closed in on them implacably, and there seemed to be nothing for it but to hand over their handsome blue armlets to William and betake themselves off as quickly as possible.
“Anyway, I was sick of the silly ole game,” said Hubert, as he pulled his off, “an’ I’m jolly glad I shan’t have to play it again.”
The others sulkily followed suit, and set off again down the lane, beginning to sing out: “Yah! silly ole Green shirts!” as soon as they were safely beyond fear of reprisals.
The Outlaws drew a deep breath of relief.
“Well, I was sick of it, too,” admitted William, “but I’d rather it’d ended this way than the other.”
A taxi drew up at the gate and the lady in the deckchair roused herself from her doze.
“Oh, dear!” she said. “Is it half past already?” She looked at William and the others. “Have your friends gone, dear boy?”
“Yes,” said William.
“Well, I must be going to collect my car from Hadley. You can stay here as long as you want, of course, and come whenever you like. I hope we shall see a lot of you when we come to live here. I feel so grateful to you for your fairy feast, dear. I shall always think of you as the Little Boy who Believes in Fairies.” An agonised spasm passed over William’s face at this, but she was too short-sighted to notice it. “So kind and helpful. And so interesting—all you told me about the colonial question, tho
ugh I’m afraid I don’t know as much about politics as I should.” She climbed into the taxi. “Now, stay as long as you like and eat up all the food. Good-bye!”
The taxi drove off, and the Outlaws were left alone. They realised suddenly that they were feeling very hungry.
“Come on,” said William. “Let’s get it all out on to the lawn. I’m sick of it in there since she started calling it a fairy feast.”
They went into the spinney and began to collect the food, bringing it out on to the lawn—mountains of cream buns and doughnuts, pyramids of biscuits, oceans of fruit. Mrs. Darlington had, in any case, provided for ten times as many guests as had arrived.
“I bet there’s more’n even we can eat,” Henry said in an awestruck voice.
“I bet there’s not,” said William, determinedly.
They ate contentedly and in silence, while the shadows lengthened over the peaceful garden.
William thought, with pride and pleasure, of the food-adorned spinney that had turned so strangely from a boy sanctuary into a colony, and from a colony into a fairy feast. After all, what did it matter what it was called? It had been a jolly fine idea, and it had turned out jolly well.
"Aren’t the doughnuts scrumptious?” asked Ginger, his mouth full.
But the others were too busy to answer him.
Chapter 3 – Agnes Matilda Comes to Stay
William knew that something was afoot in his family, but, having business of his own to occupy his mind, did not pay much attention to it. Experience had taught him that the affairs to which grown-ups attached importance were generally completely devoid of interest and not worth the trouble of investigation. Mysterious references to “little Agnes Matilda”, however, finally roused his curiosity, and he decided to give the matter what attention he could spare from his own pressing and far more important business.
He sat quietly one afternoon, pretending to be buried in a book, while his mother and Ethel were talking, and, by dint of putting various twos and twos together, got the whole story more or less straight. Little Agnes Matilda was the daughter of a Mr. Warrender, an important business friend of Mr. Brown’s. Little Agnes Matilda had had ’flu and had not been really well since. She could not, as her mother put it, “throw it off”. She was listless, depressed. The doctor had decreed country air, but Little Agnes Matilda’s nurse had suddenly been taken ill and her mother was too busy to leave home. Mr. Warrender, knowing that Mr. Brown lived in the country, had asked him very tentatively if he thought his wife would be willing to take the child for a fortnight. Mrs. Brown was not exactly eager for the company of little Agnes Matilda, but she was a conscientious wife and knew that the requests of important business friends are not to be lightly ignored. Mr. Warrender had put several good pieces of business in Mr. Brown’s way, Mr. Brown hoped that he would put several more. Little Agnes Matilda, therefore, at whatever inconvenience, must be received into the Brown household and nursed back to health and strength. The chief difficulty in the situation was, of course, William. The Browns made enquiries among their relations to find if any of them would be willing to take charge of William for the fortnight of Agnes Matilda’s visit, but there was a marked absence of enthusiasm on the part of the potential hosts. It was clear that William could not thus conveniently be disposed of. He must, therefore, be kept in the background. He must be induced to be very polite to Agnes Matilda whenever they met, but they must meet as seldom as possible.
William concurred heartily enough in this arrangement. He didn’t want to have anything to do with any silly ole girl, he assured them fervently. If any silly ole girl was comin’ they needn’t bother tellin’ him to keep away from her, because they all made him sick, anyway, silly ole girls did. Yes, of course he’d be polite to her. Wasn’t he polite to everyone always? Well, everyone an’ nearly always. He would be to her, anyway. Well, was he goin’ to get anythin’ for it? It’d be jolly hard work bein’ polite to a silly ole girl for a whole fortnight. Mrs. Brown offered threepence. William said that threepence was all right for a week, but that a fortnight was worth a jolly sight more than three.
He’d be extra polite the whole time for sixpence. And clean and tidy and quiet, stipulated Mrs. Brown. All right, said William. He’d throw them all in for sixpence. Some people, he added bitterly, seemed to expect a jolly lot for sixpence. All right, he’d stop arguin’ if she was goin’ to put it down to threepence again. He wouldn’t say a single word more. He’d be polite an’ all those other things she’d said, but it was goin’ to be a jolly long fortnight. About as long as ten years. He didn’t think many people would do all that for sixpence. It was enough to kill anyone, an’ he wouldn’t be surprised if he nearly died of it. An’ all for a silly ole girl. He wouldn’t mind if it’d been for someone excitin’ like an explorer or a dictator or an engine-driver or somethin’ like that, but for a silly ole girl . . . All right, all right, he was jus’ goin’ out, anyway . . .
Agnes Matilda arrived. She was worse than William’s worst fears. Even Mrs. Brown, prepared, like a good wife, to take to her heart any child of an important business friend of her husband’s, was disconcerted by her. Agnes Matilda was a perfect specimen of the spoilt child. She was fat and plaintive and disagreeable. With her arrived a lengthy timetable of her requirements. Her meals were to be on a lavish scale, and she had to be fed extensively between each on broth or cocoa or milk. She had to rest all afternoon and only take very gentle exercise in the morning. She had to have as many sweets and chocolates as she wanted, because they helped to ‘build up her strength”. She was never to be crossed in way.
“Huh!” said William to his mother that evening. “You needn’t’ve bothered to tell me to leave that ole girl alone. It makes me sick jus’ lookin’ at her.”
“But you promised to be polite,” Mrs. Brown reminded him, anxiously.
“Oh, I’ll be that all right,” said William. “She’s not worth bein’ anythin’ else to.”
As for as William was concerned, indeed, everything was quite satisfactory. He avoided Agnes Matilda most conscientiously, meeting her only at meals and treating her then with the distant hauteur of manner that was his idea of politeness.
As regards Agnes Matilda herself, things were less satisfactory. Though her appetite was excellent (in fact, she seldom stopped eating for longer than ten minutes at a time throughout the whole day), she remained limp and listless, querulous and peevish and dispirited, seemed to take no interest in anything. She trailed into the village with Mrs. Brown in the morning, bought as many sweets and chocolates as she required, rested and ate sweets all afternoon, and went to bed as despondent and disagreeable as she had got up. Mrs. Brown suggested various diversions, but Agnes Matilda didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything. She wasn’t even homesick. She didn’t care where she was or what she did. She often said so in her thin, whining voice. Mrs. Brown suggested that she should give up some of her between-meal snacks, but Agnes Matilda was quite firm on that point. Her mother had said she must have them to build up her strength.
The end of the fortnight drew near. Mrs. Brown would have been relieved, had it not been that, despite the country air, Agnes Matilda was still pale, listless and irritable. There was no such striking change in her as would induce a grateful father to put more pieces of business in Mr. Brown’s way. William had fulfilled his part of the bargain, but somehow it hadn’t helped much.
There was only one day left, and there was no further danger to be feared from William on that day, as he had arranged to spend it at Ginger’s. Ginger’s mother was going up to London for lunch and a matinee, and she had said that Ginger might invite whoever he liked for the day to keep him company. Ginger had, of course, chosen William. Mrs. Brown was much relieved by this. It meant that, at any rate, she need have no fear of his annoying Agnes Matilda on her last day.
Mrs. Brown saw him safely off to Ginger’s before herself setting out for the village.
Agnes Matilda had decided not to go into the villa
ge that morning. She said that she was tired of going into the village. No, she didn’t want to do anything else instead. She didn’t want to do anything at all. She’d just sit in the garden and eat her chocolates (a large box of chocolates had arrived from her mother by the morning’s post). No, she didn’t want anything to read. She’d rather just do nothing. She was feeling a bit tired . . .
Secretly glad to be relieved of her guest’s company, and consoled by the knowledge that William, that potential disturber of the peace, would be at Ginger’s for the test of the day, Mrs. Brown departed to the village. For some time Agnes Matilda sat on the garden seat, eating chocolates. She was bored, but then she was always bored. She was going home to-morrow, but she wasn’t looking forward particularly to that, because she’d be just as bored at home.
Suddenly she saw the horrid dirty little boy, who lived here, coming in at the side gate (William had forgotten his catapult, and had come back for it). He entered the house, then came out again through the side gate into the road. On an idle impulse Agnes Matilda got up and followed him. She didn’t know why she did it, because it was just as dull in the road as in the garden. It was just as dull everywhere. She was on the point of going back to the garden when the boy turned round. His freckled grubby face wore a stern frown.
“What you followin’ me for?” he said, severely. “Go back.”
“I’m not following you,” whined Agnes Matilda.
“Yes, you are. An’ I don’t want you. Go on back.”
He was aware that this mode of speech hardly came under the general heading of politeness, but he understood his promise to refer only to ordinary home contacts beneath his parents’ roof. He wasn’t going to stand being followed by this awful girl in the public road. He resented everything about her—her voice, her appearance, and her obnoxious habit of eating sweets and chocolates without offering them to anyone else.
“Go on back,” he ordered her again. “Haven’t I told you I don’t want you?”
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