“They may’ve worn out,” said William with the air of one who wrestles with an almost insoluble problem and edging towards the door as he spoke. “Things do wear out . . . They may’ve worn out suddenly an’ fell into pieces an’ jus’ dropped off . . . or some thief may’ve taken them off me when I wasn’t lookin’. A sort of cat burglar, p’r’aps, that wanted them for himself. He may’ve drugged me while he did it. He—”
“William!”
“’Scuse me,” said William politely as he sidled through the doorway. “I’ve jus’ got to go an’ see to somethin’.”
“Well, that’s got rid of him,” said Robert. “I forgot he was there. I only hope he doesn’t go sticking his nose into my affairs. I wish Rowena hadn’t been so nice to the little blighter. Once he gets interested in anything—”
William was certainly interested. And the rivalry between Robert and Oswald—a rivalry that had existed since their boyhood—stirred all his sense of family loyalty. Moreover, the affair didn’t stop at Robert and Oswald. For Oswald’s young brother, Bertie, was one of William’s greatest enemies, a member of the gang with which William and his followers had waged unceasing warfare ever since any of them could remember. The situation was full of possibilities and he turned his whole attention to it.
He hung round the tall Victorian house where Professor Mayfield lived, he watched the stocky bearded figure of the professor as he sallied forth on his daily “constitutional”, he heard Miss Burnham and Mr Lupton greet him in pleasant neighbourly fashion, to be rewarded by an absent-minded grunt. And he watched the rivalry between Robert and Oswald gather force and venom.
Oswald had considerable advantages. He was polished and slick. He had a man of the world poise that was, on first acquaintance, very impressive. And he was the son of doting parents who supplied him with a handsome income in return for putting in an occasional appearance at his father’s office. His boxes of chocolates were larger and flashier than Robert’s, his flowers more exotic; beside his car, blazing with yellow paint and chromium, Robert’s motor cycle looked the cheap and nasty affair it was. But the sun of Rowena’s favours shone equally on both of them. The smile with which she received Robert’s offerings was fully as sweet as the smile with which she received Oswald’s. She bestowed her slender form on the pillion of Robert’s motor bike as readily and gracefully as on the rubber-filled, yellow-upholstered seat of Oswald’s car. And a glint of mischief in her blue eyes showed that the situation was not without its appeal to her.
A similar situation, of course, had arisen some time ago, when Robert and Jameson Jameson had been rivals for the favour of a saucer-eyed beauty called Emmeline, and William and Victor—Jameson’s younger brother—had loyally if mistakenly given what assistance they could; but Jameson was Robert’s friend and Victor was William’s and there had been a geniality about the affair that was lacking now. Jameson was, in any case, out of the running in this contest, for he was spending a harassed fortnight in charge of a scouts’ camp some twenty miles away.
Gradually the whole thing boiled down to the question as to which of them would first win an invitation from the professor. There was something awe-inspiring in the large, shaggy figure—for the professor’s beard was unkempt and he wore a long-haired overcoat that had grown patchy and dishevelled with the years—as it strode down the lanes on its daily constitutional. Its very gait discouraged friendly advances. But doggedly, unremittingly, the rivals continued their campaign. Had the professor been an observant man, he would have noticed two youths mutely dancing attendance on him at intervals throughout the day—opening his gate for him with smiles of obsequious politeness or removing obstacles from his path as he took his solitary rambles; but the professor was not an observant man and remained unaware of their existence.
Bertie, of course, played his part in the little drama. Bertie was mean and sly and cunning and he devised a series of unpleasant little tricks—placing drawing-pins, business-end up, on William’s desk at school, stretching a string across the gateway to William’s house as William returned to it at dusk. But William was not a boy on whom unpleasant little tricks could be played with impunity, and a personal encounter between the two brought Bertie to the reluctant conclusion that the unpleasant little tricks had better be discontinued. So he contented himself by jeering at William from the safe refuge of his own garden.
“Gosh, what a mingy little box of chocolates Robert took her. Crumbs! You should’ve seen Oswald’s.”
“I say, William! Where did Robert get those flowers he took her yesterday? Out of the dust-bin, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Bertie had a crude and limited sense of humour.
But his most successful manoeuvre was to rouse William’s fear and anxiety by such remarks as: “I say, William, Oswald’s got to go to tea there tomorrow. What d’you think of that?” or “William, the ole professor’s asked Oswald to dinner tonight. Snooks for ole Robert!” Though all of these statements turned out to be false, William never failed to feel a pang of horror and dismay as he heard the words.
And so things dragged on till the affair of the house painting.
“Daddy’s going to paint the outside of the house,” said Rowena to Robert one afternoon as they returned from a visit to a Hadley cinema.
“What?” said Robert incredulously.
“Oh, yes, he loves house-painting,” said Rowena. “He always paints the outside of our houses. He finds it a mental tonic. Like gardening, only he says that flowers get on his nerves and paint doesn’t. Anyway, there it is. He’s borrowing a ladder from Clements’, the builders. He’s going to start tomorrow.”
“Good Lord!” said Robert “It’s incredible.”
But the next morning proved it true. A ladder was placed against the tall Victorian house, and the bulky figure of the professor, girt with a large white apron, could be seen moving to and fro with unexpected agility and applying paint to the woodwork with unexpected skill.
Again, had the professor been an observant man, he might have noticed the same two youths hovering below him, putting out tentative hands to steady his ladder, waiting with eager expectation for him to drop something . . . but he remained still unaware of their existence. At the gate he might have noticed—but didn’t—two small boys watching proceedings with tense interest and occasionally indulging in hostile assaults on each other.
“I bet he drops that paint brush in a minute an’ I bet Oswald picks it up for him.”
“I bet he doesn’t. I bet Robert does.”
“He nearly asked Oswald to tea yesterday . . . Well, he did ask him to tea.”
“He didn’t.”
“He did. He said Robert was a soppy fool. He said you were all soppy fools.”
William rose to the defence of his family, and the two vanished into the ditch. When they emerged to take up their stand again at the gate, Bertie’s face was plastered with mud and William’s tie stuck up at a curious angle at the back of his head.
Robert and Oswald turned round, their features contracted into an identical expression of fury.
“Go away!” they said fiercely between their teeth.
Though bitterly at variance on general grounds, they were at one in a constant fear of being made ridiculous by the activities of their younger brothers.
It was at the end of the week that Rowena sprang another piece of news on them.
“Daddy’s got sciatica and the doctor says he must go to bed for a week.”
“Bad luck!” said Robert.
“I’m terribly sorry,” said Oswald. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”
The three were returning from the golf course on which Robert and Oswald had run a neck-to-neck race in “showing off” to the beloved. Robert was the better player but Oswald had a more spectacular style.
“There’s nothing anyone can do,” said Rowena. “What worries him, of course, is the house. He’d done it all but one of the upstairs windows and the skylight on the roof, and Clements’ ha
ve only lent him the ladder for a week. Still, it can’t be helped.”
Robert’s and Oswald’s eyes met in a quick furtive glance. Their two minds had but a single thought, and each suspected that the other had it, too. Then casually, nonchalantly, as if to conceal the thought, Oswald began to talk about the weather and Robert to discuss the chances of the local football team in its next match.
But Robert was a transparent, ingenuous youth, and the clouds of worry still hung on his brow when he reached home.
“What’s the matter now, dear?” said Mrs Brown, smiling at him in mingled exasperation, amusement, and tenderness, as she poured out his tea. Secretly Mrs Brown found her whole family exasperating, amusing, and a little childish.
Robert told her what was the matter now.
“You see, if only one could go along and finish it at once, the old chap would probably be so grateful that—well, everything would be plain sailing after that. And no one could deny that I’m a pretty good hand at painting.”
“Y—yes,” agreed Mrs Brown.
“If it weren’t for Oswald—You see, he’s planning to do it too.”
“Did he say so?”
“No, but I saw it in his eye. We can’t do it this evening because of the party at the Bartons’. We’re all going to it—Rowena and Oswald and me. But tomorrow morning”—his thoughtfulness turned to gloom—“he’ll be at it first thing. He’ll spend the whole morning on it.”
“And why can’t you?” said Mrs Brown.
“Because I’ve promised to go over and give Jameson a hand with his camp. I shall have to start with the dawn.”
“Couldn’t you get out of it?” said Mrs Brown.
She knew, of course, that the whole thing was ridiculous but her motherly pride in Robert could not endure the thought of his being worsted by the obnoxious Oswald.
“No, I can’t let him down. He’s counting on me. He’s short-handed as it is. It’s—it’s extraordinary how fate seems to dog me. Things like this just don’t happen to other people.”
William, who had so far managed to restrain his natural garrulity, now made his voice heard through a mouthful of bread and jam.
“Gosh! I’ve heard of worse things happenin’ to people. I once read a tale about a man that was hangin’ over the edge of a prec’pice bein’ pecked at by eagles an’—”
Robert turned on him savagely.
“Shut up.”
“And don’t talk with your mouth full, dear,” said Mrs Brown in mechanical reproof.
William finished his bread and jam, consumed a couple of raspberry buns in four large mouthfuls, then went down to the tool shed at the bottom of the garden with a view to perfecting his gliding technique.
It was just as he landed neatly in the middle of the heap of potting soil that the Great Idea came to him. For a moment he sat there motionless gazing into space, overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of it. For it was nothing more nor less than the finishing of the painting of the professor’s house. He would do it this very evening, alone and unaided, so that when Oswald arrived there with the dawn tomorrow morning he would find it done, and Robert, as his brother, would share the professor’s gratitude. It would be one in the eye for old Oswald. It would be several in the eye for old Bertie.
But, though his spirits soared exultantly at the prospect, he did not overlook the practical difficulties. His mind went back to a recent occasion when, finding a tin of red paint in the garage, he had conceived the idea of painting the garden seat red during his family’s absence in order to provide them with a pleasant surprise on their return. While the seat was only faintly coloured by the time they returned, William himself presented the appearance of a solid block of red paint, and gratitude played no part in the emotions with which they received their “surprise”. He would be more careful this time. He opened the door of the tool shed and looked inside. Stacked in a comer was a heap of sacks that had once contained the various artificial manures and fertilisers with which Mr Brown was wont to dress his garden soil. He held them up one by one. Yes, they would afford a good protection. The largest one, tied round his waist, would cover him down to the feet, while one of the smaller ones would protect his shirt and jacket. A certain amount might fall on his face and hair, but that could easily be removed. He burrowed about a little longer and found a length of rope that could be used to tie round his waist and secure the armour to his person.
He laid them in a neat pile just inside the door then turned his mind to the consideration of his plan of action. He decided to wait till the guests had set off for the party, then make his way quietly and unobtrusively to the scene of his labours.
Still lurking in the shadow of the tool shed, he waited till Robert, wearing a new tie and new socks, his trouser creases pressed to a knife-blade sharpness, his shoes polished to a glass-like brilliance, the muscles of his face set and tense, emerged from the front door and made his way down the road towards the Bartons’ house. Then, collecting his two sacks and his rope and bundling them under his arm, he set off across the fields to Ilfracombe Terrace. Keeping his eye on the road, he saw the figure of Oswald, spruced and shining to rival Robert, his face wearing the same set tense expression, treading briskly and purposefully towards the Bartons’.
Rowena was emerging from the gate of the professor’s house as William reached it. It was clear that she, too, had taken considerable pains with her appearance, but she carried the effect with a less self-conscious air than Robert and Oswald.
“Hello, William,” she said.
“Hello,” said William.
“Where are you off to?”
“Oh, just—off,” said William vaguely.
“Well, enjoy yourself,” said Rowena and floated on down the road.
William watched her out of sight, then stood at the gate surveying the house. A long ladder stretched from the ground to the top storey. All the windows were painted except the one near which the ladder rested. Of that one corner only showed bright green. At that point the professor had evidently surrendered to his sciatica.
Withdrawing cautiously behind a bush, William unrolled and donned his sacks. He secured the longer one round his waist by the piece of rope. The other was conveniently rotten, so that he could push holes in it for his head and arms. Encased in sacking, he emerged warily from his hiding place. The garage door stood open and, just inside, he could see a can of green paint and a brush. Screwing up his courage, he crossed to the garage, took paint can and brush and began to mount the ladder.
All went well. The rooms he passed on his upward flight were empty. Evidently the professor’s bedroom and the kitchen were on the other side of the house. Reaching the top window, he plunged the brush into the can of paint and sloshed it generously over the woodwork - so generously that glass, window-sill and the surrounding brick work as well as his own face, hair and armour of sacking all received lavish portions. He worked till he had covered the area within his reach, then, remembering the skylight, climbed cautiously from his ladder to the roof. Scrambling over a tile-covered peak, he found the skylight on a sloping part of the roof between the peak he had climbed and a further peak. Exhilarated by the adventure, upheld by the sheer joy of craftsmanship, he started sloshing paint over the skylight and the surrounding surfaces. The skylight was open a few inches and his efforts sent a stream of paint down on to the floor below.
“Oh well,” he consoled himself, “I ’spect it needed a bit of dec’ratin’ inside as well.”
Then, having finished the skylight to his own satisfaction, he turned his attention to the ridges of the roof on either side. He didn’t see why they shouldn’t be green, too, to match the woodwork. He set to work on them, at first merely covering the surface with paint, then, yielding to a sudden artistic impulse, describing squiggles, circles and little faces. Time slipped by. Dusk began to fall . . . He was interrupted by the sound of a loud tattoo on the front door below. He stopped to listen.
“I’ve come for the ladder from Cl
ements’,” he heard a man’s voice say. “They only lent it for a week an’ it’s up.”
“Oh, well, I suppose you can take it,” a woman’s voice replied. “’E’s in bed, anyway, so ’e wouldn’t be able to use it even if you left it.”
William heard the sound of the ladder being drawn down. Peering over the ridge of the roof, he watched a man carry it to a lorry at the gate and drive off with it.
Then he turned to consider his position.
He was marooned on the roof of a tall house with no means, as far as he could see, of escape.
He climbed down to the low parapet that surrounded the roof and looked over it. There was no convenient tree, no convenient drain pipe. Again he considered his position. Perhaps the roof of the next house would give him a better chance. It was a perilous journey, over sloping roofs and ridges, but he achieved it at last. Then, just as he was craning his neck over the parapet, reconnoitring the ground, he saw Miss Burnham and her friend enter the gate and make their way up the short drive.
They, too, had evidently been to the party.
“Such a pleasant evening, wasn’t it?” said Miss Burnham.
“Yes. Charming people, the Bartons,” agreed her friend.
They entered the house. William continued to gaze over the parapet through the gathering dusk. There was no convenient tree or drain pipe here, either.
The front door was open and he heard the clear resonant voice of Miss Burnham.
“I’ll be getting on with the supper, dear. I prepared it beforehand, all but the soup.”
“And I’ll pop out to the post with some letters,” said the friend.
The friend emerged from the front door, then casually and by chance glanced up at the roof. Her mouth dropped open in surprise and she returned to the house.
“I’ve never noticed before, dear,” she said, “that you had a gargoyle on the roof.”
“A what?” said Miss Burnham.
“A gargoyle. That carved head painted green.”
“That—what?” said Miss Bumham.
William's Television Show (Just William, Book 31) Page 7
