William The Outlaw

by Richmal Crompton

  ‘Won’t you sit down?’

  And Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s in a hoarse shout:

  ‘Thanks so much.’

  ‘Now about this school—’ yelled his father.

  ‘Exactly,’ bellowed Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough. ‘I hope to open it in the spring. I should like to include your son among the first numbers – special terms of course.’

  There was a pause, then William’s father spoke in a voice of thunder.

  ‘Very good of you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ bellowed Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

  ‘He’s – perhaps I’d better prepare you . . .’ boomed Mr Brown’s voice making the very window panes rattle in their frames, ‘he – he doesn’t quite conform to type. He’s a bit – individualistic.’

  Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough drew in his breath, then with a mighty effort bellowed:

  ‘But he ought to conform to type. It’s only a matter of training – I’m most anxious to include your son on our roll when we open next spring.’

  Purple in the face Mr Brown yelled:

  ‘Very good of you.’

  William, whose conscience never allowed him to do any more eavesdropping than was absolutely necessary to his plans, arose and thoughtfully cracking his last nut, walked round the house. At the side door he came across his mother and Ethel clinging together in terror.

  ‘What has happened,’ his mother was saying hysterically, ‘why are they shouting at each other like that? What has happened?’

  ‘They must be quarrelling!’ groaned Ethel. A reechoing bellow from Mr Brown (who was really only saying, ‘Very good of you’ again) made the house shake and Ethel screamed, ‘They’ll be fighting in a minute. . . . What shall we do?’

  Mrs Brown noticed William and made an effort to control herself.

  ‘Where are you going, William?’

  William, his hands deep in his pockets, answered nonchalantly. ‘Down to the village to buy a stick of liquorice,’ he said.

  He walked down to the village very thoughtfully.

  So that was it . . . they were going to send him to that man’s school, were they? Huh! . . . were they? William for one had made up his mind that they were not, but just for a minute he was not sure how he could prevent them. Silently he considered various plans. None seemed suitable. Open opposition was, he knew, useless. In open opposition he had no chance against his family. But there must surely be other ways. . . .

  Mrs Brown had once stayed in Eastbourne where she had watched a neat little crocodile of neat little boys walking in a straight and tidy line past her house every day and the sight had impressed her. The thought of William walking like that – a neat and tidy component of a neat and tidy line talking politely to his partner, keeping just behind the boy in front, with plastered hair and shiny shoes, walking sedately – was an alluring and startling picture when compared with the William of the present, leaping over fences, diving into ditches, shinning up trees, dragging his toes in the dust, shouting . . . Mrs Brown had a vague idea that some mysterious change of spirit came over a boy on entering the portals of a boarding-school transforming him from a young savage to a perfect little gentleman, and she would have liked to see this change take place in William. Moreover Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough had distinctly mentioned ‘special fees’.

  Mr Brown had no very strong feelings on the subject. He was prepared to leave it all to his wife. The only two people concerned who had any very strong feelings about it were Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough and William. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough wanted to fill his new school. He did not consider William to be very promising material but he couldn’t afford at the present juncture to be too particular about material. . . . And William had very strong feelings on the subject indeed. William could not even contemplate life divorced from the beloved fields and woods of his native village, his beloved Outlaws and Jumble his mongrel.

  On returning home William found his father in the hall.

  ‘What the dickens do you mean,’ said his father irritably and hoarsely, ‘by telling me the fellow was deaf? He’s no more deaf than I am.’

  William opened wide eyes of innocent surprise.

  ‘Isn’t he, Father?’ he said, ‘I’m awfully sorry.’

  William’s father, upon whom William’s looks of innocence and surprise were always completely wasted, moved his hand to his throat with an involuntary spasm of pain.

  ‘No, he isn’t,’ he said brokenly, ‘and you knew perfectly well he wasn’t. Your over-exuberant sense of humour needs a little pruning, my boy, and if I hadn’t got the worst sore throat I’ve had in years I’d prune it for you here and now.’

  William moved hastily out of the danger zone still murmuring apologies. He went to the morning-room where he found Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough addressed him, also brokenly.

  ‘Your father doesn’t seem to be very deaf, William,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘I spoke to him in quite an ordinary tone of voice towards the end of our conversation and he seemed to hear all right.’

  William fixed unfaltering eyes upon him.

  ‘Yes, then your voice must be the kind he hears nat’rul. He does hear some sorts nat’rul. He hears all ours nat’rul.’

  With this cryptic remark he withdrew leaving Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough looking thoughtful.

  The next morning Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough asked William to go for a walk with him. ‘William and I,’ he said pleasantly to Mrs Brown, ‘must get to know each other.’

  William emerged from Mrs Brown’s hands for the walk almost repellently clean and tidy. Mrs Brown was determined that William should make a good impression on Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

  For a time William walked in silence and Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough talked. He talked about the glorious historical monuments of England and the joys of early rising and the fascination of decimals and H.C.F.’s and the beauty of all foreign languages. He warmed to William as he talked for William seemed to be drinking in his words almost avidly. William’s solemn eyes never left his face. He could not know, of course, that William was not listening to a word he said but was engaged in trying to count his teeth. . . .

  ‘Now which of our grand national buildings have you seen?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, returning to his first theme.

  ‘Uh-huh?’ said William who thought he’d got to thirty, but kept having to start again because they moved about so.

  ‘I say, which of our grand national buildings have you seen?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough more distinctly.

  ‘Oh,’ said William bringing his thoughts with an effort from Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s teeth to the less interesting one of our grand national buildings, ‘I’ve never been to races,’ said William sadly.

  ‘Races?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough in surprise.

  ‘Yes . . . you was talking about the Grand National, wasn’t you?’

  ‘Were, William, were,’ corrected Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

  ‘I’m not quite sure where,’ admitted William, ‘but I know a man what won some money on it last year.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, William,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough rather irritably, ‘I’m referring to such places as Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘Oh,’ said William with waning interest, ‘I thought you was goin’ to talk about racin’.’

  ‘Were, William, were.’

  ‘At the Grand National.’

  ‘No, William . . . no,’ he was finding conversation with William rather difficult, ‘have you never visited such places as Hampton Court?’

  A gleam of interest came into William’s face and he temporarily abandoned his self-imposed task of counting Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s teeth.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I once went there. I remember ’cause there was a man there what told us it was haunted. Said a ghost of someone used to go downstairs there. Huh!’

  William’s final ejaculation was one of contemptuous amusement. But Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough
’s face grew serious. His teeth receded from view almost entirely.

  ‘No, no, William,’ he said reprovingly, ‘you must not make fun of such things. Indeed you must not. They are – they are not to be treated lightly. The fact that you have seen none is not proof that there are none . . . far from it. . . . Believe me, William – though I have seen none myself I have friends who have.’

  ‘Didn’t it scare ’em stiff?’ said William with interest, and added dramatically, ‘rattlin’ an’ groanin’ an’ suchlike.’

  Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough was too much absorbed in his subject to correct William’s phraseology.

  ‘It does not – er – rattle or groan, William. It is the figure of a lady of the fifteenth century, and everyone does not see it. It is indeed a sinister omen to see it. Some evil always befalls those who see it. Sinister, William, means on the left hand, and used in the sense in which we use it, is a reference to the omens of the days of the Romans.’

  ‘Doesn’t it do anythin’ to ’em?’ said William, disappointed by the lack of enterprise betrayed by the ghost, and left completely cold by the derivation of the word sinister.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, ‘it just appears – but the one who sees it, and only one person sees it on each occasion, invariably suffers some catastrophe. It is not wise, of course, to allow one’s thoughts to dwell upon such things but it is not wise either to treat them entirely with contempt. . . . Let us now turn our thoughts to brighter things. . . . Do you keep a collection of – the flora of the neighbourhood, William?’

  ‘No,’ admitted William, ‘I’ve never caught any of them. Didn’t know there was any about. But I’ve got some caterpillars.’

  When William approached the morning-room just before lunch there were there his mother and Ethel and Robert, his grown-up brother. As William entered he heard his mother whisper:

  ‘I think the time has come to tell him.’

  William entered, negligently toying with a handful of marbles.

  ‘William,’ said his mother, ‘we have something to tell you.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ said William still apparently absorbed by his marbles.

  ‘Oh, his manners!’ groaned Ethel.

  ‘This cousin of your father’s,’ said his mother, ‘is really the headmaster of a boys’ boarding-school and we think . . . though nothing’s yet arranged . . . that we’re going to send you to his school next spring. Won’t it be nice?’

  They all looked at William with interest to see how he should receive this startling news.

  William received it as though it had been some casual comment on the weather.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said absently, as he continued to toy negligently with his marbles.

  He had the satisfaction of seeing his family thoroughly taken aback by his reception of the news.

  He was very silent during lunch. He had not yet formed any definite plan of action beyond the negative plan of pretending to acquiesce. He could see that his attitude mystified them and the knowledge was a great consolation to him.

  After lunch Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, who by now looked upon the addition of William’s name to his roll of members as a certainty, went into the garden and Mrs Brown went to lie down. William, after strolling aimlessly about the house, joined Ethel in the drawing-room. She was, however, not alone in the drawing-room. Moyna Greene in an elaborate fourteenth century dress of purple and silver was with her.

  ‘You look perfectly sweet, Moyna,’ Ethel was saying, ‘but I think the ruffle does want altering just here.’

  ‘I thought it did,’ said Moyna, ‘I’ll do it now if I may. May I borrow your work basket? Thanks.’ She slipped off her ruffle.

  ‘Let me help said Ethel.

  Just then the housemaid entered.

  ‘Mrs Bott called to see you, Miss,’ she said to Ethel.

  Ethel groaned and turned to Moyna.

  ‘Oh, my dear. . . . I’ll be as quick as I can, but you know what she is. . . . She’ll keep me ages. You won’t run away, will you?’

  ‘No,’ promised the purple and silver vision.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you might do,’ said Ethel. ‘Go and let old Jenkins see you. I think he’s in the greenhouse. I told him you were going as a fourteenth century lady and he said, ‘Eh, her’ll look rare prutty. I wish I could see her’ – so he’d be so bucked if you would.’

  ‘All right,’ said Moyna, ‘I’ll just finish this ruffle and then I’ll go out to him.’

  ‘And I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Ethel, ‘but you know what she is.’

  William went quietly out of doors. His face was bright with inspiration and stern with resolve. First of all he satisfied himself that old Jenkins really was in the greenhouse.

  Jenkins turned upon him as soon as he saw him in the doorway. Between old Jenkins and young William no love was lost.

  ‘You touch one of my grapes, Master William,’ he said threateningly, ‘an’ I’ll tell your pa the minute he comes home tonight, I will. I grow these grapes for your ma an’ pa – not you.’

  ‘I don’ want any of your grapes, Jenkins,’ said William with a short laugh expressive of amused surprise at the idea. ‘Good gracious, what should I want with your ole grapes?’

  Whereupon he departed with a swagger leaving old Jenkins muttering furiously, and went to join Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough who was comfortably ensconced in a deck chair at the further end of the lawn wooing sleep. He had almost wooed it when William appeared and sat down noisily at his feet, and said in a tone that put any further wooing of sleep entirely out of the question:

  ‘Hello, Mr Cranborough.’

  Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough greeted William shortly and without enthusiasm. He did not want William. He did not like William. His interest in William began and ended with the special fees which he hoped William’s parents might be induced to pay him – ‘special’ in quite a different sense from the one in which Mrs Brown understood it. He had been quite happy without William and he meant his manner to convey this fact to William. But William was not sensitive to fine shades of manner.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’,’ he said slowly, ‘’bout what you said this mornin’.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, touched despite himself and thinking what a gift for dealing with the young he must possess to have made an impression upon such unpromising material as this boy’s mind, and how one should never despair of material however unpromising.

  ‘About what, my boy?’ he said with interest, ‘the History? the French? the Arithmetic?’

  ‘No,’ said William simply, ‘the ghost.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough, ‘but – er – you should not allow your mind to run on such subjects, my boy.’

  ‘No,’ said William, ‘it’s not runnin’ on ’em. But I’ve just remembered somethin’ about this house.’

  ‘What?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

  William carefully selected a juicy blade of grass and began to chew it.

  ‘Oh, it’s prob’ly nothin’,’ he said carelessly, ‘but what you said this mornin’ made me think of it, that’s all.’

  William was adept at whetting people’s curiosity.

  ‘But what was it?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough irritably, ‘what was it?’

  ‘Well, p’raps I’d better not mention it,’ said William, ‘you said we oughtn’t to let it run on our minds.’

  ‘I insist on your telling me,’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothin’ much,’ said William again, ‘only a sort of story about this house.’

  ‘What sort of a story?’ insisted Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

  ‘Well,’ said William as though reluctantly, ‘some folks say that an ole house use to be here jus’ where this house is now an’ that a lady of the fourteenth century was killed in it once an’ some folks say they’ve seen her. I don’ b’lieve it,’ he ended carelessly, ‘I’ve never seen her.’

  Mr Cranthorpe-Cranbo
rough’s interest was aroused.

  ‘What is this – this lady supposed to look like, my boy?’ he said.

  ‘She’s dressed in purple and silver,’ said William, ‘with a long train an’ a ruffle thing round her neck an’ very black hair, and she’s s’posed to walk out of that window over there,’ and he pointed to the drawing-room window, ‘and then go across the lawn behind those trees,’ he pointed to the trees which hid the greenhouse from view.

  ‘And you say that people profess to have seen her?’ said Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said William.’

  ‘And what does her coming portend?’

  ‘Uh?’ said William.

  ‘What – what happens to those who see her?’ repeated Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough impatiently.

  At that moment Miss Moyna Greene, having finished and donned the ruffle, stepped out of the drawing-room window on to the lawn in all her glory of purple and silver. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough gazed at her and his jaws dropped open.

  ‘Look!’ he gasped to William, ‘who’s that?’

  ‘Who’s what?’ said William gazing around innocently.

  Miss Moyna Greene passed slowly to the middle of the lawn. Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s eyes, bulging with amazement, followed her. So did his trembling forefinger.

  ‘There . . .’ he hissed, ‘just there.’

  William stared straight at Miss Moyna Greene.

  ‘I don’t see anyone,’ he said.

  Drops of perspiration stood out on Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough’s brow. He took out a large silk handkerchief and mopped it. The figure of Miss Moyna Greene crossed the lawn and disappeared behind the trees. . . .

  Mr Cranthorpe-Cranborough gave a gasp.

  ‘Er – what did you say the – er – the sight of the vision is supposed to portend, William?’ he said faintly. ‘What – what happens to those who see it?’