‘Oh, William, you do look funny! What are you playing at?’
‘I’m not playing at anythin’,’ said William sternly. ‘I’m a Commando in the invasion. Go away. I don’t want you messing round.’
‘Can’t I play, too, William?’ pleaded Violet Elizabeth. ‘I like funny gameth.’
‘It’s not a game,’ repeated William.
‘OH, WILLIAM, YOU DO LOOK FUNNY!’ CRIED VIOLET ELIZABETH.
‘Have you any more black thtuff?’ said Violet Elizabeth.
It turned out that William had. He had put the tin into his pocket in case he had to renew his make-up during the course of the evening. Reluctantly he brought it out. Morosely he watched Violet Elizabeth plaster her small face with it.
‘Now I’m all black, too,’ she said happily. ‘What thall we play at?’
‘I keep tellin’ you, I’m not playin’ at anythin’,’ said William impatiently. ‘I’m helpin’ conquer the Germans.’
‘I’m thick of the Germanth,’ pouted Violet Elizabeth. ‘Leth pretend we’re explorerth.’
‘I tell you I’m a Commando,’ said William, ‘an’ girls can’t be them. They’re too soppy.’
‘Girlth aren’t thoppy, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth, stung by this insult to her sex. ‘I don’t thee why they thouldn’t be Commandoth thame ath the Atth and Waacth and Wrenth. I’m going to be one, anyway, and you can’t thtop me. I’m going to be a Waac. That meanth Women Auxiliary Commando. Girlth aren’t thoppy, William. I’m going to be a Waac an’ help you, thame ath the otherth do.’
‘It means goin’ into danger – p’raps death,’ said William darkly.
‘I don’t mind,’ said Violet Elizabeth, dismissing death and danger with an airy gesture. ‘It’th a nithe game.’
‘I keep tellin’ you it’s not a game,’ snapped William. ‘I’m in earnest.’
‘All right,’ said Violet Elizabeth serenely, ‘I don’t mind. I’ll be in earnetht, too.’
William sighed and yielded to the inevitable. He had tried to shake off Violet Elizabeth before and knew that it could not be done. After all, she would afford him a spectator for his exploits, and William liked to have a spectator for his exploits . . .
He walked down the lane, Violet Elizabeth trotting beside him.
‘Let’th play at being Robinthon Cruthoe and Friday,’ she suggested brightly.
William did not deign to answer.
‘Well, let’th pretend we’re ecthplorerth, then,’ she said. ‘It’th tho dull jutht being Commandoth.’
‘You wait,’ said William. ‘You wait till I get going.’
‘All right. What do we do firtht?’
‘Well – er – I’ll climb a tree and have a good look round for sentries, then I’ll creep up behind ’em and kill ’em.’
‘But I like thentrieth,’ objected Violet Elizabeth. ‘They’re nithe.’
‘Well, I don’t want you, anyway, an’ I wish you’d go away . . . I’m goin’ to go into this field an’ climb this tree.’
‘Can I climb it, too?’
‘No.’
‘All right. I don’t mind. I alwayth get thtuck in treeth.’
William went across the field to a large oak tree that grew by the farther hedge. He had often climbed it before and took only a few seconds to reach a good vantage point about half-way up. Violet Elizabeth waited patiently till he rejoined her.
‘I got a jolly good view,’ he said excitedly. ‘I could see two men in khaki, guardin’ things. One was guardin’ the telephone box by the road an’ the other was guardin’ the bridge over the river. I could jump down on both of ’em an’ overpower them, but I can’t tell from here which is ours an’ which is the enemy. I say! You go round an’ find out which is which. See which of ’em’s a reg’lar soldier an’ which is a Home Guard. P’raps,’ hopefully, ‘they’re both reg’lar soldiers an’ I can overpower both of ’em. Anyway, it’s no good lettin’ them see me before I start overpowerin’ them or it’ll put ’em on their guard. You go first an’ find out which is which an’ come back an’ tell me an’ then I’ll go an’ overpower whichever’s the enemy.’
‘All right,’ agreed Violet Elizabeth and trotted off obediently.
William meantime searched for suitable weapons in the neighbouring hedge. He found a short stout stick with which, he thought, he could stun his opponent, and his pocket already contained a length of string with which he hoped to secure his victim when stunned.
Violet Elizabeth soon came trotting back
‘The one by the bridge ith a Home Guard, William,’ she said, ‘an’ the one by the telephone booth ith a reg’lar tholdier.’
‘All right,’ said William. ‘I’ll overpower the one by the telephone box.’
‘Can I come, too?’ asked Violet Elizabeth.
‘No,’ said William firmly. ‘I’m goin’ into deadly danger an’ it’s no place for women. Besides, you always mess things up.’
‘All right, William,’ said Violet Elizabeth with unexpected docility. ‘I’ll wait for you here.’
William crept across the field to the point in the road where the telephone box was. Carefully, silently, with the help of some railings at the side of the road, he climbed up to the top of the telephone box, then peeped cautiously over the top. All he could see was a netted tin hat, a khaki battle dress and an enormous pair of boots. The best way to overpower the enemy was, he had decided, to fling himself down upon him from above and, while the enemy was still bewildered, stun and bind him . . .
He waited breathlessly for a few seconds. Evidently the enemy, leaning against the telephone box in an attitude of extreme boredom, had not heard his approach. William set his teeth and drew a deep breath . . . One, two, three . . .
For a few seconds William and the khaki-clad figure rolled about the road in indistinguishable confusion. Unfortunately the figure in khaki recovered first from his confusion, dragged William to his feet and boxed his ears.
‘You little devil, you!’
‘Listen!’ said William, rubbing his head, which had felt the full impact, first of the warrior’s tin hat and then of his large and horny hand. ‘Listen! You don’t understand. I’m a Commando an’ I’ve captured you. At least, I dropped my stick when I fell off, but, if I’d got my stick, I’d’ve captured you, so—’ he broke off, staring in amazement at the warrior’s sleeve. ‘Gosh! You’re a Home Guard!’
WILLIAM LOOKED CAUTIOUSLY OVER THE TOP OF THE TELEPHONE BOX.
‘’Course I’m a Home Guard,’ snapped the warrior. ‘And, let me tell you, you can get into serious trouble for interfering with a Home Guard in the pursuit of his duties. You may not know that this is an invasion practice, and that I’m guarding vital communications. I don’t suppose you even know there’s a war on. I suppose you think of nothing but your inane monkey tricks. Boys like you are a menace to the community . . .’
‘Listen,’ pleaded William again. ‘I was tryin’ to help. I—’ But the Home Guard advanced upon him threateningly.
‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Go home and wash your face.’
William, in no condition to venture upon further hostilities, took ignominiously to flight.
He found Violet Elizabeth sitting under the tree where he had left her, sucking a piece of chocolate.
‘Look here!’ William accused her indignantly. ‘You made me attack the wrong side. He wasn’t a reg’lar soldier.’
‘I know he wathn’t,’ agreed Violet Elizabeth, mildly apologetic, ‘but I wath playing a different game – a game of my own. I wath pretending I wath an ecthplorer, theeing which were the friendly tribeth and the one by the bridge wath a very friendly one. He gave me a thlab of chocolate and I didn’t want you to kill him, cauthe he wath tho nithe and kind, but the one by the telephone booth wath very dithagreeable and wouldn’t even thpeak to me, tho I wanted you to kill him, cauthe he wath tho croth. That’th why I told you he wath a reg’lar tholdier, cauthe I wanted you to kill him. He detherved to be killed for
being tho nathty and croth.’
William was beyond even remonstrance. He dug his hands into his pockets and trailed dejectedly homewards.
He was tempted not to attend the meeting at General Moult’s house the next morning. He had nothing to offer but a record of failure and disgrace that would expose him to the triumphant jeering of his enemies for months to come. He hadn’t even contributed a single map, and his encounter with the Home Guard was still a painful memory. It seemed, however, cowardly to shirk it, so, sore in both mind and body, he set out for the meeting.
Hubert Lane and his friends were already there, grinning complacently. They had all sent maps, and one of them, Hubert probably, would be sure to get the prize. William took his seat at the end of the row, his freckled face set and scowling. The ostrich egg still stood on the top of the book-case. It seemed to regard him with mingled derision and contempt.
‘How many maps did you send the General, William?’ said Hubert, and his friends sniggered in appreciation of the taunt.
General Moult entered and took his seat at his writing-desk.
‘Now I’ll ask you children, one by one, what you did yesterday to help the defending forces,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask Hubert Lane first.’
Hubert smirked triumphantly.
‘I sent you ten maps,’ he said, ‘an’ I bet no one else sent as many as that. My dad’s always buying new maps. He buys jolly expensive ones, too.’
General Moult passed on to the next without comment.
‘I sent you three maps.’
‘I sent you four maps.’
‘I only sent one, but it was a jolly good one.’
Hubert sat with his eyes fixed gloatingly on the ostrich egg. He would put it in the hall where everyone would see it as they came into the house, and he would tell everyone how he’d won it. If he wasn’t in, his mother would tell them. No one had sent more than ten maps. He was sure of the prize. He’d scored over ole William Brown at last, and he wouldn’t let him forget it in a hurry.
‘And what about you, William Brown?’ the General was saying.
William tried not to see Hubert’s jeering face. He gulped and swallowed miserably.
‘I tried to knock out one of the invaders,’ he said, ‘but – but I got a Home Guard by mistake.’
The General waved this aside.
‘No real harm done,’ he said, ‘or I’d have heard of it.’ He cleared his throat and addressed his audience. ‘All you children, except one, have fallen into a trap. The man who came round asking for maps and purporting to have come from me was a fifth columnist. His aim was to procure maps for the invaders and deplete the supply of maps available for the defenders. Only one of you tumbled to the fact that it might be a trick. That boy – realising, of course, that to refuse outright would be dangerous – very cunningly gave the man an empty box labelled “Maps” then, just in case the message was a genuine one, brought the maps round to me at Headquarters.’ William gasped. The maps must have fallen out of his pocket when he tumbled over the packing-case in the old barn. ‘I’m afraid I was rather abrupt on that occasion, as I did not realise the object of the boy’s visit, but I congratulate you on your intelligence, William Brown, and have much pleasure in presenting you with the prize.’
‘AND WHAT ABOUT YOU, WILLIAM BROWN?’ ASKED THE GENERAL.
Dazedly William rose to his feet. Dazedly he murmured thanks. Dazedly he took the precious case under his arm . . .
Violet Elizabeth accompanied him homeward, smiling radiantly.
‘I helped you win it, didn’t I, William?’ she said. ‘It wath me that won it really, wathn’t it, by helping you overpower that dithagreeable man that didn’t give me any chocolate.’
And he was too dazed even to contradict her.
CHAPTER 9
WILLIAM AND THE TEA-CAKE
IF it hadn’t been for Mrs Mason, no one in the village would have taken any notice of Fräulein Schmitt, or Miss Smith, as she preferred to be called. Miss Smith was an Austrian refugee, who had come to the Vicarage as a ‘help’ about a year before the war – small, shy, timid and quiveringly anxious to justify her position. Moreover, her admiration of everything British was so extreme as to be almost embarrassing.
‘Your calmness, your courage, your kindness,’ she would say, hands clasped, pale eyes brimming with tears, ‘they are an amazement to me. Constantly they are an amazement. Never in all my life have I been so happy as I am among you. After all my suffering it is like reaching haven after storm. My gratitude overwhelms me. Never do I wish to leave this beautiful country, these kind brave people. Here is my spiritual home.’
The recipients of these compliments felt vaguely flattered but were, generally speaking, too busy to do anything about it beyond greeting her kindly when they met her scurrying about the village on her patriotic activities. These consisted chiefly of knitting innumerable sea-boot stockings and helping at the local canteen that was patronised by large numbers of the airmen from Marleigh Aerodrome. Mrs Monks, her employer, gave her every afternoon ‘off’, and Miss Smith spent them all at the canteen. It was difficult to get helpers for the afternoon shift, so Miss Smith took it on every day. She said that it was a small way of repaying all the kindness she had received in her beloved adopted country . . . She never wanted to go anywhere else or do anything else and she had no friends. She kept the Vicarage in perfect order and cooked succulent meals out of nothing at all. Mrs Monks called her a ‘treasure’ and left it at that. It wasn’t till Mrs Mason came to the village that the limelight began to fall upon Miss Smith.
Mrs Mason’s journalistic genius had so far functioned chiefly in the atmosphere of Bloomsbury, but removal to the country seemed to have given it fresh impetus, and after a week or two, having exhausted every other topic connected with the village, she fell upon Miss Smith, the Grateful Refugee. Mrs Mason pursued her indefatigably, interviewing her on her sufferings in her native land and on those feelings of gratitude to her adopted country that found such constant outlet in sea-boot stockings and the local canteen. And then – when one would have thought that she had said all that could possibly be said on the subject – she discovered Miss Smith’s soldier. Miss Smith’s soldier was a tall stooping military-looking man, with a white moustache and a limp, who had moved from London at the beginning of the war and lived in rooms in Hadley. He took a ‘constitutional’ into the country every afternoon, walking slowly and leaning heavily on his stick, and, passing the canteen, would often go in for a rest before continuing his walk. And Miss Smith adopted him. He became her soldier. He was a silent reserved man, but questioning would draw from him an account of how he had been gassed and shot through the spine in the last war . . . and to Miss Smith he typified all the other soldiers who had suffered these things for her freedom. Moreover, he had been a prisoner of war in Germany and could speak a little German, which he practised with shy pride upon Miss Smith. Miss Smith discovered that he had been born in Yorkshire and that one of his happiest memories was the Yorkshire tea-cakes that his mother used to make . . . He had never tasted anything to compare with them, he said, since he came South . . . So, in order to give him a pleasant surprise, Miss Smith set to work to make a Yorkshire tea-cake. She hunted through recipe books; she experimented on the Vicarage gas cooker . . . till she had at last made a Yorkshire tea-cake that she considered fit to be offered to him. And he pronounced it good – as good, in fact, as the tea-cakes his mother used to make. Miss Smith’s gratification was unbounded, and thereafter, whenever the soldier stopped at the canteen, Miss Smith would have a tea-cake ready for him to take home with him. Mrs Mason seized on the story with zest and wrote an article – Fräulein Schmitt, the Soldier and the Tea-cakes – which appeared in one of the monthly reviews. After that, having exhausted every other subject, she took refuge in those happy hunting grounds of the journalist – War-time Cookery and The Mistakes Our Generals Have Made in Every Theatre of the War – and Miss Smith relapsed into oblivion.
Not enti
rely into oblivion, however, for the story of the tea-cake had somehow struck the popular imagination. Even Mrs Brown, harassed as she was by points and coupons, by the curious appearance of war-time sausages and the still more curious disappearance of war-time eggs, found time to turn up an old cookery book and make a Yorkshire tea-cake.
‘I think it’s quite a success,’ she said modestly. ‘Anyway, will you take it down to the canteen for me, William. It’s the day her soldier generally calls, I believe. I don’t suppose it’s as good as Miss Smith’s, but tell Miss Smith that I’d like him to have it as well as hers, just to see if it’s all right. If it is, I could make one or two occasionally to save her the trouble.’
William had arranged to play in the woods with Ginger that afternoon, but, like everyone else in the village, he felt a proprietary pride in Miss Smith and her soldier, so he took the paper bag his mother gave him and set off for the Church Room, where the canteen was held. He found Miss Smith arranging cakes and teacups on long trestle tables.
‘Mother sent you this for your soldier,’ said William, taking the tea-cake out of the bag and putting it on the table.
Miss Smith clasped her hands in ecstasy.
William At War Page 15
