The orphan himself was nowhere to be seen, having dived beneath the bed on William’s approach, but everything in the room was covered with a thick, white powder. It seemed inconceivable that the human form could accommodate such large quantities of cement.
The orphan emerged when William entered and gazed with gleaming eyes at his supper.
‘How scrummy!’ he said. ‘It’s ever so much nicer than the things I used to have—blancmange and rice pudding and silly things like that.’
‘Let’s hurry up and get into bed,’ said William anxiously, ‘someone’ll be coming.’
CLARENCE EMERGED AND GAZED WITH GLEAMING EYES AT HIS SUPPER. ‘HOW SCRUMMY’ HE SAID.
The orphan hastily finished his supper, and was in bed in a few minutes—jam and cement and all.
‘Your mother doesn’t come in to see you in bed like my aunt, does she?’ he said anxiously.
‘No,’ said William, ‘not if we pretend to be asleep. She’ll open the door, and if I don’t say anything she’ll think I’m asleep and go away.’
But the orphan was asleep already.
William lay awake for a few minutes, trying to grapple with the problems that confronted him. There was breakfast to-morrow to think of, there was dinner, tea and supper. There were four meals to provide every day. There was his Sunday suit . . . Anyway it was Ginger’s turn to have him to-morrow night . . .
He’d had a very tiring day. He fell asleep . . .
Mrs. Brown went to the garden gate to look up and down the road. It was getting dark. Time that boy came home. She hoped that he wasn’t in any mischief . . .
A figure was coming down the road, but it wasn’t William. It was the figure of a maid servant, apron and streamers flying in the wind. She was moaning as she ran.
‘He’s dead . . . he’s dead . . . I’ve seen his gho-o-o-ost . . . he’s de-e-e-ead.’
‘Who’s dead?’ said Mrs. Brown.
‘Clarence,’ wailed the maid. ‘I’ve seen his ghost. I’ve seen his gho-o-o-o-ost. Oo-o-o-o. I’m goin’ to faint in a minute.’
Mrs. Brown led her into the house, installed her in an arm-chair in the drawing-room and gave her some sal volatile.
‘Now tell me all about it,’ said Mrs. Brown.
The maid took a deep breath and, still unsteadily, began her tale.
‘Clarence . . .’ she sobbed. ‘He was lorst. We couldn’t find him nowhere in the house nor garding. Such a beautiful little chap ’e was, with ’is golden curls,’ she began to sob again, so Mrs. Brown said:
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure he was. Well, and what happened?’
‘I keep tellin’ you,’ moaned the maid. ‘’E got lorst. Disappeared clean. Couldn’t be found nowhere. Lured away to ’is death ’e must’ve been,’ she showed symptoms of another spasm but collected herself, ‘an’ the mistress sent me out to look for him down this ’ere road while she rang up police stations and,’ her voice rose again to a wail, ‘I sor his gho-o-o-ost. He’s de-e-e-ead.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Mrs. Brown in a tone that succeeded in quelling an incipient attack of hysterics. ‘Nonsense! You must have seen a-a tree or a-a shadow or something. There aren’t such things as ghosts.’
‘There are. I seed ’im with my eyes,’ said the maid solemnly, ‘not as ’e looked in life. All white an’ shinin’ ’e was. I seed ’im as plain as I see you now, ’m. ’E didn’t look the same as ’e looked in life. ’Is ’ead was different an’ ’e wore different clothes. All white an’ shinin’. It was ’is ghost. ’E’s de-e-ead.’
The hysterics gathered force again. With relief Mrs.
Brown heard her husband’s key in the lock.
‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask my husband to come to you.’
She went out and returned in a few moments with an obviously reluctant Mr. Brown.
‘But I say,’ he murmured, ‘I can’t do anything. I don’t—’
‘Tell this gentleman what you saw,’ said Mrs. Brown to the maid.
The maid, who was secretly beginning to enjoy her position as purveyor of news from the spirit world, burst again into her description: . . . ‘and there I seed ’im . . . there ’e stood all white an’ shining. Not the same as he looked in life. ’Is ’ead was different. ’E’d got one of the white things round his ’ead. What d’you call them, ’m?’
‘A halo?’ suggested Mrs. Brown.
‘Yes, a hello round his ’ead an’ white robes same as the angels an’ there he stood lookin’ at me with a wonderful white light coming from him like what you see in pictures of ’em. ’E’d come back to me to give me some message but I was all of a jelly same as you’d have been yourself, sir, an’ came runnin’ down the road all of a jingle an’ this lady’ll tell you, sir, that I’d’ve been dead by now if she hadn’t of give me some stuff to drink.’
Mrs. Brown looked anxiously at her husband, but it was evident that there was little hope of help from him. He was already looking at his watch and edging towards the door.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well . . .’ he turned to his wife and with a heartless ‘I’ll be back for dinner, dear,’ vanished.
Mrs. Brown looked helplessly at her visitor.
‘Don’t you think you’d better go home now?’ she said.
‘I couldn’t,’ said the visitor earnestly. ‘I couldn’t walk down that road again—what ’is blessed spirit ’aunts—not to save my life, ’m. I never was one for ghosts. I’m still all of a jingle in my inside. I can still hear my ribs knockin’ against each other. It’s a miracle I’m not dead.’
‘You came out to look for him and left your mistress at home?’ said Mrs. Brown.
‘Yes, I came to look for that pore little child what has been lured to his death, an’ there when I got to the comer of the road I sor—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs. Brown hastily. ‘I’d better ring your mistress up and let her know that you’re here, hadn’t I?’
‘I COULDN’T WALK DOWN THAT ROAD AGAIN,’ SAID THE MAID. ‘I NEVER WAS ONE FOR GHOSTS.’
‘All of the jiggers,’ said the maid. ‘I c’n still hear my bones knockin’ against each other as plain as plain. There he stood, a white light shinin’ from him an’ a hello round his head same as in the Bible an’—’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs. Brown again. ‘I’ll ring her up and tell her what’s happened.’
She was feeling relieved, as she’d heard William come in by the side door and go into the dining-room for his supper. She always felt relieved when William came home for the night.
She meant to go up to see him as soon as she’d communicated with Clarence’s aunt, but Annie, feeling that her due position as centre of the stage was not being accorded her, made a bold bid for it by a fainting fit for which a glass of brandy had to be administered. She was only just emerging from it when Clarence’s aunt appeared.
Annie, fortified by the brandy, leapt again into her narrative.
‘Oh, mum, I was comin’ along the road lookin’ for him when suddenly ’is spirit appeared to me out of the darkness—all shinin’ bright. ’E’d got a little hello round his head same as what they have up there an’ long white robes an’ beautiful wings. An’ he looked at me an’ he said:
‘ “Give ’er my love,” ’e said, “an’ tell ’er I’m ’appy.”’
At this point Annie was so deeply moved by her narrative that she broke down again. Clarence’s aunt broke down too, and they sobbed together.
‘Lured to ’is death,’ sobbed Annie.
‘And I loved him so,’ sobbed Clarence’s aunt.
‘Shinin’ so bright it almost blinded you to look at him.’
‘The apple of my eye.’
‘ “Give ’er my love,” ’e said, “an’ tell ’er that I’m ’appy with the hangels.” ’
‘If only I’d let him have his darling hair cut off.’
‘Flowin’ bright robes an’ a narp in his ’and.’
As another attack of hysterics seemed to be threatening, Mrs. Bro
wn hastily led Annie across the hall to the kitchen and gave her into the care of her cook and housemaid who enjoyed hysterics and were skilled in the treatment of them.
Then Mrs. Brown returned to Clarence’s aunt, composing on the way various little sarcasms with which she would greet her husband on his return.
Clarence’s aunt was by now a little calmer.
‘Of course I don’t really believe that she saw his ghost but it’s so dreadful,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m simply distracted by anxiety. I’ve communicated with all the police stations for miles around. If only I haven’t driven him to anything desperate. He wanted to wear those Rugby suits and have his beautiful hair cut off and go to a rough boys’ school and be called John and I wouldn’t let him . . . Oh, if only I could get him back safe and sound I’d let him. I swear I’d let him. Have you got a little boy?’
‘Yes,’ said William’s mother.
‘Then you know how they twine themselves round your heart?’
‘Y-yes,’ said William’s mother rather doubtfully.
‘Is your little boy in bed now?’
‘Yes,’ said William’s mother, whose listening ear had noted the cessation of bangs and bumps from William’s bedroom that meant that he was at rest.
‘Will he be asleep now?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Do you go and gaze upon him when he’s asleep?’
‘Not generally.’
‘I do at Clarence . . . Do let me go with you and look at your little boy asleep. It will—it will lull my anxiety. Let me go and try to imagine my own little Clarence’s head upon the pillow, too.’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs. Brown rather reluctantly.
They went upstairs. The sound of Annie’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘There ’e stood all bright an’ shinin’ . . .’
Mrs. Brown opened the door of William’s bedroom and they entered on tiptoe.
Upon the pillow lay William’s and Clarence’s heads side by side. William had not thought of washing his orphan and upon Clarence’s cheek a large circle of jam outlined itself vividly against a background of cement. His unevenly cropped hair was quite white . . .
He smiled happily in his sleep.
CHAPTER 7
WILLIAM AND THE CAMPERS
It was, curiously enough, the Hubert Laneites who invented the game. The Hubert Laneites were not endowed with great inventive powers and it was seldom that they invented any games at all. They generally copied the Outlaws’ games, and, even so, played them very inadequately. But there was no doubt at all that Hubert had invented the game of Savvidges, or rather introduced it to the neighbourhood, for it was impossible to believe that he had himself invented so attractive a game. The Savvidges blacked their faces and wore mats or hearthrugs and roamed the countryside in bands, fighting each other and making camp-fires. There were, of course, only two main bands, the Hubert Laneites and the Outlaws. All the boys of the neighbourhood attached themselves to one or the other band. The Hubert Laneites hada good following, but, as usual, they avoided direct combat with the Outlaws and contented themselves with imaginary battles against imaginary foes in which they always came off victorious. And, of course, during the term time opportunity for such exploits had been limited. Now, however, the summer holidays had arrived and all day and every day was at their disposal. But the summer holidays are not like the other holidays. People go away in the summer holidays. It meant that neither band of ‘savvidges’ was ever at its full strength. And the dice of fate was weighted heavily against the Outlaws, for, by a strange chance, it happened that all the members of the Outlaws’ band but two went away for the first fortnight of the holidays and the remaining two, as if afraid of what life might now have to offer them, promptly took to their beds with scarlet fever. Even Douglas and Henry were away, and so William and Ginger were left sole survivors of the Outlaw band of ‘savvidges.’ And Hubert’s band had its full complement. A new courage crept into the breasts of the Hubert Laneites when they realised the situation. A new blood-curdling note crept into their battle-cry, though normally it was a poor sort of affair compared with the Outlaws’. The Hubert Laneites’ battle-cry consisted in a long drawn-out ‘Oo-oo-oo-oo.’ The Outlaws’ was more complicated. It began with a low ‘Ra-a-a—’ growing louder and louder till it ended up with a fierce and sudden ‘Hosh!’
William and Ginger were holding an emergency meeting in the old barn to discuss the situation. Even William’s bold spirit shrank from inviting open conflict with the overwhelming numbers of the foe.
‘Well, what’ll we do about it?’ said Ginger.
‘We’ve gotter not have a battle till after Thursday,’ said William, ‘’cause on Thursday a good many of our band’ll be back.’
‘WE’VE GOTTER NOT HAVE A BATTLE TILL AFTER THURSDAY,’ SAID WILLIAM.
He spoke regretfully, however. It was not a policy that appealed to him.
At that moment a Hubert Laneite appeared at the door of the barn. He held a flag of truce in the shape of a handkerchief tied to a stick and he bore a missive in one hand. He handed the missive to William.
AT THAT MOMENT A HUBERT LANEITE APPEARED AT THE DOOR OF THE BARN. HE HELD A FLAG OF TRUCE, AND BORE A MISSIVE.
‘It’s a letter from Hubert,’ he said, ‘an’ you can’t touch me ’cause I’ve got this handkerchief on a stick. They don’t when they’ve got handkerchiefs on sticks.’ The emissary continued with an air of modesty allied with omniscience: ‘In wars they do that when they take letters. They carry white handkerchiefs on sticks and then no one can touch ’em.’
William regarded the handkerchief dispassionately.
‘Call that white?’ he said.
‘It’s white reelly,’ said its owner anxiously, ‘it only got some ink spilt on it. An’ a bit of mud.’
‘It doesn’t count when there’s ink spilt on it,’ said Ginger. ‘It doesn’t count at all. I could tell you of lots of times when they’ve got ink or mud on the handkerchief and it didn’t count. They got shot ’cause it didn’t count.’ The emissary paled and retreated a few steps. ‘’S’all right,’ said Ginger scornfully, ‘we wouldn’t bother ourselves shootin’ you. Why, I bet that if I looked at you hard enough your arms an’ legs’d drop off now that you’ve all that ink an’ mud on your handkerchief so’s it doesn’t count.’
The emissary, who had indeed looked upon his white handkerchief as a sort of magic amulet, blinked distractedly, and would have turned to flight if Ginger hadn’t barred the way.
‘’S’all right,’ said Ginger reassuringly, ‘I’m not goin’ to look at you. Not long enough to make your arms an’ legs drop off, anyway. I couldn’t; not with your face.’
William was deeply engrossed in the letter. Having read it several times he handed it to Ginger with a scornful laugh. The scornful laugh was for the benefit of the emissary who, however, was engaged in keeping well behind Ginger and watching the back of Ginger’s head fearfully. The letter read:
‘We the undersined Savvidges challeng the Outlaw Savvidges to a fite on Tuesday afternoon at 3 o’clock on Ringers Hill.’
Followed the signature of Hubert Lane and all his band.
The deep cunning of it was all too evident. Hubert Lane knew that by Thursday the Outlaws’ band would be reinforced, and he had determined that the fight should take place before that happened. Hubert’s band held some good fighters and even William, the optimist, realised that he and Ginger unaided would have little chance against them. But his scornful laugh was very convincing, and so was the tone in which he said to the emissary:
‘All right. You tell Hubert that we’ll jolly well be there and that he’d jolly well better look out!’ There was dark and sinister meaning in his tone. William had never yet let any situation beat him for want of bluff.
The emissary was startled by his tone.
‘Why,’ he said naively, ‘there’s only two of you, isn’t there?’
William laughed at this as if highly amused.
‘Oh do
you think so?’ he said, ‘do you think there’s only two of us. Well, you wait and see, that’s all that I can say. You wait and see.’
‘An’ now you’d better go an’ tell him,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ I’m goin’ to start lookin’ at you, so be careful of your arms and legs. That handkerchiefs no use to keep ’em on.’
With a yell of terror the emissary took to his heels, turning round at intervals to see if Ginger was still looking at him, and increasing his pace with redoubled yells when he found that he was. As soon as the emissary had disappeared, William’s airy confidence dropped from him.
‘Well!’ he said dejectedly as he set off homeward with Ginger, ‘what’re we goin’ to do now?’
‘Find some more savvidges to fight for us,’ said Ginger.
‘We can’t,’ said William testily, ‘there aren’t any. They’re all away or in Hubert Lane’s army.’
‘Well—’ began Ginger, then stopped short.
They had turned a bend in the road, and there in the field just beyond the hedge were two tents, and down by the stream at the bottom of the field several boys who were strangers to the neighbourhood.
‘Crumbs!’ murmured William.
As if by common consent they crept through the hedge and made their way cautiously down the field past the tents to the stream.
The three boys who were washing mugs there were not reassuring in appearance. They were very clean and tidy, and they were washing the mugs very thoroughly and with an air of conscientious absorption. Not only did they not yield to the temptation to splash water over each other—a temptation that the Outlaws would have found irresistible—but they did not seem even to experience the temptation.
William and Ginger, after watching them in a depressed silence for some time, at last began a tentative conversation.
‘You here campin’?’ said William.
The biggest boy—a boy with well brushed hair and an almost startlingly clean collar—constituted himself the spokesman of the little group.
William the Bad Page 14
