William At War Read online

  CONTENTS

  Foreword by John Sessions

  1. William and A.R.P.

  2. William Does His Bit

  3. William – the Fire-fighter

  4. The Outlaws and the Parachutist

  5. William – the Salvage Collector

  6. William and the Bomb

  7. Reluctant Heroes

  8. William and the Mock Invasion

  9. William and the Tea-cake

  10. The Battle of Flowers

  FOREWORD

  Life today. We all know sunny streets on perfect Saturday or Sunday afternoons, with lawnmowers growling and dads washing cars. How much the streets have changed since William’s day. So much more noise. Or so much more silence perhaps, with children glued enraptured to their iPhones instead of jumping from puddle to puddle and getting gloriously filthy.

  William Brown’s world somehow always seems to be sunny, although of course there are wet days too. How else would William and the Outlaws have puddles to splash about in to splatter themselves with mud? And everything is different in William’s world . . . how old the cars look and how few there were on the roads compared to today. And then there are all the grown-ups who seem to have been sent into Williamland only to be tormented by the Outlaws. What a peculiar lot they are. Adults forever banished from the joyous feeling of being eleven, from holding up a jam-jar full of tadpoles and watching the sunshine sparkle through it. Did the women really swan about with half a dozen fox furs wrapped around their necks? Yes, they did. Did permanently furious colonels really screw a single eyeglass into one of their furious eyes? Yet again, they did. Richmal Crompton saw nothing wrong with this. Hers is a world of best foot forward, of bracingly cold baths, a world of no-nonsense.

  Richmal’s world was also one where children should be seen and not heard, do as they’re told and not get upset if they’re ignored or thought of as a ‘bad lot’. But William and his friends, especially Violet Elizabeth Bott, have many ways of getting round the irksome little problem of being ignored. Ahh, Violet Elizabeth Bott. She should be the patron saint of all girls who confuse and irritate boys. There is really something rather magnificent about her. I hope you agree.

  I have one particular favourite story about William. It’s the one when the tall, lanky French boy comes to stay with the Browns in order to improve his wobbly English. Today it’s rightly considered rather naff to laugh at foreigners because of their strong accents and difficulty with finding the right words. But when Richmal Crompton was writing, eighty and ninety years ago (at the time that Britain thought it was the centre of the universe), it was considered perfectly natural to regard all foreigners as ludicrous. However, she manages to make this French boy charming and vulnerable while also being screamingly funny. I don’t know why I like this story the best. Perhaps it’s because William creates so much chaos among the adults. They pant and gibber and try their best to hang on to their sanity. They only just manage it.

  I hope you enjoy reading William as much as I did when I was young. When I was young. Hmmm. Now that really is a horribly long time ago . . .

  John Sessions

  CHAPTER I

  WILLIAM AND A.R.P.

  ‘WELL, I don’ see why we shun’t have one, too,’ said William morosely. ‘Grown-ups get all the fun.’

  ‘They say it’s not fun,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Yes, they say that jus’ to put us off,’ said William. ‘I bet it is fun all right. I bet it’d be fun if we had one, anyway.’

  ‘Why don’t we have one?’

  ‘I asked ’em that. I said, “Why can’t we have one?” an’ they said, “Course you can’t. Don’t be so silly.” Silly! S’not us what’s silly, an’ I told ’em so. I bet we could do it as well as what they do. Better, come to that. Yes, I bet that’s what they’re frightened of – us doin’ it better than what they do.’

  ‘What do they do, anyway?’ demanded Douglas.

  ‘They have a jolly good time,’ said William vaguely. ‘Smellin’ gases an’ bandagin’ each other an’ tryin’ on their gas masks. I bet they bounce out at each other in their gas masks, givin’ each other frights. I’ve thought of lots of games you could play with gas masks, but no one’ll let me try. They keep mine locked up. Lot of good it’ll be in a war locked up where I can’t get at it. Huh!’

  There was a pause, during which the Outlaws silently contemplated the absurdity of this situation.

  ‘I told ’em I ought to be able to wear it a bit each day jus’ for practice,’ went on William. ‘I told ’em I wouldn’t be much use in a war ’less I did. Why, anyone’d think they wanted me to get killed, keepin’ my gas mask where I can’t get at it. It’s same as murder. Just ’cause of us playin’ gladiators in ’em the first day we got ’em! Well, the bit of damage it did was easy to put right. It was a jolly good thing really, ’cause it sort of showed where it was weak. They said I’d been rough on it. Well, if war’s not s’posed to be rough I don’t know what is. Seems cracked to me to have somethin’ for a war you can’t be rough in. I bet they’re rough in ’em in those ole classes they go to.’

  ‘Well, even if they won’t let us go to theirs,’ said Ginger, ‘I don’t see they could stop us havin’ one of our own.’

  ‘No, that’s a jolly good idea,’ said William, brightening. ‘A jolly good idea. They can’t stop us doin’ that.’

  ‘We’ll call it A.R.P. Junior Branch,’ suggested Ginger. ‘Same as what they do with Conservative Clubs an’ things.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed William. ‘A.R.P. Junior Branch. An’ we’ll do the same things they do an’ do ’em a jolly sight better. I bet they’ll be jolly grateful to us when a war comes along. I bet we’ll save the country while they’re messin’ about tryin’ to remember where they put their gas masks. If they won’t let me have mine, I’ll make one. I bet they’re quite easy to make. Jus’ a bit of ole mackintosh cut round for a face an’ a sort of tin with holes to breathe through. I’ve got an ole mackintosh an’ the tin I keep my caterpillars in’d do to breathe through. It’s got holes in ready, an’ I bet, if caterpillars can breathe through it, I can. Only two of ’em’ve died.’

  William and Ginger canvassed the junior inhabitants of the village that evening, and Henry and Douglas wrote out the notice and prepared the old barn for the meeting. The preparation of the old barn was not difficult. It consisted simply of an ancient packing case for William’s use as lecturer and demonstrator. The audience was expected to sit on the floor. The audience generally did sit on the floor. It grumbled, but it put up with it. The notice was the work of Ginger alone. It was executed in blacking (‘borrowed’ from the kitchen) on a piece of cardboard broken from the box in which his mother kept her best hat. It ran:

  AIR RADE PRECORSHUN

  JUNIER BRANCH

  ENTRUNCE FRE.

  ‘They’ll come if it’s free,’ said Douglas, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. ‘They always come to free things.’

  ‘They’ll jolly well have to come,’ said William sternly. ‘What’ll they do in a war if they don’t know how to do it? They’ve gotter learn same as grown-ups. I bet they’ll feel jolly silly, the grown-ups, when this war comes along an’ we do it all a jolly sight better than what they do. P’raps they won’t put on such a lot of swank after that. I bet they knew we’d do it better than them, an’ that’s why they’ve been tryin’ to keep us out of it. Huh!’

  At the time advertised for the meeting, a thin stream of children began to trickle over the fields to the old barn. There were Victor Jameson and Ronald Bell – always friends and supporters of the Outlaws – Arabella Simpkins, a red-haired, sharp-featured maiden of domineering disposition, dragging after her a small sister exactly like her, and a rag, tag, and bob-tail of juv
eniles. With much scuffling and shouting and criticising of the accommodation provided, they settled themselves on the floor. William’s mounting upon the packing case was the signal for cheers that increased in volume as the rotten wood gave way and he disappeared backwards. He picked himself up with a not very successful attempt at dignity, smoothed back his hair, collected the scattered sheaves of his lecture notes, scowled round upon his audience, and, putting several bits of broken wood together for a platform, took his stand on it precariously.

  ‘Ladies an’ gentl’men,’ he shouted above the uproar, which was still far from subsiding, ‘will you kindly shut up an’ listen to me? I’m goin’ to tell you how to win the war. Well, d’you want to win the war, or don’t you . . . Arabella Simpkins, shut up makin’ all that noise . . . Victor Jameson, I tell you I’m tellin’ you how to win the war . . . You’ll be sorry you’ve not listened when it comes an’ you’re all blown to bits. You’ve gotter listen to me, if you want to win the war. D’you want to be blown to bits by bombs an’ balloons an’ things jus’ ’cause you wouldn’t shut up an’ listen to me? . . . I didn’t start her howling. She started herself . . . Well, I only said she’d be blown to bits if she didn’t listen. I never said I’d blow her to bits . . . All right, tell your mother. I don’t care . . . All right, take her home an’ I’m jolly glad you’re goin’ . . . Shut up, all of you!’

  After the departure of Arabella Simpkins with her small sister – the small sister still howling, and Arabella still threatening reprisals – the uproar subsided slightly, and William, purple-faced and hoarse with shouting, turned to his typewritten papers. They were the notes of Ethel’s A.R.P. classes, which he had managed to abstract from her writing desk, and he had not had time to look through them before the lecture.

  ‘LADIES AN’ GENTL’MEN,’ HE SHOUTED ABOVE THE UPROAR, ‘WILL YOU KINDLY SHUT UP AN’ LISTEN TO ME? I’M GOIN’ TO TELL YOU HOW TO WIN THE WAR.’

  ‘Now, listen,’ he said, ‘an’ I’ll tell you all about these gases an’ suchlike. They’re’ – he studied his notes with frowning concentration – ‘per-sis-tent! That’s what they are. Per-sis-tent. Well, that’s what it says here. It mus’ be right, mus’n’t it, if it says so here? An’ there’s one – well, it’s got a long name, I won’t say it to you ’cause you can’t understand it, an’ it smells like pear drops. It says so, I tell you. Shut up . . . No, I’ve not got any pear drops. I never said I’d got any pear drops. Why don’t you listen when I’m givin’ a lecture? I wouldn’t give you any if I had, either, not with you not giving me any of your liquorice all-sorts last Sat’day. You had got some. You were eatin’ ’em. Shut up about pear drops. I never said a bomb was made of pear drops. I said it smelt of ’em . . . Well,’ uncertainly, ‘p’raps it is. P’raps it is made of pear drops. No, it doesn’t say so here . . . Well, so are you, anyway . . . I didn’t. I said the bombs smelt of ’em . . . It says so here . . . I dunno . . . All right, if you don’t want to listen, don’t. I don’t care . . . No, I’ve not gotter bomb. Shut up about pear drops. I’m sick of ’em. I’m not talking about pear drops. I’m tellin’ you how to win the war . . . Well, you gotter know what bombs smell like to win a war, haven’t you? I do know what I’m talkin’ about . . . I never said they dropped pear drops. I said they dropped bombs. I said these bombs smelt of pear drops . . . I dunno why they smell of pear drops . . . Listen,’ he pleaded, hastily scanning his paper, ‘I’ll tell you somethin’ else if you’ll listen . . .’

  But the meeting was breaking up in disorder. Its members had seized on the subject of pear drops and refused to be diverted from it. In any case, they wanted to do something a little more exciting than sit and listen to William holding forth from a typewritten paper. William was not altogether sorry for the curtailment of his lecture. He had caught a glimpse of several lengthy and quite unintelligible words further down on the sheet and was glad to be rescued from them.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll do bandagin’ next. We’ve got some bandagin’ things.’

  Several members of his audience, however, refused to stay.

  ‘Said he was goin’ to tell us how to win the war, an’ all he could do was talk about pear drops,’ they said indignantly. ‘Pear drops. Tellin’ us what pear drops smell like. I bet we know what pear drops smell like all right without him tellin’ us. Batty. That’s what he is.’

  They lingered only to exchange a brisk volley of insults with the Outlaws, ending on both sides when further invention failed with ‘Pear drop yourself!’ then took their way over the field to the village to resume the normal activities of their life.

  ‘Now,’ said William, addressing his depleted audience, ‘we’ve gotter practise bandagin’. That’s what they do. Then, when people get blown up by these pear – I mean bombs – you can bandage ’em up . . . Where’s the bandagin’ things, Henry?’

  Henry, with an air of modest pride, brought out a cardboard dress-box full of a strange assortment of ribbons, straps, bits of material, with a few genuine bandages somewhat grimy and blood-stained. Henry’s mother was what is known as a ‘hoarder’, and Henry had carefully gone through the cardboard boxes of odds and ends that she kept in the spare bedroom and taken out everything that could possibly, by any stretch of the imagination, figure as a ‘bandage’. He assuaged his conscience (for Henry was a conscientious boy) by the reflection that they had been put there in case they should ever ‘come in useful’, and that that contingency had now arrived. The real bandages he had acquired the evening before by an act of stupendous heroism – deliberately drawing blood by means of a blunt penknife on both legs and an arm.

  ‘Gracious, child!’ his mother had said. ‘What on earth have you been doing?’

  ‘I – sort of slipped against somethin’,’ said Henry vaguely.

  His mother was fortunately a generous bandager, and Henry had thus acquired three bandages of enormous length that, cut into smaller portions, made a brave show.

  ‘Now,’ ordered William, ‘one of every two’s gotter have a bandage an’ bandage the other. Then do it the other way round. That’s what we’ve gotter do now. Practise bandagin’ each other up for when we get blown to pieces by these pear – these bombs. Let’s start on each other’s heads an’ work down to each other’s feet. That’s the way they do it. We’ve gotter work very hard with this. All these bits of stuff an’ ribbons an’ things’ll do jus’ as well as real bandages. Jus’ to practise on. Now we’ll start on heads. Have you all got somethin’ to bandage with? Well, start when I say “go” an’ see who can finish first. One . . . two . . . three . . . Go!’

  The free fight that ensued was, perhaps, only to be expected. Each pair was scuffling for the possession of the bandage even before the signal for the bandage race was given. The bandaging of heads degenerated almost at once into the punching of heads. Bandages were used as weapons to trip up, to gag, to tie up, to flick, and generally to obstruct, harass and annoy. Old scores were wiped off, new scores were accumulated – all in a gloriously carefree spirit of give and take. The barn was full of joyously shouting, scuffling, fighting boys.

  At first William tried to quell the uproar.

  ‘Stop it,’ he shouted sternly. ‘Stop it an’ get on bandagin’. It’s a bandagin’ class, I tell you, not a wild-beast fight. Don’t you want to learn to bandage each other when these pear—?’

  At this moment Victor Jameson lassoed him from behind with a piece of black velvet that had formed the belt of Henry’s mother’s last year’s evening dress, and he went crashing to the ground. After that he forgot about the bandaging and joined heartily in the fight, shouting encouragement and defiance to everyone round him indiscriminately. It wasn’t till the bandages were reduced to shreds that they stopped, breathless and exhilarated, and surveyed the battlefield. Bits of material were in their hair and eyes and noses and all over their clothes. They looked like the survivors of a remnant sale . . .

  ‘I got you in a jolly good one,’ panted William to Ginger.
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  ‘Yes,’ said Ginger, ‘an’ I got you a jolly good one back.’

  ‘You went with a jolly fine wallop when I tripped you up,’ panted Victor Jameson.

  ‘Yes, an’ I’d’ve tied you up if the bandage hadn’t broke. I’d got it right round your legs.’

  A small boy near the door was howling loudly and asserting that someone had pinched his bandage and stuck their finger in his eye.

  ‘I’m goin’ home,’ he bawled. ‘I’m not learnin’ to win no more wars. It’s nothin’ but people talkin’ about pear drops, an’ pinchin’ your bandage, an’ stickin’ their fingers in your eyes . . . It’s not fair . . . I’m goin’ to tell my mother.’

  ‘All right,’ said William. ‘Go home. We don’t want you. That’s the end of the bandagin’ class, anyway.’

  The small boy departed still howling, followed by one or two others who had fared badly in the bandage fight.

  Though still further depleted in numbers, the temperature of the A.R.P. class was now considerably raised. Its members were ready and eager for the next adventure.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ginger gleefully. ‘What do we do next?’

  William looked a little doubtful.

  ‘Well, they practise wearin’ their gas masks,’ he said, ‘but we can’t do that ’cause we’ve not got ’em. I tried makin’ one with a bit of ole mackintosh an’ a tin, but the tin wouldn’t stay in the hole.’

  A faint anxiety clouded his spirit at the memory. It had certainly been an old mackintosh, but he wasn’t really sure that it was old enough to be cut up into a gas mask. He had hung it in the hall so that the hole did not show, but his mother was certain to discover it sooner or later. She might even be discovering it at that moment . . . But the exhilaration of the bandage fight still remained, and he decided not to waste the glorious present in anticipating trouble.

  ‘We only want things over our faces,’ Ronald Bell was saying. ‘Anythin’ over our faces’d do for gas masks.’