Another tile whizzed by and William and Ginger dodged hastily back into the doorway for safety.
“Let’s try the front,” said William tersely.
But it seemed that the room in which William and Ginger had imprisoned the brothers ran the whole length of the house. Before they had taken two steps out of the front door another tile shot by, grazing William’s ear, and they glanced up to see Hugo leaning out of the window, his teeth performing, as it seemed, a dance of triumph while he brandished another tile.
Instinctively William and Ginger dodged back again into the house.
“Let’s try the windows,” said William.
But the windows, too, were commanded by the besieged, who had turned so unexpectedly into the besiegers. Heavy tiles whizzed by them on each attempt at escape and after each attempt they dodged back hastily into safety—a safety that seemed to grow more precarious each moment.
“It’s worse than those massacre things that happened in hist’ry,” said Ginger, staunching a wound on his forehead with a bedraggled handkerchief. “Gosh! Stung at by nettles an’ hit at by tiles! I bet no one in hist’ry ever had both the same mornin’.”
William was considering the situation with a thoughtful frown.
“We ought to try one of those war escapes,” he said. “They did it so I don’t see why we shouldn’t. They dug tunnels. They dug tunnels from where they were imprisoned to outside of it. If we could dig a tunnel from inside the house to ole Miss Risborough’s garden—”
“How?” challenged Ginger. “Kin’ly tell me how to dig a tunnel through people’s floor-boards comin’ out into other people’s gardens. You tell me.”
“Oh, shut up!” said William testily. “There were other ways . . . Some of ’em got out in a wooden horse.”
“All right,” said Ginger, “find a wooden horse that’s big enough for both of us an’ then who’s goin’ to push it, anyway?”
“All right, all right,” snapped William. “If you’re goin’ to go on an’ on makin’ objections we’re never goin’ to get out at all.”
“No, an’ I don’t think we ever are,” said Ginger gloomily.
“Tell you what,” said William suddenly. “Let’s find a little window somewhere where they won’t notice an’ creep out of that. There might be one in a cupboard somewhere . . . ”
He opened a large cupboard that ran beneath the stairs and began to burrow about among the contents. Exultant yells sounded from above.
“Yah! Who thought they were so clever? Yah!”
“Wait till Dad comes home. He’ll teach you. He ought to be here any minute now, too.”
“You won’t find a window there,” said Ginger impatiently.
“P’r’aps not,” said William, interested, despite the urgency of the situation, in the assortment of junk that filled the dark recesses of the cupboard. “I say! There’s a jolly funny thing here.” He dragged out a large copper preserving pan. “Gosh! I b’lieve it’s a sort of saucepan. I bet you could roast an ox whole in it.”
“You couldn’t,” said Ginger. “Anyway, we’ve got no time for roasting oxes even if we could.”
William set the preserving pan down in the hall.
“Yes, it is jus’ a sort of saucepan. When first I saw it underneath all those other things in the dark it looked smashing. It looked like a sort of giant’s helmet. It—” He stopped short and a light dawned slowly over his countenance. “I say, Ginger! I’ve got an idea.”
“What?” said Ginger a little apprehensively.
“We could use it for a giant’s helmet. I bet we could get both our heads in it. Gosh! We could get away easy in it. Their old tiles couldn’t touch us in it an’ it’d be jolly good sucks to them.”
“It’d be a tight squeeze,” said Ginger, looking doubtfully at the pan.
But William’s optimism was proof against that objection. He saw his plan already in the rosy light of fulfilment.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Gosh, it’s a wizard plan. It’s jus’ like one of those war escapes. I bet it’s as good as that wooden horse thing. Come on. I’ll put my head in first an’ then you put yours in.”
It was, as Ginger had said, a tight squeeze, but at last the two heads were safely enclosed in the copper pan and, cautiously, warily, the prisoners felt their way to the back door. Their exit was the signal for a shower of tiles that fell on the pan with no worse effect than a jarring and shaking of the enclosed heads.
“Gosh!” said William. “That nearly drove my teeth right out through the top of my head.”
But the sound of the breaking tiles and the yells of anger and disappointment from the window above amply compensated for any little inconvenience they might be undergoing, and they chuckled gleefully as they made their journey through the trees that bordered the right of way to the gate that led into Miss Risborough’s garden.
“Well, thank goodness we can take it off now,” said William, his voice sounding muffled and resonant inside the copper cavern. Determinedly they set to work to dislodge the pan. With equal determination, as it seemed, the pan set to work not to be dislodged. The rim of the pan was narrower than its body and, though the body could embrace the two heads, the rim refused to do so. They pulled and pushed and wriggled and wrestled. The pan remained immovable. They tried to knock it off against a tree, to rub it off against the fence, to ease it off against a bush—and still the pan remained immovable.
It is a known fact that prisoners in a confined space are apt to get on each other’s nerves, and William and Ginger were no exceptions to the rule.
“I wish you’d keep your ole face to yourself,” said William irritably, “stead of diggin’ it into mine. Look out! You nearly broke my neck then.”
His voice echoed in a strange sepulchral manner round the interior of the copper pan.
“Look out yourself,” said Ginger. “You’ve nearly tore my ear off.”
“Well, keep your head out of the way.”
“Keep yours.”
An attempt at a scuffle brought them heavily to the ground.
“Might as well have a bit of a rest,” said William. “It might come off better if we’d had a bit of a rest.”
“It couldn’t come off worse,” said Ginger.
They sat for some moments in silence. But it was not a peaceful silence. The atmosphere inside the pan was far from peaceful. It was full of pantings and puffings and wrigglings and twitchings and jerkings. William broke the silence. His natural optimism was failing him and darker aspects of the situation came crowding in on his mind.
“S’pose we’ve got to go about like this till we’re old men . . .” he said in a hollow voice.
“With long white beards,” said Ginger, taking a faint unwilling interest in the picture thus called up. “You can’t shave in a saucepan.”
“It’s goin’ to be jolly difficult to eat in a saucepan,” said William. “Gosh! I’m beginning to wish I’d never found the thing. I’d sooner be murdered by tiles then starved to death in a saucepan.”
“I wish you’d stop blowin’ in my face when you talk.”
“An’ I wish you’d stop blowin’ in mine when you do.”
“P’r’aps they’ll manage to smash it up.”
“Yes, an’ what’s going to happen to our faces while they do? I don’t want to go about without a face for the rest of my life.”
“You’d look a jolly sight better without it,” said Ginger, with a chuckle that sounded like a succession of cannon shots.
Another scuffle precipitated them on to their backs and it took some time to regain a sitting posture.
“An’ I bet we get in a row for pinchin’ the saucepan,” said Ginger.
“They can’t do much to you in a saucepan,” said William. He gave a deep sigh that whistled round the pan like a gust of wind. “Anyway we prob’ly won’t live long. I never heard of anyone livin’ long in a saucepan. I’d’ve made my will again if I’d known. I made a new one last week but
I forgot to leave my c’lection of insects to the British Museum.”
“I bet we don’t even get that bob for the job,” said Ginger. “We’ve not done any weedin’.”
“Well, let’s have another shot at it now.”
With difficulty they scrambled to their feet and began once more the long unequal struggle.
“You jus’ aren’t tryin’ to make your head go small,” said William in a tone of exasperation as he pushed and pulled unavailingly. “You’re jus’ keepin’ it as big as you can.”
“I like that!” said Ginger heatedly. “I could get mine out easy if you wouldn’t keep pushin’ yours in front of it.” Suddenly Miss Risborough’s voice floated gently over the garden.
“Boys! Where are you, boys?”
“Come on,” muttered William. “We’d better go to her.”
Unsteadily the strange four-legged apparition, crowned by the copper pan, made its slow progress over the lawn—a progress still further hampered by a sudden attempt at flight on Ginger’s part.
The two were strung up to meet anger, reproaches, demands for explanations—but all they heard was a gay little laugh as Miss Risborough, easing and manoeuvring the preserving pan, gently detached it from their heads.
They stood there, blinking, drawing deep breaths.
“What a charming and amusing way of bringing it back to me, boys!” she said. “You’ve got quite a sense of humour.” They gaped at her in astonishment and she went on, “Actually I’d quite forgotten that I’d told you about that particular worry of mine. Somehow I thought it was my right of way worry I’d told you about, but I’ve got a most unreliable memory.” She gazed fondly down at the pan that lay on the grass at her feet. “I’m so glad to get it back. As I must have told you, those dreadful boys’ mother borrowed it then simply denied that she’d got it or even seen it. Perhaps she’d forgotten or just lost it—but, anyway, it isn’t really mine. It belongs to my sister and she’s coming to collect it tomorrow and I was terrified of having to tell her that I hadn’t got it. It was so good of you to bring it back for me, boys. I don’t know how you found it and perhaps I’d better not ask, but I’m most grateful.”
“Oh!” said William, collecting his scattered forces as best he could. “Well, axshully we sort of set out to get that right of way thing put right . . .”
“Oh, that!” said the old lady. “That’s quite all right now. I met Mrs Jones in the village and happened to tell her about it and she said I could always go through her garden to the bus stop and that’s an even shorter cut than the other.”
William was rubbing his neck, which still felt disjointed by its sojourn in the copper pan.
“’Fraid we’ve not done much weedin’,” he said.
“That doesn’t really matter,” said the old lady. “I’ve come to the conclusion that one must just resign oneself to weeds. You’ve taken a lot of trouble, I’m sure, getting back my preserving pan. Funny that I quite forgot I’d told you about it, but both those worries have been preying on my mind, so no wonder I get them mixed. It’s so nice to have them both cleared up the same day. Well, I think you’ve done a very good hour’s work, boys. Where are your cards?. Now what shall I put? “Recovering missing preserving pan” sounds so odd, doesn’t it? I think I’ll put “General helpfulness”. That sounds better, doesn’t it? And here are your shillings and thank you so much.”
Dazedly they took their leave of her and made their way back to the road.
“Gosh!” said Ginger. “I never thought I’d get out of that saucepan alive.”
But William’s thoughts lingered over the adventure. Bathed in the glamour of the past, it was already assuming heroic proportions in his mind. He walked with a dare-devil air. He kicked a stone from one side of the road to the other with a nonchalant swagger.
“It was a jolly good fight,” he said, “an’ we beat ’em an’ locked ’em up an’ got her saucepan back an’ fixed up her right o’ way—”
“We didn’t,” Ginger reminded him.
“Oh, well, we nearly did. I bet we did really. I bet those two wouldn’t have dared to do anythin’ more to her after that.” He chuckled. “I wonder if they’re still locked up in that room. I’d like to go back an’ see.”
“Well, you can’t,” said Ginger. “We couldn’t go back without that saucepan an’ I bet old Miss Risborough wouldn’t lend it us jus’ to keep tiles off.”
“What’ll we do, then?”
“We’ll do another bob-a-job,” said Ginger. “There’s time to do another.”
“Not weedin’,” stipulated William.
“No, not weedin’,” agreed Ginger.
Frankie Parker passed them on his bicycle. He waved his bob-a-job book exultantly.
“I’ve had a smashing time,” he called, “I’ve cleaned windows and painted a gate. The gate was super.”
“That’s what we’ll do,” said William. “We’ll paint a gate. Paintin’ anything gen’rally turns out excitin’.”
“An’ cleanin’ a window’d be next best,” said Ginger.
“Yes,” said William. “I once did one at home, but a bit got broke off an’ the ladder went through the rest an’ I got a lot of water over me an’ they wouldn’t let me go on with it. I bet I could manage it all right now. Come on. Let’s find a house.”
They walked down the road, examining each house as they passed it.
“That one’s got dirty windows,” said Ginger at last.
“Yes,” said William, “an’ its gate wants paintin’. Come on!”
A tall thin woman with a smudge of flour down her overall opened the door to them.
“We’ve come to paint your gate,” said William brusquely.
She stared at him.
“Come to—what?” she said.
“Or clean your windows,” said William hastily.
“Bob-a-job,” said Ginger.
Her expression relaxed. She beamed a welcome.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Come in. This way.”
“Axshully we’d rather do the gate than the windows,” said William. “We’re better at gates.”
The woman did not seem to hear. She took them through the house to the back garden and pointed out a patch of weed-infested ground enclosed by a small box-edging.
“It’s my herb garden,” she said, “and I want all those weeds taken up.”
There was a stricken look on William’s face.
“We’ll do the gate first,” he said desperately.
“But, I don’t want the gate done.”
“We’ll start with the windows, then.”
“I don’t want the windows done. I want my herb bed weeded.”
“Well, listen,” said William hoarsely. “Haven’t you any missing wills you’d like us to find for you or clues to track for you or—or we can get saucepans back an’ rights of ways an’—an’—”
“Don’t be silly,” said the woman. “Just set to work on the herb garden.”
“We’ve never done a herb garden,” pleaded William.
“It’s just like any other sort of garden,” said the woman impatiently. “Now, don’t waste any more time. And work thoroughly and conscientiously.”
She went indoors. They stood gazing down gloomily at the herb garden.
“Haunted by weeds,” said William bitterly, “that’s what we are. Jus’ haunted by ’em. Everything we try to do turns into weeds.”
“The last one didn’t,” said Ginger. “It turned out of ’em pretty quick.”
William gave his short sarcastic laugh.
“I bet this one won’t,” he said.
“Well, come on,” said Ginger. “We’ll have to do it.”
“What are herbs?” said William with a faint flicker of interest.
“Some sort of flower, I s’pose,” said Ginger vaguely. “I ’spect we’ll come across them as we go along. Come on, let’s do it. Thoroughly an’ conscientiously, same as she said.”
“All right,” said Wil
liam. He spoke in the tone of one who yields to a dark and inexorable fate. “All right, I s’pose we’ll have to. There’s different sorts of weeds growin’ here, anyway, an’ that’ll be a bit of a change.”
Silently, gloomily, thoroughly, conscientiously, they went to work, pulling up handfuls of groundsel, dandelions, goosegrass, bindweed, mint, parsley, thyme, marjoram and chives . . .
Chapter 7 - William and the Wedding Anniversary
It was Ethel’s idea to make an Occasion of her parents’ wedding anniversary. In previous years Mr Brown had either forgotten the date altogether or had—a little shamefacedly—brought home for his wife a bunch of flowers that bore all the marks of rush-hour travel. But this year, said Ethel, they must do the thing properly.
“The darlings must have a party,” she said. “A real party. And they mustn’t have any of the worry of the preparations. We’ll see to everything.”
She and Robert were holding a private meeting in Robert’s bedroom to discuss the arrangements. William had not been invited to it, but, realising that something unusual was afoot, he had slipped into the room after them and taken his position tailor-fashion on the hearthrug.
“I’ve got as much right as you have,” he said when challenged. “It’s as much my father an’ mother’s wedding thing as it is your father an’ mother’s wedding thing. Well, people’ll think it jolly funny if I don’t help with it. It’ll seem sort of fishy. Gosh!”—with his short sarcastic laugh—“they’ll begin to think there’s somethin’ wrong with me.”
“They won’t begin to think anything of the sort,” said Ethel. “They’ve known it for long enough.”
William’s indignation increased.
“Let me tell you—” he began, but Robert silenced him by a curt: “All right. You can stay as long as you keep quiet.”
Robert sat at his writing-desk, wearing a business-like air and a purposeful frown, his pencil poised over a writing-pad. Ethel reclined at ease in the dilapidated wicker arm-chair that Robert had recently salvaged from the loft in order to transform his bedroom into a bed-sitting room.
William's Television Show Page 14
