‘What do you know about that, my good woman?’
Her good woman looked, saw a mournful-looking and very wet donkey and shook her head.
‘Nothing ’m,’ she said primly. ‘But what I want to know is, where is Mr Simpkins? I thought the Vicar might advise me what to do, but as he’s not in, ’m, p’raps I’d better go to the police straight.’
The Outlaws, who felt that with the advent of Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper the plot was thickening, and who were consumed with curiosity as to why Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper had followed the metamorphosed Mr Simpkins, crept up to the Vicarage door and listened. The mention of ‘police’ made them rather uncomfortable. The Vicar’s wife saw them and frowned.
The Vicar’s wife was a good Christian woman, but she could never learn to like the Outlaws.
‘Go away, little boys,’ she said tartly, ‘how dare you come up to the door listening to conversation that is not meant for you? Go away at once. Or, wait one minute . . . Have any of you seen Mr Simpkins this afternoon?’
It was Joan who answered. She pointed across the lawn to Maria who was now placidly nibbling the Vicar’s hedge and said:
‘That’s Mr Simpkins.’
There was a moment’s tense silence. Then the Vicar’s wife said sternly:
‘Do you imagine that to be funny, you impertinent little girl?’
‘No,’ said Joan.
There was an innocence in Joan’s face that convinced even the Vicar’s wife.
‘Perhaps,’ she said more kindly, ‘you are shortsighted, little girl. That,’ pointing to Maria, ‘is a donkey.’
‘It’s Mr Simpkins really,’ said Joan earnestly, ‘we turned him into a donkey and we can’t turn him back.’
The Vicar’s wife gasped, Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper gasped, the other members of the Anti-vivisection Society came out to see what it was all about and all gasped. Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald for the time being abandoned her hysterics to gasp with them.
‘PERHAPS,’ SAID THE VICAR’S WIFE, ‘YOU ARE SHORT-SIGHTED, LITTLE GIRL. THAT IS A DONKEY.’ ‘IT’S MR SIMPKINS, REALLY,’ SAID JOAN EARNESTLY.
‘What?’ said the Vicar’s wife.
‘What?’ said all the rest of them.
‘It’s true,’ affirmed William, ‘we’ve turned him into a donkey and we can’t turn him back again.’
At that moment there was a sound of great commotion outside and in at the gate rushed Mr Simpkins, followed by Farmer Jenks.
Farmer Jenks was not pursuing Mr Simpkins. Farmer Jenks and Mr Simpkins were coming on independent missions. Farmer Jenks had come to his field for Maria and found Maria gone. The jobbing gardener’s youngest child had told him that four boys and a girl had taken the donkey out of the field. It took only a few words to make Farmer Jenks recognise his old enemies, the Outlaws, as the invaders of his domain and thieves of his donkey, and Farmer Jenks saw red. He had traced the donkey to the Vicarage garden. He didn’t know how it had got there, but he knew how it had got out of his field, and he was out for his donkey and vengeance on the Outlaws. . . .
Mr Simpkins had reached town, to be met at the station by a telegram telling him that his great-aunt was better, so with feelings of deep disgust with life in general and great-aunts in particular, he had returned to his rural retreat – to find his housekeeper vanished and his laboratory wrecked. Again the jobbing gardener’s youngest child had brightly come forward with all the information it could produce. It had seen four boys and a girl turn a donkey into his lab through the window and then let the donkey break things. Then more people had come and then they’d all gone up to the Vicarage. So Mr Galileo Simpkins had gone up to the Vicarage in search of more light on the situation, and in search of the Outlaws.
He and Farmer Jenks caught sight of the Outlaws simultaneously and neither could resist the temptation to make the most of the opportunity. Both flung themselves upon the Outlaws. The Outlaws fled round the lawn, pursued by Farmer Jenks and Mr Galileo Simpkins. Mrs Gerald Fitzgerald went back to the drawing-room to have a few more hysterics, the Vicar’s wife dashed into the hall for the fire extinguisher and Maria watched proceedings with interest as she meditatively chewed the Vicar’s hedge.
Farmer Jenks caught hold of William, lost his balance and fell with him to the ground. Mr Galileo Simpkins fell over Farmer Jenks and caught hold of Maria’s tail as he fell. Maria, annoyed at this familiarity, went mad again. The Vicar’s wife, with vague ideas of pouring oil on troubled waters, turned the fire extinguisher on to them all. Mrs Hopkins ran into the road shouting ‘Murder’ and Mr Simpkins’ housekeeper went to fetch the police.
‘I’ve got to draw the line somewhere,’ said William’s father to William’s mother the next evening. ‘I suppose I’ve got to pay my share for all the damage the quadruped did in the laboratory, but I don’t see that I need re-stock the Vicar’s garden. As far as I can make out his own wife took the creature there. Well, I’ve taken everything I can think of from William and done everything I can think of to him – it’s against the law to drown him or I’d do that and be done with it—’
‘Poor William,’ murmured his wife, ‘he means well – and such a lot of people say he’s like you.’
‘He isn’t,’ said his father indignantly, ‘I’m more or less sane, and he’s a raving lunatic. He can’t possibly be like me. Do I go about turning donkeys into labs and for no reason at all? Do I – Nonsense!’
‘Never mind, dear. He goes to school tomorrow,’ said his wife soothingly.
‘Thank Heaven!’ said Mr Brown quite reverently.
Outside in the summer-house sat the Outlaws.
‘It’s simply no use explainin’ to them,’ William was saying. ‘They sort of won’t listen to you. They go on as if we’d meant to break all his ole glass things. Well, how were we to know his aunt was ill? I said that to them but they wun’t take any notice. ’S almost funny,’ he ended bitterly, ‘the way they blame us for everything – took my bow an’ arrow an’ airgun an’ money an’ everythin’ off me just as if we hadn’t been tryin’ to do good all the time. An’ no one does anythin’ to that old donkey. Oh, no! It was all its fault but no one does anything to it. Oh, no.
‘An’ we go to school tomorrow,’ added Ginger, gloomily.
‘Never mind,’ said William with rising spirits, ‘we’ve done all the sorts of things you can do in holidays an’ – an’ after all there’s quite a lot of excitin’ things you can do in school.’
CHAPTER 3
GEORGIE AND THE OUTLAWS
IT seemed to the Outlaws that before Georgie Murdoch came to live at the Laurels they had led comparatively peaceful lives. They had not at any rate been subjected to relentless and unceasing persecution as they were now. It was not Georgie who persecuted them. It was their own parents. But I will explain the connection between the advent of Georgie Murdoch and the persecution of the Outlaws. Before Georgie came to the Laurels the Outlaws’ parents had realised that the Outlaws were characterised chiefly by roughness, untidiness, unpunctuality, lack of cleanliness and various kindred vices. They mentioned these faults to their possessors in a manner expressive of a resigned disgust several times a day. But they always said to each other, ‘Well, boys will be boys,’ or, ‘They’re all as bad as each other,’ or, ‘I’ve never known a boy who wasn’t like that.’ They were in fact consoled by the reflection that the Perfect Boy did not exist.
And then Georgie Murdoch came to live at the Laurels and Georgie Murdoch was the Perfect Boy.
The effect upon the Outlaws’ parents was dynamic.
No longer did they view their offspring with resigned disgust and tell themselves and each other that boys would be boys, for was not Georgie Murdoch a walking refutation of the theory? Georgie Murdoch’s whole existence proved conclusively that boys needn’t be boys. So with renewed vigour and a perseverance that was worthy of a better cause the Outlaws’ parents set to work to uproot those vices of roughness, untidiness, unpunctuality and lack of cleanliness that
hitherto they had treated, not indeed with encouragement, but with a certain resignation. Day after day the Outlaws heard the never-ceasing refrain, ‘Georgie Murdoch doesn’t behave like that,’ ‘You never see Georgie Murdoch looking like that,’ ‘Nonsense, Georgie Murdoch can make his hair stay tidy and his face stay clean, so why can’t you?’ or, ‘Watch the way Georgie Murdoch eats’. . . .
But the time has come to describe Georgie Murdoch in more detail. Georgie Murdoch was ten years of age. He was neat and tidy and methodical and clean and only spoke when he was spoken to and always did what he was told. He hated messy things like mud and water and clay and sand and he disliked rough games. He had very beautiful manners and was much in request at afternoon teas. He never forgot to say, ‘How do you do?’ and ‘Yes, please,’ and ‘No, thank you,’ and ‘How very kind of you,’ and he never had been known to drop a cup or knock over a cake stand. In summer he always dressed in white and could make one suit do for three days. That gives you a pretty good idea of Georgie Murdoch’s personal habits. It is hardly necessary to add that he loved his lessons and thought that the holidays were far too long.
When first the Murdochs came to live in the village, the Outlaws were prepared to receive Georgie with friendliness. His fame as the World’s Most Perfect Boy had not preceded him. All they knew was that he was about their own age and of their sex and they were ready to make the best of him.
Mrs Brown met him first when she went to call on his mother.
‘He’s such a nice little boy, William,’ was her verdict on her return, ‘I’ve asked him to come to tea tomorrow because I’d like you to make friends with him. He’s just about your age, and so well-mannered.’
This description was not encouraging, and whatever enthusiasm William may previously have felt for the newcomer waned.
‘Can I have some of the others to tea as well, Mother?’ he asked with an air of engaging innocence. But unfortunately William’s mother remembered the last occasion when ‘the others’ had been asked to help William entertain a little stranger. William and ‘the others’, after a short test of the little stranger’s capacities which the little stranger had failed to pass with credit, had gone off for the afternoon on their own devices, leaving the little stranger to his. After wandering round the garden once and finding in it few possibilities of amusement the little stranger had returned home – just half an hour after he had left it. Mrs Brown wasn’t going to have any more contretemps like that. So she said very firmly, ‘No, William.’
‘All right,’ acquiesced William with an air of weary patience, ‘I was only thinkin’ of him. I was only thinkin’ that p’raps he’d sort of enjoy it better if there was more of us to play with.’
But Mrs Brown again said, ‘No, William,’ meaningly, and William, who had a suspicion that she remembered their entertaining of the last little stranger, forebore to press the point. So William was the solitary host when Georgie arrived. The prospect of being the solitary host had depressed him all morning, and the sight of Georgie’s trim little figure in its spotless white sailor suit threw him into a state of despair that was almost homicidal in its intensity. He’d had a horrible suspicion all along that Georgie would be like that. And a whole afternoon with him . . . a whole afternoon!
Mrs Brown, however, gave Georgie a kindly smile of welcome as she received him.
‘How nice to see you, dear,’ she said, ‘I’m so glad you could come. This is my little boy, William. He’s been so much looking forward to your visit. I hope you’re going to be great friends. How nice you look, dear. I wish William could only keep as clean and tidy as that. He gets so untidy.’
Georgie moved so as to get a better view of William. He looked him up and down and finally said:
‘Yes, he does look untidy, doesn’t he?’ To which momentous announcement he added complacently, ‘I hardly ever seem to get untidy.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Brown, temporarily taken aback, ‘will you play with William till tea time, dear? . . . nothing rough, mind, William.’
‘No,’ agreed Georgie, ‘I don’t like rough games.’
William, who by this time hated Georgie with a hatred which was the more bitter because Georgie was robbing him of a whole afternoon which might have been spent with his beloved Outlaws, led Georgie into the garden. They walked down to the bottom of the garden. Then William said distantly:
‘What would you like to play at?’
‘Don’t mind,’ said Georgie.
‘Hide an’ Seek?’ said William.
This puerile suggestion was intended as a subtle insult, but Georgie took it seriously. He considered it in silence and at last said, ‘No, thank you. Hide and Seek generally ends in getting so rough.’
For a moment William had not believed his ears, but Georgie added calmly:
‘It generally ends by being a very nasty rough game.’
William swallowed and gazed at him helplessly. Then he suggested, more out of curiosity than from any other reason:
‘Like to play Red Indians?’
‘Red Indians?’ queried that astounding child as if he had not heard of the game before.
‘Yes,’ said William, almost speechless with amazement. ‘Scoutin’ each other through the bushes an’ makin’ a fire, an’—’
But an expression of horror had overspread Georgie’s smug countenance.
‘Oh, no,’ he said firmly, ‘I don’t want to get my suit dirty.’
William recovered with an effort.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘what would you like to do?’
‘Let’s go for a nice quiet walk, shall we?’ said Georgie brightly.
So they went for a nice quiet walk – straight along the road to the village. William at first made an effort to fulfil his duties as host by pointing out the objects of interest of the neighbourhood.
‘There’s a robin’s nest in that hedge,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Georgie.
‘That’s Bunker’s Hill over there.’
‘I know,’ said Georgie.
‘That was a Clouded Yellow,’ as a butterfly flitted past.
‘I know.’
‘They’ve got sort of scent bags on their wings.’
‘I know.’
‘What sort of bird is that flying over there?’ challenged William.
‘Well, what sort is it?’
‘A starling.’
‘I knew it was.’
William then tired of the conversation and began to while away the tedium of the journey as best he could by more active measures. Georgie, however, refused to take part in them. Georgie refused to jump over the ditch with William because he said he might fall in. He refused to walk on the fence with William because he said that he might fall off. He refused to swing on the gate with William because he said it might dirty his suit. He refused to climb a tree for the same reason. He refused to race William to the end of the road because, he said, it was rough. William was only deterred by his position as host and by Georgie’s protective one year’s juniority from forcibly making Georgie acquainted with the contents of the ditch as the inner prompting of his heart bade him to. Instead he leapt to and fro across the ditch (falling in only twice), swung on the gate, walked on the fence (over-balancing once) and trailed his toes in the dust in solitary glory, ignoring his companion entirely.
‘What will your mother say?’ said his companion once disapprovingly.
William received the remark with scornful silence.
When they returned to the Brown homestead Georgie was as immaculate as when he had set out, while William bore many and visible marks of his fallings into the ditch and on to the road and swinging on gates and climbing trees.
‘William!’ said Mrs Brown, ‘you look awful . . . and look at Georgie – how clean and neat he is still.’
‘Yes,’ said Georgie looking at William with marked distaste, ‘I told him not to. I said you wouldn’t like it, but he wouldn’t take any notice of me.’
The next day William met the Outlaws by appointment and gloomily told them the worst.
‘And he’s come to live here,’ he ended with passionate disgust, ‘him and his white suits.’
‘And we shall all have to have him to tea,’ said Ginger.
‘And our mothers’ll never stop talkin’ about him,’ said Douglas.
‘And he’ll prob’ly get worse the more we know him,’ said Henry.
‘Him an’ his white suits!’ repeated William morosely.
All these fears proved to be well founded.
As Ginger had predicted, they all had to have him to tea, and on each occasion Georgie remained clean and tidy and immaculate in his white suit and said at the end to his host’s mother, ‘Yes, I told him not to. I said you wouldn’t like it.’ And when the guest had departed the host’s mother said to the host:
‘How I wish that you were a little more like Georgie Murdoch.’
Henry’s prediction was also fulfilled. For Georgie did get worse the more they knew him. In addition to the vices of personal cleanliness and exquisite manners he possessed that of tale-bearing. He was a frequent visitor at the Outlaws’ houses. He would gaze at William’s mother with a wistful smile and say, ‘Please, Mrs Brown, I’m so sorry to disturb you but I think I ought to tell you that William is paddling in the stream after you told him not to,’ or ‘Please, Mrs Flowerdew, I’m so sorry to disturb you, but Ginger ’n’ Henry’s throwing mud at each other down the road an’ getting in such a mess. I thought you ought to know.’
And the Outlaws couldn’t get their own back. Georgie would never fight because it might dirty his suit, and any personal attacks upon Georgie (however mild) were faithfully reported by the attacked in person to the parent of the attacker.
‘Please, Mrs Brown, William’s just pushed me over and hurt me.’ ‘Please, Mrs Flowerdew, Ginger’s just banged into me and made quite a bruise on my arm.’ Moreover the Outlaws seemed to have a strong fascination for Georgie. He followed them around, watching their pursuits from a safe and cleanly distance, generally eating chocolate creams which he never offered to the Outlaws, and which never seemed to leave any traces on his face. Whenever any elders were in hearing Georgie would raise his voice and say in a tone of horror, ‘Oh, you naughty boy! What will your mother say?’ and having attracted the elder’s attention and interference he would say sorrowfully, ‘I told him not to. I knew you wouldn’t like it.’
William The Outlaw Page 5
