William - the Dictator

by Richmal Crompton

  “No, thank you,” said Mrs. Brown, faintly. “Get the money now, dear, and go as quietly as you can.”

  William tiptoed across to the dressing-table, but his tiptoeing was always of a somewhat elephantine nature. He banged into a chair, and knocked over a bottle of hair lotion on the dressing-table, before he finally found the purse. He took a ten-shilling note and a sixpence, put them carefully into his pocket, and made his way, still tiptoeing, to the door

  “Don’t bang it, dear,” pleaded Mrs. Brown faintly.

  William gave his whole attention to not banging the door. He closed it by infinitesimal inches, and took so long that his mother’s nerves were strained to breaking-point before it finally reached its objective. The effect was somewhat marred by his immediately slipping on the top step and falling all the way downstairs. His voice, raised in angry self-justification to the housemaid, who came out of the kitchen to ask him indignantly what he was making all that clatter for with his mother ill in bed, assured Mrs. Brown that he had sustained no vital injury, and she relaxed on her pillows again, trying to calm her jangled nerves.

  Meantime, William made sure that the ten-shilling note and the sixpence were safe, then rejoined the Outlaws at the side door.

  “I say, I’ve gotter go down to Hadley,” he said gloomily. “I’ve gotter go ’n’ buy a rotten ole birthday present for an ole aunt.”

  Their faces fell, but they rallied quickly to his support.

  “We’ll all come,” they said. “We can go ’n’ dam the stream afterwards. We’ll all come an’ help you choose it.”

  “I’ve not even gotter choose it,” said William, still more gloomily. “I’ve gotter get a rotten ole tea-cloth she saw at Hemmett’s.”

  “A tea-cloth!” they echoed in disgust.

  “Well, of course, they like things like that,” said Ginger philosophically.

  “I dunno,” said William doubtfully. “She seemed sort of different.”

  They walked down to Hadley, discussing Aunt Louie. They all remembered her.

  “She was jolly good at makin’ fires,” said Ginger.

  “Yes, an’ she took us all into Hadley four times to give us ice-creams.”

  “An’ she could make that noise they do in Switzerland.”

  “Yodel,” put in Henry, with a superior air.

  “Well, I said that, din’ I?” said William. “You can’t do it, anyway.”

  “I never said I could. Neither can you.”

  “I nearly can.”

  “Well, so can I, nearly.”

  “I bet you can’t. Go on, do it.”

  “Do it yourself.”

  For a few moments nerve-shattering cat-calls rent the air, as all the Outlaws took part in the competition. Then they settled down again to a discussion of Aunt Louie.

  “She took us out to tea, an’ gave us orange squash, an’ cream buns, an’ let us go on an’ on an’ on . . .”

  “An’ she gave us each half a crown when she went back.”

  “A tea-cloth!” ejaculated Ginger in disgust.

  “I bet she doesn’t want one really,” said William. “I bet she’d rather have somethin’ int’restin’. It’s jus’ that my mother can’t think of anythin’ but tea-cloths an’ such like. She likes tea-cloths, an’ thinks everyone else must, too. Grown-ups are like that. They think that if they like dull things, so mus’ everyone else. That’s why they give us such rotten presents at Christmas.”

  “I don’t see what she’d do with a tea-cloth in South Africa,” said Douglas thoughtfully. “I once saw a film of it, an’ it was all wild country an’ lions an’ little huts an’ savidges. I didn’t see any tea-cloths or anythin’ like that. The only meals they had, what I could see, were under trees an’ on rocks, tryin’ to get out of the way of lions an’ savidges. I bet she won’t know what a tea-cloth is.”

  “She saw ’em when she was in England,” Henry reminded them.

  “Yes, but that was a long time ago. I bet she’s forgotten by now.”

  “Pity not to send her somethin’ really useful . . .” murmured Ginger.

  They had reached Hadley now, and stood looking into the window of a toy-shop that always attracted them.

  “Now, that pistol’d be jolly useful to her,” said Douglas, “I bet you want no end of pistols in a country like South Africa, with all those lions an’ savidges.”

  “It’s not a real one,” Henry reminded him.

  “I know, but it’d sort of give ’em a scare. She could use it to scare ’em with when she’d run out of bullets for her real one, or when the real one was bein’ mended or somethin’. They wouldn’t know it wasn’t a real one, an’ I bet it’d scare ’em right enough. If I was out there, with all those lions an’ savidges an’ things, I bet I’d be jolly glad to have it.”

  “Well, let’s get it, then,” said Ginger in a businesslike manner. “It’s only two an’ six. It’ll leave quite a lot for a tea-cloth. An’ anyway, she doesn’t want a tea-cloth.”

  William hesitated for a moment, but Ginger’s contention seemed fair enough, so they all trooped into the toy shop.

  The pistol was examined, approved and purchased.

  “I bet she’ll be jolly grateful for it,” said Douglas. “I shun’t be surprised if it saves her life. You know a savidge might be just comin’ at her with a spear, same as they did in that picture, an’ she’d lost her real pistol, an’ pointed this at him, an’ he’d think it was a real one an’ run off.”

  William, who felt that he’d already saved Aunt Louie’s life several times, looked complacent and important.

  A magnificent drum had caught Henry’s attention. He took it up and examined it.

  “This is a jolly fine one,” he said. “I bet this’d be jolly useful, too. She could beat on it to call people to help her when the savidges were attacking her. I think drums are jolly useful in savidge countries. You can send messages in code on ’em. She could beat so many beats to mean ‘lion’, an’ so many beats to mean ‘savidges’. Why, they could make up a sort of langwidge on drums. Each letter so many beats. She could send out messages, even if her hut was all s’rounded by lions an’ savidges. I bet we ought to get her the drum. It’s only two an’ six, too.”

  The Outlaws eagerly purchased the drum. By this time the tea-cloth had been completely forgotten. They walked down the street, discussing their purchases.

  The next shop they stopped at was also a toy-shop, a less magnificent one than the first, but still a favourite with the Outlaws. Reposing on a shelf, among a selection of small boats and engines and miscellaneous articles, beneath the notice, “All these 6d. each”, was a compass.

  “Look!” said Ginger excitedly. “That would be fine for her. She’d be able to find her way with it when she was lost in the bush.”

  “It’s the veldt in South Africa,” said Henry.

  “Well, whatever it is,” said Ginger impatiently, “an’ I bet it’s the bush, too. Anyway she’d be able to find her way in it when she was lost. I bet it’d be jolly useful.”

  The Outlaws went into the shop and purchased the compass. Then they looked round the shop. It was Douglas who found the box of fireworks left over from the Fifth of November, marked down to two shillings.

  “I say!” he said. “This’d be jolly useful. She could use ’em to tame the savidges. They’d think it was magic, an’ they’d be scared, an’ prob’ly end by makin’ her queen. I once read a story where that happened. I bet that’d be jolly useful.”

  The fireworks seemed almost a necessity, so the Outlaws bought them and then went on to the next shop. The next shop was another of their favourites. It was an attractive medley of seeds, bulbs, gardening sundries, birds, goldfish, and tortoises.

  The Outlaws flattened their noses, as usual, against the window.

  “I s’pect there’s lots of coloured birds and goldfish out there,” said William at last, “but I bet there aren’t any tortoises. An’ I bet one’d be nice company for her. I don’t exp
ect she can have dogs or cats, ’cause the lions’d get ’em, but she could keep a tortoise in the hut with her, an’ it’d be jolly good comp’ny. We had one once an’ it would have got to know me all right, but Jumble would never let it put its head out so we had to give it away. But I bet it’d be jolly useful in South Africa. She could throw it at a lion if it was springin’ at her. Or she could show if to the savidges to help tame ’em. I bet they’ve never seen one before. They’d think it was a sort of magic, too.”

  All these statements seemed irrefutable to the Outlaws, and they felt it incumbent upon them to buy the tortoise at once.

  They selected a large, handsome, half-crown one. As Ginger said: “We’d better get her a really good one. It might jus’ help to make the natives choose her queen. She might train it to carry messages for her, too, same as a pigeon does. They’re a bit slow, but that’s all the better, ’cause the savidges mightn’t notice it was movin’ at all. They’d jus’ think it was a bit of rock, an’ all the time it would be fetchin’ help for her when her hut was s’rounded by savidges,”

  The Outlaws contemplated this picture with deep gratification.

  “Of course, she’d have to train it a bit,” added William, “but I bet they’re easy enough to train. I bet I could’ve trained ours if Jumble’d ever let him put his head out. I’d like to have another myself, some time. I bet I could train Jumble to like it. I’d put bits of butterscotch on it. Jumble likes butterscotch.”

  Laden with their parcels, they set off joyously homewards.

  “I bet she’ll be jolly grateful,” said Ginger.

  “I bet we’ve saved her life lots of times,” said Douglas.

  “P’raps she’ll send us a lion cub back,” said Henry. “I’ve always wanted a lion cub. I asked for one my last birthday, but no one gave me one.”

  William, however, was growing rather silent. He had suddenly remembered the tea-cloth. He had no doubt at all of Aunt Louie’s gratitude, but he was less sure of his mother’s.

  At the gate he looked apprehensively towards the house.

  “I think you’d better go now,” he said to the others. “I’ve gotter ’splain to my mother about these presents, an’ she might not understand. Not jus’ at first, anyway. I won’t take ’em straight into the house. I’ll leave ’em at the gate, where she can’t see ’em, then, when I’ve ’splained, I’ll come out an’ fetch ’em in an’ show ’em her She’s never been in South Africa, you see, so she may not understand quite at first. I’ll have to ’splain . . .”

  He put the parcels by the gate, carefully arranging them so that they could not be seen from the windows, shut the tortoise in the summer-house, out of Jumble’s way, took his leave absently of the Outlaws, then walked slowly and with a slightly sinking heart towards the house. He was realising that the explanations were going to be more difficult than they had appeared to be in the glamorous atmosphere of the toy and tortoise shops. There, in fact, they had seemed simple and obvious. He had forgotten, for the time being, the colossal unreasonableness of the grown-up world. He was a kindly boy at heart, and he loved his mother, but he couldn’t resist a sneaking hope that her headache would now be so bad that she would have forgotten tea-cloths, and Aunt Louie, and mails, and South Africa and everything else.

  The hope, however, proved fruitless. His mother was better, so much better that she had dressed and come downstairs, and was quite looking forward to her tea.

  “Well, dear,” she said brightly to William, “did you get Aunt Louie’s present?”

  “Yes, I got Aunt Louie’s present, all right,” said William non-committally.

  “I’m so glad,” said Mrs. Brown. “I was so afraid that they might have sold it. Where have you put it, dear? We’ll post it after tea.”

  “Well . . .” began William slowly, wondering how on earth he was going to break the news, and wondering also, for the first time, how on earth they were going to despatch the tortoise to South Africa.

  But, at this moment, fate provided a diversion, and the diversion was the arrival of Aunt Louie herself. A car drew up at the gate, and Aunt Louie rushed in with a flurry of greeting and explanation. She’d decided to come over for her visit to England this year, instead of next. She’d decided quite suddenly, so that there hadn’t been time to let anyone know She was just descending on people, she said. She was going, now, to stay with an old aunt who lived in the neighbourhood, and she had called to see Mrs. Brown on the way. William watched and listened with increasing gloom. She was a superior specimen of grown-up, of course, but she was a grownup, nevertheless, hemmed in by the mysterious conventions and taboos that govern the grown-up world. He suddenly felt less sure of her reception of her presents. Moreover, she lived in a part of South Africa called Cape Town, and it became clear from her conversation that the presents would be less useful in that part of Africa than had appeared when the Outlaws were choosing them.

  “Do you know,” said Mrs. Brown suddenly, “I was just going to post your birthday present. William had fetched it for me this afternoon because I had a headache. I do hope you’ll like it. Bring it here to Aunt Louie, will you, William dear?”

  “Well . . .” began William again, searching desperately for words to explain the situation, when fate provided another diversion. This time it was Mrs. Monks, the vicar’s wife. She greeted Mrs. Brown and Aunt Louie, then turned, beaming, to William.

  “You’ve won the badge, dear boy,” she said.

  William gaped at her.

  “The badge?” he said.

  “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Monks. “The badge for the best contribution to the Poor Kiddies’ Summer Treat.” William still gaped at her, and she turned to Aunt Louie. “You see,” she went on brightly, “I’d asked all those dear boys and girls to give me prizes for my Poor Kiddies’ Summer Treat, and I’d promised to give a badge to the one who sent the best contribution. I said that I was coming round this afternoon to collect them, but I found that this dear boy had thoughtfully left his contribution just at the gate, to save me the trouble of coming up to the house. A beautiful drum and toy pistol—though I don’t really approve of weapons of war, even as toys—and a compass, and a box of fireworks. By far the best contribution I’ve had, dear boy, and immensely to your credit. I’m afraid you must have emptied your money-box, but I’m sure that the Poor Kiddies’ delight will amply repay you. I’ve given your things the very best position on the platform, and if you like to come round to the Village Hall any time this afternoon to see them, I’m sure you’ll feel proud. These little deeds of self-sacrifice and kindness to others, dear boy, bring their own reward, as, no doubt, you’ve already discovered. And here is the badge.”

  She bent down and pinned a brooch on to William’s coat. It was composed of an indecipherable wool motif, stitched on to a safety-pin, and was the proud work of Mrs. Monks’s own hand. She was a great believer in badges.

  William stared glassily in front of him. He couldn’t think of anything to say or do. The situation had got completely beyond him. He vaguely remembered Mrs. Monks asking him for a contribution of toys for prizes for the Poor Kiddies’ Summer Treat, but he’d never given the matter another thought. And he realised, too late, that he’d been so anxious to hide his purchases from sight of the windows that he’d left them fully exposed to the road.

  “But, William,” said Mrs. Brown, bewildered, “I didn’t know you’d bought anything for a Summer Treat.”

  Mrs. Monks smiled brightly, patted William’s head, and tucked a straying end of the wool motif behind the safety-pin.

  “Ah, that is as it should be, isn’t it?” she said. “One’s left hand should never know what one’s right hand does. In my eyes, at any rate, it always detracts from the value of any good deed when it’s trumpeted abroad. I’m so glad that this dear boy didn’t trumpet his.”

  She was thinking, once again, that she must have misjudged William, and that he couldn’t really be such a dreadful boy as he’d always seemed. She tried to m
ake up for the injustice she’d done him in her thoughts by turning on to him the full force of her most effusive manner. She patted his head again. “The Poor Kiddies will be delighted, dear boy. Dear boy. Delighted.” She threw an anxious glance at the badge. “If it comes off the pin, dear, just bring it round to me and I’ll put another stitch into it. And now I must run back to the Poor Kiddies.”

  When she had gone, Mrs. Brown looked at William in increasing bewilderment.

  “Surely, dear,” she said at last, “one toy would have been enough.”

  “Well, I—er—I sort of thought p’raps they’d like more,” said William desperately.

  “I didn’t know you’d got enough money for all those.”

  “Er—yes, I—I sort of had," said William, speaking in a hoarse voice and gazing straight in front of him.

  The denouement was bound to bring retribution in its train, and his one idea now was to postpone the denouement as long as possible.

  But Aunt Louie was not interested in Mrs. Monks or the Poor Kiddies or William’s contribution to the Summer Treat. She was talking about the aunt with whom she was going to stay.

  “And a perfectly dreadful thing’s happened, my dear,” she was saying to William’s mother. “The very last time she wrote, she asked me to bring her over one of those wooden figures the natives make, when I came home. You know, very roughly carved, and a few details put in with poker-work—animals and savages. They sell them to tourists. She’d taken a fancy to one she’d seen and set her heart on one. And I completely forgot all about it till I was driving along in the car a few minutes ago. I shall never live it down. She takes offence at nothing at all. And she’s my only rich aunt. I can’t even pretend that I didn’t get her letter, because I answered it. She’ll never forgive me as long as she lives. She’ll probably cut me out of her will altogether. She’s capable of it. It’s the only thing she’s ever asked me to do for her and, of course, she’ll think I shouldn’t have had any other idea but the wretched thing in my mind from the moment I got her letter.”

  “That reminds me,” said Mrs. Brown. “I was just going to give you your present when Mrs. Monks came in, wasn’t I? Run and get it, will you, William, dear?”