William's Television Show Page 4

  “Your hair looks as if it had been dragged through a hedge backwards,” said Ethel.

  “It has,” said William, casting his mind back over the events of the morning.

  “And you’ve got part of a haystack sticking to your sleeve,” said Robert.

  “It’s not a haystack. It’s a sardine bone,” said William, detaching it and putting it into his mouth. “An’ what I want to know is, what have Hubert Lane an’ his mother been here for?”

  There was a faint look of guilt on Robert’s face as be replied, “I suppose you may as well know now as later. The Hadley Dramatic Society is getting up a play and there’s a small part in it for a boy.”

  “Gosh! Why didn’t you tell me?” said William. “Well, there’s no need for you to worry about that. I’ll act it. Gosh! I could act any part! I’ll act some of the other parts, too, if you’d like me to. Why, I’ve wrote plays. I’ve acted every kind of part there is in a play. I’ve been a ghost an’ a pirate an’ a Prime Minister an’ a sword-swallower an’ a murderer disguised as a detective an’—an’ a leopard an’—an’ a Voice of Doom. Why, in that play I wrote called “The Bloody Hand” I acted six parts. I was a usurped king an’ a deep-sea diver an’—” He looked at them helplessly. “Why didn’t you tell me about this part in this play?”

  “I’ll go and see to the lunch,” murmured Mrs Brown, thinking that Robert and Ethel could be left to deal with the approaching crisis.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” repeated William as the door closed on her.

  Actually Robert and Ethel—leading lights in the Hadley Dramatic Society—had been at considerable pains to hide from William the fact that plans for a dramatic performance were afoot. William took a keen interest in every play that was produced in the neighbourhood and, when William took a keen interest in anything, strange developments were wont to follow.

  “It’s quite a small part,” said Robert “and it isn’t a part that would appeal to you in any case. The play’s about the Civil War and in the last scene this boy just comes in and says that he’s seen the King’s forces in flight towards Oxford. It’s only one line.”

  “Well, I could put more’n that into it,” said William.

  “No, you couldn’t,” said Robert.

  “And he wears a velvet suit and a lace collar,” said Ethel with a note of triumph in her voice. “You wouldn’t want to wear that and you’d look awful in it anyway.”

  “’Course I wouldn’t want to wear it,” said William. “But listen! I could wear a space suit. Ginger an’ me are makin’ a space suit. Listen! We’ll have a space-boy comin’ in a space suit an’ bringin’ a message from Mars an’—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Ethel. “It’s a play about the Civil War. You can’t have “space” in a play about the Civil War.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t,” said William. “It wouldn’t be so old-fashioned if you put a bit of space in it. Gosh! The Civil War’s jolly old-fashioned. It was years ago. Why, it was before I was born. No one’d want to see an old-fashioned thing like that unless you put a bit of space into it to make it more modern. Listen! I’ll be this space messenger an’ I’ll come in an’ say that the flyin’ saucers have come down an’ you’ll all put on your armour an’ charge out to have a fight with these space men, an—”

  “Do stop talking nonsense,” said Ethel, “I tell you, you can’t have a space episode in a play about the Civil War.”

  “I’ll be a Red Indian, then,” said William. “Listen! I’ve got my Red Indian suit, so that’ll save you the money you’d have spent on this lace thing. I’ll come in an’ say that the Red Indians have landed in England an’ joined in the Civil War an’ I’ll bring in my braves—I’ll be Chief Hawk Eye—an’ we’ll do a war dance and a war cry—I’ve got a smashing war cry—then charge out to fight the enemy. What d’you think of that?”

  “Nothing,” said Robert.

  “All right, if you don’t want a Red Indian, I’ll be an explorer,” said William. “Listen! I’ll be an explorer. I’ll come back from climbin’ a mountain where the foot of man’s never trod. I’ll bring in my sledge an’ my husky—Jumble’s a jolly good husky—an’ I’ll tell you all the things I’ve done—chasin’ wolves an’ buffaloes an’ bein’ chased by the ’bominable Snowman. No, listen! I’ll be the ’bominable Snowman. That’d make it jolly excitin’. I’d come in dressed as the ’bominable Snowman. I could wear a sheet an’ Ginger’s got a norful mask that’d scare anyone out of their lives. I’ll borrow that an’ I bet that’d put a bit of excitement into this ole Civil War.” His smoke-begrimed face glowed with enthusiasm as another idea occurred to him. “Listen! Let’s have Ginger in it, too, an’ Henry an’ Douglas. They’re all jolly good actors an’ I don’t see why we need have this ole Civil War at all. If you’ll let me make up a play for you. I’ll make it a jolly sight more excitin’ than any ole Civil War. Listen! We’ll start with a space ship bein’ hit by a meteor an’ then we’ll go on to—”

  “Will-you-please-be-quiet!” said Robert, who had tried several times without success during the last few minutes to stem the tide of William’s eloquence. “You’re not going to be in the play at all.”

  William stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “What?” he said.

  “You’re not going to be in it,” said Ethel, “so that’s that.”

  “I thought you said there was a part in it for a boy.”

  “There is.”

  “Gosh!“ said William as if unable to believe his ears. “D’you mean you’re goin’ to act a play that’s got a part in it for a boy and not let your own brother do it? Your own brother? Gosh, when I think of all the things I’ve done for you—postin’ letters for you an’—an’ going upstairs to fetch things for you an’—an’ all the other things I’ve done—an’ you won’t do jus’ a little thing like this for me. Your own brother! An’ I’m a jolly good actor. I’d help you with this play. I keep tellin’ you. I’d help you with this play. I’ve got hundreds of smashing ideas about plays an’ there’s lots of them I haven’t tried yet ’cause no one would let me. I bet you’ll be jolly sorry if you don’t let me help you.” He gave his short sarcastic laugh. “Well, if this play turns out all wrong with you not lettin’ me help you, I hope you won’t blame me, that’s all.”

  “No, we won’t,” promised Ethel.

  William was silent for a few moments.

  “Listen,” he said at last with the air of one conceding a great favour. “I’ll do this boy’s part same as it’s wrote in the play. I’ll jus’ do a Civil War boy. I won’t put anythin’ of my own in it.”

  “No,” said Robert.

  “I won’t put any space in or anythin’.”

  “No,” said Ethel.

  “I’ll jus’ do ’zactly what you tell me. I’ll wear that lace suit.”

  “No,” said Robert.

  “I tell you I’ll help you,” said William, his voice almost cracking with earnestness. “I’ll move the scenery about for you an’—an’ work the footlights an’ things like that.”

  “No,” said Robert and Ethel simultaneously.

  “Well, if I don’t do it,” said William, “Who’s goin’ to? That’s what I want to know. Who’s goin’ to do it if I don’t?”

  There was a short silence. Obviously Robert and Ethel were reluctant to answer. Then Ethel summoned her courage and said with unconvincing nonchalance, “Hubert Lane.”

  William stared at her. His mouth had dropped open. His eyes were blank with horror. If his hair had not already been standing on end as the result of his morning’s activities, it would have stood on end at this moment. Robert and Ethel averted their eyes guiltily from his accusing gaze.

  “Who?” he asked hoarsely. “Who?”

  “Hubert Lane,” said Robert.

  “Gosh, you mus’ be mad,” said William, flinging out his arms in an eloquent gesture. “You mus’ be mad, that’s all. You couldn’t not be mad to put Hubert Lane in a pla
y an’ not me. Gosh, you’d think anyone’d want their own brother in a play ’stead of Hubert Lane. Well, it’s news to me if anyone wouldn’t want their own brother in a play ’stead of Hubert Lane. Your own brother! Gosh, it’s worse than Cain an’ Abel. I jus’ wouldn’t have believed it if someone else’d told me. If I someone else’d told me that you’d put Hubert Lane in a play an’ not your own brother I jus’ wouldn’t have believed it. Gosh, when I think of all the things I’ve done for you—helpin’ you clean your motor-bike an’ faggin’ tennis balls an’—an’ all the other things I’ve done, an’ then you put Hubert Lane in a play ’stead of me. Hubert Lane? Gosh! Hubert Lane!”

  “Now listen, William,” said Robert. There was a slightly propitiatory note in his voice; he could not but realise something of the insult he was offering William. “As you know. I’m secretary of the Hadley Dramatic Society and it’s badly in debt—so much so that, though we were considering this play, we didn’t really know how we’d be able to carry it through. There’s hardly any money for costumes and other things and I don’t know who’d have lent us any—Well, Mrs Lane happened to hear about this play—that it had a part for a boy in it and that we were badly in debt—and she came along to offer to pay off half the debt on condition that we gave the part to Hubert. So you see the situation.”

  “Well, listen!” said William. “I’ll pay off the debt if you’ll give me the part. I’ve only got twopence-half-penny now, but I’ll get some more, jus’ wait a bit. Wait till I’m grown up. I’ve got lots of plans to make me a millionaire when I’m grown up. I’ve got an invention for cleanin’ chimneys that no one’s let me try yet, but I bet it’ll make my fortune.”

  “Don’t be idiotic,” snapped Ethel.

  “We’re sorry about it,” said Robert. “We don’t like Hubert Lane any more than you do, but needs must when the devil drives.”

  “Gosh, yes, an’ he is one, too,” said William bitterly. “Anyway, I’ll think out ways of gettin’ this money. I—”

  But Robert and Ethel had vanished, fleeing before the threat of another deluge of eloquence.

  Lunch was a silent meal. William’s appetite (that hardy organ) did not fail him, but his expression was sombre, his brow lowering, and he attacked his ample helpings of shepherd’s pie, stewed apples and custard with a ferocity suggestive of one meting out punishment to his foes. His family was relieved when, after his third helping of stewed apples and custard, he made his dignified exit from the room.

  The other Outlaws were awaiting him anxiously at Ginger’s house. There he gave an impassioned—if somewhat incoherent—account of the situation.

  “I’d challenge him to a duel,” he ended, “but I’ve done that before an’ he never turned up. So I’m goin’ to declare war on him.”

  “We’re at war with him already,” Ginger reminded him.

  “Yes, but this is goin’ to be a war of vengeance. A war same as savages’d wage on someone that’d pinched their part in a play.”

  “War to the death,” said Henry.

  Jumble barked eager agreement, jumping up and down, waving his tail vigorously.

  “I bet it lands us in a muddle,” said Douglas, “an’ we don’t know where he is, anyway. We couldn’t find him this mornin’.”

  “I know where he’s going,” said Henry. “I was getting some stamps for my mother at the Post Office an’ Mrs Lane was there an’ she was sayin’ that she’d got an aunt that’d never been here before comin’ over by the train that gets to Hadley at three-fifty an’ she couldn’t go to meet her ’cause she’d got to stay to go to a c’mittee meetin’ an’ Hubert couldn’t meet her ’cause he was goin’ to play with his friends in the old quarry so this aunt’d have to find her way to the house herself. So that’s where he’s goin’. He’s goin’ to the old quarry.”

  “All right,” said William tersely. “Come on.”

  At the old quarry they took up their positions across the road and awaited the arrival of Hubert. And soon Hubert arrived, turning the bend in the road, accompanied by his gang. Hubert’s gang was superior to William’s in quantity if not in quality, for Hubert could always attach to himself a large number of boys of the baser sort by largesse of money and cream buns. They stopped short at sight of the Outlaws and stood irresolute, obviously meditating flight, but before they had time to collect their forces, they found themselves attacked in full force. Most of Hubert’s gang melted away almost before the battle had begun, but Henry pursued Bertie Franks into the ditch, Douglas pursued Bertie’s younger brother into the hedge, Ginger chased a thin ferret-faced boy called Eric Lorrimer up a tree and William got Hubert down in the middle of the road, sat astride his chest and, on a sudden inspiration, detached his Good Conduct Badge from the lapel of his coat and slipped it into his own pocket.

  As quickly as they could, the beaten remnants of Hubert’s army disengaged themselves from their foes and fled to Hubert’s home and safety. Drunk with victory, the Outlaws reeled back along the road towards their headquarters, the old barn.

  “We got ’em licked,” shouted William.

  In the excitement of the battle he had forgotten the little matter of the part in the play that had first roused his warlike spirit.

  “I bet ole Eric’s nose is bleedin’,” said Ginger hopefully.

  “We got ’em licked,” shouted William again, “an’ I’ve got his good conduct badge.”

  Hubert treasured his good conduct badge. He won it with monotonous regularity. His form master disliked awarding it to him almost as much as Hubert enjoyed receiving it. Hubert’s form master knew that Hubert was sly and mean and deceitful and as unpleasant a boy in general as you’d be likely to come across in a month of Sundays, but Hubert was tidy, Hubert was punctual, Hubert was unctuously polite and, though Hubert’s form master searched desperately each term for some reason that would justify him in not giving the badge to Hubert, he had never yet succeeded in finding one. And Hubert paraded his good conduct badge. He wore it in season and out of season. It was even rumoured that he slept with it pinned on to the lapel of his pyjama jacket.

  “I bet ole Hubert’s mad,” chuckled William. “I bet he’s ragin’ mad. I bet he jus’ doesn’t know what to do without it. I bet he can’t walk or talk or eat or sleep without it. Gosh! Ole Hubert without his good conduct badge! Gosh! Ole—”

  It was at this moment he noticed the absence of Jumble. He had last seen him in the thickest of the fray, leaping up and down, waving his plume-like tail, uttering short sharp barks of excitement. Something of William’s exuberance faded. He looked anxiously around.

  “Where’s Jumble?” he said.

  They had reached the old barn now and they stood in the doorway scanning the landscape.

  “He was there,” said Douglas vaguely.

  “Course he was there,” said William, whose anxiety was increasing every moment. “I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? Gosh, he’s my dog, isn’t he? I ought to know when he’s there an when he isn’t, oughtn’t I? Well, it’s news to me if I don’t know when my own dog’s there an when he isn’t. ’Course he was there. What I want to know is, where’s he now?”

  “He’s prob’ly gone off for a run on his own,” said Henry. “He does sometimes.”

  “Yes, he does,” said William, somewhat reassured. “He’s a jolly intelligent dog, is Jumble. He’s gone off on his own to have a think. He thinks a lot, Jumble does. I’ve never known a dog think as much as Jumble. I bet he’s a better thinker than most yumans. You’d be s’prised how much he thinks. Why, only yesterday—“

  “Look! There’s Bertie Franks,” interrupted Henry.

  They stared at the approaching figure. Bertie Franks, Hubert’s lieutenant—almost as plump and smug-looking as his chief—was slowly making his way to them across the field. He carried a white handkerchief on the end of a walking-stick.

  “He’s a truce,” said Ginger.

  “A delegation,” said Henry.

  “He’s goin’ to say somethin’,
” said Douglas more simply.

  Bertie Franks had now reached the group and had fixed William with an oily, if slightly nervous smile.

  “You’ve got to salute an’ stand to attention,” said William sternly.

  Had it not been for the smudges across cheek and brow and the strange angles at which his tousled hair stood out from his head, he would have been a highly impressive figure. Increasing the oiliness of his smile, Bertie Franks saluted and stood to attention. William returned the salute, raising a grubby hand to a grubby brow. Then, “Speak, knave,” he said in a hoarse throaty voice, for William was apt to employ archaic phraseology to mark any moment of deep historic significance. “An’ if Hubert wants his good conduct badge back,” he went on in his ordinary voice, “he can jolly well come an’ get it. Tell him that. Tell him he can jolly well come an’ get it.”

  For answer Bertie Franks drew an envelope from his pocket, thrust it into William’s hand then turned to flee back over the field as fast as his legs could carry him. The envelope was addressed to “Mister William Brown Eskwire” and bore a red smudge in one corner that might have been a sinister sign of vengeance or, as Ginger hoped, an unpremeditated tribute from Eric Lorrimer’s nose.

  William drew out a sheet of paper and read: “We’ve kapchered your dog as a hostidge. He’ll be hung, drorn and kwortered if you don’t send bak Hubert’s good konduct bage by five o’clock.”

  Hubert was an excellent speller but he had left the writing of the note to Bertie Franks, who was notoriously weak on that particular subject.

  “Gosh!” said William, raising a horror-stricken face.

  He looked around . . . There was no signs of Bertie Franks. With commendable wisdom, he had already made good his escape. It was clear what had happened. Jumble had valiantly pursued the retreating foe after the battle and thus delivered himself into their hands.

  “Gosh!” said William again faintly.

  His friends could only gaze blankly at him.