William The Outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Y-yes,’ spluttered Mr Solomon.

  ‘On your honour?’ persisted William.

  ‘HERE THEY ARE,’ SAID WILLIAM. ‘YOU CAN HAVE ’EM IF YOU LIKE.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Solomon.

  ‘An’ Ginger an’ Henry an’ Douglas – all trumpeters?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Solomon desperately. It was at that moment that Mr Solomon decided that not even Ethel’s charm would compensate for having William for a brother-in-law.

  ‘All right,’ said William, ‘come round here.’

  THE GARAGE WAS FULL OF ‘MIXED INFANTS’ HAVING THE TIME OF THEIR LIVES.

  He led him round to a garage at the back of the house and opened the door. The garage was full of Mixed Infants having the time of their lives, engaged in mimic warfare under the leadership of Ginger and Douglas with ammunition of tea leaves and tobacco. Certainly the Mixed Infants were appreciating the Old Folks’ presents far more than the Old Folks had appreciated the Mixed Infants’.

  Johnnie, the largest and healthiest of the infants, was engaged in chewing tobacco and evidently enjoying it.

  ‘Here they are,’ said William carelessly, ‘you can have ’em if you like. We’re gettin’ a bit tired of them.’

  No words of mine could describe the touching reunion between the mothers of the Mixed Infants and the Mixed Infants, or between Johnnie and his chest protector.

  Neither could any words of mine describe the first practice of Mr Solomon’s Sunday School band with William, Ginger and Douglas and Henry as trumpeters.

  There was, however, only one practice, as after that Mr Solomon wisely decided to go away for a very long holiday.

  CHAPTER 5

  WILLIAM AND THE WHITE ELEPHANTS

  ‘WILLIAM,’ said Mrs Brown to her younger son, ‘as Robert will be away, I think it would be rather nice if you helped me at my stall at the Fête.’

  William’s father at the head of the table groaned aloud.

  ‘Another Fête,’ he said.

  ‘My dear, it’s centuries . . . weeks since we had one last,’ said his wife, ‘and this is the Conservative Fête – and quite different from all the others.’

  ‘What sort ’f a stall you goin’ to have?’ said William, who had received her invitation to help without enthusiasm.

  ‘A White Elephant stall,’ said Mrs Brown.

  William showed signs of animation.

  ‘And where you goin’ to gettem?’ he said with interest.

  ‘Oh, people will give them,’ said Mrs Brown vaguely.

  ‘Crumbs!’ said William, impressed.

  ‘You must be very careful with them, William,’ said his father gravely, ‘they’re delicate animals and must be given only the very best buns. Don’t allow the people to feed them indiscriminately.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said William with a swagger, ‘I bet I’ll stop ’em doin’ it that way if I’m lookin’ after ’em.’

  ‘And be very careful when you’re in charge of them. They’re difficult beasts to handle.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not scared of any ole elephant,’ boasted William, then wonderingly after a minute’s deep thought, ‘white ’uns, did you say?’

  ‘Don’t tease him, dear,’ said Mrs Brown, to her husband, and to William, ‘white elephants, dear, are things you don’t need.’

  ‘I know,’ said William, ‘I know I don’t need ’em but I s’pose some people do or you wun’t be sellin’ ’em.’

  With that he left the room.

  He joined his friends the Outlaws in the old barn.

  ‘There’s goin’ to be white elephants at the Fête,’ he announced carelessly, ‘an’ I’m goin’ to be lookin’ after them.’

  ‘White elephants!’ said Ginger impressed, ‘an’ what they goin’ to do?’

  ‘Oh, walk about an’ give people rides same as in the Zoo an’ eat buns an’ that sort of thing. I’ve gotter feed ’em.’

  ‘Never seen white ’uns before,’ said Henry.

  ‘Haven’t you?’ said William airily. ‘They’re – they’re same as black ’uns ’cept that they’re white. They come from the cold places – same as polar bears. That’s what turns ’em white – roamin’ about in snow an’ ice same as polar bears.’

  The Outlaws were impressed.

  ‘When are they comin’?’ they demanded.

  William hesitated. His pride would not allow him to admit that he did not know.

  ‘Oh . . . comin’ by train jus’ a bit before the Sale of Work begins. I’m goin’ to meet ’em an’ bring ’em to the Sale of Work. They’re s’posed to be savage but I bet they won’t try on bein’ savage with me,’ he added meaningly. ‘I bet I c’n manage any ole elephant.’

  They gazed at him with deep respect.

  ‘You’ll let me help with ’em a bit, won’t you?’

  ‘William, can I help feed ’em?’

  ‘William, can I have a ride free?’

  ‘Well, I’ll see,’ promised William largely, and with odious imitation of grown-up phraseology, ‘I’ll see when the time comes.’

  The subsequent discovery of the real meaning of the term White Elephant filled William with such disgust that he announced that nothing would now induce him to attend the Fête in any capacity whatsoever. The unconcern with which this announcement was received by his family further increased his disgust. The disappointment of the Outlaws at the disappearance of that glorious vision of William and themselves in sole charge of a herd of snowy mammals caused them to sympathise with William rather than jeer at him.

  ‘If there isn’t no white elephants,’ said William bitterly, ‘then why did they say there was goin’ to be some?’

  Ginger kindly attempted to explain.

  ‘You see that’s the point, William – there isn’t white elephants.’

  ‘Then why did they say there was?’ persisted William. ‘Fancy callin’ rubbish white elephants. If you’re goin’ to have a stall of rubbish why don’ they say they’re goin’ to have a stall of rubbish ’stead of callin’ it White Elephants? Where’s the sense of it? White elephants! An’ all the time it’s broken old pots an’ dull ole books an’ stuff like that. What’s the sense of it . . . callin’ it White Elephants!’

  Ginger still tried to explain.

  ‘You see there isn’t any white elephants, William,’ he said.

  ‘Well, why do they say there is?’ said William finally. ‘Well, I’m jus’ payin’ ’em out by not helpin’ – that’s all.’

  But when the day of the Fête arrived William had relented. After all there was something thrilling about serving at a stall. He could pretend that it was his shop. He could feel gloriously important for the time being at any rate, taking in money and handing out change. . . .

  ‘I don’t mind helpin’ you a bit this afternoon, Mother,’ he said at breakfast with the air of one who confers a great favour.

  His mother considered.

  ‘I almost think we have enough helpers, thank you, William,’ she said, ‘we don’t want too many.’

  ‘Oh, do let William feed the white elephants and take them out for a walk,’ pleaded his father.

  William glowered at him furiously.

  ‘Of course,’ said his mother, ‘it’s always useful to have someone to send on messages, so if you’ll just be there, William, in case I need you . . . I daresay there’ll be a few little odd jobs you could do.’

  ‘I’ll sell the things for you if you like,’ said William graciously.

  ‘Oh no,’ said his mother hastily, ‘I – I don’t think you need do that, William, thank you.’

  William emitted a meaning ‘Huh!’ – a mixture of contempt and mystery and superiority and sardonic amusement.

  His father rose and folded up his newspaper. ‘Take plenty of buns, William, and mind they don’t bite you,’ he said kindly.

  The White Elephant stall contained the usual medley of battered household goods, unwanted Christmas presents, old clothes and derelict sports apparatus.

&nbs
p; Mrs Brown stood, placid and serene, behind it. William stood at the side of it surveying it scornfully.

  The other Outlaws who had no official positions were watching him from a distance. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that they were jeering at him, that they were comparing his insignificant and servile position as potential errand-goer at the corner of a stall of uninspiring oddments with his glorious dream of tending a flock of snow-white elephants. Pretending not to notice them he moved more to the centre of the stall, and placing one hand on his hip assumed an attitude of proprietorship and importance. . . . They came nearer. Still pretending not to notice them he began to make a pretence of arranging the things on the stall. . . .

  His mother turned to him and said, ‘I won’t be a second away, William, just keep an eye on things,’ and departed.

  That was splendid. Beneath the (he hoped) admiring gaze of his friends he moved right to the centre of the stall and seemed almost visibly to swell to larger proportions.

  A woman came up to the stall and examined a black coat lying across the corner of it.

  ‘You can have that for a shilling,’ said William generously.

  He looked at the Outlaws from the corner of his eye hoping that they noticed him left thus in sole charge, fixing prices, selling goods and generally directing affairs. The woman handed him a shilling and disappeared with the coat into the crowd.

  William again struck the attitude of sole proprietor of the White Elephant stall.

  Soon his mother returned and he moved to the side of the stall shedding something of his air of importance.

  Then the Vicar’s wife came up. She looked about the stall anxiously, then said to William’s mother:

  ‘I thought I’d put my coat down just here for a few minutes dear. You haven’t seen it, have you? I put it just here.’

  William’s mother joined in the search.

  Over William’s face stole a look of blank horror.

  ‘It – it can’t have been sold, dear, can it?’ said the Vicar’s wife with a nervous laugh.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Brown, ‘we’ve sold nothing. The sale’s not really been opened yet. . . . What sort of a coat was it?’

  ‘A black one.’

  ‘Perhaps someone’s just carried it in for you.’

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ said the Vicar’s wife.

  William very quietly joined Ginger, Henry and Douglas who had watched the dénouement open-mouthed.

  ‘Well!’ said Ginger, ‘now you’ve been an’ gone an’ done it.’

  ‘Sellin’ her coat’ said Henry in a tone of shocked horror.

  ‘An’ she’ll prob’ly wear it to church on Sunday an’ she’ll see it,’ said Douglas.

  ‘Oh, shut up about it,’ said William who was feeling uneasy.

  ‘Well I should think you oughter do something about it,’ said Henry virtuously.

  ‘Well, what c’n I do?’ said William irritably.

  ‘IT – IT CAN’T HAVE BEEN SOLD, CAN IT?’ SAID THE VICAR’S WIFE.

  ‘You won’t half catch it,’ contributed Douglas cheerfully, ‘they’ll be sure to find out who did it. You won’t half catch it.’

  ‘OH, NO,’ SAID MRS BROWN. ‘THE SALE’S NOT REALLY OPENED YET. WHAT SORT OF A COAT WAS IT?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Ginger, ‘let’s go an’ get it back.’ William brightened.

  ‘How?’ he said.

  ‘Oh . . . sort of find out where she’s took it an’ get it back,’ said Ginger vaguely, his spirits rising at the thought of possible adventure, ‘ought to be quite easy . . . heaps more fun than hangin’ round here anyway.’

  A cursory examination of the crowd who thronged the Vicarage garden revealed no black coat to the anxious Outlaws. William had been so intent upon asserting his own importance and upon impressing his watching friends that he had not noticed his customer at all. She had merely been a woman and he had an uneasy feeling that he would not recognise her again even if he were to meet her.

  ‘I bet she’s not here,’ said Ginger, ‘’course she’s not here. She’ll’ve taken her coat home jolly quick I bet. She’d be afraid of someone comin’ an’ sayin’ it was a mistake. I bet she’ll be clearin’ off home pretty quick now – coat an’ all.’

  The Outlaws went to the gate and looked up and down the road. The rest of the company were clustered round the lawn where the Member, who was opening the Fête, had just got to the point where he was congratulating the stall holders on the beautiful and artistic appearance of the stalls, and wincing involuntarily whenever his gaze fell upon the bilious expanse of green and mauve bunting.

  ‘There she is,’ said Ginger suddenly, ‘there she is – walkin’ down the road in it – cheek!’

  The figure of a woman wearing a black coat could be seen a few hundred yards down the road. The Outlaws wasted no further time in conversation but set off in pursuit. It was only when they were practically upon her that they realised the difficulty of confronting her and demanding the return of the coat which she had, after all, acquired by the right of purchase.

  They slowed down.

  ‘We – we’d better think out a plan,’ said William.

  ‘We can watch where she lives anyway,’ said Ginger.

  They followed their quarry more cautiously.

  She went in at the gate of a small house.

  The Outlaws clustered round the gate gazing at the front door as it closed behind her.

  ‘Well, we’ve got to get it back some way,’ said William with an air of fierce determination.

  ‘Let’s jus’ try askin’ for it,’ said Ginger hopefully.

  ‘All right,’ agreed William and added generously, ‘you can do it.’

  ‘No,’ said Ginger firmly, ‘I’ve done my part s’gestin’ it. Someone else’s gotter do it.’

  ‘Henry can do it,’ said William, still with his air of lavish generosity.

  ‘No,’ said that young gentleman firmly, even pugnaciously, ‘I’m jolly well not goin’ to do it. You went an’ sold it an’ you can jolly well go an’ ask for it back.’

  William considered this in silence. They seemed quite firm on the point. He foresaw that argument with them would be useless.

  He gave a scornful laugh.

  ‘Huh!’ he said. ‘Afraid! That’s what you are. Afraid. Huh. . . . Well, I c’n tell you one person what’s not afraid of an’ ole woman in an ole black coat an’ that’s me.’

  With that he swaggered up the path to the front door and rang the bell violently. After that his courage failed, and but for the critical and admiring audience clustered round the gate he would certainly have turned to flee while yet there was time. . . . A maid opened the door. William cleared his throat nervously and tried to express by his back and shoulders (visible to the Outlaws) a proud and imperious defiance and by his face (visible to the maid) an ingratiating humility.

  ‘Scuse me,’ he said with a politeness that was rather overdone, ‘Scuse me . . . if it’s not troublin’ you too much—’

  ‘Now, then,’ said the girl sharply, ‘none of your sauce.’

  William in his nervousness redoubled his already exaggerated courtesy. He bared his teeth in a smile.

  ‘Scuse me,’ he said, ‘but a lady’s jus’ come into this house wearin’ a white elephant—’

  He was outraged to receive a sudden box on the ear accompanied by a ‘Get out, you saucy little ’ound,’ and the slamming of the front door in his face.

  William rejoined his giggling friends, nursing his boxed ear. He felt an annoyance which was divided impartially between the girl who had boxed his ears and the Outlaws who had giggled at it.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said aggrievedly, ‘’s easy to laugh, in’t it. ’S nice an’ easy to laugh . . . an’ all of you afraid to go an’ then laughin’ at the only one what’s brave enough. You’d laugh if it was you, wun’t you? Oh yes!’ He uttered his famous snort of bitter sarcasm and contempt. ‘Oh yes. . . you’d laugh then, wun’t you? You’d laugh if it was y
our ear what she’d nearly knocked off, wun’t you? Lots of people ’ve died for less than that an’ then I bet you’d get hung for murderers. Your brain’s in the middle of your head joined on to your ear, an’ she’s nearly killed me shakin’ my brain up like what she did. . . . Oh yes, ’s easy to laugh an’ me nearly dead an’ my brains all shook up.’

  ‘Did she hurt you awful, William?’ said Ginger.

  The sympathy in Ginger’s voice mollified William.

  ‘I sh’d jus’ think so,’ he said. ‘Not that I minded,’ he added hastily, ‘I don’ mind a little pain like that . . . I mean, I c’n stand any amount of pain – pain what would kill most folks . . . but,’ he looked again towards the house and uttered again his short sarcastic laugh, ‘p’raps she thinks she’s got rid of me. Huh! P’raps she thinks they can go on stickin’ to the ole black coat what they’ve stole. Well, they’re not . . . let me kin’ly tell them . . . they’re jolly well not . . . I – I bet I’m goin’ right into the house to get it off them, so there!’

  The physical attack perpetrated on William by the housemaid had stirred his blood and inspired him with a lust for revenge. He glared ferociously at the closed front door.

  ‘I’ll go ’n have a try, shall I?’ said Ginger, who shared with William a love of danger and a dislike of any sort of monotony.

  ‘All right,’ said William, torn by a desire to see Ginger also fiercely assailed by the housemaid and a reluctance to having his glory as martyr shared by anyone else. ‘What’ll you say to ’em?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got an idea,’ said Ginger with what William considered undue optimism and self-assurance, ‘well, if she bought it for a shillin’ I bet she’ll be glad to sell it for more’n a shilling, won’t she? Stands to reason, dun’t it?’

  Ginger, imitating William’s swagger (for Ginger, despite almost daily conflicts with him, secretly admired William immensely), walked up to the front door and knocked with an imperious bravado, also copied from William. The haughty housemaid opened the door.