William's Television Show (Just William, Book 31)

by Richmal Crompton

“’Cause he’s out of hist’ry,” said William with the air of one whose patience is almost exhausted. “I told you he was out of hist’ry, didn’t I? So he’s got to talk hist’ry language, hasn’t he? Stands to reason.”

  “Is that the end?” said Henry.

  “It’s as far as I’ve got,” said William. “I’m not goin’ to write any more. I’m sick of writin’. We can make up the words of the rest as we go along. Anyway, there’s not much more. He turns good an’ the king lets him out of the dungeon an’ he stays good an’ ends up as a Member of Parliament an’ this foreign spy that was disguised as a bus conductor met his fate all right. He kept teasin’ the octopus an’ in the end it got mad an’ ate him.” He was silent for a few moments then heaved a deep sigh and ended, “It’s a jolly good play. We’ll act it.”

  “When?” said Henry.

  “Where?” said Ginger.

  “Why?” said Douglas.

  “Tomorrow in the old barn,” said William, ignoring Douglas’s question.

  “Who’ll come to watch it?” said Ginger.

  “Everyone,” said William. “Everyone’ll come to watch it.”

  “I bet they won’t,” said Douglas gloomily. “Not with television. They all watch television plays now. They don’t want real ones.”

  A light broke out over William’s countenance.

  “Tell you what!” he said. “I’ve got an idea. We’ll make it a television play. Gosh! It’ll be better than any ordin’ry television play.”

  “How?”

  “Well, in television plays you only see the pictures of the people an’ in this one you’ll see the real people. Gosh! It’ll beat an ordin’ry television play hollow. We’ll call it a live television play an’ I bet they’ll all come to it.”

  The others were silent, surrendering to the feeling of helplessness and bewilderment that was apt to possess them as they were swept along on the current of William’s enthusiasm.

  “It’s one of the best ideas I’ve ever had,” said William.

  “How’ll we start it?” said Henry.

  “We’ll put up a notice,” said William.

  He took a crumpled piece of paper from the floor, wrinkled his brows again ferociously for a few moments, then sent his stubby pencil scoring across it in a sudden access of inspiration: "There will be a reel live telly vishun sho not just pitchers here tomorro aftemune at three oklock diffrent from ordinry telly vishun a knew invention of William Browns the first time ewer seen by ennybody in the hole world free to all. cined William Brown.”

  “There!” said William triumphantly. “I bet everyone’ll want to come to it. Come on. Let’s fix it on the door of the old barn.”

  Still gripped by the feeling of helpless bewilderment, they followed his plunging figure down the stairs.

  At the foot of the staircase the open door of the sitting-room revealed the figures of Ethel, Archie Mannister and Oswald Franks.

  “Can’t you come downstairs without shaking the whole house?” said Ethel as the whirlwind procession passed the door. “Shattering our nerves like that!”

  “I’ve got more important things to think of than your nerves,” said William, knocking over the umbrella stand in his haste, then flinging open the front door and leading his band at breakneck speed down the path to the gate.

  “No wonder she’s got nerves,” he said scornfully as he swung the gate open, “sitting round all afternoon showing off to that old Oswald an’ Archie!”

  “What have they come for?” said Ginger.

  “They keep comin’,” said William scornfully. “They can’t stay away. They like the look of her face. They don’t know how awful she is really.”

  Oswald and Archie had each called at the Browns’ house to ask Ethel to accompany him to the Young Conservatives’ dance as his partner. They had not planned a joint expedition. It was an unkind stroke of fate that had delivered both of them on the Brown front door step at the identical moment. They had stood there, glaring at each other in silence, till Ethel herself opened the door and ushered them into the sitting-room with the expression of demure sweetness and wondering innocence that she reserved for such occasions.

  They had tendered their request almost in the same breath, and Ethel, who had learned by experience how to extract the last ounce of savour from these situations, was keeping them on a maddening see-saw of alternate hope and despair. She really hadn’t decided whether to go to the dance or not. She thought she had another engagement for that evening but couldn’t quite remember what it was. Actually she was afraid that she was booked for the dance. Several people had asked her to go with them, but really, till her plans were clearer and till she knew definitely whether she would be able to go to the dance or not, it was not worth making final arrangements.

  She gave more encouragement to Oswald than to Archie. Archie cherished his hopeless passion for her day in day out, year after year after year, with wearisome monotony; Oswald had spurts of rebellion that made him more interesting. Goaded beyond endurance, he would suddenly transfer his attentions to Dolly Clavis or Peggy Barton or Marion Dexter or Rowena Mayfield, which lent the situation a certain piquancy. Lately he had been escorting Dorita Merton to and from the tennis club and taking her out in his car at the weekend, but Ethel had known it wouldn’t last, because Dorita was going through a highbrow phase and wanted to talk about William Empson and T. S. Eliot and the symbolic and neo-romantic when Oswald wanted to talk about himself. So she hadn’t been altogether surprised to see him pace into the sitting-room side by side with Archie.

  “Well, shall we leave it open for the present?” said Oswald. “Perhaps you’ll let me know when you see your way more clearly—”

  “Yes, just give me a ring,” said Archie.

  “I’ll bring my car for you, of course,” said Oswald.

  “I’ll fetch you in a taxi,” said Archie after a brief mental survey of his car’s latest exploits.

  “How good of you!” said Ethel, fluttering her lashes demurely.

  She was tired of talking about the dance but she wanted to tease them just a little longer. She had several well tried recipes for teasing her boy friends. One of the most successful was to praise an absent boy friend, extolling virtues in him that those present did not possess.

  “George brought us some eggs this morning,” she said, turning her innocent dreamy gaze from Oswald to Archie, from Archie to Oswald.

  “Eggs?” said Archie.

  “George?” said Oswald.

  “George Bell,” said Ethel. “Yes, eggs. The Bells keep hens, you know, and it’s such a treat to get eggs fresh from the hen. I thought it was so kind of him. He’s just made a new hen-house.”

  “Hen-house!” said Oswald, endowing the words with a mixture of detachment, amusement and contempt.

  “Hen-house!” said Archie with a startled expression.

  “Yes. It’s beautifully made. I do so admire a man who can make things. I don’t suppose either of you have ever made a hen-house in your lives, have you?”

  “The occasion,” said Oswald with dignity, “has never arisen.”

  “Well, not a hen-house,” admitted Archie, looking round in a hunted fashion. “Not exactly a hen-house.”

  “Daddy was talking about it the other evening,” said Ethel. “He was saying that in these days people have lost the art of making things. Craftsmanship is practically dead. Most men are so helpless nowadays. The type of man I admire is the type who can create, who can make things with his hands. Practical things, I mean,” she added hastily, remembering Archie’s studio full of unsold paintings. “Things like—well, things like hen-houses. I told George how much I admired him for it And the eggs, of course, are delicious.”

  She stifled a yawn and looked at the clock. The guests rose reluctantly to their feet.

  “Well, I mustn’t take up any more of your time,” said Oswald. “I’ll hope for the best in the matter of the dance.”

  “I’ll—I’ll get the tickets in any
case,” said Archie.

  “Oh, I’ve got tickets,” said Oswald with a hollow laugh.

  Archie hung back as they passed through the hall.

  “You’re coming to tea with me tomorrow, aren’t you, Ethel?” he pleaded.

  Ethel hesitated. Every week Archie asked her to tea with him in the cottage where he carried on his chequered career as an artist. Every week Ethel refused the invitation. But last Tuesday had been her birthday, and he had given her a box of chocolates of such dimensions that, before she quite realised what she was doing, she had accepted the invitation.

  “I suppose so,” she said in a tone that markedly lacked enthusiasm.

  She accompanied her guests to the hall, picked up the scattered umbrellas and set the umbrella stand to rights.

  “That boy!” she said. “One never knows what he’ll be up to next.”

  * * *

  There was a gratifyingly large attendance at the old barn for the television show. Some of the viewers had come in a spirit of criticism, some in a spirit of curiosity, some in simple quest of entertainment. All had come with a touching confidence in William’s ability to break the monotony of life.

  The first arrivals were the Thompson twins—recent additions to the neighbourhood. They were solid compact children, with upturned noses, curly hair and long mischievous mouths, called Launcelot and Geraint. Arabella Simpkin came next—thin and spindly and determined-looking—dragging by the hand her two-year-old brother, Fred. Frankie Parsons came next wearing his usual air of self-sufficiency. Maisie Fellowes followed, looking more like Queen Victoria than ever. Victor Jameson, Jimmy Barlow, Ralph Montague, Ella Poppleham, Caroline Jones and the rest jostled and pushed each other through the doorway and all raised a cheer as William mounted the precarious packing-case that served as his platform.

  “Now listen, everyone,” he said. “Shut up an’ listen. I’m goin’ to make a speech, so shut up.” The tumult partially subsided. “We’re goin’ to give you a new sort of television show an’ you’ve not got to pay anythin’. It’s goin’ to be free.”

  “And dear at that, I shouldn’t wonder,” put in a shrill voice.

  “Shut up, Arabella Simpkin,” said William. The tumult began again and he raised his voice to quell it.

  “Shut up, I tell you. Now listen, you’re goin’ to see a new television show different from any other television show you’ve ever seen in your lives before.”

  “I can’t see any set,” said Frankie Parsons. “Where’s the set?”

  “There isn’t any set,” said William. “That’s what makes it diff’rent from any you’ve ever seen. It’s diff’rent from any other television show in the whole world.”

  “Yes, I bet it’ll be that all right,” said Arabella Simpkin with a short harsh laugh.

  “I’m not talkin’ to you, Arabella Simpkin, so you can jus’ shut up. Now listen, everyone. Listen. In ordin’ry television shows you only see pictures of people, but in this television show you’re goin’ to see the real live people same as you don’t in ordin’ry television shows. Gosh! It’s a jolly sight more excitin’ than jus’ seein’ pictures of ’em, isn’t it? It’s the mos’ wonderful invention that’s ever been invented an’ it’s been invented by me. A television show with real live people in it, ’stead of jus’ pictures of ’em, ’an you’re jolly lucky to be the first people to see it.”

  The audience was silent for a moment or two. Dimly they felt that there was a weak spot in the argument but so infectious was William’s enthusiasm, so persuasive his eloquence, so wholehearted his own belief in the unique properties of his invention, that they were carried away despite themselves. Even Arabella Simpkin joined in the cheer that followed and the twins turned head over heels and began to butt each other in the stomach, which was their usual way of giving vent to their feelings.

  “We’re goin’ to start with a play,” announced William, “an’ don’t forget that you’re seein’ real live people in it that you’d only see pictures of in an ordin’ry television show an’ that it’s the greatest invention that’s ever been invented. It’s a jolly excitin’ play. too. It’s made up by me an’ written down by me an’ acted by me. Well, Henry an’ Ginger an’ Douglas are doin’ a bit of it but it’s mos’ly acted by me. It’s called “The Kidnapper’s Downfall” or “The Bloody Steps” or “The Octopus’s Revenge” by William Brown. It’s got a lot of names ’cause a lot of things happen in it. Now are you ready?”

  The audience gave an answering cheer and the play began.

  Judged solely as a play, it was not an unqualified success. The cast had held one rehearsal only but, with the optimism of the creative artist, who sees his work as he had intended it to be rather than as it actually is, William had been satisfied.

  “You needn’t bother to remember the axshul words,” he had said carelessly, “jus’ go on actin’. It’s such an excitin’ play that you’ve only got to go on actin’ it an’ rememberin’ what happens next.”

  “Well, that’s not goin’ to be easy,” Douglas had said.

  “Oh, shut up makin’ objections,” replied William. “I’ll tell you what to say if you can’t remember it I could act it all by myself, come to that, without makin’ all this fuss.”

  And William did, in effect, act it all by himself. He had piled up such properties as he could collect in a comer of the old barn and the viewers watched enthralled as he plunged into the comer, donned his false beard, returned to black his face with soot, plunged back to put on his kingly crown, struggled manfully if unavailingly with the eight sticks that were intended to transform Ginger into an octopus and finally, flinging aside his bus conductor’s uniform, joined combat with Henry, Ginger and Douglas, as the king’s forces.

  It was at this point that the viewers could restrain themselves no longer. The twins started the rush towards the part of the floor that had been set aside for the stage.

  “Go it, William!” they shouted. “Go it, ole William!” and proceeded to butt Henry, Ginger and Douglas in the stomach with well-aimed blows of their bullet heads.

  The rest of the viewers joined in, shouting noisily, supporting William’s side or Ginger’s as the fancy took them. It was a glorious melee and it lasted till both sides were too much exhausted to continue it any longer. Then William, an impressive figure, his face streaked with soot, his bus conductor’s set hanging disjointedly about him, his false beard still adhering to one ear, rose breathlessly to address his audience.

  “Well, it was a smashin’ play,” he said. “There’s more of it really but I forget how it goes on, so we’ll stop now an’ go on to the next thing. The next thing’s “Animal, Vegetable or Mineral” but with real live people in it like me an’ Henry an’ Ginger an’ Douglas, ’stead of jus’ pictures of people same as you get in ordin’ry television. I’ll show Henry an’ Ginger an’ Douglas somethin’ an’ they’ve got to guess what it is. Now we’ll start, shall we?”

  The viewers, exhilarated by the recent performance, yelled agreement and William, diving once more into his heap of properties, brought out a small fluffy object—most of it concealed by his hand—and held it up.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “A pineapple,” said Douglas.

  “It isn’t,” said Henry.

  “It is.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “It is.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “It’s a feather duster,” said Henry.

  “It isn’t” said Ginger.

  “It is.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “It is.”

  “You’re doin’ it jolly well,” said William, looking proudly at his team.

  “What is it then?” they said to him.

  William wished to prolong the excitement There was to be no tame ending to his “Animal, Vegetable or Mineral” programme. He stuffed the object back into his pocket

  “Take it off me an’ I’ll tell you,” he shouted.

  They set on him and
, nimbly dodging them, he began to run round the barn, pursued by his team. And again, with shouts of glee, the viewers joined in. Again the barn was full of scuffling, wrestling, shouting, leaping, running children.

  “All right,” said William at last in a muffled voice from beneath the seven or eight viewers who were sitting on him. “I’ll tell you now.”

  He crawled from under them and drew a handful of hay, straw and feathers from his pocket.

  “It’s a bird’s nest,” he said. “It wasn’t a good shape to start with—I bet the bird that made it didn’t know much about makin’ nests—and it got all bashed up in my pocket.”

  They seized and scattered it, ramming it down each other’s necks, fighting for fragments of it, throwing it into the air, laughing hilariously.

  William scrambled to his feet. The entertainment had been so successful that he was reluctant to bring it to an end.

  “What else do they do in ordin’ry television?” he said.

  The twins stopped butting each other in the stomach and turned to him,

  “They knock down houses,” said Launcelot.

  William stared at him.

  “They—what?” he said.

  “Knock down houses,” said Geraint.

  “I bet they don’t” said William.

  “Well, they did it once. Someone was telling us about it the other day. They knocked people’s houses down when they were out an’ waited to see what they said when they came home an’ found them knocked down.”

  “Gosh!” said William.

  “Then they gave ’em money an’ they didn’t mind,” said Launcelot.

  “I bet my fam’ly would,” said William.

  “Well, your fam’ly doesn’t know how to act then,” said Launcelot. “Television people don’t mind. They don’t mind anythin’ as long as they get money given ’em, don’t television people.”

  “Where does the money come from?” said William with a puzzled frown.

  “The people that get up the television show pay it,” said Geraint.

  “Oh,” said William blankly.

  “Come on,” shouted Launcelot excitedly. “Let’s go an’ knock a house down.”