William The Outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘G’d afternoon,’ said Ginger with a courteous smile, ‘Scuse me, but will you kin’ly tell the lady what’s jus’ come in here wearin’ a black coat that I’ll give her one an’ six for it an’—’

  Ginger also received a box on the ear that sent him rolling halfway down the drive, and the door was slammed in his face. It was opened again immediately and the red angry face of the housemaid again glared out.

  ‘Any more of it, you saucy little ’ounds,’ she said, ‘an’ I’ll send for the police.’

  Ginger rejoined the others nursing his ear and making what William thought was an altogether ridiculous fuss about it.

  ‘She din’t hit you half ’s hard ’s what she hit me,’ said William.

  ‘She did,’ said the aggrieved Ginger, ‘she hit harder . . . a jolly sight harder. She’d nachurally hit harder the second time. She’d be more in practice.’

  ‘No, she wun’t,’ argued William, ‘she’d be more tired the second time. She’d used up all her strength on me.’

  ‘Well, anyway I saw yours an’ I felt mine an’ could tell that mine was harder. Well, gettem to look at our ears. I bet mine’s redder than what yours is.’

  ‘P’raps it is,’ said William, ‘it nachurally would be because of mine bein’ done first an’ havin’ time to get wore off. I bet mine’s redder now than what yours will be when yours has had the same time to get wore off in as what mine has . . . an’ let me kin’ly tell you I saw yours an’ I felt mine an’ I know that mine was a jolly sight harder ’n yours.’

  After a spirited quarrel which culminated in a scuffle which culminated in an involuntary descent of both of them into the ditch, the matter was allowed to rest. Ginger had in secret been somewhat relieved at the housemaid’s reception of his offer as he did not possess one-and-six and would have been at a loss had it been accepted.

  An informal meeting was then held to consider their next step.

  ‘I votes,’ said Douglas who was the one of the Outlaws least addicted to dangerous exploits, ‘I votes that we jus’ go back to the Fête. We’ve done our best,’ he added unctuously, ‘an’ if the ole coat’s sold, well, it’s jus’ sold. P’raps she’ll be able to get it back by goin’ to a lawyer or to Parliament or somethin’ like that.’

  But William, having once formed a purpose, did not lightly relinquish it.

  ‘You can go back,’ he said scornfully, ‘I’m jolly well not goin’ back without that ole coat.’

  ‘All right,’ said Douglas in a resigned tone of voice, ‘I’ll stay an’ help.’

  To Douglas’s credit be it said that having uttered his exhortation to caution he was always content to follow the other Outlaws on their paths of lawlessness and hazard.

  ‘Tell you what I’m goin’ to do,’ said William suddenly, ‘I’ve asked for it polite an’ if they won’t give it me then it’s their fault, in’t it? Well I’ve asked for it polite an’ they wun’t give it me so now I’m jolly well goin’ to take it.’

  ‘I’ll go with you, William,’ volunteered Ginger.

  ‘I think,’ said William, frowning and assuming his Commander-in-Chief air, ‘I’d better go on alone. But you jus’ stay near an’ then if I’m in reel danger – sort of danger of life or death – I’ll shout an’ you come in an’ rescue me.’

  This was such a situation as the Outlaws loved. They had by this time quite lost sight of what they were rescuing and why they were rescuing it. The thrill of the rescue itself filled their entire horizon. . . .

  They went round to the side gate where they crouched in the bushes watching the redoubtable William as he crept Indian fashion with elaborate ‘registration’ of cunning and secrecy across a small lawn up to a small open window. Breathlessly they watched him hoist himself up and swing his legs over the window sill. They saw his freckled face still wearing its frown of determination as he disappeared inside the room.

  He had meant to make his way through the room to the hall where he hoped to find the black coat hanging and to be able to abstract it without interference and return at once to his waiting comrades. But things are seldom as simple as we hope they are going to be. No sooner had he found himself in the room than he heard voices approaching the door and with admirable presence of mind dived beneath the round table in the middle of the room, whose cloth just – but only just – concealed him from view.

  The lady whom the Outlaws had followed down the road – now divested of the fateful black coat – entered the room followed by another gayer and more highly-coloured lady.

  ‘A black coat, did you say?’ said the first lady.

  William, beneath the table, pricked up his ears.

  ‘Yes, if you can, dear,’ said the highly-coloured lady, ‘if you’d be so good, dear. I only want it for tomorrow for the funeral. I think I told you didn’t I, dear? A removed cousin whom I hardly knew – a very removed cousin – but they’ve invited me and one likes to show oneself appreciative of these little attentions – not that I think he’ll have left me a penny in his will and it certainly isn’t worth while buying black but I have a black dress and if you wouldn’t mind lending me a black coat.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the first lady. ‘I can let you have one with pleasure. It’s in the hall. It’s one I’ve only just bought . . .’

  William ground his teeth . . . So it was in the hall! If he’d only been a few minutes earlier . . .

  They went into the hall and William gathered that the black coat was being displayed.

  ‘Quite a bargain, wasn’t it?’ he heard the first lady say.

  It was all he could do to repress a bitter and scornful ‘Huh!’

  They returned – evidently with the coat.

  ‘Thank you so much, dear,’ said the highly-coloured lady, ‘it’s just what I wanted and so smart. What was it like at the Fête . . . ?’ she was trying on the coat and examining herself smilingly in the overmantel mirror. ‘I must say it does suit me.’

  ‘Oh, very dull,’ said the first lady. ‘I really came away before it was actually opened. Just got what I wanted and then came away. It all looked as if it was going to be most dull.’

  The highly-coloured lady sniffed and her complacency gave way to aggrievement. ‘I must say that I was a bit hurt that they didn’t ask me to give an entertainment. I can’t help feeling that it was a bit of a slight. People have so often told me that no function about here is complete without one of my entertainments and then not to ask me to entertain at the Conservative Fête . . . well, I call it pointed, and it points to one thing and one thing only in my eyes. It points to jealousy, and intrigue, and spitefulness, and underhandedness, and cunning, and deceit on the part of some person or persons unknown – but, believe me, Mrs Bute, quite easily guessed at!’

  The highly-coloured lady was evidently in the state known as ‘working herself up’. Suddenly William knew who she was. She must be Miss Poll. He remembered now hearing his mother say only yesterday, ‘That dreadful Poll woman wants to give an entertainment at the Fête and we’re determined not to have her. She’s so vulgar. She’d cheapen the whole thing. . . .’

  He peeped at her anxiously from behind his concealing tablecloth, then hastily withdrew.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Bute, who sounded bored and as if she’d heard it many times before, ‘of course, dear, but . . . the coat will do, will it?’

  ‘Very nicely, thank you,’ said Miss Poll rather stiffly because she thought that Mrs Bute really ought to have been more sympathetic. ‘Good afternoon, dear.’

  ‘I’ll wrap it up for you,’ said Mrs Bute.

  There was silence while she wrapped it up, then Miss Poll said, ‘Good afternoon, dear’ again and went into the hall and there followed the sound of the closing of the front door, then sounds as of the mistress of the house going upstairs. William retreated through his open window and rejoined Douglas and Henry at the gate. Ginger had vanished.

  ‘Quick,’ he said, ‘she’s got it.’

  The figure of Miss Po
ll carrying a large paper parcel could be seen walking down the road. ‘We’ve gotter follow her. She’s got it now.’

  At this minute Ginger reappeared.

  ‘She’s got it,’ William explained to him.

  ‘Yes, but there’s another,’ said Ginger, pointing, ‘there’s another black coat hangin’ up in the hall. I’ve been round an’ looked through a little window an’ seen it . . . it’s there.’

  William was for a moment nonplussed. Then he said: ‘Well, I bet the one she’s took’s the one, ’cause I heard her say wasn’t it a bargain, an’ it was a bargain too. Huh! I’m goin’ after her.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ said Ginger. ‘I’m goin’ to stop here an’ get the other one.’

  ‘All right,’ said William, ‘you an’ Douglas stay here an’ Henry ’n me’ll go after the other an’ I bet you ours is the right one.’

  So quite amicably the Outlaws divided forces. Ginger and Douglas remained concealed in the bushes by the gate of Mrs Bute’s house, warily eyeing the windows, while William and Henry set off down the road after Miss Poll’s rapidly vanishing figure.

  William and Henry stood at Miss Poll’s gate and held a hasty consultation. Their previous experience did not encourage them to go boldly to the front door and demand the black coat.

  ‘Let’s jus’ go in an’ steal it,’ said Henry cheerfully. ‘’S not hers really.’

  But William seemed averse to this.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I bet that wouldn’t come off. I bet she’s the sort of woman that’s always poppin’ up jus’ when you don’ want her. No, I guess we’ve gotter think out a plan.’

  He thought deeply for a few minutes, then his face cleared and over it broke a light that betokened inspiration.

  ‘I know what we’ll do. It’s a jolly good idea. I bet . . . well, anyway, you come in with me an’ see.’

  Boldly William walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Apprehensively Henry followed him.

  Miss Poll, wearing the black coat (for she had been trying it on and fancied herself in it so much that she had not been able to bring herself to take it off to answer the bell), opened the door.

  William, his face devoid of any expression whatever, repeated monotonously as though it were a lesson:

  ‘G’afternoon, Miss Poll, please will you come to the Fête to give an entertainment.’

  Miss Poll went rather red and for one terrible minute William thought that she was going to attack him as the maid had done – but the moment passed. Miss Poll was simpering coyly.

  ‘You – you’ve been sent on a message, I suppose, little boy?’ Then, relieving William’s conscience of the difficult task of answering this question, she went on, ‘I thought there must be some mistake. . . . Of course,’ she simpered again, then pouted, ‘really I’d be quite within my rights to refuse to go. It’s most discourteous of them to send for me like this at such short notice but,’ she gave a triumphant little giggle, ‘I knew that really they couldn’t get on without me. They didn’t send a note by you, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ said William quite truthfully.

  She pouted again.

  ‘Well, that I think is rather rude, don’t you? However,’ the pout merged again into the simper, ‘I wouldn’t be so cruel as to punish them for that by staying away. I knew they’d want me in the end. But these things are always so shamefully organised, don’t you think so?’

  William cleared his throat and said that he did. Henry, in response to a violent nudge from William, cleared his throat and said that he did too. Miss Poll, encouraged by their sympathy, warmed to her subject.

  ‘Instead of writing to engage me months ago they send a message like this at the last minute. . . . What would they have done if I’d been out?’

  Again William said he didn’t know and again Henry, in response to a nudge from William, said he didn’t know either.

  ‘Well, I mustn’t keep the poor dears waiting,’ said Miss Poll brightly. ‘I’ll be ready in a second. I’ve only to put my hat on.’

  Then Miss Poll underwent a short inward struggle which William watched breathlessly. Would she keep on the black coat or would she change it for another? Wild plans floated through William’s head. He’d say would she please go in something black because the Vicar had died quite suddenly that morning or – or the Member had just been murdered or something like that. . . . It was obvious that Miss Poll was torn between the joy of wearing a coat in which she considered herself to look ‘smarter’ than in anything else she possessed and the impropriety of wearing for a festal occasion a garment borrowed for the obsequies of the very removed cousin. To William’s relief the coat won the day and after buttoning up the collar to give it an even smarter appearance than it had before and putting on a smart hat with a very red feather, she joined them at the door.

  ‘Now I’m ready, children,’ she said, at which William scowled ferociously and Henry winced, ‘they didn’t say which of my repertoire’ (Miss Poll pronounced it reppertwaw) ‘I was to bring with me, did they?’

  And again William said ‘no’ with a face devoid of expression and with perfect truth. And Henry said ‘no,’ too.

  ‘As it’s such short notice,’ she went on, ‘they really can’t expect anything in the way of – well, of make-up or dress, can they?’

  William said that they couldn’t and Henry, being nudged again by William, confirmed the opinion. . . .

  ‘Though I wish you children could see me in my charwoman skit. I’m an artist in make-up. . . . Now, can you imagine me looking really old and ugly?’

  Henry quite innocently said ‘yes,’ and on being nudged by William, changed it to ‘yes, please.’ Miss Poll looked at Henry as if she quite definitely disliked him and turned her attentions to William.

  ‘You know, dear . . . I can make myself up to look really old. You’d never believe it, would you? Now guess how old I am, really?’

  Henry, not wishing to be left out of it, said with perfect good faith, ‘fifty’ and William, with a vague idea of being tactful, said ‘forty’. Miss Poll who looked, as a matter of fact, about forty-five, laughed shrilly.

  ‘You children will have your joke,’ she said, ‘now I wonder what I’d better do for them to start with? You know, what makes me so unique as an entertainer, children – and if I’d wanted to be I’d be famous now on the London stage – is that I’m entirely independent of such artificial aids as mechanical musical instruments and books of words and such things. I depend upon the unaided efforts of my voice – and I’ve a perfect voice for humorous songs, you know, children – and my facial expression. Of course I’ve a magnetic personality . . . that’s the secret of the whole thing . . .’

  William was tense and stern and scowling. He wasn’t thinking of Miss Poll’s magnetic personality. He was thinking of Miss Poll’s coat. The first step had been to lure Miss Poll to the Fête; the second and, he began to think, the harder, would be to detach the coat from Miss Poll’s person.

  ‘It’s – it’s sort of gettin’ hot, i’n’t it?’ he said huskily.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Miss Poll pleasantly.

  William’s heart lightened. ‘Wun’t you like to take your coat off?’ he said persuasively. ‘I’ll carry it for you.’

  But Miss Poll who considered, quite erroneously, that the coat made her look startlingly youthful and pretty, shook her head and clutched the coat tightly at her neck.

  ‘No, certainly not,’ she said firmly.

  William pondered his next line of argument.

  ‘I thought,’ he suggested at last meekly, ‘I thought p’raps you sing better without your coat.’

  Henry, who felt that he was supporting William rather inadequately, said: ‘Yes, you sort of look as if you’d sing better without a coat.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ said Miss Poll rather sharply, ‘I sing perfectly well in a coat.’

  Then William had an idea. He remembered an incident which had taken place about a month ago which had co
mpletely mystified him at the time, but which he had stored up for possible future use. Ethel had come home from a garden party in a state bordering on hysterics and had passionately destroyed a perfectly good hat which she had been wearing. The reason she gave for this extraordinary behaviour had been that Miss Weston had been wearing a hat exactly like it at the garden party (‘exactly like it . . . I could have killed her and myself,’ Ethel had said hysterically). The reason had seemed to William wholly inadequate. He met boys every day of his life wearing headgear which was exactly identical with his and the sight failed to rouse him to hysterical fury. It was one of the many mysteries in which the behaviour of grown-up sisters was shrouded – not to be understood but possible to be utilised. Now he looked Miss Poll up and down and said ruminatingly, ‘Funny!’

  ‘What’s funny?’ said Miss Poll sharply.

  ‘Oh, nothin’,’ said William apologetically, knowing full well that Miss Poll would now know no peace till she’d discovered the reason for his ejaculation and steady contemplation of her.

  ‘Nonsense!’ she said sharply, ‘you wouldn’t say ‘funny’ like that unless there was some reason for it, I suppose. If I’ve got a smut on my nose or my hat’s on crooked say so and don’t stand there looking at me.’

  William’s steady gaze was evidently getting upon Miss Poll’s nerves.

  ‘Nothin’,’ said William again vaguely, ‘only I’ve just remembered somethin’.’

  ‘What have you remembered?’ snapped Miss Poll.

  ‘Nothin’ much,’ said William, ‘only I’ve jus’ remembered that I saw someone at the Fête jus’ before I came out to you, in a coat exactly like that one what you’ve got on.’

  There was a long silence and finally Miss Poll said: ‘It is a little hot, dear. You were quite right. If you would be so kind as to carry my coat—’

  She took it off, revealing a dress that was very short and very diaphanous and very, very pink, folded up the coat so as to show only the lining and handed it to William. William, though retaining his sphinx-like expression, heaved a sigh of relief, and Henry dropped behind Miss Poll to turn a cartwheel expressive of triumph in the middle of the road. They had reached the gate of the Vicarage now. They were only just in time. . . .