William_the Dictator Page 4

  “We do have rotten luck in aunts,” said William, wistfully. “The only ones I have that are nice to me an’ give me things are the ones I never see. Seems sort of queer.”

  By a strange coincidence the others were in the same plight. The only aunts they had who were really nice to them were the ones they never saw . . .

  “An’ a fat lot of use they are when you want a col’ny,” went on William, bitterly.

  Their own gardens were, of course, out of the question. They were all on strained relations with their respective gardeners, and their every movement there was regarded with jealous suspicion. The problem seemed for the moment to be insoluble.

  “Anyway, theirs isn’t much of a col’ny,” said William. “There’s no food or anythin’ in it.” Again his thoughts turned to the colony-sanctuary of his dreams—the fascinating spinney of Gorse View and all the dainties with which his imagination had so freely provided it. “It’s jolly well nothin’ to one I could show ’em.”

  “Well, let’s go back an’ see what they’re doin’,” suggested Ginger.

  They went down the road in military fashion, led by William, till they reached Hubert’s aunt’s garden again.

  The Blue shirts were now there, marching about the garden, not very briskly, shouting: “We’ve gotter col’ny, a col’ny, a col’ny. We’ve gotter col’ny an’ the rotten ole Green shirts haven’t.”

  The Outlaws were going to tip-toe past, so as not to give the Hubert Laneites the satisfaction of knowing that they had heard their gibe, when the face of Hubert Lane appeared suddenly over the hedge. It lit up with malicious triumph on seeing the Green shirts, and he pointed exultantly to the flag and notice on the gate.

  “Who’s gotter col’ny an’ who’s not?” he said.

  The other Blue shirts took up the refrain.

  “Who’s gotter col’ny? Who’s gotter col’ny?”

  William stared at him coldly.

  “Call that a col’ny?” he said, with a contemptuous sweep of his hand. “Gosh! You should see ours.”

  So convincing was his manner that Hubert was disconcerted.

  “What’s wrong with it?” he demanded, indignantly. “It’s a jolly good col’ny.”

  “Oh, is it?” said William. “Well, it’s not got any food in it, for one thing. That’s what they have col’nies for—to get food from ’em. Thought everyone knew that.”

  “Well, you’ve not got one at all,” countered Hubert, “so you needn’t talk.”

  “Oh, haven’t we?” said William. “Let me tell you we have, an’ a jolly sight better than this one.”

  In his mind’s eye Gorse View was becoming clearer and clearer, hung with doughnuts, festooned with cream buns . . .

  “Where is it, then?” challenged Hubert.

  “Yes, where is it?” chorused the other Blue shirts. William hesitated, and they seized triumphantly upon his hesitation.

  “You’ve not got one! You’ve not got one! Yah! You’ve not got one.”

  “We have.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “We have.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “We have.”

  “All right. Where is it, then?” said Hubert again. And the Blue shirts, as usual, took up the refrain. “Yah, where is it? Yah! Where is it?”

  “I’ll tell you where it is,” said William, throwing discretion to the winds. “It’s called Gorse View, an’ it’s down the lane off Jenks’s farm, an’ it’s full of stuff to eat, an’ it licks your silly old aunt’s garden hollow.”

  They stared at him, as convinced for the moment as was William himself of the truth of his statement.

  “All right,” said Hubert, quickly recovering his aplomb. “Take us there and show us it.”

  “Huh!” said William, with his short, dry laugh. “Think we’re goin’ to take you to our col’ny? Think we’ve no more sense than that?”

  “Yah!” they cried, delightedly. “You’ve not got one. You’ve not got a col’ny. We knew you’d not got one all the time. Yah!”

  “All right,” said William. “You come an’ see it. Come and see it to-night at six o’clock.”

  He had a vague idea that a few hours respite would enable him to do something in the matter—he wasn’t sure what.

  “You’ll not set on us if we do?” said Hubert, suddenly anxious.

  “No. Not if you come at six. If you come before, we jolly well will,” said William.

  Hubert’s small, shifty eyes moved to the other Green shirts—Ginger, Douglas and Henry—noting the blank expression on their faces. They hadn’t got a colony. He was sure of it. A cunning look came into his eyes.

  “Did you say there was food in it?” he said.

  “Yes,” said William, “lots of it. All sorts of food. Doughnuts and cream buns. That sort of food.”

  “Well, if it’s not jus’ same as you say, will you s’render to us an’ give up bein’ Green shirts?”

  William hesitated. He hadn’t been prepared for this.

  “If it is same as you say,” went on Hubert, suavely, “we’ll s’render to you an’ give up being Blue shirts.” He winked at his followers. He was now fully convinced that the Outlaws were bluffing and did not possess a colony of any kind, much less one of the kind described by William.

  William looked at his enemy, saw the malicious grins on their faces, and committed himself finally.

  “All right,” he said, “if it is same as I said, you’ll s’render to us, an’ if it isn’t we’ll s’render to you.”

  “An’ you’ll be there at six?” said Hubert, anxiously.

  “Yes,” said William, then, afraid of entangling himself yet more deeply, though this would have been hardly possible, turned to the others with: “Come on! Quick march!”

  His Green shirts set off down the road, pursued by derisive cat-calls from the Blue shirts’ colony.

  “Now!” said Ginger. “Look what you’ve let us in for. What’re we goin’ to do now?”

  “Well, it is a real place—this Gorse View,” said William, somewhat feebly. “It’s as good as their place, anyway.”

  “Yes, but look at all what you said about food in it,” went on Ginger, reproachfully. “What’re we goin’ to do about that?”

  “Well, I was sort of thinkin’ it with food in it,” explained William, a note of apology in his voice. “I’d forgot for the moment it hadn’t any, really.”

  “Well, what’re we goin’ to do?”

  “We could put some food in.”

  “Not the sort you said. We’ve not got any money, an’ the sort of food we could pinch off the cook or get out of the dustbin wouldn’t be the sort you said. It wouldn’t count.”

  “An’ six o’clock, too. That’s only jus’ after tea. It doesn’t give us time to do anything. If you’d said tomorrow even, we might rescue someone from death an’ get a reward, or someone might die an’ leave us a lot of money, but six o’clock doesn’t leave time for anythin’.”

  “Let’s jus’ not turn up at six,” suggested Henry. “Let’s pretend we were having him on.”

  “No, we can’t do that,” said William. “We promised.”

  “Let’s pretend today’s same as the first of April.”

  “No, we can’t do that, either,” said William. “Not when we’ve promised.”

  “It’ll be jolly nice havin’ to s’render to them,” said Douglas bitterly.

  “Well, anyway,” said William, “let’s go’n’ have a look at the place. S’no use jus’ standin’ here an’ talkin’ about it.”

  The gloomy attitude of the others was rousing all his native optimism. Anything might happen before six . . .

  “Come on,” he said again, cheerfully. “Quick march!”

  They marched along the road and down the lane to Gorse View. And there William stopped, dismayed to see, over the battered, almost indecipherable To Be Sold notice, a brand new, glaringly red strip, SOLD. No longer, then, was it a legitimate playground—an e
mpty, ownerless house. It now had mysterious Occupiers, who might swoop down at any moment. They had evidently been there quite recently. There were deck-chairs on the lawn that had not been there before, and a large packing-case on the verandah. William reconnoitred cautiously round the house and garden, The new owners were certainly not on the premises now. His spirits rose. Perhaps they’d stay away till after six, at any rate. His spirits fell again. The problem of the food was still unsolved. He returned to the Green shirts at the gate.

  “S’all right,” he said. “There’s no one here.”

  They came in and wandered about the spinney.

  “You see, it makes a jolly good col’ny,” said William proudly.

  “Yes, it’d be all right if you’d not promised ’em food,” agreed Ginger.

  “Well, anyway,” said William, “let’s go home an’ see if we can find any food.”

  “We’re likely to, aren’t we?” said Ginger, sarcastically. “They’ll say ‘Wait till tea-time’, if we say we’re hungry, an’ you can’t get anythin’ out of the larder without them seein’ an’ makin’ a fuss.”

  “Well, we can have a try, can’t we?” William rallied him. “You can have a try at anythin’. It doesn’t do any harm. S’better than jus’ talkin’ about it!”

  They walked down the lane to the main road. A motor was passing at a terrific speed. A basket hamper was fastened on to the back, and as the car passed the Outlaws the hamper fell to the ground. The Outlaws shouted, to draw the driver’s attention. He turned in his seat, making the car swerve dangerously, glared angrily from them to the basket lying in the middle of the road, shook his fist at them, then disappeared round the bend at a breakneck speed.

  The Outlaws stared at each other, then at the hamper. “He saw it all right,” said Ginger.

  “P’raps it’s empty.”

  “P’raps it’s somethin’ he doesn’t want.”

  “P’raps it’s bombs. He looked that sort of man.”

  “P’raps it’s got someone he’s murdered in it.”

  They approached the hamper cautiously, and stood round it. William bent his ear to it.

  “Can’t hear anythin’ movin’ or breathin,” he said. “I don’t think it’s anythin’ alive.”

  “I bet it’s someone he’s murdered,” said Ginger. “He was gettin’ rid of the body, same as they do in books an’ the newspaper. That’s why he was so mad when we shouted out to him.”

  “P’raps we’d better go away,” suggested Douglas, nervously.

  “Let’s jus’ look inside, anyway,” said William. “Then if it is a body we can go an’ tell the police.”

  “They’ll say we did it,” Douglas warned him. “We’ll prob’ly all get put in prison.”

  “Well, it’ll be a change, anyway,” said William. “I’ve often wanted to try what it’s like bein’ in prison.”

  He began to undo the straps that fastened the lid. The others watched a little apprehensively.

  “P’raps we’d better go away,” suggested Douglas, “go off as soon as the lid’s opened.”

  “Bet it’s a body,” persisted Ginger.

  Slowly William lifted up the lid, then stood paralysed by amazement. Buns, doughnuts, cream cakes, biscuits, bottles of lemonade, large glistening iced cakes, sandwiches, sausage rolls, apples, bananas, sweets . . .

  It was a feast such as a starving man might have pictured in his delirium. The Outlaws stared at it in silence, their eyes growing wider and wider.

  “Gosh!” said William at last, in a faint voice.

  “Fancy him not stoppin’ to pick up that!” said Ginger.

  Douglas laid a tentative finger on the nearest sausage roll.

  “It’s real,” he gasped.

  “We ought to tell the p’lice,” said Henry.

  “We jolly oughn’t,” retorted William, indignantly. “If it’d been a body we’d’ve told ’em all right, but we’re jolly well not goin’ to tell em about this. They’ve no more right to it than what we have. Why should they eat it ’stead of us? They’re all a jolly sight too fat already. ’Sides, ’tisn’t as if the man what was drivin the car didn’t know he’d dropped it. He turned right round and saw it. He—I say!” His eyes opened wide as this aspect of the affair struck him suddenly. “It’ll do for the col’ny. It’ll make it a jolly fine col’ny. Come on! Let’s carry it there quick.”

  They staggered down the lane with the heavy basket and took it in at the narrow gate of the spinney. The red SOLD notice caused William a moment’s uneasiness, but only a moment’s.

  “Bet they won’t come to-day, even if they have bought it,” he reassured himself. “If they’d been comin’ to-day they’d’ve come by now, an’ anyway we’ll be out of it soon after six. Come on. Let’s get the stuff out quick.”

  They worked hard at the pleasant task, putting the sandwiches, sausage rolls, cream buns, and doughnuts here and there along the side of the path, on the stumps of the cut-down trees, in the bushes, and (Ginger ran home for some string) hanging them from the lowest branches of the trees. Then they emptied the bottles of lemonade into the bird bath that William had moved from the lawn.

  Occasionally they paused for refreshment, but so busy were they, and so lavish were the refreshments that their inroads made little or no difference to them. When they had finished, William gazed at the scene with the deep satisfaction of the artist whose vision is accomplished, whose ideal is realised. His Boy Sanctuary. His Colony. What did the name matter? Thus he had seen it in imagination weeks ago, and thus it was now in very fact.

  It was while he was standing, wrapped in a haze of self-satisfaction, that he heard voices at the big front gate that opened from the lawn on to the lane. He peeped cautiously out of the spinney. A woman was getting out of a taxi at the gate. She was short and plump and looked very hot and worried, and she was relating some lengthy adventure to the taxi-driver.

  “Well, if I see any sign of it, ’m,” he said, when she had finished, “I’ll let you know at once.”

  She paid him and turned into the garden.

  William had been too much interested in the scene to withdraw into the spinney when she turned, and her eyes fell on him as soon as she began to make her way towards the house.

  “Come here, boy,” she said.

  To William’s surprise she seemed rather relieved than annoyed to see him.

  He advanced towards her cautiously.

  “Move the deck-chairs into the shade first of all,” said the lady.

  Mystified, William moved the deck-chairs into the shade, then awaited developments.

  “Do you live near here, boy?” went on the lady, as she sank down into the chair and began to mop her brow.

  “Yes, I kind of do,” admitted William, guardedly.

  “Well, is there anywhere near, where one could take about ten little girls out to tea?”

  William stared at her and she went on: “I’d better tell you the whole story, hadn’t I? It sounds so odd just to ask that. You see, we’ve just bought this house, my husband and I (my name’s Mrs. Darlington, by the way). We bought it partly because our little girl’s at school in the neighbourhood, and we decided to come out here to-day and have a picnic in the garden for her and her friends, though we aren’t actually moving in till next month, and I’d packed a wonderful picnic basket, because I didn’t want to let the child down by not doing it in style, you know, and we put it on the back of the car, and at the last minute my husband had to go up North on business, so I had to come down alone. Well, I stopped to have lunch at a hotel not very far away from here, and when I came out, the car had been stolen. Stolen.” She paused dramatically for a moment to let the point sink in. “I’d meant to come here quite early and get things ready, but with all the fuss about going to the Police and getting a taxi, the time slipped by and I’ve only just got here, and now I’m here I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid it will let down the poor child so terribly for her to bring all her friends here and find not
hing at all. Children never forget a thing like that. They’ll always hold it against her.” She paused a moment—for breath this time—then went on: “I’m really much more upset about that than about the car, because I expect the police will get it back, and anyway it’s insured and we’ve another at home, but Sally may be here at any moment with all her friends and what am I to do? I was feeling just about desperate when I came in, and it was quite a relief to see someone. They always say two heads are better than one, don’t they? I feel sure you’ll be able to help me. Now isn’t there some nice hotel I could take them all to?”

  William thought over the various hostelries of the neighbourhood They were all good sound pubs, but none of them could be described as a “nice hotel” in the sense the lady meant.

  “No,” he said, “but–” he glanced towards the spinney, wondering how to tell her and where to begin, when there came the sound of girlish voices—peals of laughter, exclamations of delight.

  A little girl in a grey flannel coat, with a straw hat and a school hat-band, followed by a bevy of other little girls, similarly attired, came running through the spinney on to the lawn.

  “Oh, Mummy, how lovely!” cried the first little girl, flinging herself into Mrs. Darlington’s arms. “Whatever made you think of it?”

  “Of what, dear?” said Mrs, Darlington, bewildered.

  “Of making a fairy feast in the little wood. It’s much nicer than an ordinary picnic would have been. It’s simply lovely!”

  The other little girls were just as delighted. They flitted about the spinney, crying out with rapture at the cream buns half concealed in the bramble bushes, the biscuits laid out on the tree-stumps, the doughnuts hanging from the branches, the apples and bananas on the moss by the side of the path.

  Mrs. Darlington sank back into the deck-chair pale with bewilderment.

  “I don’t understand,” she gasped faintly. “I think the heat’s sort of gone to my head.”