“Hi! Wait a minute,” said William. He felt that the situation was getting a little out of hand. “We haven’t got anythin’ to knock it down with, anyway.”
“We’ll get things” yelled Launcelot and Geraint.
“Yes, we’ll get things,” echoed the viewers joyfully.
They poured out of the door of the old barn and scattered over the countryside.
“They’ll be comin’ back with shovels an’ saws an’ hammers an’ things,” said Douglas morosely. “I bet they won’t leave one house standin’ in the village by the time they’ve finished an’ we’ll have to pay for the whole lot.”
“No, they’re only goin’ to do one,” said Ginger. “I bet television people only did one at a time.”
“Yes, but what about this money?” said William anxiously. “I dunno that we’ve got enough money to pay for a house.”
“How much have we got?”
“I’ve got sixpence,” said Henry.
“I’ve got sevenpence halfpenny,” said Douglas.
“I’ve got threepence,” said Ginger.
“I’ve got fourpence and a farthing,” said William.
Henry wrestled with the sum in silent concentration for a few moments.
“It’s one and eightpence three farthings,” he said at last.
“It’s a lot of money,” said Ginger.
“Yes, but I don’t know that it’s enough to pay for a house,” said William. “I dunno how much they cost.”
“We’ll try ’n’ fix on a little one,” said Ginger.
“I dunno that it wouldn’t be better to stop this television show altogether,” said Douglas. “Couldn’t we say there’s been a technical hitch?”
“It’s too late,” said Henry.
It was too late. The viewers were swarming back across the field, waving saws and hammers and spades and garden forks. Launcelot carried a pair of pruning shears, Geraint an alpen-stock, Frankie Parsons had a coal hammer, Caroline Jones a croquet mallet. Arabella Simpkin carried an ancient umbrella and Fred the small wooden spade that had accompanied him on his seaside holiday last month.
Halfway across the field they stopped.
“Come on!” they shouted. “We’re ready.”
William and the others ran down to join them and the whole body trooped back again towards the village. William’s doubts had faded. The carefree exhilaration of the viewers had communicated itself to him, and he was beginning to think that the whole thing was his own idea. He seized a large fallen stick from the ditch that bordered the road and walked at the head of the ragged formation, brandishing it above his head.
They stopped outside the gate of the Hall and surveyed the stately edifice—wings, porticoes, pediments, turrets and gables.
“That’s too big,” said William. “We’d never get that down. It’d take us weeks, anyway.”
They moved on to the Vicarage. That, too, seemed to present an impregnable front to the world.
“That’d take too long, too,” said William.
“We could have a bash at it,” said Launcelot wistfully.
“Yes, let’s have a bash at it,” said Geraint.
“No,” said William firmly. “It’s too big. Come on.”
The band rollicked down the road. At Archie’s cottage they stopped and crowded round the gate, surveying the ramshackle structure with interest.
“I bet we could get that down,” said Launcelot.
“I bet we couldn’t,” said Victor Jameson. “It’s got roses climbin’ up it. Climbin’ roses have got thorns stickin’ out all over ’em. I once helped my father cut some pieces out of one an’ it was like bein’ shot at by bows an’ arrows.”
“But look!“ shouted Frankie Parsons. “Look at that hen-house.” They looked at the hen-house. It stood on the lawn—a brand new shining hen-house.
“Gosh!” said William. “It wasn’t there the last time I came along the road.”
“Let’s knock it down,” said Launcelot. “It’ll be easier than an ordin’ry house an’ I bet it’ll do jus’ as well.”
“Yes, if we start on a hen-house it’ll give us practice an’ we can work up to ordin’ry houses gradually,” said Geraint. “Come on. Let’s knock the hen-house down.”
“He’ll see us from the window,” objected Douglas.
“Well, we can’t do it if he’s in,” said Launcelot. “That’s the point of it. They’ve got to be out. Then you knock their houses down an’ wait till they come back to see what they say an’ give ’em money.”
“I bet it didn’t cost more than one an’ eight pence three farthings,” said William. “Not much more, anyway. Come on. Let’s see if he’s out.”
They crept up to the cottage. Had Archie been in the cottage he would have witnessed the strange sight of a row of heads appearing suddenly at the bottom of each window in turn and rising simultaneously to inspect the interior of the room. But Archie apparently was not in the cottage. There were the usual signs of Archie’s occupation—a kitchen sink piled high with used crockery and saucepans, a studio scattered with tubes of paint, paint brushes, palettes, half-covered canvasses and odds and ends of Archie’s wearing apparel; but of Archie himself there was no sign.
“That’s all right, then,” said William, throwing his doubts to the winds and assuming command of the situation. “Douglas can stay by the gate an’ let us know when he’s comin’ an’ the rest of us can start on it.”
With hammers, spades, garden forks and shovels the viewers started on it. They hit and prodded and knocked and banged. Victor Jameson, throwing aside his poker, hurled his small but solid person upon it. Frankie Parsons wielded his coal hammer with such effect that he dealt himself several blows on the head for every one that reached the hen-house. Arabella Simpkin beat on the wooden side with her umbrella in an imperious manner as if demanding entrance, while Fred, dissociating himself from the whole proceedings, set to work making mud pies on a near-by flower bed with his wooden spade.
A tremor seemed to run through the shed at the first attack; then gradually it yielded to the assault. Gaping holes appeared as the thin frail wooden sides caved in before the attackers. The attackers redoubled their blows, hurling themselves and their weapons on it in a frenzy of excitement as the gimcrack structure collapsed into a heap of broken wood.
And then from the heap of broken wood there rose a pale and haggard face. Chips of wood adorned head and beard. Blood oozed from a jagged cut on the forehead. It opened its mouth and emitted a bleating sound.
“It’s haunted!” screamed Arabella Simpkin.
“Archie!” gasped William.
Archie had had a trying day. It happened that an enterprising itinerant salesman had bought up a bankrupt stock of sectional hen-houses of unusually inferior quality and had conceived the bright idea of disposing of them at enhanced prices by door to door canvassing. He had only found two purchasers in the village and one of them had been Archie. Archie had at first resisted the salesman’s oily persuasiveness.
“It wouldn’t be any use to me,” he had objected. “I don’t keep hens.”
The man waved the objection aside.
“You don’t need to keep hens,” he said. “Hens keep themselves. With a hen-house like this and a few scraps you’ll have eggs enough to feed the whole village. And think of the interest of the thing.”
Archie thought of the interest of the thing, saw himself taking baskets of eggs to Ethel—bigger and better eggs than George Bell’s hens could ever produce. He thought of Ethel’s gratitude mid the many opportunities for little chats with Ethel that the situation would provide.
“We deliver it free of charge,” said the man.
“But I don’t know how you put it together,” protested Archie. “That’s going to be the difficulty.”
“Not at all,” said the man. “It’s simplicity itself. A child could do it. Full directions are given with it. An infant in arms could understand them. And you’ll be surprised at the quality of
the thing. All your friends will admire it. It’s a piece of really fine craftsmanship.”
And that, of course, sent Archie’s mind to what Ethel had said about craftsmanship the day before. He imagined Ethel admiring his hen-house, telling her friends about it, lauding his craftsmanship . . . It went to his head. He weakened, yielded, paid the money, and the next morning found the flimsy sheets of wood that formed the sections lying on his front lawn together with a badly-typed leaflet of instructions. The heading of the leaflet informed him yet again that the erection of the thing was simplicity itself and that a child could do it.
A child may or may not have been able to do it, but Archie couldn’t. He wrestled with the instructions and sections alternately till he was in a state bordering on frenzy. Then he sent for old Amos, a local ancient who performed occasional odd jobs in the village at his own time and pleasure. Sometimes he came when you sent for him and sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he stayed to finish the job and sometimes he didn’t. He liked to go to the Red Lion for his pint at twelve-thirty in the morning and, whatever stage the job had reached, twelve-thirty would see him ambling out of the gate and down the road towards the Red Lion. He was a small man with a bald head, a round wrinkled face, luxuriant grey whiskers and a squint. His sole contribution to any conversation was the word “Ar”. He could put innumerable shades of meaning into it, but the word itself never varied.
Archie, strung about with nails and sections and the bits of string that had tied the sections together, almost wept with joy when he saw the small squat figure entering the gate. Amos carried his tools in a bag. Amos had two tools—a hammer and a pair of pincers. He knocked nails in with the hammer and pulled them out with the pincers.
“You see, Amos,” said Archie, unfolding the leaflet of directions. “You fix it like this. I mean, it tells you here how to fix it—”
“Ar,” said Amos, scratching his bald head in a puzzled fashion.
“It must mean something,” said Archie desperately. “I’ve read it and I can’t make head or tail of it, but it must mean something. I mean, there must be some sort of meaning in it don’t you think?”
“Ar,” said Amos doubtfully.
“You see,” said Archie, “there are letters pencilled on the wood and they’re supposed to fit into each other. Look! There’s an A on this piece and an A on that piece. Well, there must be a meaning of some sort if only one could find it.”
Amos examined the pieces and a light broke out over his round wrinkled face.
“Ar,” he said triumphantly.
And then they set to work. When they had got the floor in place, Archie, standing on the floor, held the sides in position while Arnos hammered them together. They fixed the three sides and the roof. There only remained the fourth side.
“That’s grand,” said Archie, his heart singing with happiness. “Now there’s only the last side. I’ll hold it like this.”
He stood on the floor of the hen-house, holding the fourth side, while Amos hammered in the nails from the outside. As the last nail was driven home the church clock struck the half-hour. Half-past twelve . . .
“Ar,” said Amos, collecting his tools.
And then suddenly in a flash the full horror of the situation burst upon Archie.
“Hi! Amos!” he called.
“Ar,” said Amos from the gate.
“Amos!” called Archie with rising panic. “I’ve got nailed up in it. Let me out.”
“Ar,” said Amos from the road.
“Amos!” shouted Archie. “Come back. Let me out.”
Amos’s “Ar” was a distant breath upon the wind. He was half-way to the Red Lion.
“Amos!” called Archie wildly. “Amos!”
There was no answer.
Panic swept over him. The only door to the hen-house was a tiny opening by which the inmates were supposed to go in and out on their daily activities. He was imprisoned. He was imprisoned in a hen-house on his own front lawn. It had never occurred to him to move the thing to a less conspicuous position; he had erected it on the spot where the salesman had deposited the sections. The future loomed before him, black with menace. Sooner or later he would have to be released. The story would get round and the whole village would know about it. He seemed already to hear the bursts of mocking laughter that would pursue him for the rest of his life.
It would never be forgotten. He would never live it down. Wherever he went—through the length and breadth of England—the story would follow him. Titters, sniggers, bursts of mocking laughter. The man who had nailed himself up in a hen-house on his own front lawn. Ethel would go to the dance with Oswald Franks. They would talk of nothing else. They would rock and roar with laughter. The whole world would rock and roar with laughter.
Perspiration poured down his brow at the thought. All he wanted to do was to creep into a hole and stay there for the rest of his life, but, imprisoned as he was, he couldn’t even do that. He would have welcomed the onset of any fatal disease, but even in his agitation he could detect no fatal symptoms.
He hurled himself against the sides of the shed but they resisted the assaults. He tried to crawl out of the tiny door but his head became jammed and it was only after many efforts that he managed to free it. He called “Hi!” and “Help!” but no one heard him. Then he succumbed to despair and sat crouched in a corner of his shed, facing the grim alternatives of death by slow starvation or a lifetime of public ignominy.
His despair was increased by the realisation that Ethel was coming to tea and that not only would he have no opportunity to go out and buy cakes for her, but that she would find him—if she found him at all—nailed up in a hen-house on his front lawn.
He didn’t know how long he had crouched there before he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and, almost immediately, the impact of some weapon on the walls of his prison. He waited in a turmoil of apprehension, relief and perplexity. The frail match-board sections splintered into fragments, the roof fell on his head, a saw caught him on one cheek—and daylight came flooding through the chinks. He rose from the ruins, gasping and spluttering, and looked about him.
The viewers had fled in panic. Only William, Henry, Ginger and Douglas stood their ground.
“I say, Archie,” said William hoarsely, “I’m terribly sorry.” He dug his hand into his pocket and brought out the one and eightpence-three-farthings. “Will this be enough?”
But Archie wasn’t listening. He was burrowing in his own pocket and bringing out a ten-shilling note.
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am, William,” he said brokenly. “You—you saw it happen, of course, and brought along these friends of yours to rescue me. I’m more grateful than I can say—and—and you won’t tell Ethel, will you?”
“No,” said William, concealing his bewilderment as best he could and pocketing the ten-shilling note. “No, we won’t tell Ethel.”
“Not much good as a hen-house now,” said Henry, surveying the heap of splintered fragments.
“I don’t want it as a hen-house,” said Archie fervently. “I don’t want the thing at all. I’ve had enough of it to last me the rest of my life.”
“What happened?” said William.
“I got caught up in it,” said Archie. “It closed round me like a net. It was a ghastly experience.”
“It’d make jolly good firewood,” said Douglas.
“We could bash it up a bit more,” said Ginger.
“Yes, do,” said Archie, brightening as he suddenly saw the means of disposing of all traces of his ignoble plight.
They set to work with Archie’s kitchen chopper till only a heap of small broken pieces lay on the lawn.
“That’s all right now, isn’t it, Archie?” said William. “You can pile it up somewhere, can’t you? D’you mind if we go now? We want to start on the ten shillings.”
“Not at all,” said Archie.
His face beamed with delight. He was a free man. The nightmare was over.
Th
e four boys trooped down the road towards the sweet shop. Archie got busy with his wheelbarrow, carting load after load of “firewood” round to the back premises of his cottage.
He was just carting the last load when Ethel arrived.
“What on earth’s that?” she said.
“Oh, just firewood,” said Archie nonchalantly. “I thought I’d get some in ready for the winter. It’s as well to get firewood in during the summer, you know, when you can get it at summer prices.”
Ethel looked at him with a new respect. One would hardly have expected Archie to think of firewood at all, much less firewood at summer prices. He was perhaps less vague and impractical than she had imagined.
Then Archie remembered his tea-less cottage and followed up his advantage.
“I thought it might be a good idea to go out to tea,” he said airily. “We could go to The Yellow Lizard if you like. It would make a nice change.”
The Yellow Lizard was a new up-to-date roadhouse that had recently been opened on the other side of Hadley.
Ethel’s spirits rose. She thought of the teas that Archie was wont to serve to visitors in his cottage. Despite his frantic preparations, the tea was generally tepid, the milk sour, the cakes stale and the biscuits crumbled. Local tradesmen had formed the habit of unloading their more dubious wares on Archie.
“That would be lovely,” she said sweetly.
“I’ll drive you there,” said Archie in a sudden burst of optimism.
“You’ve got a cut on your forehead,” said Ethel.
“Yes,” said Archie. “I banged against a shed.”
“What shed?” said Ethel.
“Oh, just a shed,” said Archie.
He went to get out his car. Archie’s car was the most temperamental car within a radius of a hundred miles. There were days when, full of the joy of life and the lust for adventure, it charged head-on into everything it met. But today was not one of those days. Today it progressed demurely along the road in a dreamy contemplative fashion, only occasionally rearing up playfully as Archie applied the brakes or let in the clutch.
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