William - the Dictator Read online

  After that she came downstairs, sat down by the dining-room window and opened the newspaper.

  Meantime, upstairs, William hastily returned coffee, bacon, and marmalade to her breakfast tray, noting with approval that the sherbet and the ice-cream had disappeared, and pocketing the bun and liquorice allsorts so that they shouldn’t be wasted. Evidently she’d enjoyed the sherbet and ice-cream, at any rate. Perhaps one couldn’t expect a grown-up to get into the way of having a good time, all at once. It would have to come gradually. He went downstairs again. Aunt Florence looked up from her newspaper.

  “I thought I’d go down to Hadley and look at the shops this morning, William,” she said brightly. “Such a pity your dear mother can’t come with me.”

  He looked at her pityingly, wondering again why grown-ups endured such agonies of boredom when they might be doing something really interesting. Well, Aunt Florence, at any rate, was to be saved from it. She was going to do something really interesting.

  “I can come along with you,” he said.

  “Very well, dear,” said Aunt Florence. “That’s very nice of you. We’II set out at once, shall we?”

  She chattered brightly, as they walked down the road.

  “Of course, the fly-catcher comes back later than most of the birds and, unlike many of the others, he uses his old nest. The green woodpecker, the one I was telling you about, that I’m so very anxious to see, frequents open country as a rule, rather than woodlands and—” She stopped. William was turning from the road into a side lane. "Surely this isn’t the way to Hadley, dear boy!”

  “Yes, it is,” said William, and qualified the statement by adding, “sort of”, assuring himself at the same time that everywhere was the way to Hadley in the sense that you could get to Hadley from it.

  “Well, anyway, it’s very pleasant,” said Aunt Florence. William opened the gate for her to enter the wood. “Very pleasant indeed. Quite a bird sanctuary I’ve no doubt. I might even see a green woodpecker here.”

  William sighed. It was certainly high time she had something else to think about than green woodpeckers. Well, after this morning she would have . . .

  They walked down the path till they came to the little clearing where Ginger, Henry and Douglas were waiting for them.

  “Dear, dear!” said Aunt Florence. “Who are these?”

  “They’re jus’ friends of mine,” explained William.

  Aunt Florence beamed at them.

  “Delighted to meet you, dear boys,” she said.

  “We thought p’raps you’d like to have a game of Red Indians with us, ’stead of goin’ into Hadley,” suggested William persuasively.

  For a moment Aunt Florence looked slightly taken aback, then she rallied her forces. It was, after all, a compliment to be asked to play with the dear children.

  “Well, yes, dear, for a few minutes, perhaps,” she said. “It’s a delightful spot—is it not?—and will give me an opportunity of watching my feathered friends. Er—how do you play the game, dear boys?”

  “Well,” explained William, “this bush is our wigwam, an’ we’re four braves an’ you can start by bein’ our squaw. You can be called Shining Water. That’s a good squaw name. We’re goin’ out huntin’ now an’ you’re stayin’ here to look after the wigwam an’ be ready to cook the moose what we bring home.”

  “Er—I see,” said Aunt Florence brightly. “Yes, I see. That will be quite all right, dear children. I’ll sit here on this tree-stump and look after the—er—wigwam. I may, of course, with luck, see a green woodpecker . . .”

  William sighed. It was going to be no easy task to educate Aunt Florence to a sense of true values. Still, he hoped for the best. He meant to initiate her very gradually into the real joys of life.

  “You see,” he explained to the other three, as soon as they were out of earshot of her, “if she starts by jus’ bein’ a squaw she can get into the rest of it gradual, till she sudd’nly finds she’s enjoyin’ it, same as she enjoyed her breakfast this morning, an’ then she’ll see how silly all that bird stuff an’ lookin’ at shops is, an’ start enjoyin’ herself prop’ly, an’ then it’ll sort of spread to the other grown-ups.”

  The others looked a little doubtful—they were not blessed with William’s glorious optimism—but they thought the experiment well worth trying..

  “How long’ll we leave her there?” said Ginger. “Shall we go’n’ hunt ole Fat Face? We’ve not done it for quite a long time. We don’t want him to forget we can lick him.”

  “No,” said William, “we don’t want to stay away long enough to hunt ole Fat Face jus’ now. We don’t want to leave her too long bein’ a squaw, case she gets tired with it. We’ll go back in a minute an’ fetch her an’ take her out huntin’ with us, an’ I bet she’ll get so excited with it, she’ll never want to look at a bird or a shop again. Come on. Let’s go back now. She’ll have got used to bein’ a squaw, an’ it’ll be time to start her on the next part. We’ll make her a chief after we’ve been out huntin’ a bit. What’ll we call her?”

  After some discussion, it was decided to give Aunt Florence (who was notoriously short-sighted), the somewhat incongruous name of Eagle Eye, then they set off briskly towards the wigwam. And there they had their first shock. For Shining Water had disappeared, and on the empty tree-stump, where she had been sitting, was a piece of paper on which was written: “We’ve capchered your squaw. Yah. Lion Face.”

  The Outlaws stared at it in consternation. The hated and despised Lion Face had carried off their squaw. And the great question was, where had he carried her to?

  “Let’s hunt all through the wood,” suggested Ginger. “Let’s sep’rate into twos an’ go diffrent ways an’ then when we’ve found where she is, we can join up an’ rescue her.”

  “No,” said William. “I bet she’s not in the wood at all. I bet they wouldn’t dare keep her in the wood ’cause they’d know we’d find her an’ jolly well bash ’em up. I bet he’s taken her to his house, ’cause he’ll think we won’t be able to get in there. Let’s go there quick an’ see, anyway.”

  They ran down the path to the road and along the road to Hubert Lane’s house. And there, through the hedge, they saw the innocent Shining Water in the drawingroom, engaged in polite conversation with Hubert’s mother.

  Aunt Florence had taken for granted that her capture was part of the game, and had acquiesced in it without protest—even with alacrity, when she saw that it was ending in a comfortable chair in a civilised drawingroom. She had at first refused the invitation to lunch that Mrs. Lane had given her at Hubert’s earnest request, but her refusal had been easily overcome and a message to that effect had now been despatched to the Browns’ house.

  “I’ve had quite a busy morning,” she was saying brightly. “Playing Red Indians with the dear children. My nephew and your dear little boy invented quite an exciting game for me, including a capture. I’m so fond of children and it’s so nice to feel that I’ve given them a little pleasure, though really, of course, I’d meant to go into Hadley . . .”

  William and the Outlaws cautiously tried the gate. It was bolted. William was just beginning to climb over it when Hubert and his gang appeared, coming out of the side door of the house. Hubert wore his elaborate Red Indian costume, and was grinning derisively.

  “If you climb over,” he threatened, keeping a safe distance, “I’ll send him after you.”

  He pointed to the gardener, who was working at the other end of the lawn. He was a large, muscular man, and the Outlaws had for him a deep respect, born of bitter experience.

  “Well, you give us our squaw back,” demanded William ferociously.

  “No, we jolly well won’t,” said Hubert. “She’s ours now. She belongs to our tribe. We’ve captured her.”

  “I know you’ve captured her,” said William, “but she doesn’t belong to your tribe. She belongs to ours.”

  “No, she’s goin’ to have lunch with us,” said Hubert triumphantly,
“an’ then she’ll belong to our tribe. When you’ve broken bread with someone you b’long to their tribe.”

  “Well, she’s not goin’ to have lunch with you,” said William. “’Cause she’s stayin’ with us an’ she’s cornin’ home to lunch. They’re expectin’ her.”

  “She’s sent a message to say she’s havin’ it with us,” jeered Hubert. “Yah, boo! Your ole aunt belongin’ to our tribe! How’ll you like that!”

  The others took up the fray, shouting: “Yah, bool Your ole aunt belongin’ to our tribe!”

  “You let us come in an’ speak to her,” demanded William.

  “No, I jolly well won’t,” said Hubert, “an’ if you try’n’ come in, we’ll call him."

  The gardener cast a morose eye in their direction. He hated boys and welcomed any opportunity of getting even with them. Hubert and his friends, of course, were sacrosanct—to touch them would mean losing his job—but he enjoyed working his grudge off on the Outlaws.

  “We’ve—we’ve gotter message for her,” said William desperately. “It’s an important one. You’ll have to let us come in to her if we’ve got an important message.”

  “No, I jolly well won’t,” said Hubert.

  “All right,” said William, “we’ll do without.” He lifted up his voice and yelled: “Hi! Aunt Florence! Aunt Florence!”

  The other Outlaws joined in, shouting: “Aunt Florence! Aunt Florence!” at the tops of their voices.

  But the Hubert Laneites began to shout, too, drowning the words in a wild, indistinguishable hubbub.

  “It’s just the children playing in the garden,” explained Mrs. Lane, in answer to Aunt Florence’s startled look of enquiry.

  “The dear children!” murmured Aunt Florence. “So high-spirited and light-hearted. Such joie de vivre!”

  “It’s jus’ lunch-time now,” Hubert said when the Outlaws at last gave up the attempt to attract Aunt Florence’s attention, “an’ after then she’ll be always a member of our tribe, an’ we jolly well won’t let you forget it.”

  The sound of a gong came from the house.

  “That’s lunch,” went on Hubert, “an’ now you can jolly well think of her b’longin’ to our tribe. For always an’ always. Your ole aunt a member of our tribe. Yah!”

  With that, he vanished into the house, stopping, evidently, to warn the gardener to guard the gate. The gardener stayed working on a border near it, throwing baleful glances occasionally at the four Outlaws, as if longing for them to give him an opportunity to use his powers of guardianship on them. The Outlaws discussed the situation in whispers. There was no doubt at all in any of their minds that they would be disgraced for ever if their captured squaw broke bread in the rival chieftain’s household. It would unite them by a shameful tie to their bitterest foe. It would give their enemies a handle against them for months to come. It would form a taunt to which they would have no reply. Their squaw a member of Fat Face’s tribe! It wasn’t to be endured.

  “Look!” said Ginger. “They’re goin’ into the dinin’ room. I can see ’em.”

  “Let’s try shoutin’ again,” said William.

  Once more they raised their voices and yelled: “Aunt Florence! Aunt Florence!”

  But evidently Hubert explained their shout of warning as one of friendly greeting, for Aunt Florence came to the window, accompanied by Hubert, and waved her hand in their direction, smiling her vague, short-sighted smile.

  “So high-spirited,” she murmured again, fondly. “So full of life.”

  “Well, that’s no good," said Ginger, as she turned away, still smiling amicably, towards the table.

  “They’re sittin’ down now,” said Douglas, craning his neck. “They’re jus’ goin’ to begin. They . . .”

  And suddenly William had an idea.

  Crouching down behind the hedge, he uttered the high-pitched laugh that had been Aunt Florence’s rendering of the note of the green woodpecker.

  Aunt Florence, in the act of raising a piece of her dinner-roll to her lips, suddenly froze into immobility. Then she replaced her piece of roll on her plate. There was a strained, intent look on her face as she sat there, listening. The note was repeated. Aunt Florence rose from her seat.

  “Do you mind if I just step out into the garden?” she murmured. “I thought I heard—I won’t be a moment.”

  Like one in a trance, she went out to the garden and stood there, motionless, listening. The sound was repeated. It seemed to come from the road now. She went to the gate. Two boys were there (Ginger had been despatched to Mrs. Brown’s household to tell them that Aunt Florence would be home for lunch, after all). They looked rather like the boys she’d been playing Red Indians with in the wood, but she couldn’t be sure. All boys looked more or less alike to Aunt Florence. The sound came again. Yes, it definitely came from down the road now.

  “Er—have you happened to notice a—a sort of green bird about here?” she said to one of the boys.

  “Yes,” said Douglas. “I saw a green bird only a minute ago in the hedge down there.”

  He pointed down the road in the direction of William’s home and quieted his conscience by the reflection that he had actually seen a greenfinch in the hedge, not so long ago.

  The note was repeated. It was unmistakable, and it seemed to come from farther off now. Panic swept over Aunt Florence. Suppose she missed it now that it was at last so near her . . . Forgetting everything else in the world, she opened the gate and set off down the road in the direction of the sound. William, on the other side of the hedge, kept just in front of her, crouching down in the ditch and uttering the note at intervals. Aunt Florence plunged along, peering into the hedge, then hurrying on at each fresh note. The note drew her on . . . down the road . . . and at last into a garden that she entered rather timidly, then, to her surprise, recognised as her hosts’ own garden. The note seemed to draw her along the path to the door, then stopped, and, while she stood, waiting uncertainly, the housemaid came out and said:

  “Lunch is just ready, miss.”

  Aunt Florence realised suddenly that she was tired and hungry. The woodpecker must have flown away. Its note had ceased entirely. It was disappointing, but, at any rate, she’d heard it quite clearly, and once or twice she could have sworn that she’d seen a flutter of something in the hedge. She thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be unduly stretching the truth if she wrote: “Heard and saw green woodpecker,” in the bird diary.

  She entered the dining-room and sat down at the table. William was its only other occupant. His face was bland and expressionless. She remembered that she’d been playing Red Indians with him earlier in the morning.

  “Have you had a nice morning, dear?” she said in her bright aunt’s voice, as she passed him a chop.

  “Yes, thank you,” said William.

  Suddenly she remembered something, and an expression of dismay came over her features.

  “But, dear me!” she said. “I was having lunch at the Lanes’, wasn’t I?” She looked at the housemaid, who was handing her the potatoes. “Didn’t I send a message that I wouldn’t be in to lunch?”

  “Yes, miss,” said the housemaid, “and then you sent another that you would.”

  She looked rather anxiously at Aunt Florence, remembering the untouched bacon and the remains of sherbet and ice-cream on her breakfast tray. Was the old josser going crackers?

  Aunt Florence knit her brows.

  “Did I?” she said. “I suppose I must have done. I don’t quite remember. It’s been such a confusing sort of morning. I meant to go to Hadley but stayed playing with the dear children . . . Well, perhaps you’d be good enough just to ring up Mrs. Lane and tell her that I’m very sorry not to have been able to have lunch with her, after all. Just to be on the safe side, in case she’s expecting me. Tell me, dear boy,” she turned to William. “Did you hear that note I was telling you about this morning? The green woodpecker’s note?”

  William appeared to search his memory.
r />   “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I did sort of hear that noise.”

  “So did I, dear boy,” said Aunt Florence triumphantly. “And, what’s more, I’m almost sure I saw it.”

  Half an hour later, William met the other Outlaws in the old barn.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “She didn’t go back, an’ she’s goin’ home to-morrow, so she won’t be able to go there again, so it’s all right. But,” bitterly, “I’m jolly well never goin’ to try to give another grown-up a good time as long as I live. They don’t know what to do with it when you do give it ’em.”

  In her bedroom. Aunt Florence was wrestling with her conscience over her bird diary. At last she wrote:

  “Distinctly heard note of green woodpecker. Think I saw it, but, owing to short-sightedness, cannot be quite sure.”

  Chapter 6 – William and the Ebony Hair-Brush

  “Robert’s had an eb’ny hair-brush for a birthday present,” said William.

  The Outlaws, having nothing particular to do, were willing to while away their time by discussing even this trivial subject.

  “What’s eb’ny?” said Ginger.

  “It’s a sort of black wood,” said William.

  “There isn’t such a thing as black wood,” objected Ginger. “Wood’s brown, same as dining-room tables or white, same as kitchen tables. There isn’t any other sort.”

  “Yes, there is,” said William. “There’s eb’ny.”

  “I ’spect it’s brown wood painted over black,” said Douglas.