William The Conqueror Read online

  Who would waste the precious hours of a summer evening over French verbs with an electric motor simply crying out to be experimented on? Certainly not William.

  It wasn’t as if there was any sense in French verbs. They had been deliberately invented by someone with a grudge against the race of boys – someone probably who’d slipped on a concealed slide or got in the way of a snowball or foolishly come within the danger zone of a catapult. Anyway, whoever it was had devised a mean form of revenge by inventing French verbs and, somehow or other, persuading schoolmasters to adopt them as one of their choicest tortures.

  ‘Well, I never will wanter use ’em,’ said William to his mother when she brought forward the time-honoured argument. ‘I don’t wanter talk to any French folks, an’ if they wanter talk to me they can learn English. English’s’s easy’s easy to talk. It’s silly havin’ other langwidges. I don’ see why all the other countries shun’t learn English ’stead of us learnin’ other langwidges with no sense in ’em. English’s sense.’

  This speech convinced him yet more firmly of the foolishness of wasting his precious hours of leisure on such futile study, so he devoted all his time and energy to the electric motor. There was some sense in the electric motor. William spent a very happy evening.

  In the morning, however, things somehow seemed different. He lay in bed and considered the matter. There was no doubt that Mr Strong could make himself extremely disagreeable over French verbs.

  William remembered that he had threatened to make himself more disagreeable than usual if William did not know them ‘next time’. This was ‘next time’ and William did not know them. William had not even attempted to learn them. The threats of Mr Strong had seemed feeble, purposeless, contemptible things last night when the electric motor threw its glamour over the whole world. This morning they didn’t. They seemed suddenly much more real than the electric motor.

  But surely it was possible to circumvent them. William was not the boy to give in weakly to any fate. He heard his mother’s door opening, and, assuming an expression of intense suffering, called weakly, ‘Mother.’ Mrs Brown entered the room fully dressed.

  ‘Aren’t you up yet, William?’ she said. ‘Be quick or you’ll be late for school.’

  William intensified yet further his expression of suffering.

  ‘I don’ think I feel quite well enough to go to school this morning, mother, dear,’ he said faintly.

  Mrs Brown looked distressed. He had employed the ruse countless times before, but it never failed of its effect upon Mrs Brown. The only drawback was that Mr Brown, who was still about the house, was of a less trustful and compassionate nature.

  Mrs Brown smoothed his pillow. ‘Poor little boy,’ she said tenderly, ‘where is the pain?’

  ‘All over,’ said William, playing for safety.

  ‘Dear! dear!’ said Mrs Brown, much perturbed, as she left the room. ‘I’ll just go and fetch the thermometer.’

  William disliked the thermometer. It was a soulless, unsympathetic thing. Sometimes, of course, a hot-water bottle, judiciously placed, would enlist its help, but that was not always easy to arrange.

  To William’s dismay his father entered the room with the thermometer.

  ‘Well, William,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I hear you’re too ill to go to school. That’s a great pity, isn’t it. I’m sure it’s a great grief to you?’

  William turned up his eyes. ‘Yes, father,’ he said dutifully and suspiciously.

  ‘Now where exactly is the pain and what sort of pain is it?’

  William knew from experience that descriptions of non-existent pains are full of pitfalls. By a masterstroke he avoided them.

  ‘It hurts me to talk,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of pain does it hurt you with?’ said his father brutally.

  William made some inarticulate noises, then closed his eyes with a moan of agony.

  ‘I’ll just step round and fetch the doctor,’ said Mr Brown, still quite cheerful.

  The doctor lived next door. William considered this a great mistake. He disliked the close proximity of doctors. They were equally annoying in real and imaginary diseases.

  William made little brave reassuring noises to inform his father that he’d rather the doctor wasn’t troubled and it was all right, and please no one was to bother about him, and he’d just stay in bed and probably be all right by the afternoon. But his father had already gone.

  William lay in bed and considered his position.

  Well, he was going to stick to it, anyway. He’d just make noises to the doctor, and they couldn’t say he hadn’t got a pain where he said he had if they didn’t know where he said he had one. His mother came in and took his temperature. Fate was against him. There was no hot-water bottle handy. But he squeezed it as hard as he could in a vague hope that that would have some effect on it.

  ‘It’s normal, dear,’ said his mother, relieved. ‘I’m so glad.’

  He made a sinister noise to imply that the malady was too deep-seated to be shown by an ordinary thermometer.

  He could hear the doctor and his father coming up the stairs. They were laughing and talking. William, forgetting the imaginary nature of his complaint, felt a wave of indignation and self-pity.

  The doctor came in breezily. ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘what’s the trouble?’

  William made his noise. By much practice he was becoming an expert at the noise. It implied an intense desire to explain his symptoms, thwarted by physical incapability, and it thrilled with suffering bravely endured.

  ‘Can’t speak – is that it?’ said the doctor.

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ said William, forgetting his role for the minute.

  ‘Well – open your mouth, and let’s have a look at your throat,’ said the doctor.

  William opened his mouth and revealed his throat. The doctor inspected the recesses of that healthy and powerful organ.

  ‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘Yes – very bad. But I can operate here and now, fortunately. I’m afraid I can’t give an anaesthetic in this case, and I’m afraid it will be rather painful – but I’m sure he’s a brave boy.’

  William went pale and looked around desperately, French verbs were preferable to this.

  ‘I’ll wait just three minutes,’ said the doctor kindly. ‘Occasionally in cases like this the patient recovers his voice quite suddenly.’ He took out his watch. William’s father was watching the scene with an air of enjoyment that William found maddening. ‘I’ll give him just three minutes,’ went on the doctor, ‘and if the patient hasn’t recovered the power of speech by then, I’ll operate—’

  The patient decided hastily to recover the power of speech.

  ‘I can speak now,’ he said with an air of surprise. ‘Isn’t it funny? I can talk quite ordinary now. It came on quite sudden.’

  ‘No pain anywhere?’ said the doctor.

  ‘No,’ said the patient quickly.

  The patient’s father stepped forward.

  ‘Then you’d better get up as quickly as you can,’ he said. ‘You’ll be late for school, but doubtless they’ll know how to deal with that.’

  They did know how to deal with that. They knew, too, how to deal with William’s complete ignorance on the subject of French verbs. Excuses (and William had many – some of them richly ingenious) were of no avail. He went home to lunch embittered and disillusioned with life.

  ‘You’d think knowin’ how to work a motor engine’d be more useful than savin’ French verbs,’ he said. ‘S’pose I turned out an engineer – well, wot use’d French verbs be to me ’n I’d have to know how to work a motor engine. An’ I was so ill this mornin’ that the doctor wanted to do an operate on me, but I said I can’t miss school an’ get all behind the others, an’ I came, awful ill, an’ all they did was to carry on something terrible ’cause I was jus’ a minute or two late an’ jus’ ha’n’t had time to do those old French verbs that aren’t no use to anyone—’

 
Ginger, Henry and Douglas sympathised with him for some time, then began to discuss the history lesson. The history master, feeling for the moment as bored with Edward the Sixth as were most of his class, had given them a graphic account of the life of St Francis of Assisi. He had spent the Easter holidays at Assisi. William, who had been engaged in executing creditable caricatures of Mr Strong and the doctor, had paid little attention, but Ginger remembered it all. It had been such a welcome change from William the Conqueror. William began to follow the discussion.

  ‘Yes, but why’d he do it?’ he said.

  ‘Well, he jus’ got kind of fed up with things an’ he had visions an’ things an’ he took some things of his father’s to sell to get money to start it—’

  ‘Crumbs!’ interpolated William. ‘Wasn’t his father mad?’

  ‘Yes, but that din’t matter. He was a saint, was Saint Francis, so he could sell his father’s things if he liked, an’ he ’n his frien’s took the money an’ got funny long sort of clothes an’ went an’ lived away in a little house by themselves, an’ he uster preach to animals an’ to people an’ call everythin’ “brother” an’ “sister”, and they cooked all their own stuff to eat an’—’

  ‘Jolly fine it sounds,’ said William enviously, ‘an’ did their people let ’em?’

  ‘They couldn’t stop ’em,’ said Ginger. ‘An’ Francis, he was the head one, an’ the others all called themselves Franciscans, an’ they built churches an’ things.’

  They had reached the gate of William’s house now and William turned in slowly.

  ‘G’bye till this afternoon,’ called the others cheerfully.

  Lunch increased still further William’s grievances. No one inquired after his health, though he tried to look pale and ill, and refused a second helping of rice pudding with a meaning, ‘No, thank you, not today. I would if I felt all right, thank you very much.’ Even that elicited no anxious inquiries. No one, thought William, as he finished up the rice pudding in secret in the larder afterwards, no one else in the world, surely, had such a callous family. It would just serve them right to lose him altogether. It would just serve them right if he went off like St Francis and never came back.

  He met Henry and Ginger and Douglas again as usual on the way to school.

  ‘Beastly ole ’rithmetic,’ said Henry despondently.

  ‘Yes, an’ then beastly ole jography,’ sighed Douglas.

  ‘Well,’ said William, ‘let’s not go. I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about that Saint man. I’d a lot sooner be a saint an’ build things an’ cook things an’ preach to things than keep goin’ to school an’ learnin’ the same ole things day after day an’ day after day – all things like French verbs without any sense in them. I’d much sooner be a saint, wun’t you?’

  The other Outlaws looked doubtful, yet as though attracted by the idea.

  ‘They wun’t let us,’ said Henry.

  ‘They can’t stop us bein’ saints,’ said William piously, ‘an’ doin’ good an’ preachin’ – not if we have visions, an’ I feel’s if I could have visions quite easy.’

  The Outlaws had slackened their pace.

  ‘What’d we have to do first?’ said Ginger.

  ‘Sell some of our father’s things to get money,’ said William firmly. ‘’S all right,’ he went on, anticipating possible objections, ‘he did, so I s’pose anyone can if they’re settin’ out to be saints – of course it would be different if we was jus’ stealin’, but bein’ saints makes it diff’rent. Stands to reason saints can’t steal.’

  ‘Well, what’d we do then?’ said Douglas.

  ‘Then we find a place an’ get the right sort of clothes to wear—’

  ‘Seems sort of a waste of money,’ said Henry sternly, ‘spendin’ it on clothes. What sort of clothes were they?’

  ‘He showed us a picture,’ said Ginger, ‘don’ you remember? Sort of long things goin’ right down to his feet.’

  ‘Dressing-gowns’d do,’ said Douglas excitedly.

  ‘No, you’re thinkin’ of detectives,’ said Henry firmly; ‘detectives wear dressing-gowns.’

  ‘No,’ said William judicially. ‘I don’ see why dressing-gowns shun’t do. Then we can save the money an’ spend it on things to eat.’

  ‘Where’ll we live?’

  ‘We oughter build a place, but till we’ve built it we can live in the old barn.’

  ‘Where’ll we get the animals to preach to?’

  ‘Well, there’s a farm just across the way from the barn, you know. We can start on Jumble an’ then go on to the farm ones when we’ve had some practice.’

  ‘An’ what’ll we be called? We can’t be the Outlaws now we’re saints, I s’pose?’

  ‘What were they called?’

  ‘Franciscans . . . After Francis – he was the head one.’

  ‘Well, if there’s goin’ to be any head one,’ said William in a tone that precluded any argument on the subject, ‘if there’s going to be any head one, I’m going to be him.’

  None of them denied to William the position of leader. It was his by right. He had always led, and he was a leader they were proud to follow.

  ‘Well, they just put “cans” on to the end of his name,’ said Henry. ‘Franciscans. So we’ll be Williamcans—’

  ‘Sounds kind of funny,’ said Ginger dubiously.

  ‘I think it sounds jolly fine,’ said William proudly. ‘I vote we start tomorrow, ’cause it’s rather late to start today, an’ anyway, it’s Saturday tomorrow, so we can get well started for Monday, ’cause they’re sure to make a fuss about our not turnin’ up at school on Monday. You all come to the old barn d’rectly after breakfast tomorrow an’ bring your dressing-gowns an’ somethin of your father’s to sell—’

  The first meeting of the Williamcans was held directly after breakfast the next morning. They had all left notes dictated by William on their bedroom mantelpieces announcing that they were now saints and had left home for ever.

  They deposited their dressing-gowns on the floor of the old barn and then inspected the possessions that they had looted from their unsuspecting fathers. William had appropriated a pair of slippers, not because he thought their absence would be undetected (far from it) or because he thought they would realise vast wealth (again far from it), but it happened that they were kept in the fender-box of the morning-room, and William had found himself alone there for a few minutes that morning, and slippers can be concealed quite easily beneath one’s coat. He could have more easily appropriated something of his mother’s, but William liked to do things properly. Saint Francis had sold something of his father’s, so Saint William would do the same. Douglas took from his pocket an inkstand, purloined from his father’s desk; Ginger had two ties and Henry a pair of gloves.

  They looked at their spoils with proud satisfaction.

  ‘We oughter get a good deal of money for these,’ said William. ‘How much did he get, d’you know?’

  ‘No, he never said,’ said Ginger.

  ‘We’d better not put on our saint robes yet – not till we’ve been down to the village to sell the things. Then we’ll put ’em on an’ start preachin’ an’ things.’

  ‘Din’ we oughter wear round-hoop-sort-of-things on our heads?’ said Henry. ‘They do in pictures. What d’you call ’em? – Halos.’

  ‘You don’ get them till you’re dead,’ said Ginger with an air of wisdom.

  ‘Well, I don’t see what good they are to anyone dead,’ said Henry, rather aggrieved.

  ‘No, we’ve gotter do things right,’ said William sternly. ‘If the real saints waited till they was dead, we will, too. Anyway, let’s go an’ sell the things first. An’ remember call everything else “brother” or “sister”.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Yes – he did – the other man did.’

  ‘You’ve gotter call me Saint William now, Ginger.’

  ‘All right, you call me Saint Ginger.’

  ‘All right, I’m goin
’ to – Saint Ginger—’

  ‘Saint William.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Well, where you goin’ to sell the slippers?’

  ‘Brother slippers,’ corrected William. ‘Well, I’m goin’ to sell brother slippers at Mr Marsh’s ’f he’ll buy ’em.’

  ‘An I’ll take brother ties along, too,’ said Ginger. ‘An’ Henry take brother gloves, an’ Douglas brother inkstand.’

  ‘Sister inkstand,’ said Douglas. ‘William—’

  ‘Saint William,’ corrected William, patiently.

  ‘Well, Saint William said we could call things brother or sister, an’ my inkstand’s goin’ to be sister.’

  ‘Swank!’ said St Ginger severely, ‘always wanting to be diff’rent from other people!’

  Mr Marsh kept a second-hand shop at the end of the village. In his window reposed side by side a motley collection of battered and despised household goods.

  He had a less optimistic opinion of the value of brothers slippers and ties and gloves and sister inkstand than the saints.

  He refused to allow them more than sixpence each.

  ‘Mean!’ exploded St William indignantly as soon as they had emerged from Mr Marsh’s dingy little sanctum to the village street and the light of day. ‘I call him sim’ly mean. That’s what I call him.’

  ‘I s’pose now we’re saints,’ said St Ginger piously, ‘that we’ve gotter forgive folks what wrong us like that.’

  ‘I’m not goin’ to be that sort of a saint,’ said St William firmly.

  Back at the barn they donned their dressing-gowns, St Henry still grumbling at not being able to wear the ‘little hoop’ on his head.

  ‘Now what d’we do first?’ said St Ginger energetically, as he fastened the belt of his dressing-gown.

  ‘Well, anyway, why can’t we cut little bits of our hair at the top like they have in pictures?’ said St Henry disconsolately, ‘that’d be better than nothin’.’

  This idea rather appealed to the saints. St Douglas discovered a penknife and began to operate at once on St Henry, but the latter saint’s yells of agony soon brought the proceedings to a premature end.

  ‘Well, you s’gested it,’ said St Douglas, rather hurt, ‘an’ I was doin’ it as gently as I could.’