William The Conqueror

by Richmal Crompton

  CONTENTS

  Foreword by Charlie Higson

  1. Enter the Sweep

  2. A Birthday Treat

  3. The Leopard Hunter

  4. William Leads a Better Life

  5. William and the Lost Tourist

  6. The Midnight Adventure of Miss Montagu

  7. The Mysterious Stranger

  8. The Sunday-School Treat

  9. William the Philanthropist

  10. William the Bold Crusader

  11. The Wrong Party

  12. William Starts the Holidays

  13. Revenge is Sweet

  FOREWORD

  I came to William Brown late in life. I was forty-odd, and had never read the books or seen any of the TV series, but I had three boys of my own and was always looking for ways to keep them entertained. They had an older cousin, Marlon, who handed down to them a battered cardboard box stuffed with cherished old cassette tapes. Surprisingly, apart from a couple of Masters of the Universe stories, they were all Just William tapes. I say surprisingly because, as might be surmised from his name, Marlon was a modern London teenager through and through, cynical, streetwise and surly. His dad assured me he had loved the tapes, but somehow I didn’t think my own kids would be interested. All they seemed to like were computer games and bizarre impenetrable American cartoon shows. How could they could possible relate to some schoolboy from the 1930s? But I put a tape on for them one night and left them to it.

  Ever since then my two youngest boys have gone to sleep every single night to the sound of Martin Jarvis reading Richmal Crompton’s ageless stories. They must have heard those tapes hundreds of times – no, thousands. The originals are worn out, replaced and updated from the huge library available. I don’t know if the boys even hear the words any more, or if they have simply developed a Pavlovian response to Martin Jarvis, whose voice transports them to a safe and comforting world of tea parties, scraped knees and an endless sunny summer’s afternoon that has lasted ninety years.

  Listening with the kids on car journeys and in hotel bedrooms, I’ve grown to love the stories just as much as they have. The only problem is that when I read the originals I can’t get Martin Jarvis’s voice out of my head, and can’t imagine how Richmal Crompton thought the boy should sound. Martin Jarvis is William Brown.

  And I understand now why the stories cast such a spell over my own kids. They are boys and William is a boy, and Marlon was a boy, and boys are the same the world over and have always been the same, and probably always will be. And we never grow up. William is essence of boy. He has everything a boy could want – a dog, a stick, a penknife, a gang, a den, trees to climb, stones to throw, sweets in his pocket . . . Also, in these stories there’s a war on, sheer bliss for an eleven-year-old boy, so there’s shrapnel to collect, soldiers to admire, parachutists to spot, spies to thwart. There is no death and hardship and horror, but the William stories are nevertheless quite tough. William and his gang are always getting into punch-ups and some of his exploits would be quite alarming to a namby-pamby, overprotective modern parent. Today William would probably be put into therapy and made the subject of a documentary on Channel Five. Except, of course, William always gets away with it. Despite the trail of chaos and anarchy he leaves behind, he always ends up as the only thing that any boy has ever wanted to be. A hero.

  Charlie Higson

  CHAPTER 1

  ENTER THE SWEEP

  WILLIAM and the sweep took to one another at once.

  William liked the sweep’s colouring, and the sweep liked William’s conversation. William looked up to the sweep as a being of a superior order.

  ‘Didn’t your mother mind you being a sweep?’ he said wonderingly, as the sweep unpacked his brushes.

  ‘N-naw,’ said the sweep, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Leastways, she didn’t say nothin’.’

  ‘You don’t want a partner, do you?’ said William. ‘I wun’t mind being a sweep. I’d come an’ live with you an’ go round with you every day.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the man, ‘but p’raps your pa would have somethin’ to say.’

  William laughed bitterly and scornfully.

  ‘Oh, yes, they’d fuss. They fuss if I get a bit of mud on my boots. As if their ole drawin’-room carpet mattered. Have you any little boys?’

  ‘Yus, three,’ said the sweep.

  ‘I s’pose they’ll all be sweeps,’ said William gloomily, feeling that the profession was becoming overcrowded.

  ‘Come out of that room, Master William,’ called cook, who, in the absence of William’s parents, took what William considered a wholly unjustifiable interest in him.

  William extended his tongue in the direction of the voice. Otherwise he ignored it.

  ‘I’d meant to be a robber,’ went on William, ‘but I think I’d as soon be a sweep. Or I might be a sweep first, an’ then a robber.’

  ‘Come out of that room, Master William,’ called cook.

  William simulated deafness.

  ‘I’d like to be a sweep an’ a robber an’ a detective an’ a soldier, an’ some more things. I think I’d better be them about a year each, so’s I can get ’em all in.’

  ‘Um,’ said the sweep. ‘There’s somethin’ in that.’

  Cook appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me telling you to come out of that room, Master William?’ she said pugnaciously.

  ‘You can’t expect me to hear you when you go shoutin’ about in the kitchen,’ said William loftily. ‘I just heard you shoutin’.’

  ‘Well, come out of this room, anyway.’

  ‘How can you expect me to know how it’s done if I don’t stay to watch? Wot’s the good of me goin’ to be a sweep if I don’t know how it’s done?’

  ‘What’s the good of me covering up all the furniture if you’re going to stay here getting black as pitch? Are you coming out?’

  ‘No,’ said William exasperated, ‘I’ve gotter stay an’ learn. It’s just the same as Robert goin’ to college – my stayin’ to watch the sweep. Wot’s the good of me bein’ a sweep if I don’t learn? Folks prob’ly wun’t pay me if I didn’t know how to do it, and then what’d I do?’

  ‘Very well, Master William,’ said cook with treacherous sweetness, ‘I’ll tell your pa when he comes in that you stayed in here with the sweep when your ma said most speshful you wasn’t to.’

  William reconsidered this aspect of affairs.

  ‘All right, Crabbie,’ he said grudgingly. ‘An’ I hope that I jolly well spoil your chimney when I’m a sweep with not knowing how to do it.’

  He wandered round the house and watched through the window. It was a thrilling performance. He was lost in roseate dreams of himself pursuing the gloriously dirty calling of chimney sweep when the sweep appeared with a heavy sack.

  ‘Where shall I put the soot?’ he said.

  William considered. There was a nice bit of waste ground behind the summer-house. He looked carefully round to make sure that his arch-enemy cook was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Jus’ here,’ he said, leading the sweep round to the summer-house.

  The sweep emptied the sack. It was a soft grey-black pile. William thrilled with the pride of possession.

  ‘That’s mine, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s not mine,’ said the sweep jocularly. ‘You can ’ave it to practise on.’

  He left William smiling proudly above his pile.

  From over the wall behind the summer-house William could see the road. He waved his hand effusively to the sweep as he passed on his little cart.

  ‘I say,’ called William.

  The sweep drew up.

  ‘Does the horse an’ cart cost much?’ said William anxiously.


  ‘Oh no,’ said the sweep. ‘You can get ’em dirt cheap. I’ll lend you this ’ere of mine when you go into the business.’

  With a facetious wink he drove on, and William returned to the contemplation of his pile of soot.

  Soon a whistle that he knew roused him from his reverie and he peeped over the wall.

  Ginger, William’s lifelong friend and ally, as earnest and freckled and snub-nosed as William himself, was passing down the road. He looked up at William.

  THE SWEEP EMPTIED THE SACK. WILLIAM THRILLED WITH THE PRIDE OF POSSESSION. ‘THAT’S MINE, ISN’T IT?’ HE SAID.

  ‘’Ello,’ said William, with modest pride. ‘I’ve gotter bit of soot in here.’

  But Ginger had a rival attraction. ‘They’re ratting in Cooben’s barn,’ he said.

  William weighed the attraction of ratting and soot, and finally decided in favour of ratting.

  ‘All right,’ he called, ‘wait a sec. I’ll come.’

  He completely forgot his soot till tea-time.

  Then, as he was going out of the house, he met Mr and Miss Arnold Fox coming in. They were coming to call on Mrs Brown. Both were very tall and very thin, and both possessed expansive smiles that revealed perfect sets of false teeth.

  ‘Good afternoon, William,’ said Mr Fox politely.

  ‘Afternoon,’ said William.

  ‘A rough diamond, our William,’ smiled Mr Fox to his sister.

  William glared at him.

  She laid her hand on William’s head.

  ‘Manners maketh man, dear William,’ she said.

  She then bent down and kissed William.

  Mr Arnold Fox took off his hat and playfully extinguished William with it. Then he laid it on the hall table and went into the drawing-room, leaving William boiling and enraged on the doorstep.

  That reminded William of his soot.

  William and Ginger sat lazily upon the wall watching the passers-by. Absent-mindedly they toyed with handfuls of soot.

  They were cheered by the sight of Mr Arnold Fox going down the road – his forehead beneath his hat suspiciously dark.

  ‘That’ll teach him. He’ll take some washing,’ said William.

  ‘Look!’ said Ginger, excitedly, leaning over the wall.

  Along the road came three children in white, Geoffrey Spencer and Joan Bell with her little sister Mary. Geoffrey Spencer, in a white sailor suit, walked along mincingly, holding Joan Bell’s little bag-purse for her. Mary, toddled along holding her elder sister’s hand.

  William admired Joan intensely. Occasionally she condescended to notice his existence.

  ‘Hello!’ called William. ‘Where you going?’

  ‘Posting a letter,’ said Geoffrey primly.

  ‘Come in an’ play,’ said William, ‘we’ve got some soot.’

  ‘No,’ said Geoffrey piously. ‘Mother said I wasn’t to play with you.’

  ‘You’re so rough,’ explained Joan with a little fastidious sniff.

  William flushed beneath his soot. He felt that this reflected upon his character. He was annoyed that anyone, even so insignificant as Geoffrey, should be forbidden to play with him.

  ‘Rough!’ he said indignantly. Then, ‘Well, an’ I’d rather be rough than an ole softie like you – you an’ your ole white suit!’

  ‘Come along, Joan,’ said Geoffrey with a superior smile. ‘I’m not going to talk to him.’

  William rolled white, angry eyes in his black face.

  ‘Yah-boo, softie!’ he called over the wall.

  Yet he was depressed by the proceeding, and even Ginger’s suggestion of trying the effect of the soot on the bed of arum lilies did not revive him much. However, the effect was certainly cheering. So they moved on to the white roses and worked with the pure joy of the artist on them till they heard the dulcet tones of Joan and Mary and Geoffrey returning from the spot. Then they went back to the wall. Joan was growing bored with Geoffrey. She looked up almost longingly towards William’s grimy face.

  ‘Where is your soot, William?’ she said.

  ‘Jus’ here,’ said William. ‘It’s jolly good soot.’

  ‘I’ll come an’ look at it,’ she said condescendingly. ‘I won’t come in an’ play. I’ll come in an’ look at it. You can go on home, Geoffrey.’

  Geoffrey debated with his conscience. ‘I won’t come in,’ he said, ‘’cause mother says he’s so rough. I’ll wait for you out here.’

  So hand-in-hand Joan and Mary came round to the back of the summer-house. William and Ginger proudly introduced them to the soot.

  ‘Ith lovely,’ said Mary. ‘Leth – leth danth round it – holding handth.’

  ‘All right,’ said William genially. ‘Come on.’

  Nothing loth, they joined hands and danced round it.

  Joan laughed excitedly.

  ‘Oh, it’s fun,’ she cried. ‘Faster.’

  ‘Father!’ cried Mary.

  They went faster and faster. William and Ginger with the male’s innate desire of showing off his prowess began to revolve at lightning speed.

  Then came the catastrophe.

  Plop!

  It was Mary who lost her balance and fell suddenly and violently on her face into the heap of soot.

  Joan, with feminine inconsistency, turned upon William, stamping her foot.

  ‘You did it! You nasty, rough, horrible boy!’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘He didn’t!’ said Ginger.

  ‘He did!’

  ‘He didn’t!’

  Meanwhile Mary had arisen from the soot heap – hair, eyes and mouth full of soot, soot clinging to her dress.

  Her voice joined in the general uproar.

  ‘Oo – it taths nathy, it taths nathy – oo – oo.’

  Joan wept in angry sympathy.

  ‘See how you like soot in your mouth, you nasty boy!’ she screamed at William, seizing a handful of soot and hurling it at William’s face.

  That was the beginning of the battle.

  Geoffrey, hearing the noise, came nobly to the rescue, to be received by a handful of soot from Ginger. It was a glorious battle. Ginger and William fought Geoffrey, and Joan fought everyone, and Mary sat on the soot heap and screamed. They threw soot till there was practically no soot left to throw. A butcher boy who was passing and heard the noise came in to arbitrate, but stayed to participate. Sheer lust of battle descended upon them all.

  Then came sudden sanity. In stricken silence they gazed at each other.

  Joan seized Mary by the hand. She glared round at them all from a small black face framed with grimy curls.

  IT WAS A GLORIOUS BATTLE. GINGER AND WILLIAM FOUGHT GEOFFREY, AND JOAN FOUGHT EVERYONE, AND MARY SAT ON THE SOOT HEAP AND SCREAMED.

  ‘I hate you all!’ she said, stamping a small black foot.

  ‘Hate you all!’ screamed Mary, whose tears were making white tracks down her black face.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ said Geoffrey eagerly and ungrammatically.

  ‘I hate you,’ said Joan, ‘worse than anybody – worse than William and worse than anyone, an’ I’m going home to tell mother – so there.’

  ‘Tho’ there,’ wailed Mary in concert.

  With outraged dignity and clinging soot on every line of her figure, Joan led Mary from the garden.

  It was more than Geoffrey could bear.

  He followed them sobbing loudly, his white suit a cloudy grey-black.

  Joan’s voice floated out on the twilit air.

  ‘An’ I’m goin’ to tell mother – you’ll catch it, William Brown.’

  Ginger looked round uneasily.

  ‘I’d best be going, William,’ he murmured.

  Dejection descended upon William.

  ‘A’right.’

  Then he looked at Ginger and down at himself.

  ‘Funny how it gets all over you,’ he said, ‘and don’t it make your eyes look queer?’

  ‘Am I’s bad as you?’
said Ginger apprehensively.

  ‘Worse,’ said William.

  ‘Will it come off with cold water?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said William.

  ‘I’ll give it,’ said Ginger, ‘a jolly good try. What’ll your folks say?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said William.

  ‘Well, goo’night, William.’

  ‘Goo’night,’ said William, despondently. Dusk had fallen.

  He crept round to the back door, hoping to slip up the back stairs unobserved. But the cook’s strident voice came from the library.

  ‘Mrs Bell wants you on the telephone at once, please’m. It’s something about Master William.’

  William beat a hasty retreat to the laurel bushes. Then, hearing footsteps on the drive, he stood on tiptoe and peered out. He met the horrified gaze of the housemaid, who was returning from her afternoon out.

  With a wild yell she ran like an arrow towards the back door.

  ‘Oh lor! Oh lor!’ she called. ‘I seed the devil. I seed ’im in the garding.’

  William among the laurel bushes smiled proudly to himself.

  Then he sat down cross-legged in his retreat, black face on black hands, gleaming white eyes gazing dreamily into the distance.

  He was not building castles in the air; he was not repenting of his sins; he was not thinking about future retribution. He was merely deciding that he wouldn’t be a sweep after all. It did taste so nasty.

  CHAPTER 2

  A BIRTHDAY TREAT

  ‘WHAT we goin’ to do this afternoon?’ demanded William of his boon companions, the Outlaws.

  They felt that as far as the morning was concerned they had pretty well exhausted the resources of the universe. They had fished in the pond with bent pins, which were attached to the end of strings which were attached to the end of sticks, and they had caught a large variety of water weeds and one sardine tin. Douglas said that he caught a fish which escaped before he could draw in his line, but this statement was greeted with open incredulity by the others.

  ‘A jolly big one too,’ said Douglas, unconsciously following in the footsteps of older adherents to the piscatorial art.