William's Television Show (Just William, Book 31) Page 8

  “Carved head painted green . . . Well, I saw it quite plainly. I know the light isn’t very good, but you can’t imagine a carved head painted green.”

  “There’s no such thing,” said Miss Burnham. “I’ll go and look. Stir the soup for me while I’m out, will you? I can’t leave it. The directions say that it must be stirred continuously till it boils.”

  William had hastily withdrawn his head by the time Miss Burnham looked up at the roof.

  “There’s nothing there at all,” she said when she returned.

  “I tell you there is,” protested the friend. “I saw it with my own eyes. You can go on with the soup now. I’m going to look again.”

  It happened that Miss Burnham’s friend had slipped off the high-heeled shoes that she had worn at the party and that were a little too small for her, and slipped on a pair of comfortable crepe-soled shoes. Her footsteps made no sound and, looking up, she saw again the face of William, peering over the parapet, desperately seeking some way of escape.

  “It is there,” she said triumphantly as she re-entered the house. “As plain as plain can be. A carved head painted green. I tell you, one couldn’t mistake it.”

  “Go on stirring the soup. I’ll look again,” said Miss Burnham.

  The sharp click-click of her high-heeled shoes warned William of her approach and again she looked up at the plain unadorned line of the parapet.

  There followed a short scene in which Miss Burnham and her friend came out one after the other, turn and turn about, to look up at the roof. The click-click of Miss Burnham’s high-heeled shoes always warned William of her approach, while the soundless movement of the crepe soles caught him unaware. An acrimonious note crept into the friends’ conversation.

  “Honestly, darling, you must be going blind.”

  “I’m afraid you must have had too much to drink at the party, dear.”

  “Well, really, if you imagine I’ve got Delirium Tremens on two glasses of sherry—”

  Suddenly they saw Mr Lupton returning to his house. Mr Lupton, too, had been to the party.

  “I don’t care what happens to the soup,” said Miss Burnham. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this—Mr Lupton!” she called.

  Mr Lupton came in at their gate.

  “Good party, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “A little too good in my friend’s case. I’m afraid,” said Miss Burnham. “Now, Mr Lupton, will you stand here and look up at my roof. Do you see a carved head painted green?”

  “No,” said Mr Lupton.

  “I don’t now,” said the friend, “but I certainly did before.”

  The three stood looking up at the roof. William despairing of making a descent by way of Miss Burnham’s house, was making his way, past chimney-pots, up and down tiled slopes, to Mr Lupton’s roof, hoping for better luck there.

  “None of us can see it, so it can’t be there,” said Miss Burnham triumphantly.

  “It was a trick of the fading light probably,” said Mr Lupton. “Well, I’ll be getting on.”

  He walked out of the gate and in at his own gate. Absently he looked up at the roof. And there indisputably was what seemed to be a green painted head. He gave a shout of surprise and consternation. Miss Burnham and her friend came scuttling out of Miss Burnham’s house.

  “What is it, Mr Lupton?”

  “I can see it, too,” he said. “I can see it quite plainly.”

  They joined him and stood gazing up at William. Paralysed by horror, William remained motionless, gazing down at them.

  “Good Lord! It’s incredible,” gasped Mr Lupton. “I wonder—I wonder if it could be something in the drinks. I’ve half a mind to ring Mrs Barton up . . .”

  “It might be a good idea,” said Miss Burnham adding bitterly, “the soup, of course, will be completely ruined by now.”

  Mr Lupton entered his house and the other two followed. Mr Lupton took up the telephone.

  “Mrs Barton? . . . Thank you for a wonderful party, Mrs Barton. I’m going to ask you a rather strange question, but—have you had any—er—complaints from your other guests?”

  “Complaints?” said Mrs Barton.

  “Yes, of—seeing things?”

  “What things?”

  “Well—er—green heads. Green heads on roofs. I know it sounds odd.”

  “It sounds most odd,” said Mrs Barton.

  “Miss Burnham and her friend and I have all seen them. I just wondered . . . Oh, well. I’m sorry to have troubled you . . . Yes, perhaps you’re right. Strong black coffee and get to bed . . . Thank you so much . . . Good-bye.”

  They emerged from Mr Lupton’s house.

  “It’s gone,” said Miss Burnham, looking up again at the roof.

  William had been taking stock of the situation. It was evidently no use going on from house-top to house-top. The journey was a dangerous one and it was unlikely that any of the others would afford a better means of descent. Crouching at the foot of a chimney-pot, he abandoned himself for a moment to despair. Must he spend the rest of his life crawling about among roofs and chimneys? Then his fighting spirit returned. The skylight of the professor’s house! It was only a few inches open, but he could open it further. He would enter the house by the skylight, wait till the coast was clear, then creep down the stairs, out of the front door, and make his way home. His ever-ready optimism returned in full flood. There was nothing to worry about. He’d be safely back home in a few minutes now.

  The return journey was slow and difficult—the slopes and ridges seemed to have increased in size since he first traversed them—but at last he reached the open skylight.

  And then, just as he was putting out his hand to find the inside catch that secured it, there came the sounds of revelry from below.

  Robert, Oswald and Rowena as well as a crowd of other young people had still been at the party when Mrs Barton received Mr Lupton’s telephone call. But they couldn’t stay at the party after that. The party broke up in sudden disorder, and the crowd of young people, headed by Robert, Oswald, Rowena and Peggy Barton, came rollicking down the road to visit the scene of the mystery.

  “Either all three are completely sozzled or it’s a poltergeist,” said Peggy Barton.

  They stood at the gate of the professor’s house and gazed up at the parapet of the roof.

  “Well, there’s nothing to be seen,” said Oswald.

  Then Peggy Barton gave a scream.

  “Look! The poltergeist!”

  William, standing by the now open skylight, turned at the scream. The moon was rising and its beams caught his startled green-bedecked face. Without a moment’s hesitation, he plunged through the skylight.

  “Good Lord!” said Oswald. “Good Lord! I—I’d bet my bottom dollar it was William.” There was malicious glee and unholy triumph in his voice. “Your name’s going to be mud in this house, Robert, old chap, if it was.”

  Robert had turned pale. He, too, had caught a fleeting glimpse of the green-bedecked face and he, too, would have bet his bottom dollar it was William.

  “Come on!” shouted Oswald exultantly. “Let’s go in at the front door and nab him.”

  William, after letting himself down through the skylight, found himself in a large attic with a sloping roof. There were hiding places in plenty—boxes, trunks, packing cases—but William had had enough of hiding places. He wanted to get home. He opened the door and looked out cautiously. A short flight of steps led down to a half-landing. No one was about. The coast was clear. He descended noiselessly to the half-landing and looked down the main part of the staircase to the hall and front door. The coast was clear there, too. He was just beginning his cautious descent when suddenly the front door burst open and the revellers, headed by Oswald, appeared in the doorway.

  Panic-stricken, William threw open the nearest door, flung himself into the room and closed the door behind him.

  He found himself in a large bedroom. On the bed lay Professor Mayfield, propped up by pillows and
wrapped in a tartan shawl. By the bed sat a harassed-looking young man, holding a sheaf of papers in his hand. The bed and the floor near the bed were strewn with papers. William noted that the papers were covered by sketches of large fantastic creatures, rather like prehistoric animals.

  “I’m awfully sorry,” he panted.

  But the professor had shot an arm out of the tartan shawl and was pointing at him.

  “There he is!” he said, turning to the young man. “That’s what I want.” His eyes, beneath thick bushy eyebrows, darted back to William. “Don’t move. Stay just where you are . . . Now sketch him and make notes of the colour. The green streaked face. The green spiked hair. The green armour covering him from neck to toes. The green hands. The green tail (for the piece of rope, now sodden with green paint, with which William had secured his sacks, had somehow managed to curl itself round his feet). The things you’ve been doing are too large, too horrific. Nothing large can be really sinister. To be really sinister the creature must be small. Smallness is the essence of the sinister, and green is the essential colour of the sinister. Get him now just as he is, with that villainous scowl on his face.” William, stung by this description, altered his expression to what he imagined to be a polite smile. The professor gave a shout of delight. “Better still! That fiendish grin! Get that fiendish grin quickly before it goes . . . Got it?”

  “Yes,” said the young man.

  He proceeded to sketch on a piece of paper, moving his eyes from William to his work. The professor relaxed against his pillows.

  “I owe you an explanation,” he said to William. “I’d better make a full confession, I suppose. You see—this is not generally known but the secret is bound to come out sooner or later—under the name of Martin Morrow I write space fiction for the younger reader.”

  “Gosh!” gasped William. “Martin Morrow! They’re smashing! They’re super! I’ve read them all—Gosh, do you axshully write them?”

  “I actually write them,” said the professor. There was a touch of complacency in his smile. His work as an economist won him the praise of the greatest intellects of the day, but William’s appreciation of his space fiction gave him more pleasure than their most enthusiastic plaudits. He enjoyed writing his space fiction and he was tired of economics. “In my next book, I propose to introduce a creature of supreme and evil intelligence called Tonando. He has landed in Mars from some other planet and is laying it waste, exterminating the inhabitants or reducing them to a state of mechanical slavery. Those who land on Mars from our own planet escape only with their spirits broken and their bodies maimed. The book will be called “The Scourge of Mars”. This”—he pointed to the young man—“is my illustrator and the sketch he is making will form the frontispiece of the book.”

  “Gosh!” said William. “Is my picture goin’ to be Tonando?”

  “Your picture is going to be Tonando.”

  “Gosh!” repeated William, a smile of ineffable bliss on his lips. “Gosh!”

  “Now stand still for a few more minutes, please,” said the professor.

  Suddenly there came a knock at the door and Rowena entered. Behind Rowena could be seen Robert and Oswald, behind Robert and Oswald could be seen the odds and ends of the party, behind the odds and ends of the party could be seen the anxious peering faces of Miss Burnham, her friend, and Mr Lupton.

  “We’re so sorry to interrupt you, Daddy,” said Rowena, “but we saw someone—or something—coming in by the skylight window, and we’ve searched the whole house and—” Her eye fell on William. “There he is!”

  “It is William,” said Oswald. There was quiet triumph in his voice.

  The professor turned on the intruders with such a roar of fury that they melted swiftly and silently away.

  Only Oswald stood his ground, while Robert hovered unhappily in the background.

  “And what do you want, may I ask?” said the professor to Oswald.

  “I think I ought to tell you,” said Oswald, who had made a pretty thorough examination of the premises in the limited time at his disposal, “that this boy, William Brown, has splashed green paint all over the glass of the top window and over the surrounding brick work, that he has practically covered the skylight with green paint, disfigured the roof in its vicinity, and, not content with that, has left a train of green paint along the top landing in the house and green fingermarks all over the balusters—”

  He stopped, quelled by the ferocious expression that had come over the professor’s face.

  “And what business is that of yours?” said the professor. His voice rose to a bellow. “Take yourself off, sir.”

  Oswald took himself off. The professor turned to Robert.

  “And who is this young man?” he said in a tone of ominous politeness.

  “This is Robert, Daddy, William’s brother,” said Rowena. “I—I was going to ask you if I could ask him to come to tea.”

  The professor made an expansive gesture that swept the tartan shawl clean off the bed.

  “Come to tea?” he said. “By all means. Come to tea, come to lunch, come to dinner, young man. Any relation of Tonando, the Scourge of Mars, is welcome in this house.”

  “Oh, Daddy, thank you,” said Rowena, retrieving the shawl.

  Robert could only stammer incoherently. His feelings were too deep for words.

  “And now leave us,” said the professor. “Our sketch is not quite finished. We have serious work to do.”

  “I’m sorry about the paint,” said William, when the door had closed on them.

  “Don’t mention it. Don’t mention it,” said the professor. “What’s a spot or two of green paint to dwellers in the stratosphere? . . . Yes, smile again. I particularly want the fiendish grin.”

  The next morning William strolled down the village street. At the expense of much time and labour, with the assistance of Robert and to the accompaniment of impassioned maternal reproaches, he had been drenched in turpentine, soaped, scraped, scrubbed, scoured and released from his coating of green paint. Even after a night’s rest his face still felt a little sore, and he was pleased to find that portions of green paint still adhered to his hands. It showed that the whole thing had not been a dream.

  He had spent part of the tip that Robert had given him on a packet of monster humbugs. His cheeks bulged and his jaw moved rhythmically as, with a skill born of long practice, he manipulated one of the unwieldy morsels.

  Turning a bend in the road, he met Bertie Franks. Bertie grinned at him maliciously.

  “I bet you got in a row after last night,” he said.

  “No, I didn’t,” said William indistinctly through his monster humbug. “Not much of one, anyway. Robert got me off.”

  The malice of Bertie’s grin intensified. He gave a mocking laugh.

  “I bet Robert’s not got much chance left, anyway, after that mess-up of yours.”

  “That’s what you think,” said William. “Well, let me tell you that Robert’s goin’ there to tea.”

  Bertie’s mouth dropped open.

  “Gosh, he isn’t.”

  “An’ to lunch.”

  “Gosh, he isn’t.”

  “An’ to dinner.”

  “Gosh.”

  He knew when William was bluffing and he knew that he wasn’t bluffing now.

  “Oh, yeah?” he sneered. “And who d’you think you are, anyway?”

  William removed his monster humbug in order to give point and audibility to his reply. His features contracted into a startling grimace as he tried to assume the ferocious scowl and fiendish grin simultaneously.

  “I’m Tonando, the Scourge of Mars,” he said.

  Then his features returned to their normal positions and, replacing his monster humbug, he strolled on nonchalantly down the road.

  Chapter 4 - William’s Thoughtful Act

  “It’s my mother’s birthday on Monday,” said William, drawing his tongue with lingering relish over the bright red surface of a lollypop.

&
nbsp; “What are you goin’ to give her?” said Ginger.

  “I’m goin’ to give her a thoughtful act,” said William.

  “A what?” said Henry.

  Douglas, who had just put his lollypop into his mouth, made a sound suggestive of interest, query and surprise.

  The four were sitting astride the roof of Ginger’s tool-shed, enjoying a little relaxation after a game of Palefaces and Redskins in Coombe Wood.

  “A thoughtful act,” repeated William. “Well, I got her a jolly fine present las’ year. I got her some sort of imitation mats with holes in for lace that looked jus’ like real ones an’ they must have been jolly good ones ’cause they cost a shilling an’ then in the afternoon she sent me shoppin’ an’ I stopped at Jenks’ farm ’cause they were havin’ a rat hunt an’ Jumble wanted to join in an’ then I sort of forgot the shoppin’ an’ went home without it an’ she said a thoughtful act was better than a present so I thought I’d give her a thoughtful act this year an’ not bother with a present.”

  “A jolly good idea,” said Ginger.

  “It’s cheaper, too,” said William simply, “an’ I haven’t any money.”

  “What are you goin’ to give her for a thoughtful act?” said Henry, licking the last remnant of lollypop from his stick and putting it behind his ear.

  “I haven’t quite thought it out yet,” said William. “It’s not as easy as it looks, thinkin’ out a thoughtful act.”

  “You could do some weedin’ in the garden,” suggested Ginger.

  “Or carry in a few coals,” said Douglas.

  “Or do a bit of washin’ up,” said Henry, removing the lollypop stick from his ear and taking an imaginary puff at it.

  “If I’m goin’ to do a thoughtful act,” said William emphatically, “I’m goin’ to do somethin’ a bit more excitin’ than those.”

  “You could ask her what she’d like for a thoughtful act,” said Ginger.

  “No, what’s the use of that?” said William. “A birthday present’s got to be a s’prise. I thought once of fixin’ up a shower over the bath. I could do it easy with a pipe from the tap an’ a tin with holes in, but I knew they’d stop me the minute I started on it. Pity”—regretfully—“that all the really excitin’ thoughtful acts are things they won’t let me do.”